Bab 22: The Frost Between Faith and Madness
"Today, Herta explained why my blood is both a blessing and a curse. My cells can replicate rapidly without errors, but if I try to heal others with my blood, it backfires horribly. Their bodies can't handle the accelerated healing, leaving them with dead tissue instead. The irony is bitter - to have this power and not be able to use it to help others.
Herta mentioned something about an Emanator on the Path of Abundance potentially fixing this issue, but it's just a theory. More tests would be needed. Couldn't a regular Abundance Pathstrider be enough? I can't stop thinking about what happened with March 7th in the Simulated Universe. Even though I still don't think she's real, I can't help but find myself wanting to protect her, wanting her to be safe. Watching as Nanook encroached closer to us broke something inside of me. She isn't supposed to look so scared.
If something were to happen to her during our mission... I wish I could use my blood to heal her without risking making things worse. The thought of her getting hurt and not being able to help is unbearable. Maybe I should be nicer to her. Maybe she's earned that much. And maybe, just maybe, I need to find a way to make this cursed blood of mine actually useful."
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Fyodor is 10 years old. His mother's words, choked with tears, echo in his ears as they trudge through the dimly lit tunnel. "We have to bury your father, Fyodor. There's been... an accident at the mine."
The boy's small hand clutches his mother's calloused fingers, feeling the tremors that run through her body. The air grows thick with the scent of damp earth and the acrid tang of geomarrow as they descend deeper into the cavern.
They reach a makeshift altar, its rough-hewn stone illuminated by the soft glow of bioluminescent fungi. Fyodor watches as his mother kneels, her lips moving in silent prayer. Her eyes, red-rimmed and glistening, fix upon an unseen point above.
"Qlipoth," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "Please, watch over him. Guide him to peace."
Fyodor furrows his brow, scanning the shadows. He sees only rock and darkness. No divine presence, no comforting light. Just the cold, indifferent stone of their underground prison.
"Mama," he tugs at her sleeve. "Who are you talking to?"
She turns, forcing a wan smile. "To Qlipoth, my dear. The Aeon of Preservation. He watches over us all."
Fyodor nods, but doubt gnaws at him. If this Qlipoth truly watched over them, why couldn't he see it? Why didn't it save his father?
As they lay his father's body to rest, Fyodor's young mind grapples with concepts too vast to fully comprehend. Faith, loss, the cruel indifference of the world above. He clings to his mother's hand, suddenly aware of how fragile life is in the depths of Belobog's underworld.
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Fyodor is 15 years old. The acrid stench of fragmentum clings to his nostrils as he lowers his mother's body into the makeshift grave. His hands, once small and soft, are now calloused from years of labor in the mines. They tremble as he scoops handfuls of earth onto her still form.
The cave around him feels oppressive, the darkness pressing in from all sides. He thinks of his mother's unwavering faith, how she'd turn to prayer in times of hardship. Almost unconsciously, he finds himself kneeling beside the grave.
"Qlipoth," he begins, his voice cracking. The word tastes bitter on his tongue. He falters, anger rising in his chest. What good had faith done his mother? Where was Qlipoth when the fragmentum claimed her life?
He's about to stand, to turn his back on this futile ritual, when his mother's voice echoes in his memory.
"Always finish your prayers, Fyodor. It's a sign of respect."
Gritting his teeth, he forces himself to continue. "Watch over her spirit," he grits out. The words feel hollow, meaningless. But he finishes the prayer, if only to honor his mother's memory.
As he rises, brushing dirt from his knees, Fyodor makes a silent vow. He'll never utter that name again, never place his trust in an unseen, uncaring deity. From now on, he'll rely only on himself.
The oppressive silence of the cavern is broken only by the distant sound of mining machinery and the soft patter of water droplets. Fyodor stands alone, the last of his family, facing an uncertain future.
——————————————————————
Fyodor is 20 years old. The acrid smell of smoke and blood fills the air as he crouches behind a makeshift barricade. The sounds of shouting and gunfire echo through the caverns, a cacophony of desperation and rage.
His best friend, Nikolai, lies motionless beside him, eyes staring sightlessly at the cavern ceiling. A stray bullet caught him in the throat mere moments ago. Fyodor's hand still rests on Nikolai's chest, feeling the last stuttering beats of his heart fade away.
"Cocolia, you heartless bitch," Fyodor mutters, his voice raw with grief and anger. The Supreme Guardian's decision to seal off the underworld has plunged their already precarious existence into chaos. Food shortages, power outages, and now this - open revolt against the few remaining authority figures.
He watches as a group of miners-turned-rebels, now calling themselves the Vagrants, charge past his hiding spot. Their faces are gaunt with hunger, eyes wild with a mix of fear and determination. Fyodor recognizes some of them - men and women he's worked alongside for years.
The irony of it all isn't lost on him. Cocolia, the supposed avatar of Qlipoth, has effectively sentenced them all to a slow death. The Aeon of Preservation, it seems, cares little for preserving the lives of those trapped below.
Fyodor's hand clenches into a fist. He thinks of his parents, of Nikolai, of all those who've been ground down by the merciless machinery of Belobog's hierarchy. A cold resolve settles in his chest. He'll survive this, no matter the cost. And one day, he'll find a way to make those above pay for their indifference.
With a last glance at Nikolai's body, Fyodor steels himself and joins the surging crowd of Vagrants. If this is to be their fate, he'll rage against it with every fiber of his being.
——————————————————————
Fyodor is 25 years old. The sickening crunch of bone echoes through the narrow mineshaft as the malfunctioning drill press comes down on his left arm. White-hot agony explodes through his body, his vision blurring as he struggles to stay conscious.
Through the haze of pain, a single thought crystallizes:
This is it. This is how it ends.
He's always known the statistics. In the underworld, reaching 45 is considered a long life. Now, as he feels the warm rush of blood soaking his sleeve, Fyodor realizes he won't even make it that far.
His colleagues rush to his aid, their shouts muffled and distant. As they work to free him from the machine, Fyodor's mind drifts. He thinks of all the dreams he once harbored - of seeing the sun, of building a life beyond these cramped tunnels. Those dreams seem laughably naive now, shattered like his mangled arm.
The pressure on his arm suddenly releases, and he's being carried away on a makeshift stretcher. The flickering lights of the mineshaft swim in and out of focus. Fyodor closes his eyes, letting the darkness take him.
