Chapter 25
The following morning arrived without ceremony, broken only by a precise knock at Magnus's door, three taps, evenly spaced, controlled. When he opened it, a stranger stood in the narrow hallway: a Cleaner agent by posture alone, coat too neat, eyes too observant.
"Agent Kade Morales," the man said calmly, flashing an insignia only long enough to be recognized.
"I'll be brief. We're not here because of what you can do individually, but because of what you become together." Inside, Alexa watched silently as Morales explained that monitored rift data had flagged their movements, not for instability, but for efficiency. "Most teams compensate for each other's weaknesses," he said, voice measured. "You don't. You anticipate. You adjust before failure happens."
Morales stepped further in, uninvited but not unwelcome, his tone shifting from official to deliberate persuasion. "Cleaners lose people because fear breaks coordination. You two don't let fear lead. You communicate without speaking. You protect without overreaching." His gaze moved between them.
"That's rare. And rare things are either wasted, or recruited." Magnus didn't respond immediately, and Alexa finally spoke, wary but steady. "You're asking us to step into something that doesn't let people walk away." Morales nodded once. "I'm asking you to stop pretending you already aren't." The room fell quiet, the implication settling between them: this wasn't an invitation born of chance, but recognition, and the beginning of a choice neither of them could unseen.
Morales remained standing, hands clasped behind his back, as if delivering a field report rather than a pitch.
"We reviewed every incident within your sector," he said. "Casualties were expected, statistically unavoidable. Yet wherever the two of you were present, the numbers dropped. Not by chance. By pattern."
Magnus narrowed his eyes. "People got hurt and died."
"Yes," Morales agreed without hesitation. "But far fewer than projected." He tapped the tablet at his side, as if invisible data were unfolding in the air. "Evacuation times shortened. Panic events decreased. Civilian movement inside closed infrastructure is usually the hardest variable to control, but in your sector, it stabilized. Almost… domesticated."
He glanced up. "People adapted. Some even reached a conscious realization: survival required coordination, not instinct. That does happen occasionally, but it's statistically unlikely." He paused. "It doesn't happen during rift events."
Alexa spoke carefully. "Because we had an obligation to stay."
Morales nodded. "Because you did something many spend years training for—just to achieve a fraction of that result." His eyes shifted to Magnus. "And because this man was, frankly, excessively effective."
Alexa turned sharply toward Magnus, confusion flashing across her face. "Effective how?"
Morales answered for him. "Neutralizing void entities."
"With what?" she asked slowly.
Magnus hesitated. "A pen."
"A… pen?" Alexa blinked.
"Technically," Magnus said, almost apologetic, "the fountain pen you gifted me."
Morales didn't react. He was watching Magnus too closely for disbelief, as if confirmation mattered more than explanation. After a moment, he spoke again, tone returning to clinical calm.
"As you already know, your partner, Ms. Alexa Davenport, has awakened regenerative and healing capabilities." His gaze never left Magnus. "But you, Mr. Wěi Dà Zhou… or Magnus Zhou, depending on the record, your abilities are difficult to classify."
Magnus said nothing.
"They don't match standard manifestations," Morales continued. "No energy signature. No measurable surge. Yet the results are undeniable." A pause. "Which brings me to why we're here."
He shifted his stance, posture subtly less formal, more deliberate. "If you are willing, Mr. Zhou, we would like you to submit to controlled testing. Observation only. No coercion." His eyes flicked briefly to Alexa, then back. "Participation is voluntary. Declining will not result in penalties."
A beat of silence followed.
"But understand this," Morales added quietly. "What happened near that rift was not an anomaly. It was a signal."
He straightened. "And signals are meant to be answered."
Morales reached into his coat and placed a slim, matte card on the table. No logos, only a frequency code and a number. "Either way, this is my calling card. If you're interested, you know how to reach us." He didn't push it closer. "No deadlines. No pressure."
Then, as if remembering himself, he added, "Let me finish my explanation. It's our responsibility to facilitate investigation and information sharing for anyone who's encountered a rift."
His professional composure thinned just enough to reveal unease. "The rift near your area was classified as a Level Seven abnormality, the largest that day. Nationwide, dozens manifested." He paused. "But only one behaved differently."
Magnus's voice hardened. "The one near us."
"Exactly," Morales said. "The entities that emerged weren't standard void creatures. No erratic movement. No sound-based or motion-based tracking." His eyes flicked upward briefly. "They were humanoid. Upright. Deliberate."
Alexa's breath caught. "They were looking at us."
"They were reading you," Morales corrected. "Heat sensors instead of motion. They ignored fleeing crowds and tracked body‑temperature spikes, fear responses, exertion, injury." His gaze locked onto Magnus. "Which meant hiding wasn't an option. Only control was."
Magnus clenched his jaw. "And you're saying we adapted fast enough."
