Chapter 64
The streets thinned as the night deepened, neon fading into softer pools of light. Magnus walked in silence beside Alexa, their steps naturally falling into the same rhythm they had once shared without thinking.
It wasn't until they reached the familiar intersection that Alexa slowed. Her feet had already turned toward Magnus' building before her mind caught up.
"…Oh," she murmured, stopping short. "I didn't even realize I was heading this way."
Magnus glanced up at the building, then back at her. There was no surprise in his expression, only quiet recognition. "Habit," he said simply.
Alexa let out a small, embarrassed laugh. "Yeah. The restaurant was closer to your place… and I guess my body remembered before I did." She folded her arms loosely. "The Horizon Guard HQ is nearer to my apartment, but… I don't really mind the walk."
Magnus nodded once. "You never did."
They stood there for a moment, the city breathing around them. Cars passed. A distant siren wailed and faded. The world kept moving, unaware that two people who had lost five years were standing in the middle of it, trying to remember how to live inside time again.
Magnus unlocked the door, and they climbed the stairs in silence. Inside, the apartment was dim and orderly, unchanged in the way only places untouched by chaos could be. Alexa slipped off her shoes and exhaled, as if she had been holding her breath since leaving the restaurant.
"…It still feels strange," she said quietly, looking around. "Like everything's familiar, but also… not."
Magnus set his keys down. "The world advanced," he replied. "We… skipped."
She leaned against the counter, rubbing her arms. "Five days for us. Five years out there." Her voice softened. "I keep thinking about what I missed. People changing. Systems changing. Rifts being sold like property…"
Magnus turned toward her, studying her face. His expression remained composed, but something in his eyes shifted, subtle, precise, human. "Your confusion… is logical," he said. "It is not weakness."
Alexa gave a tired smile. "Funny. Coming from you, that actually helps."
For a moment, neither spoke. The silence wasn't heavy, it was familiar, shaped by years of fighting side by side and surviving things no one else could name.
"I guess…" she said after a while, straightening, "I should head home before it gets too late."
Magnus paused, then said quietly, "I can walk you."
She hesitated, then nodded. "Like before?"
"Yes," he replied, and then, after a brief pause, added, "…but you are always welcome at my place."He stopped himself, frowning slightly, as if recalculating. "Sorry. I meant… our place."
Alexa blinked, caught off guard. A faint laugh escaped her before she could stop it. "Our place, huh?"
Magnus looked almost uncomfortable, but he didn't take it back. "You were there more than I was," he said plainly. "Functionally, it already was."
She shook her head with a small smile, warmth creeping into her voice. "You know, after everything that happened… after the testing, the interviews, being separated for three days like we were lab samples…" She sighed. "Hearing that makes things feel… less broken."
Magnus slightly adjusted his hand as he held Alexa . "Time changed things. Not all of them."
They stepped into the hallway together, the door closing softly behind them. Outside, the city air was cool, carrying the distant hum of traffic and the faint pulse of stabilized rifts. Alexa walked beside him.
"…You really don't get tired ,with me, do you?" she asked.
"No," Magnus said immediately. Then, more thoughtfully, "It is… efficient. And reassuring."
She glanced at him sideways. "That's the most Magnus way to say 'I care' I've ever heard."
He didn't deny it.
They walked in silence for a few more steps, the city lights reflecting faintly in the windows around them. Alexa slowed, her hand brushing against Magnus' sleeve, then stopping him gently.
"Mags…" she said softly.
Before he could respond, she leaned in and pressed a warm kiss against his lips. It wasn't hurried or careless it carried the weight of everything they hadn't said: the lost years, the confusion, the relief of standing here together again.
Magnus froze for only a heartbeat.
Then he responded.
One hand lifted to her back, steady and protective, drawing her just a little closer. His kiss was deeper, more certain, intimate, but restrained, filled with emotion rather than urgency. The world seemed to quiet around them, the city noise fading into something distant and unimportant.
When they finally pulled apart, Alexa rested her forehead against his, her breath unsteady.
"…Guess some things really didn't change," she whispered.
Magnus' voice was low, sincere. "Some bonds… survive time itself."
They stayed like that for a moment longer, neither rushing away, neither questioning it. The rifts could wait. The confusion could wait. For now, there was only the warmth between them and the fragile certainty that even after five stolen years, they had found their way back to each other.
Beneath the abandoned house, the small rift pulsed in silence, but inside, its world was growing. The boundaries of the pocket dimension stretched outward, folding mountains, valleys, and rivers into impossible formations. No longer confined to its modest basement origin, the rift's geography began to expand dynamically, responding to subtle environmental cues from the surface: temperature, electromagnetic flux, and even the faint presence of human observation.
