The metallic clack-thrum of a crossbow being cocked resonated through the damp cavern. Kiet didn’t move. He stood with his palm hovering just inches above his scabbard, his fingers twitching with a phantom memory, a muscle memory of a divine light that no longer surged through his veins."Twelve of them," Baskara muttered, his eyes darting across the flickering blue grid of his interface. "High threat probability, low tactical cohesion. They aren't soldiers, Kiet. They’re contractors. Mercenaries. Their gear is mismatched, unoptimized, and frankly, offensive to the eye.""Spare me the critique, Baskara," Kiet hissed, his voice dropping to a jagged growl. "They’re here for our heads. My sword is dead weight. If those bolts fly, I’m just a man with a fancy letter opener.""You have training, Kiet," Mayari snapped, her silhouette sharp against the gloom. She unsheathed her daggers, t

The cave went abruptly silent, save for the ragged breathing of the twelve mercenaries scrambling outside the threshold. Baskara didn’t look up from his interface. He was busy partitioning the space within the tunnel entrance, his hands dancing through the air as if he were knitting invisible lace."They’ve stopped," Kiet said, his hand gripping his sword so tightly his knuckles shone white in the dim, bioluminescent moss-light of their hideout. "Why stop? They had us pinned.""They're waiting for the signal," Mayari replied, her eyes locked on the shadows of the forest floor just beyond the cave’s mouth. "They’re not the type to lead a charge if they think there’s a trap. Which, thanks to our resident accountant, there is."Baskara ignored them, his focus narrowing. A new window blinked into existence before him, pulsing a harsh, warning amber. "Correction. They aren't waiting for a sign

"Baskara, put the potion on his leg, not his shoulder!" Mayari screamed, dragging a wheezing mercenary into the mouth of the hidden cavern. "He’s bleeding out from the femoral artery!""Incorrect," Baskara said. His eyes were wide, glassy, and completely unblinking, filled with faint, neon-blue geometric grids that mirrored the luminescent interfaces floating before his face. "The leg has a seventy-two percent chance of clotting without intervention. His shoulder muscle integrity, however, is down to thirty-one percent. If his shoulder degrades further, his weapon utility drops to zero.""He’s going to die if you don't stop the bleeding!" Kiet shouted, slamming his heavy iron sword into a rock to support his own weight. Sweat and ash coated his face, masking the deep, jagged laceration along his ribcage. "He’s a man, Baskara, not a broken carriage wheel!""He is an asset," Baskara replied smoothly, h

"Baskara! Look at me!"Mayari’s palm struck his chest, not with the force of a blow, but with the desperate weight of a tether. She grabbed his chin, forcing his gaze away from the flickering, translucent interface that hovered like a hungry ghost before his eyes.Baskara blinked, the neon-blue grid stuttering, then fading into the shadows of the cave. For a terrifying second, his eyes remained glazed, reflecting a world of numbers that didn't exist for anyone else. Then, the blue light drained away, replaced by the frantic, sweat-slicked reality of the cavern."Elian," Baskara whispered, his voice sounding like dry parchment rubbing together. He looked down. The mercenary’s life was leaking out in rhythmic, pulsing jets of red. The man’s skin was the color of curdled milk. "His… his perfusion pressure is failing.""He’s dying!" Mayari hissed. "He’s not a variable. He&rs

The Great Nave of the Cathedral of Mercy was a cavern of gilded hypocrisy. Above, the stained-glass windows depicted saints pouring golden grain into the hands of the destitute, while below, the reality of the architecture was suffocating. The scent of heavy, expensive wax and stagnant incense choked the lungs. At the altar, High Priest Johan stood in his shimmering silk vestments, his hands raised in the standard posture of benediction.But his eyes were fixed on the double doors at the far end of the hall.The doors groaned, the hinges screaming as they were forced open not by a siege engine, but by the weight of a thousand secrets. Baskara, Mayari, and Kiet strode into the center of the hall. They were not dressed as conquerors. They were dressed as the victims the Cathedral had discarded.Behind them, spilling into the hall like a dam burst, were the physical manifests of a century of corruption. It was not gold o