The Assembly Line

IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE - PLEASE READ:

The song, Moon Halo from Honkai Impact 3rd is incredibly important for this chapter. Do consider having it top of mind as you read it.

Now, on to the story:

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"Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise."

– Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

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For the first time in her life, March 7th had met someone whose trust she couldn't charm her way into.

Art Deco architecture loomed above them as they walked through Belobog's Overworld, the last bastion of warmth on Jarilo-VI's frozen surface. Steam rose from scattered vents between towering buildings adorned with geometric patterns, while traditional lamp posts cast their glow across polished metal and glass. Through this grand display of civilization, Xander's methodical gaze darted from building to building as he jotted down notes about Silvermane guard patrols and points of interest, his approach more suited to mapping a battlefield than exploring their new sanctuary.

"So," she chirped, trying to break the silence as she lowered her camera after capturing another shot of Belobog's architecture, "what was it like meeting Serval at the mechanical shop? Did she make you go through an actual interview?"

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Fine," he muttered, not bothering to look up.

"That's great! What kind of work will you be doing? I bet it's exciting, working with all those machines and—"

"Basic repairs," he cut her off, his tone flat. "Nothing special."

Her smile faltered for a moment before quickly regaining its cheerful warmth. "Well, I'm sure you'll do great! It's so nice that you found a way for us to earn some Shields. Dan managed to sell those trinkets and gemstones you gave us, but having a steady income will be much better—you never know what might happen, right?"

Her attempted humor met only stony silence as his attention remained fixed on a group of Silvermane guards rounding a corner.

"You know, Xander," she tried again, "we don't really know much about each other. Well—" she let out a small, self-deprecating laugh, "—I guess technically I can't tell you much about my past since I don't remember it. But I could tell you some pretty entertaining stories about Himeko's cooking disasters, or that time Mr. Yang tried to teach me meditation and I kept falling asleep. I'd tell you about Dan Heng too, but he'd probably give me that look of his if I shared stories without him here..." She trailed off, realizing she was rambling.

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes—a mix of anger and what looked like pain. But before she could process it, his expression hardened.

"Listen," he began, his voice low and tense, "we're not—"

A small body crashed into his legs. "Watch where you're—" he started to snarl, but the words died in his throat as he looked down to see a young boy sprawled on the ground, staring up at them with wide, startled eyes.

"I'm so sorry!" a woman's voice called out as she rushed over. "He got away from me for just a second. Are you alright, sweetie?" She directed the last part to her son.

March watched in fascination as his demeanor shifted. For a brief moment, his face softened, and he began to reach out to help the child up. But just as quickly, he seemed to catch himself, his hand freezing mid-air before withdrawing sharply.

"No worries at all!" March swooped in brightly, helping the boy to his feet. "We're fine, and I hope your little one is okay too. Right, Xander?"

He remained silent, his expression unreadable.

As the mother and child hurried away, she turned to her companion, her brow furrowed. "What was that about? You didn't have to be so... cold. That poor kid was scared enough as it was."

His fists clenched at his sides, and a muscle worked in his jaw. When he finally spoke, his words were carefully measured, as if each one cost him great effort.

"I'm... not good with..." The muscles in his jaw worked as he struggled with each word. His fingers twitched at his sides, and his gaze fixed on a point in the distance. "...people," he finally forced out, the word scraping past his lips like rusty machinery. His shoulders tensed further. "Especially when I'm having a bad day."1

"Wow, you looked like you just swallowed something really unpleasant there," March said with a nervous laugh, her smile wavering as she watched him grip the fabric of his jacket until his knuckles whitened. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the sounds of the street suddenly seeming too loud in the space between them.

She took a small step closer, keeping her voice soft. "What's bothering you? I know we haven't known each other long, but we're partners now. I'm here if you need someone to talk to."

He looked at her then, really looked at her, for what seemed like the first time. His expression mixed confusion with something indefinable. After a long moment, he sighed heavily, pulling out a cigarette and lighter.

Smoke curled from his lips as his shoulders sagged slightly. "Nothing anyone says helps," he muttered, then added in a quieter voice, "It's not you. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching.

"Maybe if you gave people a chance, you'd find that's not true," March ventured, taking a step toward him. "If you just opened up a little—"

He turned to face her, the gold triangular patterns on his dark coat catching the lamplight as it shifted. His angular features hardened, golden eyes cold beneath rich dark hair, his stance carrying the same lethal grace as when he was armed. "I had exactly one person I could talk to about what's in my head." His words cut through the air like ice. "They're gone, and I'm not doing reshoots. So don't even bother auditioning for the role, March."

The hurt that flashed across her face made him pause for a fraction of a second. Something twisted in his chest at the sight, but he forced his gaze away, refusing to acknowledge what he'd seen. "Now come on," he said, already walking. "I promised you those Belobogian sausages, and I don't go back on my word."

March kept her distance as she followed him, the usual spring missing from her step. His words had struck deeper than she'd expected, and for once, she didn't try to fill the silence between them. As they walked toward the food stall, she found herself studying his rigid posture, wondering if that moment of hesitation she'd caught in his eyes meant anything at all—or if she was just seeing what she wanted to see.

Either way, she knew better than to push any further today.

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Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

March pressed a hand against her aching ribs. Another tremor. The Underworld shuddered, a wounded beast groaning beneath Belobog's glittering facade. Dust rained down, coating her already-chapped lips.

He'd be furious if he saw me like this.

The memory flickered to life, unwanted yet persistent.

Belobog's Overworld. Art Deco facades gleaming under the artificial sun. His sharp words piercing her carefully constructed cheer.

Why that memory now, of all times?

"I had exactly one person I could talk to... They're gone, and I'm not doing reshoots."

Why this sudden pang of hurt, when she should be focused on—

A hiss of escaping steam. The furnace core's elevator doors shuddered open, revealing the cage-like lift within. The refugees huddled nearby gasped collectively as warmth, blessed warmth, radiated outwards. Hope flickered in their eyes, fragile as spun glass.

And then him.

He emerged from the lift, speaking to Gepard—his silver hair unmistakable even through the steam—but their words were lost in the roar of the furnace re-igniting.

Her breath hitched. He turned, and—

The man before her bore little resemblance to the one she'd met just over a week ago. The strain of his powers had bleached his rich dark hair to gray, streaked with platinum white. A fresh scar cut across his right cheekbone. Gone was his dark coat with its intricate gold triangles, replaced by a sleeveless top that revealed his left arm's raw power. A curious robotic device encased his left hand. The crimson side cape, anchored at his right shoulder, drew her gaze downward to where his right arm should have been. Instead, a skeletal, droid-like prosthetic gleamed dully in the geomarrow's ethereal glow.

His golden eyes remained unchanged, still holding the weight of a thousand unspoken stories. But now they carried something new—a weariness that matched the dust-covered ruins, paired with fresh determination.

Then he saw her.

His eyes ignited with warmth reserved only for her. Breaking away from Gepard, he strode forward with surprising speed. A genuine smile transformed his face.

Reaching her, he cupped her face gently in his left hand, thumb brushing against the dried blood beneath her nose. "March," he murmured, voice rough with tenderness. "Are you alright?" His lips pressed feather-light kisses to her forehead, her cheek.

"Xander," she breathed, her words catching. Her gaze flicked to the mechanical limb. "They got you a prosthetic already? Just hours ago, you didn't—"

"Rush job from the Engineering Bay. Herta warned me not to push it too hard." A wry smile crossed his face as he flexed the skeletal fingers. "Which means it'll probably break within the hour, knowing my luck."

His gaze held an intensity that thrilled and terrified her—looking at her as if she were his whole world, with the same pure love Himeko had shown when March first woke from the ice. The transformation overwhelmed her: in just a week, he'd become someone entirely different, yet somehow exactly who he was meant to be. She could barely reconcile this man with the guarded stranger she'd met in the Herta Space Station, and now, standing amid the ruins of Belobog's Underworld, she couldn't imagine facing any of it without him.

