The voice that boomed through the village was a weapon in itself, heavy with authority and threat. It froze the scene in a new, dangerous tableau.

  Jess stood in the wreckage of the hut, Jake broken at her feet, her own blood drying on her temple. Roxy and Xero were pinned near the gate by the arrival of the new force. And now, filing through the western gate in a disciplined, sweeping formation, came the scouts.

  Thirty of them. Just as Miri’s initial, fleeting scan had indicated before the interference thickened.

  Her first impression was one of jarring dissonance. Their uniforms were a practical, muted green and brown, but emblazoned on each breastplate and cloak was a symbol: a balanced scale wrought in simple, clean lines. It spoke of law, not just militia. Each scout carried a composite bow of sophisticated make—far beyond the village’s simple wood, strung with something that glinted like polymer. Professional.

  Then her eyes found the two outliers. Two guards flanking the obvious captain carried bulkier, boxy weapons of dark, non-reflective metal. They were cradled like heavy rifles, but there were no obvious magazines, barrels, or power cells.

  "Miri?" she subvocalized, her gaze locked on the strange weapons.

  "Scanning. No detectable electromagnetic field. No battery signature. No chemical propellant residues."

  "Then how do they work?"

  "The units contain dense concentrations of the anomalous cyan energy. Each weapon houses ten spherical chambers, each half-saturated with the substance you have designated 'mana.' The chambers are arranged in a bipolar configuration. Their rotation suggests a gradient-based firing mechanism."

  "Energy projectiles?"

  "Negative. The design implies a physical projectile accelerated to extreme velocities. The closest analogue in your known arsenal is a railgun or gauss cannon."

  Jess’s mind stuttered. Mana railguns. She looked from the advanced, ominous weapons to the surrounding wooden huts, to the scouts' mix of metal pauldrons and leather jerkins, to the plain swords at many hips. The cognitive clash was violent. This wasn't just a medieval society with a game system. This was a civilization with black-tech artifacts it shouldn't possess. Who, or what, had made those?

  The scouts fanned out, securing the perimeter with efficient silence, their eyes sharp. Jess saw their gazes skip over the burning house, over the unconscious guards, and land on her. The murmurs started immediately, hushed but carrying in the tense air.

  "Captain, we found four strangers. The villagers are saying she defended them from the other three, but..."

  "Who defended them?" The captain, a broad-shouldered man with a face like weathered stone, cut off the report.

  "Green skin. It must be... we only see them rarely. Remnants. But is there a village out there with Orc women?"

  "Did an elf shag one of them?" another scout muttered, earning a sharp look.

  "Pssst, don't spread rumors. The Spire archives say they reproduce asexually."

  "What is that? An Orc?"

  "Female Orcs don't exist."

  "Where do those humans come from? They look like metal. Is that a Class?"

  "Looks like sky-debris on their bodies. Did they fall from the sky, or come from the Hidden Valley of the Saintess?"

  The chatter was a chaotic stream of superstition, prejudice, and fragmented lore. Sky-debris. Saintess. Hidden Valley. More puzzle pieces, none of them fitting.

  "Miri," Jess thought, her voice calm in her own mind. "What are my chances of surviving a direct hit from one of those railgun analogues?"

  "Calculating. Assuming projectile composition is solid matter with a hardness up to uranium-grade alloys, and velocity equivalent to standard old-dimensional railgun specs: 12% chance of survival if struck in a non-vital area. Near-zero if struck centrally."

  "Chance of them hitting me if I run for the eastern tree line now?"

  "With your current burst speed, the obstructed sightlines through the village, and their need to avoid civilian casualties: 5%."

  She allowed herself a thin, cold smile. Her eyes traced the likely firing lanes. The math was clear, but math didn't account for the man now stepping up beside the captain.

  He was older, wearing a dark robe over light armor, and he held a staff of polished wood topped with a faintly glowing crystal. A wizard. Of course they had a wizard.

  "Miri. The robed one."

  "Scanning. Elevated ambient mana levels coalescing around his form and the staff. No further data."

  Going for broke, then, she decided. Her plan crystallized. Run. Now. Before the captain finished his assessment, before the wizard could ready a spell, before the strange scale of justice decided to tip against the unknown green-skinned variable.

  "The villages in the White Zone," one scout was complaining to another quietly. "Why do we have to guard them if they don't pay proper taxes?"

  "It's an order from the Sovereign. The nobles don't like it, but if they can't change it, how could I, a meager Scout Captain, not even Rank 1?"

  The captain’s attention was swinging between Jess, the bound Xero and Roxy, and the groaning Jake being dragged from the hut wreckage by two wary scouts. Jake’s cybernetic eye found hers, blazing with pure, impotent hatred. Too late to finish him, she thought. And too risky. Stay more powerful than him. That’s the only guarantee.

  Her muscles coiled. The eastern palisade was closest there, just past three huts. The forest beyond was a wall of deep shadow.

  Then a small figure broke from hiding behind a water trough.

  Litos.

  He didn't run to the forest as she’d ordered. He ran straight toward the captain, his small face set with desperate courage.

