Episode 32: What the Blue Knight Carries
 
The Ashgrove District had been a residential block before Garrikus came through it.
 
Now it was a wide field of broken concrete and twisted rebar, buildings reduced to skeletal frames, and a crater near the old transit station that the engineering crews had cordoned off with bright orange barriers and a perimeter of warning signs. People had learned what damage like this meant.
 
Roland Vander stood at the edge of the crater in a hard hat and a set of work gloves that he had insisted on wearing himself, despite three separate site managers offering to handle this part for him.
 
He was not required to be here.
 
Site Foreman: Mister Vander, we've got the structural team running the survey on the transit station now. The east wall held better than we expected. You really don't need to be standing this close to the edge.
 
Roland Vander: I appreciate the concern. I would like to see the foundation work directly.
 
Site Foreman: With respect, sir, you're the CEO. You could see it from a tablet in an air-conditioned office.
 
Roland Vander: I am aware of that option. I have chosen not to take it.
 
The foreman looked at him for a long moment, the particular look of a working man trying to decide whether his boss was eccentric or not.
 
Roland crouched at the crater's edge and ran a gloved hand along a fractured support beam, feeling the grain of broken steel beneath the glove's leather palm. Garrikus had been the third assault to reach this far into the city's interior, but the damage he had done was far more reaching. It was the hardest battle the Kishiranger fought so far. Vander's improvements to city infrastructure was making it easier to replace, but it was still a massive undertaking. The battles seemed to calm down for a moment following that attack. The other members of the team had left to recover their injuries at a hot springs. As much as he wanted to go, he couldn't. He needed to be here.
 
He straightened up and looked out across the ruined block.
 
The work was good. Necessary. He believed completely in the importance of rebuilding what the city lost, brick by brick, beam by beam, because a city that did not rebuild was a city that began to believe it could not survive, and Avalon City needed, more than anything else right now, to believe it could survive.
 
But the work was also a place to be while the rest of the team did something he wished he had been part of.
 
He missed them.
 
It was a strange thing to admit to himself, standing in a hard hat at the edge of a crater with calluses forming on his manicured hands. He had spent most of his life as the kind of man who did not require other people. The Vander family raised its sons toward self-sufficiency the way other families raised theirs toward piety or ambition. He had run boardrooms. He had negotiated against men twice his age and made them blink first. He had told himself, more than once during the early days of joining the team, that his interest in becoming Kishi Blue was rooted entirely in his family's ancient oath to protect Jeanne Ark's bloodline, his belief in the necessity of the mission, his own complicated, half-romantic devotion to a woman he had fallen for, and the chance to wash away the stain of Mordred Vander.
 
All of that was still true.
 
But it was not the whole of it anymore.
 
He missed Miles's relentless, exhausting commentary. He missed Lena's sharp tongue. He missed standing beside Trace in the field, watching the ancient knight move with a calm that made Roland's own training feel inadequate. He missed Ashlyn's quiet steadiness, the way she had eventually started looking at him less like an obligation she had to navigate and more like a person she trusted, even if she would never look at him the way she looked at Trace.
 
He missed being part of something instead of standing apart from it overseeing its repair.
 
Roland Vander: Pathetic.
 
Site Foreman: Sorry, sir?
 
Roland Vander: Nothing. Continue the survey. I'll be at the east perimeter.
 
He walked the length of the cordon with his hands in his pockets, past crews hauling debris, past a line of children from the nearby shelter who had been brought to watch the cleanup. One small girl pointed at him.
 
Child: That's Roland Vander. He fixes the city.
 
Another Child: My dad says he's a hero!
 
Roland kept walking and pretended not to hear it, the small flush of something warm in his chest.
 
He reached the east perimeter, where the orange barriers gave way to the quieter side street that ran along what remained of a small public garden. The garden had survived better than the rest of the block.
 
He stopped walking.
 
A man was sitting on the low stone wall at the garden's edge.
 
Heavily bandaged across one shoulder and along the side of his jaw, dark curls disheveled, glasses slightly crooked in the particular way Roland remembered from the file photos Dorian had once shown him during the early days of his recruitment.
 
Ray Matthews.


 
Roland's hand drifted, instinctively, toward the inner pocket of his jacket where the Oathlink rested.
 
Ray looked up before Roland could decide whether to speak first.
 
Ray Matthews: Relax. I'm not here to fight you.
 
Roland Vander: You'll forgive me if I don't take that entirely on faith.
 
Ray Matthews: I understand that.
 
Ray shifted on the stone wall, wincing slightly at the movement, and Roland noticed for the first time he was injured.
 
Roland Vander: You're hurt.
 
Ray Matthews: Astute observation, Mister CEO. Yes. I am hurt. Trace and his Stahlritter saw to that.
 
There was something underneath the words that wasn't quite bitterness, though it was close. Roland recognized the tone. The tone of a man who had lost something he believed he should have won.
 
Roland Vander: A fair fight. True Krieger against Silberritter.
 
Ray Matthews: Not exactly fair.
 
Roland Vander: Because you were ready to fight an uncontrollable monster?
 
Ray Matthews: I wasn't counting on Trace controlling the curse. I thought he'd fight it...he embraced it instead. It's what they were afraid of.
 
Roland's jaw tightened slightly at the edge in that. He let it pass.
 
Roland Vander: It must have been a difficult fight.
 
Ray Matthews: It was the best fight I've had since...since I left.
 
Ray said it quietly, almost to himself, looking out at the garden rather than at Roland.
 
Ray Matthews: He's better than I remember him being.
 
Roland Vander: And yet you walked away.
 
Ray Matthews: Trace let me walk away. There's a difference.
 
A pause settled over the garden. Somewhere behind them, the sound of the construction crew continued, distant and steady, the rhythm of a city patching its own wounds.
 
Roland Vander: Why are you here, Ray?
 
Ray looked at him directly for the first time.
 
Ray Matthews: I wanted to see the new Blue.
 
Roland blinked.
 
Roland Vander: Excuse me?
 
Ray Matthews: I wanted to see who took the relic. Who took Hector's seat. I've heard the name, I've read the file Der Gralsbund has on you, Vander Industries CEO, ancient noble bloodline, but I hadn't actually seen you. Not in person. Not as Blue.
 
Roland Vander: You could have simply asked Dorian Vale for an introduction.
 
Ray Matthews: We're not exactly on speaking terms with the Magnus Foundation anymore, in case you hadn't noticed.
 
Roland studied him.
 
Roland Vander: You wanted to measure me.
 
Ray Matthews: I wanted to see if the team is in good hands.
 
Roland Vander: Why would that matter to you? You chose your path. You left them.
 
Ray Matthews: Doesn't mean I stopped caring about them.
 
Ray's voice was sharp now, the closest thing to genuine anger Roland had heard from him.
 
Ray Matthews: I left because I was raised inside Der Gralsbund since I was a child, and when the Grail surfaced and everything I had been trained my entire life to prevent was suddenly happening in front of me, I made the only choice that years of preperation left available to me. That doesn't mean I stopped caring what happens to them. It means I had to choose between two things I cared about, and I chose the one I was built to choose.
 
He looked down at his bandaged hands.
 
Ray Matthews: I don't hate them, Roland. I hope you understand that, whatever else you've heard.
 
Before Roland could respond, the air around the garden shifted.
 
It was subtle at first, the kind of change that registered as instinct, a faint pressure against the skin, a stillness in the wind that had nothing to do with weather. Roland's hand moved fully to his jacket.
 
Ray Matthews: She followed me.
 
Roland Vander: Who?
 
The answer arrived before Ray could give it.
 
Sister Rosine: Knock knock.
 
She dropped from the collapsed trellis above the garden wall, landing in a low crouch with easy grace, her purple hair catching the afternoon light, the symbols of Der Gralsbund stitched into a uniform that had clearly been altered, taken in, customized, and made into something far less formal than the Order would have sanctioned.
 
Two curved kunai sat in a holster strapped across her hip, and a third was already spinning idly between two fingers.

Ray Matthews: Rosine. I told you to wait for me.
 
Sister Rosine: And I told you that was a boring instruction, so I ignored it. I'm your partner, remember?
 
She straightened up and looked at Roland with an expression of immediate, unguarded delight.
 
Sister Rosine: Ooh. Is this him? Is this Blue?
 
Ray Matthews: Rosine, don't.
 
Sister Rosine: I want to see what he's got.
 
Roland Vander: I beg your pardon?
 
Sister Rosine: A demonstration. A little test. Nothing serious. Father Lughbow has been asking what kind of power the new Blue has, if he syncs better with the Oathlink, and I happen to be standing right here with absolutely nothing else to do this afternoon.
 
Ray Matthews: You want to engage a target unsanctioned because you're bored.
 
Sister Rosine: I absolutely do.
 
She smiled at him with the particular sweetness of someone fully aware of how unreasonable that logic was and entirely unbothered by it.
 
Roland Vander: I have no interest in fighting you, Sister.
 
Sister Rosine: That's not really how this works.
 
Roland Vander: I'm asking you, civilly, to stand down.
 
Sister Rosine: And I'm telling you, civilly, that I find that very cute, but no way.


 
The kunai left her hand before Roland finished registering the shift in her stance.
 
He twisted aside, the blade slicing past his shoulder and burying itself in the trunk of a nearby tree with a thud that scattered ash dust from the bark. He straightened, jacket torn slightly at the seam, and looked at her with considerably less patience.
 
Roland Vander: That was uncalled for.
 
Sister Rosine: That was an invitation to dance. Shall we?
 
She came at him without further warning, fast and low, closing the distance in a series of acrobatic strides that brought her inside his guard before he could fully square his stance. Roland caught her first strike on his forearm, the impact sharper than he expected from someone her size, and stumbled back a half step.
 
Ray Matthews: Rosine, he's not transformed, this isn't fair—
 
Sister Rosine: Life isn't fair, Ray. Father Lughbow says that constantly. I'm just embodying his wisdom.
 
She came in again, spinning low, and Roland found himself reacting with instinct, sidestepping a sweeping kick that would have taken his legs out from under him, only to find Rosine using the momentum of her own miss to vault upward, planting both hands on his shoulders and using him as a launching point to flip clean over his head.
 
She landed behind him in a crouch, already turning.
 
Sister Rosine: You're quick. Good reflexes.
 
Roland Vander: I have trained.
 
Sister Rosine: I'm sure you took fencing lessons at an expensive school. I trained in a cathedral basement with crazy nuns who would throw actual knives at me if I flinched.
 
Roland Vander: That sounds like an excessive teaching method.
 
Sister Rosine: It builds character...if it doesn't kill you.
 
She came at him a third time, faster, and this time Roland was ready, catching her wrist as she reached for him and using the leverage to redirect her past him rather than through him, a clean defensive maneuver.
 
She used the redirection itself as momentum, twisting in midair, wrapped both legs around his head before he could process what was happening, and brought him down to the garden grass in a controlled, deeply undignified tumble that left Roland flat on his back with Rosine's weight pinning his head firmly between her thighs and her uniform skirt settling somewhere in his immediate field of vision in a way that made him acutely, painfully aware of exactly how compromised the current position was.


 
Roland Vander: This is— this is highly inappropriate!
 
Sister Rosine: This is called a headscissor. It's a very effective technique.
 
Roland Vander: It's not fair! I can't open my eyes!
 
Sister Rosine: Are you blushing?!
 
Ray Matthews: Oh come on, Rosine!
 
Sister Rosine: What? It's effective!
 
Roland Vander: I am holding still because moving is going to make this worse for both of us.
 
Sister Rosine: Smart boy.
 
Roland, with what little leverage remained available to a man in his exact circumstances, managed to plant both palms against the ground and drive upward, breaking the hold through sheer determined effort and rolling clear, coming up onto one knee with his hard hat lost somewhere in the grass and his composure considerably more disheveled than he would have liked.
 
Roland Vander: That. Is. Enough.
 
Sister Rosine: Aw. He's mad now. He's cute when he's mad.
 
Roland Vander: I am going to transform now, and I would appreciate it if you took that as the formal escalation it represents.
 
Sister Rosine: Finally. I was getting bored of the warm-up.
 
Roland reached into his jacket and drew out the Oath Link, as it resonated with his Oath Buckler around his waist.
 
Roland Vander: SHIELD OF JUSTICE!
 
Light burst outward in a clean wave of blue and silver, armor forming over his body plate by plate, the crest of the Kishiranger flaring bright across his chest as his helmet locked into place.
 
Roland Vander: KISHIRANGER, ARISE!
 
Kishi Blue stood where Roland Vander had been a moment before, Vanguard materializing across his forearm in a surge of cold blue light, the weapon's surface humming faintly with Ehrvolt energy.
 
Sister Rosine clapped, delighted.
 
Sister Rosine: Oh, that's a good color on you. Very regal.
 
Ray Matthews: Rosine, that's enough, step back—
 
Sister Rosine: You're no fun today.
 
She spun her remaining kunai once, considered the transformed knight in front of her with an expression that was equal parts professional curiosity and pure entertainment, and then, without further announcement, hurled herself forward into a fresh assault.
 
Kishi Blue met her this time with proper readiness, Vanguard raised, deflecting the first kunai with a clean ringing impact, sidestepping the follow up acrobatic strike that came in low and fast. Rosine was relentless and unpredictable, somersaulting off Vanguard's flat edge, using the garden's broken trellis as a springboard, throwing knives from angles that forced Blue into a constant defensive scramble.
 
Sister Rosine: You're better now! Armor helps! I knew it would!
 
Roland Vander: I would prefer if you simply stopped.
 
Sister Rosine: Where's the fun in that?
 
She came in for another acrobatic exchange, vaulting toward him with both legs extended in a move clearly designed to repeat her earlier success, but Blue had learned from the first encounter and caught her ankle mid-spin, redirecting her momentum hard into the garden's stone wall instead.
 
Rosine hit the wall, bounced, rolled, and came up laughing.
 
Sister Rosine: Okay! Okay, that one's fair. Point to Blue.
 
Ray Matthews: Rosine. We're leaving. Now.
 
Something in his voice had shifted, gone flat in a way that made even Rosine pause.
 
She looked at him, then back at the transformed knight standing across the garden, then shrugged with theatrical disappointment.
 
Sister Rosine: Fine. Fine! I got what I wanted anyway. Decent reflexes, strong defensive baseline. Father Lughbow will be pleased with the report.
 
Roland Vander: So, this was a test.
 
Sister Rosine: Everything's a test, sweetheart.
 
She blew Roland a small, mocking kiss, retrieved her embedded kunai from the tree with a casual tug, and retreated to the garden's edge with the unhurried confidence of someone who had never once worried about losing.
 
Ray stood up from the stone wall, wincing again at the movement.
 
Ray Matthews: I'm sorry about her.
 
Roland Vander: Is she always like this?
 
Ray Matthews: Heh. This was a calm day.
 
A silence settled, different from the one before. Kishi Blue lowered Vanguard slightly, studying the man across from him, weighing something.
 