"The furnace is lit," he said, voice regaining its usual briskness. "Heat's returning to the Overworld. How are things here?"

She swallowed hard. "Chaos, but... manageable. Natasha and Oleg are doing their best. The Wildfire teams..." She gestured at the activity around them. "They're working tirelessly."

"Good." He squeezed her hand. "The children in Boulder Town—any changes since I left this morning?"

"Still safe, but they've been nervous since the tremors began again. Clara's still with them." Her voice softened with admiration. "She's been amazing—giving clear instructions to the automaton forces for rescue support."

He nodded, expression softening. "I'll see her eventually. But first..." Looking around at the battered refugees, his features hardened. "We need to secure this area. Make sure everyone gets the help they need." His eyes blazed with determination. "There are lives waiting to be saved."

The air rippled as he activated his dimensional pouch. What materialized wasn't just a container—it was an industrial behemoth, forty feet of gleaming steel stretching eight feet wide and ten feet high. Gasps of awe rippled through the huddled survivors as its massive shadow fell over them, dwarfing the surrounding debris. The sight of organized rows of medical supplies, food, and clothing when the doors swung open sent a wave of hope through the crowd.

"The temperature's dropping fast," she reported, forcing steadiness into her voice. "It started near the ceiling breach thirty minutes ago. The cold's seeping in." Her eyes tracked the shivering refugees. "The Trailblaze blessing keeps us safe from it, but these people..."

She gestured at the vast underground space. "Even with the furnace restarted, its heat mainly feeds the Overworld. Down here, most sectors are freezing. We're seeing breathing problems among the survivors already, and the people trapped under the rubble..." The words stuck in her throat.

"The tremors keep coming faster. Dan Heng's holding back the debris with his dragon, but..." She attempted a smile. "I always knew he was hiding something under all that stoic silence. Though I have to admit, a dragon made of roaring waves wasn't exactly what I expected."

The weak attempt at levity faded as quickly as it came. For all his power, Dan could only address one crisis at a time—the falling debris demanded his full attention while people remained trapped beneath the rubble, their time running out as the cold crept in.

Something flickered in his eyes—fear or determination—as his face hardened. He turned to Gepard, issuing rapid-fire instructions about distributing supplies. The others—Aleksandr, Andrei, Garrett, Lexie, Nikolay, and Yury—sprang into action with desperate urgency.

"What else?" His golden eyes bore into her.

She took a deep breath, forcing focus. "Bronya sent me here to coordinate. Wildfire scouts are marking spots where people are likely trapped. We're trying to gather everyone near Boulder Town—it's easier for Dan to protect a concentrated area."

Uncertainty crept in. Once, she would have confidently improvised, but now, with so many lives at stake, she looked to him for guidance. "I... I'm not sure what to do next," she admitted quietly.

His brow furrowed. "The temperature drop—you said it started near where the ceiling cracked?"

She nodded, a chill creeping up her spine.

"It's likely Cocolia and Belobog's Stellaron," he muttered darkly. "We're racing against time." He called out to Gepard: "Delegate the supply distribution! We need to move quickly!"

March watched Serval standing off to the side, usually vibrant eyes now wide with shock at the devastation. Everyone he'd brought seemed overwhelmed by the destruction's scale.

"Are you sure they're ready for this?" she asked softly, heart aching at their expressions. "Whatever you're planning... they can barely handle what they're seeing now."

His features softened momentarily before hardening again. "They'll have to be," he said quietly. "That goes for you too, March. You might not like what I'm about to ask of you."

Her stomach clenched, but she nodded, steeling herself. She'd faced Fragmentum monsters and battled the Anti-Matter Legion—surely she could handle his plan.

The group gathered around them. Andrei and Aleksandr reported readiness while the others approached hesitantly. Serval remained silent, her fire dimmed. Gepard's face bore the weight of perceived failure.

Xander straightened, gesturing to her. "For those who haven't met her, this is March 7th, Trailblazer of the Express." His eyes found Gepard and Serval, acknowledging their previous acquaintance with a slight nod. "March, my team: Andrei, Aleksandr, Garrett, Lexie, Nikolay, and Yury. You are already familiar with the Landau siblings."

His voice hardened as he addressed them all. "If you can't handle what you're seeing now, walk away. I won't waste time with hesitation." The pause stretched, heavy with meaning. "What's coming is worse. You'll see things that will haunt your dreams. People are buried in that rubble—children. We dig them out. Living or dead."

March's breath caught.

"If you don't want to be part of this, now's the time to walk away. I won't judge you for it."

Silence fell. Fear and determination warred on each face, but no one moved.

He nodded, grim satisfaction in his eyes. "Good. Here's what we're going to do next. I'm only explaining this once, so ask questions immediately after. We don't have time for confusion later. Every second counts."

As he outlined the plan, March hung on every word. The brutal efficiency of it struck her. These were the calculations of someone who'd seen too much, who knew exactly what hesitation cost.

Her belief in heroic adventures and storybook endings crumbled a little more. This wasn't a tale to be told. This was raw reality, with lives balanced on every decision.

She studied him—the set of his jaw, the fire in his eyes. He'd grown harder, more focused. But she had changed too. That carefree girl who'd woken on the Astral Express was gone, replaced by someone who understood the weight of responsibility, the true cost of survival.

In spite all of that, of all the tasks Xander had ever asked of her in Belobog, none had chilled her to her core quite like the instructions he gave now.

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Xander surveyed the faces before him, each marked by the horror they'd just witnessed. The air was thick with dust and the metallic scent of blood. He could see the shock in their eyes, the trembling of hands, the subtle shifts of weight as they struggled to process what they'd seen.

They needed structure. Purpose. A clear path forward through this nightmare.

His engineering mind had already mapped it out with mechanical precision.

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The air crackles with tension as Xander's eyes blaze with golden light. A deep rumble reverberates through the chamber, sending dust cascading from hairline cracks in the ceiling. His prosthetic arm whirs, fingers splayed wide toward the mountain of rubble. Black and white energy ripples outward, casting a rectangular outline that renders everything within it in stark, darker contrast.

Another tremor, stronger this time. Somewhere above, the Engine of Creation's thunderous footsteps echo through layers of rock and metal. The temperature plummets further - their breath now visible in pale clouds, frost beginning to creep along exposed pipes.

"Serval," he calls out, voice tight with concentration. "I need you to create an electromagnetic field within this section. Make it strong enough to hold bodies in place once I clear the debris." He fights to keep his arm steady as the ground shudders again.

She steps forward, electricity already dancing between her fingers, casting brief shadows as chunks of ceiling crash against Dan Heng's ethereal dragon form high above them. The dragon's cry echoes through the chamber as it continues to hold back the deluge of debris.

"Ready when you are."

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"What you witnessed with that single rescue was merely a preview," he began, voice steady and clinical. "Between here and Boulder Town lie miles of collapsed tunnels, and what we'll find there will test every limit of your resolve. Wildfire teams have marked potential survivor locations with fluorescent paint, but we'll sweep everything."

He paused, golden eyes hardening. "This isn't about hope or luck. The Preservation hasn't forgotten Belobog, but Aeons rarely concern themselves with the affairs of regular beings. Why would they? They have their own cosmic responsibilities, their own battles to wage. They trust that we have the capability to solve our own problems. Ultimately, what saves Belobog won't be divine intervention—it will be human ingenuity, cold mathematics, and the brutal efficiency of people willing to push themselves beyond their limits."

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Every heartbeat brings another body into focus as his enhanced senses map the ruins.

A child curled into herself, ribs crushed.

An elderly man with a steel beam through his torso.

A young woman, still clutching her infant.

Each outline burns itself into his mind with clinical precision, even as his consciousness screams at the horror of it all.

But he can't stop. Won't stop.

The outline sharpens, becoming more defined as Serval's electricity fills the space with a low, persistent hum. Static charge builds until the very air seems to vibrate.

"Dust Partition," he growls, voice rough with exertion.

