What God Has Wrought

Content Warning: The following chapter contains depictions of mature themes and very distressing situations. Reader discretion is advised.

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Then the Lord spoke to Job out of the storm. He said:

"Who is this that obscures my plans with words without knowledge?

Brace yourself like a man; I will question you, and you shall answer me."

- Job 38:1-3 New International Version (NIV)

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Thirty minutes of peace ends too soon.

For a moment, disorientation grips Natasha - where is she? The familiar scent of antiseptic and the dull ache in her lower back from the worn cot beneath her quickly answer that question. Her clinic. Right. She'd managed to squeeze in a precious few moments of sleep amidst the chaos.

Rising slowly, her stiff muscles scream in protest. Natasha runs a hand through her disheveled hair, grimacing at the gritty feel of dust and sweat. When was the last time she'd showered? The hours since the catastrophe blur together, marked only by an endless stream of broken bodies and desperate faces.

Reaching for the electric kettle on her nightstand, she dumps an obscene amount of instant coffee into a chipped mug. While the water boils, her eyes close as she draws upon her inner strength. A faint emerald glow emanates from her palms as she channels her healing abilities inward. It's a temporary fix, like putting a bandaid on a gaping wound, but it'll have to do. The warmth spreads through her, chasing away some of the bone-deep exhaustion.

A soft knock at the door interrupts her ritual. "Come in," she calls, voice rough from lack of use.

Oleg's hulking frame fills the doorway, his mechanical arm glinting dully in the low light. Natasha's heart constricts at the sight of him. He looks... old. Haggard. The events of the past days have carved new lines into his face, etched worry into the set of his shoulders. Without a word, Natasha crosses the room and wraps her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. For just a moment, she allows herself to be vulnerable, to draw strength from his solid presence.

"You're okay," she murmurs, more to herself than to him. Tilting her head up for a quick kiss, "I was worried."

Oleg's arms tighten around her. "I'm fine," he rumbles, though the weariness in his voice betrays him. "Just a few scrapes. Nothing compared to what others are facing."

Natasha pulls back, studying his face. "How bad is it out there?"

Oleg's expression darkens. "Bad. The quake... it's like nothing we've ever seen. Entire sections of the Underworld have collapsed. Boulder Town is half-buried. The Great Mine... we're still trying to reach the workers trapped inside."

Natasha's stomach churns. She'd known it was dire, but hearing it laid out so starkly... "And the injuries?"

"Overwhelming," Oleg admits. "Crush wounds, internal bleeding, severe burns from ruptured geomarrow veins. We're struggling to keep up with triage, let alone proper treatment."

Natasha nods, her mind already racing through inventory lists, prioritizing cases. "I'll get back out there. We'll make do with what we have."

Oleg's brow furrows. "Are you sure you don't need more rest? Another thirty minutes-"

"They need me," Natasha cuts him off, her tone leaving no room for argument. She gestures to the Underworld beyond her clinic's walls. "Our people are suffering, Oleg. I can sleep when..." When it's over, she wants to say, but they both know this is far from over.

The repercussions of the cataclysm will echo for years to come.

Oleg's shoulders slump in resignation. "I understand. Just... don't push yourself too far. We need you functional."

Natasha manages a wan smile. "I'll be careful." She hesitates, dreading the answer to her next question. "Have we... have we found Hook? The other children from The Moles?"

The silence that follows is deafening. Oleg's eyes cloud with pain, and Natasha feels her heart plummet. "We... we still haven't found most of the children," he says at last, his voice barely above a whisper. "There was a boy who looked like Julian, but it wasn't him."

Natasha swallows hard against the lump forming in her throat. Julian. That bright-eyed boy with a penchant for mischief. Lost, but maybe not gone. How many others were still missing? Unable to trust her voice, she gives a slight nod. "I understand," comes her delayed response. "I should... I should get back to work."

Oleg squeezes her hand, a silent gesture of support, before leaving her to gather herself. Natasha takes a deep, shuddering breath, pushing down the grief threatening to overwhelm her. There will be time to mourn later. For now, the living need her.

Through the clinic she moves, checking patients and issuing instructions to the handful of volunteers. The air is thick with the metallic scent of blood and the acrid tang of fear. Moans of pain and muffled sobs provide a constant, heartbreaking soundtrack. Natasha moves from bed to bed, her healing abilities stretched to their limits as she tries to ease the worst of the suffering.

It's as she's finishing up with a young woman with a severely fractured leg that Natasha notices him. Xander. He's standing just outside the clinic entrance, staring up at the distant ceiling of the Underworld. Even from here, she can see how different he looks from the man she met mere days ago. His hair, once dark, is now streaked with gray. Dark circles ring his eyes, and a scraggly stubble covers his jaw. But it's more than just his physical appearance - there's a... numbness to him.

A hollowness that speaks of trauma too fresh to process.

Natasha approaches cautiously, watching as he fumbles with a cigarette, struggling to light it one-handed. His right arm ends abruptly just below the shoulder now, leaving only a tiny stump wrapped in clean bandages. Another casualty of the cataclysm.

"Here," she says softly, reaching out to steady his hand. "Let me help."

Xander startles slightly at her presence, then nods. "Ma'am," he murmurs in thanks as she helps him light the cigarette. He takes a long drag, exhaling a plume of smoke that mingles with the dust still hanging in the air.

Natasha joins him in his contemplation. In the distant reaches of the cavern, the ceiling sheds rock and debris like a wounded beast. After tearing her gaze away, she debates how to broach the subject weighing on her mind.

A gentle approach seems best.

"You know," she begins, keeping her tone conversational, "you'll have to give those up soon. Or at least cut back significantly."

Xander's brow furrows. "Why?"

Natasha turns to face him fully. "Because you're a guardian now. You can't expect to be smoking around Clara."

The change in Xander's demeanor is immediate and drastic. His entire body tenses, jaw clenching. "I'm not her guardian," he says flatly, a note of finality in his voice.

Natasha sighs, recognizing the fear and self-doubt lurking beneath his brusque exterior.

"Xander... do you remember Svarog's last words? His final request?"

Protect her.

He remains silent, but she can see the muscle working in his jaw.

"I checked in with the children's camp earlier," she continues, keeping her voice gentle. "Clara's awake now."

This elicits a reaction, however minute. Xander's eyes flick towards her for a split second before returning to the distant horizon. He's interested, Natasha realizes, but fighting against that interest. Guilt, perhaps? A sense of unworthiness?

"She's not speaking to anyone," Natasha continues softly. "The staff reported that she just... sits there. Staring at the entrance. Like she's waiting for someone to appear."

Xander's fist clenches at his side, knuckles white. He bites his lip hard enough that Natasha worries he might draw blood.

"She needs you," Natasha says, her voice gentle but firm. "I know you're scared. I know you feel unworthy. But that little girl has lost everything she's ever known. Right now, you're the only one she seems to trust."

Xander remains stubbornly silent, but Natasha can see the conflict raging behind his eyes. With a light squeeze to his shoulder, she offers, "You can at least check on her. That's all I'm asking."

With that, she turns to head back into the clinic. At the doorway, she pauses, looking back at Xander's rigid form. "The children's camp is in the old community center," she says. "Just... think about it."

Natasha leaves him there, staring up at the crumbling ceiling, hoping that her words have made some impact. As she re-enters the clinic, the cacophony of pain and suffering washes over her once more. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself for the long hours ahead.

There's work to be done, lives to save. And maybe, just maybe, broken families to mend.

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Alexander Salvatore trudges through the rubble-strewn streets of Boulder Town, his eyes fixed on the ground before him. Each step feels like a monumental effort, his body still adjusting to the loss of his right arm. March supports him, her gentle grip on his left side the only thing keeping him upright as waves of dizziness threaten to topple him.

All around them, the remnants of Boulder Town paint a grim picture of devastation. Survivors scrabble at piles of debris, their desperate cries for loved ones mixing with the crackle of hastily lit fires. The flames cast flickering shadows across gaunt faces, highlighting the shock and despair etched into every line.

Dan Heng's voice cuts through the eerie quiet. "I spoke with Seele and Luka earlier. The reports from Wildfire survivors are... grim." He pauses, swallowing hard. "They estimate nearly half the town is buried. The Great Mine... they fear a complete cave-in. And Forge Town is likely in ruins."

Alexander's stomach churns at the words, but he keeps his gaze locked on his feet. One step. Then another.

It's all he can manage.

Dan continues, his voice tight with barely contained emotion. "If things were dire before, now..." He trails off, shaking his head. "We're looking at least at a thousand dead. Maybe more. There's too many who are still unaccounted for. It'll be worse the longer this crisis goes unattended."

March's grip on Alexander tightens almost imperceptibly. "Any word from Natasha about Clara?"

At the mention of the girl's name, Alexander flinches. The movement is slight, but March feels it. She glances at him, worry etched across her features.

Dan nods. "Last I heard, Clara's with a group of children. They've set up a camp for the less severely injured kids. If she'd been worse off..."

He doesn't finish the thought.

"Did she wake up?" Dan presses, his concern evident.

