"The Light Before Departure"

The battle raged in stops and starts — not from exhaustion, but from the precision of those involved. Every move had consequence. Every moment, a trap.

Henriech knew it too.

If there was ever a time to end it, to strike Crept down before the next wave came, it was now.

He surged forward — a silent bullet through dust.

But Shilial moved faster.

Light bloomed into a radiant shield before Henriech could close in. Swords of pure luminance flared into the air and rained down upon him. His bombs met them mid-flight — detonation after detonation rippling across the broken ground.

Henriech backstepped, cloak singed, arm trailing smoke.

And from the corner of his vision — movement.

Crept.

Still bloodied, still battered, but moving with renewed clarity. His chains surged, anchoring to twisted beams, and he launched forward.

Henriech staggered under the weight of the strike and flew backward. When his boots touched down again —

they didn't touch steel.

Shadows caught him.

A vice around his ankle.

> "Too slow," Leon muttered, his hand raised from the ground.

The moment froze. Henriech's eyes sharpened — and without hesitation, he detonated himself.

A flash. Then silence.

His form began to reassemble from fragments, flesh coalescing with unnatural calm.

> "Not again," Shilial whispered.

She reached him just as he stabilized, hurling a condensed orb of light into his torso. It struck true. Henriech hissed and recoiled, a line of blood trailing from his side.

But before Shilial could press in, something snapped around her wrist.

A silver chain.

It glinted in the dust, unmistakable.

Not Crept's.

Leon's eyes widened first. His voice was hoarse.

> "Basen…?"

A new figure stepped into view from the smoke — armor partially scorched, one eye bloodied, but his posture unshaken.

Basen Artem.

The very man they'd believed to be captured.

But his uniform had changed.

Gone was the insignia of ANSEP. In its place: a sigil stitched in silver thread. An inverted sun, faintly shimmering — the mark of Astradar's loyalists.

> "Didn't expect to see me again so soon?" Basen said quietly.

Crept's chains stirred behind him.

Shilial narrowed her eyes.

Leon froze.

Basen offered no explanation. No apology. Only action.

He grabbed Henriech by the shoulder — and the two began to ascend, lifting into the fractured air above the battlefield.

> "Look up," Basen said.

And then they saw it.

The air trembled. Wind changed. Even the lingering debris slowed for a moment.

A massive vessel hovered just overhead — sharp-edged, angular, bleeding violet light from its underhull.

Marcaella Artem stood at the prow, gaze level, expression unreadable. Her long coat billowed against the wind — not by flair, but by sheer force of presence. She said nothing, but the battlefield responded. Noise dimmed. Light stilled.

Beside her, a second figure — eyes half-lidded, and yet glowing faintly with subdued power.

Syria Artem.

Silent. Calm.

And watching.

The battlefield itself seemed to shrink.

Beneath them, ash and dust curled through cracked vents. Sparks flared from a broken conduit, snapping through air like dying voices.

Crept took a step forward, spear half-raised. His breathing was ragged. His chains pulsed.

But Henriech was already vanishing into the sky.

> "Running again," Crept spat.

Henriech turned once, just before boarding the vessel. His eyes — empty. Cold. Almost tired.

> "Don't let anyone else cut your tongue, son."

And then they were gone.

---

Some times ago

In the 4th Corps, four names often echoed louder than orders.

Crept. Zelaine. Atiya. Kael.

They were called the Four Genius — but anyone who truly knew them would say they were more than that. They were brothers and sisters in flame, chain, thread, and chaos.

And Kael?

He was chaos incarnate.

Currently, he was sprawled upside-down on a floating transport seat, humming some off-key tune, halfway through a spicy rice ration. His fingers were busy scrolling through the message Crept had just sent: he was going to be a father.

Kael's response?

> "Bastard, hiw do you get to be a father before me although I don't wanna be one ?! Anyway — proud of you, chainboy."

Then he added two fire emojis. And a peach. For no reason.

He flipped over, eyes gleaming, and shouted across the ship.

> "Did you guys see this? Crept actually planted his seeds"

Bashanta groaned. "You're shouting again."

Elina barely glanced up from her interface. "For the fifth time."

> "Sorry," Kael said, not sorry at all. "I just missed my boys, y'know?"

Tremeur leaned against the bulkhead, arms crossed. "Didn't you get salty because Zelaine and Atiya went to Yaisha estate without you?"

Kael gasped. "I did NOT get salty. I got… reasonably wounded. Emotionally." He flailed dramatically, hand on chest. "They abandoned me. Like some... average-tier side character."

> "You were snoring in the training dome," Elina replied. "For twelve hours straight."

> "Recovery nap!"

Cilene, their AI companion, buzzed to life from the overhead console.

> "Lieutenant Kael," she said in that overly calm tone that always sounded like a threat. "Your probability of survival on the upcoming mission has dropped by 0.7% due to emotional turbulence."

Kael blinked. "Did the AI just say I'm dying because I'm being dramatic?"

> "Correct," Cilene replied, unapologetically.

Laughter broke out. Even Bashanta smiled.

But the levity didn't last.

They were en route to the Lunar Belt, a quiet yet eerie strip of moon terrain that fell under the 4th Corps' watch. There, a sealed experimental facility was preparing to conduct one of the most sensitive Yai-craft trials yet. None of them liked research missions — especially Kael, who had the attention span of a sugar-fueled squirrel — but the orders came from high command.

Still, Kael had been here before.

He'd sparred with Crept here. Flirted with Zelaine here. Gotten lost and nearly arrested for peeping into a sacred well here.

Now, it felt like home.

Until it didn't.

Alarms flared. Consoles blinked. The entire ship jerked mid-flight, pulling hard against gravity as a rift tore open ahead.

> "Brace for impact," Cilene said. "Multiple readings. Hingcha-class."

The void rippled — and then they came.

Dark shapes. Twisted silhouettes. Dozens of them.

Hingchas. And not just corrupted beasts — these were Yai anomalies that had merged with lunar dust and void current, forming shell-like armor and unstable auras.

Kael stood, boots slamming to the floor as gravity restabilized. His smile vanished. But his voice didn't.

> "You've gotta be kidding me. I didn't even finish my spicy rice."

Tremeur was already moving. Bashanta drew his twin sabers. Elina tapped into the control node to reroute shield defenses.

Kael stepped forward — and something in the air shifted.

The corridor trembled slightly as a continental-tier presence surged out from him.

His teammates paused. The joking tone vanished completely from his face.

> "You guys hold the ship," Kael said quietly. "I'll take the left ridge."

> "Alone?" Bashanta asked.

Kael grinned again. "Come on. It's me. I've got this."

He leapt out of the ship's hatch before anyone could argue — coat flaring, laughter trailing behind him like a war-drum played wrong.

But even in freefall, Kael's chains of loyalty were unbreakable.

And when he landed — when the ground cracked, and the Hingchas turned — they didn't see the class clown.

They saw the storm beneath the jokes.

And they ran.

---