The outlined section dissolves into fine particles. Through the settling dust, Serval's electromagnetic field reveals its horrific cargo—bodies suspended in their final moments, held aloft by crackling purple electricity. Some hang crushed beyond recognition, limbs twisted at impossible angles. Others might appear to be sleeping, if not for death's unmistakable pallor clinging to their skin.

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He gestured to the team members as he spoke, his prosthetic arm whirring softly with each movement.

"We operate as an assembly line. Serval and I form the vanguard. As I've explained, I'll use Chronosurge and Dust Partition to map and clear the rubble—you all understand the strain and precision these powers demand.2 Serval's role is twofold: her electromagnetic field prevents secondary collapses while also suspending survivors and victims in place. When the rubble dissolves, gravity becomes our enemy—a fall from even a few feet could kill someone already critically injured. Her field holds them stable until we can secure them."

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"SHIELDERS!" Xander's command cuts through the heavy air, his prosthetic arm raised in a sharp signal.

Garrett, Gepard, and March lift their hands in unison, though each falters for a moment at the nightmarish tableau before them. March's breath catches in her throat as she recognizes a child no older than the ones she'd left in Boulder Town. Gepard's jaw clenches so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek, while Garrett's hands tremble visibly before steadying.

Together, they focus their powers, and crystalline barriers materialize around each suspended form. The shields shimmer like glass, creating protective cocoons that slow the march of death itself—buying precious minutes for those still clinging to life.

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"The moment bodies are exposed, our shielders—" he nodded to Garrett, Gepard, and March, noting their determined but apprehensive expressions, "—create preservation barriers. These aren't just protective shields; they're buying us time, slowing the progression of injuries and decay at a cellular level."

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Lexie stumbles back, hand flying to her mouth. She turns away, retching violently.

His gaze softens momentarily. "You good to go?"

She wipes her mouth, nodding shakily. "Y-yes. I can do this."

A monochrome circle erupts from where he stands, expanding outward in a perfect radius. Everything within its reach drains of color—the suspended bodies, the scattered debris, even the air itself seems to lose all vitality. An eerie, high-pitched sound fills the space, building to an almost unbearable crescendo.

"REND!"

The world blurs. He moves with impossible speed, each victim becoming a coordinate in space, a point to be reached with mathematical precision. His movements flow like liquid mercury, the prosthetic arm adjusting with each microsecond as he catches and places bodies in a carefully plotted pattern on the ground. The others can barely track his form—just afterimages of motion, like brush strokes of darker shadow against the monochrome world.

Landing heavily after the final body touches ground, his chest heaves. "Now!"

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"Once victims are secured, our healers deploy in pairs. Aleksandr, Andrei, Nikolay, Yury, Lexie—you'll work in a rotating schedule. Two active pairs, one resting. Critical cases get priority, marked by shield color intensity. Begin your healing immediately, but understand that I'll be moving between victims, starting with the most critical."

His prosthetic hand flexed unconsciously, the metal fingers curling and uncurling. "My blood, infused with the Stellaron's energy, amplifies your Abundance abilities exponentially. What might take you minutes to heal, we can accomplish in seconds together. More importantly, it allows us to save those with injuries beyond conventional healing—fourth-degree burns, catastrophic organ failure, severe brain trauma. The shields buy us time; your healing stabilizes them; my blood pushes the recovery beyond normal limits."

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The team springs into action. Aleksandr and Andrei rush to the most critical cases, hands glowing with Abundance healing. Nikolay and Yury move among the less severe, triaging and treating where possible.

Gepard and Garrett remain focused, arms raised to maintain the protective barriers around the victims. Their faces shine with sweat from the sustained effort. March stands behind Xander, both hands pressed firmly against his back, ice crystals forming where her fingers make contact.

Near a young woman with a crushed chest, Andrei's hands pulse with healing energy. Her wet, ragged gasps pierce the air. Xander kneels beside them, extending his left arm. The mechanical glove whirs to life, needle extending to pierce his skin. Crimson and golden droplets fall directly into the woman's mouth, each one carrying its own inner light.

"Come on," he mutters through gritted teeth. "Live, damn you."

Her eyes flutter open, confusion yielding to pain. Yet between Andrei's healing and Xander's blood, her breathing steadies, color returning to ashen cheeks.

Across the clearing, Lexie works over a man with pulverized legs. The sight of exposed bone and mangled flesh turns her stomach, but determination drives her forward. Sweat beads as she channels every ounce of healing into knitting shattered bone and torn muscle.

She moves between patients, earlier nausea forgotten amid overwhelming need. She pauses over a small child, perhaps five or six, body intact save for a severe head wound. Her hands find the temples, sensing a faint flutter of life. Hope surges as she pours energy into healing.

The air thickens with blood's metallic scent and fear's acrid tang. Moans and whimpers mix with urgent shouts from the healers. Yet underneath runs a current of hope, persistent as a flower breaking through concrete.

Nikolay discovers a family of four, crushed together in a final embrace. Their bodies form a tangle of broken limbs and ruptured organs. The senselessness threatens to overwhelm him until he spots movement—the youngest child still draws shallow breaths.

"Xander! Here, quickly!"

He's there in an instant, the mechanical glove already preparing another extraction as Nikolay's hands glow with healing light. Together they work to save the child, even as they acknowledge the family's loss in silence.

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Aleksandr's hands tremble as healing energy flows into the broken body before him. The young woman's chest rises and falls in shallow, erratic breaths. Across the makeshift triage area, Andrei's exhausted gaze meets his. Ten minutes since their last round, and the injured keep coming.

The air crackles. Two arms, one made of flesh and the other an android-like prosthetic whir to life, fingers extending toward another section of rubble. Black and white energy ripples outward, casting that familiar rectangular outline over the debris.

"Serval," Xander calls out, strain evident in each word. "Electromagnetic field. Now."

Their movements flow with practiced precision—Serval steps forward, purple electricity dancing between her fingertips as she fills the outlined space with crackling energy.

"Dust Partition...!"

The rubble dissolves into fine particles. Bodies hang suspended in the electric field, some crushed beyond recognition, others seemingly peaceful save for death's unmistakable pallor. Bile rises in Aleksandr's throat, the sight no less shocking for its familiarity.

"SHIELDERS!"

Three pairs of hands rise in unison. Crystalline barriers materialize around each suspended form, buying precious minutes for those still clinging to life. March's brow furrows in concentration, her eyes fixed on their leader with mounting concern.

A monochrome circle erupts outward. Color drains from everything it touches—bodies, debris, even the air itself stripped of vitality. An eerie, high-pitched sound builds to crescendo.

"REND!"

Motion blurs. Bodies settle into careful patterns on the ground, placed with mathematical precision. Raw power radiates through the chamber.

"Now!"

The healers surge forward. Aleksandr channels every ounce of Abundance into the man before him, mending catastrophic internal injuries. Sweat beads on his forehead as power flows through straining hands.

Warmth settles beside him. Golden eyes burn fever-bright in a face flushed crimson. The mechanical glove whirs, needle extending. Crimson and golden droplets fall onto the patient's chest.

Healing power amplifies exponentially. Bones knit, organs regenerate, color floods ashen cheeks. A miracle with a price paid in flesh and blood.

"You're burning up!" March's voice cuts through the din. Ice crystals form where her hands press against burning skin. Steam rises from each point of contact, her face contorted with effort.

"I'm fine." The words come through gritted teeth, belied by violent tremors.

Around them, survivors watch in stunned silence, eyes wide with mingled hope and horror as the impossible unfolds. The weight of their gazes presses down like physical force.

Movement catches his eye - a small boy, perhaps six or seven, pulling against his mother's restraining grip. "Mikhail, no! They're working - they need to concentrate—" But the child's eyes are fixed on Xander, drawn by some innocent instinct toward the burning figure before him.

Xander's gaze softens for a fraction of a second. "March," he murmurs, "double the output." She nods against his back, ice crystals spreading faster across his skin as steam billows around them. Then, to the boy: "It's alright. Come here."

