:Frost and Flame

The spears came without warning.

Dozens of them — long, jagged, glimmering like glass — tore through the air in a blizzard of death.

Cornicius barely had time to register the movement.

"Down!" Cerejeira shouted, grabbing him by the collar and throwing herself sideways.

The first spear shattered against the wall behind them. The second skewered the console near Cornicius's leg. A third—

He turned in time to see Shuli.

Still kneeling. Still clutching her wound.

The ice found her before she could scream.

It drove through her chest and pinned her to the scorched wall like a paper doll. Her breath hitched once. Then stopped.

Cornicius stared.

Time stretched.

The flames retreated further, curling away from her body as frost crept along her skin.

Behind them, Nongban lowered his hand.

No flourish. No triumph. Just silence.

> "She was a tool," he said quietly. "One that served its purpose."

The frost around his feet curled upward like smoke.

> "But tools should never believe themselves anything more. She seeded the end herself… when she mistook her use for worth."

Cornicius clenched his fists. His pulse thundered.

Cerejeira didn't wait.

She surged forward, blade flashing — a veil of radiant light trailing behind her movements, each step a blur, each strike a whisper of destruction held back by control.

Her sword flicked up, catching the tip of an ice dagger Nongban conjured mid-air.

> Clink.

Crash.

Another dagger. Another block.

She danced between his strikes, weaving light into barriers and counters. Afterimages scattered behind her like fragments of sunlight — illusions, shields, feints.

He moved too. Calm. Icy.

His hands shifted — spear to glaive, then to whip-like chains of frost that lashed across the lab.

Cerejeira caught one on her shoulder and staggered — blood beading instantly against her armor. But she didn't fall. She twisted, absorbed a blast, and retaliated with a sweeping arc of light.

> Radiant Reversal.

The glow struck his chest — and for the first time, Nongban was forced a step back.

He looked down, brushing away the scorch mark like dust.

> "You fight like a trained page," he murmured. "Graceful. Polished."

He raised his hand — a long ice sword forming in his palm.

> "But war isn't won with grace."

The temperature dropped again.

The floor cracked beneath them as ice bloomed from his feet — threads of frost racing up pipes, crawling toward Cornicius.

She lunged to intercept — and he was ready.

This time, the blade didn't block. It bent.

An ice construct wrapped around her ankle — a trap she hadn't seen.

She fell. Hard.

In an instant, Nongban was there — spear raised, tip glinting above her heart.

Cornicius reached for his sidearm.

He fired.

The shot rang out—true.

But it never hit.

The frost twisted the path. The bullet slowed—suspended, redirected—

And slammed into Cerejeira's shoulder.

She gasped, breath stolen.

Cornicius froze.

Nongban smiled, just slightly.

> "I offered you one shot," he said. "And you gave me her blood."

The barrel of Cornicius's gun shook.

> (He manipulated the angle… down to the inch.)

> "You fight for ideals," Nongban said, lowering his spear. "You think they make you stronger."

He stepped back from Cerejeira, letting her slump against the icy floor.

> "But they only make you slower."

> "There's no tragedy in betrayal, Director. Only miscalculation."

Cornicius stared at her collapsed form. The wound wasn't fatal — but it was deep. She wouldn't rise again soon.

Nongban turned toward him fully now.

No longer distant. No longer hiding.

His presence filled the space like a curse made real.

> "Let's see what ANSEP's director is worth," he said softly, frost curling from his fingers.

---

High above the cracked skies of the Artem Branch, twin figures cut through the storm.

Crept and Shilial hovered midair — suspended in silent orbit over chaos. Their eyes tracked the horizon, where black ships sliced through clouds like blades. In the distance, bursts of light cracked open the night — violet and red, flames flaring across the sky.

The enemy pressed in.

But time held.

For fifteen long minutes, they fought alone.

Then — salvation.

Artem banners tore through the storm.

A fleet of silver-lined ships arrived at last, the branch's main aerial forces answering their call. Runes gleamed on their hulls. Cannons flashed. Allied troops spilled from drop-gates, surging into the fray.

The sky became a warzone of fire, steel, and thread.

---

Aboard one of the intruder ships —

"Where is Henriech?" a voice growled.

The man — tall, weathered, armored in black Yai-threaded plates — stood at the center of the control deck. His eyes were hard, scanning the chaos below.

A younger subordinate turned from the consoles.

> "Sir. Henriech left ten minutes ago. Said he 'couldn't wait to meet his son.'"

The commander's brow twitched.

> "His son is the problem. That one…"

He trailed off, gaze narrowing as another wave of enemy ships disintegrated under a familiar storm of glowing chains.

> "Still... there's no way he can use that technique twice. Chainez Azrael — that wasn't supposed to be within his grasp."

He stared for a breath.

> "...Henriech better get the book."

His tone dropped to a grim whisper.

> "Or the lives lost tonight won't be worth the memory."

---

Ground Level, Artem Branch

The battle raged below.

Explosions carved craters into city roads. Ancient spires cracked under enemy barrage. Amid the smog and fire, division commanders of the Artem rallied their forces — each unit bearing a different command sigil, each soldier wielding their own brand of Yaicraft.

They clashed with mercenaries, hijacked constructs, and beasts summoned through unnatural means.

Some intruders bore insignias foreign even to seasoned scouts — suggesting alliance with rogue organizations and forbidden clans.

And through the heart of the warzone, glowing chains whipped and writhed — remnants of Crept's destruction. Some fell like divine lightning, others coiled around enemy engines, tearing ships from the sky.

---

Crept was ruthless.

He hovered like a reaper among the storm, his expression unreadable, his hands drenched in light and blood.

A chain. A spear. A storm of Yaicraft.

With every flick of his hand, intruders fell — pierced, dragged, shattered mid-flight.

Beside him, Shilial flew in circular patterns, weaving glowing veils of light to shield the Artem fleet. Her pale Yaicraft barriers shimmered in rhythm, intercepting missiles and nullifying energy bursts.

They worked without speaking — offense and defense in perfect sync.

And elsewhere, Markarov — Crept's uncle, a stalwart war mage of the Artem — unleashed blazing waves of force from the rooftops. Every spell he cast carried the weight of centuries of discipline. Together, they held the air.

---

But the tide didn't break.

Shilial's breath fogged in her visor as she landed atop a damaged tower to reassess.

> "Where's the heart of this force?" she muttered.

She knew of Syria — the storm-born warrior said to command lightning and war.

She had seen her power firsthand. That was a threat.

But Henriech Artem? The disgraced man who once lost so terribly to Syria?

No. Shilial didn't see him as a true danger.

At least… until a voice came from behind.

> "Marcaella always had a talent for breeding monsters. And I see the Anartaxia taste still runs toward the... proud and foolish."

She spun.

He stood roughly twenty meters away — his silhouette framed by ruin and skyfire. Moustache trimmed, beard neatly kept, a long coat fluttering gently in the ash-stained wind.

Henriech Artem.

His presence wasn't overwhelming — not in the way of Syria, or the Elders — but it was… solid. Like a monument carved from shame and wrath.

He smiled faintly.

> "So you're the one they married my degenerate son off to. Anartaxia-born, no less. The irony writes itself."

Shilial's Yaicraft flared — a half-circle barrier forming behind her.

But Henriech didn't attack.

Instead, he released the small metallic orb he'd been toying with — a polished sphere no larger than a child's ball.

It struck the tower's floor.

> BOOM.

An explosion shattered the rooftop — light and smoke surging upward in a column.

The sky cracked.

And Henriech stepped forward into the flames.

---