A CAMP UNDER SIEGE
It was 9 p.m., and darkness had fully enveloped the forest. Balogun and his assault squad were in position, poised for the strike. All teams held their ground, ready to descend upon the enemy stronghold, where the unsuspecting forces of Rey Santana's imperial army remained oblivious to the impending doom.
The imperial forces had no idea what was about to descend upon them.
The vice captain, Owad, wore his apocalyptic mask, its seal firmly covering his mouth to prevent insects from swarming out. His menos—his ability—granted him control over all types of insects, except for bees, wasps, sawflies, and hornets.
He glanced toward his captain through the darkness.
"On your command, Cap," Owad whispered.
Owad and the captain waited in their respective positions and both exchanged glances. Balogun surveyed the field one last time. Wind direction—favorable. Patrol patterns—unchanged. Artillery—active but unalerted.
When Balogun confirmed that all conditions were favorable, he gave a subtle hand signal. Instantly, Owad activated his menos.
"Insect control: one with nature," he intoned, his voice low. His body immediately dissolved into a swirling cloud of insects that scattered and surged toward the enemy camp. To evade detection by any sensory Gifters who might pick up his pneuma—his life force—he merged with the forest ants.
Owad employed a clever adaptation. He seized control of the forest ants—creatures whose natural pneuma signature differed from that of humans—and blended his own energy with theirs, synchronizing until they were indistinguishable. Man and colony became one.
Columns of ants advanced.
One colony scaled the enemy ATR system tower. Another infiltrated the artillery installations—six heavy artillery systems positioned around the perimeter. The ants marched in disciplined streams, they strategically planted explosives around the tower and within the artillery mechanisms.
Phase one was a success. Owad retrieved every single insect, ensuring none would be caught in the coming blast. His obsession with insects was so profound that he would genuinely plead with you not to kill a mosquito even as it landed on your skin.
With the stealth infiltration complete and all explosives in place, Balogun drew his flare gun and fired it skyward. A green flare illuminated the night, signaling the onset of the second phase.
Inside the enemy camp, heads turned as the green light and soldiers watched the green light unfurl above them. The commander in charge slammed the emergency alarm, sending a blaring cry across the entire base.
WEE-OOO! WEE-OOO!
Chaos erupted. Soldiers scrambled, racing to their battle stations and preparing for perimeter defense. Searchlights blazed to life, flooding the forest with illumination as bright as day.
From the distance, a low roar grew louder—the enemies heard the thunderous roar of Luciana soldiers' AMGs. Enforcers wearing gravity boots leaped mile-long distances between canopies. Others, equipped with ACS lines, swung from tree to tree, their AMGs boosting them forward with jet-assisted thrust. Even through the brutal terrain, they maintained speeds of 80 miles per hour (ca. 129 km/h).
As they reached the edge of the enemy's radar range, the searchlights caught them. Balogun fired another flare—this time, red.
Owad detonated the explosives planted earlier by the insects in the artillery systems and ATR tower. In an instant, the artillery erupted—KA-BOOM—one after another, claiming enemy lives in the blasts. The ATR tower exploded in a mushroom cloud, its shockwave disrupting the Gifters maintaining the shield barrier.
The barrier collapsed; the remaining Gifters couldn't sustain it amid the chaos. With no protective shield, Rey Santana's imperial army lay vulnerable to Luciana's onslaught. Balogun shot a third flare into the sky.
Immediately, from the dark forest came a barrage of flying ice and rocky spike projectiles raining down on the camp.
The spikes shattered searchlights and felled several imperial troops, plunging the enemy into utter darkness. Luciana's forces then burst forth, gunning down soldiers with precision. AMGs roared as troops swung through the air, executing theatrical stunts and extreme maneuvers while firing mid-flight.
But then, from the rear, enemy reinforcements arrived, mounting their RPD machine guns and unleashing suppressive fire. Tracer rounds streaked across the battlefield. A few Lucianian soldiers fell in the crossfire.
Balogun fired another flare—blue.
Enforcers with earth manipulation abilities responded instantly, raising a 10-foot wall from the ground to shield the advancing ground forces. The heavy machine gun fire pounded against the earthen barrier. Others maneuvered desperately, dodging the hailstorm of bullets.
Still, the imperial reinforcements began regaining momentum and control.
BALOGUN THE BATTLE GENIUS.
Baker saw the blue flare. That was when Baker moved. He focused his energy, waved his hand in a sign, and muttered,
"Time Technique: Hades Gateway."
Six spatial portals tore open before the 10-foot wall.
From ground level, Baker launched himself skyward. His AMGs roared as he swung from tree to tree in violent pendulum arcs. At the peak of each swing, he released his ACS line, soaring forward before firing another—maintaining flawless kinetic momentum.