Roland Vander: I have questions for you, Ray. And I think you owe the team some answers, whatever else has happened between you.
 
Ray Matthews: I don't owe Der Gralsbund's secrets to anyone.
 
Roland Vander: I'm not asking about Der Gralsbund's secrets. I'm asking about you. But...if you want to bring up Der Gralsbund what about the Worzol beast you captured during the assault. What have you done with it?
 
Ray's expression closed immediately.
 
Ray Matthews: I don't know what you're talking about.
 
Roland Vander: You do.
 
Ray Matthews: Even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. Some things stay inside the Order. That's not a further betrayal of the team. That's just how this works now.
 
Roland Vander: People could be in danger because of what your Order is doing with that creature.
 
Ray Matthews: People are always in danger, Roland. Look around you. Look at your methods. How are they keeping these people out of harm's way? The city was trashed by Garrikus! Der Gralsbund has always been about containing the situation. Saving people. Having the power to do it ourselves in a safe and protected manner. We're trying to help!
 
Roland Vander: Then prove it. Tell me what they're planning.
 
Ray was quiet for a long moment, looking at the transformed knight across the wrecked garden, the bandages along his jaw catching the gray afternoon light.
 
Ray Matthews: You're worthy of that seat, Roland. I want you to know that, regardless of anything else I say. Whatever Der Gralsbund's file says about you, whatever your reasons were for taking Hector's relic, you fought well today. You'll fight well when it actually matters.
 
Roland Vander: That's not an answer.
 
Ray Matthews: It's the only one you're getting today.
 
He turned, moving toward the garden's far edge where Rosine waited with her arms crossed and an expression of exaggerated patience.
 
Ray Matthews: Tell the team I don't hate them. Tell Ashlyn that, especially. I know what it looked like on the train. I know what it's looked like every time since. But I haven't stopped caring what happens to any of you. I just have to keep walking the path I chose. That's the only kind of loyalty I have left that still makes sense to me. Tell Trace...tell him...we will meet again. Sooner than later.
 
He didn't wait for a response.
 
Sister Rosine fell into step beside him as they crossed the broken lot toward the street beyond, already chattering about something unrelated, her voice carrying back across the ruined block in fragments Roland couldn't quite piece together.
 
He stood alone in the garden in full armor, Vanguard humming faintly at his side, the construction crew's noise resuming somewhere behind him as if the entire encounter had simply been a brief and private weather event that the rest of the city hadn't noticed passing through.
 
He let the transformation fade.
 
Roland Vander stood in the grass, hard hat lost somewhere nearby, jacket torn at the shoulder, and found himself thinking.
 
He needed to tell the team what he'd learned, however little it was.
 
And he needed, more than he wanted to admit out loud to anyone, to simply be back among people who would understand exactly what kind of afternoon he'd just had.
 
The amusement park at the northern edge of Avalon City's outer district was the kind of place that existed in a permanent state of cheerful disrepair, old enough that several of its rides had been built before half the structures around them, but maintained well enough that nobody minded the occasional creak or rattle. Strings of colored lights ran between support poles even in daylight, switched off until evening but visible as a promise of what the place would become after dark. The smell of fried dough and caramelized sugar drifted across the midway in a way that made it impossible to walk past certain stalls without slowing down.
 
Ray Matthews stood at the entrance gate with his arms crossed and an expression of profound reluctance.
 
Ray Matthews: I want it on record that I think this is a terrible idea.
 
Sister Rosine: You've said that four times since the train.
 
Ray Matthews: I intend to keep saying it until you acknowledge how unprofessional this is.
 
Sister Rosine: We're off duty. Off duty people get to have fun!
 
Ray Matthews: You took a vow of restraint.
 
Sister Rosine: I haven't taken any vows yet, remember? That's the whole appeal of being a Specialist-in-Training. I get all the fun of the Order with none of the rules.
 
She tugged at his sleeve, and he allowed himself, with visible reluctance, to be pulled through the entrance gate and into the noise and color of the midway beyond.
 
Ray Matthews: This is not a date.
 
Sister Rosine: I never said it was a date.
 
Ray Matthews: You have implied it.
 
Sister Rosine: I implied nothing. You're the one who brought up the word "date" within the first ten seconds of arriving. That tells me a lot about where your head is.
 
Ray Matthews: I brought it up because I wanted to clarify that it isn't one, preemptively, before you got any ideas.
 
Sister Rosine: Too late.
 
Ray adjusted his glasses, the nervous habit fully reactivated, and said nothing further on the subject.
 
They moved through the midway at a pace dictated entirely by Rosine's attention span, which shifted rapidly and without warning from a ring toss booth to a stand selling snacks to a small carousel that she just had to ride.
 
Ray found himself laughing before he could stop it, a short, surprised sound that he immediately tried to cover by clearing his throat, and Rosine looked extremely pleased with herself for having produced it.
 
Ray easily won another carnival game with the help of his ehrvolt, twisting the rules just enough to win her a giant stuff fox...which she named Ray.
 
Sister Rosine: Tell me something true.
 
Ray Matthews: That's a rather vague request.
 
Sister Rosine: Tell me something true about today. About the duel. About the new Blue. Anything.
 
Ray was quiet for a moment, watching the lights overhead sway gently in the breeze.
 
Ray Matthews: I think he's going to be good for them. Roland. Better than I expected.
 
Sister Rosine: That's a generous thing to say about the man who took your seat.
 
Ray Matthews: He didn't take it. I gave it up. There's a difference, even if it doesn't always feel that way.
 
He looked at the cone of chestnuts in his hand without really seeing them.
 
Ray Matthews: I keep thinking about what would have happened if I'd stayed. If I'd found some way to make the Order's mission and the team's trust fit together instead of choosing between them. I don't think it was ever actually possible. But I keep thinking about it.
 
Sister Rosine: Regret's a heavy thing to carry into a carnival.
 
Ray Matthews: You're the one who asked.
 
Sister Rosine: You're right.
 
She bumped her shoulder lightly against his, an unexpectedly gentle gesture from someone who had spent the entire afternoon throwing knives and wrapping her legs around a transformed knight's head for sport.
 
Sister Rosine: For what it's worth, I don't think the Order chose wrong when it brought you in. You're sharper than half the Specialists I trained with. You think about consequences before you act, which is rare in our line of work, and rarer still in people who grew up the way you did.
 
Ray Matthews: That's almost a compliment.
 
Sister Rosine: I'm capable of those. Occasionally. In small doses.
 
They reached the base of the park's largest ride, an old wooden coaster painted in faded reds and golds that rattled audibly even while idle, and Rosine's entire demeanor brightened at the sight of it with an intensity that suggested the chestnuts, the carousel, and the ring toss had all simply been a warm up for this exact moment.
 
Sister Rosine: We're riding that. Immediately. No discussion.
 
Ray Matthews: That thing looks structurally questionable.
 
Sister Rosine: That's how you know they're good.
 
Ray Matthews: That is not how engineering works.
 
Sister Rosine: It is today.
 
She had his sleeve again before he could fully object, pulling him toward the boarding line with the same unstoppable momentum she'd used against him in the garden hours earlier, and Ray went, mostly because objecting to Rosine in full enthusiasm mode had proven, over the course of their short partnership, to be roughly as effective as objecting to weather.


 
The ride was, in fact, structurally questionable, rattling and groaning through every turn with a violence that seemed designed less for thrills than for genuine cardiovascular concern, and Ray spent the entire two minutes with his knuckles white on the safety bar while Rosine threw both arms into the air and screamed with what appeared to be genuine, uncomplicated joy.
 
When they disembarked, Ray's glasses were askew and his hair had gone in several directions, and Rosine was laughing so hard she had to lean against the platform railing to stay upright.
 
Ray Matthews: I have faced ancient monsters with more composure than that ride just took from me.
 
Sister Rosine: That's a thrilling endorsement.
 
Ray Matthews: It was not intended to be, I assure you.
 
They walked off the disorientation together, Ray straightening his glasses with the now-familiar nervous gesture, Rosine still grinning at some private memory of the ride's worst drop, until the midway opened into a quieter corner near the back of the park where a row of smaller attractions sat beneath a string of unlit lanterns.
 
A photo booth stood at the end of the row, an old model with a faded curtain and a coin slot that looked like it predated most of the technology Ray dealt with professionally.
 
Rosine stopped in front of it immediately.
 
Sister Rosine: We need a photo.
 
Ray Matthews: We do not need a photo.
 
Sister Rosine: We absolutely need a photo. This is a documented outing. Documented outings require photographic evidence.
 
Ray Matthews: Documented for whom?
 
Sister Rosine: Posterity. My own personal scrapbook. Possibly blackmail purposes, depending on how the photo turns out.
 
Ray Matthews: That last reason concerns me significantly.
 
Sister Rosine: It should.
 
She was already pulling the curtain aside and stepping into the booth before Ray could mount a proper defense, and after a brief, undignified hesitation that he would later attribute entirely to fatigue from the coaster, he followed her in and sat down on the narrow bench beside her.
 
The booth was smaller than either of them had accounted for.
 
Ray Matthews: There isn't really room for two people in here.
 
Sister Rosine: There's exactly enough room for two people who don't mind being close.
 
Ray Matthews: I do mind, somewhat, as a matter of professional—
 
Sister Rosine: Coins, Ray. Pay attention to the coins.
 
She fed a handful of coins into the slot and the small screen above them flickered to life with a countdown, and in the scramble to arrange themselves within the frame before the first flash, Ray found himself with considerably less personal space than he had budgeted for, the bench too narrow to allow for any meaningful distance, Rosine's shoulder pressed firmly against his and her hair brushing against his jaw as she leaned in toward the lens with theatrical enthusiasm.
 
Sister Rosine: Smile, partner.
 
Ray Matthews: I don't know how to position my—


 
Sister Rosine: Excellent. Blackmail grade material, every frame.
 
Ray Matthews: I would like to formally request a second take.
 
Sister Rosine: Absolutely not. This is perfect. I'm keeping this exact strip forever.
 
She tucked it carefully into her uniform, directly between her breasts where she knew Ray wouldn't dare reach to retrieve it. She patted it once and looked up at Ray with an expression that had, for just a moment, lost its usual mischief and settled into something quieter.
 
Sister Rosine: Thank you for coming today. I know you didn't want to.
 
Ray Matthews: I didn't, particularly.
 
Sister Rosine: And?
 
He considered the question longer than the moment probably called for, looking out at the lanterns and the faded coaster and the smell of fried dough still drifting somewhere on the evening air.
 
Ray Matthews: And it was better than I expected.
 
Sister Rosine: I'll take it!
 
They began walking back toward the park's entrance as the light shifted toward evening, the strings of colored bulbs overhead flickering on one section at a time, and Rosine's voice dropped slightly, the playful edge softening into something more careful.
 
Sister Rosine: Father Lughbow's pleased with how the assessment went today. With Blue, I mean.
 
Ray Matthews: I noticed you reported it as a successful test rather than an unsanctioned skirmish that you started entirely on your own initiative.
 
Sister Rosine: Stretching the truth is an art form. I've gotten quite good at it.
 
Ray Matthews: What's the next step? You said something about the Order being ready.
 
Rosine's expression shifted, the playfulness retreating slightly behind something more guarded, more careful.
 
Sister Rosine: I probably shouldn't say.
 
Ray Matthews: Rosine.
 
Sister Rosine: It's not that I don't trust you. It's that some things are above my clearance to discuss, even with my own partner. Father Lughbow has been very specific about that.
 
Ray Matthews: That's not reassuring.
 
Sister Rosine: It's meant to be honest. The Order is close to something. Close to the next step in containing what Vantrex represents, properly, permanently. I can't tell you the specifics, not yet, but I will tell you this much, your friends, might not like what happens next.
 
Ray studied her, the easy humor from the rest of the evening fading into something more focused.
 
Ray Matthews: That sounds ominous.
 
Sister Rosine: Everything important sounds ominous. That's just how important things work.
 
She smiled again, the lightness returning to her face like a curtain drawn back over something heavier, and reached out to take his arm as they walked, an easy, casual gesture that Ray, after a brief internal debate he didn't bother voicing, allowed without complaint.
 
Sister Rosine: Same time next week?
 
Ray Matthews: This was not a recurring arrangement.
 
Sister Rosine: It is now. I've decided.
 
Ray Matthews: You can't just decide that.
 
Sister Rosine: Watch me.
 
They walked out through the front gate together as the lights overhead came fully alive against the deepening evening sky, the photo strip tucked safely, and somewhere behind them, far across the water and the hills, the Worzol Dimension's quiet pulse continued without pause, patient and unbothered, counting down toward whatever the next step would turn out to be.
 
To Be Continued...
 

Last edited by Machismo (6/19/2026 1:06 am)

Episode 34: The Race She Carries
 
The Worzol beast moved like something that had never once considered slowing down.
 
It tore through the Riverside district at a speed that left afterimages smeared across the wet asphalt, four insectile legs blurring beneath a chitinous torso, twin curved blades extending from where its forelimbs should have been, slicing clean through a parked delivery van as it cut the corner onto Eastbridge Avenue without breaking stride. Civilians scattered ahead of it. Behind it, five armored figures gave chase at a pace that strained every advantage their gear could offer.


 
Ashlyn Westbrook: At least we're getting a good workout!
 
Trace Mercer: Cut it off at the bridge!
 
Lena Solis: There's no cutting off something that moves like that, we need to box it in—
 
Miles Rowan: Already on it!
 
Miles broke off from the group at the last side street before Eastbridge, sprinting through an alley that ran parallel to the avenue, vaulting a low fence and a stack of delivery crates with reckless momentum. He burst out onto the avenue half a second ahead of the creature's path, plant­ed his stance, and drove a spear of green light directly into the ground in front of it.
 
The beast had to choose between impaling itself or breaking stride.
 
It broke stride.
 
Miles Rowan: GOT YOU!
 
The creature skidded sideways, claws screeching against wet pavement, and in the half-second window that bought, Trace closed the remaining distance with everything he had.
 
Vire the Swift: Aaaaand that's the signal. Break time's over, kiddies.
 
He dropped from the overpass above in a lazy spiral of violet streaked motion, landing on the hood of an abandoned car hard enough to crumple the metal beneath his boots, grinning at the five of them with the particular delight of a man who had been looking forward to this all morning.
 
Roland Vander: Vire.
 
Vire the Swift: The one and only. Don't look so upset, you'll hurt my feelings.
 
He hopped down from the car, rolling his shoulders, violet eyes tracking the beast as it regained its footing and turned back toward them with an angry chittering hiss.
 
Vire the Swift: Lord Vantrex's patience finally ran dry. We're done letting you catch your breath after that little victory lap you took with Garrikus and Gideon. We're finding where the Magnus Foundation's been hiding their precious little Rune Lenses, and once we do, we're going to rip a permanent hole between this world and the one we belong to. No more half measures. No more borrowed time. A door that never closes.
 
Trace Mercer: That door does not open. Not while we're standing.
 