"Yes," Morales replied. "Because the heat signatures in your sector behaved differently." He gestured subtly, as if outlining invisible structures. "Your servers, generators, and closed systems were producing consistent thermal noise. The creatures prioritized that over human movement." He paused. "Which means we need to rethink how we perceive these encounters."
His voice hardened slightly. "These entities are learning—using every available variable to hunt us. Their evolution is no longer random. Thickened dermal layers. Enhanced sensory systems." A breath. "Adaptation."
"All our best minds are working to stay ahead," Morales continued. "Research teams. Tactical analysts. Military strike units." His eyes darkened. "We've spent millions on armor‑piercing ammunition just to reliably put them down."
He looked directly at Magnus.
"And yet," he said quietly, "you were able to kill them with frightening efficiency. Without specialized weapons. Without visible strain."
"You adapted immediately," Morales added. "You used spacing instead of speed. You rotated exposure. You shielded civilians by lowering thermal signatures." A brief pause. "Most trained Cleaners didn't think of that."
Silence settled over the room.
Morales spoke again, softer now. "That rift is the only one of its kind we've observed so far. And it manifested where you were already being monitored."
Alexa met Magnus's gaze. "So this isn't recruitment. It's escalation."
Morales inclined his head. "It's recognition. The void is learning. And so are we." He let the words settle before finishing, "We don't need more soldiers. We need pairs that can think faster than the anomaly evolves."
He straightened once more. "That's why we're here."
"As you already know," Morales said, his tone steady but deliberate, "your company is only a fragment of something much larger."
He let that sit before continuing.
"The public knows us as the Cleaners. It's a convenient name. Simple. Reassuring. It suggests containment, order, a problem that can be wiped away." A faint, humorless smile crossed his face. "But names like that exist to keep people from asking harder questions."
He paced slowly, measured steps across the room.
"We are not just a collection of individuals with unusual abilities, assembled to fight invading creatures. That's the surface function." He stopped. "What we actually do is observe patterns—behavioral, biological, existential."
Morales looked at them both.
"Rifts aren't random tears. They're tests. Probes. Reactions. Every encounter gives the void data, and every response we make gives us data in return." His voice lowered. "This isn't a war of strength. It's a war of control."
He folded his hands behind his back.
"We study how fear spreads. How crowds collapse, or stabilize. How environments influence survival. How certain people, under pressure, don't just endure chaos but reorganize it." His gaze sharpened. "People like you."
Alexa frowned. "So the fighting is just… cover?"
"It's necessary," Morales replied. "But it's not the goal." He tilted his head slightly. "If brute force worked, the problem would already be solved."
" we have many theories but none of them has been confirmed."
He turned to Magnus.
"Both of your effectiveness isn't measured by how many void creatures you kill," Morales said. "It's measured by the fact that the void responds to you."
He let the silence stretch.
"Whatever you're doing, consciously or not, it forces the anomaly to adapt."
A pause.
"That doesn't make you assets."
His eyes settled on them.
"It makes you variables we can't afford to ignore."
The room felt smaller.
"The Cleaners don't exist to win battles," Morales finished quietly. "We exist to make sure humanity doesn't lose the equation."
He straightened, the professional mask returning.
"And now you understand why this conversation matters."
The conversation ended without ceremony. The agents did not linger, did not press their advantage, and did not attempt to extract promises. Goodbyes were exchanged, polite, restrained, and then the door closed behind them, leaving the apartment quieter than it had been before.
Magnus felt it immediately.
Alexa was still there, still beside him, but her thoughts had already drifted somewhere else—circling the words the agents had left behind. Training. Licensing. Dimensional Rift Hunters. A future framed not as obligation, but as preparation.
If they joined the main agency, they wouldn't just react anymore. They would be trained to use their abilities deliberately, efficiently, without improvisation or luck. The timing alone made it tempting. Their office wouldn't be fully operational for another two weeks. A forced hiatus from work, the agents had called it. Magnus thought of it differently: a window.
Armed training had already been mandatory since the first rift opened. The government's precautionary act, officially framed as civilian protection. Everyone learned how to hold a weapon, how to aim, how to survive long enough for help to arrive. But this, what the Cleaners were offering, went far beyond that. It wasn't about defense anymore. It was about understanding the battlefield before it reshaped itself again.
Magnus watched Alexa, saying nothing, knowing she was weighing more than logistics. This wasn't just a decision about training or licenses. It was about stepping closer to something that had already taken notice of them.
And once noticed, there was no returning to being ordinary.
Alexa and Magnus had two weeks off from work, a brief pause in the rhythm of their lives that felt almost fragile. Alexa used the time to explore her abilities, practicing in quiet corners, testing limits, learning what her power could truly do. Magnus watched her from a distance at first, careful not to interfere, offering guidance only when she asked or when a subtle correction was needed.