He accelerated toward Balogun in a parabolic trajectory, ready to be caught midair.
Balogun steadied himself like an Olympic sprinter, muscles coiled, ready to catch his incoming soldier by the hand and hurl him like a ballistic missile toward the enemy camp. Baker's trajectory was designed to land him behind enemy lines, trapping the imperial forces from both sides.
Traveling at 130 miles per hour (ca. 209 km/h), Baker barrel-rolled into an inverted position between two trees, emerging near Balogun on a massive branch. Anticipating the velocity, Balogun amassed elastic potential energy, engaging his core, glutes, and legs for stability. He inhaled sharply; flames escaped from his nostrils and mouth. His feet heated to 500°F (260°C), gently scorching the bark beneath him.
In a flash, Baker hurtled past in inversion; Balogun grasped his hands. In a precise rotational motion—akin to a hammer throw—Baker was flung across the desolate battlefield. Baker became a human projectile.
His AMGs ignited mid-flight, adding thrust as he soared across the desolate battlefield.
Before impact, the captain's immense force necessitated a midair twist from Baker, aligning his feet downward. Activating his gravity boots, he generated drag to achieve terminal velocity, decelerating for a controlled descent. Upon landing behind enemy lines, the ground quaked from the impact's shockwave, a testament to Balogun's launching power.
Without hesitation, Baker activated his menos again:
"Release."
Six spatial portals tore open before him, serving as exit points. He shot a green flare upward.
Balogun saw it and yelled:
"TO THE PORTAL, SOLDIERS!"
He signaled for the 10-foot wall to drop. Soldiers with AMGs rushed into the entrance portals and emerged from the exits on the opposite side of the battlefield. Luciana's forces had boxed the imperial army in from all directions.
They surged forward like a stampede of buffalo. Some ran; others took the portals. Enforcers swung through the air at speeds between 80 and 130 miles per hour (ca. 209 km/h). AMGs screamed through the air. Bullets and grenades rained down on the imperial soldiers of Rey Santana relentlessly. The camp was laid to waste.
The imperial camp became a slaughterhouse.
Balogun watched for a moment, initially a spectator, but couldn't resist, then changed his mind and joined the fray.
He crouched, leaning forward with his torso angled, and in a single explosive bounce, took off. The gravitational force from his launch ripped the massive branch clean off the 290-foot tree. Mid-flight, he engaged his AMGs, boosting his speed, and landed in the enemy camp. Flames erupted around him unleashing hell—his menos was fire manipulation and enhancement.
He ordered his soldiers not to kill the enemy commander but to capture him alive.
Luciana's army was triumphant. They had laid siege to the imperial forces of Rey Santana and emerged victorious. Every imperial soldier lay dead—save for the commander, now in captivity.
THE MAN, THE MYTH, THE LEGEND.
In the storied history of Luciana, certain names are etched forever in stone and legend. Whispers raced through the winding lanes of Upper Crownpoint and the shadowed, smoke-choked backstreets of Hell's Kitchen alike: the mythical Norris—the elusive Gifter who had faded into years of seclusion—had finally returned.
For too long he had been a specter, a fading myth who withdrew into silence as the Kingdom of Luciana drifted toward division and uncertainty. Yet even ghosts tend to resurface when the hour grows most desperate.
Word of Master Norris's arrival at the grand banquet ignited Crownpoint like dry tinder. Luciana's most powerful and mysterious mentor—the legendary Gifter himself—had broken his long isolation, and the city collectively paused. From the glossy broadsheets of Upper Crownpoint to the raw, street-level tabloids of Hell's Kitchen, every outlet exploded with frenzied live reports, wild guesses flying about the reclusive master's purpose.
Within moments, newsrooms across both districts were ablaze with coverage. Camera teams scrambled for the perfect shot. Reporters clamored and overlapped in chaotic shouts. And inside the grand hall, the assembled nobles let their wine glasses, their schemes, and their murmured alliances fall away—every gaze locked on the solitary figure who had once forged entire generations of Gifters.
Inside the opulent hall. The moment the whispers confirmed Norris's presence, the atmosphere in the banquet hall shifted like wind before a storm. Princess Victoria quickly sensed the shift in the room's energy. Every eye, from the lowest server to the highest noble, was fixed on the man standing beside the Princess. Determined to reclaim some semblance of privacy amid the growing spectacle, she lifted her chin, composed, and gave a single, quiet order.
Within moments, attendants erected a discreet, detachable cubicle—richly curtained and sound-dampened—around their small group, shielding them from the curious stares of nobles and dignitaries.
