When Unchannelled Current manifests into reality, it does not arrive as magic or radiant spectacle. It manifests as pure kinetic force.
Applied properly, a fortress becomes paper. Distance becomes a suggestion. Fail once—
The distance between them vanished.
Viren's right foot found earth first. Ash detonated beneath him as the impact anchored his weight. In his left hand, Gregor swung wide—grafted with Gravity Core—it dragged generated force inward, compressing heat and pressure until its face distorted the air around it. It carved a crosswise arc toward Chion's head.
Chion dropped low.
Too low.
The hammer screamed past him, close enough for the pressure alone to wrench his neck backward and scorch his brow. Ash burst beneath his boots as he skidded forward, balance shifted, momentum broken. Intent unchanged. His blade went for the gut.
Viren saw it. And dismissed it.
Too little weight. Too little current. Not enough force to pierce him.
He planted himself harder. The missed swing ached across his shoulders, and he released it—let the hammer's head drag away before his right hand caught the haft. The force pivoted him hard, and he redirected it upward, then downward.
Chion was still sliding forward, blade inches from Viren's torso, legs already passing beyond Viren's planted stance. The posture made no tactical sense.
Chion's blade grazed him. He expected that.
Then—
The blade went spiralling uncontrollably past them. Chion had released his grip.
The silver in Viren's gaze ignited.
A fool.
Current doubled. Gregor's pressure crashed downward, attempting to pin Chion as he slid fully beyond Viren's legs. He wouldn't make it.
Too slow. Too late.
Then—
Fwwwwoooom—Clack.
The blade that had gone spiralling found Viren's right arm mid-swing. It went right through the wrist. Steel burst apart in sparks and smoke. Internal gaskets blown. Neurocybernetic links shattered. Momentum vanished. Impact failed. Shock immediate.
Viren's gaze tilted once.
Something had intercepted the blade mid-flight. A spell. A Lykin Spell.
A rather grotesque one, had he bothered to look properly.
Tall. Far too tall. Slender. Black tattered robes. Spiked gibbets cuffed around its wrists and ankles. A steel box helm—collared with spikes driven into its neck, etched with grotesque faces on all sides, chains dangling from its silhouette. Barely visible through the rising clouds of ash. It had tethered the blade to one of the countless hooked chains hanging from its form, transforming it into a launched spear aimed at the precise weakness Chion knew would fail first:
The replacement arm.
Even now the chain strained against the embedded limb, like a fisherman trying to drag a whale ashore. One violent jerk from Viren's shoulder snapped it instantly. The Lykin lost footing, hurled skyward before dissolving into stray Current.
But the damage was done.
Gregor missed.
The mechanical arm was ruined.
And the heretic vanished into the haze with first blood secured.
_______
The ash settled slowly. Not enough to restore clarity. Only enough to reveal absence.
His hand heavy. Steel through his wrist, twitching weakly as current spasmed around it. Each drop of liquid that fell caused an internal betrayal—not steel through steel, but flesh. His real arm. Blade buried through bone and tendon, blood streaming down what memory insisted was still there.
It lingered—then the smoke of burned gaskets reached him. Sparks and blue sludge. Reality returned. Not blood. Coolant, shattered current nodes, severed wires. He exhaled once through the vents of his helm.
Definitely not real.
His eyes studied the blade. Lodged directly at the weakest point. Too precise. Then—too heavy. Too long.
The Mantle rune. He'd seen it.
Not on the boy.
One of the higher ranks of the Thirty-Ninth. Third? Maybe fourth?
He wasn't certain. Nor did he particularly care.
His fingers closed around the weapon. One yank, metal shrieked softly, and the blade broke free. More sludge—thick, viscous, cold. The arm twitched a final time. Dead.
Viren let the blade fall. It struck the ground tip-first, the rune glowing faintly beyond the haze, demanding to be held.
The haze stretched in every direction. Ash and ember and drifting pillars of nameless stone. The boy was gone—vanished into the grey, hiding, waiting. The current fluctuations were not stable. Not even. High, low, rising and falling with the endless wind.
