Aren hurried down the streets. With the Orkin wandering around, he tried to remain as careful as possible, while moving as fast as he could. When he logged out, nearly a day ago, he was near the tavern that the Builders put up. Now, the tavern was empty, and rightfully so — it was too disconnected from the heart of Rakab reborn, which was the old Town Hall.

He was moving fast because, in his mind, Aren did not have time for this. Jennifer would likely wake up soon and have questions — questions Aren wasn’t prepared to answer. The thought of this dissipating resource — time — forced him to face an uncomfortable future.

He really should’ve asked Thomas or Isobell about Jennifer and how they got her in the safe house. Did she see the body? Did she know that she was minutes away from being killed? Did she know that someone planned and carried out an assassination on her parents — involving countless people in the process?

A part of Aren hoped that she was not aware of any of these things. But even so, even in the best-case scenario, she would want to know why she was kidnapped from her high-security home, and brought here, by Aren’s “guardians”.

Aren did not have an answer to any of the questions she might ask. This terrified him. Within the answer to that question was also the enlightenment that deduced Aren’s fate in the real world; their normal lives would be obliterated — they could never again be normal people with normal lives. For Aren, this was a double-edged sword for he already knew that his normal life was over, but he never imagined that it would involve the others.

And if — only if — they were after him, then there was no reason to assume that eventually, they would come after the others as well.

Who? Who is responsible? Old-world weapons? Aren believed Thomas’s story. After everything he had learned about the Consolidation War and the Gestalt Mandate, it did not surprise him that there were entities out there that could rival and compete with AGMI. However, he did not believe that such a weapon would engineer his downfall. It was the AGMI that he knew — those of Sectors — that did this. They would be capable of making it look as if it was some relic of the old world that wanted his death; in fact, it was the smart thing to do.

Was it Epsilon? Or Delta? Those two were the most vocal about wanting Aren’s death. However, many of the AGMI were not present in that vision or dream or whatever that was. And if something truly wanted his death, why declare their intentions there?

On one hand, Aren was fairly pleased — and surprised even — that he could work the mystery to such a deep level, but on the other hand, he knew that no matter how deep he went, he would never uncover the plot of nearly omniscient entities. It was pointless, but to Aren it held a special meaning and purpose — it stopped him from panicking and gave him the illusion that he had things under control. But deep in his heart, he knew that control was not something he had, in the least. But Aren wasn’t alone.

He had Camille and Leviathan. They wouldn’t let him fail.

The twilight sky began to darken and of the many colors that painted it only a few remained, now darkened and fading. It was going to be another full moon night, and the realization of such reminded Aren of the many times he sat with Jennifer — or rather, Yen, her character — outside the tavern on that little bench, and had their moon-viewing parties. Now, the sweetness of those memories turned sour, like spoiled fruit.

Aren could see the thin string — like a death line — that connected Jennifer’s past to this tragic future. It was because of him.

Lost in thought, despite being aware of the danger, Aren failed to notice quite a few minute signs of imminent danger that he would usually easily pick up on. Recently, the Builders — and Exalt before them — had begun reinstalling the street lights on the main promenades, but here, the lights were off. The cleared streets were once again filled with wreckage, blocking direct routes and lines of sight. The street was long, it extended for a hundred meters and all side passages were blocked.

By the time Aren realized that he walked into a kill corridor — designed especially for Nissa’s artillery — it was too late.

It was entirely by accident that Aren caught the glimmer of moonlight on metal out of the corner of his eye — a flash of steel — as a darkened figure rushed out of the black shadows.

The sound of the approaching weapon was a howling screech — like a freight train passing by him — and the weapon itself was shrouded in an inky blotchiness the likes of which Aren had seen once before.

Instinctively, Aren ducked under the sword’s slash and his body retaliated with the hastened emergency of an animal caught in a trap as he struck out at his human opponent with a [Shattering Palm].

Even over-extended from that horizontal slash, his opponent parried the blow by moving his elbow and striking Aren’s wrist, sending the palm-strike wide.

It was Ame.

Aren had no time to think or consider why he was being attacked by allies. There was no hesitation in Ame’s attack and no holding back. Ame aimed to kill.

Ame leaned back, wrestling control over his inertially-wayward body, and pulled his momentum closer to his center of gravity. Aren could see it before it even happened — a second slash was coming from the other side, and this one was going to be aimed at Aren’s legs.

And then it came; Ame placed his hand flat against his ink-shrouded sword and then unleashed a backhand side-slash that carved horizontally at first, but then sharply dipped downwards.

Aren stepped over the slash by slamming his knee into Ame’s midsection with enough force to push the gifted swordsman back and cause him to utter what sounded like a curse in his native language.

Every synapse in his brain screamed at Aren to run. He never truly crossed swords with Ame before, but he now knew that Ame truly earned his reputation.

That entire time, Ame had been blocking vision behind him, and when he was forced back, Aren could see the charging Fang and his extended naginata, aimed at Aren’s throat.

Aren nearly lost a finger as he diverted the bladed polearm by striking its head with the flat of his palm and twisting the rest of his body out of the way. But even that was within their combined battle strategy.

Now unbalanced, Aren had no way to escape Ame’s follow-up attack: a side-slash meant to decapitate Aren. It was game over. With the terrain and the obstacles, Aren could not use [Flash] to escape, and he did not have a [Current] prepared either.

He could not escape. He would die here. Killed by people he thought were his friends.

As Ame’s sword collided with Aren’s unprotected neck, a black ink-like mist exploded into the area, intertwining with a crimson-red mist. The shroud around Ame’s sword discharged its annihilating energies, blowing past Aren and obliterating the wreckage next to him, and carving into the building that was also in its path. The energies dug a trench into the ground through sheer, explosive force.