March hesitates, her eyes flicking to Alexander. "Natasha said she did, but..."

She doesn't elaborate.

Suddenly, a heart-wrenching cry pierces the air. Alexander's head snaps up, his eyes seeking the source. A woman kneels in the rubble, her shoulders shaking with sobs. A small girl clings to her sleeve, silent and wide-eyed.

Without thinking, Alexander changes course, moving towards them. March and Dan exchange a glance before following, supporting him as he struggles to maintain his balance.

"Do you... do you need help?" Alexander's voice is hoarse, uncertain.

The woman looks up, confusion and grief warring on her face. "Who... who are you?"

March steps in, her voice gentle. "We're friends of Wildfire. We're here to help however we can."

The woman's eyes narrow, fixing on Alexander's missing arm. "Help?" she spits, anger flaring. "What help can I expect from someone who looks like that?"

Alexander recoils as if struck. Dan steps forward, his voice calm and steady. "Please, tell us what you need. We want to assist in any way possible."

The woman's anger deflates, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. "Can you bring back my home? Our family heirlooms?" Her voice breaks. "Can you find my husband? I've been digging for hours." She holds up her hands, bloodied and caked with mud. "What am I supposed to tell our daughter? Can you tell me that?"

A heavy silence falls. Then, barely audible, Alexander whispers, "I'm sorry."

"What?" The woman leans forward, straining to hear.

Alexander can't meet her eyes. "I'm sorry," he repeats, louder this time. "This... all of this is my fault."

March and Dan start to object, but before they can, the woman lunges forward. She grabs Alexander by his shirt, tears streaming down her face. "Is that true?" she demands, her voice raw with grief and rage.

March and Dan try to pry her off, but her grip is iron-tight. Alexander doesn't resist.

"It's true," he says, his voice hollow.

The woman's eyes bore into him. "Can you bring back the dead?"

"No."

"Then… then at least find my husband!" she screams, shaking him.

Alexander's voice cracks. "I can't do that."

"I won't accept that!" The woman shakes him harder, her movements frantic. "I won't!"

It's only when her daughter cries out, "Mommy!" that the woman's grip loosens. She stumbles back, gathering the child in her arms. But her eyes never leave Alexander, burning with an intensity that makes him want to disappear.

"What good are your apologies?" she hisses. "I can't feed my daughter with 'sorry.' If you're really to blame, then go. Die. Let the Eternal Freeze take you."

With that, she turns and walks away, her daughter clinging to her. March calls after her, but it's useless. When they turn back to Alexander, they find him frozen in place, his eyes glowing an eerie gold.

"Xander?" March's voice is tinged with panic. "Xander, what's wrong?"

But Alexander doesn't respond. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps. The world around him has sharpened to a painful degree. Every sound, every smell, every minute detail assaults his senses. He can hear the labored breathing of those trapped beneath the rubble, smell the metallic tang of blood mixed with dust and ash. The cries of the bereaved echo in his ears, amplified a hundredfold.

"It's my fault," he gasps. "It's all my fault."

March grabs his shoulders, shouting at him to stop, to shut down his enhanced senses. But he can't. The input is overwhelming, drowning out everything else. And then, with horrifying clarity, he perceives the shape of a tiny body buried in the debris. A child, no more than three or four years old. The details are grotesquely vivid – the unnatural angle of the limbs, the crushed skull, the—

Alexander lurches to the side, retching violently. The physical act breaks his concentration, shutting down Chronosurge. He collapses to his knees, trembling uncontrollably.

"Xander, please," March pleads, rubbing his back. "Breathe with me. Deep breaths."

Dan kneels beside them, his voice steady and calm. "In through your nose, Xander. Hold it. Now out through your mouth. Again."

For several long minutes, they stay like that, Alexander following Dan's instructions mechanically. Slowly, his breathing evens out, though he remains pale and shaken.

"There's been a deviation," he mutters, his voice raw. "A massive deviation. This... this never happened in the story I read. We were supposed to be on the surface by now, fighting Cocolia. Not... not this." He gestures weakly at the devastation around them. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

March and Dan exchange worried glances. "Xander," March begins gently, "remember what you told us? This isn't just a story anymore. It's real. There are countless variables and possibilities. You can't blame yourself for every unexpected turn."

Alexander shakes his head vehemently, his now grey hair catching the dim light, hand trembling with a mixture of guilt and frustration. "But I'm the only new variable! Don't you see? Everything that's different, it all traces back to me!"

"That's not true!" March's voice rises, tears springing to her aquamarine eyes as she takes a step toward him, her usually cheerful demeanor cracking under the weight of his self-condemnation. "You've sacrificed so much, helped so many people. How can you think this is your fault?" Her words echo with genuine pain at seeing him torture himself like this.

"Because it is!" Alexander shouts, his voice breaking as raw emotion tears through his carefully maintained composure. His remaining arm gestures wildly at the destruction surrounding them, the empty space where his right arm should be emphasizing every loss he's endured.

"If I wasn't here, if I hadn't interfered—"

The sound of March's palm connecting with his cheek echoes in the quiet street. Alexander stares at her, shocked into silence.

"Don't you dare," March says, tears streaming down her face. "Don't you dare say that. You're not to blame. I won't accept it. You've done nothing but try to help since the moment we met you. Why are you so quick to shoulder every burden? Why do you insist on carrying the weight of the world alone?"

Alexander's resolve crumbles at the sight of her tears. He reaches out with his remaining arm, pulling her into an awkward embrace, but March pushes back just enough to look him in the eyes.

"Do you know what kills me?" Her voice trembles. "Over a week ago, you walked onto the Astral Express looking like you stepped out of a magazine. Now look at you." She gestures at his ashen face, his prematurely greyed hair. "You're disappearing, piece by piece, right in front of us. And we just... we just watch."

"March—"

"No, let me finish." Her fingers grip his tattered shirt tightly. "Every time there's danger, every time we need a miracle, you're there. And each time, you come back with less of yourself. Your hair, your health, your arm..." Her voice cracks. "What's next, Xander? What else are you willing to sacrifice while we stand by, helpless?"

Alexander's throat tightens. "What would you have me do instead?"

"Trust us. Lean on us." March's aquamarine eyes shine with determination through her tears. "Stop treating us like we're made of glass."

A bitter laugh escapes him. "Is that what you think? That I don't trust you?" He shakes his head. "March, I trust you with my life. But I can't—" He swallows hard. "I can't trust myself with yours."

"That's not your choice to make," she whispers fiercely. "We chose to follow you. We chose to trust you. Honor that choice."

His throat tightens at her words. "Please don't cry," he murmurs, his own eyes growing damp. "If you cry, you'll make me cry too."

March hiccups a laugh, but there's steel beneath the softness. "Then stop giving me reasons to, you self-sacrificing idiot." She pokes his chest. "You're not alone in this anymore. Get that through your thick skull."

The ghost of a smile touches his lips, though his eyes remain haunted. "I'm sorry, March."

"I don't want your apologies." March's voice softens. "I want my brother to stop trying to die for us."

For the first time since the catastrophe, Alexander feels a flicker of warmth in his chest. They separate slowly, and he takes a deep breath, his mind racing with newfound purpose. After a moment of contemplation, he looks up at his companions.

"I need to locate Sampo," he says with something resembling clarity. "We need Welt and Himeko's help."

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Device - UserID: XanderSalvatore

Connecting to Star Rail Network...

Connection attempt failed.

Retrying...

Connection attempt failed.

Retrying...

Connection attempt failed.

Retrying...

Connection attempt successful.

Updating...

Message received.

Message received.

Unread messages: 38

Herta (1): It's been a while since you've graced the Space Station with your presence. Going back on our deal? I hope not, child.

Asta (3): Need your help with some papers. Herta's been hounding me about your whereabouts.

Arlan (1): That security protocol you suggested worked wonders. We're better prepared now. How are you holding up?

Himeko (23): Are you okay? Is everyone safe? Please respond when you can.

Welt (9): Hoping you're all well. Update us when possible.

Unknown Sender (1): I hope you're alright.

Would you like to contact someone? [yes] [no]

[yes] selected

Who would you like to contact?

[Himeko - Astral Express]

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I materialize in the heart of Belobog's Overworld, the familiar chill of the space anchor's transport fading as quickly as it came. My knees buckle, slamming against the cold, hard ground. The phantom pain of my missing right arm throbs.

Success floods my veins like a shot of adrenaline - it worked.

The Overworld and Underworld are connected again, at least through this space anchor. A small victory. I make a mental note to thank Herta; her explanation of space anchor technology proved invaluable for Sampo to get it activated. Who would have thought that—

My thoughts screech to a halt as I lift my gaze.

"No," I whisper, the word barely audible. "No, no, no!"

The Overworld of Belobog, once a beacon of civilization amidst the eternal freeze, lies in ruins before me. Logically, I knew the Underworld had suffered greatly from... something. Bronya's cryptic words and theories echo in my mind, hinting at a cataclysm beyond my imagination through the hands of the Engine of Creation.

But this? This devastation stretching as far as the eye can see?

