A void where color died. Agito stared. His chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. He wiped blood from his brow.
"…Yeah. Definitely not my fault."
He let out a weak laugh, leaning back against a slab of broken stone.
The laughter grew stronger. Because what the hell else could he do?
Everything hurt. Everyone was probably dead. And now space itself stared back at him.
"Perfect."
His laughter echoed across the sand and steel.
For the first time in six years—
No hum. No barrier. No wall between them and the sky.
Just… space.
And whatever waited beyond.
And Agito?
He laughed until his ribs hurt.
Because after all that…
He was still alive.
And something told him—that was about to become a problem.
Twelve hours away, beyond dunes and silence, a signal cut sharply through the night—carrying a truth Astralis was never meant to face.
Astralis. Sixty thousand souls. Six races.
One city—descending into panic.
The sky had cracked. The barrier—supposedly impenetrable for two years—was gone.
No one ever went past that stretch of wasteland. There was nothing there but ruins and sand. Or so everyone thought.
Tonight, everything changed.
The air vibrated. Energy pulsed like a heartbeat out of sync.
In the main square, the massive telescreen flickered. Glitches sliced across the feed.
An image appeared:
A man—bloodied, kneeling on broken stone, katana thrust into the sand. Laughing. Not crazed, just calm and strangely satisfied, as if he knew something no one else did.
For a long moment, the crowd stared in silence. No one moved. Only the distant hum of the screen and that unsettling, echoing laughter.
Then, the alarm rang out from the watchtower.
A voice cracked over the speakers:
"The barrier… it's down."
The crowd murmured. Some looked at each other, unsure.
"Who is that?"
"Did he do this?"
"Is it near us?"
No panic, just uncertainty. Questions hung heavy in the air, the city's heartbeat shifting from routine to restless.
In the command chamber of Astralis, the air froze.
Aurelia—pale and poised—stared at the screen, her silver hair cascading like silk. Every flicker of light danced in her Luminari eyes.
Reynard leaned casually on the console, the Human Centurion radiating the quiet impatience of a man who'd rather be drinking—but whose gaze missed nothing.
Vaelzar stood silently a few paces behind them, massive and immovable as carved stone. The Castari's posture was impeccable—each movement deliberate, adjusting the ornate jewelry adorning his horns, the gems catching the chamber's dim light.
Elenor stepped forward, posture flawless and expression razor-sharp, as if war itself had forged her elegance. With a quiet, practiced motion, she tucked a strand of long blonde hair behind one pointed elven ear, unbothered by the panic unfolding around her.
In the shadows by the far wall, Torgash towered—one of the largest Goliaths alive. The shadow he cast seemed to stretch over the rest of the chamber, a silent warning to all. He stood with a menacing scowl, both hands clenched tight around a warhammer the size of a grown man.
The chamber was silent, tension stretching until it snapped—broken abruptly by Kaeli, the Varkari. Her feline gaze narrowed, tail flicking restlessly, one foot already angled as if ready to sprint or pounce.
"Well," she said lightly, breaking the spell. "Can't lie. He's kind of hot."
Every head turned sharply toward her.
"Kaeli," Elenor hissed.
Kaeli shrugged casually. "Hey, I'm just stating facts. Doesn't change the reality that he probably just landed us a whole new set of problems."
Before anyone could respond, a small voice sliced through the room like a knife.
"The barrier's down—how?! Who is that?!"
Voices overlapped in panic, questions piling onto each other without answers.
"He's covered in blood—did he kill someone?!"
"He's from the Legion, I swear it!"
"No one survives out there. That's all desert!"
"Why is he laughing?!"
"What if more of them are coming?!"
"What will the Council do? The Centurions?!"
"That's my uncle!"
She didn't shout. She declared.
All eyes turned.
Nel. Twelve years old. Brown hair, combat uniform too big on her, fists tightened at her sides. Her face was pale, but her expression… full of certainty.
"That's him," she said. "He disappeared six years ago. Everyone said he died on Earth."
She stared at the screen as if it held the last piece of her heart.
"But that's him. I know it."
Aurelia studied her cautiously.
"Nel, we need to be sure. The telescreen shows visions. Sometimes… they can be manipulated."
"It shows the truth," Nel said, her tone trembling. "Always has."
Elenor stepped closer, gentle but firm.
"You believe it. I understand. But we cannot rush. This could be a trap."
Nel didn't blink.
