Periun, Kettlia
Ashtarium Nation
North American continent
September 25th 2019
Jack stood beneath the dim glow of a streetlight, his hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie as he leaned against the cold metal pole. The evening air was crisp, scented faintly with the city's blend of exhaust, concrete, and damp leaves. Across the quiet street stood Joe's home—a sleek, modern townhome nestled among a row of neatly aligned condominiums, their symmetry a sterile kind of beauty that felt out of place with what Jack was feeling.
He hadn't seen Joe since that day. Since he dropped him from the sky.
At first, he told himself it didn't matter. That Joe deserved it. That the world was better off with him out of the way.
But guilt, subtle and persistent, had begun to curl around the edges of his thoughts. He hadn't come to apologize—he wasn't even sure he could—but part of him needed to know. To see.
Jack exhaled and activated his Zone.
The world folded in silence. Space bent like fabric as his awareness expanded, subtle and seamless, flowing into Joe's home with barely a ripple. In the next breath, Jack stood in Joe's bedroom—unseen, intangible, a ghost in the room.
The space was bigger than his own. Framed posters of bikini-clad women covered the walls, alongside a few cracked motivational quotes half-obscured by curling tape. Dumbbells were stacked neatly in the corner, some still coated in old chalk and sweat. The place reeked of performative strength.
On the bed lay Joe.
Bandaged. Bruised. Still.
Jack's gaze narrowed. Through the seamless hum of his spatial awareness, he delved beneath the surface—past skin, muscle, and bone. His senses brushed over fractured ribs, a tightly bound leg, deep bruises blooming across the abdomen like rotting fruit, and hairline fractures spiderwebbing along the forearm. The more he saw, the tighter something coiled in his chest.
At first, he assumed it was his doing.
But the more he studied the damage, the more that assumption fractured.
He had held back during their confrontation—restrained his strength with surgical care. If he hadn't, Joe wouldn't be bandaged in a bed—he'd be in the morgue. These injuries were brutal. Deliberate. Cruel.
They hadn't come from Jack.
So who had done this?
A rustle broke the silence. Joe stirred, wincing as his half-lidded eyes flickered open—and landed on Jack.
For a moment, neither moved. Jack stood at the foot of the bed, silent and still, unsure what expression Joe might wear upon seeing him. Fear? Hatred? Confusion?
But before either could speak, something shifted inside Jack.
His mind reached—not by intent, but instinct. A spark of mental energy rippled through the air, brushing against Joe's weakened consciousness. His body tensed. Information surged in.
And then—
Visions.
Blurry, fragmented memories poured into Jack's awareness. He saw fists, blood. Joe and his crew—on their knees, gasping. A warehouse lit in grimy yellow light. A man at the center, thick-necked and broad, buzzcut glinting beneath flickering bulbs. A biker jacket with a snake insignia. Scantily dressed women loitered nearby, laughing like ghosts. The man raised a hand.
The beating began.
Joe screamed.
Jack felt every blow as if it echoed through his ribs. The vision warped, distorting at the edges, then snapped, leaving Jack staggering inside the Zone, breath shallow, bile rising in his throat.
He swallowed hard, reeling from the psychic feedback.
What the hell did he just see?
And why did it feel so personal?
"Ascendant Ryan utilized his Internal Sense to access the subject's memory."The Codex's voice was a whisper in the back of Jack's mind, like ink bleeding through the edges of thought.
"His memories," Jack echoed, voice quiet, distant.
"The skill was triggered subconsciously. A reflex born of instinct."
Jack stared at Joe a moment longer, watching the shallow rise and fall of his bandaged chest. Something tightened in his gut—a tension he couldn't name. He turned away.
"I've seen enough."
He didn't want to linger. Not in that room. Not with the weight of those memories clawing behind his eyes. The moment his Zone flickered, Jack vanished, reappearing outside beneath the night sky. Cool air greeted him like a slap, but it did little to clear the swirl in his mind.
Why did I even look?
He hadn't planned on invading Joe's thoughts. Hadn't wanted to know what happened to him. But something had compelled him—some buried reflex he hadn't recognized as his own.
Do I care?Do I actually care what happened to him?
Jack exhaled sharply, the air hitching in his throat. "No," he muttered. "It doesn't matter."He dismissed the Zone. His body leapt—clean, silent, fluid—through the city shadows, disappearing from the quiet neighborhood.