The Noids, sensing the rift's growing potential, shifted their behavior as well. Their instincts adapted, learning to navigate the newly formed terrain and to guard the resources now multiplying within the rift's walls. Their aggression, once erratic, became calculated. Their territorial patterns now mirrored natural resource hubs, as if they themselves understood the economic value embedded in these anomalies.
Outside the rift, humanity had learned quickly. Governments, corporations, and Awakened factions alike had implemented strategic protocols, mining, surveying, and deploying Awakened teams to secure resources before rival groups could. What was once a purely dangerous anomaly had begun to function as a controlled, if still unpredictable, source of wealth. The balance of power within the rift was shifting.
Yet the High Imperial Command, based on their distant home planet, remained unaware. Their monitors picked up the rift's existence but lacked the real-time insight into how rapidly humanity had adapted, how the Noids had evolved, and how economic strategies had been implemented within the anomaly.
The rift's economic expansion was undeniable: crystal deposits grew in abundance, rare metals accumulated in high concentrations, and previously useless flora now had profound value—mana-rich, alchemical, or technological. Every group of Awakened people who entered became a player in a new, high-stakes game, fighting for access, control, and profit.
On the ground, tension rose. Obsidian Seraphs, led by Harrison "Harry" Whitford III and Vanessa Du Pont, geared up to reestablish a foothold in high-value rifts, hungry to reclaim their monopoly on mana crystals after their losses in the Seventh Delta Rift. Alongside them, the Vanguard Hunters, led by Damien Cortez, were preparing to enter the same high-rank rift, relying on instinct, skill, and sheer audacity to secure whatever resources remained.
Despite having limited intelligence on the rift's current state, both groups were willing to risk everything. The economic stakes were too high, the opportunity too rare. The rift had become a gameboard of power, money, and survival, with its ever-expanding terrain and adaptive Noids ensuring that no one could predict the full consequences of their moves.
the clearing of the Seventh Delta Rift had already set a precedent information : that a few Awakened teams could shift the balance entirely. And now, new teams, some polished with new gears and weapons , but inexperienced, some greedy, some desperate, were marching into the unknown. The stage was set. The battle to monopolize the wealth within the rift had begun.
And somewhere, the silent AI of the Sentinel Tower continued to observe, recording every adaptation, every expansion, and every human gamble, ready to adjust its scenario in response to the shifting currents of ambition, greed, and survival, as it awaited the high imperial main commands orders to be receive.
For years, the Obsidian Seraphs had acquired numerous smaller rifts under their organization. These were often little more than massive stone chambers, naturally walled with granite or solid rock, home only to low-tier Noids or energy anomalies. The resources inside were scarce—no crystals, no rare metals, no alchemical flora. But they had value nonetheless. The smaller rifts served as training grounds, where members honed skills, tested abilities, and learned to navigate the unpredictable movements of Noids. Obsidian Seraphs had become adept at tactical maneuvers, combat coordination, and managing small-scale incursions, but their experience in high-rank ecological rifts was limited.
High-rank rifts were an entirely different reality. Unlike the compact, controlled environment of a low-rank rift, high-rank rifts contained fully functioning ecosystems, entire geological and biological networks. Mountains, rivers, forests, and caves could shift in response to the internal energy flow. Noids behaved differently, showing intelligence, cooperation, and territorial instincts aligned with the rift's emerging ecology. Raw materials, crystals, metals, rare flora, and energy nodes—were distributed unevenly, often in dangerous or inaccessible locations, requiring skill, planning, and adaptability.
As the rift manifested, the dim basement glow above became a gaping portal, stretching into impossible heights. Both groups stepped inside.
For the Obsidian Seraphs, led by Harry Whitford III and Vanessa Du Pont, the difference was immediate. Where low-rank rifts had felt like giant stone caverns, this rift unfolded into a vast, alien landscape: jagged cliffs rose above iridescent rivers, luminous flora glowed in soft patterns across moss-covered plateaus, and distant mountains seemed to shift as though alive. The Noids here moved with a purpose, they weren't mere obstacles, but guardians of ecological hubs, adapting to the intruders' presence in real-time.
Vanessa gestured to her team. "Split and survey. Identify resource clusters. Avoid the energy nodes unless you're fully prepped. Remember, this isn't a training ground—it's survival."
On the other side, the Vanguard Hunters, led by Damien Cortez and accompanied by his fiancée Claire Baek, advanced with similar caution. Their movements were fluid, tactical, and calculated. But even they had to pause, recalculating strategies in response to the rift's scale and complexity.
The high-rank rift functioned like a living ecosystem, its internal energy subtly shaping the geography: rivers shifted direction, sudden gusts formed in valleys, and glowing energy nodes pulsed like hearts in the terrain. Plants and minerals adapted, some flora responded defensively, releasing toxic spores if approached, while others seemed to call Noids toward intruders. Every step required vigilance, observation, and the ability to think ahead in three dimensions simultaneously.