Vire the Swift: That's the spirit! That's exactly the spirit I was hoping for. Go on, then. Make it interesting.
 
He snapped his fingers, and the beast lunged.
 
It came at Trace first, blades flashing, and for the first time since the cave, Kingslight left its sheath in open battle, the blade's gold and white glow cutting through the afternoon light. Trace caught the first scything strike on the flat of the blade and felt, immediately, viscerally, the difference between this weapon and the one he'd carried for months prior. Kingslight did not merely block. It answered with force.
 
Trace Mercer: So this is what Uther carried. Incredible.
 
He drove forward, and the beast that had outpaced all five of them across half a district suddenly found itself unable to retreat fast enough. Kingslight's edge bit through chitin that should have deflected a lesser blade entirely, and the creature shrieked, recoiling, one foreleg severed clean at the joint.
 
Lena Solis: Trace, NOW!
 
Trace Mercer: Together! Bring it down!
 
The five of them converged, Kishi Black sweeping low to take the creature's legs, Kishi Yellow driving a golden strike into its exposed flank, Kishi Blue bashing it into place with Vangaurd, and Kishi Green finishing with a spear thrust through the gap Trace's blade had already opened, and the beast staggered, wounded badly enough that even Vire's amused expression flickered for half a second.
 
Trace Mercer: Kishi Lion Cannon, awaken and ride to war!!!
 
The newly built Seige Weapon rolled down the street where it met the Kishirangers, who took up point behind it.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: Combine the lights! All of us, now!!
 
Five colored lights converged into the cannon.

Trace Mercer: KISHI LION, ROAR!!!
 
The Kishi Lion Cannon erupted, its jaw splitting wide as five-colored energy gathered deep within its throat. The Worzol beast froze as it was enveloped into the blast. The Worzol beast disintegrated entirely, leaving nothing behind but scattered embers drifting down through the gray afternoon air.
 
Silence settled over Eastbridge Avenue.
 
Vire, still standing on the crumpled car hood, clapped slowly, three times, his grin never wavering.
 
Vire the Swift: Well. That's new. That's very new. Look at you, all upgraded and shiny.
 
Trace Mercer: It's over, Vire. Stand down.
 
Vire the Swift: You know it's not over yet!

The snap of a finger brought the ashes back together into a giant beast. It roared, the sound shaking glass out of windows for blocks, and brought one massive blade limb down toward the street where the five of them stood.
 
Trace Mercer: Scatter! Call them now!
 
They broke in five directions as the blade tore a trench through the avenue behind them, and five voices rose together into the gray afternoon sky, the Oathlink Relics flaring in perfect unison.
 
Trace Mercer: Krieger!

Ashlyn Westbrook: Drakken!
 
Roland Vander: Hector!
 
Lena Solis: Spiegel!
 
Miles Rowan: Kestrel!
 
The ancient mechanisms were launched from the back of the KED Building and landed on Avalon City's modern pavement.
 
The giant beast turned on the five Stahlritter with a shriek that rattled windows across the entire district, both blade-limbs rising for a strike that would have taken Krieger's head off if Hector hadn't surged forward to intercept it, the Vanguard Shield catching the full weight of the blow and driving Roland's mech backward through a parking structure's outer wall.
 
Roland Vander: It's very strong! Let's take it seriously.
 
Trace Mercer: Everyone, on me. We combine.
 
The five Stahlritter converged in the open intersection at the avenue's center, and the Oathlink Relics blazed as one, red, black, blue, green, and yellow light spiraling together into a single column that climbed into the gray sky and pulled the giant beast's attention away from anything else in the world.
 
Trace Mercer: Krieger forms the core! Hector, Kestrel, take the arms! Drakken, Spiegel, brace the legs! Combine!!!
 
The five machines separated into streams of light and reassembled in a single majestic sequence of steel and color, Krieger's frame at the center growing, broadening, the Avalon crest igniting white and gold across a chest plate built from all five Stahlritter at once, Kingslight rising from the combined form's back housing as the entire colossal knight settled into a battle stance that shook the ground for blocks.
 
All Five: TRUE VOLL STAHLRITTER!


 
The giant beast lunged immediately, both blade-limbs scything down toward the combined knight's shoulders, and True Voll Stahlritter caught the first strike on a forearm forged from Hector's reinforced plating, the impact ringing out across the district like a cathedral bell struck by something the size of a building.
 
Trace Mercer: Hold the line!
 
Roland Vander: Holding!
 
Lena Solis: It's pushing hard!
 
Miles Rowan: Push back harder!
 
True Voll Stahlritter drove forward despite the pressure, the combined strength of all five bonds behind every movement.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: Trace. The sword.
 
Trace Mercer: I feel it. Kingslight has replaced the Oathrender even now in this form. Everyone! Lend your strength, now!
 
Roland Vander: Yes, sir!
 
Lena Solis: Lending!
 
Miles Rowan: You got it.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: Always.
 
Five colors spiraled up the length of the blade in a rising helix of light, crimson and blue and gold and green and black weaving together until Kingslight blazed white from hilt to tip, and True Voll Stahlritter raised the sword. The giant beast already recoiling from the sheer pressure radiating off the weapon before the strike ever landed.
 
Trace Mercer: LION UPPER!
 
The combined knight drove the blade upward in a single, devastating arc, catching the beast directly beneath its chitinous jaw and lifting the entire colossal creature clean off the ground in a column of white and gold fire, the strike carving through armor, flesh, and corrupted Worzol energy in one unbroken motion before the beast's shattered form arced backward over the rooftops and detonated in a silent, blinding flash high above the district, the dissipating light scattering harmlessly into the gray afternoon clouds.
 
For a long moment, nothing moved.
 
True Voll Stahlritter stood in the wrecked intersection, blade lowered, the avenue around it cratered and scorched but, mercifully, empty of anyone who could have been hurt by what had just happened.
 
On the rooftop above, Vire was no longer smiling.
 
Vire the Swift: Huh.
 
He stood, brushed off his coat with the air of a man revising his evening plans, and looked at the combined knight for one more long moment before his usual grin found its way back.
 
Vire the Swift: Okay. Okay, fine, that was genuinely impressive. I'll give credit where it's due.
 
He shrugged, the gesture as loose and unbothered as ever.
 
Vire the Swift: Doesn't change anything, though. There's always a bigger toy. See you kiddies soon.
 
He vanished in a streak of violet light, and the five Stahlritter, still locked in their combined form, separated slowly back into their individual frames, settling into a loose formation across the ruined avenue as the Oathlink Relics dimmed and the cockpits released their pilots back to the street below.
 
Miles Rowan: Okay. That was a lot.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: That was a LOT of lot.

Roland Vander: Indeed.
 
Lena Solis: We won, though.
 
Trace Mercer: We won.
 
The next day, the KED Building's main common room had become, over the preceding hour, the site of a fairly spirited celebration.
 
Miles had ordered food, Dorian Vale had produced a bottle of something sparkling that he insisted was "ceremonially appropriate" without elaborating further, and Lena had set up a small speaker that was currently playing something with enough bass to make the table hum faintly whenever the chorus hit.
 
Miles Rowan: To the Kishi Lion Cannon. May it continue to be enormous and devastating and extremely cool.
 
Lena Solis: To the Kishi Lion Cannon.
 
Roland Vander: To the Kishi Lion Cannon, and to whoever in the original Avalon engineering corps designed it, because that is, frankly, an inspired piece of work.
 
Trace Mercer: I believe that was Aurelius's chief artificer. Magnus mentioned him once. Said the man had more imagination than sense.
 
Roland Vander: A compliment, surely.
 
Trace Mercer: The highest one Magnus gave anybody.
 
Ashlyn sat at the edge of the gathering with a plate she'd barely touched, her eyes occasionally drifting to the clock on the far wall, and when the conversation lulled into the easy hum of people simply enjoying each other's company, she stood.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: I have to go.
 
Miles Rowan: Go? Go where? This is a celebration, you can't just leave a celebration—
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: I have something important to get back to.
 
She said it lightly, but there was something underneath it, a particular firmness that suggested the matter wasn't up for negotiation, and she was already moving toward the hallway before anyone could push further.
 
Trace watched her go.
 
He glanced at the others. Lena shrugged. Roland looked equally puzzled.
 
Miles Rowan: Go find out. Report back. I need to know.
 
Trace Mercer: This feels like prying.
 
Miles Rowan: It's not prying, it's caring deeply and also being extremely nosy, which are basically the same thing when it's your girlfriend.
 
Trace stood, considered the wisdom of Miles's logic for exactly as long as it took him to decide he agreed with it, and followed.
 
He found her in the small room she'd claimed as her own down the hall from the main operations center, the door half open, and through the gap he watched her pull a fitted athletic shirt over her head and step into a pair of short red running shorts, lacing a pair of bright, well-worn sneakers.
 
Trace had seen Ashlyn in many forms over the months he'd known her. Academic. Armored. Exhausted after battle. Soft and unguarded in quiet moments between the two of them. He had not yet seen her dressed like this, and he found himself, for a brief and entirely undignified moment, simply staring through the gap in the door before his better judgment caught up with him and he knocked instead.
 
Trace Mercer: Ashlyn?
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: Come in.
 
He stepped inside. She was stretching one leg against the wall, entirely unselfconscious about the outfit, and looked up at him with the particular warmth she reserved only for him.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: I didn't realize I had an audience.
 
Trace Mercer: I was just checking on you. Miles was concerned.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: Miles is concerned about gossip material.
 
Trace Mercer: That's probably true.
 
She finished her stretch and grabbed a small device that strapped around her wrist, the kind Trace had learned tracked distance and pace and a dozen other numbers that modern people seemed endlessly interested in measuring about their own bodies.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: I'm going for a run.
 
Trace Mercer: A run.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: Yes.

Ashlyn walked by him and made her way outside, where she began jogging.
 
She set an easy pace through the streets near the KED Building, weaving past pedestrians with the kind of practiced rhythm that suggested this route was well worn, and Trace trying to catch up, found himself struggling to match it within the first six blocks.


 
Trace Mercer: This is considerably more difficult than it appears.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: No cardio?
 
Trace Mercer: I'm a little worn out.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: This is a different kind of work out.
 
Trace Mercer: Apparently.
 
She laughed again, slowing her pace slightly to let him recover, though she didn't stop moving entirely, jogging in a loose circle around him while he caught his breath against a lamppost.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: You're allowed to walk, you know. This isn't a battle. There's nothing requiring you to suffer through it.
 
Trace Mercer: I have questions before I concede that point.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: Go ahead.
 
Trace Mercer: What are you doing? Running. Without purpose. Without an enemy to outpace, or a message to carry, or a battle to reach in time. Why would anyone simply...run?
 
Ashlyn slowed to a stop in front of him, considering the question with more seriousness than he expected.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: People run for recreation. It clears the mind. It's good for the body. Some people compete in races, formal ones, with hundreds or thousands of other runners, all covering the same distance together. There's one happening soon, actually. The Avalon Marathon. It's a tradition in the city, decades old. People train for months to run the whole distance.
 
Trace Mercer: How far is the whole distance?
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: Just over twenty six miles.
 
Trace stared at her.
 
Trace Mercer: Twenty six miles. On foot. For no reason except the running itself.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: For the reason of finishing it. For the way it feels to finish it.
 
Trace Mercer: And you intend to do this?
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: I'm registered already. I've been training for weeks. The race is in three days.
 
She started jogging again, and Trace, after a moment of genuine internal debate about whether his body could survive further punishment in the name of understanding his girlfriend's hobbies, followed.
 
Trace Mercer: Do you enjoy it?
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: I do, actually. There's something clean about it. No monsters. No ancient curses. No Order or Foundation or political maneuvering. Just my legs and the road and whatever's in my head that morning.
 
Trace Mercer: And what is in your head, when you run?
 
She glanced sideways at him, something in her expression shifting, softening into a quieter register than the playful tone she'd kept through most of the conversation.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: It's more than just enjoying it.
 
Trace Mercer: Tell me.
 
She slowed again, this time stopping entirely, breathing steady but her eyes distant in a way Trace had learned, over the months, to recognize as the precursor to something important.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: Hold on.
 
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a photograph, worn soft at the corners from handling, protected in a thin plastic sleeve.
 
She handed it to him.
 
A man stood in the photograph, mid stride, caught by the camera in the middle of what was clearly a race, a paper number pinned to his chest, sweat-soaked and grinning, one arm raised in a triumphant wave toward whoever was holding the camera. He had Ashlyn's eyes. The same shape, the same warmth behind them.
 
Trace Mercer: Your father.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: My father.
 
She took the photo back gently, looking down at it for a long moment.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: He ran the Avalon Marathon every single year for as long as I can remember. It was his thing. His one indulgence, he always called it. He'd train all spring, and every year he'd come home afterward absolutely wrecked and grinning like an idiot, and every year he'd tell me, "Ash, this is the year you train with me. Next year, we run it together."
 
Trace Mercer: Did you?
 
Ashlyn's jaw tightened slightly.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: Not yet.
 
She tucked the photo carefully back into her waistband pocket.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: We kept saying next year. Every year. I was busy with school, or he was busy with work, or the timing never quite lined up, and we just...kept saying next year, like next year was a guaranteed thing instead of something you have to actually choose to make happen.
 
She started walking now, slower, the run forgotten for the moment, and Trace fell into step beside her.
 
Trace Mercer: Ashlyn. I would like to meet your father.
 
She looked at him, startled.
 
Trace Mercer: In the old custom, before a knight courted a lady properly, before any vow was spoken between them, he sought the blessing of her family. Her father, most often, though sometimes her mother, or whoever stood as the head of her house. It was considered the only honorable way to begin such a thing. I have been remiss in not asking sooner. I would like to correct that. I would like to meet him, and ask his blessing properly, the way it should be done.
 
Ashlyn's expression crumpled before she could stop it.
 
She tried, visibly, to recover, to pull the smile back into place, but it arrived thin and unconvincing.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: You won't be able to.
 
Trace Mercer: Why not?
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: Because he passed away, Trace. Three years ago. Before we ever got to run it together.
 
The words hit Trace with a quiet, terrible weight, and he stopped walking entirely.
 
Trace Mercer: Ashlyn. I'm so sorry. I didn't know.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: It's fine.
 
Trace Mercer: It is clearly not fine.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: I'm fine, Trace. Really. It was three years ago. I've had time.
 
She started jogging again, faster than before, the pace pulling ahead of him, and Trace understood, with the particular clarity that came from watching someone he loved try to outrun a feeling rather than face it directly, that this was not a conversation she wanted to have standing still in the middle of a sidewalk.
 
He let her run.
 
He followed.
 
Roland Vander was reviewing structural assessment reports at his desk in the KED Building's small administrative office when Trace appeared in the doorway that evening, looking, Roland noted immediately, considerably winded.
 
Roland Vander: Trace. You look like you've personally run a marathon.
 
Trace Mercer: That is, in fact, why I'm here.
 