Only a handful of trusted souls were permitted inside: Victoria herself, two Kingsguards, a pair of Enforcers, few prestigious dignitaries included by convenience and the legendary man who had just upended her evening. The moment the partition sealed them from prying eyes, Victoria turned to face her former master. He looked unchanged—ageless, maddeningly nonchalant, sipping wine as though banquets and baffled royalty were his daily fare.
"I'm quite curious, Master," she said, voice low and measured. "What in the world made you appear now, after all these years of silence?"
Norris reached out and ruffled her hair—the same gesture he'd used when she was nine years old and struggling with basic pneuma control. "I came to support my favorite baby girl. The most obedient girl I've ever known."
Victoria swatted his hand away, smoothing her regal attire. Her eyebrow arched. "Why do I seem to have doubts about what you've just said?"
He burst into laughter—rich, genuine, the kind that carried through walls. On the other side of the cubicle, nobles exchanged glances, wondering what could possibly amuse the Guildmaster so thoroughly.
He refilled his glass, took a slow sip, his expression shifting from playfulness to a rare, razor-sharp clarity.
After he finished refilling his cup, Norris grew contemplative. "You're about to shoulder a duty that even the most toothless counselors and senators couldn't stomach," he said, the laughter fading into something quieter, more serious. "You're about to make history, Victoria. Lucianians should be proud to have you leading them. It takes guts, glory, and sheer bloody-minded determination to fill the void your father could not fill. It demands courage, vision, and a spine of iron."
Victoria stood motionless, absorbing words she hadn't expected.
He paused, swirling the deep red liquid in his glass.
"Besides," he added, "I wasn't pleased to hear how close that last banquet came to costing you your life. I decided it was time I guarded my little princess myself."
He struck a dramatic pose—wine bottle in one hand, glass in the other—like a caped hero stepping out of an old comic folio.
OLD HABITS NEVER DIE.
Victoria stared, struck speechless for a heartbeat. In all the years she'd known him, she had never once seen Norris—the eternally carefree, relentlessly teasing Norris—speak with such raw, unguarded gravity.
The sheer ridiculousness of it shattered her tension. A bright, unguarded laugh bubbled out of her, clear and musical.
Beyond the cubicle partition, the assembled nobles and dignitaries traded startled looks. What in the world could the legendary Guidemaster have said to make the princess laugh so freely?
Norris stood perfectly still, wine bottle in one hand, half-full glass in the other, letting her read the quiet truth in his steady gaze: he was here. For her. No games, no deflection.
One of the Kingsguards finally broke. "How did you even breach the perimeter? You weren't on the guest list."
Norris's grin slid into something downright devilish. He leaned toward the man and stage-whispered, "I came in like a thief in the night." He jerked a thumb upward toward the towering arched windows that overlooked the banquet hall. "And as every respectable thief knows, the window route is infinitely more… dramatic."
The guards traded stunned glances. The security grid was bleeding-edge—motion, thermal, pneuma wards, the works. A sparrow couldn't have skimmed that sill without setting off every alarm in the palace. Every window had been sealed, monitored, triple-warded. Impossible.
"Sir," another guard said, choosing his words with care, "you do realize you could have simply… walked through the front entrance and introduced yourself?"
Norris snorted. "And where's the fun in that, genius?"
Victoria's eyes widened as the pieces clicked. She took a step closer, voice low with sudden certainty. "That's how you did it. That's why nothing flagged you." Her tone sharpened into accusation-turned-revelation. "You shut your pneuma essence down completely."
The words dropped like lead into silence.
Kingsguards stiffened. Nearby dignitaries froze mid-sip. Even the Enforcers—who were supposed to pretend they weren't listening—exchanged wide-eyed looks.
Shut off pneuma? Entirely? Wouldn't the body collapse without its flow?
Pneuma was life. The ceaseless current of essence that animated every living thing. To sever it was to court unconsciousness at best, death at worst. Only corpses lacked pneuma signature.
Everyone knew that.
And yet.
Norris started whistling—a deliberately off-key, innocent little tune, the kind a child hums while standing over a pile of cookie crumbs and an empty jar. He suddenly found the ceiling molding fascinating.
Victoria's smile turned sharp and knowing. "Diana was right all these years. You were sandbagging us even when we were children. We didn't imagine it—you let us run ourselves ragged chasing ghosts while you sat somewhere laughing at us."
The memory surfaced bright and bitter: endless afternoons in the royal park, she and Diana scouring every inch with every detection technique Norris had ever taught them. Hours of fruitless searching. He'd been invisible to their pneuma senses, completely absent, until he decided he was bored and let them "find" him.
