If the System messages and the unexplained time skip had merely hinted that Kyro's survival was more than blind fortune, Mika's parting words had driven the implication home with a hammer.
There was no longer any room for denial.
By now, Kyro was almost certain that something—or someone—had deliberately intervened to keep him alive. Not luck. Not coincidence. Not grit.
Intervention.
Whatever had pulled him back from the brink possessed the means to undo damage that even elite Ascendant Healers apparently could not, not within a thousand miles, at least. A force whose influence still lingered behind his thoughts, its purpose undefined and its intentions stubbornly opaque.
And that, more than anything else, rattled him.
Favour without context was dangerous. Unsolicited salvation without explanation was worse. Kyro didn't know why he'd been spared, or what price had been paid, or whether one was still outstanding. All he knew was that when the world tried to close the final chapter of his life, something had reached into his fate and quietly rewritten the ending.
Those troubling thoughts clung to him as he put distance between himself and the Ashen District, stepping at last into the high-octane, tech-noir spectacle that was New Taranis proper.
Where the Ashen District was a cruel, lightless dumping ground for normie criminals, prostitutes, orphans, and anyone else society deemed disposable, the heart of New Taranis itself was something else entirely.
As the name implied, the city was a modern reinvention of an older one, lost to history. The original Taranis, like most cities of the Old Empire, had fallen during the Ascendant Wars that ravaged the continent over four hundred cycles ago. What remained now lay buried beneath the perilous expanse of Eldergrove Forest, a relic swallowed by time.
New Taranis, by contrast, clung to the edge of a sheer cliff overlooking the Sunken Sea, the Gulf of Shadows yawning endlessly below. Fuelled by pleasure-driven tourism and relentless propaganda, the city had exploded in both size and spectacle over its brief sixty-cycle history.
Skyscrapers of reinforced glass and steel clawed skyward, their twisted silhouettes and spiralling curves resembling the fever dreams of a madman rather than any classical architecture. Faint, translucent rune patterns shimmered intermittently across their surfaces, protective wards, no doubt, designed to keep out far more than wind and rain.
Way down below, Kyro wove through the streets with purpose, head lowered, pace steady. Noon had arrived sooner than he'd expected, forcing him to postpone any serious information-gathering until the crowds thinned to something manageable. That was fine. He wasn't in a hurry. Besides, sorting out his finances and employment before burning through coin seemed like the sensible move.
He was nearly halfway to Samm's when something loud, bright, and aggressively tasteless hijacked his attention.
WIN BIG OR GO HOME BROKE!
FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BOLD!
A giant neon banner blazed across the face of a spiralling, corkscrew-shaped tower.
Run out of coins? No worries! Bet your wife! Bet your life! Bet it all! Only cowards hedge their bets.
ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE AT FORTUNE CITY CASINO!
Beneath the pulsing slogan, a small pair of golden interlocking rings—the standardised emblem for a Dyadic establishment—spun in a slow, hypnotic loop.
Kyro shook his head as he passed.
All Dyads—cities where normies and Ascendants were said to 'coexist'—had a flair for excess. Anything that spiked adrenaline or dulled restraint was normalised. Luxury shopping districts, exclusive resorts, and high-end boutiques stood shoulder to shoulder with underground fight pits, gambling dens, and drug-soaked rave halls. One building nearby was even shaped like a very suggestive part of the male anatomy.
Subtlety, clearly, was optional.
It was a long-held theory of Kyro's that the city's brazen hedonism wasn't just about entertainment, it was about distraction. Sedation. About keeping adrenaline-hungry Ascendants pacified with neon lights, spectacle, and sanctioned violence.
Because unlike the slums, where Ascendant sightings were as rare as Dreadforms, 'powereds' walked openly here. Not the Class 3s or Class 4s who could level city blocks by accident, but middling Ascendants. Mostly Class 0s. People like Mika. Lowest on the Ascension ladder, yet still high enough to look down on everyone beneath them.
Some strutted in guild colours of questionable repute. Others flashed their Ascendant badges openly, like peacocks in heat. Kyro avoided them all like the plague.
After his run-in with Nia Soren, the last thing he wanted was attention, least of all from other volatile, Ascension Art-wielding live wires.
Speaking of Nia Soren, Kyro scanned every paper stand and public bulletin board he passed, searching for any mention of her or her crew, the Shattered Mirror.
He found nothing. No headlines, no posters, not even a whisper.
It was unsettling.
A week ago, Nia Soren had been everywhere. You couldn't turn a corner without hearing her name, which was how Kyro, someone who normally ignored the news entirely, had even known who she was. Now there was silence. Had the case really been closed that quickly? And if so, where did that leave him?
"Fancy a date, sir?"
A fruit vendor mistook Kyro's unfocused gaze for interest and waved a bruised apple at him. Kyro declined politely and moved on, slipping into the flow of pedestrians. He passed hawkers selling questionable wares and charlatans conjuring cheap illusions for loose change. More than once, he caught himself scanning reflections and pauses in the foot traffic, paranoia outpacing reason. The odds of undercover Enforcers lurking nearby were slim.
But never zero.
Kyro was just rounding a corner when the atmosphere shifted.
The change was immediate and sharp, like a twig snapping underfoot, like the edge of a blade brushing the back of his neck. The hush before lightning strikes.
One minute the street was vibrant, lively. The next, the world stilled. Sound dulled to a distant thrum. Even the wind seemed to hesitate.
Kyro's muscles locked. His breath caught.
He saw nothing. Heard less.
But his instincts screamed like klaxons.
A presence was coming straight for him.
And it had no intention of slowing down.