The warehouse was alive.

  Bass thundered through the concrete, lights strobing in violent colors—purple, red, electric blue—cutting through fog and smoke that clung to the air. Sweat, perfume, alcohol, and weed mixed into a smell that felt almost metallic. People packed the floor shoulder to shoulder, bodies moving in loose, chaotic rhythm, hands in the air, phones glowing as they chased moments worth posting.

  A makeshift stage sat at the far end with a DJ half-hidden behind lights and cables, head nodding as the crowd roared every time the beat dropped. Metal pillars were wrapped in LED strips. Old shipping crates had been repurposed into bars. Someone had spray-painted symbols and slogans along the walls.

  Jessie spun the camera toward herself, grinning ear to ear as she twirled, the lights catching her face just right.

  “Hey, Jesters!” she shouted over the music. “I’m here at the shhh secret party!”

  She swung the camera around, showing the crowd, the lights, the DJ—then zoomed in on Daniel across the floor, leaning in close to a girl with neon eyeliner and a drink in her hand.

  “Oh my god,” Jessie laughed. “Let’s see if he’ll actually get a number for once.”

  “Hey!” Kanye popped into frame, blocking the shot with his shoulder. “Mind your business,” he joked.

  Jessie stopped recording and shoved him lightly. “Stop getting in the way.”

  Kanye grinned, looking around. “I’m just saying, this party’s actually really cool.”

  “It is,” Jessie said, scanning the room. “My networking skills are coming in handy already.”

  Kanye nodded toward the upper level. “Still… the people up there don’t really seem like party people.”

  Jessie followed his gaze. Above them, silhouettes moved along a railing.

  “Yeah,” she said slowly. “And they’ve been running around way more frantic.”

  Kanye raised an eyebrow. “Should we be worried?”

  Jessie shook her head. “Nah. The vibe doesn’t feel off.”

  Kanye smirked.

  “Does the bald head give you good detection skills?”

  Kanye shot back instantly. “Does being that short keep you cold?”

  They glared at each other for half a second—then both broke, smiling.

  Before either could say more, Daniel stumbled over, eyes glassy, grin wide.

  “Yooo,” he slurred, leaning way too close. “She’s definitely feelin’ me!”

  Jessie laughed. “I bet she is, dude.”

  Kanye squinted at him. “What you have, so I don’t take it.”

  “Don’t be a baby,” Daniel waved him off.

  Kanye crossed his arms. “I like to be aware of my surroundings. Someone has to.”

  The music surged again, drowning out whatever argument was about to start.

  Above them, unseen by most, movement quickened.

  ———

  “General Paige is gonna be livid when he finds out there’s a party in there,” Alex muttered, slouched in the passenger seat of the military jeep.

  Jones sat behind the wheel, helmet off, staring out through the windshield at the warehouse. Around them, about fifteen other jeeps formed a loose perimeter—engines idling, lights dimmed, soldiers waiting with that tense stillness.

  “The mission’s halted,” Jones said. “But the fact we didn’t pull out immediately?” He shook his head. “That’s what worries me.”

  Alex snorted. “Heard we got Veythari joining us.”

  Jones scoffed. “I still don’t believe that shit. Powers, monsters, all that.” He glanced over. “Been on five tours. Never ran into anything supernatural.”

  Alex’s jaw tightened. “Lucky you.”

  Jones looked at him. “You did?”

  “Yeah.” Alex stared ahead now. “We ran into this… thing. Didn’t even look real. They called in one of those Veythari to handle it. I didn’t see what happened.” His voice dropped. “But I heard the screams.”

  A beat passed.

  “So you believe it,” Jones said quietly.

  “Yeah,” Alex replied. “And that’s why we gotta stay sharp.” He picked up the radio. “Check in.”

  One by one, voices crackled back—same report across the board.

  Still waiting.

  Holding position.

  No further orders.

  Alex lowered the radio. Jones exhaled. “Tell them to get one of those ‘Veythari’ on the line. Maybe they can explain all the bullshit going on in this country.”

  Alex shook his head. “Maybe after the mission.”

  Jones glanced toward the warehouse again, bass faintly audible even from here. “I hope we pull out. Too many civilians. Most seem like kids.”

  Neither of them noticed the figure approaching until a knuckle tapped against the passenger-side window.

