The city had fractured.

The taverns that once pulsed with laughter now whispered like confessionals.

Skyfallen spoke in hushed tones, voices trembling between disbelief and reverence.

A reminder that some people didn’t just play the game—

they owned it.

The glow of lanterns painted their faces strange and uncertain.

“Man, she didn’t even aim at us,” one murmured. “But I swear, I felt it.”

“It went right past me,” another said. “I could hear my heartbeat in it.”

“She said it was a warning, now they’re calling her Scarlet Judgment,” whispered a third, eyes flicking toward the window. 

“She’s different. That was power,” someone muttered over a drink.

“Bro, that’s Saiya. Sephoric’s leader,” another whispered.

“The rank ten guild!?” Someone stammered. Then he swallowed.

Silence followed — tight, reverent.

A single toast rose, trembling but unanimous:

“To the Scarlet Judgment — may she stay on our side.”

Outside, the plaza where it happened was empty.

No one dared step across the scorched lines still etched into the marble — jagged red arcs that seemed to hum faintly in the silence.

The air reeked of ozone and fear.

Guards stood further back than usual.

Even the priests avoided the center.

When asked why, one finally whispered:

“She commanded thunder like a god. And the Guardians… did not move.”

That last part spread faster than any rumor.

Even the Guardians — the divine arbiters of the covenant—

had stayed motionless during the lightning strike.

Not one descended.

Not one retaliated.

To the natives, it was heresy and miracle in equal measure.

At the nearest temple, offerings appeared within the hour—

red candles, wilted flowers, silver coins left on marble steps.

A priestess knelt in prayer, whispering:

“If she carries wrath, let her aim it at the sky, not at us.”

— — —

Meanwhile, Sephoric stood upon one of Elysium's glass bridges overlooking the trembling skyline.

Issan adjusted the clasp on his gauntlet, voice dry and precise.

“Well, that should keep any would-be challengers at bay. Though anyone familiar with us should’ve known better already.”

Saiya leaned against the railing, arms crossed, the faint red pulse of her lightning bleeding into the dome above.

“You didn’t have to scare them that much.” Takara said softly.

Saiya’s reflection flickered — silver eyes halo’d by the city’s glow. “Didn’t I?”

Mirai smirked from nearby, leaning lazily near her.

“You know, if this was a PR campaign, you’d be killing it.”

“Who says it isn’t?” she said flatly, turning away.

From a high beam above them, Zenobia perched with knees drawn close, tail swaying lazily.

“They’re calling you Scarlet Judgment,” she murmured.

Saiya paused. The faintest smile ghosted across her lips — barely there, but real.

“…Good,” she said quietly. “Let them.”

Hours had passed, but its storm’s echo lingered.

The plaza remained a black-glass spiderweb of ruin. Guards stood at every corner, torches burning red instead of gold. The scent of ozone clung like guilt.

When the bells tolled, they didn’t ring for prayer—

they rang for containment.

“By decree of the High Orator,” the amplified voice carried through the crystal streets. 

“All citizens and Skyfallen are to remain within dwellings until dawn.

The light watches. The light judges.”

Lanterns dimmed early. Windows shuttered. Even the fountains stopped their flow.

Guards patrolled in slow formations, halberds gleaming beneath the golden lamps that marked every junction. Their steps echoed — rhythmic, rehearsed — yet there was no confidence in the sound, only duty.

Each time a patrol passed, windows shuttered, and the glow of candles dimmed.

In the temples, the clergy argued in hushed tones over what they had witnessed. 

Some knelt in worship, declaring the Skyfallen’s lightning a divine omen. Others whispered of blasphemy and wrath — that the god of thunder had turned its gaze on them.

By midnight, a name began to spread through whispered prayer and rumor alike:

Velskara, The Scarlet Judgment, the lightning that dances when the covenant breaks.

Mothers told their children not to look at the sky when it flashes red.

Priests sprinkled salt and light-ash across their doorframes.

Even the guards refused to speak her name aloud.

— — —

From her chamber high within the Central Spire, the High Orator stood before her mirror of crystal light — dozens of reports flickering across its surface: damage tallies, curfew logs, sightings of “red resonance.”

Her voice was calm, but her reflection trembled.

“We’ve been brought miracles before,” she murmured. “But never like this.”

An attendant bowed low.

“What shall we do, my lady?”

“We wait,” the Orator replied softly. “And we pray that Velskara’s wrath does not test the covenant again.”

Outside, Elysium’s Reach fell silent — the first true quiet since their arrival.

The moon glared down at the city below. The streets were empty. Market stalls stood abandoned, their glass still glowing faintly beneath the lanterns. Bread hardened on counters. Incense curled from temple braziers, burning on instinct rather than faith.

From every doorway, the same whisper passed from mouth to mouth:

“Stay inside. The light protects.”

Above them, faint streaks of red lightning rippled across the dome.

The natives called it Velskara’s Scar.

Others, the Judgment’s Mark.

Every rooftop trembled under the hush of fear.

— — —

Inside a tavern, two Skyfallen whispered in the candlelight.

“How do you even build a game this detailed?” the first said, eyes darting between flickering lamps. “This can’t come from a sane mind.”

“Right,” the second said, swirling his untouched drink. “And someone said a guy got their neck cut open earlier too, devs are going too far.”

“They’re just forcing immersion. It’ll all reset in the morning.” The first said quickly, almost convincing himself.

“I hope so.” replied the second, though his tone Faltered halfway through.

A pause. The lantern flame snapped.

“Yo, even if we’re stuck,” the first said. “The authorities should already know about this. It’s fine.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. But — all they have to do is take our headset off though… right?” The second replied, brows knitting.

Others sat in silence, watching their reflections ripple in untouched mugs. One let out an exhale.

From one table, a girl whispered a prayer she half-remembered from childhood.

Another laughed through tears, her voice breaking between hysteria and disbelief.

“The NPCs are praying… maybe I should join ‘em.”

— — —

And back in the upper balconies of the Orator’s Hall, she stood alone before a window. The city’s faint glow shimmered across her face.

Behind her, attendants murmured reports — fragmented, uncertain.

“Several Skyfallen detained after curfew breach.”

“Thousands injured across the city, but stable fortunately.”

“Velskara was seen again.”

The Orator’s eyes lingered on the red shimmer above the barrier.

She exhaled, her voice thin but resolute.

“Seal the plazas. Double the watch. If the Skyfallen bear divine wrath, then tonight… we do not provoke it.”

Her attendants bowed and departed.

She kept watching the horizon, the golden dome had never known imperfection. Every few minutes, a dull red shimmer crawled across the barrier.

Was it lightning echoing from Velskara’s hand? 

Proof the dome itself feared her.

The Orator spoke. The final words meant only for herself.

“If this is mercy, then may the gods never show us punishment.”

Beneath that same sky, Saiya stood on a tavern balcony, watching the lights die out one by one.

For once, the city obeyed her silence.

“Fear works,” she murmured. “They’ll stay put now.”

Mirai leaned against the railing beside her, arms folded loosely.

“For tonight,” he said.

She didn’t answer. The stormlight caught in her hair, glowing faint red against the silver.

“Tomorrow,” she said finally,

They'll start asking who to follow.”

Takara watched the red light fade through the glass. “And if they don’t?” she whispered.

The question hung in the air—unanswered.

Outside, thunder rolled faintly against the dome’s curve, and Elysium slept beneath the scar of red light.