Elysium woke under a quiet that didn’t feel like peace.

The sunlight poured through the domes like liquid gold, but the streets beneath it were too orderly — too watchful, as if afraid to breathe wrong.

Vendors reopened their stalls with stiff smiles; guards stood at every corner, halberds planted like anchors in the marble. The night’s curfew had ended, but no one spoke above a whisper.

The plaza near the Central Spire buzzed with voices. Market stalls glittered, the sound of coins clinking faintly — but tensioN undercut the noise.

At the center, a group of five cocky Skyfallen lounged on the fountain steps, weapons drawn purely for show. Two sparred dangerously close to passerby. One had his sword buried blade-first into the stone, another twirled a spear like a baton, daring anyone to get close.

An Elysium Guard Captain approached. “Please sheath your weapons. This plaza is holy ground.”

One grinned, leaning on his spear.

“And if we don’t? The hell you gonna do?”

The crowd murmured. The guards shifted uneasily — disciplined, but clearly outmatched. The captain’s jaw clenched.

“You disrespect this place, you disrespect the Reach itself. Last warning.”

“Oh no, we wouldn’t want to disrespect the locals.” he smirked. “Look around, man. Your shiny spears won’t do a thing against us. We grind outside the barrier for one day and we’re already far stronger than you.”

The guards raised their shields, forming a line. Their movements were crisp, unified — but the players didn’t flinch. The air around the fountain thickened with tension.

That’s when Sephoric passed through the plaza.

Whispers rippled instantly:

“They could crush both sides in a second…”

Saiya didn’t even slow down, silver eyes sliding across the scene with mild disdain. Takara’s expression was unreadable, her hand tightening into a fist. Zenobia looked down, shoulders tense. Mirai slowed just enough to watch the exchange, his smirk faint but sharp. Issan adjusted his glasses.

One of the disorderly spotted them and puffed his chest.

“Hey! You don’t care about these rules either, right? Look at us — we’ve got real power! Why bow to these weak NPCs?”

The plaza went quiet. Everyone waited for Sephoric’s reaction.

Saiya stopped first, turning her gaze on him. Her eyes were unreadable — a faint red spark crackling in the air around her.

“Are you dumb? Speak for yourself. You’re just loud.” Her tone flat, cold.

The crackling intensified — not an attack, just her presence. The cocky Skyfallen faltered, his smirk twitching into unease.

Mirai stepped between them smoothly, his tone easy but cutting.

“News flash: power doesn’t equal anything. If you need to prove strength by scaring civilians, you’re already weak.”

He smirked. 

“We prove it by existing.”

“Spout shit if you can back it up,” Saiya said. “I advise you leave — I’m getting sick of playing police after last night.”

“Anchor point,” Issan murmured, gaze shifting toward the two sparring. His lance erupted through the marble with a chilling crack.

The sound silenced the plaza.

“Seriously,” he said, exhaling. “It’s like herding cattle.”

The five Skyfallen shrank back — bravado draining as quickly as it had come. 

Sephoric walked the same streets they’d fought to calm, watching the illusion of normalcy stitch itself back together.

Mirai frowned. “So, the game’s still running. Clock's ticking still.”

“The Orator never came to us, Takara murmured. “Maybe she’s not our guide after all.” 

“They don’t even want us going near the Central Spire so I doubt she’d be of any use.” Mirai replied.

Issan adjusted his glasses, voice low. “Either the quest system is truly broken… or this isn’t structured like a game anymore.”

Mirai exhaled gently. “No quests, no waypoints. Ok — then we just make our own. 

Saiya crossed her arms. “The eye said Volence. That’s our point.”

Takara hesitated. “…But how? I’ve asked three locals already. They just keep telling me to ‘stay in the light.’”

Saiya calmy exhaled. “We’ll have to brute force it.” 

They spent the morning splitting up — questioning merchants, temple priests, even the city’s watchmen.

Each gave the same soft, rehearsed answers about divine protection, holy duty, and the light’s mercy. Every question about the world beyond the domes ended the same way — eyes averted, a trembling hand wave in denial.

Saiya’s patience thinned fastest as a merchant tried to explain that “travel beyond the sacred grounds” was ‘an invitation to judgment.’

When she pressed him further, the man’s hands shook so violently his bracelets clattered together.

“I’m terribly sorry, Velskara, but I do not know the divine vocabulary in which you speak! Please—please forgive my ignorance.”