When he wakes in the crude medical bay, the doctor's grim expression tells him everything. The arm is gone, amputated just below the shoulder. With it goes any hope of continuing his work in the mines, of earning enough to survive in this unforgiving world.
As he lies there, staring at the empty space where his arm used to be, Fyodor feels the last embers of hope flicker and die within him. He's used up his allotted time, it seems.
All that's left now is to wait for the inevitable end.
——————————————————————
Fyodor is 30 years old. The familiar ache in his phantom limb nags at him as he navigates the winding tunnels of the underworld. Five years have passed since he lost his arm, each day a battle against the odds. Yet here he is, still breathing, still fighting.
He's adapted, learned to compensate for his missing limb. The other miners call him "Lucky Fyodor," a nickname that never fails to bring a wry smile to his face. If only they knew how many nights he's spent wishing the accident had finished him off.
A commotion up ahead draws his attention. He rounds a corner to see a group of Vagrants, their eyes wild with desperation, converging on a family. The father stands protectively in front of his wife and child, but it's clear they're outnumbered.
Without thinking, Fyodor rushes forward. He slams into the nearest Vagrant, knocking him off balance. "Run!" he shouts to the family, using his body to create an opening.
They don't hesitate, darting past him and disappearing into the maze of tunnels. Fyodor turns to face the Vagrants, knowing he's sealed his own fate. He manages to dodge the first swing, but there are too many of them.
A sharp pain explodes in his side. He looks down to see a crude blade protruding from between his ribs. As he falls to his knees, a bitter laugh escapes him. After everything he's survived, this is how it ends - not from sickness or a mining accident, but at the hands of his fellow underworld dwellers.
The Vagrants close in, their faces a blur of anger and madness. Fyodor closes his eyes, waiting for the final blow.
Suddenly, a deafening sound reverberates through the cavern.
"Bastards...!" a voice roars, filled with fury and disgust.
Fyodor's eyes snap open in time to see a blur of motion. A man moves with inhuman speed, his fists connecting with devastating force. Bones crack, bodies crumple. In mere seconds, the Vagrants lie unconscious, their legs twisted at unnatural angles.
As quickly as it began, the violence ends. Fyodor blinks, trying to process what he's just witnessed. The stranger kneels beside him, pressing a hand to the wound in his side.
"Hold on," the man says, his voice low and urgent. "I'm going to get you out of here."
Fyodor tries to speak, but only manages a weak cough. Blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth. He shakes his head, knowing it's too late.
The stranger's eyes narrow, a look of fierce determination crossing his face. "No," he says firmly. "I'm not letting you die. I have an idea, but... it's risky."
Fyodor watches in confusion as the man pulls out a knife and makes a deep cut across his palm. Golden (?) blood wells up, glowing faintly in the dim light of the cavern.
"This might help," the stranger mutters, pressing his bleeding hand to Fyodor's wound.
For a moment, nothing happens. Then, a warm sensation spreads from the point of contact. Fyodor gasps as he feels his flesh knitting together, the pain receding.
But something's wrong.
The newly formed tissue feels... wrong. Dead.
The stranger curses, pulling his hand away. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice heavy with regret. "I thought... I hoped it would work."
Fyodor tries to speak, but finds it difficult. The pain is gone, but he feels weaker than ever. "What... what did you do to me?"
The stranger explains quickly, something about unique blood and rapid healing. Fyodor only half listens, his mind struggling to process it all.
"I'm sorry," the stranger says again. "I couldn't save your life. But at least... at least you're not suffering anymore, right?"
Fyodor nods slowly. It's true - the agony that gripped him moments ago has faded to a dull ache. But in its place, a new terror grips him. He feels himself slipping away, darkness encroaching at the edges of his vision.
Tears begin to well in his eyes. "I'm afraid," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "The darkness... it's coming for me. I don't want to go."
The stranger looks puzzled. "Darkness…? What do you mean by that?"
Fyodor lets out a bitter laugh that turns into a cough. "What else could there be? Don't tell me you buy into that Church of Preservation nonsense. Qlipoth wasn't there when my parents died. He didn't stop Cocolia from condemning us to this underground hell."
The stranger's expression softens. "I do have faith in something," he says quietly. "But no, I'm not a follower of Qlipoth. That's not what's important right now, though. Just try to breathe, okay?"
Fyodor tries to steady his breathing, but panic claws at his chest. "I was never strong enough," he chokes out. "Couldn't protect anyone. Just... existed. Worked. Struggled to survive. And for what? To fade into nothingness?"
The stranger takes Fyodor's hand, squeezing it gently. "What's your name?" he asks.
"Fyodor," he replies, surprised by the question.
The stranger nods. "Fyodor, can you share a happy memory with me? It doesn't have to be anything extraordinary. Just... something that brought you joy."
Fyodor frowns. "What's the point of that?"
"Please," the stranger insists. "I want you to realize something. And... well, indulge me, if nothing else."
Fyodor closes his eyes, casting his mind back. Almost against his will, a memory surfaces - a rare day off when he was a child, before the accidents that claimed his parents. They'd had a picnic in one of the larger caverns, near a underground stream. The sound of his mother's laughter, the proud smile on his father's face as Fyodor showed off a tricky bit of rock climbing...
The memory breaks something inside him. Fresh tears spill down his cheeks. "I don't want to die," he whispers. "I don't want to be forgotten."
The stranger's grip on his hand tightens. "I know you're scared," he says softly. "It's natural to fear the unknown. But Fyodor, your life has had meaning, regardless of what comes next."
Fyodor scoffs weakly. "What meaning? I've made so many mistakes. So many things I should have done differently..."
"You've also touched people's lives," the stranger argues. "Every act of kindness, every moment of love or laughter or help you've given... it matters. It's woven into the fabric of existence, whether you believe in an afterlife or not."
Fyodor is quiet for a moment, mulling over the stranger's words. "I wish I had your conviction," he says finally. "I wish I could believe as you do."
The stranger shakes his head. "My faith comforts me, but you don't need to share my beliefs to find value in your life. Think of those you've loved, the moments of beauty you've experienced. Those are real, and they mattered."
Fyodor's breath hitches. "There's so much regret... so much fear."
"Regret isn't always a bad thing," the stranger says gently. "It means you cared, that you wanted to be better. That's admirable. As for the fear... I'm here with you. You're not alone. Listen to my voice. Breathe. Let yourself feel the love you've given and received. Let that fill your thoughts, not the fear of what's to come."
Fyodor focuses on the warmth of the stranger's hands, on the steady rhythm of his voice. He feels himself fading, slipping away, but for the first time, he doesn't fight it.
