On the very outskirts of the country, after a week of struggles and troubles, Lyra finally reaches the harbor for subpar blimps.
The security is still tight, so Lyra takes precautions.
Under the pale strobe of surveillance lights, Lyra presses her back to the cold ferroconcrete wall, breath barely audible, limbs coiled tight. The air is dense with the electric hum of the AI-supervised zone—cameras blink like ever-watching eyes, drones skim the skyline like vultures.
She's already past the first checkpoint, but the final gate, crowned in neon red, looms ahead. Beyond that is the way to the war zones: the unmapped fringes, where law unravels and human morals are long gone.
She sprints.
Her boots barely touch the cracked steel flooring as she surges forward, hair whipping behind her like smoke. The scanners shriek—unauthorized breach—but she is already leaping over the rusted scaffold beside the loading rails, tucking into a roll. The drone above swings around with a hiss of hydraulics.
Too late.
Lyra is gone, swallowed by the shadows beneath Dock 73.
There it is.
The blimp—Skylurker. A battered, high-altitude cargo whale with enough belly to smuggle half a war and enough secrecy to not ask questions.
She scales its undercarriage while loaders barked and crates clanged. Grease smears her palms. She finds a hatch, forces it open with a flick of her tool blade, and slips inside.
Dark. Cramped.
The hum of engines comforts her like a heartbeat. Her body curls between armored crates marked BIOHAZARD and RESTRICTED ARMS.
The contrast of me entering this country and how I exit is so great, it's actually funny.If Theresa is here, she'll probably comment about me being dumb and using such crude ways when Madam Cherry could provide efficient and secure passage access instead…
Lyra muses with a grim smile as she makes herself comfortable.
I didn't think I'd miss the twins this soon. Hah…well, there's no use in missing them when I've already made my resolve…And, I made a promise to Timmy…I'll bring Uncle home no matter what…
Those are her last thoughts as she falls asleep unknowingly, as the engine hums, unwittingly lulling her to sleep.
___________________________________________________
Bloodcloak City rises from the fumes of an eternal war, towering scrap, black-market towers, and clouds of ash. The blimp docks with a shudder, the hatch whines open, and Lyra, cloak dust-streaked and eyes sharp with hunger, vanishes into the city of fire.
Blood Cloaked City, I'm back here once again. It felt like a lifetime ago the last time I was here.
Lyra thinks as she weave her way in the dark alleys, knowing the streets like the back of her hand.
She navigates the inner sanctums like a phantom, past shattered tenements converted into black-market bazaars, where children sell thermal detonators and water filters with urgency. No one notices her, for to them she's just another hungry ghost.
She reaches the train station she swiftly rides the train going to the west district, where the ports are.
["Listen to me," Uncle says, trying to keep his voice steady. "This isn't forever."
My fists clench at my sides. "Then why does it feel like it is?"]
The memory pops into her mind vividly.
The last time she has seen her Uncle, in a train station, which looks the same one she has just left…
She bites her lip.
I can't afford to be distracted. Not now.
Her destination: Port Icarus, where the wind smells of ozone and rust, and massive barges await their illicit goods bound for the Killmore Continent. The sea here isn't blue—it is a swirling metallic black, choked with the runoff of decades of smuggled war.
Lyra passes under blinking signs: NO GODS, NO BORDERS, ONLY BULLETS AND DEATH.
She closes her eyes briefly.
Footsteps. Quick. Armed.
Lyra ducks into a container lift as a patrol passes—mercenaries with plasma rifles set to kill. She holds her breath as one stops, sniffing the air like a dog. Her hand hovers over her blade.
A siren blares. The patrol turns and runs. Lyra slips out, eyes on the barge just about to launch.
Unmarked. Northbound: Killmore.
She breaks into a run. A flash of gunmetal. A warning shot hisses past her shoulder.
"STOWAWAY!" someone shouts.
But Lyra doesn't stop. She sprints across the ramp and dives onto the barge deck as it unmoors.
Shots fired.
A drone zips overhead, but the port's jammers kicked in too late. The barge rises, steam hissing around her as the massive cargo vessel drifts over the churning metallic sea.
Lyra, bleeding from a graze on her arm, breathes out and presses her lips into a thin line.
"Hang on, Uncle," she whispers. "I'm coming for you."
And the Killmore continent looms far ahead, veiled in clouds and blood-soaked secrets.
___________________________________________________
The wind screams off the sea like a wounded beast, rattling loose sheet metal and whipping Lyra's coat around her ankles as she crouches low behind a half-toppled fuel drum. The Killmore-bound freighter's refuel port looms ahead—gray, rust-scarred, and bristling with weapon mounts.