Roland set down the report.
 
Roland Vander: Go on.
 
Trace Mercer: I need to know how a man enters one of these marathon events. The Avalon Marathon, specifically. I am told it takes place in three days, and that registration is involved, and equipment of some kind, and I confess the entire process is confusing to me.
 
Roland studied him for a long moment, something working behind his eyes.
 
Roland Vander: This is about Ashlyn.
 
Trace Mercer: It is entirely about Ashlyn.
 
Roland Vander: Trace. The race is in three days. Most people train for months before attempting twenty-six miles. You cannot simply decide to run a marathon with three days of preparation.
 
Trace Mercer: I am not unfamiliar with physical endurance.
 
Roland Vander: This is a different kind of endurance. Marching is one thing. Sustained running at pace for that distance uses your body in ways that—
 
He stopped himself, considering, and something in his expression shifted from caution into something closer to admiration.
 
Roland Vander: You're really going to do this.
 
Trace Mercer: Her father ran it every year. He always told her next year, they would run it together. He died before that ever happened. I cannot bring her father back, Roland. I cannot give her the race she was supposed to have with him. But I can stand beside her at the start line, and I can be there when she crosses the finish, and if there is any version of this I can offer her that might ease even a fraction of what she's carrying, I intend to offer it.
 
Roland was quiet for a moment.
 
Roland Vander: That is very commendable.
 
Trace Mercer: Will you help me?
 
Roland Vander: Yes. Of course I will. Let's get you signed up.
 
He pulled his laptop closer, fingers moving across the keyboard with the brisk efficiency of a man who had handled a hundred logistical problems more complicated than this one and found this particular task, genuinely satisfying to solve.
 
Roland Vander: Late registration is still open, you're in luck. We'll need proper running shoes, not the boots you usually wear, and clothing that won't restrict you, and someone needs to talk you through pacing strategy or you will absolutely sprint the first five miles and collapse somewhere around mile eight, which I have personally seen happen to overconfident first-timers more times than I can count.

Trace Mercer: You attend this marathon?

Roland Vander: Vander Industries and Geist Corporation are the main sponsors.

Trace Mercer: I see. Well, I do not intend to collapse in front of Ashlyn.
 
Roland Vander: Then listen to the advice.
 
They worked through the registration together, Roland explaining each unfamiliar field with patience, and somewhere in the process of filling out forms and ordering proper running shoes overnight from a sporting goods supplier Vander Industries had business ties to, the conversation drifted, as conversations between the two of them often did lately, toward the subject neither of them seemed to tire of discussing.
 
Roland Vander: She really is remarkable, you know.
 
Trace Mercer: I am aware.
 
Roland Vander: I mean it earnestly. I spent the better part of my life convinced I was meant to be the one standing beside her, told myself the bloodline obligation and the family oath and the rooftop confession all added up to something inevitable, and watching the two of you now, I think the thing I admire most isn't even how she feels about you. It's the version of her that exists around you. Steadier. More herself, somehow, than I ever saw her being around me.
 
Trace Mercer: She has always been steady. I have simply had the privilege of watching it more closely than most.
 
Roland Vander: That's a very diplomatic way of saying I'm right.
 
Trace Mercer: I would not have phrased it that bluntly.
 
Roland laughed, the sound easy and unguarded, and closed the laptop once the registration confirmation appeared on screen.
 
Roland Vander: You're all set. Officially registered. The Avalon Marathon will see a fifteen hundred year old knight on its course in three days.
 
Trace Mercer: Thank you, Roland. For this. And for understanding why it matters.
 
Roland Vander: Of course. She's part of my family too, even if it doesn't look the way I once imagined it would. Helping you do this for her is helping her, and that matters more to me than whatever old version of myself once hoped for something different.
 
He extended a hand, and Trace shook it, the gesture carrying more weight than either of them spoke aloud.
 
Far beyond the veil that separated the world from the dimension that fed on its fear, the Worzol Dimension churned in its endless gray and violet storm, and within the obsidian halls of his throne room, Lord Vantrex watched a recording of the previous day's battle play across a surface of dark glass embedded in the wall, the footage looping again and again on the moment the Kishi Lion Cannon had torn his beast apart.
 
He watched it without expression for a long while.
 
Then, quietly, almost to himself...
 
Lord Vantrex: Stahlritter, sword, and now this. The chain grows longer.
 
A figure stood near the throne's base, head bowed, armor scorched.
 
Lord Vantrex: I still grieve him, you know. The knight who swore his allegiance to me, body and blade, and who fell to the Kishiranger's hand because I could not protect what I had claimed. Garrikus deserved better than what they gave him.
 
The figure said nothing.
 
Lord Vantrex: I am planning an answer. Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon, and thoroughly, and in a fashion that will make the cost of taking what is mine unbearably clear to every one of them. We will crush this opposition entirely, root and branch, and when the gate finally opens permanently, we will rule both worlds as it was always meant to be.
 
A soft sound echoed through the throne room, smoke curling at the edge of the obsidian platform, and Malvora stepped through it with unhurried elegance.
 
Malvora: Ambitious words, my lord.
 
Lord Vantrex: Malvora.
 
Malvora: I couldn't help but overhear. Forgive the intrusion. I find myself drawn to grand declarations of vengeance. They remind me of better days.
 
Lord Vantrex: You have not come simply to listen.
 
Malvora: No. I've come to propose something.
 
She moved closer to the throne, the chaos beyond the platform's edge twisting faintly in response to her presence, the way it always seemed to respond to power it recognized as kindred.
 
Malvora: An alliance, my lord. Outside the Worzol Dimension. Beyond its walls, beyond its politics, the way it was done in the old days, before the Great War carved everything into simple sides.
 
Lord Vantrex: The Zauberer clans have not allied with Worzol's interests since before my first defeat.
 
Malvora: Times change. Necessities shift. The Kishirangers grow stronger, my lord, faster than either of us can comfortably ignore. My own clan splinters between those who would court the Red Knight's little band of heroes and those who understand, as I do, that power given freely to children in borrowed armor accomplishes nothing but delay. I would rather see this finished. Properly. Permanently. And I believe an alliance between us could accomplish exactly that.
 
Vantrex regarded her for a long moment, his burning eyes narrowing.
 
Lord Vantrex: You intrigue me, witch.
 
Malvora: I intend to.
 
Lord Vantrex: Speak further. I am listening.
 
Malvora's smile widened in the dim violet light, and somewhere beyond the throne room's walls, the chaos of the Worzol Dimension churned a little faster, as though it, too, were leaning in to hear what came next.
 
The morning of the Avalon Marathon arrived gray and cool, the kind of weather runners universally agreed was ideal, overcast enough to keep the heat down.
 
Ashlyn stood near the starting corral among several hundred other runners, stretching, checking her watch, going through the small rituals she'd developed over weeks of training, when a familiar voice spoke directly behind her.
 
Trace Mercer: Good morning.
 
She spun around.


 
He stood there in proper running gear, the shoes Roland had rush-ordered broken in just enough over days of secret practice runs around the KED Building's block.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: What. What is this?
 
Trace Mercer: This is me, running a marathon. I am told that's generally how it works.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: You registered? You TRAINED?
 
Trace Mercer: Roland helped me. He has been remarkably patient with my many, many questions about this.
 
Ashlyn stared at him, something building behind her eyes that hovered between disbelief and overwhelming emotion.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: Trace, you can't just—why would you—
 
Trace Mercer: I understand that next year never came for you and your father. I cannot be him, Ashlyn, and I would never try to replace what you lost. But I did not want you running this race today with no one beside you who understands what it means to you.
 
For a moment, Ashlyn couldn't speak at all.
 
Then she laughed, the sound thick with tears she was visibly fighting back, and threw her arms around him right there in the starting corral, surrounded by a few hundred strangers in athletic gear who paid them no particular mind.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
 
Trace Mercer: You're welcome. Though I should warn you, Roland's advice suggested I will likely embarrass myself somewhere around mile eight.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: I will personally carry you to the finish line if it comes to that.
 
Trace Mercer: A generous offer. I may take you up on it.
 
The starting horn sounded, and several hundred runners surged forward together, and somewhere in the middle of that enormous moving crowd, Trace Mercer and Ashlyn Westbrook ran side by side into the gray morning, laughing, neither of them paying particularly close attention to the route markers.
 
It was somewhere past the twelve mile marker that they both realized, more or less simultaneously, that they had taken a wrong turn.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: This doesn't look like the course.
 
Trace Mercer: I was following the runner ahead of us.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: The runner ahead of us appears to have also taken a wrong turn, because there is no one else around us anymore.
 
They had drifted off the marked route somewhere near a split in the path where construction had rerouted the official course with signage that neither of them, deep in conversation and laughter, had properly registered. The road they found themselves on now wound out through the countryside north of the city, past open fields and scattered farmhouses, the crowd noise and aid stations of the official race fading entirely behind them.
 
Trace Mercer: This is an empty path.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: It is also not the marathon course.
 
Trace Mercer: Yeah.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: I trained for months to finish this race, Trace.
 
Trace Mercer: I know. I'm so sorry. We should turn back.
 
They had barely reversed direction when the sky, which had held its overcast gray all morning with admirable restraint, finally gave way.
 
The rain came down hard and sudden, the kind of downpour that soaked through clothing within seconds, and Ashlyn let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan of pure frustration as they both broke into a sprint toward the only shelter visible on the empty country road, an old bus stop, weathered wood and corrugated aluminum roofing, clearly long since retired from any actual transit route but still standing, stubborn and useful, exactly when they needed it.
 
They ducked inside, breathing hard, soaked through, and the rain hammered down on the aluminum roof in a steady, deafening rhythm that made conversation feel, for a moment, entirely unnecessary.
 
Ashlyn sat down heavily on the old wooden bench, wrapping her arms around herself, and Trace settled beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched.
 
For a while, neither of them said anything.
 
Then Ashlyn's breathing changed.
 
Trace Mercer: Ashlyn.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: I'm fine.
 
Trace Mercer: You are not fine.
 
She didn't answer right away, and when she finally spoke, her voice had gone thin and unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with the run.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: I wanted to finish this race for him.
 
The rain kept hammering the aluminum roof.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: That's so stupid, isn't it? He's gone. He's been gone three years. Finishing some race isn't going to bring him back, isn't going to change anything that happened, and I know that, I know it logically, but every single year since he died I've signed up anyway, and every single year I tell myself this is the year I finally do it, I finally cross that line and it'll feel like I did the one thing we always said we'd do together, and every single year something happens. I don't even know if we can find our way back to the course in time to finish before the cutoff—
 
Her voice broke entirely.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: I just wanted to accomplish it. Just once. I wanted to know what it felt like to cross that line the way he always did, grinning like an idiot, completely wrecked and completely happy. I wanted to do it with him. We kept saying next year, and next year, and now there's no next year left to say it in, and I don't know how to just let that go.
 
She pressed both hands over her face, shoulders shaking, the rain still pouring down around the small shelter, and Trace, watching the woman he loved finally let go of something she'd clearly been carrying alone for three long years, felt something in his own chest ache with a depth he hadn't anticipated.
 
Trace Mercer: Ashlyn. Look at me.
 
She didn't, not at first, and he didn't push, simply waited, his hand finding hers and holding it steady until she finally lowered her hands and turned to face him, eyes red, rain-soaked hair clinging to her face.



 
Trace Mercer: Your father would be so proud of you.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: Trace—
 
Trace Mercer: I never knew him. I cannot claim to speak for him, and I won't pretend otherwise. But I have watched you for months now, Ashlyn. I have watched you face down monsters that would have broken grown soldiers I once commanded. I have watched you carry grief and duty and an entire ancient prophecy you never asked for, and still find room in yourself to laugh, to live, to comfort your friends, to love fiercely and completely. Whatever this race means to you, whatever finishing it might have proven, you have already proven something far greater than a finish line could ever measure. I am so very proud of you. Every single day, I find some new reason to be. I don't know how I ever lived without you.
 
Ashlyn stared at him, the rain still falling steady around them, her breath catching in her throat.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: You're too good to be true. You know that?
 
Trace Mercer: What?
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: A knight in shining armor. I spent all my time dreaking of one while searching for ancient relics and forgotten ruins. You showed up exactly when I needed you, saying exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment. I really did used to dream about someone like you when I was a little girl reading too many history books. I never thought—
 
Her voice caught again, but this time it wasn't grief pulling at it.
 
She kissed him.
 
It was slow at first, salt and rain mixing between them, and then it deepened, her hands coming up to frame his face, and when she finally pulled back just far enough to speak, her voice had dropped into something low and certain.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: Trace.
 
Trace Mercer: I'm here.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: Make love to me.
 
She moved into his lap as she said it, the rain still falling steady around the small shelter, the empty country road stretching out in both directions with no one in sight for miles. It was only Ashlyn and Trace, wrapped together on the weathered wooden bench, soaked to the skin and trembling with something far deeper than the cold.

Ashlyn’s grief had been a storm of its own all day, raw, unrelenting, threatening to drown her. She had pulled Trace here without a word, needing him, needing this. Her arms tightened around his neck as she straddled his lap, their bodies pressed flush in a desperate embrace. Rain traced glistening paths down their skin, mingling with the heat rising between them. His white tank clung transparently to the hard planes of his chest, her red shorts and top were dark with water, molded to every curve.

Ashlyn Westbrook: Trace...

He answered with a kiss that tasted of rain and salt, tender at first, then deepening with quiet hunger. His strong hands slid down her back, cupping her hips, steadying her as she rocked gently against him. Ashlyn reached between them with trembling fingers, tugging the soaked fabric of her shorts aside. There was no rush, only aching need. She freed him from his own drenched clothes and guided him slowly, carefully, until he filled her completely in one smooth, shared breath.



A soft, broken sound escaped her throat. For a moment they simply held each other, joined and still beneath the pouring sky, foreheads pressed together, hearts hammering in unison. Then Ashlyn began to move.

Her hips rolled in a slow, deliberate rhythm, like waves meeting the shore. Each gentle rise and fall drew a low groan from Trace, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs as he helped guide her. Water streamed down their faces, over her long dark hair that clung to her shoulders and breasts, and across his brow. The storm outside matched the one building inside her.

Trace Mercer: I've got you, my lady. I've got you. Let it go.

The climax built like distant thunder, rolling closer until it crashed over her. Ashlyn cried out softly into his mouth, her body shuddering in waves. Trace followed moments later, holding her through every trembling aftershock as the rain continued to fall around them, washing the world clean. They stayed like that long after, still joined, foreheads touching, breathing each other in.
 
The rain had softened to a light drizzle by the time they emerged from the bus stop, the worst of the storm having passed through while they sheltered, and the late morning light had broken through the clouds across the wet countryside.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: We can finish this marathon. I know we can. We should find our way back to the course.
 
Trace Mercer: Agreed. Though I confess I have no idea which direction that is.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: There's a marker back that way, I think. The race app should still be tracking, if I haven't completely broken the GPS by running through a thunderstorm.
 
