“When the Fire Fled, the Frost Spoke”

The world was cracked open.

Rubble choked the observatory floor, smoke ribboned through the air, and shattered glass glittered like ice across the ruins. Somewhere, a console sparked and hissed.

Crept coughed—once, twice—until breath came back. His ears rang. The air tasted of ash and ozone.

Something was hissing.

His name?

No. Just the fire, eating the walls.

He shoved aside a fallen beam, boots grinding against broken runes, and staggered forward into the dust. Every sound was muffled, every light too bright.

Then—

A flicker of pink.

"Shilial!"

She was pinned near the far side of the wreckage, half-buried in twisted alloy. A glowing barrier of pale rose light shimmered faintly over her form, barely holding.

He knelt beside her. Blood streaked her temple, slow but vivid. Her breathing was shallow, chest rising unevenly.

> "I'm fine," she rasped, trying to sit up. "Nothing vital hit."

He scowled. "You're bleeding. Stay down."

> "Was that mockery?" she snapped, coughing smoke. "I'm Anartaxia-born. Loyalty isn't optional."

Her eyes locked with his—firm, unfaltering. The kind that had stared down execution orders and blinking missiles.

Crept sighed through his nose, tension tightening his jaw.

> "Fine. Then stand. Slowly."

Together, they rose. Outside the broken wall, the sky twisted—dark shapes moving behind cloudbanks.

A rune alert flickered red.

> "Barrier's down," Leon reported grimly from the rear, brushing glass from his uniform. "Code says internal override. It was shut off. From inside."

Crept's eyes narrowed.

Traitors.

Dozens of enemy ships tore through the clouds—sleek, jagged, predatory. Their hulls bore no insignias, only matte black surfaces that devoured the light around them. Plasma lines flickered beneath their undercarriage, like veins pulsing with malicious intent.

The ships moved closer now, no longer hiding. A wide net of shadows encircling the floating branch estate.

And from the skies, came the rumble of descent.

> "Ready?" Shilial asked, wiping blood from her cheek, summoning another ring of light above them.

Crept didn't answer. He floated up.

Light gathered around him—sharp, coiled, flaring like tethered suns.

He whispered—barely audible over the rumbling sky:

> "Chain of breath. Link of origin. O judgement—Azrael, descend."

A white sigil burned beneath his feet. The sky answered with a crack like bones breaking across the firmament.

And then it came.

Chainez Azrael.

From the night itself, chains appeared—glowing, molten, divine. Thousands of them. They spiraled around him, then screamed toward the descending ships like celestial serpents.

Metal crumpled. Fire burst.

The clouds lit up like dawn.

The enemy fleet fractured—one wing engulfed in pure annihilation, flames dancing like ghosts over their ruined hulls.

All across the Artem Branch, soldiers stared skyward.

Their lord hadn't fallen.

He'd struck first.

Crept hovered there, breathing hard. His Yaicraft reserves pulsed weakly beneath his skin. More spent than he'd expected.

But his eyes never left the storm above.

Somewhere out there—behind one of those ships—

> (You're watching, aren't you?)

Henriech Artem. The one who taught him to survive by discarding trust. Who'd once tried to kill the family he now threatened again.

Crept clenched a fist, eyes burning.

> "Come, then," he murmured. "Let me show you how much of your blood remains."

---

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✦ "The Cold of Ellejort"

The corridor before the lab was quiet — too quiet.

Bodies lay like discarded thoughts. Some slumped against walls, some collapsed mid-step. Cornicius moved past them, jaw tight, eyes forward. Cerejeira followed, blade still sheathed, though her grip had turned white-knuckled.

Then it appeared — floating just ahead.

A single, silent orb.

Its iris gleamed like a mechanical eye. It clicked. Whirred. Then, in a voice without tone, it spoke:

> "Objective: Book of Voyages. Not found. Searching…"

The orb turned toward them — and just as quickly, turned away.

Cornicius tensed.

> "That's… no ordinary scout."

Cerejeira frowned. "It was searching for a book?"

Cornicius didn't answer right away.

