The island of Yucha

Two weeks later

Chapter 7: Smoke

How are you doing now?" James asked Jacob while offering him a treat from the food crate. He then passed the box to the boy's father and knelt down. "You were incredibly brave last week. My work would have been much tougher without you, Jacob." With a playful tug of the boy's hair and a smile, he continued.

Standing up, he turned to the father. "How are you holding up? How's the shelter treating you?"

Being a telepath has its downsides—constantly catching snippets of people's thoughts. Although James was trained to shut it off, he couldn't help noticing the misery lingering in others, especially in Jacob's father's mind.

The man's thoughts were trapped in a relentless loop, berating his worth as a dad and slowly tormenting him. His inner voice kept insisting that he was a terrible father, accusing him of endangering his son's life. The man looked gloomy and exhausted, overwhelmed by uncertainty, while a dark, visible-only-to-James cloud warned of a future where the building explodes with Jacob inside—a future too painful for him to bear.

"Not good," the father admitted. "I just went to the store for something quick to cook for lunch. Jacob was sleeping." His grip on his son tightened, as if bracing against another looming threat. "I always leave him alone in the apartment. He's a good kid. He knows better. Nothing ever happens in Batey. How could I have let him almost—"

"You couldn't have predicted anything so urgent," James interjected, placing a firm hand on the man's shoulder. "The monster was known to be in the forest for two hours under surveillance. Nobody imagined he'd break free and come into the city. We were all taken by surprise. Alerting me about Jacob's whereabouts was the best thing you could have done."

The father's inner torment deepened as his dark doubts repeated relentlessly. "But he could've—"

"He didn't. Let's keep that in mind. Look at him," James said, gesturing toward the boy. "He's perfectly fine, not a scratch on him."

The father chuckled softly. "You're right. Thank you for everything you did." Loosening his hold on Jacob, he kneeled down and embraced him. "Will you be helping out today, or have you been assigned elsewhere? I could really use a familiar face."

James shook his head. "Sorry, I'm needed elsewhere. I've been summoned to the Capital by the Diosa."

The father's eyes widened in surprise. "They summoned you? May the Gods be in your favor, son."

Smiling, James replied, "Thanks. I'm going to need all the help I can get for whatever judgment they decide to pass on me." Then he moved swiftly through the crowd of civilians.

In Batey, construction proceeded at a sluggish pace. The once-united row of tall brick buildings was now missing one, and since the collapse of that structure, the remaining buildings appeared fragmented and isolated. The people who lost their homes were staying in nearby shelters, hoping that the Kaski—with their impressive abilities—could repair the damages. James spotted over a hundred kaski rushing about the city—not the healers, but those aligned with the military. They scurried through the streets, assisting various groups. Speaking in the ancient tongue of virtues and singing uplifting tunes, they were all united by one goal—to harness their powers and erase the destruction. If it were nature's will, even the damaged streets and broken shops battered by falling debris would be restored in time.

James would have stayed to help, handing out crates of food and clothing to the worried residents. But with the Diosa calling him, he had no choice. Weaving through the crowd, he reached the stairs that led down to the train station. There, he joined others as they waited patiently for the elevator, which was propelled upward by a determined melody.

When the doors opened, James noticed every gear regulated by a small, simple music box mounted in the ceiling. He stepped in and waited as the tune sank to a lower, almost demonic tone while the elevator descended. The song quieted further when the elevator slowed and stopped on his floor. Inside, he was met by a rush of people jostling to come in or out. He managed to get through and walked toward the tracks.

The tracks were illuminated by soft light from music boxes fixed along the metal ceiling. They bathed the dark, shallow tunnels in a gentle glow, their light flowing gracefully through the air without causing any disturbance. From the opposite end of the tracks, little dandelions drifted by, brushing softly against James' face and giving him a brief, ticklish sensation.

"James!" Carl called, waving his hand as the crowd neared the tracks.

"Hey, sorry I'm late. I was talking with the boy's father again," James explained as he leaned in to peer toward the tracks, squinting to see if there was light at the far end. "He seemed even sadder than he has in the past three days. I had to try to lift his spirits."

Carl shook his head. "I don't know what motivates you to do that. We did our job by saving his son. His emotions aren't our responsibility."

"If we can do something to ease a troubling situation, we have to act. That's our responsibility," James replied sincerely.

Carl grinned. "You sound just like Mom. Oh, speaking of her," he said, handing James a small plastic box from his bag, "she packed us lunch."

James dismissed the box. "She doesn't have to do that. I'm not exactly her son."

Carl shrugged. "At this point, she considers you one. I'm keeping it in case you change your mind."

"I doubt we'll need food if the Diosa calls us. No amount of food can help with what's coming."

"You still have your sword," Carl pointed out.

James placed a hand on the scabbard at his back. "Yes, though they might require I return it as punishment. I caused quite a scene."

"That thing or machine started a scene, and you ended it—thanks to me," Carl added.

James gave him a disapproving look. "Sure."

"Besides, we saved the day. We might even earn medals."

James sighed anxiously. "Or we could be sentenced to exile."

The bullet train roared with a piercing whistle before coming to a stop right in front of them. The pair boarded as the double doors slid open. A delightful scent of flowers mixed with coconut filled the air. They sat at the nearest table on opposite sides, while overhead, the music boxes played a rugged yet smooth tune that grew more aggressive as the train moved on to the next station.

Carl dug into the bag and grabbed his box of food. He opened the lid and his eyes shimmered with joy. To his delight, he saw a sandwich made with not bread but fried plantains that kept the lettuce, ketchup, mayonnaise, and juicy pork in the middle. He took a big bite of it and nodded his head.

"You're missing out man," Carl said without a mouthful of crumbs spraying out.

James smiled. "I'd rather save the food. We might need it for whatever place the Diosa sent us for punishment."

Carl rolled his eyes. "Man, shut up already."

"Carl, there is no logical reason why they want us. This is our first year on duty. Before last week, we acted by the book."

"We did everything to code last week? What are you saying?"

James sighed heavily. "We did not follow our training. Four years of archery, swordsmanship, and spatial awareness combined with a mix of hand combat, and we struggled with a machine."

"That machine was nothing this island has ever seen. Kimberly even said that the Grand Library had no reactors of such technology. Not even the dusty books speaking of the Beyond. That suit of armor was just a setback. We did what was best."

James nodded. "I guess you're right. I don't know. Something doesn't feel right."

Carl finished the last bit of his lunch, licking his fingers in hopes of getting more of the flavor like some sort of deprived slob. "Is it a telepath thing?"

"No, it's just a gut feeling."

James turned his gaze to the window, watching as the train emerged from the dim tunnels and glided into the open tracks ahead. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels combined with the music boxes roared in harmony with the swift passage through a vibrant field of plants and herbs. The sight captivated him, a living tapestry woven with every hue of the rainbow. He was mesmerized by how the field maintained its kaleidoscopic beauty, even as Kasike, with deft hands, harvested herbs or planted new ones. A gentle breeze swept across the field, setting the colorful plants into a graceful dance. The island's breathtaking beauty momentarily lifted the weight of his worries. He remained transfixed by the window, letting the serene beauty of Ata be his companion and distraction for the next three hours.

........

The capital of Yucha was the bustling heart where the majority of significant enterprises unfolded. It was a place teeming with leaders, politicians, armies, and an arsenal of weapons, all poised for action whenever an important matter arose. The tall, silver skyscrapers stood majestically, their metallic surfaces glistening under the kiss of sunlight, casting shimmering reflections.

Cars dominated the streets, as there were no sidewalks but a mob of legs and wheels teethed into the landscape. The people had adapted to this unique environment, learning to walk with the speed of vintage Plymouths, their movements synchronized with an almost instinctual precision.

The boys felt like outsiders in this ordered chaos. The city seemed to thrive on its controlled frenzy, yet the saving grace was the citizens' unwavering respect and patience. As they began to walk, they were abruptly interrupted by a loud ticking sound. They froze in fear and looked around them, receiving judgy looks from those passing. It suddenly dawned on them that Ata itself was a colossal timepiece. Every three hours, the buildings and streets would shift, rotating in harmony with the rhythmic ticking.

Citizens gathered in clusters, creating the illusion of sidewalks and streets. As the ground beneath them rotated, cars continued their journey seamlessly. The residents, unfazed by this mechanical ballet, patiently waited as the ticking gently repositioned them, splitting buildings apart and reassembling them with precision. This mesmerizing dance lasted for two minutes as the structures realigned and the people the boys had initially encountered vanished, replaced by a new set of individuals.

"We need this back in the city," Carl remarked, his voice tinged with awe.

Before stepping into the Heart of Ata, the boys approached the grand stone steps, their footsteps echoing softly against the ancient structure. "We welcome in the blessings of Yuchka, Lunis, and Ata," they intoned in unison, their voices reverberating in the stillness. Their hearts steadied as they observed a minute of silence, a customary act of reverence for the three gods before entering a monument dedicated to their might. Rising with a sense of solemnity, they pushed open the heavy door.

Inside, thick, brown vines sprawled across the pristine stainless steel floor, weaving their way up the reflective walls, creating an intricate tapestry of nature's embrace. The most elite kaski—healers aspiring to master the scholarly craft of virtues—moved gracefully, their eyes barely visible behind stacks of books. Several levels stretched upward, culminating in a glimmering chandelier that cast a soft, shimmering light throughout the structure.

A vine suddenly sprang up from the ground, pulsating with a gentle luminescence of virtues. It pointed inquisitively at the boys, waving in an almost playful manner before it slithered away with a serpentine grace.

James, bewildered, turned to Carl. "I've heard tales of the capital's uniqueness compared to the rest of the island. But this... this is extraordinary. I think we're meant to follow the vine."

Carl nodded in agreement, his curiosity piqued, as he trailed after the vine with James close behind. His eyes roamed the open doors of various rooms, observing a chemical lab where kasiks engaged in alchemical experiments, blending herbs into mysterious concoctions. In another room, animals roamed freely, and yet another space resonated with the melodic practice of scriptures, the kasiks ensuring their pronunciation of each tune was perfect.

"Wow, I understand all the hard work Mom and Kim put in," Carl remarked, awe-struck. "This is nothing like the Forge."

The vine led them down a descending staircase, its slimy form gliding smoothly over each step, guiding the boys into a shadowy lower level where light seemed to struggle to penetrate. It directed them through a dim hallway where three voices could be heard arguing at the other end. The boys, feeling a mix of apprehension and intrigue, followed the vine, sensing its purpose nearing fulfillment.

At last, they arrived before the Diosa, who ceased their heated discourse upon the boys' arrival. The vine waved its short tendril as if bowing respectfully to James, then slithered back up, its task completed.

The boys faced down out of respect for the Diosa. They did not want to be seen as disrespectful and rude in front of the mighty three who governed the population.

"We stand honored to be in thy presence," James said.

His breath steadied as he tried to control his mind from wandering into their thoughts.

Melinda placed her hand on his chin and moved his head up. He was in awe at her beauty.

She was the youngest out of the mighty three. Her eyes were never shown due to her big, brown curly hair hiding them, but from her sweet smile, James knew her eyes must be as exquisite. Her skin sparkled even with no light around to amplify her god-fearing looks.

Her dress showed off such an unbelievable hourglass body shape while being so comfortable. It was a dress that looked like spiders knitted it themselves with their own webs and colored it lavender with images of rose petals.

Carl gazed at Melinda as he brought his head up, jealous that James was so close to such a glamorous being.

"There is no need for that," Melinda said, her voice soft and mannered. "It is nice to see you, James and Carl."

The boys kept their composure, shocked that she knew their names.

"Your Greatness, I would like to congratulate you on your welcoming to the council," Carl said, trying his best to not stutter.

Melinda placed her hands on her heart. "Aw, thank you. And I'd like to congratulate and thank you and James for last week's unfortunate attack."

James moved away from the council. "There is no thanks needed. Except for Carl. I apologize for forgetting protocol and my training." He said, ashamed.

Marisol scoffed. "It's fine, boy." She stepped into the conversation, and the air thickened as if it were worried about the words she would say.

The boys made sure their posture was straight.

"General Marisol," they both said in a deep voice.

Marisol nodded. She stood out in the dim hallway, as her scarlet red jumpsuit made her look like a threatening force. Her straight hair showed no frizz, and her yellow, golden eyes were freakishly alluring.

"That thing was unlike anything we've ever heard or seen. I don't blame you for needing to alternate from your normal trained skills."

Loud noises came from behind the Diosa.

Joseph smiled uncomfortably. His large and lengthy trench coat covered whatever was behind him. He had his dreadlocks tied up in a ponytail, and his brow was frowned as he was anxious. His green eyes gave away his posed demeanor.

"Are we in trouble?" Carl said.

Joseph shook his head. "Of course not. You guys should feel honored for what you've done for this nation. Your families should feel proud."

Carl smirked. Told you, he said mentally.

James gave a nasty look that quickly vanished.

The Diosa gave each other looks, with Marisol nodding in defeat.

"We have something to show you guys," she said.

The three moved out of the way to show a brown wooden door.

"Due to your oath, I expect you two to keep everything you hear and see to yourself. Nothing on the other side of this door gets out. For the protection of Yucha. Understand?"

The boys nodded.

"Good." She opened the door with a wave of her hands (middle finger, index finger, and thumb sticking out).

All of them entered. The boys kept their shock under control as they saw hundreds of kaski operating machinery directed by music boxes. Some machines were hovering rods to move along the room faster, while others were long metal-like tentacles that stretched from one end of the room.

Kaski were doing what they do best. Studying and inspecting weapons. A group of a dozen were focused on work, their fingers sizzling with fire as they created some type of weapon.

"And I thought the trains were loud," Carl said. "This place is roaring with music boxes. Even with them singing differently, my head is booming."

Melinda chuckled. "We need these music boxes. Like how the bullet train operates with the sound, these operate the machines. The difference here is the music boxes were created by one individual. Like this one."

"Kimberly?" Carl asked. He watched as his sister lifted her head and walked over to him. "What are you doing here? What happened to the hospital?''

"I got a promotion. I couldn't say anything because of my oath," She said.

Carl turned to James. "And you didn't know?"

"I'd rather not go into someone's mind unless it's absolutely necessary." James said, "It's a code."

"Kimberly has been wonderful. I had to bring her with me when I was appointed. She is one of the most remarkable scholars I've seen in a long time. She could do so much more than heal." Melinda said.

Marisol sighed. "We've assigned your sister to study the thing."

James glanced down at the table. There laid out, piece by piece, dissected like a frog, was the armored beast. He saw the insides of the beast, seeing the scarred wiring and shine of the metal-like material that made it so frightening.

But, looking at it in that state where it was showed its true nature: a stack of metal that could easily be dismembered. James wondered how such a thing could cause so much destruction.

"Looks simple, huh?" Kimberly asked. "It's not; it's really not." She grabbed a book from a towering stack that stood on the floor to the left of her. "I've been researching almost every book in the library. I noticed the material was not completely metal. Something was infused with it. And, and! Look at this."

She took off her necklace, her own vial of infinitum, and waved it above a scrap of the monster. The silver goo moved frantically near it, slamming itself against its glass casing.

"Metal never has that effect on infinitum." She added. She forced James and Carl's hands on the scrap. "You feel that? That little tingle at the bottom of your fingertips."

James nodded. A sharp but tiny pain stabbed into his hand. His arms parked up in electricity as it roamed around his veins.

He took his arm off before he changed into who knows what.

Marisol looked intrigued.

Kimberly smiled. "As I expected. Now, back to my research," she flipped the pages of the book. "Most of what I've read that there are recordings from about 1685, when crystals were primarily popular and used as an anchor for their own virtue. I guessed this was a crystal because of these." She pointed her finger at small red fragments that used to be united. "That was long before I broke it. It was a garnet crystal. Used for virtues that can enhance weapons or forge them."

Carl turned his head to the Diosa. "Heretic practices?"

Joseph nodded. "But it's much more alarming."

Kimberly snapped his fingers. "Ok, back to me. I'm on a roll here."

Joseph chuckled. "Of course, Kimberly. Continue."

"Ok, so, as I was investigating the garnet and the armor, I've come across this." She showed off a page of the book. "A new form of crystals that are not created by nature but by sinister means. They call them marquis crystals, created in 1697. That's what I believe the armor is made of."

"So, heretics have found us?" Carl asked.

"We believe so. But their means to annihilate us is weird. Resorting to machinery is more mortal." Marisol said. "That's why we called for you, Carl. We think maybe you and your sister can crack the case."

Carl scoffed. "I'm a soldier, not a kaski."

"You were both raised by the same brilliant mother. Kaski or not, you can try to help."

"What about James?"

"We need to talk to him separately." Melinda said. "Nothing bad."

Oh, shit, James thought.

Carl eyed him worriedly. She said nothing bad.

Yeah, I'm not so confident that she's telling the truth, James replied before walking away.

The Diosa and he walked silently to a stack of stairs heading up.

His anxiety clouded his judgment as his mind rambled with what they could want from him. They must want to discharge him and banish him from the island. Or worse, demote him to an office job on the other side of the world.

His fears rose up the more steps they climbed, for he noticed more and more vines stretching on the ground.

The Diosa could not be taking him to witness the glory of such an empowered symbol. He was not worthy or aged with wisdom.

He poked his head out of a hole and was in awe at the sight of it.

"James, I believe you are familiar with Ceiba," Melinda said.

Ceiba was tall and beautiful. Its giant form touched out of the cave it was in and into the embrace of sunlight. Its branches were like a million arms holding onto a line of frozen raindrops as it was capturing the moment that Mother Nature blessed the land with fertile kindness.

James approached Ceiba slowly, afraid to be smitten by a grave branch for not asking permission. His eyes roamed around the cave and admired the carved stone of strong warriors that fought for the island. He felt their presence as if they were there in the room. Dozens of eyes followed him, and he imagined all of them giving him their blessing for his presence in such a sacred place.

"Is this your first time here?" Melinda asked, unafraid to be close to Ceiba.

"Yes, it is." Marisol answered. "The boy has been fortunate to not be visited by any angels."

Melinda nodded as she watched the boy peak over the sunken hole that Ceiba was planted in.

James' face reflected off the bright hue of the silver pool. He looked closely at the leaves and saw a silver liquid race down from the green obstacles and down into the pool.

"An endless supply of infinitium," James muttered. "I've always heard stories of the Tree of Life and Promise but never thought I'd get to see it young. Not unless a funeral was planned."

Melinda chuckled. "You and I are both, kid. Once I was elected, I stood here for hours."

"Doing what?"

"What I do best: singing."

James smiled before his previous thoughts crept back. "If you guys are going to punish me, this is a nice way of softening the blow."