"Resources are rich," Damien muttered under his breath, scanning a nearby ridge lined with veins of mana crystal, "but the risk… it's unlike anything these teams have faced in their smaller rifts."
Harry Whitford, observing his own team, nodded. "We've trained in hundreds of low-rank rifts," he said, "but high-rank is a different game. The environment itself fights back, and it will adapt to us."
Unseen, the Sentinel Tower's AI continued its silent observation, subtly shaping the rift in response to human and Noid movements. Even as the Obsidian Seraphs and Vanguard Hunters strategized, the rift was learning, adapting, and evolving, a living laboratory where the first steps of expansion, economic exploitation, and ecological adaptation were already underway.
The high-rank rift stretched before the combined force of the Obsidian Seraphs and Vanguard Hunters like a living expanse of untamed land. Nearly 200 members from both factions stepped cautiously into the pulsating environment, their boots crunching softly against alien soil. Behind them, ten massive tactical haulers lumbered forward on six jointed legs, each resembling an enormous mechanical spider. Their abdomens were storage compartments, packed with ammunition, rations, medical supplies, and energy stabilizers,an innovation that dramatically reduced the need for hand-carry containers, a sharp contrast to the manual hauling efforts required during the Seven Delta Rift operation.
The soldiers and Awakened alike marveled at the scale of the advancement. Where once even medium-rank rift expeditions had strained under the limits of manpower and logistics, now entire teams could be self-sustaining for weeks, able to deploy deeper into the rift without retreating for supplies.
Even so, the time blimp, the anomaly that had kept Magnus, Alexa, Kaelin, and Rhea and many like them out of sync with the outside world, hung over their consciousness like a ghost. They had survived the Seven Calamity Rank Rifts, but now, observing this new rift's preparations and the scale of human adaptation, it was hard to accept that five years had passed outside without them.
Alexa watched from the observation platform at the rift's edge, eyes sweeping over the organized chaos of personnel, equipment, and rift terrain. The Horizon Guard had grown to nearly 400 members, each trained, disciplined, and fully integrated into rift operations. Yet despite the size and efficiency of the force, Alexa felt a pang of impatience: she wanted to join the clearing mission, to test the new advancements firsthand. For now, she had to wait, observing instead of participating.
Elsewhere, Kaito Nakamura, now 39 years old, hardened by the years of vacancy of his 13 elite members , had been forced to adjust his organization during the Delta Rift. With no guarantee of their return, he had placed his own son in the critical role that Alexa had once filled, ensuring the Horizon Guard's operations remained uninterrupted. The decisions weighed heavily on him, but they were necessary to maintain control over both manpower and resources.
For those still trapped inside the time blimp, the world outside had moved on without them. Broadcasts, recordings, and news of rift activity had continued uninterrupted during the first few days, but as days became weeks, weeks turned into months, and soon a full year passed, public interest slowly waned. Those who had been connected to the missing Awakened were left in uncertainty, waiting for any sign of their return.
Meanwhile, new heroes emerged to handle the rifts that continued to manifest, each anomaly bringing fresh Noid encounters and challenges. What had once been a revolutionary breakthrough for those still trapped, surviving the Seven Calamity Rifts, had already become historical footage to the outside world. The legends of the first-year survivors gradually faded as the world celebrated a new generation of Awakened, who managed crises, mined resources, and stabilized the ever-growing number of emerging anomalies.
many of the seven rift calamity rank survivors had seen the broadcasts countless times of all the missions, and could not remove the feeling they were lucky to have live, because among the seven rift the delta rift was the hardest , and if Magnus or the maverick cleaner with the codename Omega haven't entered to help them they would have already died,
For many of the survivors, learning how far humanity had adapted struck them deeply when they saw it with their own eyes. The innovations, the sheer scale of organized rift exploitation, the tactical haulers, and the new weapons and gear had all been developed through constant study of the Seven Rift video data logs, which had been made freely available for analysis and training.
Every improvement highlighted the growing gap between what they had endured and the reality they returned to. What had once been desperate survival was now refined into doctrine. Their chaos had become curriculum. And in that transformation, they realized that while they had been fighting to live, the world outside had been learning how to win.
And as the first Noids stirred in the high-rank rift, aware of intruders in their evolving ecosystem, the battle for resources, control, and survival was set to escalate. The Awakened would test themselves against not only the rift and its guardians, but against a world that had grown and adapted while they had been out of sync.