She laughed again, softer this time, edged with delighted malice. "You let us hunt you for hours. You even let us tag you with essence markers so we'd have a trail—and still nothing."
One of the younger Kingsguards couldn't hold back. "Master… how is that even possible?"
Norris flicked the question away like an insect. "Go ask Santa Claus. Or, I don't know, open a book. Last I checked the libraries are still free."
His gaze slid over the younger Enforcers with faint contempt. "Today's soldiers can't clear five stories without gravity boots and AMGs assists. Pathetic. We've raised a generation of warriors who collapse without their machines."
The Enforcers bristled, pride stung.
He let the insult hang a moment, then softened, addressing the earnest soldier directly. "Engage your pneuma core and your muscle core at the same time. They lock together to form your true center of gravity—your real stabilizer. Your muscles respond to pneuma the same way your limbs respond to nerve impulses traveling down your spine."
"Same principle. Different current."
Victoria cut in smoothly. "Master, this is a banquet, not a lecture hall at the Enforcer Academy."
Norris gave an exaggerated sigh. "Apologies, gentlemen. Miss Tinker Bell Fairy Bunny has officially canceled class for the evening." He leaned toward the guards and dropped his voice to a mock-conspiratorial murmur. "If you want the rest of the lesson, I offer private sessions. Very reasonable—only 500.99 for the full four-hour pneuma fundamentals package."
An Enforcer choked. "That's three or four days' wages!"
"Education costs money, Mr. Krabs Jr.," Norris replied without missing a beat. "Don't be a penny-pincher."
Victoria crossed her arms. "You're extorting them. That's borderline criminal."
Norris turned to her, mock-wounded. "You're no fun at all. Absolute killjoy."
CHILDHOOD MEMORIES.
She still remembered the childhood frustration of those endless training exercises—scouring the world for a man who had simply erased himself from existence.
"We collapsed from exhaustion looking for you," she said quietly. "The park was teeming—birds, insects, rabbits, every living thing you could imagine—and you just…" She shook her head. "Disappeared."
Norris gave that maddeningly calm smile of his. "Look on the bright side. Your sensory awareness got a serious upgrade."
Victoria's jaw clenched. "Only Diana actually benefited from what you called 'training.'"
"And your healing techniques?"
"I still can't heal a dying bird or a wounded mouse." The words came out sharper than she meant.
He set both hands on her shoulders and gave her a gentle, almost fatherly shake. "I traveled all this way to stand beside my favorite lollipop during her big diplomatic moment. Let's leave ancient history where it belongs, shall we?"
"I'm not nine anymore, Master. Stop calling me lollipop."
He released her and glanced around the room with exaggerated curiosity. "And how is little Miss Buttercup these days? Is Diana here?"
Victoria exhaled through her nose. "She's in Oxford."
Norris's eyebrows shot up. "Oxford? What's she doing all the way down there?"
"Military Headquarters. She commands her own squad of Enforcers now. Part of the Royal Division Army."
He froze mid-sip, the glass hovering near his lips. Slowly he lowered it to the table, visibly stunned. "King Lucious must be bursting with pride. One daughter leading soldiers, the other rising through the political ranks."
Victoria studied him a long moment, then stepped onto a low footstool so she could look him directly in the eye. "Master… my soul isn't buying this 'supportive surprise visit' routine. You never show up without a reason. What are you really doing here?"
Norris didn't flinch. Before she could push harder, he playfully pressed the cold neck of the wine bottle against her forehead and nudged the stool backward with his foot.
"Back off, Tinker Bell," he teased. "Before you dazzle me with fairy dust and mind tricks."
She swatted the bottle away, laughing in spite of herself. "I'm five-foot-four, thank you very much."
"I can't hear you from way down there, Miss Royal Mini-Me," he shot back. "It's true what they say—the best things really do come in small, furious packages."
Victoria crossed her arms with a huff. "Now I remember why Diana was always your personal nightmare. She's the only one who could ever out-talk you."
He pressed a finger to his lips. "Shh. Keep it down. That little firebug sister of yours might be hiding nearby, waiting to ambush me like a berserker."
"She was ten years old back then," Victoria said, stepping off the stool and poking him squarely in the chest. "And she's in Oxford. I already told you."
She grinned, tapping his chest again. "But I would pay serious money to watch her chase you down with another wall of flame."
They both broke into real, unguarded laughter—the kind that belonged to years of shared scars and inside jokes rather than crowns and titles.
Even so, as they sipped wine and sampled the evening's delicacies, Victoria's gaze never quite softened.
Still smiling, she raised her glass to him.
"I will find out what really brought you to Crownpoint tonight," she said softly, almost sweetly. "You're not slipping away that easily this time."
Norris touched his glass to hers with a quiet clink.
