The Return to Echelon

The fires of Novar had dwindled into ash, but the memory remained sharp—carved into the scorched walls, into the hearts of those who survived, and into the steel grip of the saber Enzo now held.

Cain.

The weapon rested against the table in Kael's safehouse, silent and dormant. Yet Enzo knew better. It was never truly at rest. Its core pulsed faintly with each breath he took, as though reading his presence, syncing with his anger.

"Still humming?" Kael asked as he leaned against the doorway.

Enzo nodded. "Like it's alive."

"It is, in a way. Cain's not just tech. It's layered with quantum residue—echoes from the ones who wielded it before you. That blade remembers every kill. Every mistake."

Enzo looked down at the weapon. Its matte hilt still shimmered with faint plasma lines, cool blue for now, but that changed with intent. When he blinked during the Novar fight, Cain had seared bright white.

"Felt like it wanted to move ahead of me. I wasn't just swinging—I was reacting to something already in motion."

Kael smirked. "Instinct. That's what Cain amplifies. But the price is always personal."

He didn't need the warning. Since the battle, flashes came in waves. Strange faces. Words he never said. Places he had never seen. Past wielders, maybe. Ghosts of memory bleeding into his mind. It was manageable—for now.

Still, Cain had saved lives. The civilians he had pulled from Novar—including Drey, Vela, and several others—had all been safely relocated. Some were children who had lost their families, others were workers caught in the wrong place when the purge began. Enzo had done more than just fight; he had rescued lives the regime had deemed disposable. D-Rey and Vela had stayed close throughout the escape, but the others had scattered into different resistance safehouses.

He'd made a promise to each of them in his own way: that they weren't forgotten. And he intended to keep it. Enzo had promised the girl safety. He intended to keep it.

But now, another part of the mission began.

Kael tapped a console on the wall. A map flared to life, showing the Northern Academus District.

"The Academy of Echelon reopens this cycle. You'll enroll under your birth name. They're expecting the Descovinio heir to make an appearance. Perfect timing."

Enzo clenched his jaw. "Going back there means pretending again."

"It's not just pretense. It's access. Data streams. Schedules. Secure chambers. Some of your family's key operations run through that school."

"And the instructors?"

"Loyal to the regime. But they've grown used to students who admire power blindly. You're not that kid anymore."

Enzo reached for Cain and locked it into a concealment rig beneath his coat. The blade shrank into standby, the hum dying down.

"I'll need new credentials. A clean implant signature."

"Already prepared," Kael said. He tossed him a slim chip. "We forge your presence from their system logs. Your file will be cleaner than reality."

Enzo caught it, eyes narrowing.

"Back into the lion's den…"

Kael stepped forward and clamped a hand on his shoulder.

"You've got claws now, Enzo. Just don't lose the man behind the mask."

---

Later that night, Enzo stood on the balcony of the safehouse, staring at the skyline. The city was distant, framed by quiet stars and soft clouds. Cain rested beside him. Silent.

His mind wandered as the cool air wrapped around his coat. Thoughts of Novar flashed back again—the screams, the blood, the flicker of lights as he teleported through shadows. But there was also the image of hands reaching out, not in fear, but in desperate hope.

He remembered the other survivors: the young mother clutching a child wrapped in rags, the elderly man who had crawled from the rubble with broken legs and still urged others to flee first. A pair of twins who didn't speak, but clung to his coat as he pulled them through smoke. They weren't just names or bodies; they were reasons. Reminders.

Each life he had saved that day was a defiance against everything the Descovinio name represented.

Kael had told him once that the rebellion didn't need symbols—it needed action. But Enzo was slowly learning that people clung to symbols when they had nothing else. And Zero had become something more than a mask. To those civilians, he was a promise: that someone out there was fighting for them.

He exhaled, long and slow. A ship engine murmured in the far distance. The safehouse, tucked beneath one of the old maintenance towers of the outer capital, was quiet for now. But not for long.

Tomorrow, he would walk into the Academy not as Zero, not as a rogue, but as Clarenzo Descovinio—heir to a throne he sought to tear down. He would sit in the same halls that trained tyrants, dine beside the sons and daughters of enforcers, and smile as if he belonged.

He would be among enemies.

And he could not afford to slip.

Behind him, Cain hummed again.

A subtle warning.

He turned and placed a hand over the hilt. "Not yet," he whispered. "Not until we're inside."

He didn't know how long the peace would last, or how many more names he'd wear before this war was over. But he knew one thing:

The academy would be their next battlefield.

And Zero would be watching.