  Alex flinched, hand dropping to his weapon.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  A man stood there calmly, framed by the dim light.

  He wore a blue-and-black hoodie, black joggers, hands relaxed at his sides like he belonged there.

  No visible weapon.

  Just standing close enough to tap the glass.

  Alex and Jones stared at him.

  The man tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable.

  And smiled.

  “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

  The man’s voice was calm.

  “You can back up,” Jones ordered, fingers tightening around his grip.

  “Can I help you?” the man repeated, not moving.

  “I won’t repeat myself,” Alex snapped.

  The man tilted his head slightly. “You look military.”

  Jones’s hand slid toward his sidearm. Alex’s palm hovered over the radio.

  “This won’t do,” the man said softly.

  Alex reached for the radio—

  —

  Recardo sighed as he looked out over the warehouse floor from the upper level.

  For a split second, black flashes rippled across his teal eyes—fractured images, like reflections on broken glass. Military personnel. Jeeps. Soldiers attempting to blend into the dark streets, failing only because they thought they were invisible.

  Childish.

  He deliberately avoided looking for the Veythari signatures directly. No need to provoke attention. But even without focusing, he could feel them—five, maybe six. None of them S-rank. No Riftkeepers.

  Manageable.

  With him, Denten, Chezzar, and Xila, escape was more than possible.

  The military wouldn’t be the real issue.

  And judging by how they still hadn’t moved, Xila had been right earlier—the party was the perfect shield.

  Music thumped below. Laughter. Drinks spilling. People dancing without a care.

  Behind him, footsteps approached.

  “Hey, boss.”

  Recardo didn’t turn. “Yes, Denten.”

  “There’s military outside.”

  “Oh?” Recardo replied mildly. “So you noticed. Did Chezzar tell you?”

  “No,” Denten said. “I killed two outside.”

  Recardo froze.

  The darkness flared again. A vision snapped into focus: a jeep torn open, ice spikes punching through metal like paper. Blood pooling beneath it, steaming faintly.

  Recardo exhaled slowly. “Well… shit.” He finally turned. “Denten, why did you—”

  “They reached,” Denten interrupted. “I had no choice.”

  Recardo’s expression tightened. “I’m fairly certain you had more than enough choices. I was in the process of getting our normal members out. But now—”

  BOOM.

  The entire warehouse shook.

  Music cut for half a second. Lights flickered. Screams rippled through the crowd as people froze, unsure whether to cheer or run.

  Denten frowned. “Hmm. I didn’t think they’d act so rashly.”

  “That wasn’t them,” Recardo said quietly.

  He looked toward the ceiling, already calculating trajectories, exits, and consequences.

  ———

  Outside, the perimeter collapsed in seconds.

  Red lightning tore through the night like screaming veins, splitting the dark and turning camouflage into a joke. Soldiers barely had time to shout before bodies were thrown back, rifles skidding across asphalt, jeeps erupting as energy carved through steel like it was wet paper.

  Xila was in the center of it.

  Laughing.

  She moved like violence had always been her native language—red arcs snapping from her hands, ripping through lines, disarming, breaking formation before it ever had a chance to exist. One man was blasted off his feet and through a wall. Another tried to retreat and lost the ground beneath him as she closed the distance and tore him aside with her bare hands.

  She laughed to herself, electricity crawling over her arms like living things.

  Two figures cut through the chaos…’

  E.R.O Veythari. Members of V-23.

  Magic Bell hit first, distortion rippling around her like ringing glass, suppressive pulses trying to dampen the lightning. Seamless followed, phasing in and out of space with surgical precision, aiming to flank.

  Xila noticed immediately.

  Her smile widened.

  “Oh?” she said, tilting her head as red light flared brighter. “Na endlich.”

  She rolled her shoulders, lightning cracking so loud it drowned out gunfire.

  “Komm schon,” Xila called out, eyes burning with excitement.

  “Kommt ihr, um euch ficken zu lassen?”

  (Come on—are you here to get fucked up?)

  The air screamed as she launched herself forward, red lightning detonating against the pavement.

  The clash happened in seconds—but every second was crowded with violence.

  Magic Bell struck first.

  She raised both hands, voice sharp and ritual-clean as she chanted, sound warping around her like ringing glass. The air vibrated, a bell tolling without metal, distortion waves rushing forward to suppress, scatter, mute.