Saiya’s brow arched, lightning faintly crackling beneath her skin. “Velskara?”

A nearby merchant flinched at the name. “Ahh—the one who burns falsehood from flesh. You wear her mark.”

For a moment, even she fell silent.

“There’s a scholar library nearby, perhaps they can serve your request.” he gently added.

They moved on — to a scholar’s quarter where marble corridors smelled of ink and dust. A gray-haired theologian bowed deeply before answering their questions.

“Perhaps this ‘Volence’ is a realm,” he offered, his tone trembling with forced politeness. 

“The origin of the Skyfallen, perhaps? Or a fallen realm? The term exists in no surviving text of the old age.” He smiled weakly, hands folded. “My sincerest apologies.”

Issan’s expression didn’t change, but his tone did.

“You’re not afraid of ignorance,” he said quietly. “You’re afraid of contradiction.”

The scholar didn’t reply. He simply bowed again, lower this time, and whispered:

“Some knowledge is a curse. Even for gods.”

By the time Sephoric regrouped in the plaza, the sun was high—but the tension hadn’t lifted.

The air itself felt heavy, like the dome was listening.

“No. Nothing…” Zenobia whispered.

“Same here.” Takara followed.

“Why,” Issan muttered to himself. “Well, that’s our most logical option burned it seems. This city’s too big for brute force questioning to be viable at this rate.

Mirai exhaled. “So — no leads huh. Just a name, and a city that thinks we’re divine hazards.

Saiya’s jaw tightened. “Then we start testing limits.”

Issan glanced toward the horizon, where faint lightning from the barrier still glimmered in daylight. “Something tells me we won’t be the only ones.”

By midmorning, the illusion of peace finally cracked.

An elderly merchant had just opened his stall — one he’d tended for decades — greeting passersby with the same warm nod he’d given every morning. Rows of crystal vials lined his counter, glowing softly in the sunlight.

Then a group of Skyfallen approached.

“Give us the strongest one,” their leader said, smirking. “For free.”

The merchant’s hands trembled as he lifted a vial, holding it like a shield.

“I—it’s ten marks,” he pleaded. “Please, that’s the price—”

“Price?” barked the lead. “It’s fake, old man. Not real. Hand it over before I make you.”

When the merchant hesitated, the player slammed his fist into the counter.

The vials shattered.

Not with the chime of a glitch — but with the raw, splintering sound of glass meeting stone. Liquid spilled across the marble, pooling like light in the cracks.

Another grabbed the merchant by the collar, forcing him to his knees.

“While you’re at it — answer me! Where’s Volence? What god do you people even worship?”

“I-I don’t know that name!” the merchant cried. “Please—”

The Skyfallen's sword materialized mid-swing—

—and stopped.

A crystalline glaive tore through the air — a streak of color and sound — embedding in the wall beside his face.

The impact rang through the plaza like a struck bell, cracking the marble.

Silence rippled through the plaza.

Footsteps followed.

Soft. Measured. Certain.

Click. Click. Click.

Takara stepped into the light.

The Sunlight refracted her crystalline limbs, scattering prismatic color that danced across the stone. Her face was half-shadowed beneath her bangs, calm and unreadable — but her voice carried clean and cold.

“Bullying the elderly?” she said softly. “You’re the lowest form of trash. The kind you scrape off the sidewalk.”

Their leader turned, breath hitching, sweat trailing down his temple.

Takara’s gaze didn’t waver.

“I had bullies once,” she said quietly. “They thought strength meant hurting whoever couldn’t fight back.”

The glaive dissolved into glittering motes, reforming in her grasp. The light refracted across its blade, reflecting their frightened faces.

“You remind me of them.”

Her tone never rose. It didn’t have to. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.

“Wanna fight?”

The lead stammered, trying to laugh it off.

“Wh-whoa, hey, relax! I wasn’t actually going to kill hi—”

Takara tilted her head. 

“You drew your weapon.

 I’ll draw your blood.”

She leveled the glaive — its crystalline edge humming with restrained energy — and for a heartbeat, the plaza reflected in it like a mirror.

Saiya’s voice cut in from behind her, cool and sharp.

“You’re lucky she got to you first.”

The Skyfallen group froze completely. Saiya stepped forward, the faint crackle of red lightning tracing her arm, her eyes gleaming like polished steel.