The child breaks free, stumbling forward. His mother reaches for him but stops as Xander gives her a slight nod. The boy wraps his arms around Xander's waist, pressing his face against the man's side despite the waves of heat still radiating from him.

Xander's flesh-and-blood hand comes to rest on the boy's head, pressing a gentle kiss to his brow. "Take care of your mother," he whispers. "She needs you to be strong."

"Thank you," the mother chokes out, tears streaming down her face. "Thank you, thank you—"

But Xander's attention has already shifted back to the work at hand, though his hand lingers for one more moment on the child's head before gently directing him back to his mother. Another tremor rocks the chamber, and his golden eyes snap to a section of rubble where faint life signs flicker, growing weaker by the second.

"Life signs, northeastern quadrant!" His voice cuts through the chamber as he surges forward, prosthetic arm already whirring to life. "Serval, be ready to summon your electricity again! Shielders, stand by!"

Aleksandr turns back to his patient, watching as Xander throws himself into the next rescue with renewed intensity. He silently prays that whatever power drives this rescue will last long enough to see them through, even as the cold seeps deeper into their bones and the dragon's cries echo above.

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Healing energy flickered between Lexie's trembling fingers as she poured the last reserves of her strength into the lifeless body before her. Each breath scraped her lungs raw, the air thick with smoke and decay. Her hands shook from both exhaustion and cold - the temperature had dropped enough that she could see her breath now. Sweat dripped into her eyes, vision blurring at the edges.

Thirty minutes since their last session. Six hundred souls pulled from the rubble. Almost half beyond saving, but the others...

The numbers seemed impossible, yet she'd watched it happen—this intricate weave of powers snatching hundreds from death's grasp, even as the temperature continued to fall around them.

Steam rose where March's hands pressed against their commander's back, her face tight with concentration. Silver hair clung to his skin in dark streaks, golden eyes burning with an intensity that made the heart skip. The air around him shimmered with heat.

The world tilted. Her knees buckled, darkness creeping at the edges of her vision. A mechanical whir, then steady hands caught her shoulders, guiding her down. The prosthetic's metal felt cool against her arm, a sharp counterpoint to the fever-heat radiating from his skin.

"Rest now." The words came rough, barely above a whisper. Lips pressed against her forehead—a benediction that burned like a brand. Her eyes widened at the scorching contact. No human should be able to function at such temperatures, yet here he stood, tending to them all while his own body blazed like a furnace.

"Thank you, Lexie." The gentleness in his voice made her throat tighten. She wanted to respond, to tell him they should be the ones thanking him, but the words stuck behind the lump in her throat.

How do you thank someone who burns himself alive to save others?

"Sampo!" The command cut through the eerie silence. Shadows shifted, and the usually cheerful supplier emerged, his face uncharacteristically grave.

"You sensed my approach."

No response came. Instead, dimensional storage rippled, producing vials of luminescent liquid. "For the healers and shielders. Micronutrients. It'll help them to keep up."

Sampo moved through their ranks, distributing the precious vials without his usual banter. Nearby, Yury swayed dangerously, face drained of color.

"Breathe." The soft instruction steadied the young healer as Xander's strong hands gripped his shoulders. "Let the pain flow past you. Focus only on the work before you." Yury's ragged gasps gradually evened out. "There. You can breathe now."

The gathered survivors watched in silence. March's ice crystals spread across burning skin while Serval hovered close by, electricity crackling at her fingertips as golden eyes lost focus for a heartbeat before sharpening once more.

"He's going to save them all, isn't he?" a woman whispered, clutching her rescued daughter.

"Look at what it's doing to him," came a gruff response from somewhere in the crowd. "No one can keep this up forever."

Lexie forced herself upright, muscles protesting each movement. Around them, hope and terror mingled in the survivors' faces as they witnessed this desperate battle against time and entropy. The question hung unspoken in the frigid air: how long could they—could he—maintain this impossible rhythm before something finally broke?

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He turned to March and Serval, his golden eyes intense. "You two have additional duties beyond your primary roles. In engineering terms, consider me the central engine of this operation—the primary machine clearing rubble and amplifying healing through my blood. But like any engine pushed beyond its specifications, we're about to overclock it well past safety limits.

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Healing energy poured from Yury's trembling hands into the small, broken body. Two hours into the rescue operation, exhaustion had carved deep lines into every face. Over a thousand people pulled from the rubble, each rescue extracting its toll.

Steam billowed around their commander, his fever-wracked body now the only source of warmth against the deepening cold. His face flushed crimson, eyes wild and bloodshot, as he moved with precise calculation, allowing only March's touch as she fought to control his rising temperature. Survivors huddled closer to him, drawn to the heat radiating from his form like a furnace against the freezing air.

The chamber shuddered. Above them, Dan Heng's ethereal dragon - a massive construct of azure energy - twisted through the air as another tremor sent chunks of ceiling crashing down. The dragon slammed into the falling debris, its ethereal form breaking massive blocks into smaller pieces. Gepard stood with arms spread wide, maintaining a shimmering barrier that caught the rain of rubble, though each impact made the shield flicker dangerously.

"Stay with me," came the growl, glass-sharp and raw. The child stirred faintly beneath their hands.

"Aleksandr's losing consciousness!" Andrei's cry pierced the chaos. "His patient's bleeding out!"

Through exhaustion's haze, Yury watched his fellow healer crumple to his knees, blood seeping through Garrett's fading barrier.

"She won't last another minute. We need help now!" Desperation cracked through Andrei's voice.

"Twenty seconds." The words carried iron command as Xander rose. Another tremor sent cascades of dust and rock showering down around them.

Ice crystals bloomed across his back. "Your heart's about to give out!" March's warning echoed off the walls.

"She's fading fast!" Andrei's plea rebounded. "Someone, anyone—"

Gepard grunted with effort, reinforcing his ceiling barrier as larger chunks crashed against it. Sweat dripped from his chin as precious seconds ticked by.

Blood traced a crimson line from Xander's mouth. "Fifteen seconds."

"My hands—" Lexie's voice quavered as her patient's pulse weakened beneath her fingers. "I can't maintain the healing. He's slipping away!"

Nikolay lurched up from his mandated rest position, breaking formation. "Follow. The. Plan." The command cracked like lightning from Xander, even as another tremor shook the chamber.

"Our patients are dying!" Anguish bled through Nikolay's protest. His hands already glowed with healing energy, ready to jump in despite being on his rest rotation. "I still have strength left, I can help—"

Heat warped the air around Xander's rigid form, his fever burning hot enough now that frost melted in a perfect circle around him. "This is a marathon, not a sprint! If you burn out now, you won't be able to help the next hundred we pull from the rubble. We rest in shifts or we all collapse before reaching the end." His golden eyes fixed on Nikolay with iron certainty. "Trust the rotation. Trust me!"

————————

His prosthetic hand clenched. "My Path of Preservation powers aren't developed enough to handle this level of strain.3 The machine—me—will begin to fail. March, your ice powers are essential—not for the victims, but for maintaining optimal operating temperature. Each use of Chronosurge and Dust Partition compounds the thermal load on my body. Without constant cooling to stabilize my core temperature, the engine overheats and shuts down."

March's fingers curled into white-knuckled fists at her sides. Her throat worked silently as she stared at Xander's back, at the scars she knew lay beneath his shirt. The temperature around her dropped several degrees.

"Are you asking me to—" The words died in her throat as she realized what he was truly requesting.

————————

Gepard's shield splintered. A wave of despair surged through the chamber as another tremor sent cascades of debris raining down. Coughs echoed through the crowd of survivors, the cold now biting deep enough to make breathing annoying. Sometimes painful.

"They're shivering," a mother murmured, pulling her children closer. "We can't stay here much longer."

Whispers of agreement rippled through the gathered crowd, punctuated by the sound of chattering teeth and suppressed coughing.

