It was dark.

Imani moved swiftly, his large frame cutting through the dense jungle before emerging into the barer terrain beneath a near-moonless sky.

Route 15…

A mental map of the region unfolded in his mind—each route, from 1 to 28, marked and memorized.

He focused on Route 15. Then scanned for the marker.

Marker 7.4… Got it.

He adjusted his trajectory slightly.

At this pace… fifty-four minutes. Too slow.

His grip tightened around the shield and hammer.

He leaned forward—and accelerated.

Minutes passed in silence.

Imani slowed only once—when he reached the edge of Marker 7.4.

Nothing.

His heart pounded.

He scanned the clearing, then stepped forward, methodically sweeping the area.

Still nothing.

But then—his eyes caught a faint disruption in the soil. Something had passed through.

He knelt, fingers brushing the surface.

Tracks. Very faint..

Not animal.

Boots.

He followed.

The trail was fragmented, broken by shifting roots and uneven terrain—but still there. Faint indentations. Subtle changes in pressure along the dirt.

And then… he saw it.

A patch of disturbed ground. Barely visible in the low light.

Blood.

Just a few drops.

He crouched again, pressing his palm into the earth near the dark stain.

Still moist.

Fresh.

His jaw clenched.

He knew what this meant.

The Xok'al didn't leave bodies. Didn't leave armor. They consumed both—bone, steel, and flesh—devouring the spoils of their kills and dragging whatever was left back to their nests to feed their young ones. Their grotesque, blade-like limbs were manifested from what they ate.

Imani stood slowly.

The battle was here.

The slaughter.

He continued checking the terrain, noticing several irregularities. Indentations in the ground. Cracks in the rocks. And… more blood.

As he scanned the area, something larger caught his eye.

Backpacks.

His heart clenched.

He walked toward them, kneeling beside the scattered bundles. He reached for the closest one—and froze.

Alonso's.

He recognized the stitching along the side, the slight tear near the strap.

He opened it. The water container was still inside. A cloth wrap, untouched. Essentials left behind.

The Xok'al hadn't bothered with taking the packs.

Imani took a deep breath, closed the pack, and strapped it to his back.

Then he stood, turned, and resumed studying the terrain.

His steps brought him to a spot where the blood thickened—pools dried into the soil, black against scorched earth.

Burned. Compressed.

Someone made a last stand here.

Tohol?

Imani scanned again.

From that point, several tracks diverged outward. Signs of movement. Of retreat.

The others had run.

But… which one was Alonso?

He narrowed his eyes, crouching low.

Tracking—for better or worse—was nothing new to him.

Once, in another life, he'd spent three days tailing a defector across the savannahs of Chad with only the sky for shelter and the scent of blood for guidance.

Now, he had more tools at his disposal—and he knew Alonso well.

His stride. His weight. The length of his limbs. His scent. The exact shape of the boots he'd made for him.

It took Imani only a couple of minutes.

His gaze locked in one direction.

He rose.

And followed.

The terrain changed as he advanced—steeper, more erratic.

The ground dipped, then narrowed into a ridge.

Wind sliced across his face, carrying the acrid tang of ash—and blood.

His chest tightened.

He slowed.

Then stopped.

His hand trembled slightly around the hammer.

Another fight.

Alonso…

Imani crouched low, scanning.

Blade scores along the rocks—clean, deep, too wide for human steel. The angles told a story.

Two attackers.

Elite class?

He reached out and pressed his palm to a gouge.

Still faintly warm.

His stomach turned.

Another smear of blood. Then another.

Thick. Human.

No sign of armor.

No bones.

No flesh.

Just streaks, splatters, and long drags down the slope.

He stood, numbness crawling up his spine.

So… this was where it happened.

He ran but they caught him.

He fought back…

And…

His throat dried. He exhaled slowly through his nose, grounding himself. His heart thudded, each beat a blow to the chest.

More blood ahead—concentrated, pooled around a fractured stone.

He stared at it.

Imani's grip tightened. He forced himself forward.

Each step heavier than the last.

But then—something shifted in his vision.

The terrain.

A subtle change.

Disturbed earth leading to the edge of the ridge.

A break in the rock. Uneven.

He walked toward it—heart pounding, dread rising.

Then, suddenly—

BANG!

A projectile tore through his shoulder armor, punching down to the bone.

The force spun him halfway around. He staggered back, right arm limp and useless.

But his left rose.

Shield up—just in time to block the next strike.

It slammed into the metal with brutal force, denting the surface and sending a shockwave through his core. His body flared, nearly overloading from the absorbed charge.

