Chapter 20 Threads of Fire and Starlight

CHAPTER 20

Zane

The Rift was gone, and its absence was somewhat anticlimactic. There was no fanfare or dramatic shift in the atmosphere. Just absence—a raw, ragged hole where reality used to be, like a wound healing over too quickly.

One moment it was there. Then it was gone, along with the beast, skeletons, and death knight.

Just gone.

The plaza lay broken, its ancient stone spiderwebbed with fresh cracks, market stalls crushed like brittle parchment, and intricate glyphs sputtering in and out of sync. The air hung heavy with the acrid smell of ozone and scorched history.

And in the very center, amidst the ruin, stood me.

Feeling like an idiot.

I stood bleeding and burned. The open wound on my side felt the death aspect mana tear away at my health and vitality. But I was still standing—a defiant, solitary figure against the backdrop of destruction. Veyr’s Echo rested tip-first in the shattered stone like an altar stake, still humming with echoes of the different powers it had wielded. My breath came in slow, painful pulls, each one a sharp argument with my screaming lungs.

I’d better see someone, or I could seriously die.

Blood dripped steadily from fresh wounds on my ribs. My arms and face were streaked with cuts and grime. My hands shook with exhaustion.

My head tipped back, and I closed my eyes, and for one long, shuddering breath—a tortured exhale—I, Zane Myles, simply existed.

I should have been dead—not just dead, condemned, tortured.

But I wasn’t. I really wasn’t. I would live. Fight and be for at least one more day.

For a single, suspended moment, time truly stopped. The space between heartbeats stretched, thin and fragile. The scattered crowd held its collective breath, suspended in a profound silence—uncertain whether they were witnessing a miracle or a mistake of cosmic proportions.

Then the world began to understand what it had just seen.

A guard dropped his spear with a clatter.

A field healer, halfway through whispering a stabilization spell, simply froze, his hands glowing with ambient mana, forgotten in the sudden, overwhelming realization.

Civilians stared, their faces contorted in a mixture of terror, reverence, and utter disbelief.

And then—like something divine had finally blinked—the silence shattered.

A cheer ripped through the crowd, raw and visceral, erupting like the start of a war. It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t clean. It was loud. Wild.

“Hell yeah! What a badass! He’s still standing!”

“Gods, he’s hurt! Someone help him!”

“That was a Death Knight! Soloing one’s not even possible!”

“That sword—it just appeared. Like it was summoned by fate itself!”

“That wasn’t aura. I’ve seen aura. That was something else.”

“Does anyone know who he is?! A secret SS-Class? No crest… nothing?”

“I’ve been on three Rift teams. That thing should’ve flattened him in seconds. What is he?”

Crystal relay drones zipped in like hornets, their projection glyphs lighting up the already scarred skyline. Images of me—bleeding, barely standing—flashed across the plaza and into a dozen city feeds, broadcasting the impossible truth.

Now the whole world knew.

My name—who knew how they knew what it was—spiraled into the air alongside algorithmic tags: The Riftborn. The Edgewalker. Unnamed Champion. Death Knight Slayer.

Unbound. Another Unbound.

Major projection feeds already blazed live across the city. Some just showed the massive crater where the Rift had been. Others zoomed in relentlessly on the blood soaking through my coat, on my telltale limp, on Veyr’s Echo still humming beside me, a silent sentinel.

And then one bold anchor, her voice trembling with barely contained excitement, said what everyone else was too stunned to admit: “Ladies and gentlemen, we may have just witnessed the emergence of the next SSS threat—or hero.”

I wasn’t listening. It was all noise anyway. I was scanning the crowd, trying to keep my vision from blurring.

Where were my siblings?

I turned—not like a triumphant victor seeking glory—but like a man crawling from the wreckage of a city only just held together. Each step was a silent, agonizing argument with the pain searing through my body.

Then someone stepped in front of me—a reporter, breathless, her mana mic hovering impatiently beside her.

“Please—just a name, young hero. One word. The world is watching.”

I didn’t speak. Not that I didn’t want to. I was just focused on breathing.

The woman—late twenties, with striking ice-blue hair and eyes that burned with ambition—made eye contact. Her lips parted as if she might beg again, desperate for a soundbite.

I gave her a soft, tired smile. Genuine. Unforced.

She blinked, momentarily disarmed by the unexpected humanity.

“Please,” she urged, recovering quickly. “Say something. Anything.”

I made it five more steps, my legs threatening to give out.

