The ocean stretched beyond the cliffs in a restless sway, the rhythmic crashing of waves echoing faintly into the Libertas Aeterna command chamber. Michael sat opposite Commander Cane at the long steel table, his hands clasped in front of him, listening to the steady voice of the man who had pulled the organization through more than a decade of survival against impossible odds. Erin stood at Cane’s left, her arms crossed, her sharp violet eyes fixed on Michael with an expression that was both skeptical and curious. To Cane’s right, the holographic map of Whitewood flickered faintly, casting pale blue light over the chamber.Cane’s tone was even as always. The man never seemed to have to raise his voice whenever he spoke but Michael recognized the weight behind his words. “The Ordo Supremus will not strike us head-on. Not yet. They’ve lost Crysta, but their Families thrive on patience, positioning, and inevitability. We cannot match their wealth or reach. What we c

The southern docks smelled of salt and rust, a briny heaviness that clung to the air and mixed with the sharp tang of oil and old wood. Cranes loomed overhead like crooked skeletons, their cables rattling faintly in the ocean breeze. Night hadn’t yet fallen, but the sky was bruised with thick clouds, and the setting sun barely filtered through, throwing long shadows between stacked shipping containers and weathered warehouses.Michael stepped onto the cracked pavement, his boots crunching against bits of broken glass scattered near the chain-link fence. Don led the way with the confidence of a man who had walked these docks a thousand times, his broad shoulders shifting under a dark coat, gold chain glinting faintly at his throat. Stella and Lea followed just behind Michael, each of them scanning the surroundings with different kinds of wariness. Judging from their behavior, Michael knew the girls had never been to this part of the Southern Sector. He himself had

The ringing in Michael’s ears faded faster than it would have under normal circumstances. His body had taken the brunt of the explosion, but the changes from becoming fully Awakened had hardened him more than any blast-proof vest could. He stood amid fractured steel beams and dust, brushing fragments of concrete from his shoulder as shouts echoed through the gutted factory. A quick glance at his stats in his System confirmed what he was already feeling; he had suffered basically zero damage from that explosion.Gerald Hardyn strode toward him through the haze, unbothered by the chaos around them. His men were already moving in disciplined formation, securing breaches, dragging the wounded aside. The older man’s scarred face was calm, but his eyes pinned Michael like searchlights.“I want to believe that you were not so stupid as to orchestrate this?” Gerald asked in the same gravelly voice.Michael turned his head to look at the rest of the building, dust

Michael balanced on the lip of the water tower and folded his arms across his chest, the night wind tugging at the reactive fabric of his suit. From this height the ruined warehouse looked small, a blackened tooth in a row of identical shells. He let his eyes sweep the perimeter one more time, cataloguing the shapes of men moving like shadows below, watching for anything that did not belong to the arrangement he and Cane had put in place.The plan had been surgical in its messiness. With the Commander’s blessing, Michael had staged a fake LA safehouse in an old chemical depot. They staffed it with a dozen regular soldiers pulled from Cane’s reserves, men who knew how to stand still and look convincing under interrogation. Erin had been placed inside, bound and watched. The Data Sphere sat in the center of the warehouse, humming quietly, disguised as a sealed evidence container. Michael, Stella, and Lea had left the area three hours earlier, giving the appearance o

The Northern Sector of Whitewood City was nothing like the South. Here, the streets were polished and quiet, lined with well-maintained walkways that gleamed faintly under the morning sun. The air smelled clean, filtered by the countless hidden purifiers woven into the sector’s infrastructure. People moved about in tailored clothes, their expressions composed, their steps confident. The conversations were calm and purposeful, civility having been encoded into the rhythm of daily life.It was a sharp contrast to the Southern Sector, where survival sharpened every look and where the weight of hardship lingered over every street corner. In the North, chaos had no place. Every detail was precise, orderly, correct.An old man walked slowly along the cobbled street. His posture was straight, his gait deliberate, but his appearance did not match the refinement of those around him. He wore simple, weathered clothes, more fitting for a laborer or recluse