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His boots skidded across the dirt, heels digging in.

The Xok'al.

But this force… too fast. Too strong.

Elite.

Imani gritted his teeth.

Fear coiled around his gut—but then fury broke through.

His breathing slowed.

The creatures stepped into view—calm, nearly casual. Their movements exaggerated. Taunting.

Their eyes locked on him.

Mocking.

Imani spit blood onto the ground and smiled.

"Good," he muttered. "Try me."

One of the Xok'al stepped forward—and Imani felt it.

An overwhelming EM domain slammed into him like a wall, pressing his body down, nearly forcing him to a knee.

He grunted—but held.

"Is that all you got?!"

The pressure intensified. He dug his boots in.

One Xok'al remained still, watching.

The other moved—bladed limbs sweeping low, its EM field growing heavier with every step.

Four meters.

Three.

Two…

It raised its scythe.

Imani raised his shield.

But the attack didn't come from the blade.

A sudden kick—direct, brutal—slammed into the center of his shield.

The impact launched him backwards, rolling across the ridge and crashing down onto the rock below with a heavy, bone-shaking thud.

Pain exploded through his shoulder as it struck the ground.

But Imani pushed up fast, snarling through gritted teeth.

Then—froze.

The Xok'al was already behind him.

Its face hovered over his shoulder, tilted slightly, unnaturally still.

No breath. No sound. Just those glossy, reptilian eyes staring down at him.

Imani didn't move.

Didn't blink.

The pressure of its presence pressed into his skin like ice, numbing his spine, hollowing his chest.

Its face—closer now—twitched.

Amused.

Imani's heart pounded in his throat.

Then he exhaled.

Closed his eyes.

And let everything go.

Every stored charge surged at once as he roared.

His shield rocketed upward with savage force—so fast it nearly tore his arm from the socket.

The air cracked like a gunshot.

Dust and debris exploded around him in a violent burst.

He staggered, blinking through the haze.

And then—

Stillness.

The weight was gone.

He turned, blood pounding in his ears.

The ridge was empty.

No one there.

His eyes darted—then stopped… and widened.

Five meters ahead.

The creature stood.

Perfectly still.

Its head cocked.

Imani trembled.

His body refused to move.

The creature began walking toward him.

Imani instinctively stepped back.

His mind was blank.

He—

Then something sharp.

Instant.

His breath hitched.

His entire body—no, the entire space—paused for a fraction of a second.

What…

A sensation. A ripple through the air.

Then… it was gone.

He blinked, gaze snapping forward.

Residual sparks drifted through the air, like tiny cracks in reality still stitching themselves shut.

And where the Xok'al's head should be—

Nothing.

Neck down, the body hadn't moved.

Yet… there was no head.

It remained standing a moment longer.

Then collapsed.

Imani turned slowly.

And saw him.

Just a flicker at first—the subtle sway of a dark red cape, short and weathered, catching the light like the tail of a serpent.

A man stood there.

His armor bore the marks of the Ajnal. It was elegant, yet battle-worn.

Strapped across his back was a long spear, carefully wrapped, its shaft carved with serpent curves and stepped motifs.

And in his hands—

Held out, casually—

Dripping blood.

Two heads.

The elite Xok'al.

The man then turned and faced Imani.

He was rather young—early-thirties, maybe. Striking features, sharp eyes beneath tousled dark hair. There was something effortlessly composed about him, like the chaos around him hadn't touched him at all.

"I guess I made it just in time," he said calmly, dropping both heads with a wet thud. "Annoying creatures, don't you think? Kill one and a dozen more come. Kill a dozen, then a hundred. Reproducing like pests."

He glanced up at the starry sky.

"I just hope they won't be the end of us all…"

Imani wasn't sure what to say. He understood the man perfectly—he was speaking the Ajnal tongue—but… who was he?

And how could he so casually dispatch two elite Xok'al?

The man smiled faintly. "You're one of those outsiders, right?"

His gaze flicked toward Imani.

Imani slowly nodded.

"I didn't know you outsiders were that big. Anyway, you were rather lucky. I was on my way to check some unusual activity in the area when I detected their signature. Seems those bastards have gotten cocky and dared to set up a new High Nest in the deeper parts of my domain."

He shook his head. "Name's Noh, by the way."

Imani stood, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, and gave the formal Ajnal greeting. "I am Imani, sir."

"Imani? Weird name. You outsiders are stationed at the nearby outpost, if I'm correct?"

"I… I was, sir. But I am no longer Ajnal."

