The days slipped by like sand through clenched fingers, each one dragging the semester exams closer. A heavy, unspoken tension thickened the air—students exchanged nervous glances, instructors drilled harder, and even the academy's walls seemed to hum with restrained energy. The enigmatic "divine hands," once a whispered salvation, had gone silent, vanishing as though they had never been. Yet no institution relaxed its guard. Reinforcements arrived daily—elite soldiers, fresh from the frontlines where they had battled core-mutated beasts and null horrors, now stood watch over academies great and small. The world held its breath, waiting for a storm no one could name.
Leo refused to ease Drake's training, but progress was agonizingly slow. Drake's mind was a blade—sharp, precise, absorbing techniques with terrifying speed—yet his body lagged like rusted machinery. It was unnatural. Wrong. Leo had never seen talent so brilliant yet so shackled. The crimson power that had once surged within Drake now lay dormant, its absence a gnawing mystery. What had silenced it? And why did it refuse to answer when Drake needed it most?
Connor had awoken from his coma, but his body was a ruined vessel. His core pathways—once the pride of House Frey—were now shattered ruins, leaving him little more than a breathing corpse. The fabricated story claimed a core overload, a tragic accident. House Frey, ever merciless, severed all ties the moment the news of his demise became public. Nobility had no use for broken tools.
Jackson Storm stalked the training grounds like a specter, his gaze never straying far from Drake. There was hunger in his eyes—not for a fight, but for something deeper, something obsessive. Yet he held back, his pride a leash for now. Alexis and Xian, ever the vultures, circled Drake with fresh torments, their pestering a constant weight on his shoulders.
And then, the dreams.
Night after night, Drake never went past the Selverix Point, like a infinite loop, frozen in the same scenario. No matter how far he walked, the path never changed. The weapon never stirred, It was as if the world itself was waiting—but for what?
----
Elsewhere,
Deep in the Indian Ocean, where the Maldives had once been a paradise, now lay only ruins and monsters.
A black helicopter cut through the night, its blades slicing the air with a rhythmic swoosh-swoosh. Below, the island was a graveyard of overgrown ruins, swallowed by mutated flora and prowling beasts. This was a dead zone—a place mankind had long surrendered.
The helicopter touched down on a crumbling helipad, its landing lights casting long shadows. Technicians in stained uniforms rushed forward, tools in hand, their movements frantic yet precise. They knew better than to delay.
Two figures emerged from the aircraft.
The first was a man so pale he seemed carved from moonlight, his hair a void-black contrast. When he spoke, the faintest glint of elongated fangs flashed in the dim light. Beside him stood a woman, her six-eyed null beast straining against its leash, saliva dripping from its jagged maw. These were the architects of Breaking Dawn's ruin.
"Why summon us now, of all times?" the woman mused, her voice lilting as if amused by some private joke.
The pale man exhaled sharply, irritation flickering across his marble-like features. "How should I know? His whims are his own."
A sudden metallic clang broke the silence—a fire extinguisher, hurled from the chaos of the landing zone, hurtled toward them.
The pale man's hand snapped out, catching it midair. Then, with a lazy flex of his fingers, he crushed the canister like paper.
Silence.
"Who. Did. This?" His voice was a seismic growl, primal, inhuman. The very air trembled.
A technician stumbled forward, his knees hitting the ground before he could stop himself. "M-my lord!" he choked out, forehead pressed to the cracked concrete. Blood welled where his skin had split from the force of his bow. "P-please, forgive this worthless one's mistake!"
The pale man tilted his head. "Stand."
The technician scrambled up, still bent double, eyes locked on the ground.
"Look at me."
Slowly, trembling, the man raised his gaze.
The pale man's eyes were twin pools of blood—crimson, depthless. In them, the technician saw his own reflection.
And his death.
"Do not worry," the pale man murmured, resting a hand on the technician's shoulder. His voice was almost gentle. "You shall be granted mercy."
Relief flooded the man's face. "Th-thank you, my lor—"
Swoosh.
The world spun.
The technician blinked.
Huh?
His vision tilted, then locked onto his own headless body, still standing. Blood fountained from the severed neck, painting the helipad in grotesque arcs.
The pale man flicked his wrist, retracting the elongated claws that had sheared through flesh and bone like air. Around them, the other technicians worked faster, their faces drained of color. None dared so much as a whimper.
"Beautiful," the woman sighed, her smile widening as she released the null beast's leash. It lunged, jaws unhinging, and the corpse vanished into its gullet with a wet crunch.
The pale man shook his hand, droplets of blood scattering like rubies in the dark. "Let's not keep him waiting."
"Okey dokey~" the woman sang, skipping ahead as they moved toward the yawning mouth of a cavern.
The island swallowed them whole.