4

  The world was still ringing.

  Kirom dropped to his knees, panting. The st of his energy fled from his body, leaving only the raw tremor of what he had done. His palm pressed against the stone. It was still vibrating, a final aftershock rippling outward — fading, fading — until finally, the cave settled.

  He did not.

  His pulse slowed down to almost a halt. The edges of his vision blurred. Kirom felt hollowed out, like something had scooped the warmth from his bones, burned it up, and left him cold. His hands curled against the rock, trying to grasp something that had already slipped away.

  He had never felt like this before.

  Power was execution.

  A force applied, calcuted, broken down into vectors, mass, energy, motion — measurable, controlble, bound by principle and distance. That was what the Department taught. That was why they expanded the bck stone cores, to stretch the reach of their Power. Without a core, Power faded. Beyond its ranges, no force to execute.

  But Kirom had reached for something else.

  The incenses. The moment the embers had burst, he had caught it — the expansion of heat, the miniature explosion, the force struggling to escape into the air. And instead of letting it scatter, he had reached for it, bent it, turned it inward. A chain reaction of stolen force, drawn into his grip.

  The waterfall. Every droplet a falling motion, a force, a weight surrendering to gravity. And Kirom had taken that weight. Held it. Redirected it.

  For a split second, every fall, every breath of force had become his own.

  And the cave split.

  It was the first time he had done it on this scale.

  He had always known it was possible. Had tested it in careful, deliberate ways. But this — this had been something else entirely.

  Kirom swallowed hard. His body was still shivering.

  It wasn’t just Power.

  He had seen it before.

  A memory surfaced, unbidden.

  His mother’s hands — gentle, steady — gliding over his skin. A fresh cut on his arm, shallow but stinging. Water pooled in her palm, reflecting the light.

  “Water’s nature is to stay as one,” she had said. “If you ask it to, your wound will too.”

  Then, the water trembled. Colpsed. Fell from her hand like a breath exhaled.

  And his wound closed.

  The silence pressed in around him. Memory tangled with the present, pulling loose things he hadn’t thought about in years.

  The elders had told stories.

  They spoke of the shrine with reverence, voices low by firelight. They told of the Pale One — the arm that had always been there, reaching from the stone. They swore it watched over them. That if you listened closely enough, it whispered.

  Kirom had heard those stories as a child. Passed down in the lull of night birds and rustling leaves, in the spaces between the hum of insects and the crackle of burning wood.

  And above all. His mother had believed.

  She had brought him here once. He had been small, too small. He barely remembered the journey, only the press of her warm hand against his own, guiding him toward the shrine, her voice quiet, serene.

  “Do you feel it, my sweet child?”

  His fingers brushed against his chest, holding the hidden weight beneath his uniform. His mother’s pendent. It felt almost warm under his touch.

  The st words she had ever spoken to him echoed in his mind. “Find them.”

  “Find —“

  And then he heard it.

  A child’s scream. A scuffle. The scrape of rock against rock.

  His head snapped toward the sound.

  The old man’s daughter. A crack in the stone right above her. A split forming, widening, then breaking. Falling right down below.

  Kirom moved.

  “Rong!” He called out to her.

  He was too te.

  But someone else was not.

  A shadow lunged to the girl. A body — swift, controlled, deliberate — seized the child and yanked her back. The momentum carried them both to the ground as the stone above came crashing down, crushing the space where the girl had just been standing.

  Dust exploded outward, swallowing them in a thick, suffocating haze.

  Kirom stilled, readying himself for the confrontation.

  The dust settled in slow, drifting spirals.

  His eyes locked onto the figure now crouched protectively over the child, half-shielding her, half-bracing for what might come next.

  Not in white. So not an Accept.

  Too fast for a vilger. Too precise, moving with the kind of instinct that came only from intense training. Kirom knew immediately that they weren’t just some passerby. And yet, they had been here, unnoticed. They had slipped through the Department, past the Accepts, past Harun. Past him.

  A South infiltrator.

  His fingers twitched, trying to sense Power. But it was not enough to fight. Not yet.

  The stranger stayed still. The dust lingered around like mist, obscuring their face for just a moment longer before clearing.

  A woman.

  Dark-skinned, sharp-featured, her posture low, weight on her feet. Her eyes flickered to his, quick, assessing, but she didn’t speak. She didn’t reach for a weapon, either. The child was by her, hands gripping at the woman’s arm.

  Neither of them moved.

  “You’re a long way from home,” Kirom spoke. His voice came out rough.

  Then, to his surprise, the woman smiled. Not wide. Not amused. Just — casual.

  “And you’re exactly where you’re not supposed to be.” She paused. “Kirom.”

  Kirom straightened. “Who even are you?”

  The woman lifted an eyebrow. “Who do you think?”

  South.

  New South.

  His mind turned quickly, shifting through possibilities, names, the network of rebels and movements that the Department had been trying to track over the years.

  He had expected them to make a move.

  Had counted on it.

  But not here. Not now.

  He reached for Power again. Not ready yet.

  The woman studied him like she already knew his thoughts.

  “So,” she said, “how does it feel?”

  Kirom was silent.

  “To be the first?” she continued. “It wasn’t just Power, was it?”

  His stomach tightened. He forced his voice to remain even. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The woman huffed a quiet ugh. “Sure you don’t.”

  She took a slow step forward.

  Kirom didn’t react — but his weight shifted just slightly.

  A few steps away, the woman stopped. “You do look just like her, you know.”

  Kirom froze.

  His gaze sharpened. “Who?”