Joseph shook his head. "You are not being punished. If anything, you are being rewarded."

James, confused, asked, "Rewarded with what?"

"Service, much-needed service for our nation," Marisol said.

The Diosa moved behind him and watched as two kasike came up the stairs and threw a cuffed woman onto the ground like she was a possession.

Her clothes were torn apart, and her hair was damaged. Blood and bruises stained every part of her skin.

"You should be familiar with her," Joseph said.

James looked closely, and his eyes grew big. This is the intruder, the attacker from the Beyond. Mangled and damaged for good measure.

She knelt down and faced the ground, shivering but not scared.

"What is she doing here?" James asked.

The Diosa all gave each other looks, as if their eyes exchanged words.

"The entire island was caught off guard by this invasive specimen and her armor of immense damage," Marisol said, walking over to the woman and picking up her chin. "Every virtue we could think of, every song, and we failed to properly enter her mind. She has a strong willpower, but it's not one she was born with or instilled with. It was planted."

The woman smiled, blood smeared on her teeth. She knew the amount of influence she had on all three of them. She relished and soaked in it. It was the only thing keeping her from acknowledging the pain imprinted on her body.

Marisol pushed the woman's chin aside and walked away.

"Planted? By another telepath? But there are only two known telepaths in the world." James said.

"We know," Melinda said.

"It's not—"

Melinda shook her head. "We don't suspect."

"Why we called you here is for you to ask you to enter her mind." Marisol said.

"All three of you are masters at your respective virtues. If you cannot penetrate her mind, what makes you believe I can?"

Melinda sighed. "James, as kasike, virtues give us a variety of gifts to do that we were not naturally gifted with. Virtues of the mind are much more complex since we are not made to probe minds as easily as you. That mental block is strong, as if it was created by a machine like this savage wore."

James took a deep breath as fears fled his mind. He never forcefully entered another's mind and roamed around their mindscape. Being an uninvited guest to the very essence of a person goes against his teachings.

"I cannot go through her mind without her consent. Doing so is an insult to every telepath that has ever been born or will be born. It is a matter of morals and ethics to do such a thing."

Joseph sucked his teeth in disappointment but in a knowing manner. "I told you so. The boy has not grown." He said, directing his words to Marisol.

"Boy, morals and ethics should be applied to those who show the capability of human decency. This...thing shows none. No dishonor to telepaths would be done." Marisol advised.

Melinda nodded. "We've tried everything. This discussion is only happening if every other answer seems inefficient. And it has. Please, for Ata. For Ceiba. For the citizens. For the children. For our home."

Those words flowed harshly into James' ears. How could he deny the Diosa? How could he deny the safety of the people?

Marisol looked at him as if she saw the gears of his thinking operating, giving her the ability to answer him without him talking.

"What do you need us to do?" She asked.

James inhaled deeply, shocked he was even considering doing such an invasive action. "I need a chair for this girl."

"Are you kidding?" Joseph asked.

"Yes," James answered. "Two for me and her." He nodded to the outsider, shivering in pain.

Marisol went off and grabbed two wooden chairs and placed them across from each other. She was skeptical, but some part of her trusted James.

"What else do you need?" Melinda asked.

"I need to be alone for this. I have no idea what the telepathic shield has in store for me. If it's as strong as you all say, I'm expecting my attempts to break it to have effects on the physical world. I cannot have you all here when that happens."

The Diosa shared looks and nodded. They left quietly without debate.

James telekinetically lifted the outsider from the floor and placed her softly on the chair. He straightened her posture and pulled his sleeve up, smudging the blood off her face.

"Hi, I believe we know each other," he said. "I'm James, the person responsible for your current physical condition. Though, I do have partial play on that."

The outsider did not speak back. She has deep cuts and bruises all around her mangled body, slumping her posture as an attempt to ease the pain. She wheezed at the slightest action. She was in no condition for talking. Just staring and analyzing.

After a few moments of dead silence, the outsider cleared her throat. Some part of her felt compelled, but it didn't feel forced. More like a persuasive wave.

"How old are you?" The outsider asked, voice muffled with trauma.

"Does it matter?" James replied.

"To me? No, of course not. But to my higher power, yes. When they find out I had my ass handed to me by someone as young as you, I'm dead."

James stayed silent. The mental block on her mind was durable. His mighty attempt to break through his mind was like an average human punching a concrete wall bare-fisted. But there were cracks, created by Diosa's attempts. He could with cracks.

"I am nineteen. And you?"

"Thirty-five. Enlisted at age fourteen." The outsider said. "I never wanted to use that mech-battle armor." She tilted her head, puzzled as to why she would reveal that. She placed her hand on her head as she felt blood leaking, but there was none there.

James was focusing his will on the weakest point of the mental block, projecting a small amount of power on it instead of a brute wave of force. He supposed the block got stronger when constantly attacked with brute strength. He could feel her mind slowly dripping out like a leaky faucet.

"So what are you? I'm not getting any witchy-magical vibes from you."

James, with a confused expression, asked, "What's a witch?"

"You're kidding. Witches. Magical beings. Like those scary three."

"The Diosa aren't witches. They represent the law and will of nature." James corrected.

"Sounds like a witch to me. They dangled their spellsover me, hoping to get some intel, starving me and keeping me in a state of agonizing pain." She said with no real emotion. "Why am I telling you this? I haven't spoken once for the two weeks I've been imprisoned. What are you, boy? Other than a soldier."

James didn't answer the question and focused on her physical and emotional pain. "They've been starving you? One meal a day, I'm assuming."

The woman nodded. "You assumed correctly."

"Then here," James said, pulling a plate of food from behind him.

The woman backed her chair away. "How...?"

James shook his head. "Don't worry about it." He passed her the plate. "Eat up, please. You must be exhausted."

Her stomach growled at the sight of her favorite food. Glazed ham and bacon mac and cheese with a side of rice and beans. Her eyes were mesmerized by the sight of such an angelic plate despite her being perplexed that he would give her a fork and a knife. She took the plate without complaint and dug in.

James looked at her devour the food at a ravenous pace. The block on her mind was starting to break, expanding in cracks as his plan went into motion. He had to be discreet before some part of her caught on and foiled everything.

With a mouth filled with warm, delicious food, she said, "This tastes just like how my mom used to make it back in the compound. Every Friday of the month she'd cook this up."

She talked with her right arm waving around, distracting James from her left arm that was flat on her forearm.

"You grew up on a compound?" James asked, folding his legs.

She nodded, still perplexed as to why she's telling such deep secrets.

"Yes, it's where they keep all the children for training. It's mandatory for us to train and serve the military. At least for those that live in the territories."

Silence broke out.

Army? James thought. What kind of army?

"Hmm," she said, "you want to know what they taught me?"

James nodded.

"Keep your eyes everywhere." She said, as she flipped the knife around before lunging at him, slashing his throat and causing a red waterfall to take the stream.

James gasped for air as he collapsed to the ground.

"Amateur," she said. She got up and turned to the doorway and jumped in fright.

James was behind her. His body was covered in electricity, and his face conveyed his deep disappointment to her.

"What in the name of—" She yelled.

James made her float in the air with a look.

"I really didn't want to do this," he declared. "I thought entering your mind and creating a scenario that would have you open up would be less painful. You just couldn't help yourself, huh?"

"Huh?"

"I've infiltrated your mind the moment you got on the seat. That plate of food—fake. Everything's been fake. I wanted to do this in a way that wouldn't cause you any more pain."

"B-but I have a barrier. He said that no one would be able to break it!" She yelled in fear as her surroundings began to wrap and twist. The cave walls started to crack and light up from underneath.

James placed his fingers on the temple of her head. "He was wrong." He said before completely breaking the barrier.

The interior of the cave blew up as a flash of images took its place. Her memories, on display like a huge comic panel, rotated around them in a flux speed.

Her screams of pain echoed around her mindscape as her physical body flinched around like a fish out of water.

James saw everything from her life. He's never roamed around a person's mind so hastily before. His professor taught him to take in memories one at a time in order to avoid harm for him and the patient's psyche. However, as he scrolled around the lady's mind in a hurry, all the things he was taught felt like a friendly suggestion. One that he would take into consideration if needed.

He saw the lady's first induction into the army. He saw her first kill and first mission accomplished, and he saw who assigned her to come.

Ata will not be welcoming to you. When you enter the island, make your appearance known, the voice of a man said. His words travelled around her mind like a message for James to hear. His voice sounded familiar.

They must be prepared for what's coming. One last message for you to give to the boy.

What boy? The lady said.

Don't worry about the details; just contain this, the voice said.

A slew of sounds bled through James' mind, causing him to scream. It was enough for him to exit out of her mind and back into the physical world.

Melinda caught James before he fell. She patted a wet cloth on his forehead.

"James, are you okay? We heard the screams," she said.

Marisol and Joseph circled him.

James got up slowly and gathered his thoughts. He was in a frenzy haze, uncertain what thoughts were his and what were the lady's. He needed a moment before giving a confident answer.

"They're coming," he said, frantically. "She was a warning. Someone from the government she represents told her to come as a means to prepare us."

"For what?" Marisol asked, her hands on her machete.

"Their arrival. Her leader—master—whatever didn't tell her when, but it's soon. I can feel it."

Marisol turned to Joseph. "Have the soldiers and kasike equipped with the bows. I want at least thirty of them stationed around every corner of the island's outer banks. I need them there in an hour, nothing more than that."

Joseph left off.

Melinda gave James the wet cloth.

"Thank you, James. I had no right to underestimate you. Forgive me for my previous attitude."

"Your concerns were valid," James said, panting.

Marisol smiled and walked to the woman who slumped in exhausting pain. She unleashed her machete from its holster and stabbed it into the unconscious lady.

Melinda flinched as James' eyes quaked.

Marisol twisted her weapon, and it carved its way to her heart, adding more brute force to ensure a definite kill. She then grabbed her by the hair and threw her into the pool of infinitum, where waves of the silver substance ripped the poor lady apart before properly consuming her.

"Was that necessary?" James said. He focused his limbs from further flinching and tried his best to seem professional, reminding himself to not look panicked.

Marisol gave a look of somewhat disgust but understanding. "She brought misfortune to our home. A home that we must keep contained from the Beyond. We got what we wanted from her. Now, she must pay us by the means that nature demands. And nature demands her life, no matter how useless and pathetic it was." She placed her hand on his shoulder and said, "This is the way of survival."

James had no energy to argue back. And if he did, he would be disrespecting decades' worth of tradition. Traditions in which he has no authority to speak against.

"Is there anything more important you got from her?" Melinda asked.

He took a second. His first instinct was to tell them of the sounds he heard. The one the voice had installed on the lady's mind in the event of the barrier breaking. But some small part of him kept him from spilling, so he just said the second most confusing thing he got.

"I got a name," he said, "it was like a whisper. As if a part of her mind consumed it like it was common. As common as her name."

Marisol glared at him with skepticism. "What was the name? Who is the person responsible?''

"It's not a person. More like a thing. A brand name. The Divine."

The train ride back was quiet.

James was instructed to not mention what he did in service for the greater good and welfare of the island. But the memories of the woman—the attacker, as he referred to her since it made it somewhat easier to forget—flowed through his head like a sickening melody.

He stood quiet the entire walk back to the Batey, with Carl and Kimberly giving each other looks of confusion.

The sky blue hue was mixed with a pinkish aurora of color. The sun was preparing for its departure.

"They'll announce what positions I and you should be in in a little while. An hour or so." Carl said to James.

James nodded, remaining quiet.

Kimberly sighed. "I wonder where they'd place me."

Carl chuckled. "You're a kasike scholar. You guys get assigned books and nothing more."

"Are we forgetting who was the most equipped for military service in this family?" Kimberly replied in a smug tone.

"How could I forget about Mom?"

Kimberly lightly smacked the top side of his head. "No, dummy. Me! You're lucky Mom is so traditional. I would outrank you both easily."

"Working with the Diosa secretly already sets you leagues above me. Don't worry though. I'll catch up."

Sure," Kimberly said. She glanced at James, and her expression dropped. The gloominess in his eyes spread to her. "Jamiee, would you like to come over for dinner?"

"My name's not Jamiee," James said.

"You say that like I'm going to listen to you." Kimberly said.

James shook his head. "No, I thank you, but I'll be bad company."

Kimberly pushed Carl aside and stood next to James, grabbing his arm and wrapping hers around it.

"You won't be bad company," Kimberly said. "We have a mother for that."

The three of them shortly arrived at the Batista residence. The cracked paint on the walls did not demean its elegance and classic appearance. Fireflies flew around and blessed the land with colorful lights of green, yellow, and pink. It made the cozy, delicate home much more beautiful.

From the lawn, they heard Mrs. Batista singing softly and smelled the delightful scent of rice with chickpeas and her famous fried pork.

"Hola, Mama," Kimberly said, walking to her sweaty mother and kissing her on her forehead.

"Hola, Kimberly. ¿Cómo estuvo el trabajo?" Mrs. Batista said. She used the back of a plate to flatten soft plantains before dropping them in a pan with frying oil, unphased by the little burning drizzle that popped out afterwards.

"Ya sabes cómo es el trabajo: agotador," she replied. "Tuve que recoger un montón de hierbas."

Carl snickered. He liked it when his sister lied to their mother. Now that he knows that Kimberly does not work with the rest of the kasike, each word that fell out of her mouth was a humorous tale.

"That's me a lot," he replied, moving his eyebrows at her as a means to mock her. "Hola, mami." He kissed his mother on the forehead.

"Hola, hijo. ¿Cómo estuvo la reunión?" Mrs. Batista asked as she picked the fried plantains from the oil and put them onto a plate with ease. She turned to grab a clove of pure garlic and smashed it with a pestle.

"Mamá, no te lo puedo decir," he replied.

¡Ay!" Mrs. Batista said. "Nunca puedes decirme nada. Como si fuera un extraño para ti."

She served the food on two plates, dousing everything with garlic juice from the cup, and turned. "Oh, hola, James. La próxima vez me gustaría que alguno de mis hijos me avise que tenemos un invitado."

"Qué invitado?" Kimberly said, laughing.

"Verdadera," Mrs. Batista said. She handed the two plates to her kids and grabbed another. She gave James a plate and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"Thank you, Mrs. Batista." James said, heading out into the lawn and to the long table.

"¿Aún no sabes hablar español?" She asked, sitting down at the end of the table.

James shook his head. "My accent isn't as good. I can barely speak English."

She sighed. "¿Cómo es que alguna vez puedes entenderme?"

James shrugged. "Luck, I guess." It wasn't. James had no choice but to create a temporary psychic link between him and Mrs. Batista that allowed them to understand each other. It was neither harmful nor invasive.

"Then, you, my friend, have the best luck," Mrs. Batista said, the link being strong as ever. (Good thing too because he had a feeling that she was going to speak really fast. "Now eat. I've been craving this dish the whole day. I hope you guys like the rice. I haven't made this in years. The last time I cooked it, Kimberly was beginning her studies."

Kimberly smiled. "Mom, that was about five years ago. That's a long wait, no?"

"You know how cravings are. Once they come, your mind is clouded."

"This is delicious," Carl said with a mouth filled with food.

"Stop being gross. Eat before the food is gone from your mouth." Kimberly said. "This is how you raised him, Mother?"

Mrs. Batista laughed. "He takes in the lessons that are the most appealing to his character. He certainly ignored my advice on not enlisting."

"Mom," Carl said. "Don't start."

She waved her hands as if she dismissed the comment out of the air. "What? It's true. Matter of fact, both of you didn't listen to my advice. You must've forgotten the long hours I worked when you both were younger."

Kimberly rolled her eyes. "No, we don't. Every day for school, your pent-up tiredness and anger mixed in with your impatience gave you an iron fist. An iron fist that beat us when we didn't know how to spell our name correctly."

Carl chuckled while their mother looked disappointed.

Mrs. Batista cleared her voice. "And now you can read. You're welcome, my child."

Kimberly nodded, knowing further talk back would end badly.

"I understand why the boys came home late, but you, Kimberlina? Why did you walk back with them? Harvesting would have ended around sunset."

Kimberly opened her mouth expecting a lie to come out, one good enough to convince her mother, but she hadn't the faintest idea of what to say.

"We asked her to wait for us after coming back from the Capital." James replied quickly. "It's too dark for a girl like her to be walking home alone. I hope that doesn't bother you."

Kimberly gave a faint smile as her mother cleared her throat.

"How nice of you. Such a gentleman. How can a boy with no relations to you be so considerate?" Mrs. Batista said.

Carl gulped another mouthful of food before answering. "He hasn't known her for eighteen years, Ma." He said, muffled.

Before Mrs. Batista could roll her eyes at that remark, suddenly a low bellowing yell echoed around the entire island. James and Carl looked at each other and finished their dinner quickly.

Mrs. Batista sighed with relief. "Thank you, Ceiba. They're only calling for soldiers and on-duty kasike."

"They're calling it pretty early though." Kimberly said, "The sun is not even fully set."

"Which is why those like James and your brother are being called." Mrs. Batista got up and grabbed the boys' plates. "Go, go! I and Kimberly are going to clean this up for you. Hurry and know where you're being positioned."

Kimberly cleared her throat. "Mama, I would like to go with them. Just to see if I can be of any help."

Her mother shook her head. "If they thought kasike were needed, the Song of Virtues would be echoing, not the Cry of Soldiers. Besides, you need a good night's rest for tomorrow's collection of herbs. You can't get that if you're off awaiting danger."

Kimberly held back her argument. "Yes, Mama. Goodbye, boys." She got up from the table and winked at James before walking into the house.

James smiled, knowing Kimberly's slick behavior means she's going to do things her mother disapproves of; her mother just didn't need to know about it.

Nightfall approached, painting the clear blue sky with deepening purple as the first stars began to pierce through.

Carl stood guard with several other soldiers—all with more experience than he had—positioned along the golden stretch of beach where waves lapped at the shore. To pass the time, he alternated between gripping his macana, fingers tracing the infinitum that reinforced the wooden club, and testing the weight of his machete, comparing the balance of each weapon against the other.

Behind him stood a dense wall of weeping palms, their fronds hanging like green curtains that brushed against both the golden sand and the rich, dark soil where the beach surrendered to the jungle. The boundary between worlds was marked by scattered shells and twisted driftwood half-buried in earth. Carl pivoted sharply at the sound of fronds scraping against each other—not the gentle whisper of sea breeze, but the deliberate parting of vegetation by something solid moving through the undergrowth.

Carl's paced heart slowed down at the sight of Kimberly. "Kim! You should be Carl's racing pulse steadied when Kimberly emerged from the shadows, her silhouette gradually taking form against the darkening jungle. "Kim! You should be home, wrapped in your hammock, asleep!"