Buildings I once dismissed as mere digital constructs now lie in heaps of twisted metal and shattered concrete. Those still standing bear the scars of whatever force tore through here - cracked walls, blown-out windows, facades barely clinging to their frames. Only Qlipoth Fort and the History and Culture Museum seem to have weathered the storm, though even they show signs of damage.

My eyes fall on the bodies. So many bodies. Men, women... children. Broken forms scattered like discarded dolls across the plaza. The guilt threatens to consume me.

If I had acted sooner, if I had understood faster, if I—

Something soft and wet lands on my cheek, snapping me from my spiral of self-recrimination. I look up, confused.

Snow. It's snowing.

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. I scan the area again, this time not focusing on the destruction or the... casualties. There's no one. No survivors picking through the rubble, no rescue teams, no panicked civilians. Just eerie, oppressive silence broken only by the soft patter of snowflakes.

I can see my breath forming clouds in the frigid air.

"Shit," I mutter, the pieces falling into place with sickening clarity. Whatever caused the earthquake must have damaged Belobog's heaters. Combined with the devastation in the Underworld and the crippled geomarrow production... the long-term survival of this city hangs by a thread.

I'm spared from the biting cold thanks to my status as a Nameless, Akivili's blessing coursing through my veins. But for the ordinary citizens of Belobog? This dropping temperature could be a death sentence, especially for those trapped beneath the rubble. Most survivors must have sought refuge in emergency shelters by now, huddled around whatever heat sources they can find - geomarrow radiators, thermal generators, anything to ward off the killing cold.

My chest tightens as I pull out my phone. Serval's contact appears at the top of my recent calls. I tap it, but instead of a ring, an automated voice cuts in:

"Local communication systems are currently experiencing difficulties. Please try again later."

I try again. Same message.

My fingers hover over Gepard's number, then Pela's, but I already know it's useless. The entire Belobog network must be down.

The image of Serval's workshop, possibly buried under tons of debris, flashes through my mind. Are they safe? Did they make it to a shelter? I should be out there searching, not standing here making calls, but-

My phone erupts in a cacophony of pings and alerts, finally connecting to the Star Rail network. I fumble with it, my left hand - my only remaining hand - feeling clumsy and uncooperative. The device slips from my grasp, clattering to the ground. I snatch it up, scrolling through the flood of messages with growing desperation.

There. Himeko's name. I tap the call button, silently praying she'll answer.

One ring. Two. The silence stretches, each second an eternity.

Just as I'm about to give up hope, the line crackles to life.

"Xander? Xander!" Himeko's voice comes through, breathless and strained. In the background, I hear a cacophony of alarms and what sounds like explosions. "Hold on, I need to—" Her words cut off, replaced by the sound of running footsteps and a muffled shout.

My grip on the phone tightens. What the hell is going on up there?

After what feels like an eternity, Himeko's voice returns, clearer this time. "Sorry about that. We're dealing with... a situation here." She lets out a weary sigh. "Thank the stars you're alright! We've been trying to reach you for days. Are you okay? What happened? How are March and Dan?"

Something in her voice - its warmth, its earnest concern - strikes a chord I didn't know existed. Days ago, I wouldn't have noticed these things, wouldn't have let myself feel the comfort they bring. My shoulders ease a fraction, tension bleeding away like snow in spring.1

I shake my head, forcing myself to focus. "March and Dan are fine," I assure her quickly. "We lost communication because we were underground. We couldn't find a way back to the surface until recently, but that's not important right now." My words tumble out in a rush. "Himeko, we need you and Welt to come down to Belobog immediately!"

There's a pause on the other end of the line. When Himeko speaks again, her voice is laced with confusion. "Come down? Xander, what do you mean?"

I open my mouth to explain, but the words catch in my throat as I look around at the devastation surrounding me.

How can I possibly convey the scale of this disaster?

"Himeko, it's a mess," I start, but the words feel woefully inadequate. I cut myself off, frustration building. "Look, it's better if I explain when you get here. There's no time to waste. If you can get supplies or support from the Herta Space Station, even better. We've got a ton of injured—"

"Xander," Himeko interrupts, her voice gentle but firm. "We can't come down."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "What do you mean you can't come down?" I demand, my voice rising with panic.

Himeko lets out another weary sigh. "We're stuck in Jarilo-VI's orbit," she explains. "We've been fighting off an armada from the Antimatter Legion for... stars, I've lost track of time. Nanook glanced our way, and suddenly troops started appearing en masse. They've been trying to destroy the Astral Express."

I feel the blood drain from my face. This can't be happening. This isn't how things are supposed to go. In the game, in the story I knew, there was never an attack like this!

"But... how?" I manage to choke out.

"The star rails around the planet have been collapsing," Himeko continues. "We're essentially trapped in orbit with limited maneuverability. We can't even send out a distress signal – Belobog's Stellaron is interfering with every transmission we attempt. And even if we managed to get word out..." She lets out a frustrated breath. "With the star rail in pieces, anyone trying to reach us would have to find an alternate route through space. We could be waiting days, maybe weeks for help."

My mind reels, struggling to process this new information. The world feels like it's crumbling around me, every potential lifeline slipping through my fingers. "How are you even fighting an entire armada?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Welt," Himeko answers simply. "He's out there alone, fighting in space. I'm here with Pom-Pom, defending the Express from any Legion troops that manage to teleport inside."

A chill runs down my spine. "How long have you been fighting?"

There's a pause, and I can almost hear Himeko doing the mental calculations. "If my sense of time hasn't been completely warped... we just passed the twentieth-hour mark."

"Twenty hours?" I repeat, incredulous. "You've been fighting for over twenty hours straight?"

"Yes," Himeko confirms, her voice heavy with exhaustion. "We were hoping you, March, and Dan would find a solution to the Stellaron crisis quickly. If the star rails were restored, we'd have more options to deal with this threat." She pauses, and when she speaks again, her voice is tentative. "Xander... we think the resonance between your Stellaron and Belobog's might be what's drawing the Legion here. If you can seal it, they might withdraw."

This is my fault? The Legion is here because of me? I swallow hard, trying to keep the rising panic at bay. "Himeko," I begin, my voice shaking, "how close did you think we were to fixing the problem?"

"I... I'm not sure," she admits. "We lost contact with you, so we've been in the dark. What's the situation down there?"

I close my eyes, steeling myself for what I'm about to say. In short, clipped sentences, I recount the events since we lost contact – the journey through the Underworld, the mess with the Vagrants, the confrontation with Svarog, the cataclysm that tore Belobog apart. With each word, I can almost feel Himeko's horror growing.

When I finish, there's a long, heavy silence on the other end of the line.

"Oh, Xander…"

The professional mask she's been maintaining cracks, raw emotion bleeding through. "This is... this is tragic beyond words. Our expedition was never supposed to go like this."

I nod, forgetting for a moment that she can't see me. "I know," I say softly.

"How are you holding up?" Himeko asks, concern evident in her voice. "How are March and Dan coping with all of this?"

I sidestep her question about my own well-being, unwilling to burden her with my personal struggles. Instead, I focus on March and Dan, describing their resilience in the face of unimaginable tragedy. I deliberately omit mentioning my lost arm, not wanting to add to Himeko's worries.

We talk for a while longer, discussing potential strategies and sharing what little information we have. But with each passing moment, the reality of our situation becomes clearer – and bleaker.

"I'm so sorry, Xander," Himeko says finally, her voice heavy with regret. "But there's nothing Welt or I can do right now. I have to stay on the Express, constantly patrolling to fend off Legion invasions. And Welt... he's our only line of defense against their fleet."

"So what you're saying is..."

"If we're going to find a solution to all of this, it has to come from you, March, and Dan," Himeko confirms. "Deal with the Stellaron crisis. That might be enough to drive the Legion away and free us up to get you the support Belobog needs."

I stand there, phone pressed to my ear, feeling utterly defeated. Each breath comes harder than the last, as if responsibility itself were stealing the air from my lungs.

Himeko must sense my despair because her voice softens. "Xander, listen to me. You are stronger than you know. You, March, and Dan – you're an incredible team. I believe in you. Whatever happens, whatever choices you have to make, trust in yourself and in each other."

Her words of encouragement hover at the edges of my consciousness, but I can barely process them. My mind is racing, overwhelmed by the enormity of the task before us. How are we supposed to solve a crisis of this magnitude on our own?

"Xander?" Himeko's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "Are you still there?"

I try to speak but remain silent, unable to form a coherent response. Every part of me feels frozen, my thoughts locked in place by disbelief and the overwhelming burden placed upon us. I remain motionless, my shaking fingers gripping the cell phone while I gaze blankly across Belobog's ruined scenery, my eyes unfocused and distant.

The soft patter of snowflakes continues around me, nature's own countdown to extinction. Each moment brings this city – and potentially this entire world – closer to an icy grave. And now, the realization that we're truly on our own in this fight...

I've never felt more alone, more overwhelmed, in my entire life. Not when I first woke up in this world, not during the harrowing battles in the Simulated Universe, not even in the chaotic aftermath of the cataclysm.

