There was no up. There was no down.
There was only the Void. An endless ocean of black ink, cold and silent.
In the midst of that nothingness, Devon floated. Stark naked, his pale skin looking pitiful amidst the absolute darkness. He was curled up, knees pulled tight against his chest, arms wrapping around his trembling shins. The fetal position. The most primal stance of self-defense when everything else has been stripped away.
He was just a lump of flesh and soul drifting aimlessly, washed away in a silent current that carried him further and further from consciousness.
It felt lonely. It felt as if he had been abandoned by the universe itself. Was he dead? Was this actual hell? Not fire, but an eternal solitude where he had to drift forever, cold and helpless.
He spun slowly in the void, bobbing like a dry leaf on the surface of a pitch-black lake.
Then, a disturbance.
A foreign sensation pierced the cold of the Void. Not sound. Not light. It was something far smaller, more intimate, and therefore, more disturbing.
Poke. Poke. Poke.
Something hard and pointed poked his cheek rhythmically.
Devon groaned softly, his brow furrowing. He tried to swat the annoyance away, but his hands were held back by something cold and heavy.
"Haa... look, he's waking up," a low, sultry, slightly husky female voice whispered right above his face. "The Sleepyhead finally decided to join the real world."
Devon opened his eyes.
His vision was instantly filled by the face of a woman leaning over him. And immediately, Devon's breath hitched. His heart—which usually beat with unnatural calm—jolted in shock.
Those eyes.
One burning red like hellfire. One icy blue as cold as an ocean abyss. Heterochromia.
The face was gaunt, beautiful, with long pointed ears protruding from behind strands of hair.
"Kaelith...?" whispered Devon, his voice hoarse and full of disbelief. "You... you're alive?"
The woman laughed, a soft sound, yet it held a different tone from the rough laughter of the soldier Devon knew. She tilted her head, her long hair—not the short shaggy cut Kaelith had, but smooth, straight hair reaching her back—falling forward to brush against Devon's face.
"Kaelith?" the woman repeated, her long, manicured finger tracing Devon's jawline. "I don't know who that is, Sweetie. But I'm not her."
She brought her face closer, until their noses almost touched. Devon could see that although the eyes were the same, the gaze was different. There was no weary soldier's hardness there. There was only a glint of dominant, confident mischief. And her body... though tall and slender, she lacked the bulky, scarred muscles of Kaelith. Her skin was smooth, pale, and soft.
"My name is Eira, Darling," she whispered, her breath smelling of cool mint. "And you are my sweet little prisoner."
Devon blinked, his brain processing the information. Not Kaelith. Similar, but not her. Eira.
Although Devon disliked being touched casually, there was a strange sense of relief in his chest. Seeing a face so similar to a friend—or at least a comrade—he thought he had buried himself, gave him a melancholic sense of pleasure.
He shifted his gaze, trying to assess the situation.
He was inside the metallic interior of a Magitech Gunship. In the front cockpit, two goblins wearing tactical headsets were busy piloting the aircraft through a storm.
Devon tried to sit up straight, and a loud CLANG of clashing metal rang out.
He looked down. Both his hands were shackled tightly to the armrests of his metal chair by thick magical cuffs blinking red. He couldn't move his hands more than a few inches.
Then he turned to the seat next to him.
Stormclaw sat there casually. The white feline Beastkin wasn't handcuffed at all. He was calmly licking the back of his furry hand, grooming his messy fur as if he were in his own living room, not on a prisoner transport.
"Oi," Devon protested, shaking his chains in annoyance. "What is this discrimination? Why is the cat allowed to run free while I'm tied up like a Christmas package?"
Stormclaw stopped licking his hand. He turned to Devon, then gave a very convincing innocent look—the perfect "I'm just a normal cat" look—before going back to cleaning his claws.
"Don't be stupid," a sharp, harsh voice cut in from the other side of the cabin.
Devon turned toward the voice. Sitting in the seat opposite, watching them with a short-barreled weapon in her lap, was a Shark woman. Her skin was rough grey, sharp fins protruded from her arms, and her eyes were pitch black and emotionless.
"That creature," the Shark woman said, jutting her chin toward Stormclaw, "is just a beast with big muscles. But you..." Her eyes narrowed at Devon. "Intelligence reports say you are slippery. Manipulative. And extremely dangerous. We aren't taking risks with you."
"So mean," Devon muttered.
"Oh, don't listen to her," Eira interrupted. The elf woman didn't return to her seat. Instead, with a bold move that violated all safety protocols, she sat on the armrest of Devon's chair.
Her slender thigh, clad in tight leather pants, pressed against Devon's shoulder. She leaned in, staring at Devon as if he were an interesting new toy.