"I'm not leaving him there alone."
Vaelzar finally spoke, deep and controlled.
"If it's true, we need to act. The telescreen doesn't show things by accident."
Torgash, the Centurion, rumbled from the side:
"I'll take a team. We'll find out."
Elenor raised a hand, her voice steady:
"No. Not yet. Acting without a clear understanding is reckless. We need to consider every possibility before making a move. The last thing we need is to fall into an obvious trap."
She looked back at the screen.
The man still laughed.
And no one could look away.
Hours passed like slow breaths before silence finally reclaimed Exilium. In the dead of night, the crawler rolled through the gates—heavy, battered, trailing sand and smoke like the last echoes of war.
Relief came slowly, edged with quiet grief.
When the engine died and the dust settled, shapes emerged—survivors staggering out, barely able to stand. At their head was Korven, wheezing and pale, but still alive.
The people of Exilium rushed to meet them, reaching out to help the wounded, steadying those who could barely walk. In that moment, the city was united—not in celebration, but in silent, exhausted relief.
"Over here!" one of the Exilium soldiers shouted. "It's Agito!"
Cyrene, Cain, and the others rushed toward him.
He was slumped against a stone, katana stabbed into the ground beside him, looking for all the world as if he were just sleeping.
Cyrene crouched beside him, worry in her eyes.
"You look like shit," she said.
Agito cracked an eye open. "Still breathing, aren't I?"
She huffed. "Try standing first."
He tried—failed—and half-collapsed into her.
"Cyrene, babe—people are watching," he muttered, forcing a weak smirk.
She rolled her eyes and caught him before he hit the ground.
Cain came up beside them, arms crossed. "This your mess?"
Agito grinned, blood still crusted on his lip. "Was hoping it broke itself."
A Nomad approached then. Dusty, bruised, armor cracked—but his eyes were alive. He looked at Agito.
"You don't even realize what you've done," he said, words catching slightly in his throat. "You gave us hope." His tone broke, just a little. "For years we fought with no end in sight. No sky. No purpose."
He looked up at the stars. "Now we have a future."
Agito looked at him, about to say something, but Cyrene cut him off with a sharp look.
"Don't start," she said. "Just get in the damn crawler."
Cain chuckled. They all turned. Back to the city.
Later, inside the medbay, Cyrene wrapped a bandage around Agito's ribs.
"You look like hell," she said flatly.
"You're still hot when you're mad."
She tightened the wrap—hard.
"OW! Goddamn, Cyrene!"
"That was for almost dying."
Agito grinned painfully. "You care."
"Shut up," she snapped, arms folded. "You never change."
"No?"
"You still run headfirst into everything," Cyrene said flatly. "Still fighting like you've got a death wish."
"Haven't died yet," Agito replied.
"Yet," she shot back sharply.
Their eyes locked briefly, an unspoken truth passing between them. Agito looked away first.
"Thanks," he muttered quietly. "For saving my ass."
Cyrene didn't answer. She just walked out, leaving him alone with smoke curling in the air.
Minutes later, the door opened again. Vaxtor. Cain. Cyrene. And Korven.
Vaxtor smirked. "You got your ass kicked, huh?"
Agito didn't look up. "Fuck off."
Korven clapped him on the shoulder. "I knew you'd pull through."
Cain chuckled, raising a bottle. "We're rebuilding. Nomads are joining. Korven's taking Exarch again. I'm handling mutants. We need you."
Agito shook his head. "I'm not cut out for this. I break things. That's what I do."
Vaxtor leaned against the wall. "You built this city more than anyone. The world's changed. We need every bastard who can fight."
Cain grinned. "You'll get better alcohol. And the ladies love a man in power."
Agito looked at him, about to argue. Then he sighed.
"You should've just started the conversation with that," he muttered. "So, where do I sign?"
And so—Exilium had five Exarchs once more.
Cain—Mutants.
Cyrene—Val'Asari.
Vaxtor—Tinkari.
Korven—Nomads.
Agito—Humanity.
And thus, the new era of Exilium began.
Then, from the darkest corner of Agito's mind, a voice emerged—icy, sharp, unmistakably clear.
"You really think it's going to be that easy, Agito?"
Enma.
Agito's eye snapped open wide, heart hammering violently in his chest. For the first time, the curse spoke without warning—cold, conscious, unmistakably clear.
"You're not done with me yet, Agito."
She wasn't going anywhere.