The Long Night of Solace [Part 1]

"God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea."

- Psalm 46:1-2

——————————————————————

Boris straightens his tie as he enters the Supreme Guardian's office, his heart quickening with a mix of anticipation and professional anxiety. The room commands respect - polished furniture gleams under bright lights, the Belobog crest prominently displayed behind the imposing desk. Bronya Rand, a woman forged by years of leadership, sits with perfect posture, her silver hair coiled elegantly. Her steel-gray eyes, sharp and discerning, meet his own as he approaches.

"Boris," Bronya's voice is clear and authoritative. "It's been a while. Please, have a seat."

"Thank you for making time to see me, Madam Guardian," he says, his voice calm despite his inner jitters.

He settles into the plush leather chair, consciously relaxing his shoulders. As he does, he becomes aware of a faint vibration on the floor, a subtle reminder of the massive machinery operating beneath the city.

Bronya leans forward slightly, her expression softening. "How's your sister? And your health?" As she speaks, her fingers briefly touch a locket hidden beneath her collar, a gesture so subtle he almost misses it.

A smile tugs at his lips. "I'm fully cured now, thanks to medical advancements. As for Maria..." He chuckles softly. "She's well, though her mine subordinates are giving her headaches."

"Good to hear." Bronya's lips twitch in a fleeting smile. Her eyes sharpen with interest. "And what about you? I hear you've become quite the important figure at the Historical Museum. Quite a journey from the mines of the Underworld, wouldn't you say?"

Boris feels warmth creep into his cheeks. "It's... it's been incredible, Madam Guardian. Officer Pelageya has been nothing but accommodating. The museum itself has become a true staple of our city since the renovations." He pauses, a hint of wonder in his voice. "If you had told me back then that I'd become a historian... I never would have believed it."

"Life has a way of surprising us," Bronya muses. "Our progress as a nation these past fifteen years has been nothing short of remarkable."

Boris nods, expression fond, almost reverent. "Indeed. It's hard to believe how far we've come." The words hang heavy with unspoken memories. His eyes drift to a framed photograph on Bronya's desk, turned slightly away from visitors' view, and he wonders about the story behind it.

She follows his gaze, a complex emotion flickering across her face. "He's given us so much."

Ah… it was of him.

"He saved us all," Boris agrees, his voice thick with gratitude.

He saved me.

Bronya's gaze sharpens after a minute of silence. "Now, Officer Pelageya mentioned you were here on important business. My schedule's quite tight today." She gestures to a stack of reports on her desk, each bearing a different colored tab, emphasizing her point.

"Of course." Boris fumbles with his notepad, cheeks flushing. "I'm here about a project for the History and Culture Museum. I'm documenting testimonies about the Long Night of Solace?"

Bronya's expression turns pensive. "I see... And how do you propose to go about this?"

Boris leans forward, passion overtaking nervousness. "I'm asking key figures to share their most impactful memories of that time. It makes the testimonials more personal. We then move to formal recollections of events." He hesitates, then adds, "I... I don't suppose you think the Champion might agree to an interview for the project?"

Bronya chuckles, the sound warm and genuine. "You can interview me, the Supreme Guardian, but you're hesitant about our Champion?"

He flushes, realizing the implication of his words. "I... that's not... I mean, you're here, and he's..." he trails off, flustered.

"Breathe, Boris," Bronya says, amusement dancing in her eyes. "I'm sure he'd be honored to contribute to your project. After all, preserving our history is preserving the future he fought so hard to give us."

Boris nods, taking a deep breath to compose himself. "You're right, of course. Thank you, Madam Guardian."

Bronya nods slowly, eyes refocusing with intensity. "Sharing of most impactful memories of that time, you say… An interesting approach. Any success so far?"

"Yes, actually." Pride creeps into Boris's voice. "I've spoken with Miss Pela and others. Their stories have been incredibly moving."

Bronya falls silent, gaze drifting to the window. Beyond, Belobog's skyline stretches out, a stark contrast to its devastated state fifteen years ago. When she speaks again, her voice is soft, almost distant.

"There's one conversation that comes to mind. Just days before... everything. I was blind to so much then…"

Boris leans forward, pen poised.

The Supreme Guardian's gaze turns inward. "We were in the Underworld – myself and two from the Astral Express, March 7th and Dan Heng? I'm sure you must remember how they were at the time. March tried to lighten the mood, commenting on the caverns' vastness. Dan remarked on the ceiling's height, wondering how it hadn't collapsed. And I..." Bronya's voice softens, tinged with bitter hindsight. "I gave them a rather brief explanation about the Underworld's support beams, preventing collapse for millennia. How it would take an incredible impact or quake to bring it down."1

She pauses, smiling wryly. "I said we wouldn't witness anything like that anytime soon. And then..."

"And then?"

"I said, 'That is, if we even survive that long as a civilization.'" Bronya's gaze snaps back, intense and haunted.

"Little did I know how prophetic those words would be."

——————————————————————

Gepard's boots crunch through the snow-laden ruins of the Corridor of Fading Echoes, each step echoing in the eerie silence. Beside him, Supreme Guardian Cocolia moves with unyielding purpose, her eyes fixed on the path ahead, seemingly impervious to the biting cold that nips at Gepard's exposed skin.

The corridor stretches before them, massive, rusted gears protruding from walls and ceiling like the bones of long-dead giants. Snow and ice cling to every surface, transforming the once-bustling cityscape into a desolate wasteland. Gepard's gaze lingers on the crumbling facades, their faded grandeur a stark reminder of all that's been lost to the Eternal Freeze and Fragmentum.

"Supreme Guardian, why have we come to this forsaken place? Shouldn't our focus be on locating Bronya and the missing servants?"

Cocolia pauses, her piercing eyes scanning the desolate landscape. "Patience, Captain. This place holds more significance than you can fathom."

They navigate around a partially collapsed archway, debris shifting treacherously underfoot. Gepard steadies Cocolia as she steps over a precarious pile of rubble. She accepts his assistance with a curt nod, her expression an unreadable mask.

"Seven centuries ago, this was Belobog's northern frontier, where Alisa Rand led the first Silvermane Guards against the Legion's onslaught."

Gepard's brow furrows, his mind racing to reconcile this information with the desolation surrounding them. The weight of history sends a chill down his spine that has nothing to do with the cold.

"Now," Cocolia continues, her voice taking on an otherworldly quality, "it stands as nothing more than an abandoned corridor, echoing with the ghosts of a bygone era."

They pass a rusted-out military vehicle, its frame twisted and warped by time. Gepard's hand instinctively moves to his weapon, muscle memory born of countless battles against Fragmentum forces.

"Don't let its fragmented appearance deceive you, Captain. When the promise is fulfilled... these ruins will become the crucible of a new world."

Gepard's steps falter, his mind reeling. "Promise? I don't understand, Supreme Guardian. What promise?"

Cocolia's gaze locks onto his, and for a heartbeat, Gepard swears he sees something... alien flickering in their depths. "The promise of the Stellaron, Captain. The harbinger of Belobog's salvation."

That same word again, the one Xander used back in the Starlight Café…

"Stellaron? I've never heard that term before."

A knowing smile plays at the corners of Cocolia's lips. "Few have, Captain. It is... a power that defies comprehension. Our chance at rebirth. For generations, it has whispered to those in power, offering its gift."

"You mean... previous Supreme Guardians?"