They found the course again roughly two miles later, rejoining the marathon route at a water station that had clearly been packing up under the assumption that all remaining runners had already passed through, the volunteers' surprise at two soaked, beaming stragglers arriving well behind schedule evident on their faces.
 
Volunteer: You two are still running?
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: We are absolutely still running.
 
Volunteer: The course technically closes in forty minutes.
 
Trace Mercer: Then I suggest we hurry.
 
They ran the final stretch together, the rain fully given way to broken sunlight now, steam rising faintly off the wet pavement, and despite the wrong turn, despite the storm, despite every variable that should have ruined the morning entirely, Ashlyn found herself laughing again, properly laughing, the kind of laugh that came from somewhere lighter than she'd felt in three years.
 
The finish line came into view at the top of a gentle rise, banners strung overhead reading AVALON MARATHON in faded gold lettering, a small but determined cluster of remaining spectators still cheering on the last stragglers of the race.
 
And standing right at the barrier, waving with an enthusiasm that could be heard from a full block away, were Roland, Lena, and Miles.
 
Miles Rowan: THERE THEY ARE!
 
Lena Solis: I thought you two had actually died out there!
 
Roland Vander: We were starting to plan a search party!
 
Ashlyn slowed as she crossed the final stretch, Trace beside her, both of them soaked and exhausted and grinning, and she looked at the three of them cheering from the barrier with a warmth that settled deep in her chest, steadier and more complete than any single finish line could have given her alone.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: We got lost.
 
Miles Rowan: We figured! We got the tracking alert that said you'd gone completely off course and then NOTHING for like forty minutes, do you understand the PANIC—
 
Lena Solis: We thought you'd been kidnapped by a Worzol beast in the middle of a marathon, which, given our luck, was not even close to the strangest theory on the table!
 
Roland Vander: I'm simply glad you're both alive and apparently uninjured.
 
Ashlyn crossed the finish line a half step ahead of Trace, the timing clock overhead reading a number that would have horrified her training plan from a month prior and that she found, in this exact moment, she did not care about at all, and she turned back to find Trace crossing just behind her, both of them stopping just past the line to catch their breath.
 
She looked at her father's photo in her mind. She hadn't crossed this finish line with him. She never would, not in the way either of them had always promised.
 
But she looked at Trace, breathless and soaked and grinning at her like she'd just handed him the greatest gift of his very long life simply by letting him run beside her. She looked past him at Roland, already pulling out his phone to document the moment for posterity. At Lena, already complaining good-naturedly about how cold and wet they both looked. At Miles, practically vibrating with relief and excitement and ready, she knew, to recount this entire story to anyone who'd listen for weeks to come.
 
She had a family.


 
Not the one she'd always pictured, not the one she and her father had promised each other across a dozen unfulfilled next years, but a family all the same, chosen and fought for and earned through battles no one could have prepared her for, standing here cheering her across a finish line on a gray, rain soaked morning.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: Thank you, Dad. I love you.
 
She wiped her eyes, laughed once more at nothing in particular, and let Trace pull her into a tight, soaked embrace as the others closed in around them both, the small cluster of spectators still cheering somewhere behind them, the Avalon Marathon banner overhead snapping gently in the post storm breeze.
 
To Be Continued...
 

The KED Building was on high alert with the sudden disappearance of Lena Solis. Packages were still processed. Dispatch monitors still blinked with schedules and route alerts. Somewhere on the second floor, a printer continued to jam with spiteful consistency. Yet beneath all of that tensions were high. 

Trace Mercer stood near the lounge windows with his arms folded, watching the street below without really seeing it. Ashlyn Westbrook sat at the main table with Lena’s last known whereabouts on a screen in front of her. She had gone to see Professor Halden, but why? Miles Rowan paced behind the couch, too restless to sit and too guilty to joke properly. Roland Vander was present through a wall-mounted video feed from the reconstruction command post, still wearing his suit, yellow hard hat, and work gloves as workers moved behind him through a half rebuilt intersection. Dorian Vale stood at the head of the table, calm in posture and deeply worried in the eyes. Asher leaned against the far wall, arms crossed beneath his cloak, his gaze lowered.

The KED tracking system had failed at the exact moment she disappeared, dissolving into a static pattern that Dorian’s technicians insisted was not interference so much as absence, as if it were just gone. The network had briefly registered a pressure spike beneath Avalon Academy, then nothing. Miles had searched the rooftops, the tunnels he knew, and several places he probably should not have been able to enter in the first place. Ashlyn had gone personally through the Academy grounds twice. Trace had wanted to tear up half the stonework beneath the west cloister with his bare hands, and the only reason he had not done so was because Ashlyn had calmed him down. 

That had kept him still.

Barely.

Trace Mercer: We should be moving.

Ashlyn looked up from the tablet, though the tiredness in her expression softened when she saw how tightly he was holding himself together.

Ashlyn Westbrook: Moving where?

Trace Mercer: I'd very much like to have a word with this Professor Halden.

Miles paused mid-step.

Miles Rowan: You and him wouldn't get along. He thinks you're a cursed loose cannon, waiting to explode, and right now, I don't think you'd do a good job of dissuading him.

Ashlyn gave him a look.

Miles Rowan: Bad time. Understood. Filing that away under read the room. It's still true though.

Roland’s voice came through the monitor, crisp despite the construction noise behind him.

Roland Vander: Dorian, have your people confirmed the Academy substructure map? There are old service passages under the west cloister. Some are pre-renovation, and several were sealed before Vander Industries digitized the campus records. Plus, we know better than anyone that the academy has "layers".

Dorian tapped the table display, bringing up a map of Avalon Academy. Several portions blinked in red where data was missing or contradictory.

Dorian Vale: Confirmed, but not cleanly. Someone has been altering the records. Not recently, either. Some of these false entries were embedded decades ago, possibly longer if the digital versions were copied from falsified paper plans.

Ashlyn Westbrook: Someone planned ahead.

Asher’s gaze lifted.

Asher: Of course. We're dealing with multiple entities that have been playing the long game on this. If Lena stumbled upon something-

Trace turned from the window. He had been quiet through most of the discussion because every minute spent talking felt like another minute Lena was alone somewhere. He respected planning. He understood the need for it. He also hated how helpless it made him feel.

Trace Mercer: I can't stand around and wait. I just can't. You all did everything you could when I was captured. She has trusted me to lead this team and to keep you all safe! I owe her-

The elevator chimed.

Everyone turned to look at the cameras on the first floor. 

A young woman stepped inside with her hands raised slightly, not in surrender exactly, but in the careful gesture of someone who knew she had arrived at a place full of armed people and did not intend to be mistaken for an enemy. She had pale blonde hair tied back with a dark ribbon, sharp green eyes, and an elegant coat cut in a style that looked modern at first glance until the stitching along the cuffs revealed old sigils worked into the fabric.

Dorian’s eyes narrowed at once.

Dorian Vale: Lock the public doors.

The lobby doors clicked shut.

Miles leaned forward over the back of the couch.

Miles Rowan: Okay, that is the most Zauberer looking person I have ever seen outside of Malvora doing her evil librarian routine.

The young woman looked directly into the security camera.

Klara Morgenstern: My name is Klara Morgenstern. I know this is the operational location of the Kishirangers, and Lena Solis is in a lot of trouble.




Episode 36: The Witching Root Part 2

A minute later, Klara stood in the KED lounge surrounded by people who had every reason not to trust her. 

Klara kept her hands visible.

Klara Morgenstern: I understand how this looks.

Miles Rowan: Fantastic. Saves us the awkward part where we explain it.

Trace Mercer: Where is Lena?

Klara swallowed.

Klara Morgenstern: Exactly where the witches intended to send her, I think. The ritual opened a gate somewhere through the Void. I believe she was pulled into the past.

Ashlyn’s face tightened.

Ashlyn Westbrook: The past. Again?

Roland’s voice came through the monitor with a new sharpness.

Roland Vander: Where specifically?

Klara glanced toward the screen, then back to the others.

Klara Morgenstern: The founding era of Avalon Kingdom.

For a moment no one spoke. The words settled into the room with a weight that made even Miles go still.

Trace’s jaw worked once.

Trace Mercer: Can she return?

Klara Morgenstern: Possibly. But the year is unknown to me. The ritual itself was unknown to me. I have to explain, we Zauberer do not consort with the Void. We channel Sanctum energy, the essence of creativity and creation. The Void...is the inverse. It's chaos...it's entropy. For generations we have tried to purge the evils of the Void from our clan, but a splinter group of fellow students disobeyed me, and they performed the ritual at the will of the Void.

Miles rubbed both hands over his face.

Miles Rowan: I miss when the worst thing that could happen was a monster punching a bus. You're telling me this Void has a will of its own?

Dorian stepped closer to Klara.

Dorian Vale: You said splinter circle. Explain.

Klara drew a breath, and for the first time her composure cracked enough to show fear beneath it.

Klara Morgenstern: Haus Morgenstern is not united. It has not been for generations. Some of us believe the Zauberer bloodline can exist without serving the Void. Others believe our clan was weakened when we abandoned communion with the dark beyond the dimensional veil. They call themselves the true heirs. They are the ones who reached for Lena. I believe a trap was set up, just for her.

Ashlyn’s eyes narrowed.

Ashlyn Westbrook: And you waited until now to come out of hiding and warn us?

Klara accepted the accusation without flinching.

Klara Morgenstern: Yes.

Trace’s expression hardened.

Klara Morgenstern: I had to play coy because Malvora was watching me. If I came to you openly before I understood which members of the circle had moved, she would have known exactly where to look. I thought I could stop them internally. I was wrong.

Asher finally spoke.

Asher: You are asking us to believe you, based on your story.

Klara looked at him then. 

Klara Morgenstern: I am asking you to believe that Lena Solis does not deserve to pay for my mistakes.

Trace stared at her for a long moment.

Trace Mercer: I believe you. What do we do?

Back in ancient Avalon, the situation had grown worse.

Lena Solis hit the ground hard enough to knock the air out of her.

She rolled through damp grass and came up clutching the front of her jacket around herself, her face burning with fury. Behind her, men shouted. Horses thundered through the trees. Branches snapped under hooves. She had managed to retrieve most of her clothes from the riverbank before the patrol found her, but not with the dignity she would have preferred. Time displacement was bad enough. Being thrown through the Void into the founding era of Avalon and then nearly caught bathing in a stream by armed riders was humiliation.

Lena Solis: I am going to turn every witch under that Academy into decorative ash!

Another shout came from behind her.

She ducked beneath a low branch, tightened her belt with one hand, and ran faster. Her boots skidded on wet leaves. She still had Aymr, but she realized in the moment that showing that sacred weapon in this time period might screw things up, so she would have to keep it hidden for as long as possible. 

The trees opened too soon.

Lena stumbled into a meadow ringed by riders. A large and muscular Barbarian man jumped off his horse to grab her first. 

Barbarian: You're coming with us!

Lena Solis: Not a chance!



Lena Solis: Have some of this!



Lena Solis: ...

Barbarian: ...

Lena Solis: Alright. Maybe I am coming with you. Yikes!

The horses spread around her in a practiced crescent. Spears lowered. Armor gleamed in morning light.

A figure rode through the gap between the men.

He wore armor unlike the others. It was not the sleek modern shape of a Rider system she knew, but it carried the same impossible authority. 

Lena’s heart lurched.

Kamen Rider Magnus.



Kamen Rider Magnus: You are far from any road.

Lena Solis: Yeah, that's true. I am far from a lot of things.

One of the riders shifted his spear.

Magnus lifted a hand, and the man stilled.

Kamen Rider Magnus: Your name?

Lena hesitated. Every instinct screamed that giving information in the past was dangerous. Every practical thought reminded her that she was surrounded by mounted warriors and one legendary Rider.

Lena Solis: Lena.

Magnus tilted his head slightly.

Kamen Rider Magnus: Solis?

Lena Solis: Yes. That's right. Do you know Asher?

Kamen Rider Magnus: How do you know that name?

Lena realized her mistake immediately.

Lena Solis: Complicated answer.

Kamen Rider Magnus: He is my young apprentice.

Lena Solis: Okay. Young apprentice. I probably shouldn't meet him then. Might complicate things.

Kamen Rider Magnus: You will come with us.

Lena glanced at the ring of spears.

Lena Solis: Do I get to pretend I have a choice?

Kamen Rider Magnus: Please, don't make it difficult. I mean you no harm.

Lena stared at him.

Lena Solis: Weirdly considerate.

Magnus said nothing.

That was apparently the end of negotiations.

They took her to the camp beyond the lake, though nobody touched her after Magnus gave a single quiet order. A rider provided a heavier cloak. Another avoided eye contact so intensely Lena almost felt bad for him.

The camp itself sprawled across the valley. Workers hauled timber toward unfinished palisades. Smiths hammered metal beside smoking forges. Soldiers trained in open fields under banners bearing the early lion crest of Avalon. Families moved between wagons, tents, and half-built shelters, proving that this was not merely an army. It was a kingdom in the fragile process of becoming real.

At the center stood a large command tent marked with the same lion banner.

Magnus escorted Lena inside.

King Uther Arcturus stood over a wooden table covered in maps, stone markers, and small carved figures representing troop positions. In person, away from the lake ceremony’s radiance, he looked younger and more human. He had the posture of a king, but the eyes of a man who had not yet fully grown used to everyone expecting all of this from him.

He looked up when Magnus entered with Lena.

King Uther Arcturus: So the Lady spoke true.

Lena blinked.

Lena Solis: She mentioned me?

Uther stepped around the table.

King Uther Arcturus: She said a Zauberer who fights for justice would be cast into our path when the lake gave up Kingslight. I confess I did not understand what she meant. I had hoped, but to be honest, I was unprepared for such a message. Long have I wished to unite everyone under one banner for this glorious undertaking.

Lena stood very still.

Lena Solis: I’m not exactly here on purpose.

King Uther Arcturus: Destiny and Providence give us little choice sometimes.

Lena Solis: Is this destiny?

Uther laughed softly, and the sound surprised her. So much of history made kings into statues. This one was tired, worried, and apparently capable of appreciating sarcasm under crisis conditions.

King Uther Arcturus: Then I will speak plainly. For many years I have hoped to forge an alliance with those of the Zauberer line who do not consort with the Void. There are old powers moving in the Worzol Dimension. I fear the dark demon Abadon is preparing an invasion.

Lena’s skin prickled.

Lena Solis: Abadon?

Magnus looked toward her.

Kamen Rider Magnus: You know the name?

Lena Solis: No. That’s the problem, because I know what the Worzol Dimension is, but I don't know Abadon.

Back in the present, every screen in the KED lounge flickered at once.

Klara had just finished explaining the ritual circle when the emergency alert cut across the room. A live city feed appeared over the table display, showing panic near the central transit district. People fled between cars. Violet smoke rolled through the street. A Worzol beast moved in and out of the haze, though the camera kept losing track of it because its body seemed to change shape whenever anyone looked away.

