"Krytharion."
Rana had heard it.
That name—something he had never heard before, yet something that was his, something that had always been his, and yet something that had never truly felt like his—now rang in his mind with a strange familiarity.
"This name," the Figure said, "is your true name. It is my true name as well, the one Zaneath gave to me and to you. But back then, back then we were not two—we were one. This was the name Zaneath had chosen for us long before he ever gave it, a name he had thought over for years."
A pause settled in the air.
"Now listen," the Figure continued. "What I am about to tell you—that is the complete picture. This is what you should have learned first."
Rana did not speak.
The anger that had once burned inside him was gone, but it had not vanished entirely. It had simply shifted. A different kind of struggle now played out within him, a quiet war between his sense of self and the person he had been forced to become. For the first time, Rana was the one holding the weapon, not the other way around.
"Tell me," he said. Just those two words. But the tone was not a request. It was an order.
The Figure began.
"When the weapon was injected—when you were Krytharion inside that alien body—what happened was not merely a transformation."
Rana listened without moving.
"Soul and body—both were separated."
Silence followed, thick and heavy.
"The energy had already warned that the injection would have certain side effects, side effects no one understood. It showed exactly what it was capable of, and that capability was one of the most dangerous things imaginable. The moment the weapon entered, the side effect took hold. Both soul and body pulled apart from each other. It felt as if Krytharion had died, but that was not what happened.
"The energy carried the soul away, giving it a new place. A new body. A human body. On Earth."
The Figure turned to face him directly. "That is you. The one standing here, right now."
Rana took a breath. Just one second. One heartbeat. "And the body?" His mind was still trying to process it all, as if the words were too vast to fit inside a human skull. This was not something that belonged inside the logic of an ordinary life".
"The body went back," the Figure replied. "To the alien planet." The Figure's hand lifted slightly toward himself, then fell again. "Because it was alien, the body survived. But inside it—there was nothing. No one."
Silence.
"You," Rana said slowly, "are that body."
"Yes."
"Soulless."
"Yes."
Rana looked at the Figure this time in a different way. This time he saw not just the figure in front of him but what had always been there, something he had never examined from this angle before. That flatness. That carefully controlled stillness. That measured quality that never cracked or broke.
"That is why you never—" Rana hesitated.
"Never felt anything," the Figure finished. "Yes."
There was no shift in tone. The voice remained flat, just as it always had—but now Rana knew why.
"Without a soul, emotions do not exist. I know what I should feel. I understand when grief is supposed to come, when connection is supposed to form. But that is information in my mind. It is not experience."
Rana said nothing.
"And—" the Figure went on, "a soulless body cannot exist for very long. The thing that truly keeps a body alive, the thing that is actually alive, is the soul."
As he listened, Rana's mind spun with questions.
Could this really happen?
Could this even be possible?
Was any of this real?
He had no answers. But he had no choice but to trust it, at least for now.
Rana looked down at his hands. The veins beneath his skin pulsed with a faint blue light, as if the weapon had altered him beyond the categories of human or alien. He was something else now. Something in between.
He turned his gaze back to the Figure.
"Rana," the Figure said, "there is still more you need to know."
Rana stared at the Figure in shock, as if he had believed this truth marked the end, when in fact it was only the beginning.
"Now," the Figure continued, "Veyrath."
The Figure took a breath.
"What Veyrath wanted—what he always wanted—was not only power. It was not only the files."
Rana kept his eyes fixed on him.
"Zaneath had a choice. Between his two sons, he had to choose one as Commander. One he would entrust with the responsibility of keeping Raxorath and Zyphoros in balance." There was still that flatness in the Figure's voice, but each word carried weight. "Zaneath chose Krytharion. You, me. The younger son."
"Why?" Rana asked, the question he had wanted to ask for so long finally tumbling out.
"Because balance had to be preserved," the Figure replied. "Balance between the two planets." He paused. "But for Veyrath, that choice was not a decision. It was a rejection. His father had chosen the younger son over the elder. The one he wanted for the position of Commander. The one he wanted to carry the responsibility of the planet. That was not just a role—it was a declaration. It said you are more capable. You are more trusted."
Rana did not respond.
"'Enough,'" the Figure went on, "that moment for Veyrath was not only about power. It was the moment of a son who realized his father did not trust him. And who also knew that would never change." He took a breath. "The pain was real. What he did afterward was wrong. But the pain—was real."
Rana closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again.
"And there is one more thing," the Figure said.
Rana looked at him.
"Zaneath," the Figure began, "he belonged to Raxorath. And your mother—she belonged to Zyphoros." A slight pause. "Two different planets. Two different worlds. Their marriage was not something anyone expected. It was not something the Chief of Raxorath wanted at all."
"Chief?"
"The one who ruled Raxorath back then. The one who did not want any inter‑planet connection. Who did not want Raxorath to be linked to Zyphoros, or Zyphoros to be linked to Raxorath." The Figure's eyes remained steady. "But at that time, he could not stop it. Zaneath was too powerful. And it was Zaneath's choice."