She would discover his true purpose for returning. Of that she had no doubt.
They drank together—master and former student—while beyond the private cubicle walls the banquet rolled on, oblivious.
And somewhere in the shadowed corridors of Upper Crownpoint, unseen wheels had already begun to turn.
THE DAWN OF THE CAMPAIGN.
Morning broke at last—the day countless eyes had awaited for weeks. It was the official beginning of Princess Victoria's three-day campaign tour, an event that had turned the quiet city of Upper Crownpoint into a fortified stronghold overnight.
The streets buzzed with a taut, almost electric anticipation, hemmed in by layers of security. Never before had the district witnessed such stringent measures. Every major road lay under lockdown, each intersection marked by reinforced barricades and alert soldiers manning their posts. Checkpoints flashed with inspection lights at regular intervals, while armored convoys idled in strategic positions along the main avenues.
Concrete barriers and coils of razor wire flanked both sides of the route, glinting under the awakening sun. Far above, unseen but ever-present, snipers had taken their positions hours before dawn. The city had not known such meticulous order since the grim days of martial law.
The journey ahead had been charted with military precision. From the grand hotel that served as the royal headquarters, the convoy would travel through Square Garden, cross the majestic Golden Marina Bridge—a gleaming arc of steel and concrete—and continue into the heart of Front Marina, in the rugged district the locals called Hell's Kitchen.
Hell's Kitchen had not seen a royal visit since the reign of King Ferdinand, Victoria's grandfather. His appearances had been rare, confined to ceremony, and carefully distanced from the unrest that often brewed across the river. For decades, that divide—of class, of fortune, of loyalty—had kept Upper Crownpoint and Hell's Kitchen worlds apart.
But today, the barrier of indifference was being breached. The presence of the princess herself would once again grace those worn, stubborn streets. Shops had been freshly painted, banners unfurled, and the locals—restless yet hopeful—filled the sidewalks, waiting for history to arrive.
Her destination was the City Hall, where she would stand before the people and deliver her address—an outline of her vision, policies, and promise for the kingdom's future. Many believed her words that day might reshape the fate of the district.
Yet behind the polished speeches and public cheer, another plan was taking form. Preparations had already begun for what many deemed unthinkable: Princess Victoria's proposed tour of the Undercity.
The idea had ignited outrage among her advisors and the security council. The Undercity was infamous—a labyrinth of instability, crime, and volatile factions. No member of the royal family had ever ventured there willingly. To most, such a visit was madness.
But Victoria was not most. Once her mind set upon a path, there was rarely any turning back.
THE DEPARTURE.
When the final checks were done and the signals came through, the moment of departure arrived.
An escort officer advanced briskly, the sharp click of his boots echoing across the marble floor. "Your Highness," he said, voice steady and official. "The route is secure. We are ready when you are."
Victoria stepped out through the gilded glass doors of the hotel lobby, into the crisp air of morning. Her security detail moved with quiet precision, guiding her toward the lead vehicle—a sleek, heavily armored royal sedan gleaming beneath the rising light. Engines rumbled to life in sequence—vroom!—as the convoy aligned itself along the boulevard, a metallic heartbeat thrumming through the ground.
Her expression remained composed, unreadable, every step measured. Beside her stood Norris, his mere presence altering the air itself. Where others brought order, Norris brought absolute deterrence. Under his command, the convoy's protection rose from formidable to lethal.
For anyone contemplating an attack today, it would not be a challenge—it would be a death wish. They would not live long enough to regret the decision.
Victoria paused at the open car door. The hiss-clack of the pressurized seal cut through the hum of engines. She cast one final glance down the avenue before speaking.
"Are we ready?" she asked. Her tone was calm, almost serene, though the weight of the day pressed heavily on the horizon.
"The road is yours, Victoria," Norris replied, scanning the rooftops with a predator's focus. A faint smile ghosted across his face. "Let's give them a show."
The engines deepened their growl—vroom—a mechanical snarl reverberating through the convoy. Metal glinted, radios crackled, and the city held its breath.
The campaign had begun.
VISITATION FROM THE UNWELCOME.
Across the bridge, nestled in the shadows of Hell's Kitchen, the atmosphere at Benzo's Bar was decidedly less regal. The sun had barely cleared the horizon when a group of men in matching uniforms, clad in the same dark tactical gear—boots polished, posture rigid—stepped inside like they owned the hour.
It was barely 7:00 AM. The air inside the bar was thick with the scent of stale hops and floor wax. And the place still carried the weight of last night's silence. They looked like hired guns—disciplined, hardened, and all business. Their leader approached the counter where Benzo was wiping down glasses.
