Chapter Thirty: Olympia

Orphan alley, 

Nocturna city, City of Eternal Twilight

Olympia,

Divine Federation

Anu Solar system

Pleiades star sector

The planet Olympia, cradled within the reaches of the Divine Federation, was a world wrapped in shadow and mystery—a place where tradition, death, and power danced in silent concord. As one of the twelve sacred planets under the Federation's celestial dominion, Olympia was governed by House Scorpio, a house as cryptic and serpentine as the symbol it bore. Yet even within the rigid structure of the Federation, Olympia stood as an anomaly, for while most planets offered fealty to the Divine Emperor, Olympia bowed instead to another god—Irkalla, the dread sovereign of death and the afterlife.

Olympia's landscape was one of stark, melancholic beauty. Vast plains unfurled beneath a shroud of silver mist, while jagged obsidian mountains rose like the broken teeth of ancient gods, their peaks lost in the dense, amber-streaked twilight. The sun rarely shone in full; instead, it filtered dimly through a thick, copper-hued atmosphere, casting long shadows across desolate canyons and ashen fields. The air was thick with a pungent, metallic scent carried on chilled winds—an aroma said to be sacred, believed to carry whispers from the beyond.

Though administered by the Divine Federation, Olympia's soul belonged to Irkalla. The god of death was not worshiped out of mere fear but revered as a cosmic necessity, a force of balance and reckoning. To the Olympians, death was not a punishment—it was a sacred passage, a transmutation of being. Irkalla's priests taught that only through death could one be made whole again, and thus, the rituals of remembrance, severance, and transcendence became woven into the daily fabric of life. Mourning rites were as grand as coronations, and it was not uncommon to see Mages casting silver runes into the wind, calling upon the spirits of the departed to bear witness or offer guidance.

The very heartbeat of the planet pulsed within the Council of Mages, a conclave of master alchemists and death-scholars who ruled from their shadowed sanctum in the Black Citadel. But these were no mere poisoners. They were artisans of entropy, their craft elevated to a revered science. They distilled toxins into phantasmal vapors, etched venomous runes into talismans, and brewed elixirs capable of searing through the barriers of life and death. On Olympia, poison was not just a tool—it was philosophy, devotion, and art.

Each Mage of the council had undergone the Rite of Venin, a sacred trial that infused their blood with arcane toxins and bound them to Irkalla's will. Their concoctions could heal grievous wounds or unmake a soul with the subtlest drop. More terrifying were their ghost elixirs—potions said to allow the drinker a glimpse beyond the veil, into the lands where the dead dwell. Those who returned from such visions were never the same; some wept blessings of insight, while others screamed prophecies until their hearts burst.

Olympia was a world suspended between life and oblivion, where beauty decayed into reverence and every breath felt borrowed from the dead. And yet, it endured—not in defiance of death, but in its embrace.

It was here, on this mournful and familiar world, that Emily returned—her birthplace, Olympia. She hadn't set foot on its soil since she was nine years old, the day she awakened and was taken away from the life she'd once known. Now, as the Federation vessel pierced the planet's copper-hued atmosphere, the familiar pressure in her chest returned, not from the descent, but from memory.

Thanks to its Divine Federation credentials, the ship was granted safe passage through the Sphere Defense Array that encased the planet like a shimmering exoskeleton, its latticework of light designed to repel intruders and quarantine threats. The engines gave a low, resonant hum as the ship glided down through amber clouds, casting long shadows over the eternal twilight of Olympia.

Emily sat in the captain's chair, her posture stiff despite the years of training that had taught her to master stillness. Nocturne, her ever-watchful companion, stood beside her—tall, silent, blade-like in presence. Hovering just above her shoulder was the cube, its runes glowing faintly with an inner light, pulsing to a rhythm she felt but did not understand. Below them, the Eternal City of Twilight stretched out like a dream half-remembered: Nocturna.

Its silhouette rose from the gloom like the skeleton of a divine beast—domes and towers shrouded in shadow, rooftops glazed with mist, canals of blackened water threading through the districts like veins of ink. Twilight cloaked the city in perpetuity, neither day nor night ever truly arriving. A soft, melancholic glow illuminated it, as if the sky mourned some ancient loss that had never been spoken aloud.