Even with all the advancements, the challenge remained: the rift itself remain steady and had gradual advancement, and no matter how organized, equipped, or prepared these groups were, it would always demand respect, ingenuity,
Even the Agency's Awakened training facilities had changed drastically. Streams of newly awakened individuals now entered its gates every day, their enrollment no longer optional. The Divinity, which financially supported the Agency, had enforced a mandatory registration and training law: all Awakened, registered or not, were required to comply.
The foundation of this strict policy was the Seven Calamity Rift missions. Their records were used as proof that untrained Awakened posed as much danger to themselves as to civilians. What had once been extraordinary survival cases were now rewritten into legal precedent, shaping how every future Awakened would be educated, controlled, and deployed.
The Awakened continued to manage low- and middle-rank rifts as if they were vast training grounds, some even serving as limited mining zones for rare minerals. Life had evolved and adapted during those five missing years, reshaping how humanity treated the anomalies—not as sudden disasters, but as controlled frontiers.
That night was cold.
Magnus wrapped an arm around Alexa as she drifted into sleep, her breathing slow and steady against his chest. The weight of the world eased for her in that moment, even if only briefly.
But Magnus was never fully still.
While one part of him remained on Earth, holding onto something fragile and human, his other selves continued to roam the cosmos, acting on their own judgment and will. They observed dying stars, silent civilizations, and endless voids, each fragment of him gathering experience, seeking meaning.
Yet now, the changes on Earth had reached even them.
Their perspectives shifted.
And slowly, those countless versions of himself began to fade.
Omega saw no reason to keep them.
The purpose of being everywhere at once had already been fulfilled. It had been to learn—to understand mortal emotion, limitation, fear, attachment. Among the countless beings he had observed and lived beside, humans had proven to be the most complex of all.
Contradictory.
Fragile.
Irrational.
And yet… capable of shaping gods.
Magnus looked down at Alexa, her confusion, her unease, her quiet resilience affecting him more than the collapse of worlds ever had.
And for the first time, Omega understood something simple:
To exist everywhere was knowledge.But to stay in one place… was meaning.
And with that realization, Magnus chose to reduce his counterparts.
The vast network of versions he had once maintained across space and time began to fold inward. Across distant galaxies and fractured timelines, echoes of himself paused in their endless observation. They did not resist. They did not question. They simply… ceased.
Worlds that had once known him as a silent normal inhabitant with its on life, un notice normal average, silent, lost that unseen presence, doing mundane actives to mirror those sentient , alien race millions of light years from earth.
Dying stars went unwatched. Civilizations that had unknowingly relied on an invisible hand were left to their own momentum. The countless perspectives he had gathered, sorrow from collapsing empires, awe from newborn worlds, terror from beings who glimpsed his shape, were drawn back into a single, quiet center.
Into him.
Memory layered upon memory. Emotion upon emotion. Not as data, but as experience. The rage of suns. The loneliness of voids. The fear of mortals. And, threading through it all, something small yet stubborn: attachment.
As the collapse continued, the function of those fragments dissolved. They were no longer scouts. No longer wardens. No longer observers. They had served their purpose, to learn what it meant to exist among limited beings, to understand desire, loss, and hope through borrowed forms.
Now, there was no need for multiplicity.
There was only presence.
And as that presence narrowed, the focus of his awareness drifted—downward, inward, toward a single constructed world bound in artificial gravity and ancient light.
Toward the planetary prison.
Eclipthrone.
A world forged as a cage, orbiting a dead star, its surface layered with continents of sealed stone and energy lattices older than most civilizations. At its core burned the engine that sustained it: a source that was not truly independent, but a residue of Magnus himself. A fragment of will turned into mechanism. A god reduced into infrastructure.
It pulsed in silence, neither aware nor obedient, only executing the last command it had ever been given.
Contain.Stabilize.Endure.
He left it intact, not out of care, but out of indifference. It was not alive. It could not suffer. It could not choose. It was a tool, nothing more.
His sister's intervention had already rewritten its greatest threat.
By rewinding the timeline of that world, she had erased the rise of the Three Primordial Races, the ancient beings who once bent reality itself into weapons. Their wars, their dominion, their defiance of cosmic order… undone. Reduced to unrealized potential. Ghosts of futures that would never happen.
That left only one power of note beyond Earth.
The High Imperial Race.
Magnus considered them as one might consider a distant storm, dangerous in scale, but limited in scope. Their nature was simple: expand, conquer, survive. Their fleets devoured systems not out of cruelty, but necessity. Their wars were not personal. They were biological and ideological.
In their records, he was not an enemy.
He was a boundary.
A force they could not challenge and therefore mythologized. Balance given form. An unreachable constant. They feared him, but they also justified their violence in his shadow—claiming it was part of maintaining order in a hostile universe.
Their logic was brutal…
…but logical.
And logic could be anticipated.