Rana listened without interruption.
"One year later, Veyrath was born. Two years later—you. Krytharion."
That name again. Rana noticed it did not feel strange anymore. It felt familiar, as if an old voice had finally come back to him after years of silence.
"Before you were born, a few months before, disputes began between Zyphoros and Raxorath."
"And my mother—" Rana began.
"She was not safe on Raxorath," the Figure finished. "Hatred between Zyphoros and Raxorath was growing. A woman from Zyphoros, Zaneath's wife—she could not stay there. Zaneath sent you and your mother back to Zyphoros."
"And he himself—"
"He stayed." The Figure's gaze dipped downward for a moment, then rose again. "Zaneath had work there. And perhaps—" his voice softened slightly, "perhaps he believed he would come later. That things would settle. That once the disputes were resolved—"
"But they were not."
"They were not."
Rana remained silent for a long moment.
The picture he now saw was not just his. It was heavy, built from scattered pieces that had taken years to fall into place. It was not only Rana's story. It belonged to Zaneath, to his mother, to two planets, to a weapon whose very existence had drawn a wall between two worlds.
And twenty‑five years later, when Zaneath chose Krytharion as Commander, Veyrath was not only seeking revenge on his father. He was trying to complete an ideology that had already existed in Raxorath long before.
The Figure took a breath.
"Now you are seeing the whole picture."
"And now I must—"
"So much happened because of just one dispute," Rana cut in, his voice sharp. "What were those disputes?"
The Figure turned fully toward him.
"That," he said quietly, "is what is inside you now. That is what has become active. That is what you just placed your hand upon."
"The ancestors of the Xyolithians created a weapon. It could destroy—but it could also rebuild. It had the power to balance the universe or to tear it apart. It was so powerful that its mere existence created tension between the two planets. Zyphoros wanted the weapon to remain in their possession. Raxorath wanted it under their control."
"These events brought the universe to this moment," the Figure continued. "Now the universe is in danger. And only you can save it, Rana."
"But before you can save it, you must understand everything."
High above, a ship drifted through the air, its engines humming with restrained energy. Green lights streamed from its under‑carriage, cutting through the darkness like veins of living light. The ship had come from Raxorath, now moving in a precise direction, heading toward a place that had never needed to be visited before—but now, it did.
Veyrath stood in one corner of the craft, arms crossed, his eyes fixed on something distant, something that no one else could see.
The Leader stood elsewhere, separated from Veyrath by both distance and something else—something unspoken.
Two soldiers patrolled different sections of the ship, armored and disciplined. They were trained, controlled, and they knew the weight of the mission, at least in part. Perhaps they did not understand the full scope, but they knew that what lay ahead was far from simple.
The Leader glanced at Veyrath.
"Did you ever think you would end up going there?" he asked.
Veyrath took a second before answering. "No."
"Zaneath's home was that place."
"Yes." There was no change in his tone. "And now we are going there. Because what is there can be found in only one place."
The Leader remained silent, eyes fixed on Veyrath.
"Do you know something I do not?" he asked directly, in a way he rarely did—only when his calculations had left a gap he could not ignore.
Veyrath took another breath.
"Zaneath's home is more than just a location," he said. "It is a vault. It appears to be one thing, but it is something else entirely. He built it that way so that no one would dare approach, because what lies inside could bring anyone to death."
The Leader looked away, toward the direction the ship was moving, still distant but steadily drawing closer.
"When we arrive," he said, "what will we find?"
Veyrath's eyes flicked to the wall of the ship for a moment, then returned to the Leader.
"What Zaneath left behind," he replied. "What he deliberately left behind, because he knew one day someone would come. Someone who would arrive for the right reason. Or for the wrong one."
"And in both cases?"
"In both cases," Veyrath said, his voice taking on a tone that belonged to someone who knows a burden too heavy to carry, "the system inside responds."
The Leader said nothing.
The ship continued to move.
The two soldiers remained in their positions.
And Zaneath's home—the vault that appeared to be something else—drew steadily nearer.
The ship entered an atmosphere unlike any they had known.
Both the Leader and Veyrath stepped out onto solid ground. They stood before a house, simple in appearance, its exterior calm and unassuming.
The house looked as ordinary as any dwelling could, yet it was anything but. Veyrath knew that.
This was the place where Veyrath had once spent his childhood, the place that had once carried his name. Now, it did not feel like his at all.
"This is the same place," Veyrath said, his eyes darkening, "the same place from which I was thrown out."
His anger was visible, plain and raw.
"Will we be able to get out safely?" the Leader asked, because he knew the truth: the most dangerous place is not the one you do not know. It is the one you know too well, the one that knows you in return. A place that understands your powers, your weaknesses, your history. When the time comes, that place does not hesitate to turn all of that against you.
Veyrath did not answer. He knew the Leader was right.
"It is time," he said instead, his voice low and solid. "There is little time. We must go inside."
The moment had come.
The Fireflare was about to activate.
One weapon had already awakened. Another was on the path toward activation.