The air in the Abyssal Stratum wasn't just sharp with ozone—it carried the tang of old blood and dust that hadn't stirred in centuries. Vance Kensington leaned into a crooked wedge of obsidian, fighting for every breath. His custom armor, built from Tier-4 Obsidian Drake scales, was trashed. Big split down the center, leaking blood onto the gray ash below.
He hardly dared to move. Even the sound of his breathing felt dangerous.
Fifty yards out, the cavern opened up into a sprawling amphitheater, lit by that strange, swirling aurora. Right in the middle sat his target. The Aethelgard Watcher.
Not a beast of flesh. No, this thing was pure myth—a giant, seraphic owl stitched together from streaks of hard-light and golden gears. Its wings stirred the air with an avalanche of ticking, like thousands of old pocket watches. Time bent around it—a pebble falling nearby would just freeze, hang there for a while, and then whip down like a bullet.
Vance had spent six months stalking it. He'd given up sleep, all his money, and whatever pieces of himself were left, just to reach the bottom of the Fracture.
He shut his eyes, focusing on his Inner Stratum. Used to be, he had a whole arsenal hidden inside his head—cores he'd absorbed, beasts he'd tamed. Now it felt hollow. His genetic reserves were basically empty. His Panthera—a big shadow-catted monster he'd raised since his Initiation—was gone. Dead. Its spirit statue shattered, another victim of the Watcher's time-bending attacks just an hour ago.
Come on, just the Core. He tightened his grip on his vibro-blade. Kill the Watcher. Take the Core. Ascend to Tier-5. Make the Syndicate pay attention.
He watched the Watcher—its eyes dim, busy repairing the wounds he'd given it. He had one shot. Just three seconds before it'd react.
Vance pushed off the rock.
He didn't sprint. He triggered the acceleration runes in his boots and shot forward—metal and ash blurring behind him. Fifty yards. Thirty. Ten.
He jumped, blade raised, aimed straight for the glowing core in the Watcher's chest.
CLANG.
Metal slammed against metal, ringing through the cavern. His blade didn't connect. Instead, something threw him back, smashing him into the wall. Bones rattled. Blood filled his mouth. He spat it out and peered through settling dust.
A man stood between him and the Watcher. Tall. Pristine white-and-gold combat suit, untouched by the grime, with a hulking Ursine perched on his shoulder. Fur crackling with static, eyes blazing.
"A brilliant hunt, Vance," the stranger said. Every syllable slick but empty. "Really. The Vanguard Syndicate owes you big."
Vance's head went light. But he recognized the voice. Dread twisted his stomach—had nothing to do with the blood draining from his chest.
"Sterling…" he croaked, hauling himself up against the broken wall. "Why the hell are you here?"
Sterling Prescott. Vanguard golden boy. He smiled—the kind of smile sharpened by years of practice. More shadows spilled in behind him—six figures, faces hidden by executioner masks.
"You were always our best tracker," Sterling said, moving carefully around Vance's blood. "But you never saw the big picture. You really thought the Board would let some grunt claim a Mythic Temporal Core? Something that could rewrite reality?"
A cold, deep chill washed over Vance. He stared at the masked squad, and then back at Sterling. Once they'd bled together. Survived Initiation side by side in the Crimson Woods.
"We made a deal," Vance growled, anger trembling in his voice. "I bring you the routes, I get the Watcher. Syndicate agreed."
"The Syndicate let you dream," Sterling replied, like he was explaining something obvious. "You got too strong, Vance. Too independent. Worst of all, you cared about loyalty. Loyalty's poison here. Only power matters. I'm taking the Core. That'll guarantee my ascension. And you—well, you get to die a hero. A tragic casualty, slaughtered by the beast."
Sterling gave a signal. The execution squad aimed their Arc-Rifles, plasma charging—a low hum tangled with the Watcher's relentless ticks.
Vance felt it then—done. Outmatched, out of energy, out of hope. They'd played him. All those years clawing up the ranks, barely surviving, and in the end, betrayed by people he'd sworn to dismantle.
He looked at Sterling. Then past him, at the pulsing golden core in the Watcher's chest.
If I don't get a future, he thought, despair freezing into something ruthless. Cold resolve.
"You think you've won?" Vance breathed, voice just above a whisper.
Sterling's smile faded. "Kill him."
Vance didn't brace. Instead, he poured everything he had left into his legs. He shot forward—not at Sterling, but at the Watcher.
The beast shrieked, metal grinding, as Vance slammed his blood-soaked hand into the fissure in its chest. His fingers dug into the unstable core.
"Vance, don't!" Sterling shouted, panic cracking his voice. "Pull him off!"
Vance ignored him. He didn't try for safety. Didn't try to sync his DNA. He grabbed the core, forcing his dying energy straight in—pushing it past its threshold.
He made it explode.
"Neither do you," Vance snarled, eyes locked on Sterling's.
The world didn't burn. It shattered.
Colors screamed. Plasma bolts froze in midair, Sterling's face warped and stretched and his roar tumbled backward, hollow and monstrous. The cavern collapsed, reality folded inward, crushing everything down to molecules. Vance felt himself tearing apart—soul shredded by clockwork and starlight.
He fell into nothing.
And then—hard landing.
GASP.
Vance jerked upright, desperate for air. He sprawled back, scrambling for a sword that wasn't there, pressing against a wall. Heart hammering, eyes wild.
Ash. Ticking. Explosion.
Blink.
No copper air. No Watcher. Just that sting of industrial pine cleaner. Overhead, a busted fluorescent tube flickered.
He lowered his hands. They trembled. But they were unscarred. The old wyvern burn, the one etched into his arm years ago—gone.
He was perched on a lumpy mattress in a tiny, sterile room. Walls peeling. Traffic noise faint through a grimy window.
Vance dragged himself over the side of the bed. His body felt light. Weak. No more mutant muscle, no powerful armor—just skin, thin as it was years before.
He staggered to a small mirror above the sink.
The face staring back was almost unrecognizable—sharp, young, untouched by Syndicate brutality. No bags under the eyes. He looked nineteen.
Hands gripped the sink edge, mind racing. Then, the calendar on the battered desk caught his eye.
September 14th. Five years ago, down to the day.
Breath caught. Every Siphon knew this date. Global Initiation. The gates to the Fracture opening up, new recruits flooding in. The same day his old life ended, and the Vanguard's leash slipped around his neck.
Letting go of the sink, he stepped back. A slow smile crept across his face—something dangerous, almost feral.
He wasn't dead. The Watcher hadn't erased him—it had flung him backward, reset the clock. Sterling Prescott, the betrayals, the Syndicate's wars—all of it hadn't happened yet.
Vance stared at his clean hands. Weak, yeah. But he had something stronger than armor: five years' worth of secrets burned into his brain. Every resource cache, every hidden power, every dirty trick they'd use to claw their way to dominance.
"You wanted to play god, Sterling," Vance whispere
d, the empty room swallowing his words. "Let's see how you deal with a devil who already knows how you die."