****
He didn't remember deciding to come here. But here he was—standing outside a grimy biker bar, its neon sign flickering like a half-dead heartbeat. The stench of smoke, oil, and sweat oozed from the doorway. The building matched what he'd seen in Joe's stolen memory, right down to the cracked bricks and broken street lamp.
Jack stared at it, frowning. Why did I come here? He planned to go home. To sleep. To forget. But his fists were already clenched, knuckles creaking with pressure. A desire was rising in him—hot, alien, electric. It coiled through his chest like a spark waiting for flame. A fight. He wanted a fight. Not just to defend. Not just to survive. To engage. To test himself. To dominate.
"Ascendant Ryan's desire for combat is a fundamental trait of cultivator nature," the Codex whispered. "Battle stimuli strengthens instinct. Instinct enhances mastery. Cultivation thrives on confrontation."
"So… fighting helps me grow," Jack murmured. "Helps me cultivate my ability."
He stood in silence, a cold gust brushing past him.
"What does it mean to cultivate?" he asked aloud. "To be an Ascendant? You gave me this power, but I never asked what it was. Or what you are." No answer. Just the hum of neon, the faint laughter from inside, the pulse of tension in his blood. Jack shook his head.
"Whatever. I don't care about philosophy. If this power lets me protect my family... that's all I need."
He took a step forward, and his Zone Drive activated. The air shimmered like warped glass as his dominion extended across the entire building. The environment whispered its secrets into his mind. Heartbeats. Voices. Steps on old wood. His spatial awareness painted a complete map—and now, for the first time, he consciously layered his mental energy into the scan. Internal Sense. The Codex's earlier phrase echoed.
He felt minds. Fragmented thoughts. Emotions like fingerprints. And upstairs—rage, boredom, hunger, cruelty. The gang.
"Top floor," he muttered. "Perfect."
With a ripple, Jack vanished.
The upstairs room reeked of alcohol and smoke. Three men lounged around a battered pool table, cigarettes glowing like fireflies in the dim haze. Laughter died in their throats as a flicker of shadow resolved into a figure.
Jack stepped forward from the corner, eyes gleaming.
"Hey, kid," one of them said, blinking. "What the hell are you doing in here? This ain't a playground—"
"You're the Bedlam gang, right?" Jack interrupted. "I heard you were looking for Jack Ryan."
He smiled, slow and dangerous.
"Well... that's me."
The man hesitated. "Huh?"
But before the thought could complete, Jack's fist collided with his face. Bone crunched. The man launched backward into the pool table, collapsing it beneath his weight with a splintering crack.
Jack exhaled slowly. The rush hit him like fire in his blood.
"My physical form is being reinforced inside the Zone," he murmured, flexing his fingers. "So I can direct it inward… not just around me."
He squeezed his fist—faster, stronger, lighter than he'd ever felt. The Zone wasn't just a battlefield. It was becoming a weaponized extension of himself.
The remaining gang members stared in shocked silence. Then one of them lunged, swinging a pool stick with a guttural shout. Jack snatched it mid-air, twisted, and shattered the upper half with a snap. He reversed the broken shaft in a fluid motion and struck the man across the face. He flew into the wall, unconscious, before he hit the ground.
Jack turned toward the last one, his smile fading into cold determination. The third man—shaking, blood trickling from his split lip—reached into his jacket with a snarl. Jack didn't need to guess. His Internal Sense flared.
Metal. Tension. Intent.
Gun.
Jack's eyes locked onto the twitch of a finger pulling the trigger, before the sound erupted.
Bang!
But Jack was already moving. To the outside world, he blurred, slipping just a step to the left, the bullet screaming past his cheek, barely grazing the air where he'd been. His Zone had flared in reaction, feeding him the bullet's arc in real-time. Not prediction—perception. Spatial trajectories were rendered like threads across the air, visible only to him.
"You brought a gun to a spatial war?" Jack muttered.
The gang member's eyes widened just as Jack vanished and reappeared beside him. He grabbed the man's wrist, twisted the pistol free, and shattered his elbow with a calculated blow. The scream was immediate—and short-lived—as Jack sent him sprawling with a kick to the sternum.
But there was no time to revel in it.
His Zone flared again.
"Movement—stairs—six, no, seven more heat signatures surging upward." The codex whispered.
Shouts echoed from below. "Upstairs! Now!" The sound of boots stomping hardwood thundered like an oncoming storm.
