Flying cars zipped through the skies, their sleek forms slicing through the low-gravity air like silver darts, trailing faint wisps of etheric exhaust that shimmered in the twilight. Holographic ads floated like ghosts, their translucent images flickering with promises of luxury and power, casting kaleidoscopic light across the city's spires. Railways threaded the atmosphere, shimmering lines of magnetic speed that pulsed with a rhythm like a heartbeat, connecting the floating districts of the Elven Realm. The gravity here was light, a gentle pull that made every step feel like a half-remembered dance. Because of it, the people were taller—lithe and graceful, their movements fluid, as if they were woven from the wind itself. Their skin caught the sun's golden glow, ranging from deep ebony to warm bronze, and their eyes held the weight of centuries, even in youth.
This was the Elven Realm, a place of the best cutting-edge tech, where progress was everything. The city sprawled beneath a sky that burned with the hues of dusk—crimson, violet, and gold—its towers rising like needles of glass and crystal, refracting the light into a thousand prisms. Beyond the city's edge, an endless expanse of desert stretched out, golden dunes rolling like frozen waves under the fading sun. The air was dry, sharp with the scent of sand and ozone, and it carried a faint hum, the pulse of the city's etheric engines thrumming through the ground.
Xin stood silently at the buildings's edge, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the desert met the sky. His dark hair whipped in the arid breeze, and his hands, calloused from years of wielding a blade, clenched tightly at his sides. The city behind him buzzed with life, but in front of him, chaos burned. A building stood engulfed in flames, its once-pristine facade now a skeleton of twisted metal and shattered glass. Black smoke poured from its cracked windows, curling upward like the breath of some ancient beast. The fire roared, a living thing, its heat a distant sting against Xin's skin even from this high vantage point.
Behind one of those windows, he saw them—or what was left of them. Two elven twins, their deep brown skin now unrecognizable, reduced to charred red skeletons soaked in blood. Their faces, once so familiar, were gone. Sami and Rami. They had been elite fighters, frighteningly skilled, their movements in battle like a choreographed storm—almost untouchable. Xin could still see them in his mind's eye: Sami's quick grin as she parried a blow, Rami's quiet focus as she struck with lethal precision. They had been his family, not by blood but by bond, forged in the crucible of shared missions and unspoken trust.
Now they were ash. Gone. Reduced to memories that cut deeper than any blade.
All because of a leader who had claimed to be their brother. Someone they trusted—someone he trusted. Zayd, with his silver tongue and promises of unity, had led them into a trap. The mission had been simple, or so it seemed: infiltrate, retrieve, escape. But it was a lie, a setup orchestrated with cold precision. Zayd had sold them out, and the crew—Rami, Sami and the others—had paid the price. They were replaceable muscle to him, nothing more. Pawns in a game Xin hadn't even known they were playing.
And he… he was a fool.
A fool who trusted too easily. Who believed, maybe desperately, that some people were genuinely good. His heart ached with the weight of it, a dull throb that spread through his chest. He thought of those who had been good, who had left warmth in their wake. Riven, with her sharp wit and fiercer loyalty. Dax, always steady, a rock in the storm. Kai, whose laughter could light up the darkest nights. Sid, who never spoke much but whose actions said everything. Jia, with her quiet wisdom. His mother, whose gentle hands had shaped his best memories. They were the ones who made trust feel possible, who made the world seem worth fighting for.
But Belial? Belial didn't seem like one of them.
Xin's gaze drifted downward, over the edge of the cliff where he stood. Six thousand meters below, the desert floor was a distant blur, a sea of crystalline and shadow. Even with ether—the shimmering energy that powered the Elven Realm's tech and enhanced its people's strength—there was no surviving a fall like that. Not for a human. Not for Belial.
He tried to hold onto Raven's cold, calculated theory, her voice echoing in his mind: "He might've survived, Xin. Some trick, some weird way to manipulate this places mechanics, some twist of luck." But it felt hollow, like false hope masquerading as logic. Belial had been at the heart of the betrayal, or so Xin believed. The evidence was thin—whispers, inconsistencies, a gut feeling that refused to fade—but it was enough. Enough to push Xin to act, to confront Belial on this very cliff, to watch him stumble backward and fall into the abyss. The memory was sharp, vivid: Belial's eyes, wide with shock, his hand reaching out as he plummeted. Xin's stomach twisted at the thought.
He had never killed a person in his life. He had vowed never to do so, a promise carved into his soul after watching too many die in the wars that scarred the Realm. He had seen what killing did, how it hollowed out those who wielded it, how it left scars deeper than any blade. But if he had… if Belial was truly gone… would that make him a murderer? Or was it justice for Sami, Rami, and the others? The question gnawed at him, a relentless beast that refused to be silenced.
His thoughts drifted to the Elven Realm itself, to the paradox it embodied. A place of beauty and innovation, where flying cars danced through the sky and holographic gardens bloomed in midair, yet it was built on a foundation of ancient blood. The elves, with their grace and longevity, had once been conquerors, their empires forged in fire and sacrifice. Now they lived in harmony, or so they claimed, their cities a testament to progress. But the flames in front of Xin told a different story. Betrayal, greed, and violence still lingered, hidden beneath the shimmer of progress. The Realm was a mirror, reflecting both light and shadow, and Xin felt caught between the two.
He closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the city wash over him. The hum of the railways, the distant whine of engines, the soft chime of etheric crystals embedded in the cliffside. The air smelled of smoke and sand, but there was something else, too—a faint sweetness, like desert blooms carried on the wind. It reminded him of his mother's garden, long gone, where she'd taught him to listen to the world's heartbeat. "Every place has a pulse," she'd said. "Find it, and you'll never be lost." He tried to find it now, to anchor himself, but all he heard was the crackle of the fire and the echo of his own guilt.
Maybe deep down, he wanted to believe Belial was still alive not for Belial's sake, but for his own. So his conscience could sleep. So he could cling to the vow he'd made, the one that defined him. If Belial had survived, then Xin wasn't a killer. But the cliff's edge mocked him, its sheer drop a silent accusation. He shook his head slowly, trying to dislodge the thought, but it clung to him like damp sand.
"Hey, Xin! We're ready to head out!" a voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and clear.
Xin turned, his boots scraping against the rocky ledge. The voice came from the gate at the cliff's base, where a young man stood, his silhouette framed against the city's glow. Toren. Mid-twenties, lean but strong, his frame honed by years of survival in the Realm's underbelly. A scar trailed down his left arm. A tattoo marked his hand—a type of death knight, a symbol of the crew he'd lost apparently. His eyes, bright and searching, met Xin's, and his brow furrowed.
"What's wrong?" Toren asked, noticing the distant look in Xin's eyes.