Inside the bar, they confronted Benzo politely but firmly. Time was up. Nyx needed to honor his end of the deal.
"Gentlemen, whiskey?" Benzo asked, attempting civility.
"We're not here to drink," one of them replied curtly. "We're here for your boy. His Lordship doesn't have all day."
"Right," Benzo muttered, his eyes drifting toward the cellar door. "Straight to business, then."
The words had barely settled when the basement door creaked open. Nyx emerged, dressed and ready, looking like he'd prepared for something he couldn't yet name. Every pair of eyes in the room locked onto him—including Benzo's.
"Speak of the devil," Benzo said with a wry grin. "Look who came crawling out."
The lead man studied Nyx for a moment—gear on, expression set—then turned back to Benzo. His tone shifted, almost casual.
"Still offering that whiskey?"
"The offer was never withdrawn," Benzo replied, reaching for the glasses.
Benzo poured the drink into each glass and slid them across the counter. They toasted briefly, the clink of glasses echoing in the stillness. Benzo leaned forward, his voice low and sincere.
"Please," he said quietly, "bring him back in one piece." Not a demand. A request from one man who understood how these things usually ended.
The man finished his drink and set the glass down with a soft thud. He gave a slight gesture to his men—a signal to move—then turned back to Benzo.
"Can't guarantee that. But if he does his job well? His lordship's a man of his word."
"You mean Charles?" Benzo pressed. "Your boss?"
The mercenary's face turned to stone. "I don't know whose name that is. My men are witnesses that we spoke of nothing beyond the job."
"Point taken," Benzo said quickly, recognizing caution when he heard it. He turned to Nyx, patted his shoulder, and managed a weary smile. "This'll sound ridiculous—but stay out of trouble."
Nyx couldn't help but smile. They both laughed—a short, genuine burst.
Nyx grinned. "Yeah, Pops. Funny one."
"Right? I thought so," Benzo laughed.
"Yeah, Pops. Comical." Nyx's smile softened into something quieter, and he sighed.
THE FATHER FIGURE.
He watched them for a moment before cutting in. The leader cleared his throat sharply. "Alright, that's enough family bonding. Shake it and wrap it up, ladies. This isn't the time for sentiment or the time for tea and ties."
As they began to file out, a sudden wave of reality crashed over Nyx. He didn't know the fate that awaited him, but he knew the weight of the departure. He turned back and pulled Benzo into a fierce, bone-deep hug—the kind of embrace shared between a son and father before a march to the front lines.
The mercenaries instinctively reached for their holsters, thinking the boy was making a break for it, but they paused when they heard the muffled sound of Nyx sobbing against Benzo's chest. They grumbled, returning their firearms to their leather sheaths.
"Will you guys quit it already?" the leader burst out, his patience finally snapping. "For crying out loud—we don't have all day!"
Nyx spoke through a trembling breath. "I'm sorry," Nyx mumbled into Benzo's shirt. "I should've listened. Laid low like you told me. Let the heat die down."
Benzo's hand moved in slow circles on his back and patted him. "You're learning now. That's what counts."
"If I make it out…" Nyx's voice cracked. "I swear I'll behave. No more stupid games."
"I know you will." Benzo pulled back just enough to look at him. "And you will make it back. These aren't Gunter's street-level clowns. You understand that now."
"Yeah," Nyx wiped his eyes, his voice steadying. "This isn't a Gunter-level problem."
Benzo nodded solemnly. "Now you see why I told you: I'd rather deal with a lowlife like Gunter any day than tangle with the Prince of Hell's Kitchen. Small-time thugs want your wallet; men in power want your soul."
Dealing with a lowlife was one thing. Tangling with men in power? That was something else entirely. It all made sense now. He wasn't just caught in street business—he'd stepped into something much darker.
Benzo broke the silence. He gave him one last pat. "Go on now. Don't keep them waiting—they're already irritated. Don't make it worse—they're already on edge."
He paused, then added softly, "Don't let them scare you. Give it your best. I believe in you, my boy."
Before Nyx could reply, Benzo drove his fist gently—but firmly—into his stomach. THUD! Nyx doubled slightly, wincing.
The air left Nyx's lungs in a violent rush, and he doubled over, crashing into Benzo's shoulder to keep from hitting the floor. "What the heck…was that for?!" he groaned and wheezed through the agony.
Benzo laughed heartily, a booming, genuine sound that filled the dusty bar. "That's my good luck charm. To toughen you up for the road."
Nyx straightened up slowly, clutching his stomach and gasping for air as he shuffled toward the exit. "For an old man... you pack a punch like the Hulk."
Benzo only laughed again, softer this time.
Nyx turned, walked out, and joined the waiting men. Engines growled to life. Tires crunched gravel. The bar door swung shut behind them.
