A sudden burst sent the drop-pod hurtling downward - not a fall, but a strike. Moving faster than falling objects usually do, it punched through air like a blade. The surface swallowed light, making its shape vanish into darkness. Heat built rapidly as resistance climbed. Outside, the window glowed white-hot, transformed by force into a solid sheet of fire.
The tight cockpit pressed in hard, gravity squeezing like a vise. Right away, Elian lost consciousness, his head dipping forward at fifteen years old while thick straps bit into his shoulders without letup. Instead of flowing energy, the lynx-like creature held firm using only muscle, planting wide paws across cold metal flooring. Its claws tore faint grooves into steel as shudders ran through everything. From deep within its throat came a sharp hiss, fighting not magic but sheer force now. Every breath felt heavier than the last.
Vance Kensington stayed awake, tracing how his body responded to each jolt and strain. From the Harvester's upper level, lingering time-based energy seeped into him, shifting the core weight of his flesh. Instead of breaking beneath crushing force, thickened strands of rebuilt tissue soaked up impact like packed sand. Bones didn't give way - they locked tight, rid now of the fragile hollowness that once left his right foot trembling minutes before.
Down near the bottom of his head, the brand sparked up in protest. Cold like space - not empty but crushing - pressed where bone meets thought. The falling object aimed true for the locked crack in earth. That chill on a leash jerked harder, aware it was nearing the old hidden place marked long ago.
Beneath the shriek of tearing metal, the pod slammed into ground. Into silence now broken by impact's echo.
Beneath the unyielding rock floor, sharp angular force met row on row of thick drilling spikes aimed ahead. Driven by brute impact, the capsule turned into a deep-penetrating strike tool, carving down through layer after layer - stone first, then brittle shale, finally glassy black rock. Heat inside climbed fast, unchecked. Warning lamps glowed red, blinked once, then vanished completely. Total dark closed in around them.
Fingers clenched, Vance swallowed dust that clung like old smoke at the back of his throat. Beneath him, the frame rattled hard enough to loosen bone - each jolt sharper than the last. Downward still, without sight or sound guiding the fall, he dropped through hollows where light had never settled. Roots cracked above. Silence waited below.
Without warning, the rock below stopped pushing back. Into empty air, the capsule broke through.
For just an instant, gravity took hold again, then the thrusters on the projectile kicked in hard. Vance felt every strap of his harness pull tight, close to snapping. Hitting the earth made everything shake deep inside him, especially his rebuilt back. Power died everywhere after that blow.
From nowhere, quiet flooded the room again, pierced just by the steam escaping pipes. Axiom breathed loud and fast, each breath jagged, uneasy.
A sharp jab at the harness trigger sent it snapping open - Vance already moving before the clasp hit metal. The kid drooped like wet canvas, limp across Vance's arms without warning. Shouldering him up came natural, bones locking into place without strain. A boot slammed the override stud near the floor. Metal groaned when he drove forward, brute force cracking the airtight jaw of the exit gate.
A sudden pop sent the door flying out, smacking the dirt with a loud metal crash.
A cold breath hit Vance as he left the smoking pod, feet landing on huge blocks of black metal - seamless, like they'd grown together over time. Silence hung thick in the cavern, sharp with the weight of old stone and forgotten years. Dust clung to the stillness, each step echoing as if the walls were listening.
A sudden drop sent them tumbling into the old underground wreckage once again.
Darkness hung where the tall rune-covered pillars once glowed softly around their landing spot. Scattered wreckage from the broken roof covered the cave floor, while twisted shards of stone mixed with twelve Harvester pods driven hard into the old metal ground.
Fog curled around Axiom's shape as it slipped from the cabin, shadows swallowing every outline. Not far down, the creature flattened itself without sound, ribs brushing soil while a rumble clawed up from deep inside. Darkness stretched ahead, unbroken - its eyes cutting through like needles.
Lying flat, Vance eased Elian onto the metal shell still losing heat from the crash. With the blade in hand - dark steel, no shine - he moved off the debris field, scanning what surrounded them. The air smelled burnt. His eyes traced shapes past the rim of twisted iron where the land stretched out quiet.
A chunk of twisted metal lay where Elena Rostova tore free just hours before. Not silence - movement crept in, because the Harvester's arrival never meant to hit an abandoned shell.
Fog rolled through the cave as the thick hatches on the pods exhaled steam, slowly swinging open.
Out came naked replicas of Sterling Prescott, skin perfect, bodies identical. These copies emerged on black metallic plates, built by machines, moving in unison like something unnatural. Cold meant nothing to them as they walked through the frozen deep. Each one carried a bright gold gear turning fast beneath the ribs. Light poured from those gears, yellow and strange, layering shadows over broken stone.
Vance murmured the word system, pushing his inner Astral Engine into motion - its pulse racing through nearby distortions. A flicker behind his eyes mapped each irregularity without pause.
Light from the glowing words danced on his eyes, clear because his body hummed with stored power. A sudden brightness, alive with every blink.
Multiple Mythic Tier Origin Fragments Detected
Stability returns to sync levels. For now, threats remain inactive
Frozen in place, the clones showed no rush to strike. Standing motionless like rows of silent statues, they held position until signals arrived through the Harvester system.
Something moved where the broken vault stood - shadows folding in on themselves just as Vance tried to pick his way past the shimmering soldiers.
Out of the wreckage came something huge, twisted. Rising up stood a figure nearly ten feet tall - junk-metal plates bolted onto jagged white bone. A heavy blade, melted into one arm, scraped behind it, screeching like tearing steel. That noise crawled under Vance's skin. On its broken shoulder, half-erased markings spelled out a name: Arthur Prescott. Below it, stamped deep: Founder ID 001.
Out of nowhere, survival came after that brutal attack by the winged thing. Darkness had torn at it, six wings flaring like a storm. Still, it remained - broken, but breathing.
Out of breath, Arthur Prescott stopped moving forward. From his one shattered eye socket burst a flicker of twisted purple light, time-bent and wrong, fixed on the crowd of bare clones closing in. Deep within his chest, the giant empty gear oozed dark blood across the clean rubble floor.
Bent close beside his drop-pod, Vance waited. The twisted founder might lunge at the Harvester copies any second - killing his own cloned descendants without hesitation. Madness pulsed in the air, thick and sharp.
A hulking figure made of stone lifted a thick sword grown together from old metal, aiming its corroded edge toward the closest line of copies. Into Vance's thoughts boomed a twisted voice - low, broken - that spoke like it had drowned in rage long ago: "The Vanguard… demands… payment.".
A silence held them, still as stone. Not one stepped back or lifted a hand to block. All at once - like strings cut - they knelt, those mirrored faces of Sterling Prescott. Fingers plunged inward, seizing the bright gold mechanisms rooted deep behind bone.
Vance stood frozen when he saw the clones tear pieces from themselves without hesitation. Outstretched arms, soaked in red, pushed those jagged bits toward the twisted figure waiting ahead. Instead of rot, a sharp gold glow pulsed through Arthur's ribs where dark fluid once fell. That thing started feeding on the broken parts - gears clicking inside its chest like clockwork gone wrong. What it became next wasn't som
ething any future could predict.