"We need to move!" Another voice joined the growing chorus of fear. "The whole ceiling's going to come down!"

As Nikolay stepped forward, defying orders, something vast and ancient stirred. The very air grew heavy with presence. Lime scent flooded the chamber, cutting through blood's metallic tang with such intensity that several people staggered back. A pressure descended, ancient and aware, distinct from their commander's burning fever—the weight of an Aeon's gaze, turning its cosmic attention upon their humble tragedy.

"Why this fear, Nikolay?" Xander's question carried such force it seemed as though the ground around him trembled with each word. "What drives you to break ranks when I gave you and everyone clear orders?"

March's alarm pierced the air as inner light began to suffuse his skin. Even Dan Heng's dragon above seemed to pause its vigil, sensing something greater at work.

Nikolay's mouth worked silently against an invisible force, truth pulling itself from unwilling lips. "My cousin—" The words spilled forth, uncontrollable. "She died in my arms yesterday. I couldn't... I couldn't do anything. I can't watch another family break like mine did."

Silence gripped the chamber…

Then the air itself seemed to ignite – golden flames exploded outward in a searing wave, parting around March's form like water against stone.

Gasps and cries of surprise echoed through the chamber as the inferno expanded. Yet instead of burning, the flames brought blessed warmth, driving back the bitter cold that had settled into everyone's bones. People straightened, drew deeper breaths, as if life itself was flowing back into their frozen limbs.

Steel and granite filled Xander's voice. "Look at me. Every single one of you." His gaze swept across his exhausted team, then to the gathered survivors. "To my healers – rest up easy, get back in formation. I don't care if my heart stops a hundred times. I don't care if I have to burn out completely. I'll hold the line."

The audience stood transfixed. Light flowed across his skin like molten gold, eyes blazing. Dancing shadows cast by wreathing flames spoke of ancient power, demanding witness. The Aeon's presence lingered, watching, judging. His next words carried the weight of absolute certainty, a promise carved in stone:

"And to everyone here – as long as I still draw breath, as long as I can still stand, not a single soul in this place will be lost to the cold or the dark. This isn't hope or faith. This is my oath to you." He drew himself up, golden eyes blazing brighter than his flames.

"Trust in that. Trust in me. BECAUSE I WILL NOT LET YOU FALL!"

Fire shot skyward. Gasps rose as embers spiraled through the air, each spark igniting into golden shields around the injured. Death itself retreated before raw will.

"HEALERS AND SHIELDERS!" Power resonated through his call. "SIXTY SECONDS. REST. RECOVER. SAMPO!"

The supplier materialized through flame, distributing life-giving serums with swift precision.

Vitality flooded back. Aleksandr steadied himself, color returning. Andrei's breathing smoothed. Yury and Lexie straightened, strength renewed. Nikolay settled into rest position, defiance yielding to acceptance. The shielders found respite—Gepard's hands steadied, Garrett's shoulders loosened, March drew her first real breath, one hand maintaining contact.

The minute expired.

Silence slammed down. Between heartbeats, the fire vanished. Golden eyes rolled back as their commander collapsed, a mountain crumbling to earth. No breath. No pulse. Only terrible stillness where determination had burned moments before.

"No, no, no—" March's whisper threaded through the quiet.

————————

His voice remained clinical, detached. "Serval, you're my systems reboot. When—not if—the machine fails and my heart stops, you jumpstart it back into rhythm. Think of it as emergency maintenance in the field. My Stellaron will eventually restart the system on its own, but we can't afford that downtime. You'll need to shock me back into operation immediately."

Purple sparks danced between Serval's fingers, casting sharp shadows across her face. Her eyes narrowed, then widened, then narrowed again as she looked between her hands and the man who had saved her sister from death itself just hours ago.

Static made her hair rise slightly.

"A word," she said, voice tight. Her hand closed around his wrist, pulling him away from the group with barely contained fury.

"What are you doing?"

"The plan?" His brow furrowed. "I thought I explained it clearly. When my heart stops—"

————————

Serval moved with precise terror, hands trembling as they turned the lifeless form of Xander around.

————————

"How can you ask this of me?" The words burst from her like lightning seeking ground.

"After everything that happened between us, you want me to—" She gestured sharply, electricity crackling between her fingers. "To watch you die over and over and bring you back?"

Understanding dawned in his golden eyes. "Ah."

He was quiet for a moment, then:

"I don't see the problem. I did break your heart. It's fitting you get to shock mine a few times in return."

The crack of her palm against his cheek echoed through the chamber. "There has to be another way," she hissed, voice raw. "Find it."

His hand caught both of hers before she could pull away, holding them firmly despite the static charge that made his prosthetic arm twitch. Tears of frustration gathered in her eyes as she tried to wrench free.

————————

Electricity arced between her fingers.

————————

"You can't ask this of me," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Xander, you can't ask me to do this—"

"I can." His grip remained gentle but unyielding. "Because this is bigger than us, Serval. You were an Architect once. I know that duty still burns in you, even after everything they did. Even after how many times Belobog turned its back on you, you never stopped caring for its people."

————————

Air crackled as palms pressed against his chest. Eternity stretched with each passing second.

————————

"Stop." She shook her head violently, tears spilling over. "Don't say more. Find another way."

"Serval." His voice softened, almost pleading. "There's no other way. You're the only one I can trust with this." His golden eyes met hers, letting her see past his walls for just a moment.

"Please. Help me save them."

————————

The shock lifted him in an arch. Golden eyes snapped open on an inhuman gasp that clawed its way from hell's depths. Observers flinched from that raw, too-painful sound.

March's lip bled under her teeth, unspoken words dying in her throat. Serval's hands retreated, professional mask cracking around trembling fingers.

"Thank you, both of you." Blood still stained his lips as he pushed upright. Golden eyes met theirs in turn, silent understanding passing between them. His trembling hands spoke of scenes yet to come, of deaths and revivals stretching into the long hours ahead.

"Next sector. Time's burning."

The underground chamber grew so quiet they could hear water dripping somewhere in the distance. Garrett's hand rose to cover his mouth, fingernails digging into his cheek. Andrei's boot scraped against concrete as he shifted backward. A muscle in Gepard's jaw pulsed once, twice, three times.

Yet they all stood frozen under the weight of Xander's golden stare, his unwavering certainty radiating like heat from a forge.

Beyond them, distant screams echoed through the tunnels.

————————

Serval's hands trembled as the screams pierced the darkness. The golden pillars of flame that had guided their rescue efforts flickered and died, plunging the chamber into silence. Her breath caught as she watched him collapse, eyes rolling back as his body met the ground.

Two clinical deaths now. Fifty more lives dragged back from oblivion, each rescue carved from his flesh and blood.

Electricity sparked between her fingers as she pressed them against his chest. For a moment, she hesitated, the memory of his pain-filled golden eyes freezing her in place.

"Clear!"

His body arched under the surge. Then those golden eyes snapped open, accompanied by a sound no human throat should make—a ragged gasp torn from death's own depths.

His face hardened with familiar determination as he pushed himself upright. The night loomed endless before them, and Serval's heart ached with the certainty that they would repeat this scene again and again.

Until every soul was saved. Or until one of these revivals failed.

————————

"You two are my maintenance crew. Keep the machine running, no matter what warnings it throws, no matter how many times it breaks down. The assembly line cannot stop."4

His golden eyes swept over them one final time, taking in their mix of determination, fear, and resolve. "Questions? Ask now. Once we start, we move like a machine. No stops, no hesitation, no misguided heroics. Just the brutal efficiency of keeping as many people alive as we can. Remember, we're not just saving individuals—we're preserving the future of Belobog itself."

————————

Serval's fingers tingled with residual electricity as Xander's body convulsed. His screams had barely faded when the golden flames flickered out. Above them, Dan Heng's azure dragon roared, its ethereal form smashing through another cascade of falling debris as tremors shook the passage to Boulder Town. She counted the seconds, willing his heart to start on its own.

It didn't.