> "The Book of Voyages…" he murmured. "It's not even here. That text is locked deep within the Artem branch—sealed."

> (And still, something knows about it. That's the part I can't explain.)

He filed it away. There'd be time later.

Maybe.

---

The lab doors opened with a long groan.

Inside was ruin.

Scorch marks curled across steel and stone. Cracked monitors flickered. Water dripped from damaged piping, but the flames still danced, stubborn and fierce.

Cornicius scanned the chaos. "There were scientists here—alive. Somewhere."

They moved fast. Two were beyond help.

Then they found her.

Shuli. Trapped under collapsed equipment, her leg pinned.

Cornicius rushed forward. She stirred as he cleared the debris. Her voice came ragged:

> "I didn't mean for it to happen this way…"

> "Easy," Cornicius muttered. "You're safe. Just stay still—"

> "No," she whispered, eyes glistening. "You don't understand. He fooled me too. I let him in…"

Cornicius froze.

Shuli wasn't just hurt. She was confessing.

> "Years ago," she said, "I vouched for a man. His records were clean. Too clean. And then, he changed."

She took a breath, trembling.

> "His name was… Nongban."

The flames dimmed.

Not from lack of fuel — they simply withdrew, like frightened animals sensing a greater predator. The heat fled the room. Steam curled and froze in midair.

Cornicius rose slowly, shielding Shuli with one arm, eyes narrowing.

Footsteps echoed — not loud, but exact. One after another, striking against frost-laced metal, unhurried, deliberate. The floor tiles cracked beneath them. Ice feathered out across every surface in delicate veins, blooming like death's flowers.

Then—

A figure emerged from the smoke.

Pale light glinted off a long coat now rimmed with frost. His silhouette was lean, elegant — unburnt, untouched. He didn't look like a monster. Not in the way others had.

And that was what made it worse.

Behind him, the flames shivered. They did not go out — they bent.

Cornicius exhaled once, chest tight.

> (He shouldn't be here.)

Not just because of the infiltration. Not because of what Shuli had confessed. But because this man — this being — moved like memory carved into ice.

> "Director Corell."

The voice came calm, without weight. As if they were meeting in a hallway between seminars.

> "You were not meant to see this part."

The light around him bent subtly. It wasn't Yaicraft. It was wrong. A static stillness, like the breath before an avalanche.

> "I did try," the man added. "To spare you. Out of courtesy."

A low hum crept into the walls. Machines long dead flickered and sparked. The frost spread wider.

Then Cornicius saw his face.

And the name broke itself free from the denial lodged in his chest:

> "Nongban."

The man smiled faintly.

> "You remember. Good. That saves time."

He stepped forward.

And the ice screamed.

Shuli whimpered behind Cornicius, clutching her ruined leg. The flames at the far end of the lab extinguished with a single gust — not from wind, but pressure. The kind of pressure that made bone remember it was fragile.

Cornicius braced himself.

> "This isn't just betrayal," he said. "You've crossed a line that even monsters fear."

Nongban paused.

> "Lines," he echoed, as if tasting the word. "Yes… those used to matter."

His breath misted in the cold. But his expression never shifted — too calm, too complete.

> "But there's something you haven't understood, Director."

His foot touched the shattered sigil embedded in the floor — a seal used for high-tier Yaicraft control. It turned black. Crumbled.

> "I didn't infiltrate ANSEP to destroy it."

He looked up.

> "I came to witness what collapses when faith is no longer useful."

And for a moment, Cornicius saw it — not just the frost, or the blood, or the ruined lab.

He saw the hollow at the heart of this man.

Not anger.

Not revenge.

But something deeper. Older.

Resigned cruelty.

As if Nongban no longer wanted to win — only to remind the world that meaning was always a temporary illusion.

Cornicius tightened his grip on the defensive sigil embedded in his wrist.

> "If you're going to finish this," he muttered, "then get on with it."

Nongban tilted his head.

The frost around them thickened, forming spears in the air — motionless, but waiting.

> "As you wish," he said.

> "Let me show you the cold of Ellejort."

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