Jack stepped back, breathing steadily as he surveyed the broken bodies around him, the blood, the sharp stench of gunpowder still lingering in the air. The room darkened for a moment—not from shadow, but from pressure. He could feel it rising inside him again.
That desire. To see what he could do. To push further. To fight.
The Codex whispered:
"Ascendant Ryan's reaction time within the Zone has entered the early combat resonance state. Neural pathways are now syncing with Zone trajectory analysis."
Jack's smile returned—sharp. Measured.
"So I'm seeing faster than I think."
He exhaled.
The atmosphere thickened as Jack condensed the Zone's perimeter, from the hundred radius that it was to making it extend around only the bar like a pressure dome. Time felt slower, but he knew it wasn't—it was he who was faster. Clearer. Sharper. Every sound, every breath, every vibration from the stairs echoed in his mind like sonar. The door burst open—more men poured in, armed with chains, bats, guns and one with a shotgun. Three more followed behind, shouting. Jack's eyes gleamed.
Let's dance.
Jack moved like a phantom threaded through reality. His senses drank in every motion, every heartbeat, every shifting weight of muscle and metal. Calculations fired through his mind instinctively—angles, distances, force vectors—all rendered in the luminous web of his Zone Drive. There was no hesitation. There was only clarity.
He surged forward, snatching a chain from one of the new arrivals before the man even registered the loss. With a brutal snap of his elbow, Jack shattered the man's jaw, sending him crashing backward into the wall. In the same motion, Jack spun the chain overhead like a whip and lashed it forward. The chain coiled around a wooden bat mid-swing, tearing it from another thug's grasp. Jack reversed the momentum, dragging the bat into his hand in a single seamless arc—and then unleashed it. The blow landed with a sickening crack, dropping two men like rag dolls.
Gunfire erupted. Jack's pupils constricted as the bullets sliced toward him. But to him, they moved like raindrops falling through syrup. Each trajectory lit up within his vision, projected by the fusion of Zone awareness and Internal Sense.
He pivoted, somersaulting backward, the bullets slamming into the ground where his feet had just been. Sparks and splinters flew. In mid-roll, Jack snapped the chain outward again. It lashed across the face of one gang member, then whipped another across the temple with a harsh snap—both collapsing before they could scream.
Still not done, Jack burst forward again—a blur within the compressed Zone—and delivered a flying kick to the chest of the last man with a handgun. The thug crashed into a stack of crates, slumping unconscious. But even as Jack landed, a sharp, metallic click rang out behind him. His head snapped toward the sound.
Shotgun. The last gang member stood at the threshold, wide-eyed, barrel raised.
Boom.
Jack reacted—but too late. One of the fallen men, still conscious, reached up and grabbed his ankle, anchoring him down. The shot ripped through the air, slamming into Jack's back. Pain exploded through his spine like fire laced with thunder. He grunted, forced to the floor, his limbs stunned by the blast.
His breath hitched. His muscles trembled. The heat of the wound seared into his nerves, but his mind remained clear—buzzing with adrenaline and the cold surge of fury. The shotgun wielder racked another shell, eager to finish him off. Jack looked down at the man still gripping his leg. Wordlessly, he twisted his body and slammed his heel into the man's face with enough force to send teeth flying. He surged to his feet—body screaming, but spirit burning.
As the next shot was about to fire, Jack lunged forward, grabbed the barrel with both hands, and bent it upward with a screech of tortured metal. The shotgun discharged—harmlessly toward the ceiling, plaster raining down. Jack wrenched the weapon from the man's grasp, twisted under his arm, and drove his fist squarely into his face with a resounding crunch.
The man crumpled. Jack stood over him, breath ragged, back scorched with pain—but eyes still sharp, still glowing. The Zone held steady around him. And Jack... was still standing.
"Stupid man," Jack muttered, his voice low and sharp as a blade drawn through grit. He flung the twisted remains of the shotgun aside, the warped metal clattering across the floor like a discarded accusation.
The bar below had descended into chaos at the first crack of gunfire. Most of the patrons had already fled—chairs overturned, glasses shattered, footsteps echoing in a panicked stampede. Now, only the silence of aftermath remained.
In the distance, the rising wail of police sirens crept closer, a shrill note weaving into the night air. Blue and red lights flashed against the windows like judgment at the door.
Jack exhaled.