He noticed something shifting in her, an interest, a purpose. She wasn't just experimenting for curiosity's sake; she wanted to help. It was a small, steady glow of determination, and Magnus felt both admiration and something quieter, protective.
He, on the other hand, remained distant in thought. He considered his own skills, not in a rush to test them, but in the slow calculus of what would matter when the time came. He needed to be certain of what he could offer, of the measure of control he could wield when the chaos inevitably returned.
Magnus saw the lines forming in Alexa's mind, the consideration of joining the Cleaners, earning a license to become an official healer. He didn't say anything, he would never stop her. Freedom of choice was something he valued above most things. The ability to decide, without coercion, without invisible strings. He had learned the cost of manipulation once, long ago, and the memory still lingered.
He had bent minds before, shaped outcomes, tried to orchestrate what he believed was best. But the results never felt right. Even with power beyond mortal measure, the weight of someone else's life, someone else's fate, was never easy to carry, or to accept. He had learned, painfully, that saving someone's life didn't guarantee their happiness, and altering a path, even with the purest intentions, was a gamble the heart could not easily forgive.
So he watched Alexa, silently, letting her grow, letting her choose. There was strength in that. There was freedom. And in a world like theirs, that was rarer than any power.
While Alexa moved through her exercises with steady determination, Magnus lingered in the corner of their small training space. He didn't need to push himself the way she did, his abilities were already inherent, precise, and overwhelming, but that didn't mean he could afford to be careless.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes open this time, observing the way energy flowed around him and how subtle manipulations of force and heat could ripple without anyone noticing. Nothing dramatic. Nothing destructive. Just small, controlled movements, experiments in restraint. Magnus was testing not how fast or strong he could act, but what he could reliably do when required, and how that power might be formalized if ever he had to submit it for evaluation.
Unlike Alexa, who thrived on seeing the immediate results of her abilities, Magnus approached his so-called awakened skill as something to measure, catalog, and control. He had to know, with absolute certainty, which aspects of his power could be safely revealed, which could be contained, and which were too unpredictable to ever display in the structured tests the Cleaners might demand. If they asked for a demonstration, he needed to know what he could safely offer—and what must remain hidden.
After all, the full scope of his power was unimaginable. Destroying multiple worlds with a mere thought could shatter any mortal mind instantly, leaving chaos and ruin beyond comprehension. And recreating even a single ruined world, returning it to life exactly as it had been, was an act beyond a god. Such capability was not something to wield lightly.
Yet Magnus had long since realized that even contemplating such acts carried no consequences for him. He existed outside the normal flow of fate and destiny. Born simultaneously with his twin time, he was both Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. The laws that bound mortals, the threads that dictated outcomes, could not reach him. He alone moved in a space where creation and destruction were not opposites but choices, choices he could make, or choose not to.
So he measured, so carefully. He experimented in small increments, restrained, invisible, as if testing the edges of a knife without ever touching the blade. Every flicker of energy, every pulse of force, was cataloged mentally, reserved for a time when it might be demanded, and even then, only the smallest, safest fraction would ever be exposed.
From time to time, he glanced at Alexa. She was gaining confidence, her hands glowing faintly as she healed small abrasions she had deliberately created for practice. Each success brought a quiet, satisfied smile to her face. Magnus allowed himself a faint nod. She had the instinct. She had the desire to help. That mattered more than any theoretical calculation.
He didn't interfere, not because he didn't care, but because he valued what she was learning about herself. Her independence, her willingness to act, was a strength that couldn't be engineered. Magnus had learned the hard way that manipulating outcomes, even with the best intentions, came with consequences he could not control.
So he continued quietly, cataloging and testing. He measured his influence over shadows, his control over thermal perception, the subtle pressures he could exert on the environment. He ran through scenarios in his mind, imagining what the Cleaners might ask him to demonstrate, what tests might be required. Everything was deliberate, methodical, and restrained.
Hours blurred into a gentle rhythm inside the apartment, the kind that made time feel cooperative instead of demanding. Alexa's laughter would rise suddenly, light and surprised, whenever an exercise worked better than expected. It echoed off the walls and drifted into the small kitchen where Magnus pretended to focus on mundane tasks, wiping a counter that was already clean, adjusting a chair that didn't need moving, just to give her space while still staying close. Each laugh earned a faint smile from him, brief but genuine, the kind that came from watching progress unfold naturally.
She was growing more confident, not recklessly so, but with the careful certainty of someone who respected what she was touching. And Magnus, in turn, felt his own certainty sharpening, not just about what his power could do, but about what truths he could finally afford to reveal when the moment was right.
Alexa sat at the table, a notebook spread open beside a small pile of apples. With deliberate care, she sliced one with a small knife, creating a clean, measured cut. She held it steady, closed her eyes for a breath, then lifted her fingers. The energy responded almost immediately, thin, luminous wisps like softly glowing smoke unfurling from her fingertips. The light was white, not harsh but warm, like sunlight filtered through curtains.