It will only stay docked for fifteen more minutes. She can see the armed escorts already forming at the ramp's base, scanning anyone approaching.
A killzone dressed like a checkpoint.
Footsteps echo. Not the hurried kind of a soldier. Calm. Deliberate.
Lyra's hand slides toward the hilt of her hidden blade, but the moment she turns, she freezes, eyes widening with stunned recognition.
Aurora.
Tall, composed, with short-cut sable hair that curls slightly at the ends and eyes like polished obsidian—sharp, watchful, unreadable. She wears the garb of a traveling merchant, but Lyra can see the outline of her blade tucked against her spine, the glint of reinforced armor under her cloak.
"Reckless again, Lyra," Aurora states in that soft, almost bored tone of hers, stepping closer without hurry. "Did you really think you could sneak aboard a war-freighter under full lockdown with half the port's syndicates watching for you?"
Lyra swallows. "It's urgent."
Aurora tilts her head. "Urgent enough to cause another trouble like when you ditched us and made us clean up your mess at the Prince of Combat's birthday event?" Her voice is even, but the rebuke cuts sharper than any blade. "Melika's name was dragged through the coals because of you. She won't support this endeavor. You know that."
"I know." Lyra looks away, jaw tight, wind stinging her eyes. "I never expected her to."
Aurorra is silent for a beat, then sighs quietly—more tired than disappointed. From beneath her cloak, she pulls a thin package and tosses it to Lyra.
Inside: preserved rations, a folded set of low-tier border passes, and a small pouch that jingles softly with creds. Enough to get her through one continent, barely.
"Eat," Aurora commands. "You look half-starved. And don't thank me."
Lyra holds the package loosely, staring at it like it might vanish. "Why are you here?"
"I have my own mission. It's top secret." She kneels beside Lyra, pulling the edge of her hood down to better hide her face. "And unlike you, I don't plan to leave a trail of broken checkpoints and dead smugglers behind me."
A wry smile tugs at Lyra's lips. "Guess I was never the subtle one."
Aurora snorts faintly. "You were a firestorm, child. Always leaving behind trails of ashes and fire. But storms don't ask for permission, do they?"
They are quiet for a moment, the hum of freighter engines building in the distance.
"You're really going through with this?" Aurora finally asks.
Lyra's gaze hardens. "I have, too. I promised a friend I'll see this thing through till the very end. I won't back out no matter how hard it may be. I've been through great pain, so I'm confident I'll be able to take in more if I have to..."
Aurora looks at her for a long second, something unreadable in her eyes.
"Then go," she states at last. "But don't expect more from me. I won't be there if you fall."
"I wouldn't ask you to be."
With that, Aurora stands. She turns, blending once more into the shifting foot traffic of the cargo docks, and vanishes with the same ghostlike grace she always has.
Lyra stands slowly. Her arm aches. Her stomach growls. But her grip on the pouch was firm, and her gaze never wavered from the freighter ahead.
"Killmore," she whispered. "One step closer."
And with a final breath, she slips into the shadows of the cargo stacks, ready to make her move.
The warship hisses as its engines roar to life.
___________________________________________________
The freighter hisses once again as it descends, metal shrieking in protest as it locks into the grimy docking rig. The landing ramp groans open, revealing the blasted dustlands of Killmore—ashen skies, fractured highways, and towers that leaned like drunks in the mist. Smogtown's outskirts stank of rust, oil, and too many half-buried corpses.
Lyra slips into the bustle like a ghost, moving quickly through the inspection zone using the low-tier pass Aurora has given her. No one looks twice. In Killmore, everyone has something to hide.
She ducks into a quiet alley behind a row of junked mechs, pulls out a small capsule from her belt, and flicked it open. A dim blue holomap flickered to life. Timmy's decrypted data chip is already slotted into the reader.
"C'mon, come on…" she muttered, fingers tapping across the faded interface.
Coordinates pinged. North East: WAR ZONE 87 (DEATH TRAP)
How did my Uncle's corpse travel so far? Why go that far to retrieve my Uncle's corpse?
"Still chasing ghosts, are we?"
The voice comes like a slow drag of gravel over steel.
Lyra's blade is halfway out of her belt before she even turns—but then freezes, blinking.
"Dilan?"
The man standing in front of her grins widely, arms crossed over a barrel chest. Weathered, stubbled face, grey-streaked dark hair pulled into a low tail, and a shotgun slung over his back like a favorite pet. He wears the same old merc armor, patched and burned, but functional.