He retracted the compressed Zone, letting it fall back into its standard hundred-meter radius. The spatial threads untwined gently from the building as if he'd exhaled control itself. Then, with one silent motion, Jack jumped—vanishing from the second floor without a sound, his form swallowed by the folds of space. He was gone long before the first officer stepped through the door.
****
Nico moved through the scene like a ghost wrapped in a shroud of twilight. The cops never noticed him. He drifted between them, hands in his coat pockets, face shadowed by the faint shimmer of a cloaking enchantment. His crimson eyes glinted faintly beneath the illusion, trailing over the chaos Jack had left behind.
Gang members—bloodied, groaning, confused—were being hoisted onto stretchers and rushed to ambulances. Medics shouted codes. Officers questioned witnesses. But none would ever speak the truth. Because Nico had already taken it from them.
He had arrived just as Jack's Zone collapsed, watching silently from the rooftop across the street. He had seen the brutality. The precision. The ease with which Jack had dismantled men far older, far more seasoned. And then Nico did what he was trained to do. As a member of the Warden Association, he worked in shadows to preserve the veil. Any trace of mysticism, any crack that might expose the existence of the Manaborn world—he sealed it. Quietly. Permanently.
With a sweep of his mental energy, Nico had reached into the bruised minds of every gang member. He didn't erase everything—only enough. Just enough to redirect the narrative.
Now, they believed it had been a rival gang. A sudden, violent retaliation from an unnamed enemy. They wouldn't speak Jack's name. They wouldn't remember the impossible speed. Or the fractured space. Or the eyes that glowed like a god made flesh. Satisfied, Nico stepped out of the bar's side alley. No one turned. No one felt him pass. Even the lights flickered as if they too were pretending he hadn't been there.
He paused beneath the awning, the air thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and cordite. He unfurled his wings—sleek, obsidian-black feathers edged in soft shadow—ready to rise into the night and disappear.
Then he felt it. Cold. Subtle. Watching. His breath caught, ever so slightly. Not fear—recognition. They were close. Moving in the folds between perception and reality. Shadow-bound. Careful. But not careful enough. Nico's wings slowly folded back in. He removed his hands from his pockets, fingers flexing, ready.
"You can show yourselves," Nico said calmly. The air thickened around him as he extended his will—and the shadows obeyed. With a subtle gesture, the darkness that had cloaked his observers peeled away like a silk veil torn by force. The magic laced into his voice gripped the surrounding umbra, severing it from its wielders. The stolen shadows recoiled, fleeing to Nico's side, curling around his boots like mist returning to its master.
The vampires emerged with reluctant snarls, their cover stripped. Their eyes glowed crimson, veins bulging beneath pale skin as their fangs bared in reflexive fury. Their faces contorted, more beast than man, rage ignited by the sudden loss of their elemental advantage—shadow, the gift and domain of their kind, now turned against them.
But Nico didn't flinch. His expression remained unreadable, his stance composed. He'd seen their type before—New Bloods, the lesser kin, and definitely unawakened. They were strong, yes. Ferocious in numbers. But to a Master-realm cultivator like Nico D'Angelo, they posed as much threat as a matchstick to a storm.
"You should be careful who you bare your fangs at," he said, voice low and sharp. He released only a flicker of his aura. That was all it took. The spiritual pressure hit them like an avalanche—silent, sudden, inescapable. The vampires froze, instincts overridden by terror, bodies locked in place as their primal minds registered apex. One tried to speak and only managed a strangled gasp.
Then—
"Forgive them, Master D'Angelo." A woman stepped forward from among the paralyzed group, her voice measured, composed.
She was of average height, her brown skin offset by the sleek black suit she wore. Her hair, dark and tied into a disciplined bun, framed a face neither cruel nor kind—only focused. Her features bore the faint signs of her impurity: a non-pure vampire, yet something else lingered beneath the surface. Nico felt it immediately. She was Awakened. A rare thing especially among the New bloods.
"You know how it is," she continued. "Rules of the street. Outsiders show respect. It's protocol. And you know whose territory this is."
Nico's gaze didn't waver.
"Tell Silas," he said, each word as heavy as a sentence, "that I'll show myself when I'm ready. Not a second before."
Without waiting for a reply, he unfurled his wings—black and silent, feathers laced with subtle glimmers of lightless power. With a beat of wind and shadow, he rose into the air and disappeared into the night sky, leaving behind only the echo of his presence—and the weight of his warning.