Echoes of the Fallen, Gifts of the Past

The remnants of the feast lay like echoes of a battle well-fought. The PlasmaPlatters—thin, shimmering energy fields that had once held the evening's banquet—flickered out of existence, vanishing into the ether the moment the last morsel was devoured. The scent of roasted zerran beast and pranic-infused mead still lingered in the air, woven with laughter, the hum of old stories, and the weight of something unspoken—something just beneath the surface.

Art staggered to his feet, his MorphoMug clutched tight in his fingers. The cup, sensing his intoxicated grip, wobbled slightly, morphing into a steadier form to prevent spillage. His grin, wild and lopsided, spread across his face like the dawn of a reckless storm.

A Toast to Time and Fate

"My kin!" he bellowed, voice thick with the slur of too many futuristic libations. "A toast! A toast to my most glorious niece and nephew!"

Kar and Kal exchanged glances—one amused, the other skeptical. Roqs, ever the watchful eye, leaned forward, one brow raised. "Are you sure you want to toast in your current...condition?"

Art waved her off, nearly toppling over in the process. "Bah! Let me be, woman! My tongue still works, does it not?" He turned his wavering gaze to Kal and Kar, eyes unfocused but gleaming with sincerity. He lifted his MorphoMug high, its surface rippling like liquid glass. "To my niece and nephew! May the prana of ancient Paradin carry you to exactly where you need to be, and may you always arrive right on time to any and all of your destinations."

The three younger voices answered in unison, their words solid as steel: "Here, here!"

Roqs took a measured sip of Ferran metal pranic alcohol, its silver tendrils curling down her throat like liquid lightning. Kal and Kar, still too young for such fire, raised their MorphoMugs of nutrient-infused juice. Art, abandoning all pretense of sophistication, tossed his entire drink aside and reached instead for the sleek, ash bottle on the table. With reckless abandon, he drank straight from it, the liquid pouring down his chin like molten gold.

The moment passed. The feast had ended, but the night was still young. The celebration shifted to the living quarters, a space bathed in a warm astral glow, walls lined with shifting holo-paintings that reflected memories past. Art, wobbling dangerously, suddenly clapped his hands together.

Gifts and Glimmers of the Past

"I have a present for you, Kal!"

Kal's eyes widened, excitement flashing across his face like a starburst. Beside him, Kar's expression flickered for just a moment—disappointment, sharp and fleeting. But Roqs saw it. She always saw everything.

"And I," Roqs interjected smoothly, "have a gift for you, Kar."

Kar's face immediately brightened, flipping from disappointment to eager anticipation. Art fumbled into his coat, producing a small, shimmering sphere no larger than a marble. A nanite orb, its surface shifting like the tides of a microscopic ocean. Roqs, in contrast, retrieved a slender, unassuming cylinder—the Omniscribe.

Kal frowned, tilting his head. "What is it?"

Before anyone could answer, Art snatched the nanite orb back, nearly toppling in the process. "Everyone, stand back!" His drunken voice turned into something dramatic, theatrical—perhaps in his mind, he was a warrior in the halls of legend.

They moved back. Of course, they moved back.

With a drunken flourish, Art funneled prana into the orb. Instantly, it responded. The tiny sphere unfolded, expanding outward in a dazzling display of fractal geometry until, in his hand, there stood a staff—sleek, black with veins of pulsing gold, humming with power.

Kal's mouth fell open. "That's—"

"An ancient relic," Art said, his voice abruptly steady. "Yours now."

Kal took it reverently, hands shaking, eyes wide. He spun it experimentally, and the staff hummed in response, its weight perfectly attuned to his grip. "Thank you, Uncle Art."

Kar, meanwhile, examined her Omniscribe, flipping it over in her palm. "And mine is...?"

Roqs smirked. "Before you start jumping to conclusions—watch." She took the Omniscribe, pressed her index finger against it, and channeled a pulse of prana.

The cylinder elongated, reshaping itself into a spear, its blade glistening like the edge of a new dawn.

Kar's eyes widened.

Roqs added her middle finger to the channeling. The spear shifted, melting into a wide, sturdy shield, its surface reflecting an ethereal glow.

Then the ring finger.

The shield collapsed inward, reforming into a set of brutal brass knuckles, crackling with contained energy.

Finally, the pinky.

The weapon expanded one final time, stretching into a slender sword, its edge vibrating with a pranic hum.

A Warrior's Legacy

Kal's excitement turned instantly to outrage. "Wait—wait, wait, wait. What?! Hers is a four-in-one weapon?! Mine just turns into a staff?!"

Art smacked him upside the head. "Shut up, you ungrateful youngling. Both of these belonged to your parents."

Silence fell. Kal's indignation melted away, replaced by something deeper—shock, weight, understanding. He looked at the staff in his hands like it was suddenly heavier. Kar did the same with the Omniscribe.

Then, without a word, Kal stepped forward and hugged Art. Tight. Art, uncharacteristically still, patted his back. Kar, moved by the same invisible force, turned to Roqs and wrapped her arms around her. The woman, ever the warrior, stiffened—then, slowly, softened.

The moment stretched. Then, like all moments, it passed.

The celebration dwindled into memory. The night deepened.

The Weight of Destiny

Later, Kal lay in his bed, the staff resting beside him. Shadows danced across the ceiling in the glow of the artificial stars above. His fingers traced the patterns on the weapon's surface, mind churning.

He closed his eyes. He whispered to the void.

"I'm getting closer, Dad."

A beat of silence. His breath, steady.

"I'll get him soon."

Five Years Forward

A neural alarm hummed softly in the recesses of his mind, a gentle vibration against his subconscious.

Then, a timestamp appeared in the corner of his vision, faint and inevitable.

Year: 3057.

Five years later.

Kalvis opened his eyes. He was sixteen now.

The pursuit had started.