"Please," Kimberly said, a bow gripped in one hand while a quiver of arrows hung at her hip. "I only promised Mama I'd stay home to stop her worrying. After what happened last time, I couldn't just lie in my hammock wondering if you were safe."

Carl's lips curled into a confident smile. "Sweet of you to worry, but unnecessary." He gestured toward his fellow soldiers, who pretended not to notice Kimberly while remaining fully aware of her presence. "We're well-prepared tonight. Besides," he added with a touch of bravado, "I'm here this time."

His sister's eyes traveled from his boots to his hair, her lips pressing into a thin line. "That's not exactly reassuring. Last time that creature attacked, the kasike were scattered across the island performing rituals, completely unaware. This patrol?" She gestured at the soldiers with a flick of her wrist. "It's poorly planned. We need both kasike and soldiers working together, not this... whatever this is." She lowered her voice. "The only reason you're even standing here is because of James."

"That's not fair. I held that creature off!" Carl's voice cracked slightly.

Kimberly's eyebrows arched. "While Mama pressed cold compresses to your skull for three nights straight."

The other soldiers exchanged glances, suddenly finding the horizon fascinating.

Carl's shoulders tensed. "Fine. It got a few good hits in."

"A few?" The corner of Kimberly's lips twisted, holding in laughter.

"Just a few," he hissed through clenched teeth. "And anyway, the Kasike's virtues might be useless against it—we don't know."

"C'mon, Carl, of course they would work. They're not heretics!"

"We can't trust questioning it." He glared down at her weapon. "And, even if they're immune to virtues, what makes you think a bow and arrow can ensure a victory?"

Kimberly smiled as if she was waiting for him to question it.

"Wait, where did you even get that?"

"I made it," She whispered proudly.

She handed him the bow and watched as he inspected the limb, bolts, cables, idler wheels, and string.

Combat bows rarely appeared in a soldier's arsenal—too intricate for battlefield practicality—yet his sister had crafted one uniquely her own. The surface shimmered with what appeared to be seadragon scales, emitting a soft hum against his fingertips. Infinitum formed the essential components: limb bolts, riser, and string, all gleaming with subtle power. Strange symbols he couldn't decipher adorned the central cable guard. As Carl balanced the weapon in his hands, an unmistakable sensation washed over him—this bow carried multiple virtues, their energies pulsing beneath his palms.

"Where did you get the infinitium from?" Carl asked cautiously.

"From my own vial." She answered, showing off the vial of the silver goo. It was a quarter empty.

"I may not be like you, but I know that this required a lot more than what your vial has."

She shook her head. "I don't know how, but I was able to stretch it. It was easy too."

Carl looked at her, unsure of how to feel. "I don't think this is safe or smart. Are those arrows made of infinitum too?"

"What? No, of course not; I'm not an idiot. Just basic metal. I just engraved some sigils on them. See?"

She placed an arrow in his palm—unexpectedly hefty, its silver shaft catching the fading light. Unlike infinitum's characteristic luminescence, this metal remained ordinary, save for the identical symbols etched along its length that matched those on her bow. "Don't let appearances fool you," she said with quiet confidence. "These will pierce what needs piercing."

The sun hung low on the horizon, its golden light fading by the minute. As daylight retreated, Kimberly felt a heaviness spread through her chest, a hollowness expanding inside her. The virtue that flowed through her during daylight hours was ebbing away, leaving her diminished until the moon could rise and fill the emptying spaces within her.

"Woah," Carl said, noticing the sudden change in her mood. "Is it the transition?"

Kimberly nodded, her face paling as the last rays of sunlight faded. "This transition feels different tonight." She pressed her palm against her sternum, where the hollowness spread like ice water through her chest. Her gaze drifted toward the darkening ocean, watching how the waves seemed to hesitate before reaching shore. "The sun's trying to tell me something before it goes," she whispered, then shook her head. "Or maybe I'm just dizzy."

"Go home," Carl urged, steering her away from the shoreline

"Look!" A soldier's voice cut through the twilight.

They spun around to find the others transfixed by the water's edge. The waves were behaving unnaturally—retreating too far, surging too forcefully, as though something massive displaced them from below.

"No," Kimberly whispered, her voice barely audible.

Carl abandoned her side, dropping into a fighter's stance as he joined the other soldiers—legs braced wide, center of gravity lowered, muscles loose but ready. Had his sister not distracted him, he might have spotted the warning signs earlier.

Kimberly nocked an arrow, drawing her bow with trembling hands. The exhilaration of finally testing her creation mingled with cold dread. The lightheadedness that had plagued her suddenly made terrible sense—whatever lurked beneath the surface had been calling to her all along

The forest was quiet

James was far away from the noises of the city and the other soldiers. The sound of others' thoughts felt distant, as if he was a radio that kept getting puffers of unintelligible whispers and mummers. Some part of him remained glad that he had a moment to himself and his thoughts, but then it hit him; he was alone with his own thoughts.

He roamed around the grounds, unbothered by the tall, looming trees, and wondered why he was positioned in the lonesome forest instead of being by the shoreline with Carl.

Was this the Diosa's idea of justice? Perhaps they viewed his reaction towards Marisol as rebellion—a challenge to their divine order. Or could this be their twisted reward for his warning about the attack? He wondered if they even comprehended what shattering a telepathic barrier did to his psyche, how it left jagged edges where smooth thoughts once flowed. Less likely, their judgement was never dictated by empathy.

The midnight wind gently ran through his skin as if giving comfort and reassurance to him. His thoughts stirred away from the Diosa and to the monster—the woman. Her memories still haunted him, flashing images upon images whenever he blinked like a never-ending slideshow. He saw her beginning and witnessed her end as if her strict past could not protect her from her demise. Sadly, it was because of her past that she was killed.

Some small part of him lingered with sadness for this stranger. She came from the Beyond, but she was still a person. A person following orders who had no clue what they would result in. But following orders—that's no excuse. She had a mind, her own thoughts, beliefs, and opinions; she had the right to decline them. But she was trained to think a certain way. So, did she really deserve death or a second chance?

The more he focused on the woman, the more it dictated his own thoughts. He questioned if these concerns were his own or manipulated by the fleeting psychic footprint on his mind. Each stolen emotion felt foreign yet familiar—was this gnawing guilt truly his own, or had it seeped from her fractured psyche like poison through porous stone? The questions clawed at him with razor-sharp persistence.

Why was he created this way? Why was he blessed with an annoying curse? It did no good. Yes, it saved people, but it got one killed. Someone who probably needed a chance. And he ruined that, just by following orders. Was he any different from the monster?

The woman's mental anguish crescendoed into a symphony of torment, her psychic scream reverberating through the caverns of his skull like broken glass scraping against bone. Though the sound existed only in the realm of thought, his ears throbbed with phantom pain—a cruel reminder that even imagined suffering could manifest in flesh. The stabbing sensation pulsed behind his temples, each wave more vicious than the last, until he pressed his palms against his skull as if he could physically hold his sanity together.

The psychic screech felt like a message he couldn't decipher. No matter how hard he focused on volumizing sound, the more it pained his mind and became impossible to decode. Could this be his mind fixating on humanizing the woman? Did she deserve it?

He strolled through the space like a restless specter, his measured footsteps becoming hollow against the ground as he sought refuge from the chaos in his mind. Each deliberate pace was calming, a desperate attempt to distract himself and bring him back to the physical world, where no thoughts threatened to spiral into madness.

The tranquil silence shattered like crystal as something tore through the air with supernatural velocity. The sound was sharp and clean—a whistle that sliced through the atmosphere with the precision of an experienced marksman.

His body went rigid, every muscle coiled like a spring as he froze mid-step. The mysterious projectile's thunderous rush rushed past him close enough to disturb his hair. Then, with an abrupt halt, it simply... stopped midair.

He pivoted slowly, his breath catching in his throat as his gaze fell upon a machete suspended motionlessly, its polished blade gleaming with an otherworldly sheen. The weapon hung as though an invisible string held it aloft—or as though it possessed consciousness of its own.

He stumbled backward, his eyes igniting with crackling electricity that danced across his irises.

Tendrils of shadow began to writhe around the floating blade like living fog, growing denser and more substantial. From within this churning darkness, a pale hand emerged—fingers long and graceful, yet somehow predatory. It closed around the machete's leather-wrapped handle with deliberate possession, using the weapon as an anchor to drag the rest of its form from whatever nightmare realm it inhabited.

The shadows peeled away like layers of black silk, revealing the familiar silhouette of Marisol. Her form solidified from the retreating darkness, shadow becoming flesh with fluid grace.

Recognition hit James like a physical blow. His knees struck the ground with a dull thud as shame flooded through him, extinguishing the electric fury in his eyes until they returned to their natural hue. "Marisol," he breathed. his voice thick with embarrassment, "Forgive me. I had no idea that was your doing."

Marisol chuckled. "You can get up, James. Sorry for dropping in like that on a night like this. It wasn't my intention to startle you." She stepped closer to him with her high-heeled boots. No branches on the ground were crunched, and a slight feeling of its thud was noticed.

Understanding broke across James's eyes and head nods, assuring himself that he wasn't crazy. His gaze fell to the woman's white-knuckled grip on her machete, fingers wrapped around the leather handle with desperate intensity, as if the weapon were her only tether to this realm.

He nodded slowly, pieces of an otherworldly puzzle clicking into place. "You're not really here, are you?" The question hung in the air between them. "Physically, I mean. Your weapon serves as a conduit, and the shadows have blessed you with form to maintain the projection. A mastery of astral manipulation?"

Marisol's impressed lips turned into an approving smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Perceptive. I never expected a telepath to understand the intricacies of astral projection or any other virtue. To be fair, it's merely a pale imitation of your kind's vast capabilities."

Silence settled between them like dust, heavy and uncomfortable. Neither knew how to start a lighthearted conversation that would eventually lead to the purpose of Marisol's coming.

Finally, Marisol's voice broke the stillness, soft as velvet against the night air. "Goddess, how I cherish these nightly hours. The golden canvas of dawn and the sunny brilliance of afternoon skies have their charm, but the nights... they're nature's masterpiece painted across the heavens. Don't you agree?"

James lifted his gaze to the celestial canvas above. The last vestiges of amber light were surrendering to encroaching darkness, and pinpricks of starlight began their ancient dance. "I don't know. The nights are only good once the stars start to show."

"Indeed. Though I confess, I await the moon's grand entrance—she's the true star of midnight's theater." Marisol's voice carried a wistful note that seemed at odds with her warrior's facade.

"Did I do something wrong? Were you displeased with my performance?" The words that escaped his mouth came sharp and sudden.

Marisol's head shook gently. "You're not in trouble, child." She struggled to find the kind words to prevent any further fear in the boy. "When I observed you earlier, you stirred memories of an old friend. Your mother, to be precise."

The revelation struck him like a physical blow. No one spoke of his mother—she had been erased from conversations as thoroughly as if she had never existed. His eyes widened with a mixture of shock and desperate curiosity for any fragment of information.

"Yes, I knew her in Yucha's glory days, before the sickness claimed her." Marisol's voice grew tender, weighted with remembrance. "Would you like to know what you share with her?"

His mind leaped to the conventional response, the hollow comfort adults typically offered the motherless:"Her eyes?"

Amusement flickered across her spectral features. "That's what someone who never truly knew your mother would say. A genuine friend recognizes that you both possess hearts ruled by compassion—your actions flow from an innate goodness that cannot be taught or feigned. Melinda wasn't the only one concerned about you. I noticed your reaction when I... disciplined the Beyonder. You must understand it was necessary. Our nation demands protection. You know our history; you understand the measures we must take to ensure it."

Confusion creased his forehead.Why would Marisol, his superior in every conceivable way, feel compelled to justify her methods to him? She was the commander; he was merely a child soldier. This nocturnal visit carried deeper currents than a simple explanation.

"There's something else weighing on your mind, isn't there?" His observation cut through any forward attempts to try and relate to him. Right now was not the time to be friendly. It was the time of business between him and her. "It doesn't take telepathy to notice."

Her sigh escaped like steam from a cracked vessel, her iron composure showing hairline fractures. "Something extracted from her consciousness has lodged itself in your thoughts. I must remind you of your duty to report all findings."

"I told you everything," James replied, his arms crossing defensively before dropping with sudden awareness of his insubordination. "And I was being honest."

"One needn't possess mind-reading abilities to see the gaps in that statement." She responded with a raised eyebrow.

Conflict raged behind James's eyes like warring storms. Were his concerns substantial enough to merit his commander's attention, or merely the paranoid whispers of an overtaxed mind? "It's just... a feeling."

"Feelings can be harbingers of something of much importance," she counseled, her voice carrying the weight of hard-earned wisdom. "Sometimes they're screaming to be acknowledged."

Her encouragement unlocked the gates of his reluctance. He drew a steadying breath as his thoughts crystallized into coherent form. "Telepaths communicate through various channels—mental dialogues, image projection, and sensory transference. Within the Beyonder's mindscape, after shattering her mental barriers, a piercing tone invaded my skull. As if the telepath who constructed those defenses had deliberately impaled my consciousness. The strangest aspect was how it seemed to carry an encoded message..."

The machinery of his mind began clicking into place with mechanical precision. Speaking his experience aloud had sparked patterns previously hidden in overthinking rambles.

"It wasn't just sound—it was communication. A warning delivered through psychic agony."

Marisol leaned forward, intensely. "Elaborate. What manner of warning?" Her voice carried the sharp edge of command.

The deeper James excavated the memory, the more familiar the resonance became. The unknown telepath felt like an echo of someone cherished, someone lost. He rewound the psychic scream like a movie being shown in his own mental theater, dissecting each frequency until meaning emerged clearly.

"The voice called my name with intimate recognition, as if the speaker knew I would be ordered to break those barriers." Each word built upon the other, creating connecting bridges to a terrible roadmap.

Horror drained the color from Marisol's spectral features, and her astral form shuddered with false coldness.

"And the voice..." James continued, his tone hollow with disbelief. "It resonated exactly like his. Like Master Joque."

Marisol's head shook deniably. "Impossible. He would never... He departed months ago. There's no conceivable way he would betray everything we've built." She wrestled with this devastating possibility before the earlier statement settled. "What exactly did he warn you about?"

James turned to face her as the encrypted message finally surrendered. His master's voice—silent for nearly a year—spoke with clarity across not only his mindscape but also his ears. "He warned us to protect the children."

A piercing whistle, high and volumizing, caused small forest creatures to scatter deeper in a frenzy of alarm.

"Distress signal," James breathed, recognition freezing his blood.

"The beach," Marisol confirmed sternly, looking at a big, long cloud of smoke stretching into the sky, a grim welcoming to the night. "Go to the city—guard the residential districts and the clinics. Reinforcements will follow." She raised her arm and wrenched her machete in the opposite direction, her form dissolving into wisps of nothingness.

James's fingers tightened around his sword's grip until his knuckles went white. Lightning erupted and spread around his body. With electric fury, he launched himself through the forest, flying at speeds that defied his training; his body was pushed beyond all limitations by pure terror.

One thought blazed through his panic-stricken mind like a brand: They've come for the children.

The Bronx, New York

Chapter 8: Purpose or Distraction?

Returning back to Piper's house was never an option. The very thought of crossing back into a threshold of security and homeliness made her stomach clench with self-loathing.

Anita couldn't ask someone with such a good heart to harbor a killer. Not even every god that could and did exist knew of how many bodies she was responsible for taking care of. She was a killer who had no memory of it.

A killer. That's what she is now, isn't it? That's what she's always been, even if she has no recollection of it, right? She was not only a person who had killed but also someone for whom killing had become an essential part of her nature, like having brown eyes or a particular birthmark.

Piper deserved protection from people like Anita.

Wandering around the neighborhood with no destination or someone to confide in, her mind turned off with only a few thoughts rotating around. What did she need? Not answers, obviously, because they always seem to escape her. Food? Shelter? No, too simple and yet too out of reach.

She stumbled across the notion that she had nothing left to live for. It wasn't any realization or revelation but recognition—the acknowledgment of something so true from the very beginning she had no clue until now. It settled into her bones with absolute certainty.

Maybe if she liked Piper, things would be different. That girl was everything Anita was not: kind, ethical, and with a confidence that could only be instilled upon birth rather than learned. From the short time she knew her, Piper moved through life as if it was a gift and not a burden.

What right did Anita have to shatter that perspective? To drag someone so achingly alive into her gravitational pull of despair?

Anita's presence would destroy Piper's joy, not add to it or evolve it. The thought of watching that inspiring confidence erode, day by day, until nothing remained but depression and the longing for death. The thought of Piper's laughter fading, of those bright eyes growing dull and distant—it was unbearable and horrible. A crime against humanity itself. Anita couldn't be a killer of people and emotions.

It was better to disappear than to become poison that killed someone's rare and precious personality.

Her aimless wandering through the borough—crowded with strangers, empty of connection—finally ended at a weathered park bench that had seen better decades. She collapsed onto its peeling slats as the sky above transformed into watercolor brushstrokes of pink and blue, the sun bleeding its final light across the western horizon.

No one spared a glance for the girl curled against the bench's rotting armrest, preparing to claim it as her bed for the night. They've seen worse on Fordham Road, after all—a place where homelessness had long since ceased to surprise anyone. The contrast was a mercy she hadn't dared hope for.

She didn't want their notice. What she craved was something far more absolute: to be erased entirely, dissolved from the very fabric of existence that had twisted her into this unrecognizable thing, a monster that she denied but could no longer run from.

The pistol's weight pressed against her spine through the fabric of her jacket—a constant reminder of choices that couldn't be undone. She should dispose of it, she knew. Cast it into the nearest storm drain along with her ring blades; let the waters carry away the instruments of her sins. But even as the thought formed, she recognized its weakness. The weapons weren't the source of her corruption; they were merely extensions of what she'd already become.

The rhythm of sleep began to claim her, pulling her consciousness towards desirable oblivion, when something prodded her shoulder. She swatted reflexively, assuming some urban creature had mistaken her for carrion, yet the touch persisted—deliberate, human.

"What?" She yelled, exhaustion transforming into irritation.

"Seriously? A park bench?" Piper stood with one hand planted firmly on her hip, exasperation radiating from every line of her body. She swept Anita's legs aside and claimed the adjacent space, her labored breathing betraying the effort it had taken to track her down. "I remember inviting you back to my apartment. This"—she gestured at their decrepit surroundings—"is not my apartment. It's much neater."