"Damn it, Xander," she hissed, positioning her hands over his chest. The familiar crackle of her power built between her palms. "Clear!"

His body arched off the ground, muscles seizing. For a heartbeat, nothing. Then his eyes snapped open, that inhuman gasp tearing from his throat. Seven times now. Seven clinical deaths on their long march.

As Xander struggled to his feet, Serval caught sight of the crowd. Hundreds of eyes watched them, reflecting the dim emergency lights. Though the tremors continued to shake loose chunks of ceiling, the survivors no longer huddled against the cold – warmth radiated from Xander's presence in a perfect sphere, keeping the bitter chill at bay despite his repeated deaths.

A melody rose from the survivors – women and children lifting their voices in an old Belobog folk song. The notes carried hope despite their exhaustion, a gentle defiance against the darkness. Their voices twined with Xander's labored breathing and the dragon's distant cries, each sound a counterpoint to their song of resilience.

————————

Some deserts on this planet were oceans once.

Somewhere shrouded by the night, the sun will shine.

Sometimes I see a dying bird fall to the ground.

But it used to fly so high.

————————

The tremor in Serval's hands intensified as she positioned them over the motionless chest. Smoke and blood permeated the air, weaving through the survivors' continuing song. Her internal count reached twenty-one. Twenty-one times now, she had pulled him back from death.

"Clear!"

Electricity leapt from her palms. The body arched under the surge, then fell still. Each heartbeat of silence stretched into infinity as the folk song echoed through the chamber.

Golden eyes snapped open. The sound that followed transcended pain—a gasp that spoke of journeys no living being should endure. Relief flooded through her, even as moisture gathered in her eyes. The song's message of hope felt hollow against such suffering.

"Thank you." The words emerged from him. Raw, barely audible. "Lend me your strength, just a little longer."

Silent tears traced down March's cheeks as she resumed her position, ice crystals forming beneath her touch. Serval stood frozen, the weight of what they'd witnessed—what they'd done—settling like lead in her chest.

————————

I thought I were no more than a bystander,

Till I felt a touch so real.

I will no longer be a transient,

When I see smiles with tears.

If I have never known the sore of farewell and pain of sacrifices,

What else should I engrave on my mind?

————————

Trembling fingers found their position over the still chest for the thirty-fourth time. The chamber's air carried blood and smoke, wreathed in the survivors' endless song. Each heartbeat thundered against the melody's gentle flow. Beside them, Andrei's hands glowed with healing light over a mother and child, their wounds closing faster where Xander's golden blood had fallen moments before his collapse.

"Clear!"

Power surged between palms and flesh. The body arched, then settled into terrible stillness. Three eternal seconds passed as Lexie called out for his help, her voice urgent with need.

Golden eyes opened to release that soul-deep gasp. Time had carved its price deep—each revival etched new wounds into what remained, the cost of pushing his healing powers far beyond their limits. Already his gaze sought the next patient, even as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

"Thank you." The words carried more weight than just gratitude.

Without waiting for response, he pushed himself up, mechanical glove whirring as it prepared to draw more blood for the critically wounded waiting nearby.

Something fractured in her chest. The man who had deceived her had also saved her sister, had clinically died thirty-four times to save hundreds more. She watched as he staggered to the next victim, knowing his heart would fail again the moment he pushed his powers too far. Old anger crumbled beneath the weight of witnessed sacrifice.

She who held grudges like treasures found her hatred dissolving into the song-filled air.5

What pushes you so?

————————

Frozen into icy rocks, that's how it starts.

Crumbled like the sands of time, that's how it ends.

Every page of tragedy is thrown away.

Burned out in the flame.

————————

The automaton's metal frame groaned under the weight of a collapsed beam as Bronya guided it into position with trembling hands. Each new tremor sent cascades of dust and debris raining down from what remained of the ceiling. The mechanical whir of servos mixed with the deeper rumble from above ground, where the Engine of Creation continued its relentless march.

"Hold it steady!" Seele's voice cut through the din. Her lithe form strained alongside Oleg, muscles tensing as they fought to keep the beam from shifting. Sweat froze on their faces almost instantly in the bitter cold.

Through the automaton's pincers, another body emerged from the rubble. The sight burned itself into Bronya's mind, joining countless others. Each victim demanded witness, each death laying bare the consequences of Cocolia's madness.

Mother. The word felt like poison. Had that thing wearing her mother's face always lurked beneath the surface, waiting for the Stellaron to give it form? Or had duty and isolation slowly hollowed out everything that made her human?

"Commander!" The urgency in Luka's voice pulled her from the spiraling thoughts. "We've got more survivors over here! At least three of them!"

Moving with practiced efficiency, she redirected the automaton. Frost crackled beneath its heavy steps—the temperature was dropping faster now. If they couldn't get everyone to shelter soon...

"He's coming back!" The high, clear voice pierced through the gloom like a bell. Clara darted between twisted metal and broken concrete, her small form practically vibrating with excitement. Boris and Maria stumbled after her, their faces flushed with exertion despite the cold.

"Clara!" Seele abandoned her position, intercepting the girl with practiced grace. Frustration and worry warred in her expression. "You can't be out here. The debris is still falling, even the smallest rocks could—"

"But Alexander's back!" Clara's eyes blazed with certainty. "I have to go to him! He needs me!"

The words struck something raw in Bronya's chest. Such pure faith, even after everything that had happened. Even after watching Svarog...

"Even if that's true," Seele's tone softened, "you need to stay where it's safe. The cold alone could—"

"But don't you see?" Clara spun in a circle, arms spread wide. "The cold's already going away! Look at the lights!"

Bronya exchanged confused glances with the others. What lights? And then...

The realization hit gradually. First, the absence of frozen breath in the air. Then the slow seeping of warmth back into cold-numbed fingers. Finally, the visual—tiny motes of golden light rising from the ground like summer fireflies, drifting lazily upward through the stale underground air.

"Mother of..." Luka's whispered oath trailed off as he pointed toward Boulder Town's outskirts.

The scent hit them next—fresh lime, sharp and clean, cutting through the miasma of dust and death. It carried memories of ancient temples, of prayers whispered in sacred spaces. The smell of the Preservation itself.

A column of golden flame erupted in the distance, so bright it turned night to day. The fire reached toward the ceiling of their underground world, pushing back shadows that had seemed permanent just moments before. Through the flames' dance, Bronya could almost see shapes—wings, perhaps, or the suggestion of something vast and cosmic turning its attention to their plight.

Clara was already running, her footsteps leaving brief afterimages of golden light. Boris and Maria called after her, their own feet carrying them forward despite their earlier caution, drawn by the impossible warmth emanating from that distant beacon.

Duty warred with hope in Bronya's chest as she took one halting step forward. These were her people. They needed their commander here, organizing rescue efforts, maintaining order...

"Go." Oleg's voice carried the weight of understanding. His weathered face softened as he gestured toward the light. "We've got enough hands here."

"The automatons can keep working," Luka added, managing a ghost of his usual grin. "And there's something about that light... feels like maybe we all need to see what happens next."

Bronya turned to Seele, finding her own torn expression mirrored there. Years of training screamed about protocol, about chains of command, about proper procedures. But something older and deeper pulled at them both—some primal recognition of power beyond human understanding entering their world.

They broke into a run together, following Clara's path through the drifting embers. Behind them, the golden sparks continued to rise, carrying with them the weight of grief and despair that had settled over Boulder Town. For the first time since the tremors began, the air tasted of something other than fear.

It tasted of hope.

————————

A shoulder for the past,

Let out the cries imprisoned for so long.

A pair of wings for me at this moment,

To soar above this world.

————————

Feet pound against crumbling ground, heart racing as fast as small legs can carry her. Golden embers trail in Clara's wake, illuminating the path ahead like breadcrumbs of light guiding her toward something she can't yet understand.

Papa's words float through memory: "Sunshine, never forget how much I love you." Nikolai's voice echoes in the darkness, pulling at something deep inside her chest.