As Emily gazed over the city, something within her began to stir. The name Orphan Alley emerged like a whisper from the void. She had worked so hard to forget it, to bury her past beneath layers of discipline and power. But memory, like the twilight, crept in without sound.

She saw again the narrow alleyways where she once ran barefoot with the other orphans, their laughter edged with desperation. They raced through cobblestone streets worn smooth by centuries of sorrow, ducking beneath sagging cloth awnings and rusted signs. The homes there were hunched and tired, their stone faces weathered by gloom and grief, standing shoulder to shoulder like mourners in a funeral procession. Lanterns flickered with spectral flame, casting elongated shadows across damp stone.

Back then, survival was an act of rebellion. In Nocturna, many embraced death as a quiet salvation, their worship of Irkalla making it a sacred exit. But not Emily. She had clawed at life with everything she had. She learned to move like a shadow, to strike like a whisper. A dagger became an extension of her will, and soon, she found herself dancing through the gloom with a fluidity that felt… ancient.

Dancing Twilight, she thought. That was the name of the art.

Then a chill settled over her thoughts. Wait... Her breath caught. How did I develop the art? The memory was a blur. She couldn't recall hours of practice or the process of learning. The forms had simply... come to her. Did I develop it? Or have I always known how to use it?

The question lingered in her mind like a specter—unanswered and unrelenting—resonating through her thoughts like a song half-sung in a temple draped in eternal shadow.

The ship touched down on a docking platform nestled within one of Nocturna's lower bays, a sprawling hangar where vessels of all sizes slumbered under the muted amber glow of hovering lantern-lights. As the soft hiss of the landing gear exhaled, Emily rose from the captain's chair and reached for her shadowcloak—a silken mantle woven with living enchantments and stitched with threads drawn from the Weave of Umbracite. With a whisper of intent, she activated the cloak's enchantment, its edges liquefying into smoke.

Her form shimmered—phased—and then vanished into the surrounding gloom.

A ripple of shadow slithered across the hangar, darting between the bellies of docked ships and coiling through the understructure of cargo lifts and support pylons. Emily moved like a phantom, unseen and unheard, slipping past security drones and customs officials with ease. The scent of machine oil and sanctified incense mingled in the air as she made her way beyond the inspection zone, finally surfacing several blocks away in the outer precincts of the city.

She emerged slowly from the darkness, the spell bleeding off her like black dew. Her hood remained drawn, shrouding her features in the comfort of anonymity. Around her, the city of Nocturna stretched in solemn grace—a metropolis sculpted from stone, soul, and shade. Towering trees with gnarled silver trunks rose above the skyline, their branches intertwined like the bones of forgotten titans. The canopy above filtered the ever-present twilight into wan, dreamlike beams that painted everything in shades of blue, gray, and faint gold.

Despite its eerie beauty, the city exuded a serene melancholy. Its silence was not oppressive, but contemplative—like a hymn held on breath. This was a city that breathed with the rhythm of death and rebirth, where even the cobblestones seemed to mourn and remember.

Before her stood the Twilight Cathedral, its colossal spires rising like blackened thorns into the dusk. The stained glass windows shimmered faintly, depicting scenes of passage—of spirits crossing the Veil, of Irkalla extending his hand to both tyrant and beggar. Worshippers came and went in solemn procession, cloaked in dark silks and carrying offerings of bone-lanterns and whisper scrolls.

Emily's hand rose instinctively to the torch pendant that hung around her neck—a small symbol of Irkalla's flame, a sacred icon to those who walked the twilight path. Her fingers brushed it briefly before letting it fall. There was no comfort in prayer today.

She turned from the cathedral and continued down the winding street, boots echoing softly on stone dampened by mist. The path ahead narrowed, losing its ornate charm, becoming more forgotten. The air grew colder, the buildings more skeletal, hollowed by time and neglect. She was walking toward Orphan Alley.

The alley hadn't changed.

Tucked between two forgotten structures—one a collapsed apothecary, the other a prayer-house long consumed by ivy and rot—Orphan Alley yawned like a scar in the city's flesh. Narrow and crooked, it twisted through the lower district like a shadow cast from history itself. The air here was colder, the mist thicker, as though memory itself congealed into fog.