"Thank you," he manages to whisper. "For staying with me."
The stranger's voice is thick with emotion. "Of course. You've mattered, Fyodor. Your life has been a gift to many. Hold onto that. Just breathe and know that you are loved."
Fyodor forces his eyes open one last time, taking in the stranger's face. He notices the haggard, tired look, the dark circles under his eyes. The man's skin, which should be tanned, looks pale and drawn. White hairs peek out among the dark, making him look older than he probably is.
His gaze is drawn to a golden cross pendant hanging from the stranger's neck. It seems to glow faintly, but Fyodor isn't sure if it's real or just his fading mind playing tricks on him.
"Can you... turn off the light?" Fyodor mumbles. "It's too bright."
The stranger looks confused, glancing around the dimly lit cavern, but Fyodor doesn't elaborate.
As his consciousness slips away, Fyodor finds himself thinking of his mother's smile, of his father's reassuring presence. He remembers the family he helped escape just moments ago. A small smile tugs at his lips.
Maybe, he thinks, it wasn't all so bad after all.
——————————————————————
Fyodor died at 30 years of age, finding peace in his final moments.
Unbeknownst to him, his selfless act of saving that family would ripple through time, preserving an entire lineage that would span centuries.
——————————————————————
I stare at the man's lifeless form, my heart heavy with the weight of yet another life lost.
"Fyodor?" My voice echoes in the cavernous space, desperate and hollow. No response. "Fyodor!" I call again, louder this time, as if volume alone could breathe life back into him.
Silence answers me.
I step closer, my eyes fixed on his face. The light in his eyes has dimmed, replaced by a glassy stillness. With a trembling hand, I reach out and gently close his eyelids, sealing away that empty gaze forever.
My movements are slow, deliberate, as I lift Fyodor's only hand and place it reverently upon his chest. I stand, taking in every detail of the man before me - the lines etched deep in his weathered face, the grey streaking his hair, the calluses on his palm speaking of a lifetime of hard work.
The sign of the cross comes unbidden, muscle memory from a lifetime of faith. My lips move of their own accord, words spilling forth in the Spanish of my youth:
"Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo, santificado sea tu Nombre..."
The familiar prayer offers no comfort, each word echoing hollowly in my chest. When the final "Amén" falls from my lips, I feel no better.
I find myself speaking aloud, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Father," I begin, addressing not the divine, but the man who raised me. "Do you remember when you told me about our surname? Salvatore."
In my mind's eye, I see his face, weathered by time and hardship, yet still kind. His voice, rough with age but warm with love, fills my thoughts.
"Our ancestors were catholic fishermen," he'd said, pride evident in his tone. "They settled in Naples, Italy, generations ago. Hardworking folk who wore our surname as a badge of honor."
I can almost smell the sea air, taste the salt on my tongue as I recall his words. "They saw it as a blessing from their Savior," I murmur, echoing my father's explanation. "A promise that they would always find fish, always be able to provide for their families."
A bitter laugh escapes me. "Even on the worst days, they'd still catch enough to feed everyone. What a legacy to live up to, eh?"
I look down at my hands, calloused not from nets and fishing lines, but from guns and combat. The irony is not lost on me.
"Where's that blessing now?" I ask the empty air. "Why don't I feel it?"
My eyes burn with unshed tears as I confront the stark truth of my existence.
"Salvatore," I spit out, the name tasting like ash on my tongue. " Savior. What a joke."
The faces of the dead flash before my eyes, a grim parade of the lives I've failed. Those who died because of my actions.
I've done nothing but make a mockery of our family name.
"Tell me, Father," I plead, my voice cracking. "Who am I to save these people…?"
The question hangs in the air, unanswered.
I let it linger for a moment, feeling the full weight of my inadequacy, my unworthiness.
Then, abruptly, I scrub at my eyes with the back of my hand.
"No," I growl, anger rising to replace the sorrow. "I haven't earned the right to cry."
My fist pounds against my chest, once, twice, the dull thud echoing in the cavern. The physical pain is a welcome distraction from the emotional turmoil.
"Pull yourself together, Xander," I snarl. "You still have a job to do."
My gaze falls on a pile of mining equipment nearby, a shovel catching my eye. I stride over and grab it, testing its weight in my hands. It's solid, functional - it'll do.
I turn back to Fyodor's body. I won't leave him here, exposed and vulnerable. He deserves better than that.
Gripping the shovel tightly, I tap into the power of the Stellaron within me. The world around me slows to a crawl as Chronosurge takes effect. My movements blur, the shovel striking the ground with inhuman speed. In what feels like mere moments to me, a sizable hole appears in the rocky earth.
As the effects of Chronosurge fade, leaving me gasping for breath, I approach Fyodor once more. With utmost care, I lift his body and lower it into the makeshift grave. "Rest easy, my friend," I murmur, arranging his limbs with as much dignity as I can muster.
The work of filling in the grave is arduous, each shovelful of dirt feeling heavier than the last. But I persist, driven by a need to see this through, to offer this small measure of respect to a man I barely knew.
When the last of the earth is patted down, I stand back, leaning on the shovel.
"I'm sorry," I say to the freshly turned soil. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I couldn't live up to my name."
A groan from nearby snaps me out of my reverie. The Vagrants I knocked out earlier are starting to stir. I can't leave them free to cause more trouble.
Moving quickly, I gather rope from the scattered mining supplies and set to work. My hands move with practiced efficiency as I bind the unconscious men together. It's not comfortable, but it'll hold them until help arrives.
As I work, a dark thought surfaces. Part of me, a cold, ruthless part I try to keep buried, whispers that it would be easier to end them here. No more trouble, no more victims. My hand tightens on the shovel, knuckles white.
I bite the inside of my cheek hard, the sharp pain helping me reign in the thought.
No. That's not who I am, not who I want to be anymore.
I force myself to breathe deeply, to think rationally. True justice hasn't been served yet - not even close. The broken legs and pain they'll endure are mere inconveniences compared to the lives they've ruined, the fear they've sown.
But I'm not meant to be their executioner. That right belongs to the people of the Underworld, the very community the Vagrants have terrorized. They deserve to face the judgment of those they've wronged. It's not my place to deny them that, no matter how much a part of me wants to.
Once they're secure, I drag them away from Fyodor's grave, positioning them where they'll be easily found but won't disturb the burial site.