Compared to the Primordials, beings born of chaos and contradiction—the Imperials were manageable. Their threat was structural, not existential.
So Magnus did nothing.
For the first time in ages, the universe did not require him to be everywhere. It did not need an omnipresent warden. It could stumble forward on its own.
Earth, however, was different.
Earth did not need a god.It did not need Omega.It needed something smaller.
Someone who could sit beside a confused woman and feel the weight of lost years. Someone who could sense her uncertainty and feel irritation not at the world, but at the idea that she might be afraid. Someone who could hold her while the night was cold and understand why that mattered.
Not as a protector of worlds.
But as Magnus.
And in choosing that, he reshaped more than strategy. He reshaped trajectory.
Because when a being who could command stars decides instead to care about something fragile…
The universe must adapt.
As soon as Magnus began to truly understand emotions, he found himself drawn to their complexity. They were vast and layered, impossible to reduce into simple cause and effect. One feeling could hold contradiction within it—fear mixed with hope, anger tangled with love, grief carrying quiet gratitude.
To a being who had once measured existence in constants and absolutes, emotions were chaos with meaning. They did not obey logic, yet they shaped decisions more powerfully than any law of physics. They could make mortals defy instinct, abandon survival, or sacrifice everything for something that could vanish in a heartbeat.
He observed that joy was never permanent, yet its memory could outlast centuries. Pain faded, but its lessons remained etched into thought and habit. Love, the most illogical of all, inspired both creation and destruction with equal force.
And among all species he had encountered, humanity embodied this paradox best. Humans could fear death and still walk into it for others. They could hate and forgive the same person within a single breath. Their lives were brief, fragile, and uncertain, yet they attached infinite value to moments that would never repeat.
Magnus realized then that emotion was not weakness.It was compression.
An entire universe of meaning forced into a single heartbeat.
Alexa's touch and kiss were no longer just mirrored actions to him—no longer signals he copied because he had seen others do them. He could feel what they meant. The warmth of her lips, the light pressure of her hand against his chest, sent unfamiliar signals through his nerves, not as data but as sensation.
It was subtle at first. A tightening in his chest. A strange pull in his thoughts. The simple act of touching her skin made something stir inside him that had never existed before—an awareness of closeness, of presence, of wanting the moment to last longer than it logically should.
He realized then that sensation and emotion were entwined. Her warmth was not just heat. It was comfort. Her kiss was not just contact. It was reassurance. And the way his body reacted was not instinct, it was response.
For a being who once understood only force and outcome, this was new territory.Not overwhelming.Not dangerous.
Just… human.
And in that quiet exchange, Magnus learned something no cosmic awareness had ever taught him:feeling was not about power.It was about connection.
Making love was no longer something Magnus understood as force, nor as a duty to be fulfilled because it was expected of him. It was not a ritual of imitation anymore. Now, it carried weight. Meaning. Choice.
And with that understanding came memory.
He remembered the women he had known across ages and continents, faces blurred by time, but emotions now painfully clear. They had loved him, many of them truly. At the time, he had responded only with what seemed correct and appropriate, mirroring affection without grasping its cost. Now, with emotion fully awakened in him, those memories settled differently.
Guilt surfaced first.Then shame.
In Zhōnghuá, in Kemet, in Kievan Rus, he had taken wives, shared warmth, shared nights. They had believed in him as a man, not as a myth. Yet what he gave them was incomplete, because he did not yet understand what it meant to belong to someone.
None of his children survived.
When they were born with powers unknown to mankind, fear followed. Rumors spread. Priests whispered. Kings hesitated. And eventually, blades and fire answered what humanity could not explain. One by one, those lives were erased before they could even choose who they were meant to be.
Those losses had not wounded him then.They did now.
He understood, too late, that love without protection was cruelty. That presence without responsibility was abandonment.
So when he chose to walk the world in those early ages, he did not do it alone anymore. He gathered those who could endure, those who could learn, those who could keep secrets and manage what he could not: food, shelter, diplomacy, the fragile routines of human life.
Thus, the Twelve Elders were born.
Not as rulers.Not as generals.But as anchors.
They kept him human when he could not be. They spoke when his silence frightened others. They mediated between myth and daily life, between god and farmer, between power and need.
And now, lying beside Alexa, feeling the simple truth of another person breathing near him, Magnus understood what all of that had been leading toward.
Not dominion.Not legacy.Not worship.
But this:
To love without destroying.To stay without erasing.To be present without taking.
And for the first time in all his long existence, that felt harder, and more meaningful, than ruling worlds.
Alexa was still deeply asleep, exhausted from the night's events. Magnus let his gaze linger on her, scanning her body with quiet attention. Her status had shifted subtly, yet profoundly. Her healing ability now radiated as Divine Light, capable of curing nearly all known Earthly illnesses and repairing even the most severe wounds. Her barrier ability, once singular, had grown double-layered, each layer resilient and adaptive, both now rated Rank A.