Malvora stood atop a streetlight with her staff balanced across her shoulders and a delighted expression on her face.

Dorian’s jaw tightened.

Dorian Vale: Worzol attack. Central transit district.

Miles looked from the screen to Klara.

Miles Rowan: Wow. Your timing is terrible or planned.

Klara’s face had gone pale.

Klara Morgenstern: That is Malvora’s work.

Ashlyn Westbrook: Trace.

Trace followed without hesitation.

Trace Mercer: We stop the attack. Then we get Lena back.

Klara stepped forward.

Klara Morgenstern: I’m coming with you.

Dorian immediately shook his head.

Dorian Vale: Absolutely not.

Klara Morgenstern: Malvora will sense that I'm here eventually, and then she'll know exactly where you are. I have to leave.

Miles grabbed his Oathlink and pointed at Klara with his free hand.

Miles Rowan: For the record, if this is a trap, I will be extremely annoying about it while escaping.

Klara managed the smallest, tensest smile.

Klara Morgenstern: I would expect nothing less from Kishi Green. By the way, I'm sorry I put you to sleep.

Miles paused.

Miles Rowan: You did what now?

The Oathlinks flashed.

Trace Mercer: Transform. Now. Burning Oath!

Ashlyn Westbrook: Darkness Conquered!

Miles Rowan: Knight of the Wind!

From the monitor, Roland straightened beneath his hard hat, jaw tight with frustration.

Roland Vander: I can be there in seven minutes if I leave now!

Light filled the lounge as the three Oathlinks ignited. Red, black, and green armor formed around Trace, Ashlyn, and Miles in layered bursts of mythic energy. Kishi Red turned toward the doors. Kishi Black drew Gravebrand. Kishi Green rolled his shoulders.

Miles Rowan: Alright. Rescue mission delayed by monster nonsense. Very on brand for us.

Kishi Red’s voice carried through his helmet, steady and hard.

Trace Mercer: Move out.

The central transit district had become a maze of smoke, reflections, and shouting civilians by the time the Kishirangers arrived. Klara followed just behind them, staying close enough to be protected but not so close that she interfered with their formation. Malvora noticed her immediately.

The Worzol general’s smile sharpened.

Malvora: Klara Morgenstern. My, my. I wondered which little branch of the family tree had started creaking in the wind.

Klara stopped in the street below her, fists clenched at her sides.

Klara Morgenstern: Malvora, Lena was thrown into the founding era. A ritual circle lost control.

For the first time, Malvora’s theatrical expression faltered.

Only for a heartbeat.

Then it returned, brighter and more dangerous than before.

Malvora: That sounds like a Haus Morgenstern problem, and I do so enjoy watching relatives embarrass themselves. Now, since you are apparently in a helpful mood, why don’t you tell me where the Kishirangers keep their little base? Or perhaps where the Magnus Foundation has hidden the Runes Lenes?

Kishi Black shifted her grip on Gravebrand.

Ashlyn Westbrook: She’s not telling you anything.

Malvora: Oh, Ashlyn, always so possessive of other people’s secrets. It would be charming if it weren’t so predictable.

Malvora snapped her fingers.

Malvora: Vespersona. Silence this conversation.

The smoke behind her folded inward.



The monster emerged with a liquid shimmer, tall and thin, its body covered in layered masks that drifted over its flesh like living faces. Each mask wore a different expression. Some laughed. Some wept. Some stared blankly with stolen eyes. Its limbs were long and flexible, and every movement left behind a flickering afterimage of someone else.

Vespersona: Which face shall I wear first?

Kishi Green lowered into a fighting stance.

Mile Rowan Oh, I hate that. I really hate that thing. Malvora makes the scary ones!

Vespersona lunged.

Kishi Red met it head on, but the monster dissolved into smoke just before contact. A second later, Kishi Black heard Kishi Green shout from behind her.

Miles Rowan: Ashlyn, move!

She reacted on instinct and stepped aside.

A blade of violet energy passed where she had been standing.

The figure behind her was not Miles.

It wore Kishi Green’s armor, carried his posture, and even had his easy stance, but it was not Miles.

Vespersona: No time to doubt! Strike or die!

Kishi Black struck.

The imposter shattered into masks and smoke.

The real Kishi Green appeared on top of a bus shelter and pointed at the dissolving copy.

Miles Rowan: For the record, I would never attack from behind without at least making it funny first.

Kishi Red blocked a second attack as Vespersona reappeared wearing Dorian Vale’s face. The image was good enough to make Trace hesitate for half a breath, and that half breath cost him. The monster’s claws scraped across his chest armor, throwing sparks into the street.

Trace Mercer: It copies voices too.

Ashlyn Westbrook: Then nobody acts alone.

Miles Rowan: Buddy system. Great. Love that for us! Unfortunately, we're a man down to pair off!

Roland Vander: No, you're not! I'm here and I'm up to speed!

Kishi Blue rushed in and held up Vanguard pushing back an image of Lena Solis back into the smoke. 

Malvora watched from above with renewed amusement, though her gaze kept drifting toward Klara. The Morgenstern witch stood behind an overturned taxi, one hand raised defensively as a faint circle of pale light formed around her fingers. 

The fight became chaos by design. Vespersona shifted through familiar faces and armor with cruel precision. It became Roland, shouting for Trace to cover the left. It became Miles, warning Ashlyn to lower her guard. It became Lena again for one vicious moment, causing Miles to freeze before the false Lena smiled with too many teeth and nearly struck him through the ribs.

Kishi Green barely twisted away.

Miles Rowan: That was low.

Vespersona laughed with Lena’s voice.

Vespersona: I'll aim for your heart next time. You even know she's not here, yet you couldn't strike her image. You must love her or something.

Miles’s spear flashed forward.

Miles Rowan: W-what?! You can't just be saying stuff like that!

The blow from Gungnir struck cleanly, but the monster split into three copies before the impact could hold. Each copy wore a different teammate’s shape. Kishi Red faced one wearing Ashlyn’s armor. Kishi Black faced one wearing Trace’s. Kishi Green faced a second false Lena, which he immediately hated.

The copy of Kishi Red approached Ashlyn through the smoke, sword lowered.

False Kishi Red: Ashlyn, stay close to me.

Ashlyn’s heart pulled toward the voice before her mind could stop it. It sounded like Trace. It copied his sound...but it had not copied his soul.

The false Red stepped beside her.

False Kishi Red: I will protect you, because you cannot protect yourself.

Ashlyn’s eyes hardened.

Gravebrand moved before the monster understood its mistake.

Kishi Black: Trace would never say that to me.

Her sword carved through the disguise, tearing away the red armor illusion and exposing Vespersona’s masked torso beneath. The monster screeched. A heartbeat later, the real Kishi Red burst through the smoke and struck from the opposite side, driving it backward into Miles’s spear.

Trace Mercer: Ashlyn.

Ashlyn Westbrook: Real one?

Trace turned his helmet toward her.

Trace Mercer: You are the person I trust beside me, not behind me.

Ashlyn’s grip tightened.

Ashlyn Westbrook: Real one.

Kishi Green landed beside them and spun Gungnir once.

Miles Rowan: That was romantic and tactically useful. Annoyingly efficient couple behavior.

Roland Vander: Do I detect jealousy? Maybe you DO have feelings for Lena?

Miles Rowan: HEY! You're not helping, Vander!

The four moved together.

Vespersona tried to split again, but Klara shouted from behind the taxi.

Klara Morgenstern: Its masks are anchored through the chest sigil. Break that, and it cannot hold a shape.

Malvora’s smile vanished.

Malvora: Klara, dear, family reunions are much easier when you do not help the enemy.

Klara Morgenstern: Then perhaps you should stop being the enemy.

Miles whistled.

Trace raised Kingslight.

Kishi Red: Kishi Lion Cannon!

The Kishi Lion Cannon rolled out from KED and rocketed over to the team. They moved into formation with practiced force, though the absence of Lena made the formation feel incomplete. Red anchored the center. Black, Blue, and Green locked their weapons into position. The lion-headed cannon was ready to fire.

Vespersona: I can be anyone.

Kishi Red’s voice did not waver.

Trace Mercer: Then be defeated.

The cannon fired.

A roaring blast of red, black, blue, and green energy tore through the street, struck the chest sigil, and shattered every mask across Vespersona’s body at once. The monster screamed as its disguises exploded outward in fragments of glassy light. Its true form collapsed, smoking and twitching, before detonating in a burst of violet flame.

For a moment, the street was still.

Malvora stood atop the streetlight, one finger tapping her cheek.

Malvora: Second act, begin.

She snapped her fingers.

Dark energy poured from the sky.

The remains of Vespersona twisted, grew, and reassembled above the district. Buildings shook as the monster rose to giant size, its masks now the size of buses, its body towering over the transit station as civilians fled the perimeter.

Kishi Green looked up.

Miles Rowan: I know we all expected that, but I still hate when it happens.

Kishi Red activated the deployment command.

Trace Mercer: Stahlritters, deploy!

At the KED Building, the launch gates opened.

True Krieger roared into motion first, its red lion crest blazing as it descended into the district with earth shaking force. Black, Blue and Green’s Stahlritters followed, weapons drawn upon their arrival. 

Vespersona attacked before they finished positioning.

Its massive arm became True Krieger’s arm, then Garrikus’s mace, changing shape with every swing. True Krieger met the blow head on and held, servos screaming under the strain. Drakken cut at the monster’s flank, but Vespersona became a copy of Black’s machine and mirrored the motion perfectly, forcing her to pull back before the reflected blade caught Green. Kestrel darted in with speed, but the monster split its face into three masks and predicted each angle of approach.

The battle dragged across the district.

True Krieger could match the beast’s raw force, but every attempt by Hector, Kestrel, and Drakken to create an opening became a risk. Vespersona’s mimicry worked on machines as easily as people, and with only four active Kishirangers in the field, the monster had the advantage.

A new signal entered the field.

Silver light streaked across the skyline.

Silberritter descended from above with its cape trailing like a blade of moonlight, landing between True Krieger and Vespersona with its broadsword drawn. The impact cracked the street beneath its feet.



Silver Templar’s voice entered the channel.

Ray Matthews: I came to assess the Worzol entity for containment. Gralsbund Liner is positioned outside the district. If necessary, I will drag the beast to the train myself. Keep clear.

Kishi Green muttered over the comm.

Miles Rowan: Great. The silver back stabber is here.

Kishi Red’s grip tightened inside True Krieger.

Trace Mercer: Ray.

Ray Matthews: Trace.

Kishi Black cut in.

Ashlyn Westbrook: Lena is in trouble! We need the monster down, and then we need every resource available to bring her home!

Silence followed.

When the Silver Templar spoke again, the arrogance had thinned.

Ray Matthews: Lena is in trouble?

Trace Mercer: Yes.

Ray Matthews: Then we need to end this quickly.

Vespersona lunged.

Silberritter intercepted with a heavy slash that forced the monster back for the first time since it grew. True Krieger stepped beside him. For one charged moment, the red and silver machines stood shoulder to shoulder, mirrors and opposites, built from rivalry and betrayal. 

Silver Templar’s voice remained clipped.

Ray Matthews: Trace, listen. Silberritter was designed as a foil to Krieger, but not only as a countermeasure. When I...when I stole the Krieger schematics during my time with the team, they used them in the hopes we'd obtain Krieger to combine them.

Krieger turned toward the silver machine.

Trace Mercer: You stole our schematics and built a rival machine that can combine with mine!

Ray Matthews: Correct.

Kishi Green's voice crackled in.

Miles Rowan: Ray! You never truly cared about us!

Ray Matthews: I was just following orders!

Kishi Black’s tone was sharp.

Ashlyn Westbrook: Can you two argue after the giant identity thief stops trying to flatten the city?

Trace looked at Vespersona, then at Silberritter.

He thought of Lena alone in the founding era. They were wasting time. 

Trace Mercer: Let's do this, Ray.

The Silver Templar exhaled.

Ray Matthews: Combination protocol. Lion Kaiser Ascendant.

True Krieger’s core roared.

Silberritter’s chest sigil opened in a burst of silver light.

The two Stahlritters moved as if drawn by opposing halves of the same oath. Armor separated, rotated, and locked with thunderous precision. True Krieger formed the main body, its red lion crest expanding across the chest. Silberritter’s silver armor layered over the shoulders, arms, and helm, forming a knightly mantle of white steel and gold trim. A cape of red and silver energy unfurled behind the combined machine. The broadsword and lion blade merged into a massive weapon with a grail-shaped guard and a blazing lion crest at the base.

The new mech stood taller than either machine alone.

Ray Matthews: Lion Kaiser.

Trace Mercer: That's its name? Alright. Then let it stand for Lena.

Lion Kaiser.




Lion Kaiser hit the street with enough force to send shattered pavement jumping around its feet. The combined machine towered over the central transit district, its red and silver armor locking into place with heavy mechanical snaps while the lion crest across its chest burned bright against the smoke drifting between the buildings. True Krieger’s raw power formed the core of the machine, but Silberritter’s silver plating reinforced its shoulders, arms, and helm, giving it the look of a royal war knight built to break sieges. Its massive sword lowered into a ready stance, red light running down the fuller while silver energy sparked along the guard.

Vespersona answered with a shriek and rushed forward on long, shifting legs. Its giant body rippled as dozens of masks rolled across its torso, each face stretching and cracking as it prepared another disguise. It tried to mimic Lion Kaiser’s shape, silver armor spreading over one side of its body while red plates formed over the other, but Trace drove the machine forward before the monster could complete the transformation.

The blade smashed into Vespersona’s raised arm and knocked the monster sideways through a transit sign and half of a pedestrian overpass. Sparks burst from the impact as the Worzol beast dug its claws into the street to stop itself. Before it could regain balance, Lion Kaiser stepped in and slammed its left fist across Vespersona’s face, crushing three of the giant masks at once. The monster reeled, and Kestrel darted in from the side, striking the back of its knee with Gungnir’s mechanized spear.

Vespersona dropped to one knee.

Drakken leapt from the roof of a station terminal and brought Gravebrand down across the monster’s shoulder. Black sparks sprayed into the air. Vespersona screamed, twisted, and threw both arms wide. Its body flashed, and three false Stahlritters peeled away from it in bursts of violet smoke. 

Miles Rowan: We need to deal with these duplicates! Now!

The Kestrel lunged for him. Kishi Green’s Stahlritter spun aside, planted one foot against the side of a bus depot, and launched forward with a spear thrust that pierced straight through the duplicate’s chest. The fake machine burst into masks and smoke, but the distraction was enough for Vespersona to shove itself upright and swing a massive claw at Lion Kaiser.

Trace braced.

Ray adjusted the guard.

Lion Kaiser caught the claw against its sword and held the impact in place as the street cracked beneath its feet. Vespersona leaned in, forcing the blade closer to the combined mech’s chest. Lion Kaiser’s right arm trembled under the strain, but its left hand came up, grabbed Vespersona by the wrist, and crushed down. Metal plates along the monster’s copied arm buckled. The Worzol beast hissed and tried to pull away, but Lion Kaiser yanked it forward instead and drove a knee into its stomach.