As it brushed over the apple, the cut slowly sealed, fibers knitting together as if time itself had been persuaded to take a step back. She watched closely, noting the seconds it took, the depth and length of the cut, and the subtle sensation in her chest afterward, no pain, just a mild fatigue, like finishing a long walk. She wrote everything down, her handwriting precise, methodical. Measuring energy use still frustrated her; it was elusive, slippery, impossible to quantify cleanly. But that only made her more determined.
"Try a deeper cut next time," Magnus said casually from across the room, his tone calm, observational. He wasn't instructing, just suggesting. Alexa glanced up at him, eyebrow raised.
"You say that like you're not worried," she replied, half-teasing.
"I am," he admitted. "That's why you're using fruit instead of yourself."
She smiled at that and nodded, turning back to her work. Her dual background, marketing specialist and rift data monitor, showed clearly in how she approached training. To her, this wasn't just practice; it was research. Patterns mattered. Variables mattered. If she wanted a license to help in the field, to be useful beyond theory and paperwork, then she needed data she could trust. Each apple became a controlled experiment, each sensation a data point. And every success, no matter how small, pushed her confidence a little higher.
Later, while she stretched her fingers and shook off the lingering warmth, Magnus finally spoke again, quieter this time. "If anyone asks," he said, eyes still on her hands, "I can say I manipulate kinetic energy."
Alexa turned fully toward him now. "Openly?"
He nodded once. "It's believable. Useful. And it explains enough without explaining everything."
She studied his face, not questioning the decision, just understanding the weight behind it. "That means you can help too," she said softly. "In a way people will accept."
"That's the idea."
They shared a brief silence, comfortable and charged with unspoken trust. Then Alexa picked up another apple, grinning. "Alright," she said. "Round… I lost count. Stay there. I want to see if your presence affects my focus."
Magnus chuckled quietly and leaned back against the counter. "Scientific method," he murmured.
As the day drifted on, their interactions remained small but meaningful, him handing her water when her hands trembled, her asking him to toss an apple gently so she could heal it mid-motion, testing reaction time and concentration. Nothing dramatic, nothing ceremonial. Just two people sharing space, purpose, and a growing sense that they were preparing for something larger than themselves. And in that ordinary day, filled with notes, laughter, glowing light, and careful restraint, Alexa felt closer than ever to earning the right to help, and Magnus felt closer to finally stepping out of the shadows beside her.
As the light from Alexa's fingertips faded and the last apple was set aside, the apartment settled into a calmer stillness, the kind that followed focused effort. Magnus watched her jot down one final note, her pen slowing as if her thoughts had already moved ahead of the page. He knew, without needing her to say it, that something had shifted.
Alexa had made up her mind. She wanted the license, not for prestige, not for approval, but so she could use her abilities openly, without the constant fear of scrutiny or persecution. It was written in the way she carried herself now, in the steadiness of her breathing, in the quiet confidence that had replaced earlier hesitation.
Later, as they rested in the soft quiet of their apartment, the city's distant hum filtering through the windows, she turned to him as if it were nothing more than a suggestion for an afternoon outing. "So… would you be interested in joining me for the agency assessment? The evaluation and tests?" Her tone was casual, but Magnus caught what lay beneath it. This wasn't a question born of doubt, it was certainty, the kind that didn't ask permission to exist.
Magnus raised an eyebrow, studying her for a long moment. He measured her resolve the same way he measured everything else: carefully, deliberately. Finally, he let out a slow breath. "I… might consider it," he said. "But only on one condition. I decide what I reveal. Everything else stays private."
Alexa's lips curved into a small, approving smile. "Fair enough," she said. "I wouldn't expect anything less from you."
He nodded faintly. She had made her choice, and he respected it. Freedom mattered to her, freedom to act, to help, to exist without hiding, and he valued that just as much as his own control over what the world was allowed to see. If she was ready to step into the agency's domain, he would walk beside her, but always on his own terms.
By the time the first official Cleaner assessment was scheduled, Magnus had reached a quiet conclusion of his own. He would maintain the semblance of a normal life, allow space where space was needed. Alexa deserved the freedom to grow without feeling watched or restrained, even by someone who cared deeply for her. Jealousy was still unfamiliar to him, an emotion he observed more than felt, and the way others might react to her presence was something he needed to study carefully, respond to deliberately, and process as a human would.
In private, he continued to measure his own limits, refining what he could safely display if ever pressed. Alexa's expanding confidence and his precise restraint would balance each other. Together, they would enter the agency prepared, measured, grounded, and aware of the terrain they were stepping onto.