Anita glanced around the park as if seeing it clearly for the first time. The trees stood like skeletal husks, their branches stripped bare by disease and neglect. What wildlife remained moved with the sluggish persistence of the defeated—squirrels picking through garbage with instinctive distress for food, pigeons too tired to properly fly. The basketball court had become a monument to abandoned dreams, its hoops twisted and nets long since vanished. Even the artificial turf of the soccer field had faded to the color of old bone.

"How did you find me?"

Piper's laugh held no humor. "This is St. James Park, not Yonkers. It's literally ten minutes from my building. Where else would you go to wallow in self-pity?"

Anita's rubbed her forehead in annoyance. "I didn't realize—"

"Of course you didn't. Now come on, let's extract ourselves from this petri dish of communicable diseases and get you somewhere with actual walls and running water."

"I can't." The words came out smaller than Anita intended. "It wouldn't be fair to you. I deserve this, Piper. I deserve to rot in places like this. You don't need me poisoning whatever good you've managed to build."

Piper studied her with the intensity of squinted eyes. "What makes you so certain you're beyond redemption?"

The question was so absurd that Anita actually laughed—a sound devoid of joy but genuine in its disbelief. "You don't understand what I've done. The things I'm responsible for... they're not the kind of mistakes you can redeem. And you—" She gestured at Piper's composed figure, her clean clothes, and her clear eyes. "You're untouched by any of this ugliness. You move through this dying world."

"So?" Piper's expression shifted. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"C'mon," Anita's voice carried the weight of absolute conviction. "Look at this borough, Piper. Look at how broken everything is. And yet here you are, still believing people can be saved."

"You want to know why I seem so put-together?" Piper leaned closer, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Because most days, I'm not in the mood to even notice how completely fucked my life is."

Anita nodded as if she understood, but the words slid past her like rain off glass. In her mind, Piper remained untouchable.

"You want to know how I spent my day? Of course you don't, but captive audiences don't get to choose their entertainment." Piper's voice carried a brittle edge that hadn't been there moments before. "I visited my father."

The words hit Anita like an unexpected slap. In her experience, people their age were either orphaned or estranged—family was something that happened to other people, in other lives. "You have a father?"

"Shocking, I know." Piper's nod was sharp and economical. "Twice a week I make the pilgrimage to Fordham Hospital. He's been there almost three years now—since I was fifteen and still stupid enough to believe adults could fix everything."

"What's wrong with him?"

"That's incredibly rude," Piper replied, then immediately softened the rebuke with a self-deprecating laugh. "I'm kidding. It's some kind of supernatural contagion. It started in the initial wound, spread to his heart, and now it's eating its way toward his brain. The treatments are..." She gestured vaguely at her thrift-store ensemble. "Let's just say I've become intimately familiar with donation bins and expired food sales. These clothes? Salvation Army chic. But I have to admit, whoever donated this jacket had decent taste."

Anita felt the familiar paralysis that came with witnessing someone else's tragedy. What possible response could she offer that wouldn't sound hollow or self-serving? Instead, she asked the question that had been burning in her chest since childhood: "What's it like?"

"Being one catastrophe away from homelessness? I figured we both knew that feeling."

"No." Anita's voice came out smaller than she intended. "Having a father."

Understanding flickered across Piper's features—the recognition of a fundamental absence in another person's life.

"I don't have memories of parents," Anita continued. "Not any that feel real, anyway."

Piper's expression gentled. "Before everything went to hell, it was... good. He drove me to dance classes every Tuesday and Thursday—I can still manage a decent pirouette when no one's watching. He cooked these elaborate meals from whatever ingredients he could scavenge and turned dinner into an event. And he was determined I'd get an education, even if he had to cobble it together from discarded textbooks and his own questionable knowledge base." Her smile turned rueful. "The man tried to teach me calculus when he couldn't even handle fraction multiplication. I ended up tutoring him in basic math."

They shared a moment of genuine laughter—the first either had experienced in longer than they cared to remember.

"What are fractions?" Anita asked with complete sincerity.

"You know what? I'll explain back at my apartment. It's actually pretty straightforward—not like the advanced stuff that might as well be written in gibberish." Piper rose from the bench, brushing imaginary contaminants from her clothes. "Ready to leave?"

Anita hesitated. Logic still screamed that involving Piper in her disasters was selfish and reckless. But for the first time in memory, she'd found someone who understood what it meant to be responsible for everything and everyone while having nothing and no one to rely on.

"Yeah. I'm ready."

They'd taken perhaps a dozen steps toward the park's exit when the voice erupted in Anita's consciousness—sharp, urgent, undeniable.

You need to move. Now. The shadow-self she'd almost forgotten in these moments of human connection blazed back to life with terrifying clarity.

"What?" she whispered, praying Piper wouldn't notice.

She doesn't know she's being hunted. Northeast corner—two of them, closing distance.

Anita's eyes flicked toward the indicated direction without moving her head. Two figures in dark clothing had materialized from shadows that should have been empty, their movements too coordinated to be coincidental. Horsemen. Her blood turned to ice as realization crashed over her—the park had been deserted when she'd first collapsed onto that bench. These men had been watching, waiting, and patient as predators until their target was no longer alone.

"We have to go. Right now." She grabbed Piper's arm, her grip probably tight enough to leave bruises.

"Wait, what's wrong—"

The distinctive whine of a charging pulse rifle clicked in their ears. Both women froze as the sound resolved into an unmistakable threat.

"Shit," Anita breathed, barely audible.

They turned in unison to find their pursuers had abandoned all pretense of stealth. Two men stood fifteen feet away, weapons raised, wearing the kind of grins that promised unpleasant endings. The kind of grins that said they'd been looking forward to this moment.

Oh, fuck." The words escaped Piper's lips like air from a punctured tire. She edged closer to Anita, raising her hands in a gesture of surrender that fooled no one. "I encountered these two earlier on my way to the hospital. They were asking about you."

"What did you tell them?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"Well, they clearly suspect you knew something."

The Horsemen approached with the casual arrogance of predators who had already cornered their prey, pulse rifles trained on their chests with professional steadiness.

Anita's hands drifted toward her sides, where the familiar weight of her ring blades waited.

"Don't even consider it," one of the Horsemen sneered, "or you'll both be decorating the pavement."

Well, one of you might be, the voice observed with dark amusement.

"Funny," the lead Horseman continued, addressing Piper, "because earlier you swore you'd never laid eyes on this girl."

"I have short-term memory issues," Piper replied with remarkable composure for someone staring down a weapon designed to vaporize human tissue. "Makes it challenging to recall events from even a few hours ago. I couldn't tell you what I had for breakfast, even with that thing pointed at my chest."

"Seriously? That's your story?" Anita hissed.

"Shush!"

The Horsemen exchanged glances and laughed—the sound devoid of genuine humor. "We're not amateurs, girl. Lies that transparent are insulting to our intelligence."

"Fair enough," Piper conceded with a shrug, "but you did get fortunate stumbling across me today. Really, luck made your job considerably easier."

Smart deflection. I'm beginning to like her, the voice murmured approvingly.

"No need for cleverness," the Horseman's tone hardened. "Here's the situation: we have orders to bring your friend back breathing. But I'm thinking a corpse would be more entertaining than dealing with handcuffs and transport protocols. Especially considering what she did to those men and children."

Rage flared in Anita's chest like struck flint. "I did nothing to those children! Those bastards kidnapped them and left them to die while I was trying to—"

"What children?" Piper's voice cut through the tension, confusion evident in every syllable.

The Horseman sighed with theatrical disappointment. "That's not how the official reports will read. We need someone to shoulder responsibility for those bodies. Since you've already established yourself as a killer, what's a few more casualties added to your reputation?"

The distinctive whine of charging weapons filled the air like the buzz of predatory insects.

"Can't have witnesses."

Both rifles swung toward Piper, who closed her eyes and began whispering words in a language Anita didn't recognize.

The world slowed to crystalline clarity. Anita's ring blades sang as they left their sheaths, intercepting the plasma bolts in showers of sparks and redirected energy. The deflected shots carved smoking wounds into the already-dying trees around them.

The Horsemen responded by separating, creating crossfire angles that should have been impossible to defend against. Yet somehow, Anita found herself moving with inhuman precision, her blades describing perfect arcs that turned lethal energy into harmless light shows.

"Run!" she shouted over the cacophony.

"What? No!" Piper's voice cracked with panic. "What about you?"

"Don't worry about me!" The plasma beams were coming faster now, more intense, and Anita could feel her supernatural reflexes beginning to strain against the volume of incoming fire.

The one on your left is missing half his shots, the voice provided tactical analysis with clinical detachment. Focus on the right—target his upper thigh before engaging the other.

During the brief respite as weapons recharged, Anita sent one of her ring blades spinning through the air. It struck the more accurate Horseman exactly where intended, burying itself in the meat of his thigh.

His scream echoed off the park's skeletal trees as his rifle clattered to the ground.

Anita pivoted toward the remaining threat, dodging panicked shots as she closed distance. Her remaining blade sparked harmlessly off his armor plating, barely scratching the surface.

Physical combat. The blade won't penetrate that gear, and the other one is already reaching for his weapon—

She didn't wait for the voice to finish its sentence. Her fists became hammers, her feet became bricks, and she unleashed a barrage of strikes that sounded like a small war. The final blow—a spinning kick that connected with his chin—sent his helmet ringing like a bell as he crumpled to the ground.

She added a few kicks to his ribs, partially for tactical security and partially because something dark within her demanded the satisfaction.

Behind her, the wounded Horseman had managed to retrieve his weapon despite the ring blade protruding from his leg, adrenaline overriding pain as survival instinct kicked in.

Piper saw the threat developing and hesitated for only a heartbeat. Then she drew a slow breath and began moving her hand in circular patterns. The air around her fingers shimmered like heat waves as wind responded to her will, striking the man with enough force to tear the rifle from his grasp.

Delighted by her own power, Piper snapped her fingers. A tiny flame danced above her nail for an instant before the rifle began to glow cherry-red. The weapon's power cell overloaded spectacularly; the explosion launching the Horseman into a nearby tree with enough force to topple the dead trunk across his unconscious form.

Anita stopped her assault on the first attacker and stared. Piper's eyes held an amber glow like banked coals.

"Are you a witch?" she asked, retrieving her second blade from the tree-pinned Horseman.

"Ha, you're funny," Piper deflected. "It's... complicated. Are you a killer?"

The question hit like a slap. Anita recoiled, her armor of defensive anger sliding into place. "It's complicated defining what I am."

Is it really? the voice asked with pointed skepticism.

Their philosophical debate was interrupted by the sound of the first Horseman regaining consciousness. Despite his injuries, he managed to grab his fallen weapon and aim at the nearest target—Piper.

The weapon's charging hum made her turn.

"No!" Anita shouted as she threw herself between the rifle and her friend, acting on a protective nature she'd never felt before. It roared inside her like it was waiting for the opportunity to show itself.

Piper tried to pull them both aside, but Anita was immovable, determined to absorb whatever was coming.

The trigger—squeezed. Plasma erupted from the barrel in a lance of superheated death.

Anita closed her eyes, muscles tensing for impact, for pain, for whatever healing process her body would need to survive.

Nothing came.

She opened her eyes to find the plasma bolt suspended in midair, its deadly energy contained within an invisible sphere.

"Is this you?" she asked Piper.

"Heavens no. I can barely keep a candle lit for five seconds."

"That would be me, I'm afraid," a new voice answered with cultured authority.

Two women approached. The speaker wore a blue necklace that pulsed with inner light, her fingers positioned in a precise gesture—thumb, index, and middle closely together—that held the plasma in stasis.

"Of—fuckin'—course," Piper muttered.

"Who are they?"

"My aunts. The one with the lapis lazuli necklace is Susan—she's the show-off. The other one is Tatia, who's less annoying."

"Hello, dear," Susan said with genuine warmth, directing her greeting toward Anita. "We'll have proper introductions momentarily." She flicked her fingers, and the captured plasma reversed course, streaking back into the rifle and overloading its systems. The resulting explosion rendered the final Horseman thoroughly unconscious.

"Now that the unpleasantness is done with," Tatia said, her voice carrying natural authority, "are you injured, Piper?"

"I'm fine. Ask the one who just manhandled these two assholes like it was nothing."

Anita found herself studying the newcomers with fascination. Susan possessed the kind of classical beauty that belonged in Renaissance paintings—golden hair that caught light like spun metal, dressed in black that managed to be both elegant and practical. Her smile held genuine kindness, the kind that was therapeutic and trusting—real instead of fake.

Tatia commanded attention in an entirely different way. Her hair was braided into an intricate high ponytail that suggested royal breeding, and her amber eyes held depths that spoke of danger and alertness. Her outfit—a pink flannel vest adorned with genuine diamonds over a crisp white shirt, navy trousers, and boots that probably cost more than most people earned in a month—proclaimed wealth.

"Hi, I'm—"

"Anita. Yes, we know." Tatia's interruption was matter-of-fact rather than rude. "And we have considerable ground to cover. With both of you. Come along."

Despite Piper's audible groaning, both girls fell into step behind the two women, leaving behind a park that would forever bear the scars of their brief but decisive battle.

The inside of the Kingsbridge Armory was nearly pitch black, its antiquated electrical system casting the cavernous space in sporadic, seizure-inducing flashes. Only the glow of massive crystals embedded in the cracked walls like torches provided consistent illumination, their soft lighting painting everything in shades of blue and silver.

Nearly forty people moved through the repurposed ice rink with purposeful urgency, hauling supply crates or clustering in animated discussions that spoke of plans both desperate and ambitious.

What exactly is happening here?" Anita asked, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "I was under the impression this place had been abandoned for over a hundred years or so."

"They're planning to flip off the Divine," Piper replied with bluntness. "Though I'm not sure how they expect to accomplish that with this raggady collection of people. I could count the entire area here on my fingers and toes."

"Piper, show some respect," Susan chided gently. "It's admittedly a work in progress, but every revolution begins with a handful of believers."

"Whose revolution?" Anita pressed.

"Ours." Tatia's response carried the weight of absolute conviction. "My sister and I have witnessed enough cycles of oppression to understand what resources are necessary for meaningful change and when to act on them."

"How did you know my name?"

They approached a white tent among the dozens that had transformed the former skating rink into a sort of command center.

"That would be my doing," Kit announced, emerging from within as if she'd been expecting them.

"Kit?" Anita said, puzzled.

Susan moved to stand beside Kit, her hand falling protectively on the younger woman's shoulder. "She approached us, answering our questions regarding the Sedgewick incident."

Anita's heart dropped from her chest to the bottom of her stomach. Her eyes found Piper's face, searching for any sign of judgment, condemnation, or worse—fear. After the many lonely months on her own, she'd finally found someone who might understand her, and now that fragile friendship threatened to shatter before it could even start.

"I had nothing to do with the children's deaths," she said, each word carefully measured. "I tried to save them. I held one of them..." Her voice caught. "I wanted to save at least one."

"We know," Kit said simply. "Justice had me examine the crime scene personally."

"Both Justice and Kit provided us with the full context," Susan added, her tone reassuring.

"How do you know Justice?"

"He's an old ally." Tatia crossed her arms, studying Anita with clinical interest. "I've seen photographs of the men you killed. The violence was... artful, I must admit."

Thank you, the voice purred with satisfaction.

"I'm sorry," Anita lied smoothly. Those men had received far more graciousness than they deserved—death had been a kindness compared to what her darker impulses had suggested. Years upon years of torture.

"Don't apologize." Tatia accepted a folder from a passing aide and opened it, revealing crime scene photographs of Luxjin's brutalized corpse.

Piper recoiled from the graphic images. "Oh fuck! A little warning next time, auntie."

"What you should apologize for is murdering her. Luxjin."

Anita thought she'd never hear that name again. That killing was months in the past—what possible relevance could it have to current events?

"She deserved everything she got," Anita replied, her voice dropping with deep certainty and no regrets.

"Oh, I don't dispute that. These mining operators are abominations that deserve punishment. But that's not the issue." Tatia's eyes blazed with barely controlled fury. "Killing her and disappearing into the shadows shifted the blame onto my coven. Witches and sorcerers under my protection died because of your actions!"

"No." Anita shook her head violently. "That's impossible. Why would a witch resort to physical violence instead of using mag—? No!"

Tatia stepped back, clearly taken aback by Anita's genuine reaction.

"You couldn't have known that," Kit interjected, her voice heavy with understanding. "Just as I couldn't have predicted what was hidden on that hard drive. We're all caught in a web of unintended consequences."

The revelation crashed over Anita like a collapsing building. Her hands flew to her head as the familiar spiral of self-recrimination began. She wasn't just dangerous—she was a revelation of death, a walking catastrophe that destroyed everything she touched. It didn't matter if her targets were deserving; innocent people always paid the price for her abrupt killings now. Or have they had it?

"Okay, enough." Piper pushed past Tatia, scattering the photographs as she placed herself between her friend and the accusations. "What we are not about to do is gang up on her like that. She doesn't need judgment—she needs help." She attempted to embrace Anita but was gently rebuffed.

"I have to leave," Anita said, turning toward the opening.

Susan's hand closed around her arm with surprising strength. "We can provide that help, Anita."

They can't fix what's fundamentally broken. Just walk away, the voice counseled, but something in Susan's tone made Anita pause. For the first time in her life, someone was offering assistance rather than exploitation.

"How?" The word emerged cracked and desperate, tears threatening to spill over.

"We can utilize someone with your particular skills. Ruthless, uncompromising, effective. We can provide direction and purpose for what you already are."

"You want me to be your weapon?"

Susan shook her head with gentle firmness. "I want you to be a person who receives proper guidance."

Piper recognized the manipulation immediately. Her aunts weren't motivated by compassion—they saw Anita as a resource to be acquired, a tool to further their rebellion.

"Both of you could benefit," Tatia continued, addressing Piper as well. "The offer remains open. We could ensure your father receives the finest magical medical care available."

"With strings attached, of course." Piper's voice carried bitter knowledge. "Same terms for both of us. I won't be party to it."

"So you're willing to watch your father die because of misplaced pride?" Susan's question was delivered with surgical precision. "That hardly seems fair to him."

The words found their mark. Piper wanted to protest, but the logic was tight. Her father needed help that she couldn't provide alone, not anymore, and here it was being offered freely.

Don't listen to these witches, the voice warned urgently. They see you as an unregistered tool, nothing more. They'll use you exactly as Mike did—the only difference—

But Anita found herself studying Susan's kind expression, the genuine concern in her eyes. Perhaps this woman truly did care about helping a damaged girl find her way. Perhaps this could be the beginning of redemption she never believe in.

She looked at Piper, seeing identical consideration warring with suspicion in her friend's expression.

"We won't force you," Susan said, her voice carrying maternal warmth. "All we ask is that you volunteer."