Those challenges pale in comparison to what lies ahead.

My mind races, trying to piece together a plan, any plan. But every potential solution I consider seems woefully inadequate in the face of such monumental disaster. How do we seal a Stellaron without Welt's help? How do we undo the damage the cataclysm has wrought? How do we save a city teetering on the brink of extinction?

And all the while, an insidious voice—my own, not even the Stellaron's—whispers in the back of my mind:

This is your fault. If you hadn't come here, if you hadn't interfered, none of this would have happened.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the voice, trying to focus on Himeko's words of encouragement. But they feel distant now, drowned out by the overwhelming chorus of doubt and fear.

"Xander?" Himeko's voice comes again, more insistent this time, tinged with worry. "Please, say something."

I want to reassure her, to tell her that we'll find a way, that I'm up to the task she's laid before me. But the words stick in my throat. How can I make promises I'm not sure I can keep? How can I pretend to have confidence when I feel so utterly lost?

My gaze falls to my missing right arm, phantom pain throbbing where flesh and bone once were. How much more will this world – will I – have to sacrifice before this is over?

"Xander, please," Himeko's voice breaks through once more, a lifeline in the storm of my thoughts. "I need to know you're okay."

I open my mouth, willing myself to speak, to offer some kind of response. But all that comes out is a shaky breath, visible in the frigid air.

The fate of this world rests on our shoulders now. And I have no idea if we're strong enough to bear it.

————————

Alexander's gaze flickers between the faces surrounding him, each etched with a mixture of disbelief, horror, and dawning comprehension. The crackling fire at the center of their makeshift camp does little to ward off the chill that has settled over them all – a chill that has nothing to do with Belobog's perpetual winter.

He watches as Bronya's face crumples, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. The truth he's unleashed carves new lines around her eyes, aging her decades in moments. A pang of guilt twists in his gut, but he pushes it aside. They need to know. All of them.

"I know it's a lot to take in," he says, his voice hoarse from the extended explanation. "But everything I've told you – about the Stellaron, about the corruption of the Supreme Guardians, about the true history of Belobog – it's all there." He holds up Svarog's data chip, centuries of buried truth contained in its quiet pulse.

Oleg leans forward, his mechanical arm whirring softly in the tense silence. "And you're certain of this? All of it?"

Alexander nods, feeling the phantom ache in his missing arm intensify. "I've gone through the data myself. Used the tech in my phone, even verified it through an Automaton Grizzly's command console. Svarog's records go back over seven-hundred years. It all lines up."

He turns to Bronya, his heart heavy. "You don't have to take my word for it. Check it yourselves. I... I'm sorry, but your mother – all the Supreme Guardians – they've been influenced by the Stellaron since it arrived."

Bronya's breath hitches, a soft, broken sound. "It explains so much," she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. "All those times when Mother seemed... different. When her decisions didn't make sense. Like sealing off the Underworld..." She trails off, lost in painful memories.

Alexander feels a surge of sympathy for the young woman. In many ways, she's lost as much as the rest of them in this catastrophe. Her entire worldview, her understanding of her family and her place in it, has been shattered.

Seele, sitting close to Bronya, reaches out and takes her hand. The gesture is small, but Alexander sees some of the tension leave Bronya's shoulders at the touch.

"Hold up," Luka says, his usual bravado subdued. "The Stellaron's been corrupting our leaders for centuries? And if Bronya's right, it pushed the Supreme Guardian to wreck the entire city?"

"And don't forget the part where we've got a massive alien invasion fleet trying to break through right above our heads," Sampo adds, his tone uncharacteristically grim.

Alexander nods, their scrutiny prickling across his skin. "The Antimatter Legion – the same force that attacked Belobog centuries ago – they're back. My companions on the Astral Express are holding them off, but..." He trails off, remembering Himeko's words, the desperation in her voice.

"But what?" Dan Heng prompts, his usual stoicism tinged with concern.

Alexander takes a deep breath, steeling himself. "But they can't hold out forever. And they can't come help us. We're on our own down here."

The silence that follows is deafening. Alexander watches as the implications of his words sink in. They're not just facing the aftermath of a catastrophe anymore. They're staring down the barrel of potential extinction – for Belobog, for Jarilo-VI, maybe for this entire corner of the universe.

"So what do we do?" March asks, her voice small but determined. "There has to be something, right?"

Alexander meets her gaze, wishing he had a better answer for her. For all of them. "We need to find a way to seal the Stellaron. It's the source of all this – the corruption, the spatial distortions that are blocking the Astral Express from reaching out for help. If we can deal with that, we might have a chance at saving Belobog, driving back the Legion, and also getting supplies for everyone to deal with the current crisis."

"And how exactly do we do that?" Oleg asks, skepticism heavy in his voice. "You're talking about a power that's been manipulating our entire civilization for centuries. How are we supposed to fight something like that?"

Oleg's words hung in the air like smoke, choking off any easy response. The man's skepticism was palpable, and Alexander couldn't blame him. It was a sound question, after all. How do you fight a power that's been pulling the strings for centuries?

"Look, all this explanation, all this context - what good is it doing right now?" Oleg's voice carried frustration and barely contained desperation. "What does it matter to the mother still searching through rubble for her child? To the father who just lost everything? To kids who watched their parents die in that cave-in?" His eyes bored into Alexander's. "They're suffering now. You've got all these answers about why, but do you have any solutions?"

The accusation in Oleg's tone was clear, and guilt coiled in Alexander's chest like a cold, heavy snake. He opened his mouth to respond, but Dan Heng beat him to it.

"Hold on," Dan interjected, his usually calm demeanor giving way to irritation. "When did this become Xander's burden to bear? Since when is he responsible for fixing every crack in Belobog's foundation?"

Oleg turned to Dan, shadows playing across his grim expression. "Because everything traces back to him, doesn't it? The moment he stepped into our city, the cracks started showing. Now look where we are."

Alexander watched the transformation sweep across Dan's face - not just anger, but something deeper, more personal. The usually stoic young man stepped forward, each word precise as a blade. "Walk me through that reasoning, because from where I'm standing, I can't see how you'd think that."

Dan's words spilled out with the force of a breaking dam, each point striking like a hammer blow. "Xander saved a girl from being abused by Igor, with more than enough reason to justify his actions. He took responsibility for the consequences of that monster's death, personally quelling Vagrant retaliation throughout the Underworld. He faced Svarog to make him see reason. He sacrificed his own arm to save Clara!" The crack in Dan's voice carried the weight of that memory, and Alexander felt guilt twist in his chest. "Let's not forget, he saved your ass back at the Great Mine from that same robot before any of this mess started."

Raw emotion bled into Dan's voice now, every word a challenge. "If the Astral Express hadn't come to Belobog, you'd still be blind to the rot eating away at your city. The Eternal Freeze would have claimed you all, and you wouldn't have even understood why!"

Alexander's hand found Dan's shoulder, feeling the younger man's pulse racing beneath his palm.

"Dan, it's okay. Let him say his piece."

Something shifted in Oleg's expression - a grudging respect as he regarded Dan. "That's all well and true," he began, measuring his words carefully, "and yes, we owe you our lives several times over. But facts remain facts. He carries the very thing that's been poisoning our city. Ever since you three arrived, everything we've built has started crumbling - and the speed of that collapse isn't a coincidence."

Something cold entered Oleg's voice as he pressed on. "Connect the dots. The Commander's prior fixation in capturing him. Cocolia's sudden breakdown. The timing isn't coincidence." His eyes locked onto Alexander. "You're like a match dropped in drought season - maybe you didn't mean to start the fire, but everything's burning just the same."

The truth of Oleg's words stung, and Alexander found himself unable to argue. He'd been wrestling with these very thoughts himself, the guilt eating away at him.

"It doesn't matter if you're a good person. It doesn't matter if you landed here by accident or if you've helped people along the way. None of that brings back the dead. None of that stops the dying." Oleg's voice grew quieter, but somehow more devastating. "Children are dying. Right now. While we stand here talking about Stellarons and corruption and cosmic forces."

Alexander watched as Bronya flinched at Oleg's words, her face a mask of pain and guilt.

"So here we stand," Oleg concluded, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "Natasha works herself to exhaustion trying to patch together what's left of our people, while above, the Overworld finally learns what it means to truly suffer." A ghost of a smile touched his lips, devoid of any warmth. "At least now we have that in common."

Dan opened his mouth to argue, but Alexander could see the fight dying in his eyes. How do you argue against truth that bleeds?

Oleg turned back to Alexander, his gaze piercing. "So I ask you again – do you have a solution? Or are we just trading one form of slow death for another?"

Time stretched like glass about to shatter - each stare, each breath, each heartbeat crystallizing into perfect clarity. He searched his mind desperately, trying to come up with something, anything.

But in the end, only silence answered.

The disappointment that settled over Oleg's features spoke volumes more than words ever could.

"So I thought," Oleg said, his voice heavy with resignation. "Nothing's changed, has it? We survived when they withdrew the Silvermane Guards. We survived when they sealed the passages. We survived when they left us to rot in the dark." His mechanical arm whirred as he clenched his fist. "And we'll survive this too, without Supreme Guardians, without celestial saviors, without divine intervention from Qlipoth. Because that's what we do. We endure."