Gregor.
Half-buried in a crater thirty paces south. The hammer had torn a trench through the ash when it fell, its head sunk deep, its haft angled toward the sky like a monument.
Viren walked toward it. Slow. Measured. Ash folded beneath each step.
The ruined mechanical arm hung uselessly at his side, leaking steadily. Every few seconds the fingers spasmed from phantom signals sent nowhere. Broken neuro-links trying desperately to reconnect to nerves long absent.
Again, memory betrayed him. His missing arm itched. An old sensation. His hand wanted to close. Wanted to flex fingers that no longer existed.
He reached the crater. His remaining hand seized the ruined limb just beneath the elbow joint. The locking mechanisms resisted for half a second.
Then—
CRACK.
The entire arm tore free. For one sharp instant, phantom agony lanced through him. His jaw tightened beneath the helm as the sensation vanished as quickly as it came.
The dead arm hit the ground beside the crater with a heavy metallic thud, still twitching faintly beneath leaking blue fluid.
Viren ignored it.
His remaining hand wrapped around Gregor's haft. The hammer hummed softly in answer. Familiar. Reliable. Real.
The last remnants of distraction burned away. No more ghosts. No more memory. Only a heretic.
His blood current levels rose. Current output doubled. Tripled. His strength ascended. His senses sharpened. The haze became a background suggestion.
Then—
The Crackle. North. A burst of silver and white light. Something burned.
His flag. His honour. All six wings engulfed, merging with the endless ash.
Beside it, the silhouette that burned it. A small figure casting a long shadow against dishonour.
His hand twitched. Truly twitched.
Their eyes met.
Between them, Twilight. The Honourable Mantle Blade forced to bear witness firsthand.
Its Mantle rune pulsed once.
_____
Outside, the two observation spheres continued their slow, indifferent orbit.
Blood Current levels rising... 23... 39... 47...
Current Output... Approaching B-Critical...
Heart Rate Rising...
Collapse Threshold Rising...
Error... Error... Recalibrating...
Whatever they were selling no one was buying.
Below, the ground shook continuously. Specialists still moved, procedure masking panic.
Across the stands, the high and the mighty watched alongside the lowly. Calculating, assessing, scheming, or simply admiring what unfolded before them. Wreckage. Ground erased. Flames rising, pillars falling. Perfectly projected.
That was all that mattered. All anyone needed for their plans to either solidify or collapse.
Two saw past it.
First, Alison. Not because he wanted to—not quite. He was simply too high, too soothed by the vibrating doom to look at anything other than the spheres crossing his line of sight. He saw the anomaly. Curiosity flickered, then died.
The other, Elder Mirell.
Her serpentine eyes weren't simply for show. She saw it as well. Didn't say it aloud. Wasn't planning to.
"Elder..."
Her gaze tilted.
Black hair. Crimson-black robes with a veil over her mouth. Beneath it, eyes like Mirell's—only purple. Satori. A prospect among prospects within House Tiago—with one flaw. She wasn't quite the enforcer, having failed multiple times to deliver the violent justice her House preached. Still, she was smart. She was useful. And far too timid to become a thorn in Mirell's side. So she stayed.
Her gaze had focused only on the numbers, nothing more. Still, understanding eluded her. Even accounting for the continued malfunction, the readings made no sense.
The crimson sphere:
BLOOD CURRENT: 123 → 23 → 97 → 201…
ERROR
ERROR
RECALIBRATION FAILED…
17… 17… 17… 123…
Even as her gaze tried to connect the numbers to the violence below, nothing fit.
"Is that normal...?"
Her eyes shifted to the projections in the dome once more.
"No," Mirell responded, her gaze tracking the lines of specialists feigning composure in the far distance.
"Then—"
"Be quiet, Satori." Mirell's voice was ice. "The law cannot enforce silence and then break it."
Satori went still. Her head lowered.
"By your word, Elder."