Emily stepped through the archway formed by two sagging archipel roofs, her boots crunching over scattered debris—shards of old lantern glass, scraps of parchment, and the brittle remains of offerings long since ignored. The scent struck her first: soot, mildew, and faintly, the cloying sweetness of incense burned by those who still left gifts for the forgotten dead.

Every step she took echoed with ghosts.

She remembered this place in fragments—chased images sharp as glass. The cold nights spent curled beneath ruined awnings, the ache of hunger gnawing at her bones. She remembered stealing crusts of bread with shaking hands, fending off older orphans who'd lost more of themselves to the shadows. And she remembered laughter too—faint, brittle, but real. The sound of innocence fighting to survive just one more day.

The alley opened into a small square, barely more than a courtyard, where a broken fountain stood like a crumbling sentinel. Once, it had held a statue of Irkalla cradling a dying star-child, but now only the cracked pedestal remained. Emily walked to it and knelt.

This was where she had carved her first rune.

She ran her gloved fingers across the weathered stone. The rune was still there—etched by a trembling hand, crude and uneven. A symbol for veil—the place between life and death. She had drawn it with stolen chalk, hoping it would protect her. In some ways, perhaps it had.

The sound of distant bells tolled from the cathedral spires, soft and mournful. Emily closed her eyes. The weight of time pressed down on her, not like a burden, but like a veil settling over her shoulders.

She moved deeper into the winding veins of the alley, her steps drawing her toward one of the most storied and sorrowful landmarks in Orphan Alley.

The Whisperer's Corner.

Tucked within a secluded intersection at the very heart of Nocturna's forgotten quarters, Whisperer's Corner was less a place than a feeling—a stillness amidst decay, a hush amidst chaos. As Emily approached, the gloom of the city seemed to grow softer, thick with reverence and memory. This was the soul of Orphan Alley, where silence was sacred and shadows listened.

The shrine at the center was modest—built from ancient stone worn smooth by time and rain, now draped in layers of silvered moss that glistened faintly under the lantern light. Despite its simplicity, it radiated quiet dignity. Around it floated dozens of delicate lanterns, hand-crafted by the orphans and wanderers who called this place home. These lights drifted gently on unseen currents, as though suspended in breathless prayer. Their glow was ghostly and gentle—muted amber, dusky blue, and soft violet—casting trembling reflections upon the damp walls, as if the stones themselves wept for the forgotten.

Each lantern held a purpose. A whispered memory. A quiet plea. A name never spoken aloud.

The air was saturated with the rich aroma of incense—notes of nightshade, ashen myrrh, and moonflower mingled in the mist, leaving a scent both intoxicating and sorrowful. It curled through the air like a phantom hymn, wrapping around the cracked cobblestones that formed a circular court around the shrine. That circle was worn smooth from countless footsteps, its edges scattered with humble benches cobbled together from driftwood, rusted iron, and fragments of old doors—every seat telling its own story.

Here, time felt slower, heavier. The hush was not empty but full—full of secrets, confessions, silent mourning, and unspoken dreams.

It was here, beneath the dancing light of the lanterns, that the people of Orphan Alley came to unburden themselves. Words were rarely spoken above a whisper; everything said here became part of the living memory of the shrine. Gossip and prophecy walked hand in hand. It was said that if Irkalla listened anywhere in the city, it was here.

Emily's breath caught in her throat as she stepped into the circle.

She remembered this place with a pang that reached into the hollows of her soul—those quiet nights of her youth, when she sat cross-legged beside the shrine, small fingers wrapped around her knees, listening to the grown-ups murmur about gods, death, and dreams she hadn't yet learned to dream. She remembered the stories told in fragments—half-lies and half-truths that hinted at monsters in human skin, divine bargains sealed in blood, and doors that only opened for the dead.

In a world so heavy with death, Whisperer's Corner had offered her a sliver of something else—belonging, perhaps. Or maybe it was hope. Hope whispered, not shouted. The kind that hid in lanternlight and the warmth of sitting beside someone who, for one night, did not feel like a stranger.

She took a seat on an old bench made from a splintered crate, brushing dust from her cloak. Her eyes lifted to the lanterns. Some were old and flickering, nearly burned out. Others were freshly lit, their glass still clear, the wax within pristine.