He laughed bitterly. "The true irony is that I let myself hope, even for a moment, that someone else would shoulder our burden. But hope is a luxury we've never been able to afford down here. We have what we've always had: our hands, our will, our desperation. And if we die..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Then we die as we lived. On our own terms."

Oleg's footsteps echo through the tunnel, each one driving his accusations deeper into the silence he leaves behind. The silence he leaves behind feels oppressive, charged with unspoken accusations. Dan Heng's fingers curl into fists at his sides, his jaw clenched tight enough that Alexander can see the muscle jumping. The young man's gaze keeps darting to the empty space where Alexander's right arm should be – the arm Dan had to sever himself.2

"Xander..." March's voice is gentle, concerned. She takes a step forward, and Dan's expression tightens further, caught between wanting to speak and not finding the words.

Alexander can't meet their eyes. Not now.

Not with Oleg's words still ringing in his ears, not with the truth of them burning in his chest, not with the weight of Dan's guilt and March's worry pressing down on him.

"I need some time," he manages, his voice rougher than intended. "Just... I need to think."

March hesitates, sharing a pained look with Dan. After a moment, she nods. "Don't go too far," she says softly.

Alexander turns away, seeking solitude in the shadows of the ruined city. Behind him, Dan's quiet curse carries through the silence – a sound of frustration, of helplessness, of regret.

————————

I stumble through the debris-strewn streets of Boulder Town, my fingers absently fiddling with the cross pendant dangling from my wrist. The geomarrow chain Serval gave me feels cool against my skin, while flames lick at the edges of my vision. Her smiling face flashes in my mind, unbidden, and I'm struck by a pang of worry for her safety.

"You always did have a talent for finding beautiful distractions."

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat as I turn to face the source of that familiar voice. Summer – or rather, the ghost of her – stands before me, her form shimmering slightly in the dim light of the Underworld.

She circles me slowly, each step deliberate. "Look at you, Alexander. A new world, a new crisis, and what's the first thing you do?" Her laugh is soft, knowing. "Find someone else's warmth to shield you from your own cold."

I want to look away, but I can't. Her words slice through my defenses with surgical precision.

"What was it you whispered to me that night, after your nightmare?" She's behind me now, her voice a dangerous caress. "That I made the memories fade? That in my arms, you could pretend to be someone else?" A pause. "Someone who hadn't left a man bleeding in an alley?"

My throat constricts. "Summer—"

"And now there's Serval." The name drops from her lips like poison honey. "Tell me, does she know she's auditioning for my role? The beautiful savior, ready to cradle your guilt between her sheets?" Her fingers ghost across my shoulders. "Or will you lie to her like you lied to me? Pretend your nightmares are just dreams, not memories?"3

She circles back to face me, her smile sharp as broken glass. "Though I suppose that bridge is already ash, isn't it? Poor Serval, who thought she'd found someone real beneath all your careful lies." A soft, knowing laugh. "But there's always another, isn't there? Himeko, perhaps? Or are you still clinging to the fantasy of finding Kafka?" Her voice drops to a whisper. "Tell me, Alexander – how many more hearts will you turn to bandages before you realize the bleeding's coming from inside?"

I squeeze my eyes shut, her words burrowing into my brain like parasites. There's an ugly truth in what she's saying, one I've been avoiding for far too long.

It's easier to play the victim, to wallow in self-pity, than to rise to the challenge before you.

The masked man's words from my vision echo in my mind, cutting through Summer's venomous whispers.

I open my eyes, meeting her gaze steadily. "You're right," I admit, my voice hoarse. "I used you. Wrapped myself in your love like armor against my own conscience. But I'm done running from what I am."

Summer's eyes flicker with something almost like pride. She steps back, her form beginning to dissipate like embers carried on a breeze. Behind her, I see a mountain of rubble and rock, impossibly tall, dominating the landscape of Boulder Town. A single beam of light from some crack in the cavern ceiling above illuminates its peak.

Without hesitation, I begin to climb.

The ascent is grueling. My body, despite all its enhancements and training, feels leaden. I slip, I fall, my face and knees scraping against jagged stone. But each time, I force myself back up, the voices of everyone I've met here spurring me on.

"Whenever you're ready and in need of a friend, remember you can always find one in me." March's words drive me upward another few feet.

"Is your faith in the interpreted word of God? Or is it in what God has taught you? The moral center he's given you?" Welt's question propels me higher.

"I want you to know… that I hope one day, you'll see the good that the Astral Express crew sees in you. The good that I see in you." Himeko's encouragement pushes me forward.

"If it's judgment you're after, you won't get it from me. I don't have that right. The Astral Express gave me a second chance at a lot of things. Maybe it can do the same for you." Dan Heng's empathy echoes as I grasp another handhold.

"I... I may have misjudged you, at least in part. Perhaps I was overzealous in my assessment." Bronya's act like a balm to sooth my pain.

"He intervened to save a child from abuse. How can we justify standing by when injustice happens under our noses, all in the name of some greater good?" Seele's help me push past my exhaustion.

"You're like a superhero. You remind me a lot of Mr. Svarog." Clara's comparison bring me up another couple feet.

"Protect her. Protect them." Svarog's last words give me strength for the final push.

Finally, gasping and bloodied, I reach the summit. For a moment, I simply stand there, catching my breath. Then, steeling myself, I force my gaze outward, taking in the full scope of the devastation below.

Bodies lie broken and twisted among the rubble. Homes are crushed, dreams shattered beneath tons of rock and metal. Bonfires flicker like dying stars, huddled groups of survivors clinging to their meager warmth. And through it all, the relentless search continues – people sifting through the wreckage, calling out names that may never be answered again.

The sight is a knife to my heart, but I refuse to look away. Instead, I activate Chronosurge. The world bleeds to grayscale, and my senses expand beyond their mortal limits, stretching until they threaten to shatter.4

Suddenly, I can feel everything. Each body beneath the rubble becomes a story written in broken bones and cooling flesh. Men who died protecting their families. Women who used their last breath to shield their children. The elderly who accepted their fate with quiet dignity. The young, whose final moments blazed with terror and desperate hope. Their final seconds pour into me, an avalanche of endings I can't stop, can't ignore, can't forget.

When I finally release the enhancement, my body convulses with silent sobs. I wipe my eyes with my remaining arm, the phantom weight of the missing one no longer a loss, but a testament to what protecting the innocent demands.

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?

I look up at the beam of light above me, clutching my cross pendant like a lifeline. The question that's haunted me since waking in Herta's station rises in my throat, raw and desperate. "Was this Your plan all along? To strip everything away until all that's left is... this?"

The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken accusations. My fingers trace the worn edges of the cross, remembering my mother's hands as she placed it around my neck. "You know what I am. What I've done. The blood I spilled in that alley when I was fifteen..." My voice catches. "I can still hear Joaquín's daughter screaming. Still feel his pulse stopping under my hands."5

The admission hangs in the air like smoke, acrid and choking. "I told myself he might have lived. That maybe someone found him in time. But I knew. I've always known." A bitter laugh escapes me. "And what did I do after? I ran. Escaped Argentina. Built myself a perfect life, brick by brick. Career, reputation, relationships – all of it carefully constructed to bury that night."

My remaining hand clenches into a fist. "I used Summer's love and that of many other women before her like morphine, let their warmth numb the guilt. Threw myself into work until exhaustion drowned out the memories. And when that wasn't enough..." The words taste like ash in my mouth. "I wrapped myself in scripture, twisted Your words into justification for my cowardice."

The light above seems to pulse, or maybe it's just my imagination playing tricks. Either way, something inside me snaps.

"And now what? You drag me across universes, drop me into this crucible of suffering and sacrifice? For what?" My voice rises, echoing off the cavern walls. "To save these people? With these bloodstained hands?"

The tremors begin, subtle at first. I ignore them, pressing on. "You want honesty? Fine. I'm terrified. Not of dying – I've been dying in pieces since that night in the alley. I'm terrified that this is exactly where I belong. That You looked at all my broken edges and saw something useful."

The ground shakes harder now, but I'm beyond caring. "So is that it? Am I Your instrument of salvation or Your cautionary tale? Your prodigal son or Your Judas?" The words tear from my throat, raw and primal. "TELL ME!"6

Suddenly, the light becomes blinding, forcing me to squeeze my eyes shut.

Before I can even process what's happening, the ground beneath me heaves.

Terror, primal and all-consuming, floods my veins. I feel small, insignificant, like an ant facing the wrath of a giant. The earth seems to be tearing itself apart, the very fabric of reality straining at the seams.

The shaking is beyond anything I've ever experienced. If the cataclysm that occurred hours ago was an earthquake, this is a series of nuclear detonations directly beneath my feet. I lose my balance, falling to my knees as the world around me roars its fury.