"Piper?" Anita's voice was barely above a whisper.

"I... I don't..." Piper struggled with words that wouldn't come. Her disdain for her family wanted to decline the offer, but her lasting love for her father and the possibility of getting him swayed her.

"Go home. Rest. Sleep on it," Susan suggested. "Give us your answer tomorrow morning."

The two young women left without responding, their minds churning with solutions that seemed to be far-fetched yet in reach.

After their departure, Tatia moved closer to Kit, lowering her voice.

"What do you think?"

"They'll join us," Susan replied with certainty. "They have no viable alternatives. It would be foolish to reject solutions to their most pressing problems."

"I'm having second thoughts," Tatia admitted. "That girl... she's not what I expected. Kit described her capabilities, but seeing her in person... she's shattered, Susan. We can't use that level of trauma."

"This is war, sister." Susan's voice hardened with sensible resolve. "We need every possible advantage. How many rebellions have we watched crumble into forgotten history? This is strategic thinking. With Anita and Piper aligned with us, the coven will view our niece as a controlled asset under my tutelage rather than an oncoming threat.

This is what Katerina would have wanted for her. You know it. And Kit's connection will ensure we can leverage her relationship with Justice."

Kit nodded reluctantly. "I know it's morally questionable. But Justice has agreements I can't violate without severe consequences."

Tatia felt the weight of inevitability settling around her shoulders. "They're just children."

"Exactly," Susan said, her smile carrying no warmth. "Powerful children we can shape and direct. With them committed, we are closer and closer to a broader audience."

The island of Yucha

Chapter 9: The Children Of Ata pt. 1

The monster—the mech—returned with plenty of friends to explore the island.

Carl counted at least two dozen of the crystalline creatures—machine warriors, he reminded himself—as they emerged from the surf, their dark shells gleaming like obsidian in the harsh sunlight. Water cascaded from their angular forms as they advanced with mechanical precision, each step calculated to drive the defending soldiers toward the treeline.

This is how we die, Carl thought with grounded clarity. Not from age or disease, but from whatever intelligence built these things.

The soldiers moved with practiced efficiency, their blades describing perfect arcs as they deflected laser fire through combinations of skill, experience, and increasingly desperate luck. Carl's mind emptied of conscious thought, allowing muscle memory and training to guide his movements. Three mechs converged on his position—a tactical decision that spoke of genuine intelligence rather than mere programming.

His machana sang as it struck the first mech shell, the impact reverberating up his arm like a struck bell. The machete followed in a crosscut that would have disemboweled any human opponent. Instead, it merely scraped across crystalline armor, leaving scratches that sealed themselves within heartbeats.

They adapt, he realized with growing horror. They're learning from our attacks.

Sand exploded around them as the battle intensified, tiny granules driven by supernatural forces clinging to eyes and throats. The soldiers fought through the irritation with grim determination, but Carl could see the inevitable mathematics of the engagement. No matter their skill, no matter their experience, they were outmatched by opponents who felt no fatigue, knew no fear, and learned from every exchange.

Kimberly maintained her position at the defensive perimeter, her bow trained on the combat but unable to find clear shots. The melee was too chaotic, the combatants too closely engaged. One misplaced arrow could drop a friend as easily as an enemy.

The tide turned with brutal suddenness.

Laser fire converged on one man, Torres. Carl noted to himself as three ruby beams intersecting at the poor veteran's chest. The experienced man held for perhaps half a second before surrendering to his concentrated demise, and Torres crumpled like a pile of clay.

His right hand, Andrew fell next, his head snapping back as the mechanized fist crunched through his skull with three hits.

This is slaughter, Carl thought as he gave ground, his defensive posture growing more hopeless with each exchanged blow. The mechs pressed their advantage with relentless logic, driving him toward the forest edge, where their ranged weapons would have cleaner firing.

Bodies littered the sand in expanding pools of crimson. An entire squad of the finest soldiers in Ata—men and women he had trained with and who he was inspired by and bled with—reduced to cooling corpses in minutes.

"Carl!" Kimberly's voice cut through the chaos.

"I can't turn around, Kimmy!" He deflected a claw strike that would have opened his throat. "I'm about to join the others!"

"Duck!"

Trust was a luxury he couldn't afford to question. Carl dropped to one knee as the tactical situation deteriorated further—three mechs became seven, and seven became twelve, and twelve doubled, all raising their weapons in synchronized precision. Targeting lasers painted his position in ruby light as power cells charged with audible whines.

Ok, looks like I have twelve seconds for them to fully charge, he grimly thought. Eleven. Ten. Kimmy, please have a plan in mind.

Kimberly nocked thirteen arrows in a technique that should have been impossible, her bow creaking under the supernatural tension. Doubt flickered through her mind like candlelight in wind—if she failed, Carl would die before her next heartbeat. The mathematics was unforgiving; the margin for error was nonexistent.

Years of training, she reminded herself. Thousands of hours perfecting this passion. The arrows are infused with virtue-blessed silver, designed specifically for enemies—abominations like these.

She drew her right arm back until her shoulder burned, until the bowstring threatened to snap, until she could feel the virtue responding to her need like a living thing sensing her desperation.

Trust the training. Trust the virtue. Trust who you are.

The arrows released as one, their fletching roaring through salt air in perfect, divided formation. Each shaft found its mark with mathematical precision, embedding in joints, sensors, and power coupling points that she'd memorized from captured schematics. She didn't study the first monster that started the damn trouble for no reason. To her mind, she knew all their weaknesses.

The virtue-blessed silver awakened on contact.

Symbols etched into each arrowhead blazed with inner light as ancient magic recognized the artificial nature of its targets. The silver sublimated instantly, becoming a corroding cloud that clung to crystalline armor like an acid fog. Where it touched, the dark shells began to dissolve, structural integrity failing in cascading system collapses. It slugged like mud, worthless and undangerous.

Twelve constructs, probably worth millions of pesos or whatever currency these Beyonders use, crumbled to expensive dust in seconds.

"It worked," Kimberly whispered, her voice filled with wonder at virtue functioning exactly as designed.

Carl straightened from his defensive crouch, scanning the beach for additional threats before jogging toward his sister. His eyes tracked over her form with professional concern, cataloging her condition with the efficiency of someone who'd nearly lost her too many times.

"Injuries? Did any of them target you directly?"

"I'm fine." Pride colored her voice as she lowered her bow. "Did you see that technique work in combat?"

"I saw it." His smile was fierce, filled with the particular joy reserved for siblings who saved each other from certain death.

"Yes, nice shot, little girl." The voice carried across the water with the kind of casual confidence that spoke of a man who had seen death dealt and received in equal measure. The sibling, altered, turned to him, prepared for another brawl to occur.

He emerged from the depths like some primordial force given human form, water purging from his frame. Unlike the hulking mechs with their layered reactive armor matrices, this man wore the practical garb of a seasoned operative—someone who had learned that survival came not from the heaviest armor, but from the right armor, correctly applied.

His clothing was the deep blue of a dark sea, the fabric appearing almost black in shadow, and the material itself seemed to shimmer with an inner luminescence, as if woven by thousands of scientists that had promised him to be the apex fighter in any circumstance. Branded across his torso, armored chest plates had been integrated seamlessly into the fabric—not crude additions bolted on as an afterthought, but purpose-built components that moved with the fluid grace of his breathing. The plates bore the scratches and scorch marks of conflicts, but his skin was unscarred.

His boots were perhaps the most striking element of his appearance. They rose to mid-calf and were created from what appeared to be a composite of synthetic materials and metal mesh, all bound together by advanced manufacturing methods. More importantly, they glowed. Not with the harsh, artificial light, but with a soft, pulsing radiance that seemed to emanate from within the very structure of the footwear. The light shifted in hue—sometimes blue, sometimes white, occasionally flickering—which suggested energy building or systems cycling. Whatever technology powered them remained a mystery, but the way he moved across the uneven shoreline with perfect balance suggested they offered more than mere show.

His gloves drew the eye next, fitted so precisely they might have been a second skin. They buzzed—not audibly. The sound was subtle, like the whisper of electricity through copper wire or the distant hum of a fusion reactor running just below optimal parameters. When his fingers flexed, micro-servos beneath the surface responded with mechanical precision, and brief flashes of energy would arc between the knuckle joints—dangerous intent made manifest in crackling displays of registered power.

This was not a man who relied on overwhelming force or intimidating bulk. The siblings noted that carefully. This was precision weaponized. Whatever technology he equipped himself with was harnessed to augment rather than replace human capability. He respected the limbs, muscles, and joints that he was born with.

Every piece of his equipment had been chosen with purpose, tested in conflict, and refined through necessity. His belt had a slew of guns dangling from his waist. From his eyes, he seemed like the type to not need guns to finish his business; his gloves gave the implication that they could help him with that easily.

He's a professional, Carl advised thoughtfully. He put his arm in front of his sister, not to protect her but to stop her from aiming her bow at him. A blessed arrow would seem to be a juvenile solution to defeat him.

"You remind me of a girl I had once raised. I wonder if you can replace her." He said, grinning in his sinister humor.

Carl took his combative stance to the man's amusement.

"Aw, that's cute."

"Who are you?" Carl demanded to know.

"Right, I was told you people don't take kindly to strangers. Or what you refer to us as. Beyonders?" The man said as the mechs' liquefied limbs solidified and rebuilt themselves to what they were: dangerous and unpredictable weapons.

The sibling's face grew shocked in disbelief. They had to deal with these machines and this man, whose words made him seem menacing enough.

"I'm Michael. But my friends call me Mike. You can call me Michael." He answered, stepping closer to them.

The island convulsed beneath their feet as successive detonations carved molten scars across the distant shorelines. Each explosion sent tremors through the bedrock itself, a percussion symphony of destruction that spoke of coordinated strikes and military precision.

Michael's smile carved itself across his features like a blade finding flesh. He nodded with the satisfaction of a conductor whose orchestra had played every note exactly as written. "That's what I call perfect timing; don't you both agree?" His voice carried the casual tone of a man discussing weather patterns rather than mass annihilation.

His gaze shifted between the siblings, cataloging details with predatory calculation. "You guys are siblings, I assume. I can tell just from the resemblance you both share—same bone structure in the jaw, identical defensive postures, even the way you both instinctively shifted to put yourselves between me and perceived escape routes." He paused, letting the observation settle like poison in water. "I've separated a lot of siblings in my devoted service to the Divine. Torn apart families whose bonds were forged in shared blood and mutual protection. But, lucky for you, I'm on a timeline."

The admission came with a theatrical shrug, as if his schedule were an inconvenience rather than their salvation. "So, out of the little kindness I allow myself to have—and believe me, it's a finite resource—I'm going to give you two options: let me pick and choose which one to kill and which to save as my new acolyte, or run, and I'll chase whichever one I'd prefer to eliminate first. I can work with either approach. The question is, can both of you say the same?"

The siblings exchanged a look that contained entire conversations compressed into a single moment—fear acknowledged, resolve shared, and a desperate plan wordlessly agreed upon. Without another breath wasted on words, they bolted for the forest's edge, panic transforming into the kind of raw, survival-driven speed that only mortal terror could produce.

Michael watched them disappear into the treeline before addressing his mechanical companions with the brisk efficiency of a commander who had issued similar orders countless times before. "You people know what to do. Go into your assigned cities and get me what She demands."

The mechs responded with synchronized precision that spoke of programming rather than choice. Each unit pressed an identical sequence on their forearm controls, triggering a mechanical transformation that split their back armor like mechanical flowers blooming in reverse. Small white drones—each no larger than a man's fist but humming with contained energy—burst forth from the opened compartments. They rose into the air with the sound of pressurized systems releasing, their collective flight pattern forming a dispersal cloud that would blanket the surrounding settlements like technological locusts.

The drones' departure left behind only the steady, measured footfalls of the mechs as they began their own advance into the forest. Their movements lacked human hesitation or uncertainty—each step calculated for optimal terrain navigation and energy conservation.

Michael waited until the last of his minions had vanished into their assigned roles before allowing himself the luxury of anticipation. When he finally moved, it was with the fluid sprint of a predator who had already selected his prey. His enhanced boots responded to each footfall with subtle adjustments to traction and impact absorption, while his gloves began their telltale humming—energy building in anticipation of violence.

The forest accepted him like a mouth swallowing poison.

"Split up!" Carl's voice carried the desperate authority of someone making tactical decisions while running for his life.

"What?! That's absurd!" Kimberly's protest came between ragged breaths, her training warring with her instincts.

"He's going to get you! You have to make it back home. Wake up Mama, and have her ready to protect you." Carl's plan emerged in fragments, shaped by the terrain and their dwindling options.

"Carl, I don't need—" But her brother was already veering away, disappearing into the maze of trees and shadows like water finding cracks in stone.

"Asshole!" The word tore from her throat, equal parts affection and fury, before she forced herself to take the opposite direction.

When exhaustion finally claimed her, Kimberly pressed herself against the broad trunk of an ancient tree. Its circumference was easily twice her arm span, and the interwoven canopy above cast shadows deep enough to hide entire armies. She clamped her hand over her mouth, trying to muffle the sound of her breathing—each inhalation a betrayal that could draw death to her location.

"Please, Goddess Ceiba," she whispered through her fingers, invoking the name with the desperate fervor of someone who had exhausted all earthly options. "Please summon the moon to grant me power." To grant me the strength to protect my dumb brother.

The sounds of pursuit crashed past her position—branches snapping under enhanced boots, leaves rustling with the violence of something large moving at speed. She forced herself to remain motionless, listening carefully to the direction and distance until she could identify the hunter's intended path.

The man's heading for Carl. The realization hit her like a brick.

"Please, Goddess, if I ever needed you, now would be the time." She tilted her face skyward, where thick clouds had formed a barrier between earth and celestial power. But as she watched—as she prayed with the intensity of someone whose world balanced on the edge of a blade—the cloud cover began to shift. Slowly, as if responding to her plea, the masses of vapor drew apart like curtains revealing a stage.

The full moon emerged in all its magnificent glory, bathing the forest floor in silver radiance that transformed shadow into substance and fear into possibility.

"Thank you, kind Goddess."

The process of connection required everything she had left. Kimberly drew her tired virtue inward, feeling for the familiar pathways that had once carried solar energy through her spiritual channels. But now, instead of the sun's harsh brilliance, she opened herself to the moon's gentle embrace. The transition felt like switching from drinking fire to sipping cool water—her virtue, weakened by exhaustion and terror, began to strengthen under the lunar influence.

The vial of infinitium at her throat responded immediately, its contents beginning to bubble with gratitude for the renewed energy flow.

Carl could hear the approaching footsteps behind him, each impact against the forest floor marking another second closer to his death. Michael had declared him the weaker sibling—selected for elimination while Kimberly would be molded into an acolyte. The thought ignited something primal in his chest, transforming exhaustion into rage and fear into desperate resolve.

In a moment of reckless inspiration, he abandoned flight for confrontation. Carl planted his feet, gripped his weapons, and waited for his hunter to close the final distance.

Michael's laughter preceded him like a herald announcing royalty. "Brave. Stupid, but brave."

Carl swung his club in a wild arc behind him, hoping to catch his pursuer off-guard. But Michael moved like liquid mercury—ducking under the attack with fluid grace before launching his counteroffensive. His enhanced gloves, now blazing with accumulated energy, delivered strikes that carried far more force than human physiology should have allowed. Each blow landed with the precision of a master and the power of a machine.

Carl raised his machete defensively, the metal blade serving as his only barrier against fists that struck like hammers. The impact of knuckles against steel sent shockwaves rippling through the forest—a percussion that scattered leaves and sent wildlife fleeing from the supernatural violence. Each defensive block sent jarring vibrations up Carl's arms, straining muscles and tendons beyond their limits.

He attempted to counterattack, slashing at Michael's midsection with desperate precision. But his opponent's enhanced reflexes turned every offensive into another defensive struggle. The clash of metal against reinforced gloves created a staccato rhythm that grew louder with each exchange until the forest itself seemed to ring like a struck bell.

Michael's decisive strike came without warning—a straight punch that drove Carl to his knees, followed immediately by a stomp from those technologically enhanced boots. The impact crater his foot left in the forest floor spoke to forces that defied natural limitations.

Carl managed to roll away from the next stomp, his survival instincts overriding the pain signals flooding his nervous system. In a moment of desperate inspiration, he struck at Michael's knees—the joints were always vulnerable points, regardless of enhancement. The blow connected, creating enough of an opening for Carl to spring upward, machete aimed at his opponent's throat.

Michael's response was swift and brutal. His enhanced grip closed around Carl's wrist with enough force to fragment bone, the sound of breaking calcium audible even over the boy's scream. Without releasing his hold, Michael drove his knee into Carl's stomach with enough force to launch the teenager through the air like a discarded toy.

Carl's trajectory ended against an ancient tree trunk, his body leaving an impact crater in the bark before sliding to the ground. Blood traced crimson paths down his arms and forehead, while his eyes began to swell into purple orbs of trauma. Through his blurred vision, he watched Michael approach with the measured pace of inevitability.

"I have to admit, you have guts, kid." Michael's gloves increased their humming as energy systems cycled to maximum output. "The problem with you is you think you're good. You're not. What you demonstrate is mediocrity dressed up in noble intentions. Mediocrity has no place in a world that demands excellence. Killing you will stop the spread of your inadequate philosophy from corrupting anyone else."

Before Michael could close his enhanced fingers around Carl's throat, a sound drifted through the forest—a haunting melody that seemed to emerge from the very essence of the island itself.

Michael paused, his smile returning as he recognized the auditory signature. "Oh, isn't that nice. The song of the coqui being the last thing you hear. Better than most people have, I might add."

Carl's chuckle emerged through the sharp pain lancing through his chest—a sound that held more defiance than defeat.

"Is death funny to you people?" Michael's tone carried genuine curiosity rather than anger.

Carl shook his head with effort. "What's funny is your stupidity."

The statement brought Michael up short, confusion creasing his features. "I was told that you guys have singing frogs."

"We do, yes. That is no frog." Carl managed to raise one trembling arm, pointing through the canopy toward the celestial light source above. "And bad luck for you because the moon is up."

The transformation of Michael's expression from confusion to alarm would have been comical under different circumstances. He spun toward the source of the melody, hand reaching for his sidearm with enhanced reflexes that suddenly seemed useless.

A wailing shriek that erupted from the forest struck him like a physical force, launching his enhanced form through the air to collide with a tree trunk hard enough to split bark and scatter leaves like confetti.

Kimberly emerged from the bushes with murder written in every line of her body. There was no satisfaction in her expression, no joy in having inflicted violence—only the cold determination of someone who had identified a problem that needed to be dealt with. She moved with the fluid grace of someone whose virtue had been awakened to its full potential, lunar energy flowing through her spiritual channels like liquid moonlight. Her aura dripped with blue like never before.