By now, Emily's senses were fully alert—her instincts sharpening like blades honed by years of blood and shadow. From where she sat on the weathered bench, she had already detected them—several presences, subtle but undeniable, perched silently atop the surrounding buildings. They lingered like vultures waiting for the first twitch of a dying creature. Trained killers. Watching. Waiting.

The shrine square was abandoned, unusually quiet even for Whisperer's Corner. No mourners. No whispers. No flicker of curiosity in the lanterns. Just the hush before a storm. It gave her room—room to move, to fight, or to kill if necessary.

Then, a figure emerged from the shadows beyond the shrine, stepping into the dim lanternlight as if summoned by memory itself.

He wore a long medical coat—onyx white, pristine, and buttoned all the way to his collar. The fabric gleamed unnaturally against the gloom, stark and surgical, like a scalpel slicing into a corpse. His appearance was too clean, too calculated for this place. Young, or at least appearing so, with russet-hued hair neatly parted and skin pale enough to catch the faint shimmer of the floating lanterns. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of shade-tinted glasses, dark enough to obscure his gaze, yet not so dark as to hide the faint glint of emerald beneath.

He looked like someone torn from the pages of a nightmare—a nightmare Emily hadn't known she carried.

Her breath hitched.

He looked exactly like the doctor from her fragmented memories. The one whose voice echoed faintly in dreams soaked with blood and anesthesia. The one who stood over her as she lay strapped to a cold examination table, more specimen than child.

"Hello, sister," the Doctor whispered, his voice disturbingly gentle, laced with an intimacy she did not recognize.

Emily stiffened. Sister?

Her gaze narrowed. She combed through every corner of her mind—but there was nothing. No familial thread. No childhood echo. No flicker of shared blood. And yet—there he stood, as real as the bench beneath her. As real as the memory she shouldn't have had—of this man's shadow falling across her face while cold instruments hovered near her temple.

"Who are you?" she asked, voice low and sharp as obsidian. One hand twitched by her side. Her killing instinct surged upward, silent and sure—a hunger coiling in her limbs.

The Doctor smiled, wolfish and calm. "Whew. That look." He chuckled. "Even if you don't remember me, I can see it in your face. That beautiful scowl says you want to cut me open. Honestly, I deserve it."

Emily didn't respond. Her fingers curled.

"Well, I suppose you're wondering what I'm doing here," he continued, taking a step closer, the lanterns glinting off his coat. "After your little escape, I kept track of you. Followed your path. You've come quite far. And then—surprise, surprise—you return home, just like I knew you would. Right back to where it all began."

"You speak like you know me," Emily said coldly, her body turning slightly to square her stance, feet shifting for balance. "But I don't know you. Not as Emily. Not as anyone."

"Ah, memory loss. Tragic," the Doctor said with exaggerated sympathy. "But don't worry. When you fully return home… I'm certain everything will come back. Every test. Every incision. Every scream."

Emily rose from the bench, slow and deliberate. Her eyes locked onto him with a heat that belied the calmness in her movements. There was something about this man—his voice, his scent, the way he stood—that infuriated her on a primal level. Rage flickered inside her like lightning behind storm clouds, waiting for a path to strike.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," she said, her voice flat and final.

The Doctor sighed with theatrical exasperation. "Ahh, I was afraid you'd say that. So… the hard way it is, then."

He raised a single hand, fingers twitching with deliberate precision—and like hounds released from their leash, the predators above stirred. Shadows shifted atop the surrounding rooftops, their movements silent but unmistakable—trained killers masked in gloom, waiting for the signal to strike.

Emily had no weapons on her, but she didn't need them. Her body was a weapon forged through suffering and survival. She moved to rise, to let her instincts take over—but the moment her arms tensed, resistance struck her like invisible chains. A force, unseen yet palpable, coiled around her limbs and spine, freezing her in place. Her senses flared.

Within the surrounding air, thin filaments of mana vibrated like spider silk—delicate, nearly imperceptible threads woven into the space itself. They weren't physical restraints. They were conceptual bindings—a spell constructed to suppress motion, layered with insidious precision. Worse still, Emily's inner perception detected something even more dangerous: the threads pulsed with latent toxins, alchemical in nature, ready to inject a paralyzing venom into her body if she resisted too forcefully. It was not just a trap. It was a curse designed to ensure her stillness through slow decay.

