The river wind carried the scent of rust and diesel as Fitran descended the slope, while Rinoa slept soundly in his arms. The blue-white light from Leviathan painted lines across the water's surface, resembling a floating city, choosing to dock at the heartbeat of the machine.

  A row of Terranova soldiers formed one of the metallic corridors at the foot of the stairs. Their helmets reflected the light, weapons neatly stowed, ready to be drawn at a moment's notice. An officer stepped halfway toward them, his palm wide open as a sign of warning, not threat. “This area is restricted,” he said flatly, his voice firm yet imbued with an unmistakable commanding tone. “Password.”

  Fitran balanced Rinoa's weight on his left shoulder, staring at the officer with a resolve that radiated confidence. “Valiant Requiem,” he replied, his voice steady despite the faint anxiety that slipped between his words. A tense silence filled the air, only the distant roar of machinery echoing around them. Then, one by one, the plates on the soldiers' chests began to glow—runes scanning his voice pattern and the rhythm of his breath. The officer gave a slight nod, scrutinizing Fitran closely.

  “Continuing with verification,” he stated, maintaining a formal tone. “Mirror-Sigil, right palm.” Fitran pressed his palm against the thin obsidian panel. A blurred image—a “name” unwritten—flickered beneath his skin before finally locking in place. The panel lit up with a green seal.

  “We have specific procedures regarding weaponry,” the officer revealed, his tone slightly softer, as if he sensed the simmering tension in the room. “Leave your blade here, or we will have to seal it.”

  Fitran pressed the scabbard of his sword against the terminal; the binding sigil coiled around Voidlight like a shimmering thread. “I will remain by its side,” he asserted firmly, emphasizing his commitment amid this complex situation.

  “That is the instruction we received,” the officer stated while gesturing to two soldiers who approached promptly, pushing a magitek litter towards him. “The chief medic is already awaiting you on the observation deck. Lady Serise has declared this a top priority.” His voice brimmed with certainty, underscoring the gravity of the circumstance at hand.

  “We will take you soon,” one of the soldiers added politely, though the tension was unmistakable in his expression. “Prepare yourself to move.”

  Some soldiers whispered to one another, their gazes flitting from corner to corner, uncertainty reflecting in their eyes. “I hope this doesn’t get any worse,” one soldier voiced his thoughts, but his voice trembled, revealing the depth of anxiety he felt. Yet, among them, the spirit to protect the weak remained strong and evident.

  Fitran held his breath, feeling the weight of responsibility pressing on his shoulders. With Rinoa in his arms, he realized that every decision he made now was critically important, and he had to be prepared to face whatever might come his way.

  They ascended, their steps rhythmic and orderly. The metal staircase quivered softly beneath their feet, resonating with the rumble of machinery hidden behind the hull. Along the corridor, cables and pipes lined up neatly, reaching towards the ceiling, while blue sigils flickered brightly and dimmed in succession. The sounds of commands, the creak of trolleys, and the hum of generators blended into a symphony that mirrored the tension and emotion in the air.

  “How much longer until the isolation protocols are ready?” Fitran asked with a firm voice, though he did not glance away.

  “The Mark-II isolation chamber is now active,” explained a technician, stepping back slowly, trying to keep the stretcher balanced. “The anti-spiral baffle has been engaged, and mana injection has been nullified. This is in accordance with Lady Serise’s instructions.”

  “Did you hear that?” Fitran gazed at Rinoa, his eyes filled with concern and intense focus. “We shall not impose anything your body rejects.”

  The sliding door parted, granting them passage. The main base camp unveiled itself—a two-story chamber with glass walls overlooking the flowing river outside. A holographic map hovered in the air, while briefing tables were strewn with papers and scattered chips. In one corner, the medical area gleamed like a laboratory untouched by chance.

  A silver-haired woman waited near a transparent shield. A purple cloak enveloped her shoulders, and her sharp eyes betrayed a fatigue she could not conceal. “Place it here,” she instructed, her voice calm yet capable of commanding every possibility. “And stand to the left—you are the anchor, there is no choice in this. We dare not risk it.”

  Fitran carefully lifted Rinoa onto the isolation bed, hearing her soft gasp as she sought to adjust. “You called me an anchor even before I consented,” she remarked, her tone reflecting a complex blend of responsibility and deep-seated anxiety.

  “You already gave approval at the dock,” Serise replied firmly, her gaze fixed on the reading screen. “It’s not maintaining mana. The aether pattern within it is chaotic, yet pulsing—that’s good news. The spiral resonance is blocking the path to consciousness; the void-scar leaves a delicate trace at the edges of its memory. We won’t conduct a cleansing for this. We will lock the spiral at the tolerance threshold and recycle its own aether.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “What if there’s a backlash?” Fitran asked as he approached, his fingers cautiously brushing the edge of the shield. “I will bear the strain,” he added, his eyes betraying unwavering confidence.

  “Indeed. That is why you are here,” Serise nodded at the two senior healers standing ready behind her. “Lattice mode: triaxial. The anchor frequency will be drawn from their bond signature. Ensure there are no mana injections—zero input. We will harness the harmonic bleed from the anchor to pull the patient’s rhythm.”