"Well, I'll be damned. Lyra." He laughs and steps forward. "Still got that twitchy hand, I see."
She doesn't lower her blade just yet. "You're a long way from Blood Cloaked City, Dilan."
"And so are you." He glances around, then leans in. "C'mon. Let's catch up. There's a tavern two blocks from here that hasn't burned down yet. Food's edible, booze is disgusting—but I'm buying."
Lyra narrows her eyes. "Why?"
"Why not?" Dilan shrugs, backing up with a half-smirk. "We survived a three-day standoff together in the Serovian swamps, remember? Ate rat jerky and watched our boots dissolve in acid rain. Least I can do is buy you something better than swamp rat."
She hesitates. Every instinct tells her to stay moving, stay hidden. But her stomach snarls like a caged beast, and her limbs ache from sleepless nights and rusted air vents.
"…Fine." She slides the blade back into its sheath, still watching him like a hawk. "But you're paying."
"Damn right I am," he declares, chuckling. "This time, I don't owe you for dragging my bleeding ass across a minefield."
He leads her through the crowded street—past crates of black market vaccines, half-mechanical dogs fighting in the alleys, and war vets selling polished skulls as trophies. They slip into the shadow of a squat, leaning tavern with a crooked neon sign that reads MELO'S BITE.
Inside, the air is thick with spice, smoke, and broken dreams. The floor creaks with every step, and the tables look like they'd seen more stabbings than meals.
They find a booth in the back.
Dilan orders. "Two trench plates. Extra synth meat. And the cheapest ale that won't blind us."
When the waiter leaves, Dilan leans back and fixes Lyra with a lopsided grin.
"So," he starts, eyes glittering with curiosity, "what brings the infamous storm brat to Killmore's dirtiest doorstep?"
Lyra taps the data chip in her pocket.
"Family," she replies.
And Dilan doesn't push. Not yet.
He just nods. "Then let's eat. You're gonna need your strength."
And as the warped music warbles through the speakers and synthetic meat hisses on the grill, Lyra wonders what fate has thrown Dilan back into her path—and if he's the next friend, or the next threat.
The plates land on the table with a greasy clatter, steam rising off synth meat and rehydrated root mash. The ale looks more like motor oil than anything drinkable, but it is warm and strong enough to clean wounds or forget them.
Lyra tears into her meal like someone who hasn't eaten in days—because she hasn't. Dilan, grinning, only taking a bite before leaning back with a long sigh, eyes watching her with amused fondness.
"You still eat like a feral alley cat," he declares.
She doesn't bother answering. Just stabs another chunk of meat and shoves it into her mouth.
I had worse, but it doesn't make this meal any better…it's like eating mud coated in cardboard…
After a while, he swirls his mug and chuckles. "You remember Serovia?"
Lyra pauses mid-bite. Her eyes flick to him. "…Yeah."
"Damn mudslide nearly drowned us in acid," he recalls, shaking his head. "I still have scars on my back from that damn vine leech. And those ironflies? They took one guy's tongue clean off. Sliced it like sashimi."
"You screamed like a widow," Lyra states flatly, not even smiling.
Dilan laughs loudly, slapping the table. "I did! I'm not ashamed of it! I saw my life flash before my eyes—and it was mostly bad decisions and women who wanted me dead."
He leans in a little, tone dropping to something quieter.
"But you… you were sixteen. Barely taller than my rifle. And you dragged five grown-ass men, mercenaries, mind you, through that death trap. You carried a bleeding comms officer over your shoulder for two klicks. Navigated us through thermal traps, feral terrain, and still planted the relay on time."
Lyra doesn't look up from her plate.
"I heard what came after too," he continues. "Kellen's team at the Shattervault? You saved two dozen when the vault collapsed. That whole convoy ambush in Riven's Gorge? They said you turned the tide single-handedly. You've been running headfirst into suicide missions and coming out alive. Top Brass doesn't even send anyone else half the time now—just you."
"Those missions weren't about saving anyone," Lyra comments quietly. "I did what I was told."
"Bullshit." Dilan replies without venom. Just truth. "You did what had to be done. There's a difference."
She finally looks up, her face unreadable. The hollows beneath her eyes tells enough of their own story.
"I need to cross the void desert," she announces, getting to the point. "To reach WAR ZONE 87. Off-grid, locked tight. The terrain's poisoned, the weather's unstable, and I'll be walking through zones where satellites can't track heat signatures. I need supplies. Rations, sealsuits, anything that can hold off atmospheric burn. I'm going solo."