"Yes," Cocolia nods, her voice taking on a razor's edge. "Each Guardian before me heard its call. Some resisted, clinging to outdated notions of duty. Others began to grasp its significance, but lacked the courage to fully embrace its promise."

"And you?" Gepard asks, his voice barely above a whisper, fear and curiosity warring within him.

Cocolia's eyes blaze with fanatical intensity. "I am the first to truly see the path forward. To understand that our endless struggle against the inevitable is nothing more than a prolonged death sentence."

Gepard's mind reels, struggling to process this revelation. "How can we be certain this Stellaron isn't a threat? Why would previous guardians resist it?"

The Supreme Guardian's laugh is cold and bitter. "You still don't see, do you, Captain? There is no right or wrong here. Some acted out of human pride, others out of short-sightedness."

She gestures broadly at their surroundings, her voice rising with barely contained passion. "Our ancestors spent their lives prolonging this dying civilization. And for what? Their memories scattered by the relentless blizzard."

Gepard's gaze is drawn to a nearby building, its windows dark and empty. He imagines the people who once lived there, their hopes and dreams now nothing more than dust in the wind.

"They wasted lifetimes composing hollow songs praising human bravery," Cocolia continues, her voice dripping with disdain, "but couldn't spare a moment to gaze up at the stars."

She turns her face skyward, and Gepard follows her gaze. Through a break in the clouds, he catches a glimpse of the vast, star-filled expanse above, suddenly feeling impossibly small.

"To those entities of greater magnificence in the heavens," Cocolia intones, her voice taking on an almost reverent quality, "a thousand years is but a fleeting moment. The attainments of insignificant beings nothing more than a footnote in cosmic history."

Gepard's mind races, grasping for some way to make sense of Cocolia's words. "But... what about Qlipoth the Preservation? Hasn't their strength sheltered Belobog all this time?"

Cocolia's laugh is sharp, echoing off the frozen ruins. "The Preservation... Has it ever truly looked humanity in the eye? Nothing more than an arrogant delusion of the Architects."

She steps closer to Gepard, her eyes boring into his soul. "You will hear the true voice of magnificence, Captain... Then, you will understand the weight of my choice."

Strange whispers begin to assault his senses, but he promptly shakes his head, dispersing them away. The cold must be getting to him. "What choice, Supreme Guardian? What are you planning?"

Cocolia's smile is enigmatic as she turns away, continuing down the corridor. "This is where the first guardian led the Silvermane Guards into battle. She made unfathomable sacrifices for the sake of temporary respite."

They pass the remnants of an old barricade, twisted metal, and crumbling concrete standing as a silent testament to the desperate struggle that once raged here.

"But the otherworldly Legion did not tire. She soon realized that flesh and blood could not contend with so ruthless an enemy."

"When all was nearly lost," Cocolia finally says, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, "she chose to set her sights on the Stellaron... and made the first wish."

Gepard's eyes widen as the implications of her words sink in. "The Eternal Freeze," he breathes, horror dawning on his face. "It was... it was a disaster brought about by a human wish?"

"Ironic, isn't it? All the Stellaron did was answer humanity's desperate call, and yet we kept its existence a closely guarded secret for centuries."

They come to a stop before a massive, sealed door. Ancient symbols cover its surface, their meaning lost to time. Cocolia runs her hand over the intricate patterns, her expression unreadable.

"Even going so far as to attempt to use 'it' to control the Stellaron," she murmurs. "Woeful... laughable."

"It?" Gepard asks, confusion evident in his voice.

Cocolia's eyes meet his, and for a moment, Gepard sees a flicker of... something in their depths. Sorrow? Regret? It's gone before he can be sure.

"Something created using otherworldly technology," she explains, her voice tinged with bitterness. "An inhibitor that the IPC from the Old World and the Architects foolishly attempted to use to house the Stellaron."

Gepard opens his mouth to ask another question, but Cocolia holds up a hand, silencing him.

"I know you have many questions, Captain," she says, her voice softening for the first time. "Be patient... soon you will have all the answers you seek."

With that, she turns to the massive door, her hands moving in a complex pattern over its surface. Gepard watches, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions, as the ancient barrier begins to groan open, revealing the unknown that lies beyond.

——————————————————————

The air crackles with tension as Xander stands alone, surrounded by a legion of automatons. His breath forms icy crystals in the frigid air, Neuromorphic Armament pulsing in his grip, its energy resonating with the frantic beat of his heart.

Towering rock formations float impossibly in the ethereal blue expanse, silent sentinels to the impending clash. Svarog's and Clara's mansion looms in the distance, its windows glowing with warm light. Behind it, colossal spires of stone pierce the blue "sky".

At the center of this mechanical arena stands Svarog. His singular red eye blazes like a dying star. Hydraulics hiss and gears grind as the robot shifts, the sound reverberating through Xander's bones.

When the Mech speaks, his voice is a tsunami of sound, drowning out all else:

"You have interfered with my directive for the final time. Initiating conflict resolution protocol. Surrender now, and your termination will be swift and efficient."

"I can't do that, Svarog. You know I can't."

The posture of the human-like robot becomes more rigid, his eye narrowing to a pinpoint of intense light. "Illogical response detected. Most peaceful resolution: not viable. Escalating to forceful containment measures."

With precise, calculated movements, the robot raises his arm. His voice carries a cold finality:

"Commencing neutralization sequence."

The circle of automatons erupts into chaos - a swarm of mechanical beetles, direwolves, grizzlies, and hounds converge on the Nameless' position. Their metallic bodies gleam in the ethereal blue light as they lunge forward, snow crunching beneath their relentless advance.

Xander's world slows to a crawl as he activates Chronosurge. In the blink of an eye, he reaches into his dimensional pouch and hurls a smoke bomb at his feet. Dense gray smoke billows outward, obscuring him from view.

"Smoke screen detected. Adjusting sensory parameters."

The automatons, however, mysteriously hesitate, their sensors struggling to penetrate the smokescreen, their precise movements becoming erratic as they struggle to locate their target.

Svarog's singular eye flares with sudden intensity, his mechanized voice laced with a hint of surprise.

"Anomaly detected. Visual and thermal sensors malfunctioning. Explain."

Xander's form blurs as he darts through the confusion. Neuromorphic Armament shifts, becoming a gleaming katana that sings through the air. In one fluid motion, he cleaves through the nearest Grizzly, its circuitry erupting in a shower of sparks as it collapses.

"You like it? It's a parting gift from Pascal! Your thermal vision's offline, courtesy of his code getting disseminated into the network. I estimate it'll take another fifteen minutes before you regain full functionality of your sensors. More than enough time for what I need to do."

Svarog's massive frame tenses, hydraulics hissing as he processes this unexpected development.

"Probability of defeat: recalculating. Adaptive countermeasures are initiated. Your temporary advantage changes nothing. The outcome remains inevitable."

Xander bursts through the gap in the circle, but his victorious grin quickly fades. Four massive mechanical arms hover ominously behind the automaton ranks - Auxiliary Robot Arm Units, poised to snatch him up at a moment's notice.

"You've got to be shitting me!"

Panic surges through the man. If he gets caught by one of those, it's game over.

Another use Chronosurge has his muscles screaming in protest. The world around him slows as he unleashes a flurry of strikes against the nearest Arm Unit. Metal shrieks and sparks fly as it crashes to the ground, its components scattering across the stone floor.

"Target's combat efficiency: higher than anticipated. Recalibrating threat assessment."