The test itself was designed to overwhelm. The room was vast, clinical, and deliberately intimidating, its scale meant to make candidates feel small. Rows of observers in pristine black uniforms lined the walls, their expressions hidden behind reflective lenses. At the far end, elevated above the floor, a panel of senior agency officials sat like judges, their gazes sharp and unyielding. Every movement, every fluctuation of energy, would be recorded, analyzed, and cataloged.
Magnus stood beside Alexa at the starting line, posture relaxed, senses fully alert. He felt the subtle hum of the building, the restrained resonance of energy from other candidates, and the muted curiosity radiating from the observers. "Remember," he murmured, low enough for only her to hear, "they're testing everything. Not just power. Control. Judgment. How you handle others."
"I know," Alexa replied, her voice steady. Her hands glowed faintly with a soft, disciplined light.
Candidates were called forward in groups. The first trio stepped into the evaluation zone: a spoiled, arrogant man with immaculate hair and a smug grin; a tall, athletic woman who moved as though the room belonged to her; and a short boy whose nervous energy betrayed his fear. At the center of the chamber, a simulated rift pulsed and flared, its unstable edges crackling.
The arrogant man went first, performing exaggerated gestures meant more to impress than to stabilize. Within moments, the rift lashed out, knocking him back just enough to expose his lack of control. Murmurs rippled among the observers. The athletic woman followed, her technique precise but rigid, her control effective yet inflexible. The boy barely managed to steady a fragment of the anomaly, his hands shaking as fear bled into his focus.
Then Alexa stepped forward.
Her presence was calm, almost serene. The white glow flowed from her hands like liquid light, wrapping around the rift, absorbing its jagged surges and smoothing them into controlled arcs. She repaired fractures she had deliberately allowed to form, restored damaged materials, and maintained perfect composure throughout. There was no showmanship, no excess, just quiet, efficient mastery.
Magnus watched closely, not just her performance but the room's reaction. Observers paused their notes. Heads tilted, ever so slightly. Even those trained to remain neutral couldn't fully hide their intrigue. A few candidates shifted uncomfortably; the arrogant man scowled, muttering something about luck under his breath.
Magnus ignored them. He was watching the system itself, the subtle changes in evaluation parameters, the way the observers whispered among themselves. He knew the agency wasn't the highest authority. It answered to something above it, spoken of carefully, reverently: Divinity. The name had been chosen to inspire trust, to appeal to the public's sense of morality and order. To most, Divinity represented guidance and protection. To Magnus, it was a structure, a hierarchy with its own motives, shaping outcomes far beyond what most would ever perceive.
When Alexa finished, she stepped back, her glow fading as she exhaled softly. The faint smile on her lips wasn't for the observers, it was for herself. A senior official finally spoke. "Candidate Davenport demonstrates control and adaptability above expected parameters. Recommend further evaluation for specialized training."
Magnus noted the phrasing, the careful neutrality. Recognition here was only one layer of a much larger design. He glanced at Alexa, pride and approval settling quietly within him. She had proven what she needed to prove—for now. But as he looked around the chamber, aware of every watchful eye and the unseen hierarchy looming above them, a familiar irritation stirred within him.
It wasn't the structure itself that troubled him. It was the inevitability of what followed.
Humans with power, he had learned, rarely failed at the beginning. They started with clarity, with purpose, with ideals clean enough to convince even themselves. Magnus had seen this pattern unfold thousands of times across different eras and systems: a hero rises with the correct mindset, guided by compassion, discipline, and restraint. Applause follows. Authority validates them. Responsibility expands. And somewhere along the way, personal interests begin to slip in—not all at once, not loudly, but in small, reasonable justifications. A compromise here. An exception there. Always for a good reason. Always temporary.
Until it wasn't.
Magnus watched the observers exchange muted glances, already recalibrating their expectations, their projections. He knew how easily admiration turned into leverage, how systems rewarded obedience disguised as virtue. Power didn't corrupt instantly; it eroded. It reframed selfishness as necessity, control as protection, domination as order. And eventually, the hero no longer recognized the line they had crossed, only that others had begun to stand against them.
That was the part that irritated him most. Not because it surprised him, but because it never seemed to change.
He shifted his attention back to Alexa. She stood calm and grounded, untouched by the hunger for recognition, focused only on what she could do to help. For now, her intentions were clean, her resolve honest. And Magnus silently resolved to ensure it stayed that way. If the world insisted on repeating its mistakes, then he would be there, not as a judge, not as a ruler, but as a quiet constant. Someone who remembered how easily heroes fell, and how thin the line was between savior and enemy.
The assessment moved on, the room returning to its procedural rhythm. But Magnus remained alert, already anticipating the subtle pressures that would come next. This was only the first step. The true danger wasn't the rifts, or the tests, or even Divinity itself.
It was what came after people were told they were special, and began to believe it.