Pushing forward through the chaos, weaving between fallen beams and shattered concrete. Behind, Boris and Maria's labored breaths barely carry over the constant rumble of collapsing structures. Further back still, Bronya and Seele's urgent footsteps echo off the walls, their determination matching her own desperate pace.

Mr. Svarog's voice whispers from memory: "Clara, your safety is my primary directive." The words send sharp pain through her heart, but there's no time for grief. Not now. Not when she's so close.

The group races toward Belobog's outskirts, hope and desperation driving each step. Chunks of ceiling continue to rain down, forcing them to dodge and weave. The cold should be unbearable, but something keeps it at bay – warmth radiating from those mysterious embers that seem to follow their path.

Suddenly, small feet skid to a halt at the edge of a hill. A strange chorus of children's voices drifts through the air, an impossible melody rising above the sound of destruction. The song pulls at something deep within, speaking of hope when hope should be impossible.

At the hilltop stands Dan Heng, touched by ancient divinity. His long black and teal hair flows in an unseen wind, translucent green horns gleaming like jade against the darkness. The diamond-shaped cutout on his chest reveals skin that seems to shimmer with starlight, while his white and gold-accented attire ripples like scales in the dim light. The azure dragon coils around his slender form, its power matching the otherworldly green of his eyes as they survey the destruction below.

The sight strikes awe into her heart – like the ancient protectors from Mr. Svarog's bedtime stories come to life. As small feet carry her to his side, the view below steals her breath away.

A sea of humanity stretches out before them. Hundreds, perhaps thousands huddle together in the vast chamber, their voices lifting in that haunting melody that seems to defy chaos itself. The song rises and falls in waves, each note carrying the weight of generations who'd survived in these depths.

"Why do they sing?" Boris's voice trembles, his hand clutching Maria's tighter. "Everything's falling apart, but they keep singing. I've never... I never had anyone to sing to me, but..." His words trail off, uncertain.

"It's an old Underworld lullaby," Seele's voice comes soft from behind, understanding in her tone. "Mothers sing it to their children when the darkness feels too heavy. Most times, they just hum it, but today..." She pauses, listening as hundreds of voices lift the ancient words skyward:

Turn into a shooting star that briefly shines but warms up every heart… May all the beauty be blessed. May all the beauty be blessed.

The melody swells, and Seele's eyes grow distant. "The words remind us that even in our deepest night, the sun still shines somewhere above. That's why they sing it now – not because they don't see the darkness, but because they refuse to let it win."

Movement draws attention to the center of the gathering. Through the press of bodies, familiar golden flames dance – Alexander, working tirelessly among the injured and dying. His body glows with inner fire as he moves from person to person, healing power flowing from his hands while others assist him. Golden blood falls like morning dew onto a woman's wounds, and they watch in wonder as life flows back into dying flesh.

Dan's voice carries a weight of centuries as he whispers, "Dan Feng... is this the miracle you sought so desperately?" His green eyes track Alexander's movements, ancient memories stirring behind their luminescent depths.6

Then – horror strikes as the tall form crumples, falling still and silent on the ground.

No! The denial tears through her mind. Not again, please not again!

Small body darts forward without thought, slipping between adult legs, pushing through the suffocating press of people. "Move! Please, let me through!"

The ground bucks violently. Above, a massive section of ceiling tears free with a sound like the world itself breaking. The azure dragon uncoils from around Dan Heng's form in a flash of ethereal light, launching itself skyward with desperate speed. It roars – not in challenge but in frustrated recognition of the impossible task. Its power is absolute, more than enough to shatter mountains, but the falling mass is simply too vast. When the dragon slams into it, the impact reduces much of it to powder, yet the sheer volume means giant chunks still plummet toward the gathered crowd.

Even the seemingly-absurd power has its limits, not in strength but in simple physics. No matter how mighty the dragon's strikes, it cannot be everywhere at once. Cannot pulverize every piece of a collapsing mountain.

Frozen in place, the world narrows to the sight of a blonde woman with blue-streaked hair desperately trying to revive Alexander, electricity crackling from hands to his chest. The massive shadow of falling debris grows larger, darker, promising to end everything just like it ended Mr. Svarog.

The children's chorus continues, impossibly, defiantly. Their song weaves through her consciousness as memories of another death threaten to overwhelm – her father's.

From somewhere deep inside, from that place where a child's faith can move mountains, her heart cries out:

"Save me, Alexander!"7

————————

Pain consumes his body like a furnace, white-hot and relentless. The world spins, darkness encroaching at the edges before bursting into vivid color. Through blurred vision, the familiar alley materializes—weathered brick walls rising on either side, stained with decades of city grime and tagged with fading graffiti. Golden light bathes everything in the distinctive warmth of a Rosario sunset, the kind that painted his childhood memories in shades of amber and rust.

His heart pounds against his ribs. This place. This moment.

The air shimmers with something new, something impossible. A haunting melody drifts through the narrow space between buildings, words that could be Russian or Ukrainian weaving through his consciousness. Frowning, he taps the side of his head where the Synesthesia Beacon sits beneath skin and bone. 8Children's voices rise and fall with the melody, ethereal and distant. When he turns to search for the source, empty windows and vacant doorways stare back. The song tugs at something buried deep within his soul, its meaning dancing just beyond his grasp.

Vision clearing, he goes still. The scene before him shifts, familiar pieces arranged in a pattern that sends ice through his veins. The graffiti-marked walls remain unchanged, but where his younger self should be kneeling beside his father's bleeding form, Clara huddles over two bodies. One belongs to a man whose features blur at the edges of recognition. The other is Svarog9, mechanical limbs twisted and broken, his usually brilliant red eye dark and lifeless.

Clara's small shoulders shake with silent sobs. Scattered pieces of the automaton glint in the dying light, oil mixing with blood on the cracked pavement. Above them, tattered prayer flags flutter from a line strung between buildings, their faded colors matching the motes of dust dancing in the golden air. Each tremor of her grief sends ripples through the haunting melody that still fills the space.

His breath catches, the sound barely audible over the ghostly chorus.

"Ah." The whisper escapes him, carried away by a warm breeze that shouldn't exist in this memory. "I get it now."

Moving forward feels as natural as breathing. His arms encircle the small, shaking form, and she turns into the embrace as if they've shared a thousand such moments. Her face presses against his chest, tears soaking through fabric to skin. The children's chorus swells, and he finds the melody rising in his own throat, a hymn of shared loss and found family:

I will never go…

There's a way back home.

Brighter than tomorrow and yesterday.

"I'm here," he murmurs into her hair, the words meant perhaps for Clara, for his younger self, for every lost child who ever needed someone to make the world right again. "You're not alone. You will never, ever be alone."

The cross pendant ignites against his chest, metal turning molten with an intensity that mirrors the oath in those words. Golden flames spring to life around them, spiraling upward in a column of light that pierces the deepening twilight. The fire doesn't burn—it wraps around them like a mother's embrace, like a father's protective arms, like every promise of safety ever whispered to a frightened child in the dark.

Through the curtain of flame, the prayer flags still flutter. Their shadows dance across brick walls while the children's chorus rises to a crescendo, and in this moment suspended between memory and vision, between past pain and future hope, a bridge forms across time itself—connecting a scared boy in an alley to a grieving girl in a frozen world, healing them both.

————————

The words tear from Clara's throat, echoing through the chamber.

In answer, light blazes from Alexander's form - not the gentle embers from before, but a torrent of golden power that surges upward. The massive chunks of ceiling bearing down on them slam against an invisible barrier, each impact point erupting in bursts of golden flame. Sparks gouge outward like solar flares where stone meets force, casting brilliant reflections across the faces of the gathered crowd.

————————

Wave good-bye to the past,

When hope and faith have grown so strong and sound.

Unfold this pair of wings for me again,

To soar above this world.