Benzo stood alone in the quiet, watching the taillights shrink down the street until they vanished around the corner.
He exhaled, long and slow.
"Good luck, kid," he murmured to the empty room. "You're gonna need every bit of it."
OLD SOLDIERS REUNITED, A FRIEND FROM PAST.
Somewhere in the arid savanna of Symarria, near the border of Tanzakistan, the air shimmered with heat and tension. The region had become a frontline battlefield between three powers: the Imperial Army of Rey Santana, Luciana's legions, and rebel factions scattered across the plains.
Convoys of military utility vehicles rumbled across the dry landscape, dust trailing behind them like a brown banner.
They carried reinforcements: the battle-hardened survivors of a company recently liberated from a siege by Captain Balogun, now merging with Tango Company, which had been holding ground against another Rey Santana thrust.
Tanzakistan had made its position unequivocally clear to both warring nations: any infiltration or attack on its borders would be treated as an act of war. They were determined to remain neutral, refusing to be drawn into the conflict between Luciana and Rey Santana.
Major Grimm and Captain Balogun stepped out of the lead vehicle and were escorted through the camp toward the command tent to meet with the other major who had been commanding Tango Company. Soldiers ushered them forward, escorting them through the bustling encampment, and as they approached the command tent, guards snapped to attention and saluted as they passed. The presence of two majors in one theater lifted morale across the camp—a sign that reinforcements had arrived.
They ducked into the tent, immediately approaching Major Adams. The two majors exchanged salutes with the crisp formality of military courtesy.
"Good morning, sir," Balogun and his vice-captain, Owad Podolski, said in perfect unison, following their commanding officer's lead.
Adams studied the newcomers with sharp curiosity. Knowing Grimm's reputation for working only with capable soldiers. Major Adams eyed the two younger men in their distinctive Enforcer uniforms, then turned back to Grimm with a wry half-smile.
"Who might these soldiers be?" Adams asked, his gaze lingering on them. "I recall you and your team were cornered—being boxed in against the wall like a helpless child. How did you get out of that dire situation?"
Grimm straightened, pride thickening his voice. He puffed out his chest, a boastful grin spreading across his face.
"I overcame the enemy with defined prowess, turning the odds in my favor through sheer tactical genius, precision, and overwhelming force," he declared. "And, of course, I had some… specialized support from these gallant Enforcers."
Owad shot Balogun a quick side-eye—the universal look that said, This man is rewriting history. This guy is a pathological liar, sir. Balogun answered with the faintest tilt of his head and a flicker of his eyes: Doesn't matter, Owad. Glory's his if he wants it. Mission accomplished. That's what counts.
They kept their composure, their expressions unreadable and disciplined. This manner of communication was deliberate—an added precaution against Gifters like themselves who might possess the ability to read minds. Any careless thought or spoken word could be overheard. After all, speaking ill of a high-ranking officer was a grave violation of military protocol.
As it stood, Balogun was a Gifter gifted with fire manipulation and enhancement, while his vice captain, Owad, wielded the ability to control and command insects.
Major Adams, still studying the two soldiers, turned back to Grimm. "You still haven't introduced them properly," he said. "Who might these men be?"
"Allow me," Grimm said, finally relenting. "This is Luciana's finest: Balogun Flagman of November Company, and to my left, his vice-captain, Lieutenant Owad Podolski. They assisted me in crushing the enemy camp and laying the entire sector to siege."
Adams straightened up, his interest piqued. "Flagman?" Adams's brows lifted. "A Flagman in the line of the military. I thought the one who adopted the name by marriage was retired."
"That would be the retired Major Badmus himself, his father," Grimm clarified.
Adams looked at Balogun from his seated position—a chair had also been brought for Major Grimm, who sat with a weary sigh. He turned back to Grimm. "He doesn't strike me as a Flagman." He remarked.
Grimm burst into laughter. Adams was getting the same impression he himself had when he first met Balogun. It seemed the Flagmans were supposed to possess a specific, intimidating presence.
As Grimm barked a genuine laugh. "Same impression I had the first time I saw him. The family name carries a certain… reputation for intimidation."
"Same impression Major Grimm had when he saw me, sir," Balogun offered.
Adams turned to Grimm with a surprised glance, silently seeking confirmation.
Grimm, still chuckling, nodded. "I believe you've heard it straight from the horse's mouth."
Adams settled into a more thoughtful tone. "So you chose to carry on the family tradition. Your grandfather—late Brigadier General Mars—must be proud." He leaned forward, his curiosity deepening.
"Tell me, son—did you join of your own accord, or did General Vidic drag you into the recruitment office by your collar?"