Many Awakened passed the assessment, far more than the agency had initially projected. The results unsettled the balance the system preferred, introducing too many variables, too many individuals whose potential could not be neatly categorized or quietly controlled. In response, directives came down from above, carried in language that sounded procedural but held absolute authority. The Upper Leaders of Divinity ordered the agency to establish a formal ranking system, one that would classify the Awakened by combat proficiency and publicly measure their achievements.
It was framed as efficiency. As transparency. As motivation.
Magnus was not a fan of this kind of structure.
He had seen it before, how numbers and ranks reduced complex people into symbols, how competition was encouraged under the guise of self-improvement. A ranking system did more than measure ability; it shaped behavior. It rewarded aggression, spectacle, and decisive outcomes over restraint and judgment. Those who climbed fastest were often the ones most willing to bend rules, take unnecessary risks, or prioritize victory over consequence. And once pride took root, it became increasingly difficult to tell whether someone fought to protect others, or simply to protect their position.
The agency halls changed almost overnight. Conversations grew sharper, quieter. Awakened who had trained together only hours earlier now watched one another with calculation, subtly reassessing who might become a rival. Some wore their provisional rankings like armor, others like a weight around their necks. Divinity called it order. Magnus recognized it for what it truly was: a controlled funnel, guiding ambition into predictable, manageable paths.
They hadn't even left the facility yet when the cracks began to show.
A group of newly ranked Awakened stood near the main corridor, voices low but heated. A higher-ranked candidate laughed openly as an evaluator reassigned mission privileges, granting access to advanced equipment and priority deployment, benefits denied to others without explanation. One Awakened protested quietly, pointing out that her assessment scores were nearly identical. The evaluator didn't look at her.
"Rank determines trust," he said flatly. "That's protocol."
It was ugly. One-sided. And painfully clear.
Alexa saw it happen, her expression tightening as she lowered her tablet. Around her, others noticed too, the sudden favoritism, the way authority bent effortlessly toward those already elevated. No discussion. No appeal. Just compliance enforced by status.
"It feels… different," Alexa said later, her voice subdued as she scrolled through the preliminary rankings again. She wasn't at the top, but she wasn't low either, placed carefully in a tier that acknowledged her control without throwing her into constant confrontation. "Like they don't want us to improve. They want us to compete."
"They do," Magnus replied, his tone even.
He watched the room as he spoke, the evaluators, the ranked candidates, the ones already learning how to use their position. The system was revealing itself faster than usual. Pressure always did that. Heroes would rise quickly here, charismatic, powerful, publicly celebrated. And just as quickly, some would begin to drift, their motivations shifting as recognition and personal interest intertwined.
Magnus had no intention of climbing.
He would remain unremarkable by design, competent but unspectacular, reliable without being visible. If Divinity wanted pieces on a board, he would be the one they failed to notice until it mattered. And if the system ever began to reshape Alexa into something she wasn't, if ambition, fear, or expectation threatened to twist her purpose, then Magnus already knew what he would do.
Rankings could be rewritten.Systems could be corrected.And heroes, if left unchecked, could be stopped.
A hush fell over the chamber as a spokesperson from upper agency management stepped forward, their presence polished and deliberate. The insignia on their uniform marked them as someone far removed from fieldwork, clean, symbolic, authoritative. Their voice carried easily, practiced to inspire confidence.
"Those who have passed the initial assessment," the spokesperson announced, "will be granted the opportunity to continue their development at our Secondary Training Facility, directly associated with the Stronghold in Kamaran. There, you will receive advanced instruction, operational conditioning, and supervised deployment training under agency oversight."
A murmur rippled through the newly evaluated Cleaner candidates. Kamaran. The name carried weight, security, prestige, proximity to the heart of operations. For many, it sounded like advancement. Like validation.
Alexa listened carefully, her expression neutral but attentive. She exchanged a brief glance with Magnus, who sat beside her, posture relaxed, hands loosely folded. To anyone watching, he appeared calm, almost indifferent.
But that was only on the surface.
Another part of Magnus, quiet, vast, and unbound by the room, turned its attention elsewhere. Not to the candidates. Not to the spokesperson. But upward, beyond the visible hierarchy, toward the ones who called themselves Divinity's leaders.
The truth revealed itself instantly.
They were not gods. Not visionaries. Not guardians of humanity's future.
They were remnants.
Old oligarchs from a discarded reality, men and women who once ruled systems where power was dismissed as myth, where control was exercised through wealth, lineage, and influence rather than truth. When the world changed, when power awakened and could no longer be denied, they adapted. They infiltrated. They renamed themselves. And with carefully chosen words and structures, they embedded themselves into the very Stronghold Magnus had created.
A place meant to protect humanity.
A place meant to let it thrive and evolve naturally.