A perfect immobilization web, crafted by a master of cruelty.

But Emily was long past fearing poison.

With a single breath, she activated her internal flow. Light elemental energy surged through her body like molten gold, flooding her veins, purging every trace of the toxins that had begun to creep in. The dark-aligned alchemy burned away under the purifying blaze. Her vitality didn't just resist—it responded with fervor. Her immune system, supercharged by her cultivation, flooded her limbs with healing strength and reinforced her muscles with radiant vigor.

The bindings flickered.

Above her, the Doctor's enforcers moved—elite Mages, their faces obscured by lacquered masks, each one a specialist trained to cast in unison. They raised their hands in perfect synchronization, and the air distorted as they summoned a devastating spell: a Tier Five fusion array.

Rings of runes burst into existence, one after another, interlocking like celestial gears. Their mana cores linked, forming a singular spell circuit—a combined casting that twisted the five spells into one monstrous torrent of annihilation. The air crackled with unstable pressure. Any ordinary Master-rank cultivator would have been vaporized on the spot.

But Emily didn't even blink.

As the blazing, pulsating bolt of pure destruction was unleashed toward her, she raised a single arm. From her palm, a thick mist bloomed—a slow, flowing tide of violet-hued vapor laced with dark radiance.

It touched the spell... and consumed it whole.

[Primal Harmonics: Umbral Synthesis]

The impact never came. The destructive force collapsed into the mist, its power unraveled and siphoned away into Emily's body. She didn't just absorb it—she transformed it. Her core swelled with energy, her reserves growing deeper, her cells thrumming with reinvigorated vitality. She stood, finally free of the bindings, and her eyes gleamed with quiet wrath.

And then she retaliated.

[Primal Harmonics: Ebon Radiance — Beam Mode]

Five lances of focused dark energy shot from her fingertips, each one a concentrated beam of umbral power edged in ghostly white light. They moved faster than thought, piercing through the defensive sigils the enemy Mages raised. Their barriers didn't shatter—they dissolved, unable to contend with the purity of energy manipulation. The beams struck their targets with pinpoint precision, boring into their cores.

There were no screams. Just a sudden, sharp silence as their mana systems detonated inwardly—ruptured from within. Bodies fell, lifeless, before even hitting the ground.

The Doctor didn't move.

He stared at her, brows lifting in fascinated awe as the glow of the mist faded.

"Well, well," he murmured, adjusting his glasses. "That… was unexpected."

He tilted his head, like a scholar observing a specimen that refused to obey the laws of alchemy. "Energy manipulation, is it? Hah. Fascinating. I've studied thousands of abilities, but this… this is different. This isn't just mana. It's something purer, more primal. You don't just channel energy—you command it."

He smiled, and this time it was genuine—tinged with madness and admiration.

"I've never seen anyone manipulate all forms of energy as a single substance. You're not just converting or absorbing—you're synthesizing. Redefining it. That's not a spell... It's evolution."

Emily didn't answer. Her mist was already gathering again—denser, sharper.

And this time, she wasn't waiting for him to speak.

Emily moved—no, she blurred—a streak of wrath weaving through the shadows like a living blade. She struck without hesitation, fists crashing through bodies as if flesh were paper and bone were mist. The first enemy barely had time to react before her punch caved in his skull, the force shattering his mana shield like glass under a hammer. His body crumpled before hitting the ground.

Another Sage-level combatant lunged at her, spell circles lighting up in desperation—but Emily's foot cracked into his ribcage, collapsing his chest with a wet, sickening crunch. In moments, three more fell, their reinforced defenses meaningless beneath her raw, unrelenting force.

These were Sage-ranked Mages—elite warriors whose names would shake nations. And yet, to Emily, they died like fodder.

The Doctor watched her with a dispassionate fascination, then casually snapped his fingers.

From the shadows behind him, more soldiers stepped forth, clad in lacquered combat robes bearing sigils of alchemical wards. They raised their hands in unison, and tier five spells erupted from their circles—vile, intricate poison-based incantations that twisted the very air around them.