I am going to bite it in front of all these people if I don’t slow it down.

I stopped and then turned slightly, my gaze sweeping over the survivors, the fear still etched on their faces. My voice was rough, barely above a whisper as it was burning and dry.

“I hope everyone’s alright.”

The crowd went silent again.

A hush. A held breath. A moment of profound weight.

It was right then that my strength left me. My knees hit the shattered stone first, then my right hand touched the ground, scraping against the debris. Veyr’s Echo slipped from my grasp, clattering beside me—its resonance flickering like a failing heartbeat, its connection to me suddenly tenuous.

The blade dissolved—not shattering, but disintegrating into ash on the wind, a wisp of silver smoke.

Sorry, old friend. I will make it up to you.

The crowd lost it.

“Someone help him!”

“Get a healer!”

“He’s crashing—get him stabilized!”

Mana flared as healers finally burst into action. Voices blurred into a chaotic roar.

And at the center of it all, the boy who had just saved a city lay broken, brought to his knees by the unimaginable price of survival.

“This young man will be taken care of!” someone shouted—an older merchant, his voice trembling with fury and reverence, pushing through the crowd. “So help me, I will have the heads of anyone here who doesn’t show him respect! Where are the Rift teams? Call the City Council.”

People surged forward as I fully collapsed. Healers shouted orders. Civilians scrambled, trying to help or get a closer look.

But the reporter with the ice-blue hair was already kneeling beside me, her mic still rolling, her expression stunned, capturing every agonizing moment.

And through the rising noise, one voice cut through, sharp and clear in my mind.

[You’re one lucky bastard. Seriously—you pass out now? After that speech? I swear, if you flatline in front of Miss Blue Hair and a hundred recording drones, I will hack your funeral stream and turn it into a highlight reel.]

I didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to. Eva would do it.

[Also—you owe me tea. Sparkly tea. Imported. Expensive.]

The plaza erupted into organized chaos.

Strike teams blinked in from relay glyphs—clad in mana-plate, forming triage rings and perimeter seals. Drones buzzed overhead, their optical sensors recording everything for the Archival Towers. Medic runes flickered across bloodied cobblestones, casting a faint glow on the wounded.

A tri-colored sigil flared over the skyline: Multi-Guild Response – Wild Rift Confirmed.

Someone grabbed my arm. “Sir—sit. You need mana stabilization. MedEvac’s en route—”

“I’m fine,” I muttered, brushing them off, trying to pull away.

“You’re not,” the healer insisted, her voice firm. “You’ve been exposed to death mana. Your field is unstable—your core could rupture—”

“My system aid’s already handling it. Please—there are others who need help. I need to find my siblings.”

The medic hesitated, clearly conflicted.

Then a screen flickered in front of him—text scrolling rapidly, transmitted from my own wrist console. His eyes widened.

“Your system can… communicate?” he stammered, looking from me to the blinking text.

[Eva: Of course I can. I’m awesome. My host is correct—healing protocols at 72%. Blood loss stabilized. Death mana being purged. Though Zane—you will need to find a pure mana source soon, or this recovery’s going to feel like getting run over by a spirit ox.]

I choked on a weak laugh, a ragged sound, as the medic blinked up at the display, completely stunned.

“See?” I said, my voice rough. “Expensive ambulances are wasted on me.”

And without waiting for another argument, I moved—limping, bleeding, too tired to argue but too stubborn to stop. I ducked beneath a low-hanging mana tether and disappeared into the alleys beyond the ruins.

I didn’t want thanks.

Didn’t want recognition.

I just wanted to make sure Lila, Jordan, and their friends were safe.

I almost got away.

Almost.

Until I turned into a shadowed alley—and ran straight into two enforcers who were armored, armed with their mana tags pulsing steady.

“Zane Myles?” one asked, his voice flat, professional. "Thats your name isn't it son?"

Great. I didn’t answer.

“You’re not under arrest,” the other added, stepping slightly to block my path. “But we were ordered to intercept.”

Then another voice joined them, smooth and controlled. “Correction. He’s not being detained… yet.”

A woman stepped from the alley’s far end—middle height, long-legged, radiating professional menace and absolute control. She wore a tactical coat, open just enough to show high-grade mana-weave and an unapologetic amount of cleavage. Her voliet hair was pulled into a sleek, merciless ponytail. A mana pistol hung at her hip—but her real weapon was her expression.

Confident.

Amused.

Surgical.