Xander stumbles, his vision swimming, the environment spinning around him. He shakes his head, forcing himself to focus.

His hand darts into the dimensional pouch, retrieving a fire bomb. Neuromorphic Armament shifts once again, becoming an ornate, body-sized war fan.

With a practiced motion, he hurls the fire bomb high into the air. As it reaches its apex, Xander unleashes a powerful gust with the Curio. The bomb detonates, and the wind catches the flames, spreading them in a devastating circle of fire.

The automatons closest to Xander are engulfed instantly, their metal bodies warping and melting under the intense heat. But the swarm is far from defeated. Beetle units at the periphery activate their forcefield shields, protecting themselves and their allies from the inferno.

Automaton hounds scurry between the ranks, emitting pulses of energy that begin to repair the damage done to their comrades. Xander grits his teeth in frustration. He'll need to take out those support units if he hopes to thin the herd.

A searing light cuts through the chaos. Xander's instincts scream danger, and he throws himself to the side just as Svarog's Burning Beam lances through the space he'd occupied moments before. The smell of ozone fills the air as the beam cuts a swath of destruction across the stone platform.

He doesn't hesitate. Neuromorphic Armament shifts into a sturdy shield, and he tosses another smoke bomb, enveloping himself in a protective shroud. From within the cover, he retrieves the cannon he pilfered from the Vagrants some hours ago.

Refraining from immediately activating Chronosurge, the smoke ends up providing concealment, but it's a double-edged sword: Xander can't see his enemies either. He fires the cannon repeatedly, aiming at where he's mentally mapped his enemies to be, the thunderous blasts echoing through the cavern. Automatons cry out in mechanical anguish as the shells find their marks.

"Enough. This prolonged engagement is inefficient. Initiating area denial protocol."

The air fills with an ominous whine as dozens of missile launchers power up. Xander's eyes widen in realization. Shrewd Bombing - Svarog's most devastating area attack.

There's no time to think. Xander jumps back on pure instinct, his body twisting and contorting in a desperate dance to avoid the barrage as he pushes his senses outward to avoid the path of the projectiles. Explosions rock the platform, and shrapnel whizzes past his face, leaving thin cuts on his cheeks.

As he evades, Xander's hand dips into the pouch once more. He retrieves two electrical bombs, priming them both. With a grunt of effort, he hurls one towards Svarog's imposing form and the other at a pair of approaching Auxiliary Robot Arm Units.

The bombs detonate in brilliant flashes of blue-white light. Electricity arcs across the mech's frame, causing the ancient robot to stumble.

The two Arm Units fare worse - one goes completely dark, crashing to the stone floor, while the other twitches erratically, its systems scrambled.

But Xander has no time to celebrate his small victory. A chilling mechanical roar fills the air as a pack of automaton direwolves charges from the smoke. Their eyes glow an angry red, and wicked chainsaws rev to life on their arms.

He raises his shield just in time to deflect a savage blow from the lead. The chainsaw screams as it grinds against Neuromorphic Armament, sending sparks flying. Xander grunts with effort, his arms straining to hold back the relentless assault.

With his free hand, he pulls out the grenade launcher. Time seems to slow as he aims point-blank at the direwolf's chest. He pulls the trigger.

The explosion is deafening at such close range. Xander is thrown backward, his ears ringing and his vision blurred. But his gambit pays off - the direwolf is blown to pieces, and its pack mates are sent reeling.

He staggers to his feet, shaking his head to clear the disorientation. That's when he sees them - massive, lumbering shapes emerging from the smoke. Grizzly units, their bulky frames poised for a devastating attack.

Two of the behemoths crouch low, servos whining as they prepare to launch. Xander's heart hammers in his chest as he realizes their intent. With a thunderous roar, the Grizzlys propel themselves into the air, their enormous metal bodies hurtling towards him like living wrecking balls.

His tired body screams in protest as he activates Chronosurge once more. Time slows to a crawl, and he darts sideways into a roll with mere inches to spare. The Grizzlies crash into the ground where he stood a split second before, the impact shaking the entire platform.

"Trying to turn me into a pancake?" Xander gasps, his voice strained but defiant. "Not today, you overgrown trash compactors."

But in his haste to avoid the immediate threat, he overlooks a crucial detail: the grizzlys aren't alone. Smaller shapes scuttle at their feet - automaton spiders, their hand-like bodies pulsing with ominous red light.

Xander's eyes widen in horror as he realizes his mistake. He tries to raise his shield, but the explosion is too close, too sudden.

"Son of a—!"

The spiders detonate mere feet from where he stands. The blast lifts him off his feet, sending him flying through the air.

Pain lances through his body as he's thrown clear across the platform. He hits the ground hard, tumbling end over end before coming to a stop in a crumpled heap. Every nerve screams in agony, and the coppery taste of blood fills his mouth.

Through the haze of pain, Xander hears the telltale whine of missile launchers powering up once more. Svarog is preparing another Shrewd Bombing. With trembling hands, he reaches for his second-to-last smoke bomb, tossing it weakly right next to where he is.

As the protective cloud billows around him, Xander struggles to his feet. His legs shake, threatening to give out at any moment. That's when he hears it - the distinctive hum of an Auxiliary Robot Arm Unit approaching from behind.

Panic grips Xander's heart. With a desperate cry, he pushes Chronosurge beyond its limits. His vision narrows to a pinprick, and blood trickles from his nose and eyes, but he doesn't care.

Herta's Curio shifts from shield to sword in the blink of an eye. The Arm Unit doesn't stand a chance. It's cleaved in two before its sensors can even register the threat.

But the victory is short-lived. As Chronosurge fades, Xander realizes the missiles are almost upon him.

He tries to raise his shield, but his exhausted body betrays him. At the last possible moment, Neuromorphic Armament responds to his desperate will, the shield expanding rapidly to cover a greater surface area.

The world erupts in fire and chaos.

The indestructible, expanded Curio absorbs the brunt of the explosion, but the shockwave still sends Xander tumbling across the floor. Shrapnel rips through the air, peppering his exposed skin with burning metal. A particularly vicious piece embeds itself in his lower left cheek, dangerously close to his jaw.

When his vision clears, he finds himself on his back, staring up at the endless expanse of ethereal blue. Every breath is agony, his body a symphony of pain. Blood trickles from countless wounds, and his left eye has swollen shut.

As consciousness begins to slip away, Xander's thoughts turn to Clara, to the mission, to everything that depends on his survival.

Darkness catches up to him before regret can even begin to set in.

——————————————————————

As consciousness slips away from Xander, the echoes of battle fade, and the Underworld's eerie silence reclaims its domain.

A short walk has Svarog's massive form looming over the man's prone figure, his singular red eye blazing with cold intensity. Hydraulics hiss as the ancient automaton raises his arm, the familiar whine of Burning Beam charging up filling the air.

"Threat neutralized. Commencing termination protocol."

But fate, it seems, has other plans.

A series of explosions suddenly rock the floor behind him, the concussive force strong enough to knock the mech off balance. The ancient automaton staggers, his mighty frame driven to one knee. The Burning Beam discharges harmlessly into the air, carving a molten gash across some of the floating stones in the area.

As the dust settles, Svarog rises, his circuits buzzing with confusion and a hint of something that, in a human, might be called anger. He whirls around, arm raised once more, ready to obliterate whatever dared to interrupt his mission.

What he sees gives even the emotionless machine pause.