With the quiet support of the Twelve Elders and their ruling families, these people had found a way in. Not enough to dominate, but enough to establish a foothold. A small hold, festering within the Stronghold's foundations, steering systems, shaping incentives, turning growth into control.
For a brief moment, Magnus considered eradicating them.
It would have been simple. Clean. Final.
But he stopped himself.
Because Magnus understood something they never would.
Without chaos, there could be no correction.Without exposure, no renewal.Without pressure, no evolution.
He let the moment pass.
Beside him, Alexa leaned slightly closer, her voice low. "Kamaran," she murmured. "That's… big."
"Yes," Magnus replied softly. "It is."
She didn't hear the unspoken rest of his thought, but some part of her seemed to sense it anyway. Her fingers tightened briefly around her tablet before relaxing again.
The spokesperson continued outlining schedules, expectations, and compliance protocols. Around them, candidates listened with a mix of excitement and unease, unaware that they were stepping into a system far older, and far more compromised, than they realized.
Magnus remained still.
If these people believed they could claim the Stronghold without consequence, let them. Systems revealed themselves fastest when they thought they were secure.
And when the time came, when chaos had done its work, Magnus would decide what deserved to remain.
At the same time, while the spokesperson spoke and the candidates listened, Magnus had already manifested within the main building of the Stronghold itself.
The structure was immense, unfinished in many places. Steel frameworks rose beside living architecture, corridors still open to scaffolding and light. The Stronghold was growing, expanding to accommodate what Magnus had foreseen long ago: more people than anyone had planned for. Refugees of collapsing systems, Awakened seeking safety, civilians begging for entry. Kamaran had become a gravity well, pulling humanity toward it.
All Twelve Elders were present.
They stood around a long projection table, light-maps of the city hovering above its surface. Districts marked for housing, research, education, agriculture—each carefully designed to sustain not just survival, but long-term evolution. The Elders had been given a task once: build a city worthy of their benefactor. Not a monument. Not a throne. A place where mankind could endure what was coming.
Magnus knew change would be required. He had known it from the beginning.
That was why he had granted the six governors overseeing the project a degree of freedom—within strict parameters. They were allowed to adapt, to compromise, to innovate, so long as the core directive remained intact: build a place where humanity can survive and evolve naturally. That directive had not been guesswork. It was based on a future Magnus had already seen.
And now, that future was arriving.
Outside the Stronghold's perimeter, the numbers grew daily. Requests for entry multiplied. Desperation turned into pilgrimage. Kamaran was no longer just a city—it was hope made physical.
Magnus hated one thing about it.
Not the fear. Not the need.
But the inevitability of human nature that followed.
He could not simply reach out and strip away humanity's negative traits—envy, greed, selfishness. To do so would be to destroy what made them human in the first place. Without those flaws, there would be no struggle, no growth, no meaning. Humanity was not meant to be curated into purity. It was meant to choose.
So Magnus watched.
The meeting progressed, and with it came the voices he had expected. Investors. Patrons. "Supporters." Individuals forcing their way into the Stronghold's creation under the guise of aid. Their words were polished, their intentions narrow. They wanted more than security. More than survival.
They wanted authority.
These were the same people, quietly, carefully, embedded within Divinity. Oligarch remnants wearing new names, seeking leverage over the Elders, who were the true supervisors of the project. They spoke of efficiency, of influence, of "necessary leadership," but Magnus heard what lay beneath it all: the desire to rule.
The Elders listened. Some with restraint. Some with visible tension.
Magnus stood among them, unseen, silent.
Not as one presence, but as many.
He existed there, and elsewhere, and above, and between, aware of every word spoken in the agency hall, every shift in Alexa's posture, every calculation made by Divinity's leaders. For a brief moment, he allowed himself this omnipresence, this fracture of attention across multiple realities.
Then he decided.
This would be the last time.
Magnus would not continue like this. He had promised himself, and humanity, that he would limit his power to a degree that allowed him to remain human. To feel irritation. To feel disappointment. To choose restraint instead of correction.
The meeting ended with no resolutions, only postponed conflicts and polite agreements. Exactly as he had expected.
Magnus withdrew, his presence fading from the Stronghold's core.
Change was coming. Chaos, too.
And this time, he would let humanity face it largely on its own, watching closely, intervening only when the balance truly broke.
Magnus did not speak aloud.
Instead, his will moved—quiet, precise—carried along the same unseen channels that had bound the Twelve Elders to him since the beginning. It was not a command, not an order etched with pressure. It was a statement of intent.
I will distance myself once again, he conveyed.This time by choice.
The Elders felt it immediately, the familiar weight of his presence receding even as his clarity sharpened. Magnus made his stance unmistakable: he would support their plans to establish eleven more Strongholds, granting them full discretion in their placement, design, and governance—so long as they upheld the original directive. Survival. Evolution. No thrones. No worship.