Every use of her abilities drew from her Force Mana (FM), a quantifiable reservoir of mystical energy that Awakened used to channel their powers. For Alexa, one minute of active use of either healing or barrier consumed 10 FM, a manageable but significant cost. Her total FM capacity was 1,000 FM, enough to sustain extended use, though she could push beyond it in emergencies, at the risk of overexertion.
FM Capacity: The total amount of energy an Awakened can store.
FM Consumption: How much energy a particular ability draws per unit of time or action.
Overcharge Potential: Awakened can exceed their nominal FM limit, but doing so risks fatigue, injury, or loss of control.
The Agency had made changes in the last five years to create a more standardized and scalable FM system. Previously, FM and ability strength were inconsistent, dependent on innate power and experience. But with the constant evolution of humanity's understanding of their powers, the Agency now mandated:
Ranked Abilities: Powers were assigned a rank (D to S) based on efficiency, output, and risk.
FM Cost Standardization: Each ability had a set FM cost relative to its rank, making tactical planning more precise.
Capacity Tracking: Awakened were required to know and record their FM storage, allowing trainers and operatives to predict performance in rifts.
Adaptive Calibration: The Agency continuously updated FM metrics to account for changes in physiology, experience, and emotional state. This ensured that powers scaled realistically as humans adapted to their awakened nature.
In essence, FM was no longer just an abstract force. It was a measurable, trainable, and strategically significant resource, reflecting both the potential and the limits of the Awakened. And for someone like Alexa, whose abilities were now Divine Rank A, every use was not just a display of strength, it was a careful balance of energy, timing, and intent.
Magnus remained still, his arm loosely draped over Alexa as she slept, her breathing steady but deep, the residual exhaustion from the night evident even in repose. His eyes, unblinking and precise, scanned her form. The soft hum of her aura, the glow of her Divine Light, was unmistakable now, radiating a calm intensity that told him how much she had changed.
Her healing ability, now fully Rank A, could mend nearly any injury or disease known to Earth. Her barrier, doubled and strengthened, could absorb tremendous force. Magnus began mentally calculating, as he often did, the limits of her potential.
Each ability drew 10 FM per minute. With a capacity of 1,000 FM, she could theoretically sustain continuous use for 100 minutes before completely exhausting her force. That was an hour and forty minutes of active, focused power. It was more than enough for any normal engagement inside a low- or middle-rank rift, and even longer than most elite Awakened could maintain.
He compared this to the previous data stored in his memory banks. When Alexa had been Rank B, her FM capacity had been 700 FM, meaning she could sustain abilities for only 70 minutes at the same consumption rate. The jump was significant, not just in duration, but in efficiency. Rank A allowed her abilities to be more potent per unit of FM, meaning each minute of use was now more impactful while costing the same energy.
Magnus noted the subtle signs of adaptation. The way her aura pulsed now was smoother, more stable. Her body had learned to regulate FM usage more effectively, reducing waste and increasing output. In his mind, he ran the scenarios: how long she could maintain her Divine Light during a severe rift emergency, how her barriers would hold against an onslaught, how quickly she could recover after sustained exertion.
He realized something else: it wasn't just about raw power or numbers. What had changed was her endurance, her capacity to integrate emotion and focus into her abilities, and the quiet confidence her body now carried even in rest. The Rank A status wasn't just a level, it was a threshold of mastery she had earned, consciously or not.
Magnus leaned slightly closer, his gaze softer now. "You've grown," he murmured quietly, a thought more to himself than to her. The memory of her Rank B self, the tentative, cautious Awakened who had struggled to stretch her FM beyond limits, contrasted sharply with the woman before him. Exhausted yet unbroken. Vulnerable yet supremely capable.
He made one last calculation in his mind, a scenario of extreme rift exposure: if she were forced to maintain her healing and barrier simultaneously in a high-rank rift, she could sustain it for roughly 50 continuous minutes before reaching critical fatigue, leaving a slim margin for emergency overcharge. That margin, he knew, could be the difference between survival and disaster.
Magnus exhaled softly, almost imperceptibly. He didn't move her. He didn't wake her. She was asleep, and for now, that quiet rest was the most precious thing in the universe. But he would remember, catalog, and plan. Always.
And as he watched, he felt the subtle thrill of something new: not strategy, not calculation, not duty, but a careful, protective care, the kind that only came from knowing the depth of someone else's fragility, and strength, at once.