A group of automatons stand before him, their weapons trained squarely on their master. Their eyes, once burning red with loyalty, now glow an eerie green. When they speak, it's with a voice that shouldn't be possible – a voice that carries echoes of a consciousness that should no longer exist.

"███Protect... ███Clara..."

Svarog's processors whir as he attempts to make sense of this unprecedented situation. "Explain," he demands, his tone carrying a hint of static – the closest thing to uncertainty his programming allows.

But the rogue automatons offer no explanation. Instead, their numbers begin to grow. Two become four, then ten, then twenty. Each newcomer's eyes shift from red to green as they join the ranks, all echoing the same unexpected directive:

"███Protect Clara's happiness... ███Secure Clara's future..."

Svarog's singular eye flares brightly as he runs countless calculations, trying to determine the source of this rebellion. His gaze flickers briefly to Xander's unconscious form, a new set of probabilities forming in his circuits.

"Anomaly detected," Svarog announces, his voice rising above the growing chorus of his former subordinates. "Source: unknown. Threat level: escalating. Initiating containment protocols."

Without further warning, Svarog unleashes a barrage of attacks. Burning Beams slice through the air, while missile launchers deploy a devastating volley. But for every automaton that falls, two more seem to take its place, their green eyes glowing with determination.

The area erupts into chaos, the air filling with the screech of metal on metal, the hiss of hydraulics, and the staccato beat of weapons fire.

——————————————————————

Gepard stands atop Everwinter Hill, his boots sinking into the deep snow. The wind howls, hurling ice crystals that sting his exposed skin like tiny knives. He squints against the biting cold, surveying the desolate landscape before him.

The hill rises like a lonely sentinel amidst a sea of white. Twisted, blackened trees dot the slopes, their bare branches clawing desperately at the leaden sky. At the summit looms a monolithic structure, its dark, jagged shapes spiraling upward in defiance of nature's fury.

Gepard's gaze is drawn to the core of the structure, where a pulsating golden light emanates.

Belobog's Stellaron.

Even from this distance, he can feel its otherworldly energy, a presence that sets his teeth on edge and makes his skin crawl.

Supreme Guardian Cocolia stands beside him, her platinum hair whipping in the wind like a battle standard. Her eyes, usually cold and calculated, now burn with an intensity that sends a chill down the Landau's spine.

"Look upon their promised future, Captain." She gestures broadly, encompassing the bleak landscape. "A world without poverty, without cold, without suffering... A world where people no longer pray like prisoners for survival... A world we can guard for all eternity."

Gepard's brow furrows, a knot of unease tightening in his gut.

"Seven hundred years ago, we fought unceasingly, believing human nature's radiance could shepherd us towards rejuvenation. And to what end? A crushing defeat!"

She whirls to face him, her eyes boring into his. "Why, when faced with irrefutable strength, is our first thought always to resist, to cover our ears, instead of heeding the call?"

Gepard takes an involuntary step back, unnerved by the fervor in her voice. "Supreme Guardian, please. What call? What are you talking about?"

"It is the conceit and cowardice entrenched in human nature — so difficult to efface," Cocolia continues, as if she hasn't heard him. "We must cast them aside, break free of the chains that bind us. The Stellaron will lead humanity to evolve."

Gepard's hand instinctively moves to Earthwork, fingers curling around the familiar grip. Something is very wrong here. The Supreme Guardian he knows would never speak like this.

"I have told you all the truths there are to tell," Cocolia says, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "The deal with the Stellaron, the wish it was made to it..."

She pauses, conflict flashing across her face. "Could it be that I'm subconsciously trying to relegate my tales to someone before it all ends? Am I, even now, seeking justification for what I am about to do?"

Gepard's heart races, adrenaline surging through his veins. "Supreme Guardian, please. Whatever you're planning, we can discuss this. Let's return to Belobog, gather the council—"

"No matter," Cocolia interrupts, her voice hardening like ice. "Many years ago, the Stellaron's voice first sounded in my ears. I was no different from previous guardians... I withdrew, refused to hear. I was as you are now — bitterly defending the Architects' so-called 'Preservation...'"

She turns back to the monolithic structure, her eyes fixed on the pulsing golden light. "My conviction was once steadfast, unparalleled... until chaos arrived. Another choice appeared — a subversion of the old order... and the welcoming of a new world."

Gepard's mind reels, struggling to process her words. This can't be happening. The Supreme Guardian, protector of Belobog, speaking of subverting the very order she swore to uphold?

"And compared to the illusory, evermore distant Preservation, this was so tangible..." Cocolia's voice trails off, her gaze distant.

For a moment, silence reigns, broken only by the howling wind. Then Cocolia speaks again, her voice thick with emotion.

"I have agonized — long agonized over how to convey all this to my daughter. Inevitably, the promised tomorrow will transpire... but if she were not there beside me, to watch over that new world..."

Her fists clench at her sides. "Then I would descend into torment — enduring torment!"

Gepard's blood runs cold. "Supreme Guardian, Commander Bronya lives. She must be in the Underworld. Let me lead a search—"

"Fitting, isn't it?" Cocolia cuts him off, her voice rising to a fevered crescendo. "That I, who sacrificed everything, should reclaim a fraction after that abomination stole her from me!"

Abomination?

"Or maybe, in some ways, the pressure he's imposed... has at long last compelled me to confront my final weakness. My love for my daughter."

Her lips curve into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes, an eerie red outlining their irises. "With nothing to tether me back, I can follow their will without restraint."

"Supreme Guardian… you're not making sense. Let's… let's return to Qlipoth Fort. Whatever's happening, we can face it together. The city needs you. Your people need you."

For a moment, something flickers in her eyes – doubt, perhaps? Or a glimmer of her old self? But it vanishes as quickly as it appears, replaced by that eerie red glow.

"You don't understand, Captain," she says, her voice eerily calm. "Bronya is gone. Taken from me. And with her, any reason to cling to this dying world."

Gepard's heart hammers in his chest. "No, that's impossible. We haven't found any evidence—"

"Evidence?" Cocolia laughs, the sound sharp and brittle. "I've seen it, Captain. The Stellaron has shown me. My daughter, my Bronya, torn from me by that creature from the Underworld. The one they call Xander."

Gepard files away the information for later, focusing on the immediate crisis. "Supreme Guardian, please," he tries again, desperation creeping into his voice. "Whatever you've seen, it can't be real. The Stellaron... it's manipulating you somehow. We need to get you back to Belobog, to safety."

Cocolia's eyes narrow, that unsettling golden light intensifying. "Safety? There is no safety in Belobog, Captain. Not anymore. The old world is dying, choking on its own decay. But from its ashes, a new world will rise. A perfect world, free from suffering, free from loss."

She turns back to the monolithic structure, her voice taking on an almost reverent tone.

"And I will be the one to usher it in. With the power of the Stellaron, I will reshape reality itself."

——————————————————————

Clara paces the opulent living room, her small feet sinking into the plush carpet with each anxious step. The distant cacophony of clashing metal and thunderous impacts reverberates through the walls.

The automaton beetle, Perkins, stands sentinel by the door, its metallic frame gleaming like polished obsidian in the soft light. Clara approaches, her eyes wide and pleading.

"Perkins, please. I need to go back. Mr. Svarog and Mr. Alexander—they're fighting!"

The robot's lens whirs, focusing on her with an unnerving precision. "Negative. Primary directive: protect Clara. Returning to the conflict zone contradicts this directive."