I stand, brushing dirt from my hands, and take one last look around. The cavern seems different now, marked by loss and violence. But I can't dwell on it. Clara is still out there.
"Time to finish this," I mutter, and with a burst of Chronosurge-enhanced speed, I launch myself into the tunnels.
The search for Clara continues, and I won't rest until I find her.
——————————————————————
As she approaches the servants' wing, hushed voices catch her attention. Xenia slows her pace, recognizing the urgent tone of her fellow maid, Anya.
"...haven't seen her in days. The whole city's on edge," Anya whispers to another servant, her face pinched with worry.
Xenia clears her throat, causing both women to start. "What's this about?"
Anya's eyes dart nervously before she leans in close. "It's the Commander, Xenia. They say she's been taken."
A chill runs down Xenia's spine. "Commander Bronya? Surely not..."
The other servant, Masha, nods gravely. "There are whispers... terrible whispers. They say the Supreme Guardian has been receiving visions."
Xenia's brow furrows. "Visions? What kind of visions?"
Anya's voice drops even lower. "Visions of Commander Bronya's death... at the hands of the man behind the attack at the Starlight Café."
Masha continues, her words tumbling out in a rush. "That's not all. The Supreme Guardian hasn't left her chambers in days. Katya, who delivers meals, she swears she heard... things."
"What things?" Xenia demands, a knot forming in her stomach.
"Incoherent babbling," Masha whispers. "As if Her Majesty was speaking to someone else, but the words... they made no sense. Like she'd gone mad."
Xenia's hand flies out, gripping Masha's arm. "Watch your tongue," she hisses. "How dare you speak of Her Majesty in such a way?"
Masha flinches, but doesn't back down. "I'm only repeating what I've heard, Xenia. We're all worried."
Xenia releases her grip, taking a deep breath to calm herself. "Her Majesty is going through a difficult time. It's understandable. She's sacrificed so much for Belobog, fought tirelessly against the Eternal Freeze and the Fragmentum. And now..." Her voice catches. "Now her daughter is missing. Of course she's distraught."
Anya nods, but her expression remains troubled. "Yes, but... does that excuse everything? My brother serves in the Silvermane Guard. He says they're running ragged with her instructions."
"Instructions?" Xenia asks, curiosity overriding her initial anger.
"Notes slipped under her door," Anya explains. "Ordering increased patrols, doubling shifts, tripling search parties. Everyone's exhausted, and still no sign of the Commander."
Masha leans in, her voice barely above a whisper. "There's talk among the guards. Some are saying... saying that maybe the Architects need to intervene."
Xenia's eyes widen in shock. "Enough!" she snaps, louder than intended. A passing servant glances their way, and Xenia lowers her voice. "Listen to yourselves. This is dangerously close to heresy. Her Majesty has only our best interests at heart. Yes, she's suffering, but she's doing her best. We must trust her."
Anya opens her mouth to argue, but footsteps approaching cut her off. Another servant, Lydia, hurries towards them, her face etched with concern.
"Have any of you seen Yekaterina?" Lydia asks breathlessly.
Xenia shakes her head. "Not for a few days. Why?"
Lydia wrings her hands. "She was scheduled to attend to Her Majesty's quarters this morning, but she never showed up. I've asked around... her family hasn't seen her since yesterday."
A heavy silence falls over the group. Xenia's mind races, trying to quell the unease rising within her.
Lydia continues, "I delivered the breakfast tray to Her Majesty myself, but Madam Plisetskaya has requested my assistance with some tasks. Could one of you take the lunch tray?"
Before the others can respond, Xenia squares her shoulders. "I'll do it."
Anya gives her a worried look but remains silent. Xenia meets her gaze, trying to project confidence she doesn't entirely feel.
"Thank you, Xenia," Lydia says, relief evident in her voice. "The tray is ready in the kitchen."
As Lydia hurries away, Xenia turns back to Anya and Masha. "Remember your place," she warns softly. "And have faith in Her Majesty. Qlipoth willing, Commander Bronya will be found soon."
With that, Xenia strides towards the kitchen, her heart pounding with a mix of determination and apprehension.
The halls leading to the Supreme Guardian's quarters are eerily silent. Xenia's footsteps echo off the ornate walls, the lunch tray balanced carefully in her hands. As she approaches Cocolia's door, she notices the breakfast tray still sitting untouched on a nearby table.
A faint sheen catches her eye. Xenia blinks, unsure if it's a trick of the light. But no – a thin layer of frost seems to be creeping from beneath the door, barely visible against the polished floor.
Swallowing hard, Xenia raises her hand to knock. "Your Majesty? I've brought your lunch."
At first, there's no response. Then, faintly, she hears something. Cocolia's voice, but... strange. Distorted. The words are impossible to make out, a stream of gibberish that sends a chill down Xenia's spine.
"Your Majesty?" she calls again, louder this time. "Is everything alright?"
The gibberish grows louder, more frantic. Xenia's heart races. Every instinct screams at her to run, to flee this suddenly oppressive hallway. But duty roots her to the spot.
Footsteps sound from within the room. Heavy. Deliberate. Drawing closer to the door.
Xenia's breath catches in her throat as the latch clicks.
The door swings open.
Cocolia stands before her, resplendent as always in her white and blue gown. Her hair is slightly disheveled, but her smile is radiant. "…Xenia, my dear. I'm so sorry, I didn't hear you at first. What brings you here?"
Xenia blinks rapidly, her mind reeling. Gone is the unsettling atmosphere of moments ago. Cocolia looks... normal. Tired, perhaps, but otherwise herself.
"I... I've brought your lunch, Your Majesty," Xenia manages, gesturing to the tray in her hands. Her eyes flick to the untouched breakfast. "The morning tray was delivered earlier..."
Cocolia's expression turns apologetic. "Oh, how thoughtless of me. I've been pouring over plans, praying for Bronya's safe return... I'm afraid I'm quite a mess." She sighs, shaking her head. "I'm acting unworthy of my position. Please, pass on my apologies to the kitchen staff. The food has likely gone cold by now."
"There's no need to apologize, Your Majesty," Xenia rushes to assure her. "Everyone understands. We're all praying for Commander Bronya's return."
Cocolia's smile softens. She glances at the tray, then back to Xenia. "Would you... perhaps join me? I could use the company, if only for a moment."
Xenia's eyes widen. "Your Majesty, I couldn't possibly—"
"Please," Cocolia interjects gently. "Let's dispense with formalities, just for a little while."