Turned into a moon that always tells the warmth and brightness of the sun…

————————

A collective gasp ripples through the crowd as Alexander's eyes snap open, his body arching off the ground. The air around him shimmers with heat, distorting the world like a mirage. His gaze fixes on the suspended debris above, golden eyes burning with renewed purpose. Slowly, deliberately, he rises to his feet, each movement carrying the weight of inevitability.

His right hand raises skyward, mechanical fingers splaying wide. Golden flames burst to life around the prosthetic, spiraling up his arm in intricate patterns. Above, the crystalline shield strengthens, taking on an aureate glow even as more rubble crashes against it. Each impact sends ripples of light across the barrier's surface, like stones dropped in a pool of liquid gold.

"DAN HENG!" The roar tears from his throat, primal and commanding, echoing off the walls with such force that dust shakes loose from distant crevices.

The azure dragon responds, its ethereal form wheeling through the air with impossible grace. Light ripples along its serpentine body as it climbs higher, higher, until it seems to touch the ceiling of their underground world. For a moment, it hangs suspended, a creature of myth caught between earth and heaven. Then it strikes.

The impact when dragon meets debris sends tremors through the ground, but Alexander doesn't move. He stands resolute as the mountain of stone above them dissolves into glittering dust. The particles catch the firelight and dragon's glow, transformed into a cascade of stars falling around his unmoving form.

The scene burns itself into the memories of all who witness it – an azure dragon made of waves soaring triumphant overhead, its power radiating through the chamber, while below, a single figure stands unwavering amidst a sea of huddled humanity. Golden embers rise like summer fireflies around him, each one carrying a piece of their collective hope skyward. His prosthetic arm still burns with inner fire, the mechanical fingers spread wide as if conducting this symphony of destruction and rebirth.

"Thank you, Qlipoth," he whispers, voice carrying in the hushed silence. Then, softer still, eyes closing briefly: "Thank you, God."

Only then does March break free from her transfixed state, tears streaming down her face as she rushes forward to throw her arms around him. "Fifty-five times," she whispers against his chest, voice trembling with both wonder and lingering fear. "I've watched your heart stop fifty-five times, but never—never have I seen you like this. Since it was taking you so long to wake up this time, I thought..." Her fingers dig into his back, ice crystals forming where they touch. "I thought this miracle would be your last."

Clara tilts her head, confusion deepening with each word. This time? Fifty-five times? Her mind struggles to make sense of March's words. No one's heart could stop that many times—they'd be dead, wouldn't they? She's seen enough in the Underworld to know that when someone's heart stops, they don't come back. Yet March speaks as if she's witnessed the impossible again and again. What does she mean?

Alexander returns the embrace, his human arm and still-glowing prosthetic encircling both March and the blonde woman with electricity still crackling at her fingertips. Clara watches curiously as the stranger's shoulders tremble, wondering why a woman so beautiful looks so shaken by what just happened.

Their eyes meet across the chamber. Without hesitation, she runs to him, her heart pounding with joy. Boris and Maria follow close behind. As she reaches Alexander, she throws herself into his arms, feeling the solid reality of his return in that embrace. His heartbeat drums steady against her ear, while Boris and Maria join the hug in a tangle of relief and affection.

"You came back," she whispers.

His features soften, the hard lines of battle melting away as he looks at her. "Hey sunshine," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. His human hand gently brushes her hair back from her face. "Did you ever doubt I'd come back? A promise is a promise, especially to you." His golden eyes shine with warmth, reflecting the floating embers around them. "Seeing you three safe makes everything worth it."

She pulls back slightly, small fingers reaching toward the gleaming prosthetic. It looks so different from Mr. Oleg's or Luka's robust designs - more delicate somehow, like it might fall apart at any moment. "Will it break?"

Alexander laughs softly. "Probably. It's a rush job - nothing like the masterpieces they make here in Belobog. I'll need a proper one when this is all over."

Around them, the underground erupts in cheers – children and adults alike calling out in relief and triumph. Alexander raises his voice, not in celebration but with firm command: "Your applause belongs to Dan Heng! To every healer and shielder who's fought to save lives today!"

His prosthetic hand reaches out, gently grasping March's wrist while his human hand finds Serval's, raising them both high. His voice softens, carrying a depth of emotion that makes the chamber fall silent. "And if I may make one personal request – remember these two women. My guardian angels." Golden light reflects off his prosthetic fingers as they tighten slightly around March's wrist. "Without them, I wouldn't be standing here. None of this would have been possible." His voice gains strength, filling the vast space. "Remember their names: March 7th and Serval Landau."

March beams at the praise, her eyes bright with unshed tears. Her free hand waves to the crowd as she nods thankfully to Xander, ice crystals still forming where their skin meets. The joy radiating from her is almost palpable, warming the air around them as surely as Xander's inner fire.

Beside her, Serval stands more reserved, her expression transforming slowly as realization dawns. Her eyes sweep across the sea of faces – hundreds of them, each one alive because she refused to let his heart stay still, because she shocked him back to life again and again. The magnitude of what they've accomplished together finally settles over her like a mantle.

Her gaze meets Xander's, and time seems to slow. Neither speaks, but volumes pass between them in that endless moment – regret, understanding, and the weight of everything they've endured together. Purple sparks still dance between her fingers where they grip his hand, while golden embers continue to rise around them both. The air grows heavy with unspoken words, conversations postponed but not forgotten. Later, when the dust settles and the world stops ending, there will be time to untangle the complicated threads between them. But for now, this silence is enough.

The crowd redirects their appreciation, their gratitude washing over the exhausted rescue teams in waves of sound. Clara spots Gepard watching from nearby, something like pride softening his stern features.

Spotting Bronya and Seele approaching through the crowd, Alexander gently sets Clara down and moves to meet them. To the girl's surprise, he wraps them both in a tight embrace. She's never seen Seele accept such familiarity before, but both her and the Silvermane Commander melt into the hug as if drawing strength from it.

"You crazy bastard, what drives you?" Seele's voice carries quiet wonder as she pulls back. "To push yourself so far beyond breaking, again and again?"

Alexander's golden eyes soften as he looks between them. "The cost of failure here isn't measured in numbers," he says, voice gentle but firm. "It's in children who won't see their parents again. In families torn apart. In dreams snuffed out before they could take flight. Belobog isn't just buildings and walls - or arbitrary divisions like the Overworld and the Underworld. It's the bonds between its people. That's what we're fighting to preserve."

Bronya shakes her head, a bitter smile touching her lips. "The demon I once feared turned out to be Qlipoth's blessing all along." Her voice catches. "In the name of all Belobog, thank you. Though it should never have fallen to an outsider to bear this burden. This was my responsibility to—"

"Bronya." Alexander's prosthetic hand settles on her shoulder. "When grief threatens to drown us, we need anchors to hold fast to. Your people look to you now more than ever - not for perfection, but for strength. The coming days will demand even more from you, but you've proven yourself equal to the task."

Clara watches the Commander's spine straighten almost imperceptibly at his words, as if accepting a mantle she'd momentarily forgotten she wore.

"Also… don't thank me yet," Alexander adds, his gaze shifting upward to where cracks still spider across the stone far in the distance above. "Job's not finished," he says quietly, and Clara feels the weight of unspoken things passing between the adults.10

She may be young, but she recognizes the sound of someone preparing for another battle. The underground falls into uneasy quiet, broken only by the soft murmur and the steady rhythm of the song that started it all.

Looking around, Clara sees something she never thought possible - the Underworld transformed. Golden embers drift like stars through every tunnel and corridor, chasing away shadows that had dwelled there since the beginning of memory. The bitter cold that had been their constant companion has retreated entirely, replaced by a gentle warmth that reminds her of Mr. Svarog's workshop on good days. Boris and Maria stand transfixed beside her, their joined hands lifted slightly as if to catch the dancing lights.

For the first time since she can remember, the vast chamber blazes with inner fire, as if the heart of Belobog itself has awakened. Each ember traces paths of light through the darkness, until the underground glows brighter than any story of the sun she's ever been told.

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May all the beauty be blessed.11