Dilan is quiet for a beat. Then, without a word, he reaches under the table and slides a chipped tactical pouch across to her.
She unzips it just slightly. Inside: filtered ration packs, a temp-adaptive cloak, terrain boots, detox injectors, solar flares, map keys—gear meant for a team of three or more.
"…Dilan."
He shrugs. "Don't ask me why I'm carrying around half a field kit in a tavern. Let's just say my next job was going to be nasty—and I don't think I'm gonna make it that far, if I'm being honest."
She stares at him. "Then you don't have to give me this."
"I know." He leans back, sipping his drink like it isn't liquefied regret. "But maybe I wanted to make sure the firestorm that saved me wouldn't burn out too fast. You've been carrying everyone else for too long, kid."
Lyra zips the pouch up slowly. "I'm not a kid."
"No," Dilan answers, smiling faintly. "You're a stormfire in boots."
Their eyes meet.
For a moment, nothing is said—just the quiet understanding of two people who've bled in the same dirt, screamed in the same fire, and walked away when no one else did.
Outside, the poisoned wind howls. But inside Melo's Bite, Lyra sits straighter, more at ease, and resolved.
With these things, I'm one step closer to reclaiming what was taken.
The tavern door groans open as Lyra steps out into the grime-laced dusk, shoulders hunched against the wind that carries the scent of melted plastic and scorched metal. The pouch Dilan has given her is slung tight across her back, and beneath her coat, her gear hugged close—silent, deadly, ready.
She stops by the door, the dying sun turning her eyes to amber fire. Then, wordlessly, she pulls a small black vial from her belt—a tiny glass ampoule no longer than a finger, with a crimson shimmer swirling inside.
"Narcotics?" Dilan asks, eyeing it with a raised brow as she hands it to him.
"Sure," Lyra replies, giving him a faint smirk. "Something to dull the pain, old man."
And with that, she turns and vanishes into the crowd, silent as breath, swept away by the chaos of Smogtown's endless tide of machines, mercs, and misery.
Dilan watches her go, arms folded, jaw tense. Then he looks at the vial again. It is light—too light. He uncaps it, sniffs once, and his eyes widen.
"…This isn't junk," he mutters.
He pulls a scanner from his coat, waving it over the vial. The screen lit up. Readings flared.
[REGEN-X PRIME — CLASSIFIED BIOWEAVE SERUM]
AI CITY CODE: "ARCH-KIND"
POTENCY LEVEL: RESTRICTED / MILITARY-GRADE
EST. VALUE: 1.4M CREDITS
Dilan stares at the readout. Then lets out a low whistle.
"That little brat," he mutters, then barks a short, surprised laugh. "You gave me the damn crown jewel of the AI med vaults and passed it off like street dust."
He pockets the vial carefully and looks once more into the crowd, but Lyra is long gone.
"…You really haven't changed."
Lyra moves fast. Faster than most would dare across the poisoned landscape that stretches like a dead god's ribcage across Killmore's northern ridge.
Her boots are coated in reactive gel, resisting the caustic silt. Her breath rasps through a filtered mask, and the adaptive cloak shielded her from toxic winds. She hasn't stopped moving since Smogtown. Not even once. Not to sleep. Not to eat.
Time is a blade against her back.
She scales a broken viaduct at dusk, slides under shattered fences wrapped in ancient wire, and crosses frozen lakes that cracked with the weight of her silent sprint.
The void desert and War Zone 87 are still a dot too far on the map. But she is gaining ground.
Miles away, slicing through the gray clouds like a shadow of vengeance, a sleek black airship burns toward the same coordinates.
Inside, Claire leans against the window, a sleek rifle slung across her back. "She's moving faster than we expected."
Theresa, checking her handheld data terminal, nodded grimly. "But she's draining herself. No rest cycles logged. Minimal calorie intake. She's gonna burn out before she even hits the border gate."
"Stubborn Fool," Claire mutters, standing.
The twins have traded luxury for efficiency—top-tier infiltration gear, radiation dampeners, storm-grade armor. Their mission isn't to stop Lyra.
It is to assist and get to her ASAP. Before the world or the dead gods swallow her whole.
Theresa glances up. "What if she doesn't want help?"
Claire's eyes narrow. "Then we drag her back anyway."
They lock hands for a breath, an old habit, and brace as the airship dives lower.
Below them, WAR ZONE 87 wasteland waited.
And so did the body of the man Lyra has once called Uncle.