The blow lifted Vespersona off the ground.



Lion Kaiser followed with a shoulder charge that sent the monster crashing backward through the glass front of the transit station. Steel beams bent. Concrete pillars cracked. Vespersona rolled across the concourse, scattering broken signs and ticket gates beneath its massive body.

Ray Matthews: Keep pressure on it. Do not give it room to split again.

Trace Mercer: Agreed.

Lion Kaiser charged into the station after it. Vespersona clawed at the ground, pulled itself upright, and spat a spray of violet blades from the mouths of its masks. Lion Kaiser raised its left arm, deploying a shield. The blades slammed into it in rapid bursts, each impact ringing like artillery fire. When the barrage ended, Lion Kaiser pushed through the smoke and brought its sword down in a heavy diagonal slash.

Vespersona barely avoided losing an arm. The blade still carved across its chest and tore through several masks, leaving a glowing red wound along the sigil beneath them. The monster staggered out the far side of the station and back into the open street. Its body shifted again, becoming thinner and faster, with extra arms unfolding from its sides.

Kishi Black moved to intercept, but Vespersona rushed her with sudden speed. Two arms caught her Stahlritter’s blade, another struck its shoulder, and a fourth hit hard enough to send Drakken skidding backward. Kishi Green came in low, spear aimed at the monster’s side, but Vespersona twisted and kicked his machine through a row of parked emergency vehicles.

Lion Kaiser emerged from the ruined station entrance with its sword dragging sparks across the ground.



Vespersona turned, and Malvora decided it was time to help. 

Malvora: Let me see if I can't disrupt this little team up here and now.

The seemed to cast a spell that allowed Vespersona to encapsulate Lion Kaiser. The smoke from Valpersona seemed to trap Trace and Ray in a haze. 



Malvora: Do it. Kill him. Kill him, Trace. Get your revenge. 

Trace Mercer: No. Get out of my head. NOW!

Trace snapped back to consciousness just in time as both he and Ray were nearly at each other's throats, but they shoot that off and refocused on the task at hand.

Ray Matthews: Nice try, witch.

Malvora: Oh shoot. Can't blame a gal for trying.

Lion Kaiser forced Vespersona backward, and it immediately ran back towards the dual Stahlritter. 

The two giants rushed each other.

Their weapons collided in the middle of the street with a blast that blew out every remaining window along the block. Lion Kaiser forced Vespersona back one step, then another. Vespersona’s extra arms hammered at the combined mech’s shoulders and chest, but Lion Kaiser kept advancing, sword locked against the monster’s claws. Trace pushed the machine forward with raw strength while Ray kept the blade steady, preventing Vespersona from slipping around the guard.

Lion Kaiser suddenly disengaged, pivoted, and smashed the pommel of its sword into Vespersona’s face. The monster stumbled. Lion Kaiser spun the weapon around and struck again, this time with a wide horizontal cut that cleaved through two of the extra arms. Vespersona howled and leapt back, landing on the side of a high rise building. It clung there like an insect, masks snapping open across its chest.

Ashlyn Westbrook: It’s going for another disguise shift.

Trace Mercer: Not happening.

Lion Kaiser raised its sword. The lion crest on its chest opened, and a short range blast of red light fired upward. Vespersona jumped away from the building just before the blast hit, but Kishi Green was already moving. His Stahlritter kicked off a lower rooftop and drove Gungnir into Vespersona’s back, knocking the monster down toward the street.

Ray Matthews: Now.

Trace Mercer: Lion Breaker!

The sword came down in one massive stroke, cutting straight through Vespersona’s chest sigil and splitting the mask covered body from shoulder to hip. Red and silver light erupted from the wound. Vespersona screamed as every stolen face shattered at once, the masks bursting outward like broken glass before dissolving into violet smoke.

Lion Kaiser completed the swing and turned its back as the Worzol beast exploded behind it, the blast rolling upward into the sky in a pillar of fading purple fire.

For several seconds, the battlefield was quiet except for falling debris and the low hum of the combined mech’s systems. Drakken lowered Gravebrand. Kestrel machine pulled Gungnir free from the cracked street and rested it against one shoulder. Hector lifted Vanguard, showing several dozen citizens that he had kept shield from the encounter. 

Miles Rowan: Okay. I hate to say it, but that combination is extremely cool.

Roland Vander: I concur.

Ashlyn Westbrook: It did the trick. Plus, I'm glad I got to see Trace and Ray work together again.

Inside Lion Kaiser, Trace looked across the shared cockpit interface toward Ray’s reflected image. Neither of them smiled. The history between them was still there, heavy and unresolved, but for once it had not gotten in the way.

Ray Matthews: So...Lena is in trouble?

Trace Mercer: Yes.

Ray Matthews: ...Then we bring her home.

Kishi Red nodded once.

Ray Matthews: I will assist however I can.

Kishi Red held his gaze.

Trace Mercer: Thank you.

On a distant rooftop, Sister Rosine watched the silver and red machine with unreadable eyes.

Sister Rosine: What are you up to, my Silver Knight?

Below, Malvora stood in the shadow of a damaged building, her staff lowered. For once, she did not look amused. She looked toward the place where Klara stood among the Kishirangers, then toward the empty space where Lena Solis should have been.

Malvora: Lena...where exactly did those fools send you?

Far in the past, the command tent had emptied.

King Uther Arcturus had stepped outside with Magnus, called away by a disturbance near the lake perimeter. Lena remained hidden behind a heavy curtain partition at the rear of the tent, barely breathing. She had ducked there the moment Vance Lot entered, and the pressure of his ehrvolt still crawled over her skin like shadow given weight.

Vance stood alone beside Uther’s map table, one hand resting near the carved marker representing the lake.

Vance Lot: He still believes he can win by refusing what waits beyond the veil.

Another voice answered from the tent entrance.

?: Then he is a hopeful man. Hopeful men are often the easiest to move, provided one knows which dream to poison first.

Lena’s blood went cold.

A second knight entered the tent, tall and severe, with dark hair bound behind him and armor marked by symbols she did not recognize but instinctively hated. He moved with the confidence of someone who did not fear being overheard because he believed history already belonged to him.

Vance did not turn in surprise.

Vance Lot: Agravain Malachor.

The knight bowed, but not deeply.

Agravain Malachor: I come with word from those who see more clearly than Uther Arcturus. The Worzol Dimension stirs. Abadon’s patience thins. The king of this young realm holds a sword and thinks it makes him chosen. But you, Lord Vance, understand the shape of power better than he ever will.

Vance’s eyes reflected the candlelight, and for one terrible instant Lena saw something behind them that was not human ambition, but an ancient hunger.

Agravain Malachor: Let me help you ascend to your rightful place as king of this dimension, in the name of Worzol and Abadon.

Behind the curtain, Lena pressed a hand over her mouth.

Vance Lot smiled.

To be continued..

Last edited by Machismo (6/26/2026 3:20 am)

Vance Lot never remembered the exact moment the world disappeared beneath his feet.

One heartbeat he was standing upon shattered stone, the battle raging around him in a blur of steel and screaming magic, followed by defeat. The next, the ground itself opened with a deafening crack, splitting into a wound that bled emerald light instead of molten rock. The fissure widened. The edge crumbled beneath him.

For the briefest instant he reached for solid ground.

His fingers found only empty air.

Gravity claimed him.

The sky above shrank into a jagged circle as he plummeted into the abyss, the daylight swallowed by impossible darkness. Wind roared past his ears with enough force to steal every breath from his lungs. Broken slabs of ancient stone tumbled alongside him before dissolving into green embers long before they reached whatever lay below.

There was no bottom.

Only descent.

Then the darkness changed.

A sickly emerald glow spread through the endless void, revealing a realm that no mortal mind had been meant to witness.

The Worzol Dimension.



Its sky churned like an endless hurricane turned inside out, clouds twisting in all directions as rivers of luminous green rolled across the heavens. Crimson lightning crawled through those clouds like living veins, flashing in jagged spirals that looped backward against themselves. Every flash illuminated a landscape of broken mountains suspended upside down, floating islands bleeding black waterfalls into nothingness, forests of petrified giants whose branches resembled grasping skeletal hands, and colossal ruins that seemed older than creation itself.

The air itself felt alive.

It pressed against him with malignant intent, whispering at him. Countless voices overlapped inside his skull, promising strength, vengeance, eternity. They laughed when he tried to cover his ears.

The first bolt struck without warning.

Green lightning exploded through his chest.

Agony unlike anything he had ever imagined tore through every nerve in his body. His scream vanished beneath the thunder as electricity erupted from his fingertips and eyes, the smell of burning flesh filling the air. His shirt ignited instantly, fabric disintegrating into ash as his skin blistered beneath the emerald current.

It burrowed through muscle and bone, invading every cell before erupting outward again in violent arcs.

Another bolt found him.

This one struck his spine.

His entire body convulsed violently.

Bones cracked with sickening reports.

His back arched so far it should have snapped in half as vertebrae twisted beneath his skin. He heard ribs breaking one after another, only to feel them knit themselves back together moments later in grotesque new shapes.

He gasped desperately for air.

His lungs answered with smoke.

His skin blackened as though centuries of fire passed over it in seconds. Cracks spread across his body, glowing from within with molten emerald light. Veins thickened into glowing fissures that pulsed with every heartbeat, illuminating him like fractures running through living stone.

Vance clawed at his own arms in blind panic.

The flesh beneath his fingers was changing.

His muscles swelled violently, stretching until tendons snapped, only to reform thicker than before. His hands elongated, fingers fusing and separating again as jagged black claws erupted through bloodied fingertips. His forearms split open, exposing bone that darkened into obsidian before sealing beneath armor-like flesh.

He screamed again.

The sound that emerged was deeper.

Rougher.

Less human.

His jaw cracked with explosive force.

Every transformation came with another blast of lightning.

Every bolt stole another piece of the man he had been.

His memories scattered like leaves in a hurricane.

Even his own reflection began slipping away.

He could remember fear.

He could remember rage.

Everything else was becoming...distant.

The storm carried him lower.

Far below, something vast waited.

Ancient.

Patient.

Watching.

The whispers ceased.

An immense silence settled across the Worzol Dimension.

Even the lightning seemed to hesitate.

The colossal presence regarded the falling figure as though judging a newly forged blade.

The Worzol Dimension had claimed its first king.

And from that day forward...

Only Vantrex remained.






Episode 38: Righteous Purpose
 
The throne room of the Worzol Dimension felt different on this day. Vantrex had been mostly quiet since the fall of Garrikus, but today he had called for his Generals to appear.
 
Vire the Swift lounged against one of the obsidian support columns with his arms folded, entirely at ease, while Malvora stood several paces closer to the throne itself, posture straight, hands folded before her, thinking of the events of recent days, and how nice it actually felt bringing back Lena from the past. She dare not mention her opportunity to grab a Rune Lens. If Vire knew about it, he'd kept it to himself.
 
Lord Vantrex regarded them both from his seat for a long moment before speaking.
 
Lord Vantrex: I have been considering the nature of what binds us. Each of you carries a measure of my power within you. It has always been so, since the day you knelt and took my mark. A fragment of what I am, lent and not given, woven into your strength so that you might serve as more than mere soldiers. You are extensions of my will made manifest in the world above. That has never been a secret between us.
 
Vire the Swift: No argument here, boss. Wouldn't be half as fast without it.
 
Lord Vantrex: What you may not have considered is what becomes of that fragment when one of you falls.
 
The chamber's chill seemed to deepen.
 
Lord Vantrex: When Garrikus was destroyed in the Avalon districts, the portion of my ehrvolt essence he carried did not simply vanish into the Void with him. It returned. To me. Power lent is power reclaimed when its vessel breaks, and I felt every measure of it flood back into me in the instant their blade found its mark.
 
He let that settle.
 
Lord Vantrex: I tell you this not as a threat, but as a fact you should carry into every battle from this point forward. I take no pleasure in losing a general. I have invested too much in each of you, shaped you too carefully, to wish for your destruction. But understand the nature of the arrangement clearly. There are only two outcomes available to either of you now. Victory, in my name, against the Kishiranger and everything that stands between me and the throne I am owed. Or failure, and a return to me, in whatever form that return takes.
 
Malvora: You're saying we either win, or we become part of you.
 
Lord Vantrex: I am saying there is no third option. There never truly was. I am only now choosing to be honest about it.
 
Malvora's expression did something complicated, a flicker of something uncertain crossing features that rarely allowed uncertainty to surface at all, gone again almost before it registered.
 
Malvora: That is...a great deal to absorb, my lord.
 
Vire the Swift: Sounds about the same as it's always been to me. Win or die. We've always known the stakes.
 
Lord Vantrex: Vire understands.
 
Vire the Swift: Vire's just not scared of you, boss. Different thing entirely.
 
Lord Vantrex: Insolent as ever. It is, perhaps, why you have lasted as long as you have.
 
He let his gaze settle on Malvora.
 
Lord Vantrex: You have said little, my witch.
 
Malvora: I am considering my words carefully, my lord. As I always do in your presence.
 
Lord Vantrex: Consider them aloud.
 
Malvora's hands tightened slightly where they were folded before her, though her expression remained composed.
 
Malvora: A faction of my clan has served this cause for longer than anyone. I have given much to this war already. I find myself wondering, simply, whether the arrangement you describe leaves room for anything resembling choice, or whether it has only ever been an illusion of one.
 
Lord Vantrex: There was always a choice, Malvora. You made it the day you knelt. Every day since has simply been the consequence of that first decision, playing itself out to its natural end.
 
Malvora: A natural end that concludes, it seems, with either victory or absorption.
 
Lord Vantrex: Did you imagine it concluded otherwise?
 
She did not answer that directly.
 
Vire the Swift: See, this is why I don't overthink it. Win, lose, get absorbed, doesn't much matter to me which. I've never been the philosophical type. Boss says fight, I fight. Boss says there's a prize at the end, even better. Keeps things simple.
 
Malvora: Not everyone finds it so simple, Vire.
 
Vire the Swift: Not everyone's trying to.
 
He grinned at her, an expression that held no particular malice but no particular comfort either, and Malvora looked away first, back toward the throne, toward the cold burning eyes that had never once stopped watching the exchange unfold.
 
Lord Vantrex: Your hesitation does not offend me, witch. It is, in fact, useful information. I would rather know precisely how loyal each of my generals truly is before the battlefield forces the question for me.
 
Malvora: I have never been disloyal, my lord.
 
Lord Vantrex: ...Indeed.
 
He rose from the throne, the motion unhurried, and gestured toward the dark archway behind the dais, where a presence had been waiting, silent and unannounced, for the entirety of the conversation.
 
Lord Vantrex: Which brings me to the matter of replenishment. Garrikus's loss left a gap in my ranks that I do not intend to leave open for long.