  The healer prepared the purifying liquid in a crystal ampoule, her hands moving with evident expertise. On the floor, rune patterns resembling a honeycomb began to shimmer, weaving light into a net that surrounded the patient's bed. The anti-spiral baffle vibrated, its gentle waves sounding like deep breaths, crafting an atmosphere of hope amid anxiety.

  “I need a brief statement,” said one of the healers in a flat yet firm voice, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen. “Spiral exposure, yes. Void-scar, yes. Are there any additional seals on the soul medulla?”

  “Yes,” replied Fitran, his voice conveying deep conviction. “Half of my hand, the other half comes from the creature we dispatched. Do not touch the outer seal—focus solely on the spiral's topology.”

  “Take note,” murmured the healer, giving a slight nod. “Lattice is ready.”

  Serise turned, her distinct voice descending half an octave. “Listen carefully, Fitran,” she said in a tone that was both firm and gentle. “When the Harmony Lattice is active, it will seek the nearest pattern to mirror. That means—it’s you.” She held her gaze on Rinoa’s face, emphasizing her feelings. “You must remain calm. Do not let your blade be plagued by nightmares.”

  Fitran shifted the metal chair, sitting as close as he could without touching the shield. “I don’t need dreams,” he answered quietly, his voice showing tranquility despite a hint of doubt. “All I need is the rinoa wake-up.”

  Serise took a deep breath, clearly troubled. “I will try,” she said, raising her hand to signal that the time had come. “Let us begin.”

  Rune ignited in three layers—outer, middle, core—signaling to all present that they stood on the brink of something monumental. A soft sound, like bells beneath water, filled the chamber. The pallor on Rinoa's cheeks gradually warmed; her breath, which had been uneven, found a new rhythm—still fragile, but now more assured.

  “There is a response,” reported the magic technician, his tone serious as his hands moved swiftly over the panel. “The edge memory curve is stable. The spiral is resisting in sector two—the baffle acts as a brake.”

  Fitran tilted his head, whispering loudly enough to pierce the barrier. “Listen to this,” he said, his voice deep and authoritative, neither a spell nor a prayer. “You are not alone. Let my rhythm deceive your spiral.”

  The Lattice glimmered softly, like a mirror beneath the moonlight. The second wave moved slowly—pressing down and then receding—like an ocean bewildered by which shore it wished to kiss. The Healer adjusted the angle of the sigil with great care, deftly turning a small ring on the panel, showing just how serious the situation had become.

  “Never let the void-scar touch,” Serise warned firmly, her voice resonating with command. “We must pass through it, not erase it.”

  “Understood,” Healer replied, his voice steady as he took his position. “Anchor stabil.”

  Fitran closed his eyes for a moment, striving to fill his mind with calm. “The echoes of the earlier magic explosion…” His voice was gentle, almost a whisper of regret. “All of it gathers within me, like marbles in a pouch.” He shook his head, trying to cast aside the distraction. “But… I will press on. Take from me only what you need,” he said, with a tense tone that was hard to hide. “Just enough.”

  Serise shifted his gaze to the status screen and then said, “You owe a debt to this vessel.” His voice was direct, like an order that could not be refused. “And this vessel—in turn—will be recorded in the great ledger that many eyes wish to behold.”

  “If that is the price I must pay,” Fitran stared at him intently, “make sure the final entry reads: ‘He breathes.’” The corner of his eye noticed every movement of Serise.

  Serise's brow softened slightly, as if captivated by the conviction radiating from Fitran. “That is a statement difficult to refute,” he replied in a calm and measured tone.

  Outside the window, the river shimmered, reflecting the glow of the deck lights, creating a captivating play of illumination. Inside the isolation chamber, rays of light danced freely, as if they required no applause to assert their existence. A machine hummed in the background; soldiers passed by without a glance, as though entrenched in their ceaseless missions. “This warm coffee will turn cold if we dawdle too long,” Fitran whispered, signaling just how swiftly time marched on. At the foot of the bed, a man awaited—not as a hero, nor as a threat—rather, as a rhythm ready to be borrowed, anticipating the moment when his role would unveil meaning.

  “After we complete phase one,” Serise stated, her gaze fixed sharply upon Fitran, “you and I shall speak in private.” Her tone remained steady, emphasizing the importance of that meeting. “Tonight, you have shaken the map more profoundly than you might realize.”

  “I do not rely on the map,” Fitran replied, the corners of his lips lifting slightly, hinting at deep-seated conviction. “I prefer to follow the breath that flows around me.”

  “Very well.” Serise raised her hand, ready to welcome the next wave. “As long as he still breathes, we have something worth fighting for to negotiate with the world.” Serise's voice was firm, yet beneath her words flowed a current of hope, like the gentle flow of water hiding beneath the surface of a river.

  The second wave emerged, and the web of light shrank before expanding once more. Rinoa, though her eyes were closed, felt a soft vibration brushing against the edges of her consciousness, so gentle it was as if it were merely a single strand of hair. “We cannot retreat now,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “All of this... it's time to move forward, isn't it?”

  She felt her body tense, but courage began to flow in place of the doubt in her heart. That was enough. For tonight, it was more than enough. A sense of calm and tension intertwined, preparing her for the next step.