"I don't think you look dangerous," Eira said, her fingers playing with Devon's face again, poking his cheek once more. "You look... cute."
Her eyes shifted to the top of Devon's head.
"Especially with these things," she said.
Eira's hand reached up toward the side of Devon's head. There, amidst his black hair, was a pair of red feathered wings—the feathers burning red and incredibly fine.
The wings twitched nervously as Eira's hand approached.
"Do—don't..." Devon tried to warn, but it was too late.
Eira's fingers touched the base of the right red wing. She stroked it with a gentle motion, tracing the grooves of the sensitive feathers.
"Hhnngh..."
The sound escaped Devon's mouth without permission. It wasn't a moan of pain. It was a suppressed sigh, a mixture of overwhelming ticklishness and an electric sensation shooting straight down his spine. His body went rigid in the chair, his toes curling inside his shoes.
Eira paused for a moment, her eyes widening in pleasant surprise. The smile on her lips widened, becoming something far more... hungry.
"Oh?" Eira chuckled, a low, teasing sound. "Sensitive, hm?"
She didn't stop. Instead, she began to stroke the wing more intensely, her fingers tickling the underside of the wing where the nerves connected directly to Devon's sensory system.
"Sto... ahh... stop it..." Devon tried to turn his face away, but the restraints held him. His usually pale and flat face was now flushed deep red. The wings on his head flapped wildly, helpless under the woman's touch.
Devon's expression, usually cold and dismissive, crumbled into a pitiful look rarely seen—his eyes slightly watering from the excessive sensation, his lips pressed tight trying to hold back another embarrassing sound.
Eira loved it. She absolutely loved it.
She brought her face close to Devon's ear, savoring the reaction of the boy's body under her control.
"Too bad, Sweetie," Eira whispered, her breath tickling Devon's other ear. "You have to go into The Monolith. That place will eat you alive."
She squeezed the base of Devon's wing a little harder, making Devon gasp again.
"You're too pretty for a place like that," Eira continued with a tone that was dismissively sweet yet cruel. "Maybe... if you beg nicely, I'll visit you often in your cell? Just to... play with these wings again?"
Devon could only grunt roughly, trying hard to gather the scattered remains of his dignity. He looked away, staring at Stormclaw as if pleading for help.
Stormclaw just stared back, then slowly closed his eyes, pretending to sleep. Damn cat.
"The Monolith in sight!" shouted the goblin pilot from the front.
The aircraft banked sharply, diving toward a jet-black tower protruding from the stormy ocean below. Devon stared at the terrifying structure, then glanced at Eira who was still smiling triumphantly beside him.
This is going to be a very long day, Devon thought resignedly.
Meanwhile, on the Cliffs of Murkfen Swamps.
The sea wind roared, carrying grains of salt that stuck to cold metal. Nightreaver stood at the edge of the cliff, his three-metre-tall biomechanical silhouette cutting through the dim moonlight.
He crossed his massive metal arms over his chest. On his back, a giant scythe with a vibro-blade edge hummed softly in standby mode. The red lens eye on the skeletal half of his face rotated, performing an extreme optical zoom toward a small dot receding in the sky—the VTOL aircraft carrying his target.
"Hhh..."
A mechanical sigh escaped his vocal speakers, sounding like steam venting from a leaking pipe.
He was a hunter. He completed contracts. But the tactical data running across his retina flashed a red warning: EXTREME DANGER ZONE. DEATH PROBABILITY: 99.9%.
Chasing the target into The Monolith was no longer a matter of courage. It was a matter of stupidity.
Nightreaver raised his left hand, pressing a button on his temple. A small hologram projector activated, beaming a blue screen into the night air.
Connecting: Client - Alaric Von Carstein.
Sanguine Castle. Secure Communication Room.
Lord Alaric sat on his throne, fingers massaging his temples. The room was dark, lit only by the glow of the communication screen. When Nightreaver's face appeared, Alaric immediately sat up straight.
"Report," Alaric said sharply. "Don't tell me you lost him again."
"Target has been secured by a third party," Nightreaver's voice sounded static and emotionless. "Morvax forces. They are transporting him via aerial gunship."
"Damn Morvax..." Alaric growled, his fist clenching. "Where? Where are they taking the boy? To Harrowforge? To his soul factory?"
"Negative," Nightreaver replied. "Their flight vector heads offshore. Coordinates match one specific location: The Monolith Maritime Penitentiary."
Alaric fell silent. His eyes widened slightly. "The Sea Prison?"
"My analysis concludes that Morvax does not intend to kill him, but to imprison him in the deepest level," Nightreaver continued. "To breach that facility and extract the target... I would require military-grade siege equipment. And the risk is total destruction of my unit."