Virtues are intensified by emotion, and she experienced most of hers that night.

She knelt beside her brother and placed both hands on his head, her touch gentle even with the power now coursing through her system.

"Water, Blood, Heal," she intoned in the ancient tongue of the kasike, each word carrying the weight of the pull of divine connection.

The healing process began immediately, but Kimberly's expression remained dour. "It won't be a nice feeling," she warned. "If I had moca herbs, maybe I could accelerate your recovery. The best I can do is instruct the fluids in your body to repair damage, using my virtue as a catalyst."

Carl managed to squeeze her hand in reassurance. "It's fine. Thank you."

Kimberly's smile carried more sorrow than relief. Carl was in no condition to travel, certainly not quickly enough to reach Mama's protection before Michael recovered from her attack. She was a competent kasike, but even her experienced virtues might not be sufficient to preserve his life against a drastic assault. Her only viable option was to eliminate the threat entirely—and quickly.

The moon continued to pour its silver blessing down where she stood, and Kimberly began to gather her power for what would need to be a decisive strike. She twisted her bow, which unlocked and separated into two weapons with wheels on the top.

Michael coughed once—a sharp bark that carried more irritation than pain—before rolling his shoulders, dismissing the supernatural attack as if it were nothing more than an inconvenient stumble. His tech had already begun compensating for the impact damage, redistributing energy to reinforce weakened areas and recalibrating balance protocols. Yet, it seemed to be only having a little effect. The tech wasn't a force to be afraid of; he was

"You have no idea how glad I am to see a girl with such vigorous spirit," he said, brushing debris from his armor with casual indifference. "I had one like you before she vanished—fierce, truly. I was absolutely convinced she could reshape the world through sheer force of will. You remind me of the better days of her training, back when she still believed my idealism could overcome life itself."

His recovery was unnaturally swift, as if the supernatural force that had launched him across the clearing had been nothing more than a gentle push. The technology woven into his gear was clearly more sophisticated than mere enhancement—it was compensation, far out of human limitations.

"Let me dispose of your brother," Michael continued, his tone carrying the casual certainty of someone discussing routine maintenance. "All he's going to do is drag you down to his level of mediocrity. You deserve to reach your true potential, not be shackled by sentiment and familial obligation."

"Enough talking!" Kimberly's voice cracked, her patience already spent by his predatory philosophizing.

She swung her arms in a complex pattern that spoke of years of training and muscle memory refined to instinctive perfection. The separated components of her bow responded to her movement—internal mechanisms clicking into new configurations as wheels turned and locked into combative tools. From the transformed weapon emerged thick wires forged from pure infinitium, the metal gleaming with an inner light that made the moonbeams seem pale by comparison.

Michael's defensive posture shifted subtly as he analyzed this new threat. "Wow. Those things are pretty impressive," he admitted, genuine appreciation bleeding through his predatory confidence.

"You have no idea," Kimberly remarked, her voice carrying cold satisfaction.

She launched herself forward with killing intent extending from every line of her body, lunar energy sleekly through her spiritual channels and into the infinitium wires with synchronization. The weapons responded to her virtue like extensions of her own nervous system, becoming tools that bridged the gap between thought and action.

Michael's fists blazed with accumulated energy as his smile widened into something that belonged on a predator's face. The collision between his technological augmentations and her blessed weaponry created a clash that redefined the very nature of violence.

His fists proved insufficient against infinitium guided by virtue and shaped by the dire need to win. The wires carved through his armor plating like a heated fire iron, finding gaps in his defenses and inflicting damage that his systems couldn't fully compensate for. Each strike sent feedback through his nervous system—pain that his body couldn't entirely suppress.

Kimberly created distance with fluid grace, her wires flowing around her like liquid metal guided by invisible currents. She moved in patterns that resembled classical ribbon dance more than combat—each gesture purposeful, each step part of a larger choreography that channeled lunar energy through her weapons with increasing intensity.

Michael's critical assessment quickly identified her strategy: he was focusing so heavily on blocking her wire attacks that he'd left himself vulnerable to more conventional assault. The realization came a split second before Kimberly capitalized on the opening she'd created.

She spun in a complete circle, building momentum while her wires created a defensive perimeter around her. At the peak of her rotation, she flung herself upward, delivering a devastating kick to his face that carried the full force of her lunar-blessed strength. The impact sent shockwaves through his skull, overwhelming his damage-compensation protocols in his chest for a crucial moment.

Before he could recover, Kimberly followed up with a headbutt that would have shattered normal bone, then drove her knee into his chest with enough force to launch him skyward. His form sailed through the air high enough to see over the top of the ancient trees, his trajectory carrying him above the brawl like a piece of artillery fired at impossible angles.

Kimberly's infinitium wires struck out like the arms of some mechanical tentacle, wrapping around his throat with precision that spoke to supernatural guidance rather than mere skill. The metal bit into his enhanced flesh, cutting off his air supply and turning his controlled flight into a choking descent.

She wrapped one wire around her raised leg and slammed her foot into the ground with enough force to crater the earth. The sudden anchor point transformed Michael's momentum into a devastating ground impact that shook the forest floor and sent tremors through the root systems of nearby trees.

Maintaining her grip on the wire, Kimberly began walking toward her choking opponent with the measured pace of an executioner approaching the scaffold. She wanted to witness the exact moment when the light drained from his wicked eyes.

Michael's response came without warning. His enhanced fist, still glowing with accumulated energy, discharged a concentrated beam that struck Kimberly like a physical blow. The concussive force sent her rolling away from him, breaking her grip on the infinitium wires and leaving her temporarily disarmed—and therefore vulnerable.

She regained her footing with the fluid grace of someone whose training had prepared her for exactly this kind of disruption, but something was wrong. Michael's glove now pulsed with an ominous purple radiance, and whatever had struck her carried properties that defied natural law. It felt like anti-virtue—a force designed specifically to counter the spiritual energies that powered kasike abilities.

Goddess, what was that? She thought

While her connection to lunar power remained intact, fatigue was settling into her muscles like poison creeping through her bloodstream. Her spiritual channels felt strained, as if something had reached inside them and begun slowly draining their capacity.

Before Michael could discharge another purple beam, Kimberly allowed her lunar virtue to manifest in its most defensive configuration. The aura that surrounded her body began to extend outward, dripping like liquid moonlight until it formed a barrier between herself and her opponent. The shield shimmered with opalescent beauty that made the surrounding forest look dull by comparison.

When Michael's next beam struck the barrier, the impact rippled across its surface like waves spreading from a stone dropped into still water. The shield held, but Kimberly could feel the strain of maintaining it against an assault that seemed specifically designed to corrupt virtue-based defenses.

Her fingers twisted into configurations that would have been impossible for unenhanced human joints—positions that allowed her to channel specific types of virtue through precise gestural patterns. The ancient techniques required exact positioning to function properly, and even the slightest deviation could cause the entire working to collapse.

As Michael continued his bombardment, she pressed her palm against the inner surface of her own shield and began chanting in the ancient tongue. Each syllable carried power that resonated through the barrier's structure, causing it to expand and brighten with every word. The shield grew larger and more brilliant until it contained enough concentrated energy to blind anyone looking directly at it.

When the barrier finally reached critical mass, it collapsed inward before exploding outward in a burst of pure radiance that transformed night into artificial day. Michael's enhanced vision systems overloaded from the sudden influx of light, leaving him effectively blind and vulnerable to conventional attack.

Kimberly struck him with punches enhanced by lunar energy, each blow carrying the accumulated power of her virtue channeling. Her fists moved faster than enhanced reflexes could track, landing strikes that penetrated his defensive systems through sheer overwhelming force.

Michael's response was to leap skyward, his enhanced boots providing enough propulsion to carry him well above her reach. But as his vision cleared, he discovered that Kimberly had matched his height, her own leap powered by lunar virtue that temporarily allowed her to defy gravity's constraints.

She was humming now—a low, musical sound that seemed to resonate with frequencies beyond normal hearing. Her body began to shift and flow like liquid, becoming something that existed partially outside normal physical laws. The transformation allowed her to strike in ways that conventional combat training couldn't prepare for.

They brawled in midair with techniques that belonged more to legend than reality. Kimberly's punches came from angles that should have been impossible; her fingers twisted into configurations that focused lunar energy into devastating concentrated strikes. Each landed blow bypassed his defenses.

Michael's purple beams struck her repeatedly, but the anti-virtue energy seemed unable to fully penetrate her liquid state. In response, he increased his rate of fire, filling the air with enough destructive energy to level buildings.

With each strike Kimberly received, she returned harder blows that ignored the growing weight settling into her enhanced form. But the strain was becoming evident—her movements growing sluggish as the spiritual cost of maintaining her liquid transformation began to exceed her body's capacity to sustain it.

She crashed back to earth with the graceless impact of someone whose enhancement had simply run out of power. Her breathing came in ragged gasps, and dehydration was setting in as her body struggled to replace the fluids that virtue channeling had consumed.

Michael landed with enough force to create a small impact, the displaced air hitting her face like a slap. His hand moved to his belt with practiced efficiency, drawing a weapon that looked deceptively simple compared to his other technological enhancements.

"I usually reserve this for opponents too dangerous to kill with conventional methods," he said, his tone carrying the satisfaction of someone who had planned for this to occur. "If it wasn't for Joque informing me about kasike capabilities—and specifically warning me about amateur celestial practitioners like yourself—I wouldn't have recognized the signs of virtue exhaustion setting in."

His analysis was clinically accurate, delivered with the detachment of someone who had prepped for his enemies. "I should remind you that when drawing power from celestial sources like the moon and sun, practitioners must be extremely mindful of their spiritual channel capacity. Reckless usage can drain your body's essential fluids faster than normal biological processes can replace them."

He's right, Kimberly thought, soured that an outsider had to remind her of a crucial fact. The fundamental limitation of kasike abilities that required celestial connection had always been resource management. The moon's power was vast; her human body could only channel so much before it began consuming its own substance to maintain the connection.

As she pressed her palm against the grass, seeking some final source of grounding, she realized that her lunar connection had become useless. Without hydration, her spiritual channels couldn't maintain the pathways necessary for virtue flow. She had nothing left to sustain or save her.

Michael's finger settled on the trigger with deliberate care.

"Are you really going to kill me with such a primitive weapon?" Kimberly asked, her voice hoarse with tired disappointment carried with defiant curiosity.

"Oh, this gun is nothing you've ever seen or read about," Michael replied. "This appears to be a standard Beretta 92, but the internal mechanisms have been completely redesigned."

His expression grew thoughtful, almost regretful. "I would have taken you as a student under different circumstances, but you've demonstrated far too much independent thinking for proper indoctrination."

The weapon's discharge created a sound like a bloodcurdling screech that winds disliked.

Kimberly watched as a blazing laser beam lanced toward her skull.

In a moment of pure brotherly instinct that transcended conscious thought, Carl threw himself between the beam and his sister. His club, still gripped in hands that should have been too injured to function, intercepted the deadly energy. The laser split against the weapon's surface like light striking a prism, its components steaming away as the remains of shattered geocrystals fell beside Kimberly like technological snow.

"Carl!" Her scream carried the anguish of her protective nature.

Her brother slumped to the ground beside her, his action having cost him what little strength his healing had managed to restore.

Michael's laughter echoed through the forest with genuine appreciation for the gesture's futility. "Cute. Meaningless, but cute."

He charged another shot, energy building within the weapon's modified mechanisms for a blast that would finish both siblings simultaneously. But before he could fire, a machete materialized between him and his targets—the blade floating in midair as if gripped by invisible hands.

Kimberly's exhausted features brightened with recognition and desperate hope. She knew exactly whose supernatural intervention had just saved their lives.

The invisible grip became visible as shadows coalesced around the weapon, taking the form of Marisol as she stepped through darkness like walking through an open doorway. Her presence commanded the very shadows themselves to encircle all four combatants in a perimeter that spoke of absolute tactical control.

With the minimal lunar energy through her depleted channels, Kimberly reached out to the scattered components of her bow and the arrows that had been scattered during the battle. The pieces flew to her hands with supernatural precision, reassembling into functional weaponry despite her exhausted state.

"Marisol—" she began, but the general cut her off with a gesture that brooked no discussion.

"Kimberly. You're being transported to your mothers immediately. Have her tend to your brother's mangledness while you consume as much water as your body can. Then proceed to Batey as quickly as possible. Other kasike are gathering there, along with James. Every practitioner must contribute to what's coming."

Her tone carried the absolute authority of someone who had spent decades making life-and-death decisions for others.

"Marisol, what about you?" he asked, each word accompanied by blood that spoke to internal damage beyond casual healing.

The general offered no response to his concern. Instead, she formed a doorframe with her hands, commanding shadows to consume both siblings and transport them through virtuous pathways to safety. The darkness swallowed them, leaving no trace of their presence except lingering traces of lunar energy.

Michael's smile grew as he looked at his new opponent with excitement. "Joque said you would show up.He told me I should really be scared facing you. His gaze traveled over her form with predatory examination. "I'm unimpressed so far."

Marisol's expression remained utterly neutral, showing only the kind of irritation reserved for insects that had wandered where they didn't belong. "Our nation typically prefers to receive formal declarations before foreign powers arrive with military assets. It's a matter of diplomatic courtesy."

"Diplomatic courtesy? Your nation is hidden away from the whole world. Besides, the Divine doesn't operate within conventional diplomatic frameworks," Michael casually dismissed. "We arrive wherever and whenever we choose, because the earth itself falls within our domain of authority."

"Let me demonstrate how profoundly untrue that statement is." Marisol's shadows expanded outward with geometric precision, and she formed another doorframe gesture that opened pathways through darkness itself. Three dozen soldiers and kasikes emerged from shadows, their arrival creating a tactical formation that surrounded both her and the beyonder with practiced efficiency.

"Allow us to introduce you to traditional Yucha hospitality," she continued, her voice carrying promises of violence that transcended mere threat. "I can guarantee you won't find our customs particularly welcoming."

Michael's grin transformed into something that belonged on an apex predator as he began cycling energy through his enhanced systems. His feet shifted into a combat stance while his gloves blazed with accumulated power. "You're in for quite a shock then, Marisol."

Chapter 10: Children of Ata pt. 2

What are those sounds?

The thought crashed through James's mental defenses like a stone through glass, followed immediately by a cascade of others that threatened to overwhelm his concentration.

Are we being invaded?

Has another monster breached the island's perimeter?

Where are the soldiers? Where is the Diosa?

The questions flooded his consciousness with increasing urgency as Batey drew closer. Each thought carried its own emotional signature—panic wrapped in confusion, terror bleeding into desperate hope, and questions that demanded answers he didn't have.

At that moment, James found himself longing for the silence he'd experienced mere minutes ago. His telepathic gift, usually a controlled flow of information that he could filter and process due to years of practice, had become a radio broadcast tuned to every frequency simultaneously. The psychic noise guided him toward oncoming dangers with an insistence that made ignoring it impossible.

His chest constricted with a clenching twist that had nothing to do with physical exertion or anxiety. The air around his electrified body sizzled and crisped with each breath; ionized particles pinched across his skin in patterns that would have been beautiful under different circumstances.

The electrification intensified as he pushed himself faster, accelerating past his usual velocity limitations. His spiritual channels burned with the strain of channeling more power than they were designed to safely handle, but stopping wasn't an option. Every second spent at normal speeds was another second that people remained in danger.

He couldn't allow himself the luxury of exhaustion or the poison of hopelessness. The panicked thoughts emanating from Batey had to become his fuel—terror transformed into determination, desperation alchemized into resolve. He would continue soaring until he reached the city, regardless of what it cost his body or his peace of mind.

The man's heading for Carl.

The thought struck him like a physical blow, causing him to halt mid-flight with the abruptness of someone who had just glimpsed their worst fear made manifest.

James hung suspended in the air, electrical energy crackling around his form in agitated patterns that reflected his mental turmoil. He looked toward the forest with enhanced vision that should have allowed him to pierce the darkness and canopy coverage. His eyes saw nothing but shadows and moonlight filtering through ancient trees.

His mind, however, perceived something entirely different.

Psychic energies swirled in the distance like an aurora borealis, visible only to those with supernatural perception. Each consciousness created its own unique signature—patterns of thought and emotion that painted pictures more vivid than any visual observation could provide. The mental landscape revealed threats that normal senses would miss entirely, showing him the true shape of the danger converging on the island.

Multiple consciousnesses blazed in his mental vision, but he couldn't immediately identify which one belonged to the predator thirsting for murder. The thoughts were too chaotic, too overlapped, like trying to isolate a single conversation in a crowded marketplace. But two signatures stood out with crystal clarity—familiar patterns he would have recognized even if his own mind had been shutting down.

"Kimberly. Carl." The names emerged as barely more than whispered acknowledgment of terrible recognition.

They were in immediate danger. The psychic emanations from their location carried all the hallmarks of mortal combat—fear spiking into desperation, determination bleeding into exhaustion, and beneath it all, the cold certainty that death was approaching with measured steps.

Carl's mental signature burned brighter in James's perception, standing out like a beacon specifically because of the predatory consciousness closing in on his position. Someone—or something—had marked his friend for elimination and was pursuing that goal with single-minded intensity.

James shifted his trajectory, angling his body toward the forest where his friends fought for survival. He moved perhaps an inch in their direction before every instinct he'd cultivated screamed at him to stop.

They're coming!

Where are the soldiers?

Why aren't we protected?

The thoughts from Batey intensified, drilling into his consciousness with the force of genuine existential terror. Hundreds of minds crying out in confusion and fear, all directed toward the same horrifying realization that their city—their home—was under assault from forces they couldn't comprehend.

James couldn't abandon them. Marisol's orders had been explicit: protect the citizens from the Beyonders. Guard Batey. Ensure that whatever happened in the surrounding territories, the city itself would remain a sanctuary for those who couldn't defend themselves.

He couldn't violate direct orders. Not during an active military engagement. Not when the entire island's defensive strategy depended on kasike following their assigned positions.

Doubt crashed through his mind like waves against cliffs, eroding his certainty and replacing it with paralysis. The internal struggle consumed precious seconds that he couldn't afford to waste, time that could mean the difference between life and death for everyone involved.

His friends were endangered. Carl specifically, with a murderer tracking him through unfamiliar forest terrain. Every instinct James possessed screamed at him to help, to intervene, to use his abilities to turn the tide of a battle that his friends might not survive without assistance.