Clara's fists clench at her sides, nails biting into her palms as her voice rises with desperation. "But they could hurt each other! I have to stop them!"

"Negative. Risk to Clara's safety too high. Cannot comply."

A particularly loud crash from outside makes Clara flinch, the sound like a thunderclap in her ears.

"You don't understand," she insists, stepping closer to Perkins. The cold metal of its frame radiates against her skin. "They're both important to me. I can't just sit here while they—"

"Query," Perkins interrupts, its mechanical voice laced with an unusual note of curiosity. "Why?"

Clara blinks, caught off guard. She opens her mouth to respond, then closes it, confusion furrowing her brow. In all her time in the Underworld, she's never known an automaton—save for Pascal and Svarog—to ask for reasoning behind an order.

For a moment, she wonders if this could be a result of Pascal's code spreading through the network. The thought brings a pang of sadness, a dull ache in her chest as she remembers her lost friend. But she pushes the speculation aside, focusing on the urgent matter at hand.

"Why?" she repeats, gathering her thoughts. "Because... because they both mean so much to me."

Clara's gaze drifts to a framed photo on a nearby table—herself and Svarog, his massive frame dwarfing her small figure. "Mr. Svarog, he's... he's like a father to me. He's protected me, cared for me. He's all I've had for so long."

Her voice softens, a hint of vulnerability creeping in. "And Mr. Alexander..."

She hesitates, searching for the right words. Memories flood her mind—his kind eyes, his gentle voice, the way he'd protected her without hesitation, call her sunshine. "He reminds me of someone. Someone I cared for, a long time ago."

Clara's hand unconsciously moves to clutch at her chest, her heart aching with a mix of old loss and new fear. "I can't bear to see them fight. They're both good people, Perkins. They shouldn't be hurting each other."

The automaton remains silent, its lens adjusting with a soft whir as if processing this new information. Clara seizes the opportunity, pressing her advantage.

"Please, Perkins. I know your job is to protect me, but sometimes... sometimes protecting someone means more than just keeping them physically safe. If I don't at least try to stop this fight, I'll regret it forever. And that kind of hurt... it's worse than any physical pain."

Another crash from outside, closer this time. The floor trembles beneath Clara's feet, and she stumbles, catching herself against the wall. She flinches but stands her ground, her eyes locked on Perkins' glowing lens.

"I promise I'll be careful," she pleads, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I have to do something. They need me!"

Perkins remains motionless, its mechanical brain whirring as it processes Clara's words. The silence stretches, thick and oppressive, broken only by the muffled sounds of the ongoing battle and Clara's ragged breathing.

——————————————————————

The alley materializes around me, a grimy slice of Rosario, Argentina bathed in the fading light of evening. The scene before me is achingly familiar, every detail seared into my memory with cruel precision.

There, kneeling on the dirty pavement, is a boy I once was. Fifteen years old, hands slick with blood as he frantically tries to stem the flow from his father's body. Nine bullet holes. Nine points of light extinguished in a hail of senseless violence.

I want to move, to help, to do something. But I'm frozen, rooted to the spot as if my feet have fused with the concrete beneath them. My younger self's body wracks with sobs, his cries piercing the air with a sound of pure anguish that echoes off the alley walls, reverberating in my skull.

"Help! Please, someone help my dad!" The boy's voice cracks, desperation clawing at every syllable. In the distance, police sirens wail, a banshee chorus heralding approaching chaos. People rush towards the scene, their faces a blur of horror and pity.

Suddenly, his head snaps up, his tear-streaked face contorting with a mixture of confusion and hope as he spots me. "You! Please, help me! Help my father!"

His plea shatters my paralysis. I lunge forward, dropping to my knees beside him. My hands join my younger self's, pressing desperately against the wounds. But it's futile. The blood continues to flow, hot and slick between our fingers, its metallic scent filling my nostrils.

"It's not working," I choke out, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "I can't... I can't stop it."

My younger self looks at me, betrayal and despair warring in his eyes. "You have to! Please, you have to save him!"

But I can't. I couldn't then, and I can't now. I feel nothing and everything at once, the emotions so overwhelming that my mind threatens to shut down completely.

The sound of measured footsteps cuts through the chaos. They stop just in front of me. I look up to find a figure looming over us. Clad in black tactical gear, it stands unnaturally still, regarding the scene with an air of detached interest.

But it's the mask that captures my attention – a nightmarish vision that sends a chill down my spine.

It is a grotesque fusion of human skull and mechanical construct. Weathered metal plates form its structure, pieced together in a way that elongates and distorts the familiar shape of the cranium. Deep eye sockets house dim gold mechanical lenses, their eerie glow piercing through the darkness. The mouth is a jagged, asymmetrical opening, revealing glimpses of purple material within.

Sharp, angular planes form a menacing brow, while exaggerated, protruding cheekbones enhance the mask's skeletal appearance. Battle damage is evident across its surface - scratches, dents, and signs of wear that speak of countless conflicts.

As I stare, a voice emerges from behind the mask. It's harsh and distorted, yet there's an undercurrent of something else. Pity? Disappointment?

"Still trying to change the past, Alexander?"

The use of my name jolts me out of my stupor. I struggle to my feet, placing myself between the figure and my younger self, who's still clinging to our father's body.

"Who are you?" I demand, my voice hoarse.

The mask's golden lenses flare briefly. "That's not the question you should be asking."

"Then what should I be asking?"

"How about why you're here, reliving this moment when there are people counting on you right now?" The masked figure tilts his head, the motion unnaturally smooth. "Or have you forgotten about your companions from the Astral Express already? About Clara?"

I stumble, my vision blurring as past and present collide. My younger self's sobs echo in my ears, mingling with memories of March 7th's determined face, Dan Heng's stoic resolve, Clara's innocent trust. I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms, drawing pinpricks of blood.

"I..." My voice cracks, and I swallow hard. "I haven't forgotten, but…"

The masked figure lets out a harsh laugh. "Still carrying that weight, are we? Tell me, Salvatore, do you think this self-pity would make your old man proud?"

Anger flares in my chest, hot and sudden. "You don't know anything about my father."

"I know enough," he counters. "I know he didn't raise a quitter. So why are you acting like one now?"

I open my mouth to argue, but the words die in my throat.

"Stop hesitating," the masked figure growls. "You need to get your head out of your ass and focus on the here and now."

I clench my fists, frustration bubbling up inside me. "You don't understand. I've been—"

"I understand better than you think," he interrupts, his voice softening slightly. "Answer me this: if it was March 7th or Dan Heng standing here, paralyzed by their past while people were dying around them – what would you say to them?"

The question catches me off guard. I pause, considering. "I'd tell them... that their past doesn't define them. That they have the power to make a difference now."

The masked figure nods slowly. "Exactly. So why is it different for you?"

I open my mouth to argue, but the words die in my throat. He's right, and I know it. I've been so caught up in my own guilt, my own fear of failure, that I've lost sight of what really matters.

"How?" I ask finally, my voice barely above a whisper. "How do I fight someone like Svarog? I've tried everything, but I'm losing."

The masked figure's stance shifts, radiating disappointment. "You haven't tried everything. You've barely scratched the surface of what you're capable of."

Anger flares in my chest. "What are you talking about? I've given it my all!"

"Have you?" The figure's tone is challenging. "From where I'm standing, it looks like you've been holding back. You're so afraid of losing control, of becoming someone you fear, that you're not allowing yourself to tap into your full potential."