“Zane Myles,” she said, her voice like velvet dragged across steel. “Agent Sera Valen. Internal Rift Response.”

She gave a slow, assessing nod.v“You’ve made my week very complicated.”

I blinked through bloodshot eyes. “Did I? Sorry to inconvenience you.”

Sera grinned, a flash of sharp, predatory amusement. “Oh yes. Second wild rift opening in two weeks times. This one with no stabilization time at all. An S-Class threat walked through. Half the Kingdom scrambled to find anyone ranked high enough to survive more than thirty seconds.”

She stepped closer, her boots crunching on broken charmglass and debris.

“I was already en route. Three strike teams. Full command kit. We were prepping containment glyphs, evac corridors—the whole hero protocol.”

She tilted her head, her gaze piercing.

“And by the time we got here? You’d already ended the story.”

I didn’t reply because what could I say? The blood down my side and the way my eyes had stopped focusing probably said enough.

“You want to walk,” she asked, her tone cool again, devoid of humor, “or should I have someone float you on a glowing rune-stretcher?”

I sighed, a long, weary sound. “Can’t a guy collapse in peace anymore?”

“Not when he cuts down a Death Knight,” she said, turning slightly, gesturing with her head. “And definitely not when the whole Empire is watching.”

I looked toward the end of the alley, then back to her.

“…Fine. Lead the way.”

They walked me to a temporary command outpost—conjured from mana stone, raised straight from the street by Guild engineers. The interview chamber wasn’t technically a cell, but it hummed with warded pressure like one. Surveillance runes glowed in every corner.

I sat. Carefully.

[Eva: Internal rupture 80% stabilized. You’re not going to have access to your Chaos core for a while. You’re lucky that Divine power plays nice with others. It’s the only thing keeping you alive with that death mana. You’re still an idiot.]

I groaned. “Thanks, Eva.”

[You’re damn right. And don’t think this gets you out of buying me tea.]

“You can’t even drink tea.”

[Not the point. You reckless bastard. You should have run. You will dote on me or so help me, I will reprogram your brain to think you’re a bird.]

“…You can do that?”

[You want to find out?]

Sera entered and didn’t sit or pace. The action seemed deliberate. She just stood there, arms crossed, studying me like an equation with one missing variable.

“You stabilized a Wild Rift, whose level I cannot even imagine. It didn’t seem strong enough to have a Death Knight come out of it,” she said, her voice flat, stating facts. “Further, you finished it. Solo. Against an S-Class threat. This whole area should have been flattened. Everyone in a five-mile radius should be dead.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Yes. I know. I was there.”

She ignored me.

“You summoned a Willborn-class Soulblade that isn’t registered to any known database.”

“Also true.”

“You used a form of True Edge that I didn't know existed and that doesn’t match any Tower record that I've seen. And with your mana profile, it should be impossible to use regular Truth Edge. Natural mana typically overwhelms core mana when you don't have enough capacity.”

I shrugged weakly, a grimace touching my lips. “Yeah… not sure how I did that. Not sure I could do it again.”

She stared at me, her gaze unwavering.

“And you defeated a Death Knight in duel-style combat. I saw the exchanges. I’ve never seen your brand of swordsmanship, but ignore that for a moment. How’d you stop it from using its full arsenal?”

“That wasn’t just me… my system aided me,” I said. “The Death Knight… accepted the an honor duel.”

“You challenged a Death Knight to an honor duel? And he accepted?? Is that thing? Are you insane?”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time.” I paused. Then added softly, with a sense of reverence: “If you didn’t notice, I was slightly outclassed.”

Sera snorted, and she started to pace, her eyes flicking to my readout. Then back.

“No bloodline tags, so if you have a specialty bloodline, it isn’t noted. No crest, so you’re not a noble or sponsored by one. No guild ID, so you’re not an adventurer. Not even a combat certification above Tier Two. You’re not supposed to have that sword. You’re not supposed to survive that encounter.”

Then her voice dropped, turning sharp.

“So tell me, Zane… what the hell are you?”

I held her gaze, my exhaustion fighting against my stubborn will.

“I’m a big brother,” I said. “A citizen of the Kingdom. And a student at Corvalis Arx.”

She snorted, a disbelieving sound. “Sure you are. A student with purest mana I have ever personally witnessed, a Willborn Blade, and an instinctive core override function. And how do you have traces of Divine power? Don’t look so surprised. I watched the whole duel. I know what a forced override looks like, and I am very sensitive to mana readings. I can feel the divine power within you. Nothing about you makes sense Your stats should have made that impossible.”