  The woman didn’t answer. She gnced down at the child, still in shock and clinging to her. Then, after a pause, she exhaled. “I didn’t come here to fight you.” Her voice was steady. Intentional. “I came to make you an offer.”

  Kirom almost ughed. Almost.

  Instead, he let the silence stretch.

  Then, finally, he said, “I’m not interested.”

  The woman smiled again. Wider this time. Amused. “You can stop with the act now. O, Execute,” she said. “Harun is not here to monitor you, you know?”

  “I don’t deal with nobodies,” Kirom spoke. “Much less entertain their offers.”

  The woman tilted her head slightly, studying him in the dim light. “Jundra,” she said finally. “Of the New South.”

  Kirom inhaled slowly through his nose.

  Of course.

  “Now. We came to make you an offer,” Jundra repeated.

  Kirom let out a dry breath. “An offer.” He echoed it ftly. “You’re either very stupid, or very desperate.”

  She smiled at that. “I could say the same to you.”

  Kirom shifted his weight slightly, taking in the exchange again.

  “You think you can aid me?” Kirom’s voice was ft.

  “I think we can aid each other.”

  “That’s a bold assumption.”

  “Is it?” Jundra folded her arms loosely. “Harun doesn’t trust you. You don’t trust him. I’m just suggesting that you consider your options.”

  Jundra’s voice was even, but there was a weight to her words. A certainty.

  Kirom knew exactly what she was trying to do. Pressing at the cracks, testing for weakness. Trying to pull something loose.

  But she wasn’t wrong.

  Not completely.

  And that was the dangerous part.

  “Ki… Kirom!” The child made a small sound.

  Her wide eyes were no longer fixed on either of them.

  She was staring past them.

  Kirom felt the shift in the air before he turned.

  Jundra turned too.

  And they both saw it.

  The pale body hung in the fractured stone, both arms stretched out and suspended where the cave had split apart. And behind it, darkness. The body had moved. Not much. Not fully. A shift in the shoulders. A tilt of the head. Its hollow face had turned. No eyes. But it was looking straight at them.

  Jundra dropped to her knees.

  Her movements were fluid, practiced. Her hands pressed together, her forehead lowered to the ground. And when she spoke, her voice was fluid and soft.

  A prayer.

  The words were foreign, lilting, a nguage Kirom recognized but did not fully understand. The dialect of the South.

  The nguage of his mother.

  But Kirom knew.

  It was not a god. Not a spirit. Not an ancient guardian watching over the mortal realm. Just a droid. A relic of an old world, forgotten by time. The Department had archived one in the main branch further west — fully intact, fully operational, deemed non-threatening. A talking database, nothing more.

  But the South had other beliefs. Hakee-Kora, they called it. The All-Parent. Revered, worshiped. A presence of vast knowledge and unshakable grace. The one in the South still spoke, still answered to the faithful. Kirom had read reports that the machine even adopted a personality, a will.

  But this one?

  Kirom inhaled. His pulse steadied. He reached for Power.

  And pulled.

  The pale body broke free.

  “What the —“ Jundra lurched to her feet. “The hell do you think you are doing?”

  The weight of the droid settled in front of Kirom with a dull, resonant thud.

  Jundra took a step forward. “You can’t just — do that.” She faltered, struggling to find the right words.

  Kirom studied her reaction. “I don’t see them compining,” he said, tilting his head toward the pale body.

  Jundra stiffened.

  Kirom knelt beside the body. He ran a hand over its surface. Smooth. Cold. Perfectly preserved. His fingers brushed where its features should have been. Nothing.

  No eyes. No mouth. No vocal system. No way to speak.

  Nothing at all.

  Kirom exhaled sharply. He stood up, turning away, pressing his fingers against his temples. Thinking.

  A small tug at his sleeve broke his thoughts.

  Rong.

  She was staring up at him.

  “Hey,” he said, softer.

  The girl hesitated. “What’s going to happen now?”

  Kirom crouched down so they were eye level. The girl is scared.

  “You’re going home.”

  Rong didn’t move. Her grip on his grey uniform tightened.

  “But you’re staying?”

  “Yes.”

  Silence.

  Kirom had seen that look before. Hope, knotted into fear.

  Rong swallowed. “But you promise to be safe?”

  Kirom stilled.

  The moment lingered.

  “I’ll try my best,” he said, finally.

  Rong hesitated. Then, slowly, she nodded.

  She turned. Stepped away.

  Paused — just once — before she disappeared into the tunnel.

  Jundra was watching him.

  Kirom straightened, gncing down at the pale body. “Your people hold these things sacred,” he said. “Worship them.”

  Jundra’s eyes narrowed. “So?”

  Kirom held her gaze. “If this one is to wake up, we’ll need the one that still walks.”

  Jundra blinked.

  “Hakee-Kora of the South,” Kirom pressed. “Surely they will bless us with their aid.”

  Jundra folded her arms, weight shifting. Considering.

  “And what do you get out of it?”

  Kirom didn’t hesitate. “Kripur.” He announced. “Hakee-Kora and this... Pale One will acknowledge its independence.”

  Jundra’s lips parted, caught off guard. Then, she ughed.

  “You know,” she murmured, “for someone wearing the Grey, you make a bold cim.”

  Kirom smirked. “And for someone representing a whole faction, you seem oddly alone.”

  Then, right on cue, a sharp buzz crackled through her radio.

  “Jundra,” came the voice. Va.

  Kirom’s smirk widened.

  Jundra rolled her eyes, lifting the radio to her lips. “Took your time.”

  Va’s voice crackled through.

  “Harun is coming.”