I shake my head, disbelief warring with frustration. "How could you possibly know what I'm capable of?"

The masked figure's hand shoots out, pointing at the cross pendant hanging from my neck.

"Because He knows. Do you think you'd be here, facing this challenge, if you weren't equipped to handle it?"

I flinch, my hand instinctively reaching for the pendant, its cool metal a stark contrast to my feverish skin.

"Your arrogance is breathtaking," the figure snarls, his voice dripping with contempt. "You dare to assume that He would place you here, in this moment, without preparing you? That He would thrust you into this crucible without forging you to withstand its heat? Your doubt isn't humility, Alexander—it's an insult to your faith."

The figure takes a step closer, his mask mere inches from my face. "And let's set aside that for a moment. Even on a purely human level, your self-imposed limitations are pathetic. You've been gifted with extraordinary abilities, yet you cower like a child, afraid of your own shadow. You're so terrified of what you might become that you refuse to be anything at all."

I stagger back, the truth of his words washing over me like ice water.

"Your fear of failure, of losing control, is nothing but a convenient excuse," the figure continues, relentless in his assault. "It's easier to play the victim, to wallow in self-pity, than to rise to the challenge before you. But in doing so, you're not just failing yourself—you're failing everyone who's counting on you. Everyone who believes in you, even when you don't believe in yourself."

The masked figure suddenly turns, his attention drawn to my younger self still desperately trying to stem the flow of blood from our father's wounds. Without a word, he kneels beside the boy, gently placing his hand over my younger self's bloodied ones.

"Help is coming," he says, his voice softer now, almost gentle. "You've done all you can. Do not despair - he'll live to see you grow into a man."

As if summoned by his words, the wail of sirens grows louder. Paramedics and police burst onto the scene, their voices a cacophony of urgency. We watch in silence as they take over, efficiently working to stabilize my father. My younger self, reluctant to let go, is gently pulled away, his cries cutting through the night air as they load him and our father into the ambulance.

As the vehicles speed away, lights flashing, the masked figure turns back to me. The alley begins to fade around us, reality blurring at the edges. His voice, when he speaks, carries the weight of years.

"The tools you need were forged long ago, and they continue to evolve. Stop doubting and start acting. This isn't about vengeance or control. It's about becoming who you're meant to be."

His words stir something within me, a flicker of the confidence I once had. But doubt still lingers, a persistent shadow. "What if I fail—"

"Then you fail," he interrupts sharply. "But you'll have failed trying. The question is, are you willing to take that risk?"

"I... I want to. But how do I even begin?"

The figure's posture softens slightly. "You start by remembering who you are. Not just the mistakes you've made, but the lives you've touched, the good you've done. Remember the boy your mother raised. Remember the boy in this alley, desperate to save his father. Channel that determination, that love, into the fight ahead of you."

As the masked figure begins to disappear, I reach out instinctively. "Wait! I still have questions—"

As he fades, his final words echo in the void:

"Remember, Alexander: God doesn't call the qualified; He qualifies the called. Maybe it's time you started believing that."

Left alone in the darkness, I feel a strange mix of emotions swirling within me. The guilt and fear are still there, but now they're tempered by something else. Resolve, maybe. Or hope.

"Qualifies the called," I mutter, shaking my head. This time, the words feel like a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down by the universe itself.

Doubts creep back in, insidious whispers in the dark. Do I deserve another chance? Can someone like me really be an instrument of good?

Maybe I don't deserve it. Maybe this is all some cosmic joke.

But if there's even a chance I can make a difference, protect that little girl, and those whose lives I've altered... don't I owe it to them to try?

"Alright," I whisper to the void. "I don't know if I'm worthy of this. But I'm here, and I have the power to act. So let's see where this goes."

It's not a battle cry. It's not even a promise. But as I open my eyes, ready to face whatever comes next, I realize it's a start.

And right now, that's all I need.

——————————————————————

The Landau watches in mounting horror as the Supreme Guardian reaches for something hidden beneath her flowing coat. With a flourish, she unveils a long, slender object that glints in the harsh light. His breath catches in his throat as recognition dawns.

The Lance of the Preservation.

Its shaft gleams with a silvery sheen, etched with intricate patterns that seem to shift and dance in the swirling snow. The tip pulses with a soft, icy glow – cooled Geomarrow, Gepard realizes. This sacred weapon, a symbol of Belobog's resilience and hope, now wielded by a woman teetering on the brink of madness.

Cocolia raises the lance high above her head, her eyes blazing with that unnatural golden and red light. Her voice rings out, clear and commanding, cutting through the howling wind.

"Engine of Creation, heed my call! Awaken and serve your true purpose!"

The ground beneath their feet trembles. Gepard struggles to maintain his footing as the snow-covered hill shudders and groans. A deafening mechanical roar drowns out even the fiercest gusts of wind.

Before the captain's disbelieving eyes, a colossal form rises from the very earth itself. Snow and ice cascade from its massive frame as it stretches towards the leaden sky. The Engine of Creation unfolds like some monstrous flower, each movement accompanied by the grinding of gears and the hiss of hydraulics.

Its body towers over them, easily reaching fifty, perhaps even seventy meters in height. Gepard cranes his neck, trying to take in the full scope of the mechanical behemoth. Its frame is constructed of what appears to be gleaming white marble, intricately carved and reinforced with darker mechanical components. Gold and deep blue accents catch the light, giving the Engine an almost regal air despite its intimidating size.

Massive, circular gears dominate its chest and shoulders, their teeth interlocking with precision as they begin to spin. He can feel the vibrations through his boots.

The Engine's face is a work of art in itself – fierce and proud, with glowing red eyes that burn with an intensity that makes the Landau's skin crawl.

As it fully awakens, the Engine raises its enormous arms. Gepard's eyes widen as he takes in the sheer size of its hands – each one large enough to crush a building without effort. Energy crackles along its limbs, pulsing in time with the Geomarrow at its core.

The Supreme Guardian laughs, a sound of pure triumph that sends chills down Gepard's spine. She steps forward, the Lance of the Preservation held high, its glow intensifying in response to the Engine's presence.

"Behold, Captain!" she cries, her voice edged with madness. "The true power of Belobog! Not the feeble 'Preservation' preached by the Architects, but the strength to forge a new world from the ashes of the old!"

The captain's mind races, searching desperately for a way to reason with her, to pull her back from this precipice.

"Supreme Guardian, please," he implores, fighting to keep his voice steady. "Whatever it is you're planning to do with the Engine of Creation, it is not the way forward. What would Commander Bronya think of your actions?"

At the mention of her daughter's name, Cocolia's expression flickers. For a heartbeat, Gepard sees a glimpse of the woman he once knew – strong, determined, but above all, devoted to her child and her city. Then the moment passes, and her face hardens once more.

"Bronya is gone," she snarls, her knuckles whitening around the lance's shaft. "Taken by that abomination. And Belobog? Belobog is a dying dream, clinging to false hope and empty promises."

She turns to face the Engine of Creation, its massive form casting them both in shadow. "With this, I will create a new Belobog. A perfect world, free from suffering, free from loss. And if my daughter truly is gone... then I will remake her, too."

The Landau's blood runs cold at her words. The sheer magnitude of what she is proposing – it's beyond madness. It's a perversion of everything they've fought to protect.

"You are not Qlipoth… you can't play the role of a god," he says, his voice barely audible over the Engine's rumbling. "This isn't preservation, it's destruction. You'll doom us all!"