Unable to refuse, Xenia nods. "As you wish, Your Majesty."
Cocolia steps aside, allowing Xenia to enter. The maid's eyes sweep the room, taking in details she's only glimpsed during cleaning duties.
The chamber is undoubtedly fit for royalty. Plush carpets in deep blues and silvers cover gleaming hardwood floors. Intricately carved furniture – a massive four-poster bed, an ornate writing desk, comfortable armchairs – speak of both luxury and taste. Heavy curtains frame floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a breathtaking view of Belobog's skyline.
Yet signs of recent disorder are evident. Papers and scrolls litter every surface, some spilling onto the floor. The bed is unmade, sheets tangled as if from restless sleep.
Two paintings dominate the room. One depicts Qlipoth in all its glory, a being of immense power and benevolence. The other shows a much younger Cocolia, seated with a small Bronya on her lap. The Supreme Guardian's face is soft with maternal affection as she gazes at her daughter.
What truly catches Xenia's attention, however, is the ice. Delicate frost patterns climb the walls and windows. Small ice figurines, exquisitely crafted, dot various surfaces. And beneath a pile of bedsheets, Xenia glimpses what appears to be a human-sized sculpture, though its features are obscured.
"Your ice work is beautiful, Your Majesty," Xenia murmurs, gesturing to a nearby figurine.
Cocolia's smile turns wistful. "Thank you. It's... been a way to channel my emotions these past days. A comfort, in its way."
Xenia nods, deeply moved by this glimpse of vulnerability from the normally composed Supreme Guardian.
"My apologies for the state of things," Cocolia says, hastily gathering papers from a small table. "Please, set the tray here."
Xenia complies, arranging the dishes as Cocolia settles into a chair. The Supreme Guardian takes a delicate bite of a sandwich, her eyes closing briefly.
"Delicious," she murmurs. "Is this... ham?"
Xenia blinks in confusion. "No, Your Majesty. It's honey and Belobogian cheese, with a blend of spices."
Cocolia's cheeks color slightly. "Of course. How silly of me. I could have sworn I tasted ham for a moment."
They fall into light conversation as they eat. Xenia marvels at how easy it feels, how human Cocolia seems in this private setting. Eventually, the maid gathers her courage.
"Your Majesty, if I may... I wanted to tell you that I understand, at least a little, how you must be feeling."
Cocolia tilts her head, curiosity in her eyes. "Oh?"
Xenia nods. "I'm a mother too. Almost two years ago, my little girl fell terribly ill. No remedy seemed to work. My husband and I... we were beside ourselves. We didn't know where to turn, what to do." She takes a shaky breath, the memory still painful. "I prayed to Qlipoth, day and night. And miraculously, our daughter recovered. Her sickness vanished."
She meets Cocolia's gaze, her voice firm with conviction. "Have faith, Your Majesty. I know Commander Bronya will be found."
For a moment, Xenia thinks she sees something flash in Cocolia's eyes – a strange, golden gleam with an eerie red glow. But when she blinks, Cocolia's eyes are normal once more.
The Supreme Guardian rises, her smile warm. "Thank you for sharing that, Xenia. You're right... I've been lacking in faith these past days." She moves closer, gently taking Xenia's hands in her own. "Would you... help me pray? Perhaps you could even teach me your method."
Xenia's eyes widen. "Your Majesty, I couldn't possibly... you're the voice of Qlipoth in Belobog. What could I teach you?"
Cocolia's expression turns rueful. "Even those who hear Qlipoth's voice the clearest can have moments of doubt. I'm human, just like you. My faith can waver." Her grip on Xenia's hands tightens slightly. "Please. I could use the guidance."
Overwhelmed by the trust being placed in her, Xenia nods. "I'll do my best, Your Majesty. Shall we close our eyes?"
Cocolia does so, her face serene. Xenia follows suit, taking a deep breath to center herself.
"Mighty Qlipoth, guardian of Belobog..." Xenia begins, her voice soft but steady.
She feels Cocolia's right hand slip from her grasp, but the left tightens its hold. Xenia continues the prayer, pausing after each line to allow Cocolia to repeat it.
"We stand before you, humble servants..."
Xenia doesn't see Cocolia's free hand encase itself in ice, forming a wickedly sharp icicle.
"Grant us the strength to endure..."
She doesn't see Cocolia's eyes snap open, irises a molten gold surrounded by bloodshot white.
"Protect us from the Eternal Freeze..."
The icicle hovers above Xenia's forehead, poised to strike.
"And guide us always in your infinite wisdom—"
Pain explodes through Xenia's skull as the ice pierces flesh and bone. Her eyes fly open in shock and agony, meeting Cocolia's inhuman gaze for a split second before darkness claims her.
Cocolia watches dispassionately as ice flows from her hand, encasing Xenia's body. Within moments, the maid is transformed into a macabre ice sculpture, her face frozen in an expression of confused terror.
A blast of arctic wind whips through the room, scattering papers and scrolls. The gust catches the bedsheets covering the other ice sculpture, revealing the frozen form of Yekaterina, her features contorted in fear.
Cocolia turns away from the gruesome tableaux, her gaze falling on the painting of herself and young Bronya. Ice creeps up the frame of Qlipoth's portrait, obscuring the Aeon's visage.
She reaches out, caressing the image of her daughter with frost-covered fingers. When she speaks, her voice is a discordant chorus of tones.
"Soon, my little treasure. Soon, you'll be avenged, and we'll meet again. Soon..."
——————————————————————
Himeko paces restlessly around the Astral Express, her heels clicking a frantic rhythm against the metal floor. She chews on her thumbnail, brow furrowed in worry. Pom-Pom watches her from their perch on the command console, their normally cheerful expression twisted into a frown. Even Welt, typically the picture of composure, fidgets with the handle of his cane.
"Himeko," Welt says softly, "getting worked up won't help us find them."
She whirls to face him, eyes flashing. "It's been three days, Welt. Three days without a word from Xander, March, or Dan Heng. Xander hasn't checked in like he's been doing every day since the mission started. And it's not just him - I can't reach any of them. My messages aren't going through to any of their numbers."
Welt raises a placating hand. "Just because we haven't heard from them doesn't mean something terrible has happened. It's not unreasonable to think they've encountered communication issues. After all, Jarilo-VI has been cut off from the rest of the universe for 700 years. Their interstellar communication technology is likely outdated, if not completely non-functional."