Yet, Aren was not decapitated. The thin film of red mist clung to his body for a moment longer, as Ame recoiled from his strike and stumbled backward. Then the mist began to form a sword in Aren’s hand.

He was saved by Camille again.

“Flank!” Fang shouted as he recovered from his attack and stabbed towards Aren. Fang’s naginata was difficult to see. It was hazy and distorted — smeared across space — making it impossible to defend against. All Aren could do was take backsteps, to try to remain out of the weapon’s reach.

The fact that Ame fought and defeated Fang several times in the Junior Arena just proved how powerful these two were. On the other hand, Aren could not even defend against Fang’s weapon.

And though Aren could not see it clearly, he still somehow predicted where Fang would strike each time. It was his artificial eye. Even though he could not see the weapon clearly — it may as well have been invisible — he could still see Fang’s arms, hands, eyes, and body.

As Ame flanked to Aren’s blindspot, Aren knew that this was the last time he would have the initiative — his last opportunity to control the outcome of this fight.

Fang stabbed forward once again, trying to herd Aren back into a position where Ame could kill him. However, this time, Aren reached out with his hand, in an attempt to grab the weapon.

[ Injury sustained. Severity: Severe. Left hand amputated. ]

At the last moment, Fang made a strange move that smeared the distorted weapon in space like a wheel with infinite spokes. Within that motion, the blade of the naginata carved through Aren’s wrist and lopped off his hand, sending it flying through the air.

Fang was also a prodigious warrior. Like Ame, he was considered a genius of his generation. It was not that Fang was telegraphing attacks obviously — they were just tiny hints that only another expert or master could notice — but even those were a trap. And though Fang’s weapon skills could not compare to Ame’s, Fang’s strength was in the fact that he was a strategic and tactical genius. Fang won battles not through skill at arms, but through tactics.

And this was his plan.

Standing on the receiving end, Aren could only admire its brutal simplicity and beauty. From the moment Fang called out for Ame to flank Aren, the outcome was decided. Driven into the corner, Aren’s only choice would be to counter-attack Fang and keep the initiative or it was death. But it was death all along because Fang had predicted — no, he engineered — this situation.

The two thoughts on Aren’s mind, as the curtains slowly began to drop, were that he did not feel bitter about dying like this — though he didn’t stand a chance from the beginning, the effort and beauty put into it made him feel as if it was fair and well-earned — and that Exalt was extremely powerful.

Those two thoughts were present, and the unimaginable pain of having his hand severed. The only reasons that he could stand there without screaming was because the sense-limiters, in the uncalibrated pod, were on and the thought that this was not so bad after all.

At that moment, he imagined that, once they collected his Calamity bounty, Exalt would move on to become a major player in the Singularity competitive scene. And Aren was fine with this. This was the correct resolution to the problem. If his friends — though they may have betrayed him — were to have normal lives, they would have to cut ties with Aren.

And though his heart stung and burned at the betrayal, for once, it felt somewhat whole. He was happy for his friends.

Aren did not see it, but he heard it. Ame’s sword once more emitted that howling screech as it approached the back of his neck and Aren closed his eyes.

A part of him hoped that Camille would not save him this time.

Let it happen, he thought to himself as he embraced the future.

Seconds passed in complete silence. Aren never saw a message that he died. He did not hear anything or even feel anything. Even though he was both bitter and satisfied, he still did not want to open his eyes and learn that… what did death look like in Singularity anyway? What did it look like for a Calamity?

“If it’s a mistake, it’s a mistake,” Fang’s voice pulled Aren back into the moment, and he slowly opened his eyes.

Ame’s sword was hovering over Aren’s neck, while Fang’s naginata was nearly touching Aren’s throat.

Fang exchanged a look with Ame — they were likely talking privately via messages — and then transfixed Aren with a stern look. “Read your messages,” he said.

Messages? What messag—

[Private] Fang: There’s a situation. If you are near the base or approaching, message me. Alternatively, shout Yellow Emperor. This is important. I will explain when you get here. Message me.

“Yellow Emperor?” Aren asked. Of course Fang would choose something like that for a codeword.

The moment Aren spoke those words, the two sighed in relief.

“Do you ever read your messages?!” Fang asked, and Aren never saw Fang this angry. It was a violent kind of anger, but a cold, seething intensity that actually made Aren feel ashamed of himself.

“Sorry…” Aren blurted out without even thinking about it.

Fang cursed something in his native language, as Ame sheathed his sword. Then Fang saw the severed hand and cursed again.

“Good call, Ame,” Fang said, nodding to the other warrior.

Ame nodded. “I’ll tell Nissa not to blow us up,” he said, as he turned around and began walking away.

“What’s going on? Why did you attack me?” Aren asked, also now staring at his severed hand. Only now did the totality of the situation strike him. His heart began to pound so hard Aren thought that Fang could hear it — that all of Rakab could hear it. He came so close to dying.

He couldn’t believe that he was fine with it. What about Priscilla? How would he save her if he lost his character?

Fang shook his head. “It is a very long story,” the eastern warrior said as he put away his weapon. “You are not going to like this at all.”

Aren could already tell that he was not going to like this.

“Come,” Fang said. “It’s easier if I show you. It’s a ruby task.”

Ruby. Like emerald, ruby was a special rank.

Aren followed Fang back towards the Town Hall, as he stemmed the bleeding from his severed hand with a makeshift tourniquet.

After a while, presumably, when Fang cooled down from his anger, he spoke again. “I am very sorry about what happened. Don’t hold it against us. We would never betray you.”