He reiterated what he had always believed, what he now chose to live by more fully than ever: he wanted an average, meaningful life, defined by his own choosing. Not as a benefactor hovering above humanity, not as a god correcting every imbalance, but as a man existing within the flow of time. He did not want interruption. No summons. No symbolic gestures that pulled him back into the center of power.
There was a pause among the Twelve.
Then one of the Elders responded—not in defiance, but in understanding. They asked for a compromise. A small gesture. Something minimal, unobtrusive, that would allow a thread of connection to remain—not for control, but for alignment. A way to know when to act, should the future truly fracture.
Magnus considered it.
And agreed.
Not because he needed them—but because the task was not yet complete.
He recalled the original mandate he had given humanity: establish Strongholds for protection, and create a force that would safeguard humanity's future. Now, as he observed what had been built, he acknowledged their achievement. Kamaran stood as the first of the Twelve Stronghold Cities—living proof that the plan could succeed.
More importantly, they had done something he approved of deeply.
They had established a military force completely separate and autonomous from the Cleaner system. Designed to confront existential threats, rift incursions, large-scale monster events, and any scenarios beyond civilian containment, the army was called the Crescent Guards.
Unlike the Awakened, the Crescent Guards were not born with sudden, inherent power. Their strength came from discipline, rigorous doctrine, and years of sacrifice. Every soldier was trained to respond with precision, coordination, and foresight, ensuring that raw power was always guided by strategy and judgment.
At the core of their formation were the teachings of the Five Zhou Elders, each a master in their own right and a strategist whose philosophy emphasized restraint as much as strength. Elder Zhou Wenhai, known as "The Iron Scholar", fused battlefield strategy with moral calculus, ensuring every decision carried both tactical and ethical weight. Elder Zhou Anli, "The Listening Wind", instilled acute awareness, adaptability, and the ability to anticipate and react to dynamic situations with fluid precision. Elder Zhou Qiang, "The Mountain Shadow", embodied endurance and positional dominance, training the Guards to hold the line under any pressure. Elder Zhou Meilin, "The Hidden Orchid", specialized in intelligence, misdirection, and subtle control, ensuring that information and strategy flowed like a hidden current beneath every operation. Finally, Elder Zhou Liang, "The Quiet Blade", drilled the importance of decisive action tempered by restraint, teaching the Guards to strike swiftly and effectively without unnecessary cruelty.
Together, these elders shaped the Crescent Guards into a force capable of facing threats no ordinary army could withstand, a disciplined and autonomous shield for humanity's future. They were granted their own domain beneath the Stronghold city, a hidden realm unseen by prying eyes and completely beyond the influence or control of any government. Members of the Crescent Guards did not remain mere humans; they were reborn as warriors, dedicated entirely to following and obeying their masters, their purpose singular and absolute.
Their efforts were further supported by six human elders, tasked with translating the elders' philosophies into practical systems. They designed and managed the logistics, industry, supply chains, and command structures necessary for the Crescent Guards to function as a fully independent force. Every element was engineered to ensure that the army could operate effectively without relying on supernatural gifts, creating a disciplined, self-sufficient military capable of defending humanity from threats both seen and unseen.
Because of this separation, the United Nations was left to manage the Awakened population. Their role was practical: coordinate Cleaners, deploy them rapidly against rifts and monster manifestations, and ensure that newly Awakened could act immediately within their regions. Lacking the financial stability and structural depth to handle such phenomena alone, the UN accepted external frameworks.
That was where Divinity group entered.
Its management authority did not originate from the Twelve or the Zhou Elders, but from agreements brokered through the United Nations, agreements born of necessity, not trust. Divinity operated under the banner of protecting mankind, regulating Cleaner activity, and providing resources where governments could not.
The Twelve had never expected Divinity to accumulate real power.
They followed Magnus's command precisely, and because Divinity's actions seemed peripheral, the Twelve distanced themselves, believing it was not part of his design.
They were right.
Magnus had always known the high imperial motives that lingered within old power structures. He had seen them rise and fall across countless cycles. Where hierarchy formed, ambition followed. Where ambition concentrated, corruption was inevitable.
And more problems would come.
Especially when the Khal'Ruun Synod, and the the Nymvar Collective, a species ancient, patient, and far removed from politics, if they finally decided to confirm whether Omega still resided within the planet-sized containment cell that was supposed to be holding him.
That question alone had the potential to fracture everything humanity had built so far.
Magnus withdrew his presence fully then, the connection to the Twelve reduced to the smallest agreed-upon thread. He would live his chosen life. Humanity would walk its path.
And when the Synod looked toward Earth,
Humanity would be ready.
Magnus saw the complications happening all over the place , and with that he thinks its too much, the fact he was having a great and meaningful time with Alexa, and just like that he detach himself and close that chapter for the time being. and just go with what his human life with Alexa would give him. he was ecstatic knowing nothing.