Himeko's shoulders slump. "That... that makes sense. But Dan Heng, at least, would know how worried I'd be. He'd find a way to get to a place with signal, even if just to send a quick text letting us know they're okay and to expect radio silence for a while."
She runs a hand through her hair, mussing the carefully styled strands. "I'd still worry, but at least I wouldn't be imagining worst-case scenarios every five minutes."
Suddenly, a piercing alarm cuts through the air. Pom-Pom yelps, nearly falling off the console. Their fur stands on end, eyes comically wide.
Himeko groans, pressing her palms against her temples. "That is not helping!"
The alarm continues to blare, its shrill tone seeming to intensify with each passing second. Welt moves to a nearby panel, his fingers flying over the controls.
"It's that Aeon detection warning again," he reports, frowning. "We've been getting these alerts twice a day for the past few days, but in the last 48 hours, it's been nearly constant."
Himeko collapses onto a nearby sofa, throwing an arm over her eyes. "At first, I was terrified. Now? I'm starting to think either our systems have a glitch, or some hacker is having a grand old time messing with us."
Pom-Pom hops down from the console, their ears twitching in annoyance. "Stupid hackers," they grumble, waddling towards the door. "Stupid alarm. I'll go check it out... again."
As the door slides shut behind Pom-Pom, Himeko lets out a long, weary sigh. Welt approaches, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"I apologize if I'm coming across as overly stoic," he says softly. "I assure you, I'm just as concerned as you are. If you'd like, I can go down to Belobog myself and investigate the situation."
Himeko lifts her arm, meeting Welt's gaze. A small, grateful smile tugs at her lips. "I'd appreciate that, thank you. And don't worry about leaving us here alone - it's clear these alarms are false. Nothing will happen while you're away."
Welt's eyes crinkle with amusement. "Let's hope you haven't gone completely mad from all the alarms by the time I return."
"Don't get your hopes up," Himeko retorts, her smile widening a fraction. "Madness is inevitable at this point."
Their banter continues as Welt prepares to depart. He's just about to activate the Space Anchor when the door bursts open. Pom-Pom tumbles in, gasping for air, their eyes wild with panic.
"Miss Himeko!" they wheeze, tripping over their own feet and sprawling across the floor.
Himeko rushes to their side, helping the small creature to their feet. "Pom-Pom? What's wrong?"
Pom-Pom's mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. They tremble violently, struggling to catch their breath.
"Deep breaths," Himeko instructs, her voice gentle but firm. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. That's it, nice and slow-"
"Anti-Matter Legion!" Pom-Pom finally blurts out, their voice shrill with terror.
Before Himeko can react, a tremendous explosion rocks the Astral Express. Alarms blare, bathing the interior in pulsing red light. Himeko and Welt rush to the nearest window, their eyes widening in disbelief at the sight before them.
A vast fleet of Anti-Matter Legion ships fills the starscape, their jagged, otherworldly designs a stark contrast to the elegant curves of the Astral Express. Hundreds of Voidranger: Distorters materialize around the train, their numbers growing by the second. Beams of destructive energy lance out from the Distorters, pummeling the Express's hull.
Without a word, Welt and Himeko spring into action. Welt summons his cane, slamming it against the floor. Outside, a yawning black hole springs into existence, swallowing dozens of Distorters in an instant.
The Astral Express hums with power as shimmering force field barriers envelop its exterior. Dozens of cannons, their design mirroring Himeko's signature weapon, emerge from hidden compartments. They immediately open fire, unleashing concentrated heat blasts that tear through the incoming ships.
"We're sitting ducks!" Himeko shouts over the cacophony of battle. "We can't move without risking a fall from the Astral Rails, but they can bomb us continuously from all sides!"
As if to emphasize her point, another barrage of explosions rocks the Express. The shields hold firm, barely flickering under the assault. Himeko's knuckles whiten as she grips the console, a mixture of determination and relief in her eyes.
"We can't risk it," Welt grunts, summoning another black hole to devour an approaching wave of Distorters. "Even if we could maneuver safely, we can't abandon Jarilo-VI. I suspect Xander, March, and Dan Heng's activities have drawn Nanook's attention. The concentration of Stellarons may have caused a resonance strong enough to trigger this response."
Himeko's eyes widen in realization. "You think they're trying to take us out before invading Jarilo-VI again?"
Welt nods grimly. "It's likely. We need to hold them off."
"For how long?" Himeko demands, her voice strained as she redirects power to the shields.
Welt's expression hardens. "Until our companions finish whatever they've started. We must hold strong for them." Another explosion rocks the Express, and Welt's jaw sets with determination. "I need to engage them directly, sow chaos among their ranks to draw attention away from the Express."
Himeko turns to him, her eyes wide with concern. "Welt, you're strong, but this... isn't this is too much, even for you?"
A sad smile crosses Welt's face. "A long time ago, I lost someone very dear to me. Since then, I've vowed never to let such a tragedy occur again." His grip tightens on his cane, his eyes blazing with determination. "I may be past my prime, but I can still hold my own against the likes of these."
Himeko studies him for a long moment before nodding. "Good luck," she says softly.
"And to you," Welt replies, turning towards the exit.
He makes his way to the off-boarding ramp, waiting as the pressurization protocols engage. As the door slides open, revealing the vast expanse of space, Welt takes a deep breath. Then, with a determined set to his jaw, he leaps out into the void.
For a moment, Welt floats weightless in the vacuum of space. Then his eyes begin to glow, an aura of otherworldly power emanating from his form. He accelerates through the battlefield, unaffected by the extreme cold or lack of gravity. Voidrangers explode left and right, destroyed by unseen forces as Welt merely gestures with his cane.
As he speeds towards a cluster of enemy ships, Welt's voice rings out, carried impossibly through the vacuum of space:
"My name is Welt, the man who inherited the heroic will of Welt Joyce. I've defended the meaning behind this name for decades. Never faltering. Never surrendering. No matter the world or circumstance.
He raises his cane high, and dozens of enormous, futuristic fighter jets materialize around him. They streak off in bursts of impossible speed, engaging hundreds of Anti-Matter Legion ships in a dizzying aerial ballet.
A massive enemy vessel bears down on Welt, clearly intent on a kamikaze run. Welt merely smirks, his eyes glowing with power. A shimmering forcefield springs to life around him, pulsing with energy.
"Kneel," he commands.
A black hole springs into existence at the core of the ship, devouring it from the inside out. The vessel implodes, scattering debris across the starscape.