Magnus' awareness stretched across the planet, a silent scan that traced the flow of Force Mana through every human vessel capable of sustaining extraordinary power. Among the billions, he identified 27 individuals whose FM capacity far surpassed the norm, ranging from 2,500 to 5,000 FM, all immediately recognizable as Intendent Rank Awakened. Two among them carried the coveted Maverick Hunter title, the same rank he had once worn, though their approach to power could not have been more different.
The first, a male named Jarek Solis, was 41 years old, standing tall with a muscular frame that betrayed years of combat training and physical discipline. His short, ash-blond hair was always neatly styled, and a faint scar ran across his left cheek, a testament to some reckless confrontation he had survived. Jarek had been a corporate enforcer before the Tower and rifts emerged, rising quickly in underground networks that prized power and intimidation over morality.
His personality was brazen and egotistical, he thrived on recognition, craved admiration, and had little patience for discretion. Unlike Magnus, Jarek flaunted his identity openly, his name and feats broadcast across media channels as a symbol of superiority. His temperament was volatile but controlled, always calculating the spectacle his actions could produce. His race was human, but his body had been pushed to peak efficiency through genetically enhanced supplements and ritualistic combat regimens.
The second, a female named Selene Dvorak, was 37 years old, tall and lithe, with silver-streaked black hair cascading past her shoulders. Her eyes were a striking violet, unnerving to most who met her gaze. Before the rifts manifested, Selene had been a high-level mercenary in Eastern Europe, notorious for her ruthlessness and precision.
She had a reputation for cruelty mixed with charm, using wit and manipulation as effectively as her combat skills. Selene's personality was equally shallow and egotistical; she delighted in displays of her power, seeking adoration, fear, or envy wherever she went. Unlike Magnus' quiet, observational style, Selene broadcasted her exploits widely, treating each mission as a performance rather than a duty. Her temperament was cold and opportunistic, often exploiting situations for personal gain. Like Jarek, she was human, but her physiology had been optimized through both rigorous training and experimental augmentation, giving her reflexes and endurance far beyond ordinary standards.
Both were affiliated with independent corporate conglomerates that operated outside their respective government oversight, using their Maverick status as leverage to build personal empires. To Magnus, their presence was almost irritating: raw potential squandered on vanity, their power a sharp contrast to his own measured, invisible influence. Yet he cataloged them carefully, aware that even shallow ambition could still disrupt balance if underestimated.
Magnus stood quietly, careful not to disturb Alexa as she remained lost in sleep, her breathing steady and deep. Once satisfied she was resting, he retrieved his phone and dialed. The connection was almost instantaneous, and the familiar voice of Director Robertson Suleiman of the Awakened Agency answered.
"Magnus," the Director's tone was crisp, professional, but Magnus caught the faint undercurrent of concern behind the practiced calm.
"Director Suleiman," Magnus began, his voice even, polite. "Is something wrong? I sensed a hesitation in your tone."
There was a brief pause before the Director responded. "I was about to call you regarding… a matter I believe you can assist with. It concerns the patriarch of our Agency."
Magnus' mind immediately went to the past, to old memories intertwined with responsibility and duty. "Go on," he said, his voice steady but thoughtful.
Robertson Suleiman continued, "He has been inflicted with severe wounds. It appears this isn't recent; the incident occurred three years ago, back when your team was still inside the Rift during the Seven Calamity anomaly."
Magnus' thoughts flashed through fragments of history, past interactions, and old alliances. Was this a coincidence, or the result of some larger design? His analytical mind ran through every possibility as he processed the information.
"The patriarch was finalizing the third Stronghold City," the Director explained. "Another party arrived, unexpectedly, and demanded ownership of the facility. The confrontation was violent. He sustained critical injuries, and while the situation was contained, it requires immediate oversight and perhaps… intervention."
Magnus' expression remained calm, though his eyes betrayed the spark of deep calculation. This was not simply a call for assistance, it was a thread tugging at a past he had left behind. The timing, three years after their time in the Rift, was too precise to ignore.
"I understand," Magnus said finally, his tone measured. Without another word, he manifested directly at Director Suleiman's residence, bypassing conventional travel. The space around him shimmered briefly, the familiar pull of interdimensional displacement folding reality,
Magnus manifested in side the Suleiman residence open courtyard garden almost instantaneously, the familiar hum of his presence barely disturbing the quiet of the upscale district. The home itself sat on a gently sloping hillside in the affluent Al-Qasr district, overlooking the city's skyline with glimmering towers and distant floodlights reflecting off the river below. Lush gardens framed the property, with carefully pruned hedges, fountains that caught the last rays of the setting sun, and wide stone pathways leading up to a grand double-door entrance.
The residence was a blend of modern architecture and subtle classical influences, with clean lines softened by arches and columns, expansive glass panels that revealed the warm glow of the interior, and polished marble floors that gleamed even in the dim light. Security measures were visible but discreet: sleek drones hovered quietly at the perimeter, and reinforced panels blended seamlessly with the walls.
