Chapter 24:Chains of Fire, st

The forge beneath the Artem estate was not built for mortals. It was carved into the roots of the mountain itself, where stone bled warmth and the air thrummed with old weight. No torches were needed her

e—the very walls pulsed with light, cast by veins of chain-etched Yai metal embedded deep into the rock. When they glowed, it was like being surrounded by the breath of sleeping gods.

Crept Artem stood shirtless at the center of it all.

Chains wrapped his arms and torso, not restraining him, but syncing with him—responding to his pulse, tightening when his heart surged. His skin was slick with sweat, and across his spine, fresh burn marks formed the beginnings of a sigil. A chain-sigil. The third layer.

Each brand still sizzled faintly, etched in Yaicraft by ritual.

"Again," Marcaella said.

Her voice rang clear against the forge's constant hum. She stood by the sacred altar—a half-circle dais carved from obsidian alloy, marked with runes that flickered in sequence. One by one, the relics embedded along its edge began to glow. She placed a new fragment—a jagged shard of a fallen Yai beast—onto the pedestal.

"When this enters you," she said, "you don't scream. You bind it. Or it eats you."

Crept gave a tired grunt. "You've got such a way with encouragement."

Shilial, seated on the outer ring, watched silently. Her fingers curled around her bracelet, nervous.

"Why does it have to hurt this much?" she finally asked.

Marcaella didn't look away from her son. "Because Ascension is a wound. The kind that never closes."

She nodded to the altar. A low chime rang out.

The shard ignited.

Blue-white energy surged forward in a twisting arc, slamming into Crept's chest. His body jerked backward, heels digging against the stone. Chains around him rattled violently. His breath caught in his throat—not from pain, but from the force of something ancient threading into his bones.

Not power.

Identity.

He dropped to one knee.

Marcaella finally spoke.

"There are seven primary Sigils," she said, her voice almost ceremonial now. "Paths carved by those who walked beyond the mortal coil. Each one is a truth etched in spirit. Yours... is the Chainbearer."

She approached slowly, eyes sharp.

"It's not about binding enemies. It's about knowing what to hold. What to let go. What to carry."

Crept breathed through gritted teeth. The sigil across his back pulsed—a glowing lattice of intersecting rings, growing more complex with each infusion.

"Sigils," she continued, "aren't spells. They're commitments. Once carved, they bend your growth. Limit your choices. Define you."

Shilial tilted her head. "So it's not just a power system?"

Marcaella's lip twitched. "Power's the corpse. Sigil is the memory it leaves behind."

Silence fell.

Crept slowly stood.

Smoke curled from his arms. From his wrist, a new chain unfurled—thinner than the rest, but made of light and intention. It hovered for a moment before wrapping around his knuckles, embedding into skin.

Marcaella watched with something almost like pride.

"Third layer," she said. "You're a proper Continental now."

Crept rotated his wrist. The chain shifted with it, alive.

"Feels like I've been set on fire from the inside out."

"Good," she said. "Means it's working."

Shilial stood. "So if I ever ascend... will it be like this?"

Marcaella's gaze flicked to her. "Worse. You're not my son."

Crept let out a dry laugh. "She's kidding. Mostly."

The chains across his body dimmed, returning to a dormant state.

But in his core, the Yai still burned.

Not wild. Not chaotic.

Forged.

He stepped off the dais, breath still ragged.

Marcaella nodded. "Rest. Tomorrow, we test the Chain Wards."

Crept didn't reply. As he passed Shilial, she reached to steady him.

He stopped her with a glance.

"Don't touch it."

She blinked. "Why?"

He looked down at his forearm. The sigil still glowed faintly beneath the skin.

"It's still binding."

---

In the forge's silence, the chains whispered.

And above, the stars aligned—just enough for one more lock to turn.

---

The office door was already open.

Kael stepped inside without knocking — the scorched winds of Lab 41 still in his lungs, the scent of melted alloy and blood not yet scrubbed from memory. But here, in this small room, it was quiet.

Cerejeira stood near the window, sunlight glazing the edges of her golden hair.

Short. Neat. The strands framed her face just to her jawline, catching glints of warm amber. Her glasses — tortoiseshell full-rims — gave her an almost delicate elegance, but there was nothing soft about the way she turned.

Her eyes were clear. Focused. The kind that made you forget what you'd planned to say.

Kael forgot anyway.

> Gods above, he thought. Of course she'd be this pretty.

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight.

> "You called for me, Commander?"

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she studied him — gaze lingering just long enough to make it awkward.

Then: "You're late."

Kael chuckled, brushing a fleck of dried blood from his sleeve. "Was saving what's left of your labs. Thought that counted for something."

Her lips didn't even twitch. She stepped away from the window and gestured to a seat.

"Sit."

Kael didn't. He leaned against the wall instead, arms crossed.

"You've recovered fast," he noted, scanning her for lingering damage. There were bruises along her collarbone, a light brace on one wrist — but no real weakness in her stance.

"Accelerated cell mending," she replied. "Courtesy of ANSEP's tier-two recovery pod. Still hurts to breathe when I laugh."

Kael grinned. "Lucky for you, I'm not that funny."

This time, her eyebrow lifted — the closest thing he'd seen to amusement.

"Your reputation precedes you, Kael of the Laughing Storm," she said.

"Infamy is faster than light," he shrugged. "You wanted something?"

There was a beat of stillness.

Then she asked, voice steady:

> "Are you really Continental-tier?"

Kael blinked. "That why you dragged me here? You doubting the appraisal badge, or just wanted to see if I glow under pressure?"

Cerejeira stepped forward.

Her movement was smooth — calculated, but not seductive. Yet Kael's grin widened anyway.

> Here it comes. Another admirer. Happens every third mission.

She closed the distance between them.

So close, he could smell the faint scent of burned mana, dried sweat, and something faintly floral — like medicinal incense.

Then she stopped.

And bowed.

Deeply.

Hands clenched at her sides.

> "Teach me."

Kael blinked.

Then laughed.

"Wait—what?"

Cerejeira didn't move. Her voice didn't waver.

"I want to become strong. Strong enough that I don't freeze again. Strong enough that next time… I don't watch from under rubble. I act."

Kael's smile faltered.

> "You're serious."

Her hands trembled — just slightly.

"I couldn't scream," she said quietly. "When the vault collapsed. I felt everything burning, twisting — but I couldn't even scream. I hate that feeling."

Kael rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly unsure what to do with his bravado.

"Well, damn," he muttered.

She finally looked up.

> "You laughed through a battlefield. You cut down those things like they were smoke. I want that power. I don't care how long it takes."

Kael hesitated.

He'd expected flirting. Not this.

Not raw desperation hiding behind a tactician's face.

> "You sure about this?"

"I wouldn't ask if I wasn't."

He scratched his jaw, eyes narrowing.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Fine. But I don't teach gently. I don't go easy. And I don't deal with whiners."

"Good," she said. "Because I don't plan to cry."

Kael smirked again — but softer this time.

> "Alright then. Let's see if you've got what it takes to dance in a storm."

And with that, the pact was made.

Not of flirtation.

But of something rarer — respect.

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