Back on the Astral Express, Himeko watches the battle unfold through the viewport, her expression a mix of awe and determination. After a moment, she tears her gaze away, striding purposefully towards one of the sofas. She slides back a hidden panel, revealing a small keypad. Her fingers fly across the keys, inputting a complex code.
With a soft hiss, the sofa opens, revealing a hidden compartment. Himeko reaches in, retrieving two suitcases identical to the one she normally carries. She places them in the center of the room, opening each with practiced efficiency as Pom-Pom looks on nervously.
"Stay behind me," Himeko instructs, her voice leaving no room for argument. "I promise I'll protect us."
Suddenly, the air shimmers. Three massive figures materialize within the Express - Voidranger: Tramplers. They tower over Himeko and Pom-Pom, their monstrous forms a stark contrast to the sleek interior of the train. They advance menacingly, each step shaking the floor.
Pom-Pom lets out a terrified squeak, stumbling backward. Himeko, however, stands her ground. She cocks an eyebrow, her voice dripping with disdain.
"Didn't anyone teach you manners?" she asks coolly. "One's supposed to knock before entering another's home."
The two suitcases on the floor spring to life, transforming into floating red beam cannons. They hover alongside Himeko's signature weapon, forming a deadly trio. Before the Tramplers can react, all three cannons fire simultaneously. Hyper-concentrated energy beams slice through the air, striking the intruders with devastating force. The Tramplers disintegrate, leaving behind only wisps of acrid smoke.
For a moment, silence reigns. Then, with another shimmer of displaced air, five more Tramplers appear, replacing their fallen comrades. They advance on Himeko, their massive forms blocking out the light from above.
Himeko's eyes narrow, a dangerous glint in their golden depths. "I absolutely abhor this kind of impoliteness," she states, her voice cold as ice.
The laser cannons hum with building energy. Himeko's lips curve into a predatory smile.
"Allow me to teach you how to cordially greet a stranger."
The cannons unleash another barrage of destructive energy. The Tramplers don't even have time to scream before they're reduced to atoms. As the light fades, Himeko stands untouched in the center of the room, not a hair out of place.
Pom-Pom peeks out from behind a nearby console, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and admiration. "Miss Himeko," they breathe, "that was amazing!"
Himeko's stern expression softens as she turns to the small creature. "Are you alright, Pom-Pom?"
They nod vigorously, scrambling out from their hiding place. "Yes, thanks to you! But... do you think there will be more?"
As if in answer to his question, the Express shudders under another barrage of attacks from outside. Himeko's jaw sets in determination as she strides back to the main control console.
"Undoubtedly," she replies, her fingers flying across the controls. "But we're not going down without a fight. Pom-Pom, I need you to monitor the shield integrity. Can you do that for me?"
Pom-Pom salutes, their earlier fear replaced by resolve. "You can count on me, Miss Himeko!"
As Pom-Pom scampers to a nearby terminal, Himeko's gaze is drawn back to the viewport. Outside, the battle rages on. Welt's summoned fighter jets dance between enemy vessels, unleashing devastating barrages. Black holes blink in and out of existence, swallowing Voidrangers by the dozens. Yet for every enemy destroyed, two more seem to take its place.
Himeko grits her teeth, redirecting power to the Express's weapons systems. The external cannons roar to life once more, adding their firepower to Welt's onslaught. Explosions blossom across the starscape as more enemy ships fall to their combined assault.
"Miss Himeko!" Pom-Pom calls out, their voice tight with worry. "Shield integrity at 96% and holding steady!"
"Excellent," Himeko replies, a small smile playing on her lips. "We're tougher than they anticipated. Aki didn't cut any corners when they built this magnificent machine. Reroute power from non-essential systems to weapons. Let's show them what the Astral Express can really do."
As Pom-Pom works feverishly at their console, Himeko's mind races. They can hold out for a while, but how long? Hours? Days? The enemy's numbers seem endless. They need a plan, a way to turn the tide...
Suddenly, an idea strikes her. It's risky, potentially suicidal, but it might just work. Himeko's fingers fly across the controls, initiating a complex series of commands.
"Pom-Pom," she calls out, "I need you to divert all available power to the shields and weapons. We're going to try something... unconventional."
Pom-Pom looks up, their eyes wide. "What are you planning, Miss Himeko?"
A grim smile plays across Himeko's lips. "Something either brilliant or incredibly stupid. Probably both." She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. "Hold on tight. This might get a little bumpy."
Outside, Welt continues his one-man war against the Anti-Matter Legion. His summoned jets weave intricate patterns through the enemy fleet, their weapons tearing through hull after hull. Black holes open and close with dizzying frequency, swallowing entire squadrons of Voidrangers.
A particularly large enemy vessel looms before him, its weapons charging for a devastating strike. Welt raises his cane, his forcefield pulsing with increased power. The massive energy beam strikes his shield head-on, the impact sending ripples through space itself. For a moment, it seems as though even Welt's incredible defenses might falter.
But when the light fades, Welt remains unscathed, his expression one of grim determination. With a flick of his wrist, a black hole springs into existence at the core of the enemy ship, devouring it from the inside out. The vessel implodes, scattering debris across the starscape.
As Welt prepares to engage the next wave of enemies, movement from the corner of his eye catches his attention.
The Astral Express is moving.
Welt's eyes widen in disbelief as he watches the massive train begin to turn, its bulk rotating ponderously in space. Warning klaxons blare in his mind - any deviation from the Astral Rails could spell disaster. What is Himeko thinking?
As the Express completes its rotation, Welt suddenly understands. The train now faces the oncoming enemy fleet head-on, its prow aimed directly at the heart of the Anti-Matter Legion's formation. The external cannons, previously firing in all directions, now concentrate their assault on a single point.
A shimmering bubble of energy begins to form around the Express, growing larger with each passing second. Welt recognizes it immediately - Himeko is overcharging the shield generators, creating a battering ram of pure energy.
"Himeko, you brilliant madwoman," Welt mutters, a grin spreading across his face despite the dire situation.
Without hesitation, he throws himself back into the fray with renewed vigor. His cane becomes a blur of motion, summoning black hole after black hole to clear a path for the Express. Enemy ships explode in silent balls of fire, their debris scattering across the void.
Aboard the Express, alarms blare as systems strain under the immense power output. Himeko stands at the main console, her knuckles white as she grips the controls. Sweat beads on her brow, but her eyes burn with fierce determination.
"Shields at maximum capacity!" Pom-Pom shouts over the cacophony. "We can't sustain this for long, Miss Himeko!"