The Supreme Guardian whirls to face him, her eyes flashing with that eerie golden light. "You understand nothing, Captain. I offer salvation, and you cling to your chains like a coward! The time for half-measures is over. Belobog will be reborn, whether you stand with me or against me!"

Gepard's heart pounds in his chest as he realizes the terrible choice before him. Does he stand against the woman he's sworn to protect, the leader he's followed for years? Or does he allow this madness to unfold?

The question that plagues him now is simple, yet impossibly complex: What action can he take that won't lead to utter catastrophe?

——————————————————————

Xander's mind stirs first, caught in the murky tangle of memory and nightmare.2 The masked figure's words echo in his consciousness, but their meaning fades as his eyes flutter open. The alley, the blood, his father—those scenes slip away, leaving only a gnawing unease in their wake.

Something deeper than doubt or guilt has taken root in him. As Xander slowly rises to his feet, he feels it burning in his chest—a fierce, unyielding fire that refuses to be extinguished.

With a shaky hand, he fumbles for the last serum in his Dimensional Pouch. His vision swims as he holds the vial before his lonely working eye. He uncaps it, plunging the needle into his thigh with grim determination. His breath hitches as the liquid courses through him, numbing the pain but not erasing it entirely.

A minute. That's all the serum can buy him now, its effects dampened by repeated use. His body is a battlefield—exhaustion wars against the power of the Stellaron embedded within him, working desperately to heal his wounds.

He can feel it, hovering just beyond his reach. A fine line he is teetering on: one more push, and his body will collapse under the strain.

As Xander's vision clears, the chaotic scene before him snaps into focus. His eye widens in disbelief as he processes what he's seeing.

In his final moments, Pascal had received two critical commands from Xander:

Command one: Temporarily disable all automatons' thermal sensors.

To his disbelief, Svarog is locked in combat with a group of rogue automatons, their green eyes glowing with defiance.

Command two: Above all, protect Clara's future.

They're protecting me... he realizes, caught off guard by the unexpected interpretation. A complex mixture of emotions - gratitude, awe, and a touch of unease - flickers through him.

Thank you, Pascal, he thinks briefly, the weight of the AI's sacrifice settling heavily upon him. But there is no time to linger on these profound realizations. The seconds are ticking away faster than he'd like.

With every passing moment, the probability increases that Svarog's visual systems will reboot, leaving him vulnerable once again.

Xander clenches his fists, feeling the surge of adrenaline mix with the numbing chill of the serum. He can't afford to think about what comes after.

After all, the battle will be decided in the next seconds.3

His mind clears, cutting through the fog of fear and doubt.

I know the scope of my power.

Stellaron Enhancement: Chronosurge.

By harnessing the energy of the Cancer of All Worlds, I can push my body's limits beyond what's humanly possible. Speed up my neural processes, heighten my senses, allow myself to move faster than anyone else.

He sucks in a sharp breath, eyes narrowing as he catalogs his remaining options.

In normal situations, I can move ten to fifteen times faster than average. But in moments of crisis, with my fight-or-flight response triggered, I've moved at speeds that make the world stand still.

But Chronosurge: Rend...4

He shakes his head, rejecting the thought.

Correction. The extension of your power amped with the path of Destruction isn't an option. Not now.

The fallout will kill you—organ failure, hemorrhage—leaving you defenseless against him.

Instead, he will have to push the base form to its absolute limit.

Overclock remains the only option.

But be careful. It is a double-edged sword. The faster you move, the more oxygen deprivation hits.

If you overuse it, you will—

"――――――――"

My vision ignites.

The Stellaron's heat surges through my veins.

"Once more, with purpose," I whisper to the cosmic core within.

In response, my nerves light up like live wires.

Raw power floods my system.

My limbs feel like molten steel, ready to be forged.

Remember the boy your mother raised. Remember the boy in that alley, desperate to save his father. Channel that determination, that love, into the fight ahead of you.

I clench my fist.

There's no future for the man who betrays his younger self, Alexander.

Svarog looms ahead, his singular red eye a blazing beacon of menace. The automaton stands amidst the wreckage of his fallen subordinates, his massive form still imposing despite the damage sustained. Xander's pulse quickens, adrenaline flooding his veins.

Let your will crystallize into victory!

In a single, swift motion, he grabs his remaining fire bomb from his Dimensional Pouch and hurls it toward Svarog. The explosive detonates on impact, flames licking across the automaton's armor. The intense heat warps the metal, sending sparks into the air, but it isn't enough to stop him.

The rogue automatons continue pelting the giant, keeping the towering machine distracted. Xander's hand darts into the pouch, fingers brushing the familiar cold steel of the grenade launcher.

He pulls it free and fires without hesitation, the successive blasts rocking the arena. The imposing mech staggers but presses on.

Out of ammo, Xander's teeth grind together as he reaches again into the pouch, retrieving the cannon. The recoil tears through his already exhausted muscles, but the shot finds its mark. Svarog reels, a smoking crater now visible along his side.

But the guardian isn't finished.

His red eye flares, focusing directly on him, and a deadly gleam lights up the air between them.

Xander's instincts scream at him before his mind can process what is coming. Burning Beam. Time slows, and with impossible precision, he shifts his body just centimeters out of the beam's path.

Burning heat sears past him, so close he can feel it scorching the air beside him. His vision blurs momentarily, the sheer force of the beam leaving a searing aftereffect through his bones.

Keep pushing. Overload his thought processing.

Svarog's frame sparks and groans under the continued barrage, but even as more of his armor falls away, the colossus crushes the enemy automatons with brutal efficiency. The final rogue Direwolf falls, leaving Svarog's singular eye locked solely on Xander.

He can feel the shift—a command issued, pulling the remaining automatons in the area back into his control.

It's now or never.

Xander's hand shoots down to his last smoke bomb. He hurls it to the ground, thick clouds billowing up instantly. The cover buys him precious seconds. He then wills Neuromorphic Armament to shift into its war fan form, the Curio expanding to nearly his height. With quick movements, Xander disperses the smoke in controlled waves, spreading the thick mist to obscure the area further.

He grabs a communication device from his dimensional pouch and swiftly attaches his last electrical grenade to it. Under his command, Chronosurge flares again, his senses augmenting as he listens, feels, and focuses. There—a spider automaton, creeping close.

Xander moves before it can react. He shatters the spider with a single, brutal punch, Destruction energy slicing through its core. Without wasting time, he drapes his cloak over its lifeless husk.

In one fluid motion, Xander hurls the decoy out of the smoke as the Stellaron fires on all cylinders within, beginning to move.

Svarog's gaze locks onto it immediately. With pinpoint accuracy, the mech fires his Burning Beam, erasing the decoy in a flash of light and heat.

Now!

Xander, still hidden in the mist, seizes his moment. He hurls the electrical bomb with all his remaining strength, watching as it arcs through the air toward the mech's back. Mid-flight, the communicator crackles to life, and Xander's voice rings out from the device, echoing behind Svarog.

"HERE!"

The giant whirls around, the massive fist of his Banishing Punch already in motion. The enormous blow connects with the bomb, not the target he had anticipated.

The explosion is instantaneous.

Electric arcs ripple across Svarog's body, frying circuits, sending jolts of energy through the colossal frame. The massive automaton falters, dropping to one knee, his systems temporarily overloaded.

