Far from the burning town of Artimia, hooves rumbled against compacted soil.

Dust spiraled in the wake of retreat.

Sedgwick rode at the front, flanked by what remained of his men. 

Blood crusted his lip, but his eyes still burned.

Ahead, his stronghold loomed like a scar on the earth.

A black-iron fortress carved into the bones of Sector Five. 

Its spires stabbed the sky like rusted blades. 

Energy pulsed faintly across its towers—silent arcs of violet light crawling along the walls like veins.

The gates opened with a mechanical groan. 

Soldiers stood at attention along the walls—silent, stiff, eyes forward—as Sedgwick and his entourage galloped through the threshold.

The moment they crossed into the fortress, the outside wind vanished—replaced by a cold, automated stillness that swallowed every echo.

Inside, it was colder.

Quieter.

As if the building itself was listening.

Sedgwick dismounted before the steps of the central tower. 

He tossed the reins to a trembling soldier.

"Welcome back, sir!"

"Out of my way, imbecile."

Sedgwick climbed the steps two at a time before vanishing into the fortress depths—toward his personal chamber, slamming the door behind him.

His jaw clenched. 

Not because he lost, but because he'd run. 

Someone had seen him run. 

That was unacceptable.

But the consequences of his retreat were soon to be heard.

He exhaled, pressing two fingers to his temple.

The world around him shimmered. 

His consciousness drifted, and when Sedgwick opened his eyes again, he was no longer in the fortress.

He stood in an endless room—not made of marble or gold. 

But made of stars.

Cosmic light stretched across the walls into infinite galaxies—planets hung suspended like ornaments, nebulae curled like banners, poised in the void like chandeliers.

At the center, a throne of obsidian crackled with divine power. 

Seated upon it—an indescribable silhouette.

More concept than figure.

The God-King.

Sedgwick dropped to a knee.

"Your Grace."

A voice echoed into the unknown.

"Speak."

"I believe I've found him," Sedgwick said, head low. 

Sweat ran down his face.

The God-King's aura rippled through the space.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Sedgwick nodded. "We were recently ambushed… but the man leading them… fits the description."

"Then it's in your possession?"

"Regrettably… no, Your Grace. Others were aiding him. They also used Dyna, but the reports from six months ago only stated one Dyna user."

The space trembled.

Stars dimmed above.

Cosmic rubble fell like meteors.

"Did I ask for excuses?"

Sedgwick's voice cracked. "N-no, Your Grace..."

There was silence—one so still, calm, cold, that when the God-King spoke next, his voice tolled like a blade being unsheathed.

"Section Commander Sedgwick Fullerman."

"...Yes, Your Grace?"

"Excuses are the language of the weak... Weakness is not tolerated in my empire."

"...Yes, Your Grace..."

"You will retrieve the Iritheum Core. By any means necessary."

Sedgwick fell flat to the floor.

"Yes, Your Grace! I swear it! I give you my oath!"

His blood boiled.

Why?

Because in his heart, Sedgwick felt he hadn't run. 

I made a tactical retreat. 

That isn't a weakness. 

That isn't fear or some excuse. 

Anyone else would have died. 

That's why I, Sedgwick Fullerman, lived!

The stars blinked once as Sedgwick's thoughts drifted.

Then vanished.

He gasped awake—standing in his quarters, breath short, knuckles white against the desk. 

Outside, the sun glowed brightly over the horizon.

His orders were clear.

Retrieve the Iritheum Core.

No matter the cost.

Sedgwick walked to the window, and beyond the rising smoke in the distance, the wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of rain.

He stared forward.

Toward Artimia.

Toward Nozomu.

"You scum," he whispered. "I saw it in your eyes…"

His reflection in the window shifted.

Warped into a sinister smile.

He no longer looked like a prideful man but more like something old and inhuman.

"You're the one who stole the Iritheum Core..."

Sedgwick spun on his heel and stormed to the door. 

He flung it open with a crash that echoed down the corridor. 

The startled soldiers flinched as he bellowed into the hallway.

"Branch! Branch!"

Footsteps pounded from around the corner. 

A moment later, Branch appeared—sweaty, breathless.

"Yes, sir?"

"Prep a Devil Unit. Mobilize the men. I want eyes everywhere—across the entire sector. No blind spots."

"Across the entire sector, sir…?"

Sedgwick's gaze turned ice-cold.

"Did I stutter?"

"No, sir. But the entire sector? We'll be stretching our forces thin."

"Damn it, Branch! Across all of Sector Five! Our livelihood depends on this!"

Without another word, Sedgwick stormed back into the room, slamming the door behind him. 

The corridor trembled with silence.

Branch's footsteps faded, taken in by the fortress's cold hum.

Inside his quarters, Sedgwick stood motionless before the window.

The glass reflected something that no longer looked human—a smile stretched too far, eyes gleaming with a hunger that even the God-King's voice couldn't satisfy.

"Across all of Sector Five," he muttered, each word dripping venom. "If I have to tear this sector apart to find you, then so be it."

Beyond the glass, the horizon shimmered with smoke.

The hunt had begun.

And the Wastelands would bleed for it.