  "He is confused!" Xero shouted, struggling against his bonds. "The boy's in shock!"

  Roxy saw her chance. "YES! SHE DID IT! THE ORC! SHE ATTACKED US AND THE VILLAGE!"

  Litos skidded to a halt in front of the imposing captain, pointing a trembling finger back at Jess. "No! She saved me! In the fungal woods! She killed the F-Rank hounds! And she fought the metal men when they hurt Uncle Vorgas and set the fire!"

  The captain looked from the boy's earnest, bloodied face to Roxy's defiant sneer, to Jess's silent, watchful stance. His hand hadn't moved from the hilt of his sword.

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  "Didn't I tell you to run until evening?" Jess said to Litos, her voice low but carrying.

  "Sorry," he whispered, but he held his ground.

  "Thank you for trying," she said, a faint, unexpected softness in her tone. "But I don't think you can change anything here."

  "The Citadel will find the truth," the captain declared, his decision made. His gaze settled on Jess, heavy and final. "If you resist, we will destroy you. By the authority of Rias, you are hereby incarcerated."

  Jess said nothing. Her thoughts were a whirlwind. Prisoner. In this body. With this prejudice. In a society with mana-wielding wizards and railguns. An unquantifiable risk.

  Five percent versus the unquantifiable.

  She took the five percent.

  As two scouts moved forward, ropes in hand, she exploded into motion. Not toward them. Not toward the captain. She spun on her heel and launched herself into a full-tilt sprint for the gap between the huts, aiming for the lowest section of the eastern palisade.

  "HAH! FLEEING PROVES GUILT!" Roxy shrieked.

  Chaos erupted.

  "STOP HER!"

  The two scouts with the railgun analogues snapped their weapons up, tracking her with unnerving speed. The captain’s roar cut through the noise. "YOU MORONS! AT THIS RANGE IN A VILLAGE? THE OVERPENETRATION AND CONCUSSION WOULD LEVEL HUTS! HOLD YOUR FIRE!"

  The weapons lowered, reluctantly. But the wizard’s staff was already coming up, the crystal blazing like a captured star. He chanted, words sharp and sibilant.

  Jess didn't look back. She heard the sizzle-crack of superheated air, felt a wave of intense heat wash over her back. She braced, teeth clenched.

  The fireball struck her between the shoulder blades.

  The world flashed orange and white. The impact was a hammer blow of force and heat, shoving her forward, scorching through the already-damaged biosuit. She smelled burnt synth-fabric and her own singed skin. Pain lanced across her back, a deep, nasty burn.

  But she didn't stumble. She didn't fall. The magical fire clung and seared, but its effect felt… muted. As if a significant portion of its energy had bled away before it even touched her.

  My race, she remembered. The Nexus said I had heightened magic resistance.

  She crashed through a flimsy wattle fence, vaulted over a cart, and hit the palisade wall. She didn't climb; she jumped, her enhanced legs powering her up to catch the top, and she hauled herself over, disappearing into the tree line.

  "Miri," she gasped, running full-tilt into the welcoming gloom of the forest, the adrenaline burning away the worst of the pain. "Percentage reduction on that spell?"

  "Calculating based on thermal damage versus observed energy output… Approximately 35% reduction in effect. Additional to your passive 50% range effect reduction. Cumulative not additive stacking."

  "Great." It was more than good; it was a tactical revelation. She had a buffer against one of this world's greatest threats.

  Behind her, the captain's furious orders echoed. "DON'T LET HER LEAVE THE WHITE ZONE! SEND A MESSENGER TO THE CITADEL—WE NEED A RANK TWO TRACKER! NOW!"

  The words were a cold splash of reality. Rank Two Tracker. She was Rank Zero. She had broken skills, a burned back, and was now a fugitive in a zone she didn't understand, hunted by professionals with capabilities she could barely guess at.

  Her options narrowed to two, both dire: move faster than they could possibly predict, or grow stronger than a Rank Two Tracker could handle.

  She melted into the shadows, the forest swallowing her whole.

  The world narrowed to the rhythm of her flight—the pounding of her heart, the burn in her lungs, the sharper, persistent agony across her back. The forest was no longer just terrain; it was an opponent, testing her. She pushed for thirty minutes, following Miri’s whispered guidance to avoid denser thickets and potential ambush points, her mind a tactical map. Go around. Let the terrain work for you.

  Her detour took her past a clearing where two titanic, onyx-black beetles, each the size of an armored personnel carrier, were locked in a monumental shoving match. Their shells screeched as they slammed together, shaking the ground. Jess didn’t break stride; she used their colossal struggle as cover, darting through the periphery of their battlefield. Any pursuer would have to either wait or risk drawing the ire of two tank-sized insects. Have fun with that.

  Her chosen path led her skirting the edge of what Miri flagged as potential Terror Beak territory. The memory of the fight was fresh, the nest not far. Let the scouts blunder into that.

  The forest fought back in smaller, more insidious ways. As she vaulted a rotten log, a giant, lurid flower she’d mistaken for a fungus suddenly convulsed. A jet of clear, sizzling liquid shot out, striking her squarely on the chest.