Balogun shook his head. "No, sir. I joined of my own will and of my own accord. "Besides, I only saw my grand-uncle once before he passed away. I was about four years old."
MEMORY LANE.
At the mention of the meeting, the words hit Grimm like a sudden flash of lightning, jolting a hilarious memory from the past. He reached over and gave Balogun's thigh a light, affectionate smack. Tap!
"You're that little devil who got the General to put me through 'corrective training!'" Grimm said, playfully blaming him.
Laughing, Adams turned to Grimm. "How many push-ups did he make you do again?"
"Two hundred push-ups immediately when we got back to the barracks, and to top it off," Grimm grumbled, "the General didn't hesitate. I was also asked to chase the sun for forty-five minutes nonstop because of your sorry four-year-old ass."
Balogun politely interjected. "Pardon my manners, sir. What happened that made my granduncle resort to such discipline?"
Adams waved for whiskey; a soldier appeared with two glasses and poured. Adams took a sip before continuing.
"Long story short," Adams said, a wide grin on his face. "The General took us to the Flagman residence to see his in-law—your parents. There were five of us altogether. He was thrilled to see his grandnephew—you—and his niece, your mother, Lady Venice."
He leaned back, settling into the story. "He asked if he could test you for Menos awakening. Most children manifest between four and five, nine and ten, or late at fourteen to fifteen. He hoped you might be an early bloomer. Your mother agreed—she adored her uncle."
"Unfortunately, the soldier in charge of that process was ill, and the only person who knew how to check for Menos awakening was good ol' Grimm."
Grimm interrupted, his voice low with mock tragedy. "I wish I hadn't been on duty that day."
Adams laughed again, savoring the memory. "I'm glad you were around for the fall. He became the talk of the barracks for weeks!"
He picked up the thread:
"Grimm ran the blood samples, centrifuged them, did all the fancy analytical footwork, and came back with a big, fat negative. He showed it to General Vidic; curiosity clouded Lady Venice, and she asked him, and he told her. Everyone at dinner tried to be nice and cheer them up. 'Try again when he's nine,' they said."
Grimm shook his head. "And here comes the comical and embarrassing part of my life." He took another shot.
Adams continued, trying not to laugh. "When the visit ended, the General began saying his goodbyes. He hugged everyone and kissed your mother's forehead—then little Balogun blocked his path, demanding a kiss of his own.
The maid tried to pull him away, but the General stopped her, picked you up, and tossed you into the air a few times. Up and down, up and down… until you gave a mighty burp—and vomited all over his uniform."
Everyone in the tent burst out laughing.
Grimm nodded grimly. "And then came the second burp. Only this time it wasn't vomit."
Adams took over, voice dropping for dramatic effect.
"But that wasn't all," Adams went on, struggling to breathe between laughs. "Right after the vomit, you took another breath and—" he clapped his hands for emphasis—"whoosh! You unleashed an actual fireball—an immersive fireball—enough to cause a third-degree burn—directly at the General's face."
Balogun and Owad stared, wide-eyed, and yelled in unison, "What?"
"Luckily," Adams said, "the General was a third-arcane Enforcer, dual-elemental, with pyrokinesis as his primary gift. He simply… consumed the flame. Held the child at arm's length so the backlash wouldn't touch him."
"My mistake almost cost the General his life," Grimm added solemnly. "The moment you finished burping flames, he reached out, blocked your menos channel, and left only your pneuma pool open to prevent you from accidentally burning the house down in your sleep."
Adams still marveled. "I'll never understand how he smiled through it all."
Grimm took another shot and gently but firmly placed the empty glass on the table. "With a malicious smile, he turned to me and called my name—my entire government name."
"And at that moment, you knew you'd fucked up," Adams finished for him.
Balogun immediately apologized. "I'm sincerely sorry for the experience I put you through as a baby."
Adams shot back with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Do not apologize, soldier. I enjoyed every moment of it." He burst into another laugh. "I was the timekeeper when the General told him to chase the sun."
Grimm slammed his hand on the table—THUD!—as the realization dawned. "I knew it! You added some extra minutes."
"Ha ha ha ha ha!" Adams's laughter filled the tent. "Ten minutes, to be precise. I added an extra ten because your cheap ass never paid me back my money." He sighed contentedly. "That was my moment for a little revenge—and a lesson."
Balogun had unintentionally given the two Majors a bridge back to their past—to their memories as young soldiers. They laughed and drank together, recounting every moment. For a brief time, one might even forget they were on a warfront. Old memories were rekindled by their reunion in the most unlikely of places.
In the heart of a front line, on the edge of an indifferent savanna, the past had briefly won a small, bright victory.