The man's eyes slowly narrowed. "Takes bravery to say that in front of me, young jaguar. Then what are you—an enemy?"

"No, sir. I… disobeyed orders and came out looking for a friend. I couldn't do it as an Ajnal… so I came alone."

The man slightly tilted his head. "Interesting… and that friend of yours…?"

"He…" Imani looked around.

The man paused, eyes following his gaze.

"Hmm… there was a struggle here before you arrived. And…"

His gaze shifted, locking onto an irregular rock formation.

"A landslide?"

He walked toward it, crouched low, and pressed his palm to the ground.

A long silence followed.

"I see…"

He stood slowly.

"I scouted over 20 Tecpallis underground just in case, but… there's nothing but rocks and minerals."

Twenty Tecpallis… over 140 meters. Just how far can this man reach through solid ground?

He stared straight at Imani. "Your friend was either eaten or taken by the Xok'al. Either way, he's dead. Sorry about that."

Imani's face fell.

He knew they were different from others. When they died, they left no body behind. That at least meant… Alonso's body hadn't been defiled.

Imani's heart clenched.

He'd known—ever since he saw the signs of the struggle. And yet…

The man turned away.

"Anyway, my time's tight. Have to be everywhere at once, you see…"

Suddenly, Imani felt a pulse through his core—data, detailed and vast. A new map unfolded—much larger and more precise than the one he had. A single route was highlighted, stretching across hundreds of miles.

"You caught my interest, outsider. Consider this an invitation to join us again… if you want to," he said with a faint smile. "Since returning to your previous base might be... awkward, you'll need to go elsewhere. If you follow this path, you might reach Crossed Star Base—if luck's on your side. Give them this."

He tossed something Imani's way.

An obsidian token—smooth, cold.

Imani caught it, feeling it react subtly to his waves. Etched across its surface were strange, intricate patterns.

"Our karma ends here," the man said before Imani could respond.

Then—a gust of wind.

A flash.

And he was gone.

Imani stood there, dumbfounded, as residual sparks danced through the air.

For a long moment, he couldn't breathe.

What had just happened felt unreal—like a dream he hadn't earned.

The power that man displayed… it was beyond comprehension. Far beyond the Lords of Sparks. Beyond anything Imani had ever witnessed—or even heard of—inside the Tower.

But he was clearly Ajnal. A general, perhaps?

But how can they be that strong?

And even then… what were the chances of him just passing by and rescuing him?

Was this orchestrated by the Tower? Another cruel whim disguised as mercy? A second chance, handed out without warning?

If so… why him?

Why not Alonso?

Why was he granted survival—again?

Just like back on Earth—when he slipped through the cracks, when death passed over him time and time again. When those who escaped before him were hunted down, gunned down, some by his own hands. Men and women who fought beside him, who trusted him. And he… he lived.

Found peace. Found a life.

Laughed.

And now—once more—he was the one left standing.

Imani clenched his fists, teeth grinding as memories surged forward.

That damn kid.

His messy-ass hair. That annoying grin. Cocky. Stubborn. Too damn smart for his own good.

Always taking dumb risks like it was a sport—and somehow, always making it work.

Never listened. Always jumped in headfirst.

Talked shit. Fought hard. Never backed down.

A mess…

But an honest one. The kind you could trust. The kind that made you believe in people again.

That bond he had with Ayu—strong, pure, and real in a way Imani never thought could be born in a place like this.

And that moment—the one he'd never forget—when Alonso threw everything away to save him.

No bond. No promise. No reason.

And still… he gave it all. Stood tall in front of death and chased it away.

Imani dropped to a knee, fingers digging into the bloodstained earth.

His breath shook.

A second chance. Again.

His hands were stained thick with the blood of the innocent.

So why… why did he deserve one?

Imani bowed his head, eyes closing.

He remained kneeling for several minutes—silent, unmoving—ignoring the pain radiating from his shoulder as it slowly regenerated.

The silence pressed in.

And after some time—minutes, hours, he didn't know—Imani stood.

He let the backpack slip from his shoulders.

Then picked up a nearby boulder, heavy and jagged. With steady hands, he shaped it using his hammer, chipping away until the stone had a rough, clean face.

He paused.

Then, with the edge of the hammerhead, he began to carve.

Careful strokes.

Each letter slow, deliberate.

Words formed—etched deep into the stone.

When he finished, he pressed it firmly into the earth, planting it until it stood solid.

Alonso Shemson.

A warrior. A man of honor. A brother.

He stepped back and stared at it for a while.

Then bowed his head once more—lower this time.

He turned.

He walked away.

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