  Seamless moved with her chant—no wasted motion—phasing half a step out of reality, reappearing at angles that shouldn’t exist, already forming his own spoken sequence, syllables sliding together as space folded at his feet.

  Xila laughed.

  “Oh, ihr seid sü?.”

  She lifted one hand.

  Crimson Bolt.

  It ignored armor. Ignored cover. Ignored the wall Magic Bell ducked behind. Because Xila understood who she was striking.

  The bolt bent mid-flight, slipping through concrete like it was memory instead of matter, slamming into Magic Bell’s side. Not the vest. Her.

  Magic Bell screamed, counter-chanting through clenched teeth, distortion flaring hard enough to deflect the worst of it—but not all. She was thrown back, boots tearing trenches through asphalt as she barely stabilized.

  Seamless appeared behind Xila, already mid-chant, blade of compressed space forming in his palm—

  Xila pivoted and kicked him through a brick fa?ade.

  The building exploded outward as Seamless crashed through it, rolling across rubble, reforming with a snarl.

  A-rank.

  Not high A.

  Xila clicked her tongue.

  “Dann müssen wir das Tempo erh?hen.”

  Magic Bell came back in, voice ringing louder now, chant accelerating, trying to lock Xila’s position—trying to define her.

  That was her mistake.

  Xila stopped smiling.

  She raised both hands.

  Crimson Sentence.

  The red lightning that descended wasn’t fast.

  It was inevitable.

  When it struck Magic Bell, it didn’t just burn—it declared.

  The moment the bolt hit, reality reacted.

  Magic Bell’s limbs went numb like iron shackles snapping closed. Her scream cut off mid-sound as her throat locked, lungs seizing. Her heart stuttered—just once—but the pressure felt infinite.

  Punishment.

  Xila was already moving.

  She crossed the distance in a blink, fingers tearing through flesh and aura alike, ripping Magic Bell’s throat out before her body even hit the ground.

  The body collapsed.

  Alive for half a second too long.

  Xila didn’t bother finishing it properly—no heart, no brain destruction—because Seamless was already attacking.

  He came in chanting, furious now, Manifestation flaring as space twisted around his fists—

  Xila turned.

  Red Verdict.

  The bolt was slower.

  Heavier.

  It landed like a gavel.

  When it hit Seamless, his Manifestation failed—not explosively, but incorrectly. The shape warped, collapsed in on itself. His knees buckled as he fell to the ground.

  His aura flickered.

  Dimmed.

  Seamless gasped, trying to reform, trying to chant again—

  Xila stepped forward, red lightning crawling over her hands, eyes bright with joy.

  “Aber wirklich,” she said softly, almost disappointed.

  “Ich habe mir mehr erhofft.”

  Around them, buildings stood cracked and burning—but the warehouse remained untouched.

  Xila smiled as she placed her hand flat against Seamless’s stomach.

  “Jetzt,” she murmured. “Let’s start the real party.”

  Red lightning detonated outward.

  She launched Seamless like a projectile, his body wrapped in crackling crimson as it tore through the air and smashed straight into the side of the warehouse.

  The explosion was deafening.

  Metal melted. Concrete shattered. Windows blew outward in a rain of glass. The bass cut mid-beat, replaced by panic—screams, alarms, the sound of hundreds of bodies suddenly realizing they were no longer at a party.

  Xila laughed, breathless and wild.

  Above her, the thrum of helicopter blades began to chew through the night. Floodlights cut across rooftops. More signatures flared—other Veythari moving in fast.

  Good.

  Recardo was going to be furious.

  She rolled her shoulders, electricity still crawling over her skin, already preparing to—

  Movement.

  Xila spun, instincts screaming—

  —and came face to face with a red-haired girl, green eyes sharp and burning with focus, in a combat uniform that moved with her like a second skin.

  Shit, Xila thought. She’s fast.

  But then her red eyes widened.

  Not at the speed.

  At the hands.

  At the precision of the movements.

  At the cadence of the chant cutting cleanly through the chaos.

  “Nine Ropes bind—

  Crow’s Call seals—!”

  Xila’s grin vanished.

  Her blood sang with recognition.

  “Oh,” she breathed, excitement and danger colliding in her chest.

  This wasn’t just another A-rank.