But Batey's citizens were defenseless. Hundreds of people who had no supernatural gifts, no combat training, and no way to protect themselves against Beyonder technology and military tactics. If he abandoned his post to rescue two people, he might condemn hundreds to the same fate he was trying to prevent.

The mathematical calculation was brutally simple. Two lives versus hundreds. Personal loyalty versus strategic necessity. The choice a commander would make versus the choice a friend desperately wanted to make.

Reluctantly—with a reluctance that felt like tearing pieces from his own soul—James turned away from the mental signatures of his companions. He forced himself to redirect his flight path toward Batey, toward his assigned duty, toward the decision that logic demanded even as his heart rebelled against it.

Carl can manage on his own,* he told himself, trying to make the rationalization sound convincing even inside his own thoughts. He's skilled, resourceful, and trained for exactly this kind of situation. And if he can't handle it alone, Kimberly is there to help. They're siblings. They know how to fight together, how to cover each other's weaknesses, and how to survive impossible odds.*

The reassurances felt hollow even as he constructed them, but they were the only thing standing between him and complete tactical paralysis.

The only thing he could do—the only thing he was permitted to do—was follow Marisol's orders exactly as delivered. Trust that the general's strategic vision encompassed contingencies he couldn't see. Have faith that the larger battle plan accounted for variables beyond his limited perspective.

James accelerated toward Batey with renewed intensity, his electrified form blazing across the night sky like a lightning bolt given direction and purpose. But even as he flew, a part of his consciousness remained anchored to their mental auras, quietly monitoring them for any change that might signal anything unfortunate.

Ten minutes. That was all the time it had taken for Batey to transform from sanctuary into crematorium.

James's arrival brought him face-to-face with devastation that rewrote his understanding of how quickly civilization could collapse. Buildings didn't just burn—they wept molten, inferno tears streaming down their concrete sides and pooling in the streets.

The flames had already begun their migration, crawling from structure to structure like a living infection. Stores, vehicles, emergency shelters—everything that could combust was combusting, creating a configured ablazement that turned the entire district into a portrait of tragedy.

There was no time for horror or recollection. No space for the paralysis that wanted to seize his muscles at the sight of everything, or he'd fail to prevent even more discourse.

James headed into the conflagration, his electrified body cutting through smoke and heated air. His skin ruffled with involuntary adaptation—pores sealing shut to prevent smoke inhalation, sweat glands activating in patterns that created a moisture barrier, and subcutaneous tissue restructuring to dissipate the heat safely.

The electricity that had been subtle arcs across his skin toughened, crackling outward in a protective shell that vaporized smoke and tolerated the worst of the thermal radiation.

He scooped up citizens with telekinetic faith—a mother clutching an infant, an elderly man who'd collapsed from intoxicating smog, and three children frozen by suddenness. His sureness wrapped around them like invisible hands, lifting them above the flames and carrying them toward the forest's edge, where the fire hadn't yet spread.

"Go! Hide!" The instruction came out harsh, stripped of any gentleness by urgency and survival instincts.

As he deposited another group of citizens, each more panicked than the next, to the trees, fiery rain began falling from the sky.

James looked up and finally identified the source of Batey's destruction.

Tiny machines floated in the night sky like a swarm of mechanical stars, their white exterior reflecting the flames: amber and crimson. They moved with strategic precision that spoke of either shared intelligence or unified command—organizing themselves into three distinct groups of thirty, each formation taking position in a perfect circular position.

One circle opened fire on the western district. Another unleashed devastation on the north. The third painted the southern neighborhoods with concentrated beams.

Whatever technology powered these machines was beyond despicable. It was a rigorous genocide delivered through algorithmic programming.

James raised his sword skyward, the blade's steel catching moonlight and firelight in equal measure. He didn't jump—he launched, his electrical propulsion driving him upward with enough force to create a pressure wave that scattered smoke and ash in concentric rings.

He aimed for the northern circle, the one whose beams were carving through residential sectors where families had been sleeping mere minutes ago.

His blade entered the formation like a thunderbolt given solid form. Steel met whatever composite materials formed the machines' chassis, and the result was catastrophic for his targets. He carved through them with savage efficiency, his sword singing as it bisected mechanical bodies that had no business existing on his island.

The machines responded with their weaponized beams—concentrated energy that made his skin prickle with warning even before physical contact. James deflected the first beam with his blade, the laser scattering off tempered steel in a spray of refracted light. The second and third beams came simultaneously from different angles, forcing him to twist midair while maintaining his offensive momentum.

His telekinesis caught the deflected beams before they could dissipate, reshaping their trajectories with brutal intent. He sent them careening back toward other machines, using the enemy's own weapons as extensions of his tactical arsenal. Each redirected beam found a target—metal chassis erupting in showers of sparks and fragments.

When the machines exploded, they didn't simply fall apart. They burst into grotesque amalgamations of crushed metal and crystalline shards—the same type of material that had formed the first monster they'd encountered. The fragments rained down on Batey's ruins like technological hail.

Marquise crystals.

Kimberly's voice echoed through his memory, even more as the substance scattered across the burning streets below.

James hovered in place for a heartbeat, watching soldiers move through the chaos below. They were pulling survivors from collapsed structures, creating evacuation corridors through the flames, and doing everything mortal courage and training could accomplish. But it wasn't enough. Not against this level of coordinated assault.

He turned his attention to the remaining circles, fury crystallizing into focused intent. His telekinesis merged seamlessly with his swordsmanship, creating a hybrid combat style that existed somewhere between physical violence and mental manipulation. Each swing of his blade was amplified by invisible force, extending his reach far beyond the sword's actual length. Each thrust was guided by mental pressure that ensured his strikes found weak points in the machines' construction.

The brutal dismantling began in earnest.

With each devastation of his blade, the air itself seemed to lose substance. Space became increasingly wounded—reality bearing scars from violence that operated partially outside physical laws. His upper body muscles tightened beyond normal human capacity, granting him the strength to maintain this brutal offensive without his arms simply tearing themselves apart from mechanical stress.

But with each strike, lightning began bleeding from his body.

It started as small discharges—static jumping from his shoulders to his fingertips, harmless sparks that looked almost decorative. Then the voltage grew. The frequency stretched and multiplied. Soon lightning expelled every movement, creating a luminous show, something that resembled a human-shaped storm.

No. Control yourself. Don't let it decide what you become.

James gritted his teeth, wrestling his nature to cage the electrical discharge, but combat made restraint exponentially more difficult. Every swing, every deflection, every telekinetic manipulation demanded concentration. And his mind wanted to take the path of least resistance—which meant evolving his body into something that could potentially cause more damage and fear.

Yet, the Darwinism bubbled beneath his skin like something waking from hibernation.

His body begged to change even if he forbade it. His stirred, attempting to restructure itself, trying to accommodate processing capacity that would let him simply vaporize every machine in visual range.

He refused each modification with brutal mental force, slamming barriers down even as his body screamed that survival demanded evolution.

Citizens fleeing through the fiery streets heard the thunderous percussion of his struggle. They looked upward and saw something that existed between miracle and nightmare—lightning in shades of red, black, and yellow that challenged the moon's silver light.

The electrical discharges created patterns that made the night sky look like a mirror that had been shattered and was continuing to break, each crack propagating into new fractals of impossible colors.

James destroyed every machine in the northern formation, then moved to the western circle with predatory focus. His blade had become an extension of his murderous annoyance, maintaining just enough restraint to prevent sudden shifting from seizing complete authority over his evolution.

More machines fell. More crystalline fragments rained down onto Batey's ruins.

When the last aerial machine plummeted from the sky, James landed, panting and twitching as his body insisted on changing. His electrical aura was still blazing—arcing across his skin in patterns.

Not yet, he told the Darwinism. I'm not ready to lose control.

Then he heard them—the cries of children trapped somewhere in the inferno. Their voices carried through the smoke and chaos with the kind of clarity that bypassed normal hearing and struck directly into his telepathic senses.

The flames scarred his vision of only orange and black smoke. No matter how hard he searched, he couldn't see where the sounds came from. He could fly back up and try to get a better view, but he knew the flames painted the canvas of the city. He needed to resort to his other senses.

His telepathic ones.

Ten minutes. That was all the time it had taken for Batey to transform from sanctuary into crematorium.

James's arrival brought him face-to-face with devastation that rewrote his understanding of how quickly civilization could collapse. Buildings didn't just burn—they wept fire, molten tears streaming down their facades and pooling in the streets below. The flames had already begun their migration, crawling from structure to structure like a living infection. Stores, vehicles, emergency shelters—everything that could combust was combusting, creating a configured inferno that turned the entire district into a geometrically precise portrait of hell.

There was no time for horror. No space for the paralysis that wanted to seize his muscles at the sight of everything he'd failed to prevent.

James dove into the conflagration, and his body responded to the threat before his conscious mind could process it. His skin rippled with involuntary adaptation—pores sealing shut to prevent smoke inhalation, sweat glands activating in patterns that created an insulating moisture barrier, subcutaneous tissue restructuring to dissipate heat more efficiently. The electricity that had been subtle arcs across his skin intensified into a full corona, crackling outward in a protective shell that vaporized smoke particles and deflected the worst of the thermal radiation.

He hadn't authorized any of it.

His electrified form cut through the superheated air, now wrapped in adaptations he couldn't suppress. He scooped up citizens with telekinetic precision—a mother clutching an infant, an elderly man who'd collapsed from smoke inhalation, and three children frozen by shock. His virtue wrapped around them like invisible hands, lifting them above the flames and carrying them toward the forest's edge, where the fire hadn't yet spread.

"Go! Hide!" The instruction came out harsh, stripped of any gentleness by the urgency screaming through every second. There was no time to comfort or explain. Survival demanded immediate compliance.

As he deposited another group of refugees at the treeline, fiery rain began falling from the sky.

James looked up and finally identified the source of Batey's destruction.

Tiny machines floated in the night sky like a swarm of mechanical stars, their white chassis reflecting the flames below in shades of amber and crimson. They moved with coordinated precision that spoke of either shared intelligence or unified command—organizing themselves into three distinct groups of thirty, each formation taking position in a perfect circular arrangement.

One circle opened fire on the western district. Another unleashed devastation on the north. The third painted the southern neighborhoods with concentrated beams that ignited everything they touched.

Whatever technology animated these machines was beyond despicable. It was methodical genocide delivered through algorithmic precision.

James raised his sword skyward, the blade's steel catching moonlight and firelight in equal measure. He didn't jump—he launched, his electrical propulsion driving him upward with enough force to create a pressure wave that scattered smoke and ash in concentric rings.

He aimed for the northern circle, the one whose beams were carving through residential sectors where families had been sleeping mere minutes ago.

His blade entered the formation like a thunderbolt given solid form. Steel met whatever composite materials formed the machines' chassis, and the result was catastrophic for his targets. He carved through them with savage efficiency, his sword singing as it bisected mechanical bodies that had no business existing on his island.

The machines responded with their weaponized beams—concentrated energy that made his skin prickle with warning even before physical contact. James deflected the first beam with his blade, the laser scattering off tempered steel in a spray of refracted light. The second and third beams came simultaneously from different angles, forcing him to twist midair while maintaining his offensive momentum.

His telekinesis caught the deflected beams before they could dissipate, reshaping their trajectories with brutal intent. He sent them careening back toward other machines, using the enemy's own weapons as extensions of his tactical arsenal. Each redirected beam found a target—metal chassis erupting in showers of sparks and fragments.

When the machines exploded, they didn't simply fall apart. They burst into grotesque amalgamations of crushed metal and crystalline shards—the same type of material that had formed the first monster they'd encountered. The fragments rained down on Batey's ruins like technological hail.

Marquise crystals.

Kimberly's voice echoed through his memory, naming the substance even as more of it scattered across the burning streets below.

James hovered in place for a heartbeat, watching soldiers move through the chaos below. They were pulling survivors from collapsed structures, creating evacuation corridors through the flames, and doing everything mortal courage and training could accomplish. But it wasn't enough. Not against this level of coordinated assault.

He turned his attention to the remaining circles, fury crystallizing into focused intent. His telekinesis merged seamlessly with his swordsmanship, creating a hybrid combat style that existed somewhere between physical violence and mental manipulation. Each swing of his blade was amplified by invisible force, extending his reach far beyond the sword's actual length. Each thrust was guided by mental pressure that ensured his strikes found weak points in the machines' construction.

The massacre began in earnest.

With each devastation of his blade, the air itself seemed to lose substance. Space became increasingly wounded—reality bearing scars from violence that operated partially outside physical laws. His upper body muscles tightened beyond normal human capacity, granting him the strength to maintain this brutal offensive without his arms simply tearing themselves apart from mechanical stress.

But with each strike, lightning began bleeding from his body.

It started as small discharges—static arcs jumping from his shoulders to his fingertips, harmless sparks that looked almost decorative. Then the voltage increased. The frequency multiplied. Soon lightning was erupting from him with every movement, creating a corona that turned him into something that resembled a human-shaped storm.

No. Control it. Don't let it decide what you become.

James gritted his teeth and tried to cage the electrical discharge, but combat made restraint exponentially more difficult. Every swing, every deflection, every telekinetic manipulation demanded concentration. And his mind wanted to take the path of least resistance—which meant evolving his body into something that could channel more current without conscious effort, freeing his mental resources for pure destruction.

The Darwinism stirred beneath his consciousness like something waking from hibernation.

He could feel his body trying to change without permission. His neural architecture was attempting to restructure itself, trying to accommodate processing capacity that would let him simply vaporize every machine in visual range. New synaptic pathways wanted to form in his brain—adaptations designed to handle targeting data for hundreds of simultaneous threats while maintaining telekinetic control over deflected energy beams.

He refused each modification with brutal mental force, slamming barriers down even as his body screamed that survival demanded evolution.

Citizens fleeing through the fiery streets heard the thunderous percussion of his struggle. They looked upward and saw something that existed between miracle and nightmare—lightning in shades of red, black, and yellow that challenged the moon's silver radiance. The electrical discharges created patterns that made the night sky look like a mirror that had been shattered and was continuing to break, each crack propagating into new fractals of impossible colors.

James destroyed every machine in the northern formation, then moved to the western circle with predatory focus. His blade had become an extension of his murderous intent, each swing calculated to inflict maximum destruction while maintaining just enough control to prevent the Darwinism from seizing complete authority over his evolution.

More machines fell, and more crystalline fragments rained down onto Batey's melting streets.

"Kimberlina, the salt now!" Mrs. Batista's voice carried the sharpness of sudden awakeness.

Her hands moved across her son's wounds with practiced efficiency, cataloging damage with the kind of expertise that came from years of treating injuries that conventional medicine couldn't address. Kimberly's hands trembled as she passed herbs and ingredients to her mother, each item requested and delivered in rapid succession.

"You said you were going to stay in bed! How could you allow this to happen!" Mrs. Batista's anger came not from cruelty but from the primal terror of nearly losing a child. She coated her hands in pink liquid—moca petals ground and steeped until they released their healing properties—before plunging them into coarse salt that would help seal the spiritual component of his wounds.

Kimberly's stressed hands continued to vibrate with exhaustion as she lifted a gallon container to her lips and began chugging. Water streamed down her chin and splashed onto the floor in her desperate attempt to rehydrate fast enough to restore her lunar connection. "If I wasn't there, he would've been dead," she said between gulps, her voice carrying more exhaustion than anger. "Your son has no sense in his head. His brain is too thick for wisdom to penetrate!"

Mrs. Batista chose not to engage with the sibling bickering, focusing instead on massaging the healing mixture into Carl's most severe injuries. Her fingers worked across his head, chest, and legs while she whispered the traditional incantation: "Sana, sana, colita de rana." The words carried power not through supernatural force but through generations of mothers who had spoken them while tending wounded children.

"Don't blame her, Mama," Carl managed to say, though each word clearly cost him.

"Son, please don't talk. You're in pain." Mrs. Batista's hands dipped back into the salt, gathering more of the preservative mineral. "The next part is going to hurt significantly more than what you've already endured."

"Mama, Kimberly saved me. I'd be dead if it wasn't for her." Carl's insistence on defending his sister despite his injuries spoke to something deeper than sibling loyalty—it was acknowledgment of a debt that couldn't be repaid.

Mrs. Batista's expression softened, maternal anger dissolving into gratitude. She turned to thank her daughter properly but found only empty space where Kimberly had been standing. The front door hung open, swinging slightly in the night breeze.

"Kimberlina!" The cry carried both fury and fear in equal measure.

Kimberly was already too far away to hear her mother's voice, her legs carrying her back into the forest at a pace that her exhausted body protested with every step. Gulping an entire gallon of water hadn't fully restored her capacity to channel lunar virtues, but it had provided enough hydration to keep her functional—and that would have to be sufficient.

Her feet found purchase on familiar terrain as she ran through trees she'd known since childhood, trying to reach Batey before whatever was happening there reached its inevitable conclusion. She looked skyward and saw colors that had no business existing in nature—reds and blacks and yellows exploded across the night sky in patterns that spoke of violence operating beyond conventional physics.

"James," she muttered, recognizing the signature of his power pushed to its limits.

Knowing her friend was in the city fighting—possibly dying—reminded her exactly how desperately she was needed. The thought injected fresh determination into muscles that wanted nothing more than to collapse. She yelled through the exhaustion, a wordless sound of defiance against her body's limitations, and forced herself to run faster.

The forest maintained an eerie quiet broken only by distant explosions that sent tremors through the earth. But beneath those expected sounds of warfare, something else registered in her awareness—the mechanical grinding of motors and actuators, completely out of place in this natural environment.

Kimberly stopped in the middle of a moonlit clearing, straining to confirm what her ears were reporting. The sound grew clearer as she focused on it, accompanied by something that made her blood run cold: children's voices, frightened murmurs that carried the particular quality of suppressed terror.

She moved toward the sounds; the distant explosions from Batey were temporarily deprioritized. James was fighting—she knew that, and the knowledge sat heavy in her chest—but she needed to investigate what was happening here. This location was three miles from where Marisol was engaging the Beyonder, and none of their soldiers would evacuate citizens to this part of the forest. Which meant whatever was happening here was unauthorized.

Kimberly readied her bow, nocking an arrow with muscle memory that bypassed conscious thought. She moved through the undergrowth with practiced silence until the scene revealed itself through gaps in the foliage.

Eight mechs stood in a loose formation, their mechanical voices issuing instructions to a group of children who clustered together like prey animals recognizing predators. The children followed because they had no other choice, their small feet carrying them in the direction the machines commanded.

Where were they going? The shoreline was the only logical destination—the point where Beyonder forces could retreat back to whatever vessels had brought them here. But why did they need children? What possible strategic value could terrified kids provide to an invading force?