She stepped closer, her intensity filling the small space. “So it’s quite obvious that you are hiding something.”

My lips twitched, a faint, weary smirk. “Agent Valen… I don’t really hear a question in there.”

Sera didn’t move. She didn’t blink.

“You should’ve died,” she said softly, her voice flat, definitive. “From the backlash alone from your override function. You should’ve eaten you from the inside out.”

My eyes dropped to the table. “I know.”

“So how,” she continued, taking a step forward—slow, deliberate, her boots clicking against the rune-lined floor, “did you survive it?”

I hesitated.

Eva’s presence loomed quietly at the back of my mind. Not panicked. Not warning.

But watching. Waiting for my answer.

I couldn’t tell her. Not about Eva and how different she was. I couldn’t tell her about my Divine and Chaos core. I couldn’t tell her about how someone had tried to kill my family for a bracelet.

So I did what any overworked, half-conscious, blood-dried university student would do when being interrogated by a gorgeous, terrifying Kingdom agent.

I improvised.

“There’s a passage,” I said quietly, my voice rough. “In one of the old ritual books. I found it weeks ago—buried in the Archives.”

Sera tilted her head, amusement rising in her eyes. “You read the Archives for fun?”

“I didn’t say I was normal.”

Her lips curved into a genuine smile. “Right.”

I cleared my throat. “The passage described a… ritual connection. An act in the form of a challenge and bow. It wasn’t a spell exactly. More like a symbolic rite. It said that under certain conditions, if one presented themselves with humility and full mana output, an undead-class opponent might acknowledge the challenge.”

Sera blinked slowly, processing the information. “So you bowed.”

I nodded once.

“And flared your mana.”

“I didn’t know it would work,” I admitted, the truth mixed with the convenient lie. “I just… tried.”

She studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

“That’s a very convenient explanation,” she murmured. "But doesn't answer my other question/"

I held her gaze. “It’s also the truth and the best explanation I have as to why I am still here."

“Is it?”

Her voice had dropped but I didn’t let down my guard I felt the blade found within the words the response. She took a step closer, now barely an arm’s length away. Her scent was subtle—arcane steel and spellmint, surprisingly alluring.

“You don’t want to tell me something,” she said, her eyes piercing mine.

I didn’t flinch.

“But,” she added, her tone softening just enough to be dangerous, “I like a man who keeps a secret. It’s mysterious. Untrustworthy. Dangerous.”

Her eyes flicked down to my injured side, then back up to meet mine, a predatory gleam in their depths. “Sexy.”

I arched a brow, weary to my bones. “Is this your interrogation technique? Because I am pretty sure the sex kitten thing is played out.”

“That depends,” Sera said, tapping a finger thoughtfully on her lips. “Do you want me to keep talking?”

My silence was answer enough.

She smiled, a lazy, confident curve of her lips. “You’re lying. Not badly. But not well enough to fool me?”

Then she leaned in—just a breath, invading my personal space—and whispered:

So what is it that you’re hiding Zane?”

I didn’t respond. I didn’t trust myself to.

Sera straightened, all sleek lines and lazy confidence, and gestured toward the door with a fluid motion.

“I should keep you,” she said, a hint of genuine regret in her tone. “But unfortunately for me, the world already has plans.”

She let her hand drift toward my shoulder, then lightly brushed something imaginary off it, her fingers barely grazing my skin.

“You’re free to go, Mr. Myles.”

I rose, stiffly, my body protesting every movement.

“Just like that?”

“Oh no,” she purred, her eyes glittering. “Not just like that. You’re flagged. Zane. I don’tknow what you’re hiding but I don’t have to pry. You’re on the Kingdom’s list. You cannot do what you’eve done and live your days normally. You will be monitored, whispered about, approached. You’ll be on every watchlist by morning. You’re going to attract attention from every major factions in the Kingdom and probably some from Kingdom’s allies and enemires. Don’t be surprised if you are summoned by the Queen or any number of noble houses. Bu t yes—for now—just like that.”

I nodded, stepping past her towards the door.

But as I reached the threshold, she added:

“Tell me one thing.”

I paused, turning back.

“Did it feel like poetry when the sword hit him?” she asked, a genuine curiosity in her voice.

A faint smile pulled at the edge of my lip, a ghost of an old, familiar mirth.

“…Closer to music.”

She laughed—a genuine, bright sound that cut through the lingering tension—and let me go.