Alaric gritted his teeth. His ego was wounded. His brother was murdered, and the killer was now out of his reach, inside the most secure fortress in Nocturnus.
"I don't care!" hissed Alaric. "I want his head! If you have to destroy that prison, then d—"
"Stop it, Father."
The voice was calm, yet it cut through Alaric's rage like a scalpel.
In the doorway stood Cecilia Von Carstein. The young silver-haired girl stepped inside wearing an elegant black silk nightgown, hugging a crudely stitched teddy bear. Her beautiful but cold face stared at her father with eyes far older than her appearance.
"Cecilia..."
"Nightreaver is just a bounty hunter, Father," Cecilia said flatly, walking toward the desk. She looked up at the hologram of the killing machine without fear. "He is not a soldier, and he is certainly not an irreplaceable asset. He is just a tool hired by the hour. Sending him to The Monolith is akin to throwing a coin into the ocean. Pointless."
Cecilia turned to her father, her expression bored.
"Uncle Luis was a fool. He died because he was weak and careless. is it worth draining the family treasury and risking open war with Morvax just to exact revenge for a man who couldn't even distinguish friend from foe when drunk?"
Alaric gaped. His daughter's words were cruel, but true.
"Besides," Cecilia continued, twisting the button eyes of her doll. "That human boy... entering The Monolith? He won't last a day. That place is full of monsters that will eat him alive, or guards that will break his bones one by one. Let that place do our dirty work."
Cecilia looked at the screen. "Right, Mr. Robot? You don't want to become scrap metal at the bottom of the sea just because of my father's ego, do you?"
Nightreaver was silent for a moment. "Young Mistress's analysis... is accurate. And I do not use gasoline; I use nuclear energy cells. Which are very expensive to waste."
Alaric let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping. He had lost the debate to his own daughter.
"Fine," said Alaric wearily. "You're right. Mission aborted."
"Payment?" Nightreaver asked instantly.
"Transfer is processing. Consider it operational costs and hush money. Never mention the Von Carstein family's involvement in this mess."
"Accepted. A pleasure doing business with you."
The screen went dark. The connection was severed.
Back to the Coastal Cliffs.
Nightreaver lowered his hand. A balance notification appeared in his vision.
"Mission complete. Partial," he muttered.
He turned, ready to leave the cliff. However, his motion sensors picked up the helicopter moving further away in the distance. There was a strange urge in his logic circuits—a personality glitch that made him occasionally act impulsively. An itch to destroy something.
"Ah... why not?"
Nightreaver reached for the hilt of the scythe on his back. The blade glowed red. He took a throwing stance, the pistons in his legs hissing as they bore the load. He calculated the trajectory. If he threw this scythe with full force, he could shear off the aircraft's tail rotor. Just an explosive farewell greeting.
"Safe travels..."
GRAB.
Just as his mechanical arm was about to launch the weapon, a giant hand covered in black scales gripped his wrist.
The grip was absolute. Like a hydraulic clamp that could not be resisted.
"What do you think you're doing, Scrap Heap?"
The voice was heavy, wet, and menacing.
Nightreaver turned his head slowly.
Viorak the Cyber Abyss stood beside him. The shark-cyborg giant loomed high, hot steam venting from the gills on his neck. His neon purple eyes stared at Nightreaver with an intensity that promised extreme violence.
"That helicopter is carrying my cargo," Viorak growled, revealing his serrated teeth. "If you throw your toy... I will rip off your arm and beat you with it until you're nothing but a dented tin can."
Nightreaver stared at Viorak. His sensors performed a rapid scan.
Target: Viorak.
Status: Alpha Predator.
Win Probability: 12%.
Financial Gain: 0.
"Tch," Nightreaver clicked his tongue, a static sound. "Boring."
He canceled his attack mode. Viorak released his grip.
Nightreaver sheathed his scythe with a casual motion, as if he hadn't just been threatened with disassembly.
"Just take that trash. I've been paid. I want to find some oil... I mean, a drink."
Without looking back, Nightreaver walked away leaving the cliff, his black cloak billowing, returning to the shadows to find his next contract.
Viorak snorted, smoke coming out of his nose. He stared at the helicopter that had almost disappeared over the horizon.
"Time to welcome the guest," he whispered.
Viorak walked to the edge of the cliff. He didn't hesitate. He jumped.
His massive body fell freely toward the raging waves below.
SPLASH!
upon hitting the water, Viorak transformed. Jet thrusters on his back and legs ignited underwater, creating cavitation bubbles. He shot forward like a living torpedo, cutting through the ocean currents at supersonic speed, chasing the helicopter from the depths.