As Magnus materialized, the family members, aware of his true identity, bowed their heads in deep respect, acknowledging him as a benefactor rather than just a visitor. Their gestures were automatic, honed by years of deference and gratitude, yet sincere in their reverence. Magnus gave a small, almost imperceptible nod in return, his attention already focused on the business at hand.
Director Robertson Suleiman emerged from the wide foyer, his expression a mixture of tension and relief at seeing Magnus. Behind him, the sprawling interior suggested both wealth and purpose: rich mahogany panels lined the walls, shelves were filled with books, awards, and artifacts collected over decades, and a central atrium allowed natural light to cascade over the marble floors. The space balanced function and luxury, reflecting both the director's authority and refined taste.
Mrs. Suleiman, elegant in a flowing cream gown, entered the room briefly before excusing herself with a gentle nod, whispering instructions to the personnel to give them privacy. Her movements were poised yet purposeful, signaling that Magnus' presence demanded focus without interference.
With the house now silent but for the subtle hum of air filtration and distant city sounds, Magnus and Director Robertson Suleiman were left alone. The director gestured toward a seating area near a large bay window overlooking the city. Magnus seated himself, eyes sharp and calculating, as Suleiman began explaining the situation: the patriarch's severe injuries, the attack on the third stronghold city, and the unknown party demanding ownership, an event that had roots stretching back to three years ago, coinciding eerily with the time Magnus and Alexa had spent trapped inside the rifts.
The atmosphere in the Suleiman residence, though calm on the surface, carried the weight of urgency and hidden danger, a stark contrast to the serene beauty of the surrounding gardens and skyline. Every detail, the architecture, the furniture, the lighting, reminded Magnus that power and influence could be quietly contained, but threats often emerged where least expected.
The room was quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the energy shields and security systems in Robertson Suleiman's residence. Magnus remained standing near the window, scanning subtly, though his focus was entirely on the Director.
"Lord Magnus," Robertson Suleiman began, his voice low, careful, but firm, "there's something I haven't disclosed yet. Something I need you to know before we proceed."
Magnus' gaze sharpened. "Go on," he said, his tone calm, controlled, but there was an edge of impatience, the curiosity of a mind used to tracking threats.
"The person responsible for severely wounding your great-great-grandfather…" the Director hesitated for a brief moment, choosing words carefully. "…is Jarek Solis."
Magnus' mind flickered, memories of the energy patterns and FM signatures of Maverick-class Awakened immediately aligning. "Jarek Solis," he repeated, as if testing the resonance of the name. "The Maverick Hunter… one of the twenty-seven I've tracked across the planet."
Robertson Suleiman nodded. "Yes. Three years ago, during the finalization of the Third Stronghold City in Turkey, Jarek saw an opportunity, not just for power, but for profit. He leveraged his status as a SS Rank Cleaner-Hunter and mobilized his personnel. They forcibly occupied areas of the city, asserting dominance under the guise of rift management."
Magnus' expression remained unreadable, though his hands flexed slightly. "SS Rank… so he had legitimate authority under the Agency framework?"
"Nominal authority, No sir," the Director said grimly. "But he acted outside the bounds of law and protocol. His personnel have maintained a foothold in the city for three years now, under his command. No one has been able to remove them, not without significant risk, and even now, their presence represents both a strategic and financial threat."
Magnus exhaled softly, a slow, deliberate sound. "I see. So this is less about the rift itself, and more about consolidating control over the stronghold and its resources."
Robertson Suleiman's gaze darkened. "Exactly. He wanted ownership, Magnus. Entire control. The injuries inflicted on your great-great-grandfather were deliberate, a calculated attempt to remove obstacles. And the longer Jarek remains, the harder it will be to reclaim the city, both politically and militarily."
Magnus tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he analyzed the potential scenarios. "Jarek's motives align with what I expected from him," he murmured, more to himself than the Director. "He sees everything in terms of profit and display. Weakness, delay, hesitation, he exploits them. And the Third Stronghold City in Turkey… a perfect opportunity for someone like him."
The Director leaned back, exhaling. "I wanted you to know the full context before moving in. His Maverick title gives him leverage over many local operatives, and he has networks I'm not sure anyone has fully mapped yet. We can't underestimate him."
Magnus' lips pressed into a thin line. " Jarek… he has no idea what's coming."
Robertson Suleiman felt a chill at the certainty in Magnus' voice. "So… will you lend us your guidance? "
" I will handle it?"
" As I commanded your patriarch to build those cities "
" so its my responsibility"
then instantly he vanish , and return back at his apartment, were Alexa was still sleeping.