In that moment, I am utterly convinced that I'm about to die. That the entire ceiling will collapse this time, crushing me and everyone else in Boulder Town beneath millions of tons of rock.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the cacophony of destruction. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

The words become a mantra, a desperate plea for forgiveness as I cower before a power beyond my comprehension. All my bravado, all my anger – it melts away in the face of what I believe to be a cosmic display.

And then, as suddenly as it began, it stops.

The silence that follows is deafening. I remain frozen, hardly daring to breathe, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Slowly, tentatively, I open my eyes.

I gasp, my lungs burning as I find myself sprawled at the base of the rubble pile. The memory of that earth-shattering quake still rattles through my bones, leaving me disoriented and shaken to my core. My head throbs, and I'm not entirely sure how I ended up down here.

"Can someone help me get to my daughter? Please!"

The desperate cry pierces through my fog of confusion. How is someone shouting after what just happened? I can barely form coherent thoughts, let alone speak. My throat feels raw, as if I've been screaming, though I don't remember doing so.

Struggling to my feet, I scan the devastated landscape. A man rounds a nearby pile of debris, his eyes wild with panic. He spots me and rushes over, hope etched across his weathered features.

"Please," he begs, "I need help. My daughter—"

I hold up my hand, trying to process the situation. "I... I can try to help," I manage, my voice hoarse. "But first, what's your name?"

"Fersman," he replies, his words tumbling out in a rush. "You must have heard of Hook? She's my adoptive daughter."

Hook – the brave, spirited leader of the Moles. Images of her mischievous grin flash through my mind, followed quickly by the horrifying realization of what her being trapped means.

Fersman must mistake my panic for recognition because he nods urgently. "She was buried with some of her friends and a couple of adults when the cave-in started. I wasn't there to see it happen, but from what I've gathered, they were in an area known for its strong structures."

My mind reels, trying to make sense of the timeline. "Wait," I interject, "was she buried in the quake that just happened?"

Fersman stares at me strangely, exhaustion etched in the lines around his eyes. "There's been only one quake. Hours ago. Everything else..." He gestures at the fresh wreckage around us. "That's just the weight of it all catching up to us. Buildings giving up their ghost, one by one."

What I experienced moments ago suddenly feels distant, dreamlike. The tremors, the blinding light, the overwhelming sense of divine presence – was it all in my head? I push the thought away. Later. I can question my sanity later.

"The structures," I press, trying to mask my skepticism. "You're sure they're strong enough to have survived this?"

A ghost of a smile crosses Fersman's face. "Few months back, some idiot tried turning an automaton hound into a walking bomb. Thing went off right in the middle of the marketplace. Blew out every roof within fifty meters." His eyes take on a faraway look. "But that building? The one Hook and the others were in according to witnesses? Didn't even crack the foundation. These aren't just homes, son. They're fortresses built by people who knew the ground above could come down any day."

The pride in his voice wavers. "But even fortresses can't keep air flowing forever. And it's been hours..."

As Fersman speaks, his eyes drift to the empty space where my right arm should be. His face pales, and he stumbles over his words. "I... I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... It was wrong of me to ask for help from someone who's clearly been through so much already."

I cut him off, raising my remaining hand. "Take me to where they are," I say firmly.

Fersman hesitates, concern evident in his eyes. "But your arm—"

Before he can finish, I feel a familiar surge of power. My eyes begin to glow, an intense golden light that startles Fersman into silence. "Take me there," I repeat, my voice carrying an undercurrent of otherworldly authority.

He nods, visibly shaken, and leads the way through the rubble-strewn streets. As we navigate the devastation, I steel myself for what's to come. I may be broken, battered, and missing an arm, but I'm far from powerless.

We reach the site, a chaotic jumble of fallen rock and twisted metal. I close my eyes, activating Chronosurge. The world around me slows to a crawl as my senses expand outward, probing deep into the earth.

Focus, I command myself, pushing past the initial layers of debris. I encounter the first bodies – cold, still, beyond any hope of rescue. The weight of their loss threatens to overwhelm me, but I press on. Deeper!

Finally, I sense them – six bodies huddled together in a pocket of air. Four children and two adults, their life forces flickering but present.

"I've found them," I announce, my eyes snapping open.

Fersman gapes at me. "How did you—"

But I'm already moving, calling upon the Stellaron within me. Lend me your help! I plead silently. The response is immediate – a flood of energy suffused with an almost childlike eagerness to be of use. Black and white sparks dance across my skin as I bring my fist down onto the ground.

The impact sends shockwaves through the earth, clearing a narrow passage downward. It's tight – far too tight for comfort – but it's a way in.

"They're about 18 meters down," I tell Fersman. "Find others to help. I'm going in."

Before he can protest, I lower myself into the hole, beginning a harrowing descent into darkness. The passage is suffocatingly narrow, forcing me to wiggle and contort my body in ways that seem impossible. Each movement is a struggle, the absence of my right arm throwing off my balance and making the journey even more treacherous.

Time loses all meaning as I inch my way downward. My lungs burn, starved for air in this claustrophobic hell. Panic claws at the edges of my mind, threatening to overwhelm me. Then, just when I think I can't go any further, I find myself stuck.

No amount of wiggling or pushing seems to free me. The walls press in from all sides, squeezing the breath from my body. My heart hammers in my chest as the space grows tighter, smaller, until each shallow breath feels stolen from whatever oxygen remains. The darkness is complete, suffocating – a preview of the grave.

As I struggle, my hand brushes against something familiar. Even in the pitch blackness, I recognize the shape immediately – my cross pendant. I clutch it tightly, feeling the metal warm against my palm.

"Please," I whisper, my voice barely audible even to myself. "I can't let another child die. Not again. Please... help me."

The earth begins to tremble once more, and raw terror floods my system.

Is this how it ends? Buried alive, becoming another corpse in Boulder Town's growing cemetery?

But something strange happens. Instead of collapsing around me, the passage seems to... shift. The oppressive pressure eases, and I find myself able to move again. It's as if the very stone is parting to clear my path.

I don't question this impossible occurrence. Instead, I press on, driven by a desperate need to reach those trapped below. Time blurs as I descend further and further, until suddenly—

I tumble out of the passage, landing in a small pocket of open space. My eyes, glowing with an otherworldly light, take in the scene before me.

The members of the Moles lie scattered around the cramped area, unconscious but breathing. Julian, Timmy, and Isabella are all accounted for, along with an unidentified adult.

But it's the sight directly in front of me that steals the breath from my lungs.

Hook lies motionless beneath Hedeon's body, the Vagrant who had stood against his companions when they attacked Clara – the only one among them who'd refused to harm a child, even at the cost of betraying his own. A jagged piece of rock protrudes from his stomach, yet even in death, his form curves protectively over Hook's smaller frame – a final act of defiance against the indifferent cruelty of their world.

My fingers brush Hook's hair from her face, the gesture achingly gentle. She looks so small, so far from the fierce leader who commands her band of adventurers. When I touch Hedeon's skin, it's already growing cold.

I know what we did was wrong. But down here, sometimes it feels like there aren't any right choices left.

His last words to me echo in the darkness. I remember the shame in his eyes, how compromise had carved new lines around them, aged him decades in moments.

Yet here he lies, having made the only choice that truly mattered.

"You could have run," I whisper, my voice thick with understanding, tears threatening to spill. "Could have saved yourself, justified it with a thousand reasonable excuses. God knows I would have." A bitter laugh escapes me. "I did, didn't I? Built a whole life on running from who I was, what I'd done."

My hand rests on his shoulder, this man I barely knew, who taught me more in death than most have in life. "But you... you chose differently, didn't you? When the rocks came down, you didn't see a child of the underground, didn't calculate the odds or weigh the cost. You just saw someone who needed saving."

The truth of it burns in my chest, sharp and clarifying as surgical steel. All my justifications, my carefully constructed walls of logic and self-preservation – they crumble in the face of this simple act of sacrifice.

"I've been asking the wrong question," I murmur, understanding dawning like the first light after an endless night. "Not 'why me?' but 'what will I do?' Not 'am I worthy?' but 'what am I willing to give?'"

I look up into the darkness, the air thick with unseen presence, watching, waiting. The question that's haunted me since waking in Herta's station finally finds its answer – not in divine proclamation, but in the cooling body of a reformed criminal who chose, in his final moment, to be more than his past.

"I understand now," I whisper, resolve crystallizing in my bones. "It was never about being worthy. It's about being willing."

The survivors' soft breathing fills the silence, each exhale marking another second we can't waste. I rise slowly, my purpose clear for the first time since I remember entering this world.

"Alright," I say quietly, not to Hedeon, not to God, but to myself. "Let's see what I'm willing to give."

————————

Fersman's heart hammered against his ribcage as he paced back and forth, his eyes never straying far from the tiny hole in the ground. Around him, a growing crowd of survivors huddled, their murmurs a mix of hope and despair.

"That man... he really went down there?" someone whispered, disbelief coloring their words.

Fersman's jaw clenched. Of course he had. That golden-eyed stranger, with only one arm, had descended into that impossibly small opening without hesitation. Because Hook was down there. His little girl, his whole world, trapped beneath tons of rubble and stone.