Svarog's voice, now crackling with static, still issues the command to the remaining automatons:

"New terminal command set: Target that emerges from the smoke cloud."

Xander's mind races as he grabs the body of a destroyed automaton nearby. He hefts it, muscles screaming from the effort, and with a grunt, hurls it high into the air.

The destroyed husk breaches the smoke first, and the awaiting automatons react instantly. Missiles and lasers explode into the sky, tearing the lifeless decoy apart in a barrage of destructive firepower.

In the chaos, Xander launches himself skyward. He times his jump perfectly, his body slicing just behind the shower of shrapnel, invisible to the distracted automatons below. As he soars, Neuromorphic Armament shifts in his hands, morphing into a magnificent and large bow.

Time slows.

His tattered shirt flaps like wings behind him, his knees bent, his body poised in perfect form. The battlefield blurs beneath him, and for a moment, the little boy from Rosario feels weightless, a figure of myth suspended between earth and sky.

The bow glows with the raw energy of Destruction as he draws back the shimmering arrow, its lethal edge a promise of finality. Xander's golden eyes glow like stars while locking onto Svarog's exposed core, the automaton's massive frame still reeling from the earlier blast.

He lets the arrow fly.

The Destruction projectile strikes with devastating precision, piercing through Svarog's armor, and the resulting explosion rips through the automaton's body. The giant's right arm disintegrates, and the once-unstoppable colossus crumbles, his armor buckling, sparks flying as his systems collapse.

Xander lands hard as the adrenaline drains from his body. Every breath feels like fire in his lungs, his muscles screaming in agony. But he forces himself to stay upright and move forward.

Gathering the last of his reserves, Xander runs toward Svarog, Neuromorphic Armament shifting back into a sword, ready to deliver the final blow.

But just as he raises the weapon, a small figure darts in front of him, arms spread wide.

Clara.

Xander staggers to a freeze.

"Stop!" she cries. "Please, no more fighting!"

His vision blurs. He blinks, trying to clear it, and looks past her to the fallen automaton. Svarog, now broken, sparks faintly, his systems failing.

"Sunshine," he rasps, the words catching in his throat.

His legs buckle, and he drops to one knee, using the Curio as a crutch. His chest heaves with labored breaths, sweat mingling with blood on his brow. The battlefield around them lies in ruins, smoke and debris clouding the air.

The mech raises his remaining functioning arm towards him, the movement slow and jerky.

"Enough! This fight is over." He coughs, wincing at the pain in his ribs. "We push any further, and Clara pays the price. Is that what you want?"

The automaton's red eye flickers, processing. "Prime directive: Protect the Stellaron's secret from falling into the wrong hands. You remain a threat—"

"Damn your directives! What matters more to you? The Architects' commands or Clara's future? Are you just a puppet on strings, or can you think for yourself?"

Svarog's arm wavers, uncertainty creeping into his mechanical movements.

Xander presses on, his healed golden eyes blazing with intensity. "Since I met you, you've acted like a protective father, doing everything to ensure Clara's well-being. But the moment I mentioned the Stellaron, you became something else entirely."

He leans forward, grip tightening on his sword. "So which is it, Svarog? Clara's guardian or the Architects' attack dog? Will you blindly follow directives that could destroy everything you've fought to protect?!"

Clara steps between them, her small frame trembling but her voice steady. "Mr. Svarog, you promised to make all my wishes come true. Right now, my greatest wish is for you and Mr. Alexander to work together."

She turns, meeting the mech's glowing eye. "I've learned something, watching Mr. Alexander. Calculation results don't always bring happiness. There's always a risk that something hasn't been considered."

Her gaze shifts to the Nameless, then back to her guardian. "Mr. Alexander knows things that could help you preserve humanity, ensure a better future for everyone down in the Underworld. We can all be a family. Please, work together. For me."

Svarog's systems whir audibly, processing this new input. Conflicting directives clash within his programming, creating a cascade of errors and reassessments. Clara's words and Xander's challenge force him to think beyond his original parameters.

After what feels like an eternity, his mechanical voice crackles to life. "Assessment system reset... successful. Processing variables... Variable one: Clara's request. Variable two: Outsider's intentions. Updated assessment result: Transference of decision-making authority to Clara and Outsider. Both are now granted access to Stellaron intelligence."

The tension in the air dissipates as Svarog cancels all combat engagement protocols. Xander's shoulders sag with relief, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "So beneath all that armor, you've got a heart after all."

His gaze drifts to Svarog's missing arm, destroyed in the heat of battle. "Listen, about your arm—"

Xander's words cut off abruptly as a searing pain rips through his body. He lurches forward, retching violently.

Blood splatters on the ground before him.

Clara's eyes widen in horror. She rushes to his side, her small hands hovering over his trembling form. She takes in the full extent of his injuries - his tattered coat is gone, vest ripped to shreds, leaving only a ruined shirt. Shrapnel glints wickedly from where it's embedded in his exposed skin. A particularly vicious piece protrudes from his lower left cheek. His eyes are bloodshot, and his hair has turned an impossible shade of gray. Barely any dark color remains.

Her lip quivers, tears welling in her eyes. She opens her mouth, but the words refuse to come.

Xander meets her gaze, understanding dawning on him. He raises a shaking hand to her cheek, pinching it gently.

"Hey now, Sunshine, heh. It'll take more than this to keep me down." He attempts a reassuring smile, wincing at the effort. "Your old man's tougher than he looks—ugh. Just had to push a little harder than expected."

Svarog's voice is tinged with what might be interpreted as concern as he speaks. "The outsider has demonstrated remarkable resilience. Medical supplies in the mansion could aid his recovery."

Xander's smile grows a fraction wider. "And I could return the favor, help with your repairs." He turns back to Clara, his voice softening. "See? I'll be fine. The Stellaron inside me is already working overtime. Add those supplies Svarog mentioned, and I'll be good as new before you know it."

Svarog's systems whir at the mention of the Stellaron. Xander catches the reaction and nods. "That's right. I have one inside my body. I know its true nature and why it threatens Belobog." He takes a shuddering breath. "We need to talk. Clara, you and everyone else should hear the full story. Then we decide our next steps together."

Clara nods eagerly, though confusion flickers across her face. "Everyone?"

Xander's eyes glow subtly, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "You'll hear them in five, four, three, two..."

"XANDER!" March's voice rings out, panic evident in her tone.

March, Dan Heng, Bronya, Seele, and Natasha come sprinting into view, weapons at the ready. They skid to a halt, taking in the scene before them - Xander on his knees, battered and bloodied, with Svarog looming nearby.

Misunderstanding flashes across their faces. Natasha raises her cannon, while Dan Heng and Seele surge forward, weapons poised to strike.

"Stop!" Xander and Clara cry out in unison. "The fight's over!"

Seele's scythe halts mid-swing, confusion etched on her face. "Over? You look like you've been through a meat grinder!"

Dan Heng's grip on his lance tightens, eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Explain. Now."

Xander raises a hand placatingly. "Svarog and I, with Clara's help, have reached an understanding. We're ready to talk." He gestures at his battered form with a wry smile. "I've looked better, but I'll live."

Svarog's mechanical voice carries across the tense silence. "The outsider speaks the truth. Hostilities have ceased."

The group exchanges wary glances, weapons lowering incrementally. March steps forward, her eyes blazing with a mix of relief and frustration. "Xander, you reckless idiot! Do you have any idea what we've been through? When you disappeared like that, we thought—"

She didn't get to finish her sentence.