“If I had, you’d be ash blowing away right now.” Static flickering across her gaze.

The guards didn’t move — they didn’t need to. The Skyfallen were policing their own. Natives peered from doorways, whispering prayers, half in awe, half in fear.

The lead swallowed hard and backed away, his weapon dissipating into light. 

“Alright — we’re done, relax!” They turned and fled, vanishing into the crowd’s murmurs.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then, softly, the merchant rose to his knees, clutching the shards of a broken vial.

“My lady,” he whispered, voice trembling. “The light sent you.”

The merchant’s voice broke, tears mixing with light.

Takara’s expression didn’t change. “The light didn’t send me,” she said, turning away. 

“It just learned to fight back.”

Her glaive shimmered once and dissolved back into her arm as she turned back toward Sephoric.

Behind her, the murmurs spread like ripples across the plaza:

“The Angel of Crystal.”

“The Gentle Wrath.”

“Maybe the gods sent her, too.”

The plaza still hadn’t recovered from the shock.

Takara’s crystalline glow dimmed; the merchant still knelt, whispering thanks beneath his breath. The tension hung like static — one more spark and the entire street might’ve erupted again.

Then a slow clap broke through the silence.

Slow, deliberate, echoing across the marble.

“A beautiful speech,” said a calm, composed voice. “But the city doesn’t need more heroes right now — it needs restraint.”

All heads turned.

From the far end of the plaza, four figures approached through the crowd, their formation natural — too practiced to be coincidence.

Their presence cut through the murmurs like a tide rolling in.

At their front walked a man in blue: tall, immaculate, the sun flashing along the pristine white insignia of his armor, cape fluttering lightly in the breeze. 

His expression was calm but commanding, the kind of composure that demanded obedience without ever needing to shout. His hand rested casually on the hilt of his sword — not a threat, but a reminder.

“I’m impressed,” he continued as he approached Takara. “A single strike to disarm without killing. You have control most lack. But the city’s in chaos — and when fear rules, order must follow.”

He stopped a few paces away, offering a knightly half-bow. 

“I’m Marthen, Leader of Albedo.”

Behind him, the mage sighed, pushing his cloak back with theatrical irritation.

“Oh, wonderful. Marthen the Savior arrives just in time, again…”

Behind an oaf chuckled, broad and grinning. "Sweet! Another elite team?! C’mon admit it — she’s got form. That glaive throw was clean! Got any tips?”

“Quiet, Brock,” the mage hissed.

The fourth member — the scaled woman — trailed slightly behind, her golden eyes unreadable beneath her hood. Her skin shimmered faintly under the sunlight, scales catching light like polished glass. 

She said nothing, simply watching Takara with quiet fascination, as if she saw something deeper.

Marthen’s attention shifted to the kneeling merchant, then to the gathered crowd.

“Let this be clear,” he said, voice firm yet measured. “Albedo stands for stability. The panic ends here. If the Skyfallen turn on one another, none of us will survive what follows.”

His words rippled through the onlookers — a blend of relief and unease.

“Oh man, don't tell me Zephia’s here too, huh?” Mirai said with a smirk.

“Not that I’m aware of. They would have already made their presence known by now. As it stands it’s you and us currently.”

“Good.” Saiya groaned.

He looked back to Takara, tone softening. 

“You did well. But next time, let us handle such things. The city’s frightened enough as it is.”

Saiya stepped forward, lightning still faintly cracking across her arm.

“Handle?” she repeated, her voice low, dangerous. “You’re welcome to handle the cleanup. But don’t mistake silence for surrender.”

The air tightened again. Two guilds, two ideologies — both powerful, both unbending.

Marthen met her gaze evenly.

“Then perhaps,” he said, “We’d best learn to coexist before this world decides for us.”

For a heartbeat, neither moved.

Then, as if on cue, Albedo turned and left — their capes and cloaks catching the light, their silhouettes regal against the glass towers.

The murmurs swelled in their wake.

“Rank fifteen.”

“The Guild of Order.”

Takara’s glaive dissolved fully, leaving nothing but silence behind.

Mirai glanced after them, half a smirk on his face. “Well,” he murmured, “I guess the neighborhood just got competition.”

Saiya’s eyes lingered on Marthen’s back — unreadable, but charged.

“Not interested.” she said softly. “We’re going to Zone One. We’re not playing police anymore.”