The questions whispered through Kimberly's mind but didn't distract from her primary focus: aim. She drew back her bowstring with hands that had stopped trembling now that she had a clear target. One by one, she released eight arrows in rapid succession, each projectile guided by the remnants of her lunar connection.

The blessed arrows—wood that had been sanctified through kasike rituals—bit into the mechs' armor plating with the same effectiveness they'd demonstrated in previous encounters. The machines staggered, their systems disrupted by materials that carried properties their designers hadn't anticipated.

Kimberly burst from the bushes and released a screeching wail that existed somewhere between human vocalization and supernatural attack. The sound carried lunar energy amplified through her vocal cords, creating vibrations that resonated at frequencies specifically calibrated to shatter the compromised integrity of the damaged mechs.

The machines exploded into component pieces—armor plates clattering to the ground, internal mechanisms scattering like mechanical entrails, and the entire facade of invincibility collapsing into piles of expensive debris.

The invaders inside—actual human operators who had been piloting the mechs remotely or controlling them from within—sat exposed and dumbfounded. Their expressions suggested they'd genuinely believed their technology made them untouchable.

Kimberly didn't give them time to recover from shock. She closed the distance with predatory speed and swung her bow like a club, the reinforced limbs of the weapon catching each invader across the temple or jaw with enough force to render them unconscious without killing them.

They dropped one by one, and when the last had fallen, Kimberly finally allowed herself to look at the children they'd been herding.

"Miss?" One child's voice broke through the silence, each word punctuated by hitching breaths. "Are we going to be okay?"

Kimberly tilted her head slightly, as if the right answer might fall from it like ripe fruit. The truth was complicated. The lie would be comforting. She opened her mouth, uncertain which would emerge.

"That's an interesting question," a voice said behind her—casual, almost conversational, as if they were discussing weather rather than child abduction.

Kimberly spun with fluid precision, another arrow already nocked and drawn before her rotation was completed. She positioned herself directly between the children and the threat, her body becoming a living barrier.

Michael stood perhaps twenty feet away, and the sight of him stole the breath from her lungs.

He was painted in blood. Not spattered—*painted*. The crimson coating was too complete, too thorough to be mere combat residue. In his right hand, he gripped Marisol's machete, the blade still wet with whatever violence had transferred it from the general's possession to his. His smile carried the smug satisfaction of someone who had just won a game nobody else realized they were playing.

"Oh, don't worry. It's not mine," Michael said, gesturing vaguely at either the blood or the weapon. The ambiguity felt intentional—a psychological tactic designed to maximize her uncertainty and therefore her fear. "These lovely children, however, are mine. Hand them over."

Kimberly's voice emerged steadier than she felt. "Who gave you the authority to steal children from their homes?"

"Joque."

Her eyes widened involuntarily. Joque had left the island months ago—a departure that seemed to be voluntary, even necessary. There was no conceivable reality where he would align himself with forces that terrorized children and burned cities.

"There's no way," she said, but the words sounded empty even to her own ears.

"I don't have time to debate about betrayal with you, girl." Michael's tone shifted, casualness evaporating to reveal the aggression beneath.

He stepped toward her with clear intent—not to negotiate, not to intimidate, but to kill her in front of the children as an object lesson about resistance.

James landed between them with enough force to crater the earth.

His body blazed with electricity, leaking out of his body like an unstable star. His limbs twitched and spasmed with involuntary movements as he fought to restrain adapting.

The children screamed, shielding their eyes from light that burned too bright for comfort. They pressed themselves together in a tighter cluster.

The sound struck James harder than he could have managed. He had been protecting citizens from monsters, destroying machines and deflecting weapons fire, and placing his own body between civilians and annihilation. And now these children looked at him with the same terror they'd shown the mechs—seeing not a protector but another threat.

Something in his chest knotted with profound sadness that cut deeper than exhaustion or anger. He clenched his teeth hard enough to hear enamel grinding against enamel, his fists tightening until his knuckles went white.

Slowly—painfully slowly—the glow began to dim. When he could trust his voice not to emerge as something distorted by transformation, he looked at Kimberly.

Head to the bunkers. Now. The telepathic command spoke louder than any verbal reply.

He turned to face Michael without waiting to see if Kimberly would obey. He didn't acknowledge her gathering the frightened children and didn't watch as she began herding them away from what was about to happen. His entire focus had narrowed to the man standing before him—the one painted in blood, holding a stolen weapon, and looking far too confident for someone who had just lost his leverage.

"Wow, I've never seen anything like that before," Michael said, and genuine admiration threaded through his voice. "I've been told about your existence, but I never believed you were actually real."

James said nothing. His mind was already calculating which attack would end this fastest. A slash across the face—quick but potentially survivable. Beheading—efficient but requiring precision. Perhaps the simplest approach: drive his sword through the stomach and twist until every internal organ. He had to shake those thoughts away. He will not let this event turn him into a murderer.

"In my line of work, we maintain databases on every known species in the universe," Michael continued, apparently unbothered by the murderous intent radiating from his opponent. "Aliens, speedsters, genetic abnormalities. Telepaths are a fascinating subspecies of humanity—rare enough to be valuable, common enough that we've established baseline capabilities. But there's never been one with your particular gift. Electrical adaptation combined with telepathy? That's genuinely unique."

James remained silent, his grip tightening on his sword.

"Right, of course—you have no idea who I am." Michael performed a mocking bow, the gesture dripping with theatrical insincerity. "I'm Michael." He waved Marisol's machete in lazy circles, the blade catching moonlight as it traced patterns in the air. The movement was pure taunt, designed to provoke rather than threaten.

"I don't care." James tilted his head fractionally to the right.

The machete ripped itself from Michael's grip, torn away by telekinetic force before clattering somewhere in the distant undergrowth. In the same motion, James lunged forward with his sword leading, the blade aimed at Michael's center mass.

Michael moved like water, flowing away from each swing with movements that suggested extensive combat training. He laughed—actually laughed—at James's technique, his amusement carrying clear notes of condescension. "Is that really the best swordsmanship they teach on this island?"

He didn't counterattack. No punches were thrown, no kicks delivered. Just dodges and backflips and lateral movements that made James's strikes cut through empty air.

James adjusted his approach, feinting high before slashing low at Michael's exposed side. The blade bit into flesh, drawing blood and forcing the Beyonder to drop to one knee with a sharp intake of breath. James capitalized immediately—driving his boot up into Michael's chin before following through with a combination strike that merged brute physical strength with telekinetic acceleration.

Michael's head snapped back from the impact, but he still refused to engage offensively. Despite the leg wound that should have hampered his mobility, he moved with disturbing speed—leaping to tree trunks and using them as launching points, rolling away from James's pursuit with the casual grace of a child playing on monkey bars.

When James levitated to gain aerial advantage, Michael simply adapted his evasion patterns to account for three-dimensional attack vectors. He made it look effortless. Like a little boy swinging across the monkey bars of a playground.

The veins on James's forehead bulged with mounting frustration. Every instinct screamed at him to simply blast Michael with concentrated lightning—to stop playing with conventional combat and end this with overwhelming electrical discharge. But the thought of using more power disgusted him. He could feel how much of himself he'd already spent, how many small evolutions he'd permitted, and how close he was to crossing a threshold he might not be able to return from.

"Come on, boy!" Michael landed on his feet without apparent difficulty, completely ignoring the gash in his side that continued weeping blood. "I thought you were supposed to be strong."

That comment slightly shattered James's restraint.

His eyes lit up—not with electrical discharge but with something deeper, something that existed behind his pupils rather than on his skin. He abandoned physical combat entirely and sent a psychic assault directly into Michael's mind, bypassing all external defenses to strike at consciousness itself.

Michael's scream tore through the forest, experiencing pain at a neurological level—the kind of agony that pressed down on nerves and struck directly at consciousness itself. His hands clamped against the sides of his skull as if pressure alone could contain what was happening inside. Blood vessels felt like they were simultaneously popping and stretching, caught in an impossible contradiction.

And through it all, he laughed.

James had to ensure to not completely destroy his mind or risk him being a rotting vegetable. Nothing about it was humorous.

This is funny to you? James sent the question directly into Michael's consciousness, his telepathic voice edged with cold curiosity rather than rage.

As his psychic attack probed deeper, James encountered something unexpected: a mental barrier far stronger and more sophisticated than the one he'd found in the previous Beyonder. The construction was masterful—layered defenses durable to pressure and reinforced—and had been built by someone who understood how telepathic intrusion actually worked.

The psychic fingerprints were unmistakable; every defensive structure, every mental fortification, screamed Joque

James stepped closer to Michael, his wariness evaporating as he realized the man posed no immediate physical threat. Through his telepathic lens—the way his mind translated consciousness into something his human senses could process—Michael's aura revealed itself in disturbing clarity.

Auras typically reflected accumulated experience and spiritual development. A person's essential nature painted in colors that corresponded to emotional architecture and moral foundation. Michael's aura should have been complex and multi-layered, reflecting decades of choices and consequences.

Instead, it reeked.

Brown and ugly orange clung to him like spiritual rot, colors that typically indicated toxicity—the kind that either poisoned those nearby or stemmed from trauma so severe it had permanently stained the psyche. Most people carrying such corruption suffered under its weight, their auras testament to wounds that refused to heal.

Michael's aura seemed to comfort him. He wore his spiritual degradation like a favorite coat, something that had molded itself to his shape through long association until it felt more natural than health ever could.

Why are you doing this?

Michael's laughter intensified into something manic—genuine amusement curdling into hysteria. The sound forced James to withdraw his psychic assault, concerned that pushing harder might actually break something fundamental in Michael's mind.

"Why aren't we doing this?" Michael replied through gasping breaths, his voice carrying the giddy edge of someone who had just survived something they'd been certain would kill them. "Because we can. The Divine can do whatever we want. That's the entire point."

James stood perfectly still, his aggressive posture dissolving into something more analytical. He made no move to attack, and more tellingly, neither did Michael. The Beyonder had a clear opening—James had lowered his guard during the telepathic exchange—yet Michael simply stood there, catching his breath and smiling.

The tactical wrongness of it set off alarms in James's mind.

What are you planning?

"Something that's been in development for centuries," Michael said, and his tone shifted from manic to reverent. "A homecoming, if you will."

His head tilted slightly, attention fragmenting as if listening to something James couldn't hear.

James's gaze sharpened, focusing on the small device nestled in Michael's left ear. An earpiece. He'd been receiving communications the entire time—every action, every taunt, every seemingly improvised decision potentially guided by someone feeding him instructions from a remote location.

Suspicion turned into alarm. James opened his telepathic perception fully, pushing his awareness outward in concentric waves that mapped every consciousness within range. He looked past the immediate forest, extending his senses toward the shoreline.

Thousands of auras. Maybe millions. Individual minds smudged together into a huge cluster of bright, alarming colors that pressed against his telepathic senses like a boulder. They were congregated at the shoreline—civilians, children, people who should have been scattered throughout the island for safety.

They'd been herded. Collected. Gathered into one location for purposes James's mind refused to fully articulate.

Electricity ignited across his body involuntarily, his Darwinism responding to the emotional spike by preparing for immediate flight. He needed to reach the shore. Now.

"Not so fast!" Michael's hand moved with practiced speed, pulling a vial from his belt and releasing its contents in a single fluid motion.

Gas erupted from the container—not dispersing naturally but moving with disturbing intent, as if guided by invisible currents directly toward James. It latched onto his skin like a living thing, beginning its work immediately.

James hit the ground as his body began betraying him on a cellular level. His skin bubbled and blistered, tissue responding to the gas with reactions that bypassed conventional biology entirely. The electricity that had been under tenuous control became wildly unstable, arcing from his body in uncontrolled bursts that struck surrounding trees and left blackened scorch marks across bark and earth.

Worse than the physical agony was the sensation of his Darwinism activating without permission. His body was adapting to counter the gas—restructuring itself at a fundamental level, evolving defenses against this new threat, and becoming something other than what he was.

"No!" The word ripped from James's throat as his worst fear began manifesting in real-time.

"Joque warned me about you specifically," Michael said, his voice growing distant as he began backing away. "He mentioned that among all the soldiers and witches, you're the most potentially lethal. But he also said your stubborn refusal to fully embrace your power would be your critical weakness."

Michael paused at the edge of the clearing, watching James writhe as adaptation fought against his conscious control. "Thank Her for those drones. They provided exactly the data we needed to create something your body couldn't simply ignore."

Then he turned and sprinted into the forest, leaving James alone with the gas and the transformation he'd spent years trying to prevent.

The Darwinism whispered that it could fix this. That if James would just stop fighting and let evolution complete itself, he could purge the toxin and save everyone at the shoreline.

All he had to do was give in.

He couldn't surrender to it. Couldn't let the Darwinism complete whatever transformation it had already begun designing. What kind of monster would emerge from this particular adaptation? What would he become if his body decided the solution to toxin exposure was to fundamentally reconstruct his entire biological architecture?

His arms extended involuntarily, and energy discharged from every pore. Electricity fired in all directions without aim or control—wild bursts that carved through the forest like artillery shells, striking trees and earth and empty air with complete disregard for efficiency.

It was his body purging the gas through the only method it could access: overwhelming electrical discharge that burned the toxin out of his system through sheer joules of violence.

When the involuntary release finally ceased, the forest had gone utterly silent. No insects chirped. No nocturnal birds called. Even the wind seemed reluctant to disturb the aftermath of what had just occurred. As if life itself were scared of him.

James looked down at his arms and felt tears burning behind his eyes. The boils that had been erupting beneath his skin were simmering down, tissue slowly returning to something approximating normal. But the damage had been done—not to the forest, but to his carefully maintained restraint. He'd just released more power in thirty seconds than he'd intended to use all night.

Why was he cursed with this ability? Why did everyone insist on calling it a gift when it felt like a sentence he couldn't escape?

He retrieved his sword from where it had fallen and began running through the devastated forest. His flight came in bursts—massive leaps that carried him between treetops rather than sustained aerial movement, as if even now he was trying to ration how much power he'd permit himself.

His expression had settled into something beyond exhaustion—a bone-deep weariness that came from fighting himself as much as any external enemy.

Ten minutes of desperate travel brought him to the shoreline, where the scope of the disaster revealed itself in brutal clarity.

Bodies littered the sand like discarded debris from some cosmic shipwreck. Soldiers who had tried to mount a defense lay motionless, their final attempts to save the children having cost them. The death toll was staggering—dozens at minimum, possibly more that the darkness mercifully obscured.

Behind Michael's standing form, children huddled together in terrified clusters. They were more than a dozen, more than a thousand. Their faces were unrecognizable as they were herded, but the fear in their quivering eyes was apparent. From the looks of it, most of the children from Batey and the other cities were collected.

"It can't be," James uttered to himself in disbelief. His eyes tried to count how many, even if it was impossible.

Mechs surrounded them with weapons raised, blaster arms aimed at small heads and trembling bodies. The message was unmistakable: any aggressive action would result in immediate execution.

The surviving kasike stood paralyzed by impossible calculus. James heard their thoughts as clearly as if they were shouting—minds desperately rifling through every virtue they'd ever learned, every technique they'd mastered, searching for something that could resolve this without triggering a massacre. Their mental archives came up empty. No clever solution existed. No hidden technique could save everyone.

Marisol's machete diced the air like a predator bird searching for trouble. She manifested from shadows with abruptness, her physical form reconstituting at the shoreline. Above them, hot air balloons drifted into position, their mounted lights swiveling to illuminate Michael and his entourage.

"Old school approach," Michael commented, his tone carrying genuine appreciation for the antiquated technology. "I respect the aesthetic commitment."

He turned to the nearest mech with casual authority. "Bring it up."

The mech nodded—an oddly human gesture from something mechanical—and pressed a sequence on its forearm control panel.

The ocean began to vibrate with subsonic frequencies that James felt in his chest before he heard them. Something massive was rising from beneath the waves, displacing water in volumes that sent small tsunamis racing toward the shore.

What emerged defied easy categorization. It wasn't a boat—too aerodynamic, too obviously designed for atmospheric flight. It wasn't a submarine—too much of its structure existed above the waterline, and there were too many visible thrusters and control surfaces. Jets along its underside radiated superheated air that blasted sand into everyone's faces, forcing soldiers and kasike alike to shield their eyes against the abrasive assault.

Marisol's expression fractured into something James had never seen on the general's face before: genuine shock. Her warrior composure cracked at the sight of technology that existed so far out of reach from the island's capabilities that it might as well be alien.

"Like it?" Michael's voice carried undisguised pride. "We call it a Sojourner."

The vessel's hull irised open along its lateral axis, a boarding ramp extending to touch sand that was still being scattered by the downdraft from its jets.

James took a single step forward, electrical energy already beginning to accumulate across his skin. He could strike now—hit the mechs, disable their weapons systems, create enough chaos that—

Michael shook his head with the patient condescension of a teacher correcting an overeager student. "Don't be a hero, lightning boy. Or all these sweet kids are done. My people have standing orders: if they detect an incoming attack, they fire on their current targets without remorse."

James took the warning into consideration. Maybe his powers were faster than cognitive action. His electricity could arc between the mechs faster than human reflexes could track, but their mechanical response times operated on different scales. Even if he moved at impossible speeds, even if his accuracy was perfect, at least some of the children would die in the seconds it took him to neutralize all threats. If not some, all.

The math was brutally simple: he couldn't save everyone. Trying would guarantee he saved no one. It would guarantee he would be labeled as a monster forever.

"Listen to him, all of you!" Marisol commanded.

Michael's smile widened with the satisfaction of someone whose victory had been assured from the beginning. He gestured lazily toward the Sojourner, and his mechs began herding the children up the boarding ramp.

The children screamed. They kicked and fought with all the strength their small bodies could muster, but it accomplished nothing against mechanical efficiency. Within seconds—horrifyingly few seconds—every child had been forced aboard. The hull sealed itself with pneumatic finality, and the Sojourner's engines increased their output.

The vessel lifted off with smooth precision, rising above the shoreline before its primary thrusters engaged. It accelerated into the night sky with speed that seemed to mock gravity itself, becoming a distant point of light before vanishing entirely into the darkness.

James sank to his knees in the sand, his legs simply refusing to support him anymore. His telepathic awareness tracked the children's auras as they receded—dozens of terrified young minds growing fainter and fainter until his psychic lens could no longer distinguish them from the background noise of distant consciousness.

Then there was nothing. Just empty sky and the sound of waves against sand.

A single thought dominated his mind with the crushing weight of absolute certainty—a thought that had been lurking in his psychological shadows since the day his mother died.

I've failed.

At the most basic level, he had failed—he had been there, strong, and unable to defend those who most needed it. 

                                                                     END OF PART ONE