  The pain was instant and electric—a corrosive burn that ate through the remaining threads of her biosuit and seared her skin. She hissed, stumbling, her hand flying to the wound. The flesh was red and angry, steaming slightly. But even as she watched, the copper-green of her skin began to reassert itself, the regeneration she’d taken for granted knitting the damage shut at a visible, if painful, pace. The biosuit stirred lethargically, patching the material.

  The distraction cost her. For a second, the world beyond her own pain didn’t exist. It was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

  “Phantom, continued movement is advised. I cannot detect human biosignatures within scanning range for the past hour, but the margin of error is high due to environmental interference.”

  “I… I need to rest. Just a bit.” The words were a thought, not spoken aloud. The adrenaline was leaching away, leaving the full weight of her injuries—the burn on her back, the new acid scar on her chest, the deep muscular fatigue from the fight and the run.

  She found a small, relatively clear bank by a pond. The water was black and still, dotted with oversized lily pads that glowed with a soft, ghostly cyan radiance from underneath, like submerged bulbs. Dragonflies the size of her forearm hummed past on iridescent wings. It was beautiful and utterly alien. She slumped against the broad trunk of a willow-like tree, its drooping fronds offering a veil of privacy.

  “Looks spooky,” she mumbled, eyes heavy.

  “Phantom, it is a reminder,” Miri’s voice intoned in her mind.

  “Right. The package. Open it.” She’d almost forgotten. The twenty-four hours were up. The identity of the 8-billion-credit S-rank terrorist was waiting.

  But before the data could stream, another notification, simpler and more immediate, surfaced in her consciousness. A skill notification, held in a queue.

  “You acquired a skill when the anomalous flora projectile struck you,” Miri confirmed.

  Later, Jess thought. The bounty came first. She braced herself, though for what, she wasn’t sure.

  The data package unfolded in her mind’s eye, not with fanfare, but with the cold, bureaucratic clarity of a corporate report. Text scrolled, accompanied by the flat, synthesized voice of a TESR Conglomerate adjudicator.

  “Priority Alpha Bounty Brief. Target Designation: KILEAN. Alias: Kirael. Species: Modified E.L.F. (Efficient Low-Maintenance Form). Last Verified Location: Mega-Earth, Geographic Quadrant Disputed. Status: Wanted for Grand Theft of Corporate Property (Self), Sabotage of Terraforming Operation SYSIPHUS-01, Unauthorized Technology Transfer to Indigenous Population, and Fabrication of a Universe-Class Annihilation Weapon. Threat Rating: S-Rank. Galactic Terrorist. Bounty: 8 Billion Galactic Credits. Live Capture Only.”

  A standard ident-image resolved beside the text. It was a headshot, taken from a colonist intake file. The face was delicate, pointed ears, with the serene, ageless features of the base E.L.F. template. But the eyes… the eyes were tired. Deeply, profoundly tired. And familiar.

  Jess stopped breathing.

  The hair was different—longer, a silvery-white instead of the virtual chestnut brown she remembered. The surroundings were different—a grim cryo-cell instead of a messy bedroom lit by monitor glow. But the slight downturn of the mouth when at rest, the particular arch of the eyebrow… She’d seen that face a thousand times, pixelated on her screen, attached to the name Kirael.

  Her crafter. Her friend. The depressed gamer who’d theory-crafted with her for years, who’d mailed her a celestial blade with a note about rerolling. Who’d vanished from the generation ship after an “asteroid impact” that now reeked of a cover story.

  Kilean. Kirael.

  The S-rank terrorist was the person she’d been chasing on a ghost of a hope. The last human contact from her past life. Not just a target. Him.

  A sound escaped her—a short, punched-out grunt of air, like she’d been gut-punched. The pond, the glowing lilies, the giant dragonflies, all of it receded into a gray haze. The 8 billion credits, the mission, the stranded team, the burning village—it all crumbled into irrelevance next to this single, staggering point of data.

  He’s alive. He’s been here for… centuries? And he’s… he’s blown up corporate assets with universe-class weapons?

  The corporate log fragment she’d seen earlier, the one about “CODE SCYTHE” and a “stalemate,” flashed back with horrific new context. That was him. Coughing at a corporate bioweapon purge. Building reality-altering bombs. Becoming a native phenomenon.

  A hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat, edged with something like rage. You stupid, brilliant idiot. You didn’t just run away to hide. You declared war on a galactic conglomerate. On a planet.

  Her mind, trained for rapid tactical reassessment, tried and failed to process this. The mission parameters were obliterated. She wasn’t a bounty hunter anymore. She was… what? A reunion tour? An extraction specialist for a wanted weaponsmith of mass destruction?

  “Phantom,” Miri’s voice cut through the storm. “Your vital signs indicate extreme stress. The skill notification is still pending acknowledgment.”

  Jess blinked, dragging her focus back to the immediate, physical world. The pain in her chest and back anchored her. Right. Survive first. Process the cosmic-level complication later.

  “Show me the skill.”

  The notification window shifted.