A hand touched his shoulder, and Fersman turned to see an older woman, her face lined with sympathy. "I'm so sorry, dear," she said softly. "Your daughter..."

He shrugged off her touch - her pity burned worse than any wound. He couldn't accept it. Wouldn't. Hook was alive. She had to be.

"It's no use," a man's voice cut through the murmurs. "Even if they survived the initial collapse, how long can they last down there? Without food, water..."

Fersman's hands balled into fists, nails biting into his palms. He wanted to scream at them all to shut up, to stop voicing the very fears that gnawed at his insides. But before he could, another voice rose in anger.

"Have you no sense?" a woman hissed. "Can't you see his pain? Keep your grim thoughts to yourself!"

The first man rounded on her, his face twisted with a mixture of grief and rage. "And what good does false hope do? It's time we all faced reality. This hellhole we call home doesn't care about fairytales or miracles. We've had ten years of Cocolia's betrayal to learn that lesson!"

Fersman's breath caught in his throat. Ten years. Had it really been that long since the Underworld was sealed off? Since their lives became a daily struggle for survival? He thought of Hook, how she'd never known anything but this darkness, this constant fight to exist. And now...

The man's tirade continued, his voice rising. "Wake up! Qlipoth doesn't give a damn about us. We're not favored, we never were. We should just-"

"SHUT UP!" Fersman roared, rounding on the man. His vision blurred red with fury. "Just shut your fucking mouth! I don't want to hear another word!"

The crowd fell silent, all eyes on Fersman. He could feel their stares, a mix of shock and understanding. But he didn't care. All he cared about was straining his ears, desperate to hear any sound from that accursed hole. A scrape of stone, a muffled voice, anything to tell him Hook was still alive.

The man gaped at him, momentarily stunned. Then his face hardened. "Are you insane? You can't honestly believe that one-armed maniac is coming back. Look at that hole! He's probably stuck halfway down, slowly suffocating-"

"I said SHUT UP!" Fersman lunged forward, grabbing the man by his shirt. He barely registered the faint trembling beneath his feet, too consumed by his rage and fear.

The man shoved him back, eyes blazing. "I won't stand here and let you feed these people false hope! You're not the only one who's lost someone today, you selfish bastard!"

Fersman opened his mouth to retort, but a small voice cut through the tension like a knife.

"Mom! The ground is shaking!"

All eyes turned to a little girl clinging to her mother's leg. And in that moment of silence, they felt it. A deep, rhythmic rumbling that seemed to come from the very core of the earth.

Panic rippled through the crowd. "Another quake?"

"We need to get out of here!"

"The tunnels will collapse!"

But Fersman stood rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on the tiny hole. And then he saw it – a golden light, impossibly bright, seeping up from the depths.

A voice, muffled but powerful, boomed from below. "EVERYONE, CLEAR!"

The command galvanized them into action. People scrambled back, dragging loved ones with them. Fersman found himself being pulled away, his feet moving of their own accord even as his heart screamed to stay close to that hole, to Hook.

The explosion, when it came, was deafening. Rocks and debris rained down, a cloud of dust obscuring everything. Fersman's ears rang, his eyes stung, but he fought against the hands holding him back. He had to see, had to know...

As the dust began to settle, a figure emerged from the newly enlarged opening. Fersman's breath caught in his throat. It was him – the golden-eyed stranger. But now those eyes blazed like miniature suns, cutting through the gloom. His body was caked in dirt and blood, his remaining arm crackling with energy that Fersman couldn't begin to comprehend.

And strapped to his back...

"Hook!" Fersman's cry was part sob, part prayer. He saw her small form, along with three other children and an adult, secured to the man's back by some kind of high-tech tether.

The stranger took a few steps forward, his movements measured and careful. As the energy faded from his hand, he spoke, his voice tired but steady. "I need help to get them down. Carefully."

Fersman didn't need to be told twice. He rushed forward, his hands shaking as he helped unfasten the tether. Hook felt so small, so fragile in his arms. But she was breathing. She was alive.

He clutched her to his chest, tears streaming down his face.

"Oh, my little girl," he whispered, drinking in the sight of her. Her hair was matted with dirt, her face pale and drawn, but she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Around him, others were tending to the rescued children and the unconscious man. A woman – the one who'd been silent throughout the earlier argument – let out a wail of recognition as she saw the man's face. "Oh Qlipoth and stars above, it's him! It's my husband!"

Fersman watched through tear-blurred eyes as she and her daughter embraced the unconscious form, their sobs of relief echoing his own emotions. The stranger – their savior – knelt beside them, his voice gentle as he assured them of the man's condition.

"They're dehydrated, but they'll recover with proper care and medical attention," he said, his words carrying a weight of certainty that Fersman clung to like a lifeline.

The woman looked up at the stranger, her face a mask of shame and gratitude. "I'm so sorry," she choked out. "For what I said to you before... I didn't mean-"

The man silenced her with a gentle kiss to her forehead, then to her daughter's. "There's nothing to be sorry for," he murmured, and Fersman saw fresh tears spring to the woman's eyes.

Overwhelmed with gratitude, Fersman stepped towards the stranger, Hook still cradled in his arms. But before he could embrace him, the man was moving back towards the hole.

"Wait!" Fersman called out, confusion and fear gripping him. "Why are you going back down?"

The stranger paused, his golden eyes meeting Fersman's. "There's one more," he said simply, and then he was gone, swallowed up by the darkness once more.

Fersman stood there, rooted to the spot, Hook's steady breathing the only thing keeping him anchored to reality. The crowd around him buzzed with a mixture of awe and disbelief. He heard snatches of conversation – "It's a miracle!" "How did he do that?" "Who is he?"

But Fersman's thoughts were solely on the hole, willing the stranger to return. And return he did, mere minutes later, carrying another body. This one, he could tell at a glance, was beyond saving.

The stranger laid the man down with reverence, his remaining hand once again crackling with that strange energy. To Fersman's amazement, he began to dig a grave, right there and then.

Unable to contain his curiosity, he stepped closer, Hook still held tight against his chest. "Who... who is he?" he asked, nodding towards the fallen man.

The stranger paused in his digging, those golden eyes meeting Fersman's once more. "His name was Hedeon," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Remember that name, Fersman. Remember it well, for as long as you live. He's the reason your daughter is alive."

The words hit him like a physical blow. He looked down at the man – Hedeon – seeing him truly for the first time. A new wave of tears welled up in Fersman's eyes, a lump forming in his throat.

"I... I don't know what to say," he choked out.

The stranger nodded, understanding in his gaze. "Then let's pray for him," he suggested.

Fersman hesitated. "I... I don't know how," he admitted, feeling a flush of shame.

But the stranger just smiled, a sad, gentle expression. "I'll guide you," he promised.

And so, standing there in the ruins of their world, Hook cradled in his arms, Fersman listened as the stranger offered a prayer for Hedeon. The words filled the air like incense, speaking of peace and gratitude, of sacrifice and remembrance. To his surprise, Fersman found himself joining in, his voice mingling with others from the crowd.

As the prayer ended, a hush fell over the gathered survivors. Fersman saw looks of awe, of gratitude, of renewed hope on faces that had been etched with despair mere hours ago.

"What's your name?" someone in the crowd called out. "We need to know who to thank."

The stranger shook his head. "My name is irrelevant," he said, turning as if to leave.

But Fersman couldn't let him go, not like this. He reached out, grasping the man's arm. "Please," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I need to know. You saved my daughter. You've given us all hope when we thought there was none left."

The little girl who'd first noticed the tremors darted forward, wrapping her arms around the stranger's leg. "Please tell us!" she begged, looking up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes.

Fersman saw something shift in the stranger's expression as he looked down at the child. His gaze swept over the crowd, lingering on each face as if committing them to memory. Finally, he spoke.

"Alexander," he said softly. "Alexander Salvatore."

A murmur ran through the crowd as people repeated the name, etching it into their memories. Then, one by one, they began to offer their own names in return. Fersman watched as Alexander listened intently to each one, nodding as if making a solemn vow to remember them all.

The little girl tugged on Alexander's pant leg. "What will you do now?" she asked, her voice small but filled with hope. "Will you save the rest of the people in the Underworld? You have to!"

Alexander knelt down, gently wiping away the tears on the child's cheeks. He looked to her mother, then back to the girl, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"Hold onto hope," he told her, his voice carrying to all those gathered around. "I'll get Belobog the help it needs. But first, if you'll forgive me, I need to see a child of my own."

————————

Through burning eyes, Clara maintains her vigil at the camp entrance, her vision blurring from exhaustion. The stench of smoke and decay mingles with blood's metallic tang, permeating everything. Each breath catches in her throat, but she keeps watching, muscles screaming from hours of stillness. Not until...

A nurse's shadow falls across her face. "Clara, sweetheart, you need to rest. Come, let's get you something to eat."

The words drift past as Clara stares at the entrance, fingernails cutting half-moons into her palms. When the nurse's hand brushes her shoulder, her entire body recoils.

"No!" The scream echoes across the camp. "Leave me alone!"

The nurse stumbles back. Tears carve paths through the grime on Clara's face. "I have to wait," she chokes out. "I have to..."