Toxic mists spilled across Whisperer's Corner, clouds of dark green and violet gas spiraling like serpents through the air. The shrine's lights flickered and dimmed as the fumes spread, tendrils of corrosive vapor curling around Emily's limbs and into her lungs.

Her body reacted instantly—spitting blood, hot and dark, onto the stones. A searing pain bloomed in her cells, sharp and voracious. These poisons weren't the same crude toxins from before. They were refined, master-crafted, the kind of alchemical plagues designed to dissolve flesh from the inside out, layer by layer.

She gritted her teeth as her body summoned radiant vitality, flooding her bloodstream with light elemental energy in an attempt to purge the corruption. But it wasn't enough. The poisons mutated faster than her healing could react, bypassing her natural defenses, sabotaging her from within.

More enemies surged from the gloom—casting tier four and tier five spells meant to bind, shatter, and silence.

Emily staggered as she reached for her ability factor—Primal Harmonics—but instead of energy, blood poured from her mouth. Her body convulsed, refusing to channel the synthesis mist. Her connection to it was cut. Blocked. Her mana spiraled in confusion, unresponsive and erratic. She tried to cast, to defend herself, but her internal flow felt tampered with—misaligned, disrupted by the poison's invasive properties.

She abandoned magic and resorted to fists again, her blows still potent—but noticeably dulled. Her strikes grew slower. Her breath labored. Her strength... waning.

This isn't good, she thought grimly, stumbling slightly.

She reached deep—deeper—toward that forbidden place within her, that boiling core of chaos, the same power that had awakened on the Federation ship when she slaughtered her enemies like shadows before a supernova. She grasped for it, willing it to rise again.

But something intervened.

A presence.

A will.

It surged through the air like a divine decree, vast and oppressive.

"Hah," the Doctor exhaled, lips curling in amusement. "The planet's will seems to be on our side."

Emily felt it now. The World Will—the living consciousness of Olympia itself—was converging upon her, surrounding her in unseen currents of force. But it wasn't protection.

It was suppression.

It recognized her as a threat.

The power she sought to awaken was stifled, severed by the planetary will. Her strength faded even further, and for the first time in years, Emily felt the chilling touch of helplessness. Her body buckled as another barrage of spells struck her—multiple blasts crashing into her chest like falling meteors. She flew backward, smashing through the ancient statues near the shrine. The impact cracked the stone and drove the breath from her lungs.

Blood gushed from her mouth. The poisons dug deeper.

"Fuck off!" she snarled hoarsely at the World Will—but it was indifferent. It had judged her power as a danger to its continuity, and so it acted as any living thing would when faced with extinction.

It moved to kill her.

Emily tried once more to summon the inner fire—to rise—but the flame was gone. Snuffed out like a candle in a storm. Her limbs trembled, her body trembling under the weight of layered spells and planetary suppression.

And then the final spell came. A tier six incantation, crowned with spiraling sigils of entropy, crashed into her chest. The world fell silent as the impact struck. The light vanished from her eyes. Blood splattered across the stone tiles. Her body hit the ground with a dull, final thud. Her head cracked against the stone. Darkness took her. From the shadowed edge of the courtyard, a figure emerged—silent, graceful, and terrible.

Hekate.

She stepped forward, dressed in black silks and veils, her eyes gleaming like obsidian moons as she surveyed the battlefield.

"I must say," the Doctor mused, brushing dust from his coat, "it's a pleasure having you back."

He turned to Hekate with a smirk. "Loaning you to Mallus for that espionage project of his was so tedious."

"She's gotten much stronger," Hekate said, her gaze resting on Emily's crumpled form. She had watched the entire exchange unfold through the veil of shadow. "Even the Sages weren't enough."

"We haven't seen the full extent of her power yet," the Doctor said thoughtfully. "Which is why it's essential we extract what we need before she becomes… inconvenient."

He snapped his fingers.

Emily's body floated upward, suspended in a cradle of twisted mana. Blood still dripped from her wounds, a soft pattering against the stone.

"She's bleeding a lot," Hekate noted, arching a brow.

The Doctor waved dismissively. "It's manageable."

And just like that, they vanished—slipping back into the shadows, leaving Whisperer's Corner in silence, the lanterns flickering dimly above the blood-soaked shrine.