"We won't need to," Himeko replies through gritted teeth. "Prepare for impact!"
The energy bubble surrounding the Express has grown to massive proportions, easily dwarfing the train itself. It pulses with barely contained power, arcs of energy dancing across its surface. The enemy fleet, finally realizing the danger, begins to scatter. But it's too late.
Himeko takes a deep breath, her finger hovering over a pulsing red button. "Here goes nothing," she mutters. Then, with a silent prayer, she slams her hand down.
For a moment, nothing happens. Then, with a sound like reality itself tearing apart, the Express lurches forward. The energy bubble compresses, forming a battering ram of unimaginable power at the train's prow. It streaks through space like a comet, leaving a trail of devastation in its wake.
Enemy ships caught in its path are obliterated instantly, reduced to their component atoms. Those on the periphery are sent spinning out of control, their systems fried by the intense energy discharge. The heart of the Anti-Matter Legion's fleet shatters under the Express's unstoppable charge.
Welt watches in awe as the Express plows through the enemy formation, carving a swath of destruction. He quickly shakes off his amazement, redoubling his efforts to protect the train's flanks. His summoned jets streak alongside the Express, picking off any enemies that manage to avoid the initial charge.
Inside the Express, chaos reigns. The entire structure groans under the immense strain, panels sparking and systems overloading. Himeko and Pom-Pom cling to the console for dear life as the world seems to shake itself apart around them.
"Shield integrity holding at 89%, Miss Himeko!" Pom-Pom wails, their fur standing on end from the static electricity filling the air. "We're doing it!"
Himeko nods, her face a mask of concentration. "Just a little more," she mutters, more to herself than to Pom-Pom. "We're almost through..."
The viewport is a blur of motion, stars and explosions melding into a dizzying light show. Then, suddenly, they burst free of the enemy fleet. The endless expanse of space stretches out before them, blessedly empty of hostiles.
"Now!" Himeko shouts, her fingers flying across the controls.
The energy bubble surrounding the Express dissipates in a blinding flash of light. Inertia carries them forward for several more seconds before Himeko manages to bring them to a stop, the train's emergency brakes screaming in protest.
For a long moment, silence reigns. Himeko and Pom-Pom stare out the viewport, hardly daring to breathe. Behind them, the remnants of the Anti-Matter Legion's fleet drift aimlessly, a fraction of their former numbers.
"Did... did we do it?" Pom-Pom asks hesitantly.
Before Himeko can respond, a flash of light heralds Welt's return. He materializes in the center of the room, his clothing singed and his hair disheveled, but very much alive. A wide grin splits his face.
"That," he declares, leaning slightly on his cane, "was either one of the most brilliant or most insane things I've ever witnessed. Possibly both."
Himeko lets out a shaky laugh, the tension finally bleeding out of her. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Welt's expression sobers as he takes in the state of the Express's interior. Sparks fly from one or two damaged panels, and the acrid smell of burning electronics fills the air. "The damage..."
"Nothing we can't fix," Himeko assures him, already moving to assess the extent of the destruction. "What matters is that we're alive, and the Anti-Matter Legion's invasion force is in tatters."
As the battle lulls, Himeko and Welt take stock of their situation. Short of an hour has passed since the initial attack, yet both the Express and Welt himself seem to be holding up remarkably well.
"Pom-Pom," Himeko calls out, "status report."
The small creature scampers to her side, datapad in hand. "Express shields holding at 83%, Miss Himeko! We're still going strong!"
Himeko nods, allowing herself a moment of pride. "And Welt?"
Pom-Pom's eyes widen as they check the readings. "It's... it's incredible. His power output hasn't decreased at all since the battle began. If anything, it's increasing!"
Outside the Express, Welt soars, a lone figure amidst the swarm of fighter jets he's created. A sleek, form-fitting helmet encases his head, its visor glowing faintly with holographic readouts. This makeshift comm device, hastily constructed before he ventured into the vacuum of space once more, crackles to life as he responds.
"It seems I still have a few tricks up my sleeve," Welt's voice comes through clearly, a soft chuckle underlying his words. His image appears on a small screen near Himeko's console, showing him deftly maneuvering between his jets, cane flashing as he directs his forces. "But we can't let our guard down. I doubt this is the last we've seen of the Anti-Matter Legion."
As if summoned by his words, a blinding flash of light erupts beside the Astral Express, tearing open the fabric of space itself. From this wound in reality emerges another fleet of Anti-Matter Legion ships, their jagged silhouettes stark against the void. The new armada dwarfs the previous invasion force, stretching as far as the eye can see.
Himeko's face hardens, her earlier triumph replaced by grim determination. Her hands steady as she grips the control panel, readying the Express for another round. The ship's sensors blare warnings, a cacophony of alarms drowning out all other sounds.
"It seems our work isn't done," she says, her voice calm despite the dire circumstances.
"We knew this wouldn't be easy, Himeko. But we've proven we can hold our own. Now, we just need to outlast them."
Evidence of his powers soon becomes apparent. Dozens of black holes blink into existence, their voracious maws consuming entire squadrons of Voidrangers and ships.
Pom-Pom scrambles to Himeko's side, their fur standing on end but eyes shining with determination. "What now, Miss Himeko?"
Himeko doesn't respond immediately. Her eyes are fixed on the viewport, watching as Welt wages a one-man war against an army of cosmic horrors. Each black hole he summons seems to draw from an inexhaustible well of power within him.
"Now, Pom-Pom," Himeko says, her voice filled with resolve, "we show the Anti-Matter Legion why you don't mess with the Astral Express or its crew."
She turns to the main console, her fingers flying across the controls. "Reroute all remaining power to weapons and shields. We're in this for the long haul."
The Express's cannons roar to life once more, adding their firepower to Welt's onslaught.
"We can do this," Himeko murmurs, her golden eyes blazing with renewed resolve. "We will do this. For as long as it takes."
As minutes blend into hours, the cosmic standoff continues. The Anti-Matter Legion throws wave after wave at the unlikely defenders, yet the Astral Express and Welt stand firm. It's a battle of attrition, each side waiting for the other to falter first.
But Himeko knows they have one advantage the Legion doesn't: something worth fighting for. And as long as Xander, March, and Dan Heng need time, she and Welt will hold the line.
No matter how long it takes.
——————————————————————
Countdown to Belobog's Long Night of Solace: Less than 13 hours remaining.
Status Power Mingguan
-- Peringkat
Power 
-- Power
stone