Retreating footsteps fade into worried whispers. Clara turns back to the entrance, shoulders curved inward like a shield against the world.

Time dissolves into an endless procession of stretchers. Moans from the injured mingle with something worse - the heavy silence of sheet-covered forms. Behind clenched eyelids, Clara tries to block out the sight, but the wails of grief pierce through every defense, a relentless chorus of despair.

In the quiet moments, memories surge forward. The earth's deafening roar. Svarog's massive form above her as rocks rained down. Blinding pain, then darkness.

Awakening had brought Miss Natasha's gentle voice, each word a hammer stroke shattering her world.

Svarog is gone.

Anguish crashes through her chest. Against her fists, pressed white-knuckled to her mouth, a keening sound builds. The words can't exist in the air - speaking them might make them real.

Hours bleed together. Hunger gnaws at her stomach, but food turns to ash on her tongue. Only when a nurse forces water to her lips does she manage a few sips, if only to end the hovering presence.

The sky darkens, and doubt creeps in like evening shadows. Maybe he won't come. Maybe he's forgotten, just like-

Her head snaps side to side, banishing the thought.

He promised. He promised.

Hope threatens to slip away, just as it did years ago, when movement at the entrance catches her eye.

The figure stumbling through seems wrong at first - a stranger wearing Alexander's face. Gray streaks the once-dark hair, deep lines carve his features, and where his right arm should be, emptiness. But those eyes, molten gold and impossible, strike through her like lightning.

Clara's legs move before thought catches up. The world tilts as unused muscles protest, but nothing else matters. Nothing but reaching him.

"Alexander!" The name tears free, raw and desperate.

Those golden eyes lock onto her. Time freezes for a heartbeat, then shatters as they surge toward each other.

Xander drops to his knees, arm outstretched. Clara crashes into him hard enough to rock him backward, but his grip only tightens, fierce and sure.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry, Clara."

The dam bursts. Clara buries her face in his chest, unleashing every ounce of pain and fear she's held back. Her body shakes with the force of it.

"Don't leave me," she pleads between gasping breaths. "Please, don't leave me alone."

His arm crushes her closer, hand cradling her head. "I'm here," he murmurs. "I've got you, Sunshine. I've got you."

Tears soak through Xander's shirt as Clara pours out her grief. Each sob tells a different story of loss - Svarog's sacrifice, the terror beneath the rubble, the endless parade of suffering in its wake.

Through it all, Xander's presence anchors her. No empty reassurances, just the steady rhythm of his breathing and soft comfort against her hair.

Dampness trickles onto her scalp. Clara stills as realization dawns - Xander's tears falling silent as stars.

His arm loosens, creating just enough space to meet her gaze. Red rims his golden eyes, grief and guilt etched in their depths.

"Clara, I..." The words catch in his throat. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here sooner. I should have come right away, I just... I was afraid."

"Afraid?"

"I was ashamed." Pain shadows his features. "After everything that happened, after I couldn't save Svarog, I... I didn't know how to face you. I thought you might hate me."

Fresh tears well up as Clara's palm finds his cheek. "I could never hate you," she says softly. "You saved me."

Xander leans into her touch, eyes closing briefly. When they open, warmth breaks through the darkness. "You're right," he says. "I'm sorry for doubting that. It won't happen again."

Clara settles back against his chest, breath syncing with his heartbeat. His arm wraps around her, chin resting atop her head.

"Have you been eating?" The question rumbles through his chest.

Tension creeps through her shoulders. "They gave us rations."

Xander shifts to see her face. "Clara," he says gently. "Did you eat them?"

Her gaze drops to his shirt. "I... I wasn't hungry."

A gentle sigh brushes her hair. "I know it's hard," he says. "But you need to keep your strength up. Especially now. Will you try to eat something for me?"

"Okay."

His lips press against her crown. "Thank you," he says. "What about the other children? Are they doing alright?"

Clara's shoulders curve inward. "I don't know," she admits. "I haven't... I didn't want to talk to anyone."

His arm tightens around her. "That's okay," he says. "I understand. It's been a lot to deal with."

Silence settles between them, heavy with unspoken words. Clara waits, feeling the tension build in Xander's frame.

"Sunshine," he says softly. "Look at me for a second?"

She tilts her head up, gasping at the sight of his eyes glowing like miniature stars in the dim light.

"I need to tell you something," Xander continues, expression grave. "And I need you to listen carefully, okay?"

Anxiety coils in her stomach as she nods.

"I have to leave for a while," Xander says, each word measured. "There's something very important I need to do, and I can't stay here."

The words strike like physical blows. Panic claws up her throat. "No!" Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. "You can't go! You promised!"

His arm pulls her close, voice steady. "Shh, it's okay. Let me explain, alright? Take a deep breath for me."

Clara struggles against hiccuping gasps until she matches his rhythm.

"I'm not abandoning you," he says firmly. "I swear it. But I need to go out there and find a way to fix all of this." His gesture encompasses the camp's devastation. "All these people who are suffering, who've lost their homes and families – I have to try to make it right."

Through tear-blurred eyes, she searches his face. "But why does it have to be you?"

Golden light flickers as he weighs his response. "Because..." A breath catches. "Because it would be irresponsible of me not to try. Svarog asked me to protect you, to protect everyone. I have to honor that."

Her brow furrows in thought. "How will you do it?"

A rueful smile touches his lips. "I'm still working on that part," he admits. "I have some ideas, but none of them are perfect. The biggest problem is getting supplies. I think I can get help from that space station I told you about, but getting everything back here would be..."

Understanding sparks in Clara's eyes. "What about your dimensional pouch? The one you showed me before? Couldn't you use that?"

Something shifts in his expression - not quite surprise, but recognition. His fingers tap absently at his side where the pouch hangs. "I'd thought of that," he says slowly. "But dismissed it - my pouch is too small for what we need." His brow furrows as his gaze grows distant. "Although..."

The words trail off, his eyes darting back and forth as if reading invisible text. "Asta's cargo versions..." A sharp intake of breath. "Of course. Of course!"

Joy blazes across his features. "That's it!" he exclaims. "Clara, you're a genius!"

The world spins as he lifts her, laughter breaking free. His kisses pepper her face between cries of triumph, but the sudden weight throws him off-balance. They topple sideways, landing in an ungraceful heap on the ground. Clara's startled yelp dissolves into giggles as Xander's own deep laughter rumbles beneath her.

"Well," he manages between chuckles, shifting to help her up with his remaining arm. "Seems I forgot about that missing counterweight."

Their shared mirth fades naturally into the camp's evening quiet.

As Clara finds her feet, solemnity settles over Xander's features. "Clara," he says. "I want to give you something. Something very important to me."

From his pouch comes an old clock, handled with reverence.

"Hold out your hands," he instructs softly.

She cups them together, receiving the timepiece like a blessing.

"When I woke up in that space station a little over a week ago, this was in my pocket," he explains. "It survived an incredible fire, and who knows what else. It belonged to my father."

Understanding steals her breath as she gazes at the treasure in her palms.

"I want you to hold onto it for me," Xander continues. "It's the only thing I have left from my old man in this world. It means more to me than I can say – I'd go to the ends of the universe to find it if it was lost."

His hand closes over hers, sealing the clock between them. "So here's what you're going to do," he says, voice low and intense. "You're going to take care of it for me. And it will be a physical guarantee that I'll come back to you. No matter what happens, no matter what stands in my way, I will always return."

Her fingers trace worn metal. "The others say you could have left. After the cave-in. After..."

She swallows hard. "Why didn't you?"

Beneath his shirt, a soft glow catches Clara's eye. The cross pendant pulses with gentle light, like a star keeping time with his heartbeat. When he speaks, his voice carries echoes of a fifteen-year-old boy's terror.

"Because many years ago, I sat where you're sitting now," he says softly. "Waiting. Praying. Bargaining with God that if He just brought my father back to me, I'd never ask for anything again."

His voice breaks slightly. "The difference was, He answered my prayers that night. My father survived those gunshots. But you..." His eyes search her face, seeing the shadow of loss etched too deep for someone so young. "You've had to learn twice what I couldn't face even once."

Fresh revelation weights his voice. "I spent years trying to forget what it felt like, being that scared kid covered in his father's blood. Built walls, kept moving, never let too many be close enough to matter." Something shifts in his expression. "But seeing you here - holding onto hope even when it hurts - maybe I was meant to remember."

Strange shadows dance across their joined hands from the pendant's light. "Maybe some prayers aren't answered in a single night. Maybe they echo across years, across universes and worlds, until they find the moment they were meant for all along."

Against her heart, the clock's weight becomes anchor and promise both. "You promise?" The whisper escapes her lips. "You promise you'll come back?"

Drawing her close, he guides her head to rest against his neck. The pendant's light catches in his tears, turning them to liquid gold.

"I promise."

In that moment, even the endless dark above Boulder Town seemed to hold its breath - as if the very Underworld recognized a truth older than stone itself.

Somewhere far above, stars they couldn't see continued their ancient dance, bearing witness.