 
Lord Vantrex: This is Malachor. A dark knight and trusted ally of the old age, before Avalon. When Worzol's corruption found him on a battlefield long since forgotten by history, the merger was embraced.
 
Malachor said nothing. His eyes, dull green and utterly without warmth, simply moved between Vire and Malvora with the flat, assessing patience of a predator deciding whether either was worth the energy of a challenge.
 
Vire the Swift: He's...something.
 
Malvora: My lord, if I may ask. Where has he been, all this time? A general of this caliber, and we have never once heard his name in fifteen centuries?
 
Lord Vantrex: Dormant. Bound deep within the Worzol Dimension's oldest strata, beyond even my reach. It wasn't until recently...when I...remembered.

Malvora: Remembered, my lord?

Lord Vantrex: This dimension...makes one forget things...even me. Especially me. But I remember my mission clearly. I know who I am.
 
Malachor: I understand that I must serve Vantrex. I must serve the Worzol Dimension.
 
Vire glanced sideways at Malvora, an unreadable expression flickering across his usually open features, and Malvora returned the look with one equally guarded.
 
Lord Vantrex: Go. Prepare. I have grown tired of waiting.

The vaulted audience chamber of Der Gralsbund Headquarters was quiet enough that every footstep echoed against the ancient stone floor. Sunlight filtered through towering stained-glass windows depicting the Knights of the Grail, casting brilliant reds and golds across the chamber. At its center stood Father Lughman before the great silver grail sigil set into the floor, his hands folded behind his back.

Ray Matthews stood several paces away, still wearing the silver combat jacket of the Silver Templar. His face remained stoic, but the exhaustion around his eyes betrayed weeks of inner conflict.

Father Lughman did not turn around.

Father Lughman: You fought beside them again.

Ray answered evenly.

Ray Matthews: I saved someone. Isn't that part of my job?

The old priest slowly turned.

His normally calm face was harder than carved stone.

Father Lughman: Do not play with words, Raymond.

The title alone carried enough weight to make Ray instinctively straighten.

Father Lughman: The Kishirangers are an unpredictable element. Power in the hands of Magnus, with no regard for us or our ideals. They have performed services, but they have also caused considerable damage. By defeating Garrikus, that power returned to the source! We wished to contain it, to keep it separated from Worzol!

He descended the steps one at a time.

Father Lughman: Their work is complete.

Ray frowned.

Ray Matthews: Complete?

Father Lughman: It is time to remove them.

The words struck harder than any blow.

Father Lughman: Their Oathlinks...their technology...their Stahlritter...their connection to Ehrvolt itself. All of it belongs under the stewardship of Der Gralsbund.

His voice remained measured.

Almost gentle.

Father Lughman: Worzol cannot be trusted in the hands of emotional children who charge into battle guided by friendship and sentiment. We will contain it properly. Permanently.

Ray stared at him.

Ray Matthews: You want us to...take the Kishirangers down?

Father Lughman: Yes.

Ray Matthews: They're saving people.

Father Lughman: They are reckless.

Ray Matthews: They're honorable.

Father Lughman: They are naïve.

Ray Matthews: Trace would never—

Father Lughman's voice suddenly thundered through the cathedral.

Father Lughman: ENOUGH!

The stained glass seemed to tremble beneath the force of it.

Ray froze.

The old priest's eyes burned with disappointment.

Father Lughman: I raised you.

His voice was quieter now.

Far more dangerous.

Father Lughman: I clothed you. I educated you. I forged you into the Silver Templar you have become.

He stepped within inches of Ray.

Father Lughman: Before you ever met them...before you ever called them your comrades...you made an oath.

Ray's jaw tightened.

Father Lughman: We have a duty.

Silence stretched between them.

Ray lowered his head.

Ray Matthews: ...I understand.

He turned without another word and walked from the chamber.

Outside, the crisp mountain air felt strangely suffocating.

Ray had barely reached the monastery gardens when someone fell into step beside him.

Rosine.

She carried an armful of books almost taller than she was.

She looked over at him with genuine concern.

Sister Rosine: You okay?

Ray gave a tired smile.

Ray Matthews: I'll survive.

She studied him for several seconds.

Sister Rosine: I think you're brave, you know.

He blinked.

Ray Matthews: Brave?

Sister Rosine: Most people convince themselves they're right because it's easier than asking questions. You keep asking them anyway.

She shifted the books in her arms.

Sister Rosine: Unfortunately...you're running out of time to keep asking.

Ray looked toward the distant Avalon skyline.

Sister Rosine: Eventually you'll have to make a choice.

She smiled sadly.

Sister Rosine: Embrace your righteous purpose...or betray your oath.

Those words landed heavily.

Rosine suddenly leaned far closer than was remotely appropriate.

Her voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper.

Sister Rosine: Personally...I think brooding Silver Templars are kind of handsome.

Ray nearly jumped.

Ray Matthews: R-Rosine...

She grinned mischievously.

Sister Rosine: Actually, very handsome.

She looked him up and down with exaggerated consideration.

Sister Rosine: Very knightly shoulders. Nice jawline. Those sad puppy dog eyes.

Ray stared at her in complete disbelief.

Ray Matthews: Rosine!

She laughed.

Sister Rosine: Relax! Someone had to break the mood before we both started crying.

Her smile softened.

Sister Rosine: I've been watching the Kishirangers up close these past few weeks.

The joking vanished.

Sister Rosine: I think they're worth fighting against...

She looked toward Avalon City.

Sister Rosine: ...But I also think they're worth fighting for.

Ray looked away.

His fists slowly clenched.

Ray Matthews: Stop making this harder.

Without waiting for another word, he hurried down the stone path.

Rosine watched him disappear around the corner.

Sister Rosine: ...Please don't make the wrong choice.

Meanwhile, KED Headquarters had become significantly less serious.

Miles spread a blueprint of Trace's new apartment across the lounge table.

Miles Rowan: So...housewarming party.

Lena Solis: Absolutely.

Ashlyn Westbrook: He'll pretend he doesn't want one.

Miles Rowan: Which means he'll secretly love it.

Roland took a sip of coffee.

Roland Vander: I did see him having a second set of apartment keys made yesterday.

Miles slowly looked toward Ashlyn.

A grin appeared.

Miles Rowan: Oh?

Lena caught on immediately.

Lena Solis: Already making copies?

Roland shrugged innocently.

Roland Vander: Maybe he has plans for someone else moving in.

Ashlyn blinked.

Ashlyn Westbrook: ...Moving...in?



Miles nodded with complete seriousness.

Miles Rowan: Seems pretty fast, don't you think?

Lena Solis: I don't know. He does seem rather attached to a certain Black Knight.



Ashlyn Westbrook: W-Wait...you don't actually think he'd...I mean...would he ask? We'd barely...I mean...we've only been together and...there'd have to be conversations and...furniture and...

Her thoughts spiraled visibly.

Ashlyn Westbrook: ...Would he even want me decorating...?

Miles burst into laughter.

Miles Rowan: She's actually thinking about it!

Ashlyn finally realized.

Ashlyn Westbrook: You two are awful!

She buried her burning face in her hands while everyone laughed.

Everyone except Roland.

He quietly watched another interaction unfolding.

Miles looked toward Lena.



For just a moment...

His usual grin disappeared.

He simply watched her laugh.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Lena noticed.

Lena Solis: Miles?

He jumped.

Miles Rowan: Huh?

Lena Solis: You were staring.

Miles Rowan: Was I?

Lena Solis: Yes.

Miles Rowan: I was...thinking...about...cake!

She tilted her head.

Lena Solis: Cake?

Miles Rowan: Trace likes cake! We should definitely...buy...cake.

She smiled.

Lena Solis: That's what had you looking at me?

Miles Rowan: ...Yes?

Her expression said she wasn't buying a word of it.

Roland quietly hid a knowing smile behind his coffee mug.

He wisely kept the observation to himself.

High above downtown Avalon City, Trace stood alone atop a skyscraper.

Kingslight rested in his hands.

Unlike Oathrender, the ancient blade felt unfamiliar.

Heavy.

He slowly worked through a series of practiced forms before stopping to examine the brilliant steel.

Trace Mercer: Aurelius...If this sword belonged to you...Why didn't you wield it? Why entrust Oathrender to me...and not keep Kingslight for yourself? Why keep it hidden?

A voice interrupted him.

Ray Matthews: Because maybe he knew that sword is too powerful in inexperienced hands.

Trace turned.

Ray stood near the rooftop access door.

Trace Mercer: Didn't expect to see you. After helping us fight the Worzol beast, I guess it was only a matter of time.

Ray Matthews: I'm not here to fight.

Trace gave him a skeptical look.

Trace Mercer: Really?

Ray slowly approached.

Ray Matthews: I wanted to know something.

His voice remained calm.

Ray Matthews: Do you honestly believe...leaving you in that berserk state with the Grail within Worzol's reach would've been the right thing to do?

Trace's expression hardened.

Trace Mercer: I believe you never gave me the chance to prove otherwise.

Ray Matthews: You couldn't even recognize us.

Trace Mercer: Maybe. Maybe not.

He stepped forward.

Trace Mercer: But you were already looking for the moment to stab us in the back.

Ray's eyes narrowed.

Ray Matthews: I did what I thought would save the world.

Trace Mercer: You broke your oath. Oaths matter, Ray.

His voice carried no anger now.

Only conviction.

Trace Mercer: You keep them. If you don't...how can anyone trust you? How can you have honor?

Ray looked away.

Ray Matthews: You perception of honor isn't always clean.

Trace Mercer: Neither is betrayal.

Ray's composure finally cracked.

Ray Matthews: You think this has been easy?

He struck his own chest.

Ray Matthews: Every decision I've made has been choosing between people I care about!

Trace Mercer: You chose wrong.

Ray slowly unsheathed his sword.

Steel sang across the rooftop.

Trace Mercer: So you DID come to fight.

Ray Matthews: We never finished our previous fight.

Trace looked down at Kingslight, but then planted it into the roof.

Ray immediately understood and did the same with his sword.

Ray Matthews: No Stahlritter. No transformations.

He raised his fists.

Ray Matthews: Just us.

Trace mirrored the stance.

Trace Mercer: Fine.

The distance vanished in an instant.

Their fists collided with enough force to echo across the rooftops.

Ray struck with disciplined precision, every movement born from years of formal training and pent up aggression. Trace answered with the fluid adaptability that had become his hallmark, adjusting mid-exchange and forcing Ray to improvise. Each punch landed harder than the last, neither willing to yield an inch.

Ray drove a hook into Trace's ribs.

Trace answered with an elbow that split Ray's lip.

They separated for only a heartbeat before charging again.

Both men planted their feet.

Both twisted their hips.

Both threw everything they had into a straight punch.

Their fists connected with each other's faces at exactly the same instant.



The impact blasted both of them backward across the rooftop.

They slid several yards before regaining their footing, blood dripping from split lips, chests heaving.

For the first time since the fight began, they looked almost surprised that the other was still standing.

A mocking applause drifted through the air.

Vire the Swift: How inspiring.

Both men snapped their heads upward.

Vire stood on a neighboring rooftop.



Beside him floated a Worzol Beast. Its body appeared to be formed from translucent panes of living glass that shifted constantly, each fragment reflecting distorted versions of Avalon City. Wherever it drifted, shards peeled away from its form like glittering ghosts before reassembling, giving the impression that dozens of spectral figures were phasing in and out around it.

Vire the Swift: Meet Glasswraith.

The creature let out a shrill, crystalline screech as every reflected image in its body smiled at once.

Trace immediately dropped his guard.

Trace Mercer: This is over!

He sprinted toward the edge of the rooftop.

Ray Matthews: No...NO! STOP!

Trace leapt from the building toward the next rooftop, already racing toward the battle.

Ray watched him disappear into the skyline.

His hands slowly tightened into fists.

Ray Matthews: It's not over. IT'S NOT OVER! DAMMIT!

His voice was barely above a whisper now.

Ray Matthews: No one understands the pressure...the stress...the choices.

He closed his eyes.

Ray Matthews: I hate myself for what I've done...

His grip tightened.

Ray Matthews: But if you want me to keep my oath...

He looked toward the distant towers of Der Gralsbund.

Ray Matthews: Then I'll keep my oath.

With that quiet vow hanging in the wind, Ray turned and walked into the gathering shadows, while somewhere below, the first terrified screams of civilians echoed through downtown Avalon City.
 
The other four Kishiranger arrived within the minute, transforming mid-stride as they joined Kishi Red, fighting Dreadlings that began to creep out of the shadows, and cleared the plaza's outer barricade. They set their sights on the Glasswraith.

The Glasswraith floated silently through the deserted district, its crystalline body refracting the lights of Avalon City's skyscrapers into hundreds of distorted reflections. Every pane of living glass that composed its body shifted independently, making it impossible to tell where the creature truly was. Wherever it drifted, storefront windows shimmered unnaturally, and the reflective facades of office towers rippled as though they had become liquid.

Vire stood atop a nearby rooftop with one hand resting casually on the pommel of his elegant sword.

Vire the Swift: Have fun, little knights!

Without warning, the Glasswraith dissolved.

Its entire body exploded into thousands of glittering shards.

The fragments disappeared into every reflective surface around the intersection.

The city itself became its body.

Ashlyn Westbrook: That's... unsettling.

Miles Rowan: Anybody else lose where the monster went about five seconds ago?

Roland Vander: Stay away from the windows.

Lena slowly looked around.

Every building...every parked car...every storefront...every puddle...

Contained the Glasswraith's reflection.

Hundreds of identical monsters stared back at them.

Lena Solis: It's everywhere...

One reflection smiled.

Then all of them smiled.

Glass erupted from the windows surrounding the team.

The Glasswraith burst from the side of a skyscraper, its arm reshaping into a jagged crystalline blade.

Kishi Black barely intercepted the strike with Gravebrand.

The impact rang out all around them.

Ashlyn Westbrook: It's behind us!

Before anyone could react, the creature dissolved again.

Its body shattered into sparkling fragments that scattered into nearby windows.

Kishi Blue swung Shield Vanguard through empty air.

Roland Vander: Stand still!

A parked moderately priced sedan suddenly exploded.

The monster emerged from the car's windshield, driving a claw toward Kishi Yellow.

Kishi Green tackled her clear just before the attack struck.

Glass burst across the pavement.

Miles Rowan: This thing cheats!

Lena Solis: I'm beginning to agree! Thanks Miles...you can...you can get off me now though.

Miles Rowan: Huh? Yeah! Right!

The creature laughed.

Its voice echoed from every reflective surface simultaneously.

The Kishirangers spread out.

Kishi Blue planted himself near the center of the intersection.

Roland Vander: Stay moving! Don't let it isolate anyone!

The Glasswraith answered by becoming hundreds of razor-sharp shards.

The crystal fragments spun through the streets like a hurricane.

Kishi Green darted between them, Gungnir spinning so quickly it became a green blur, batting dozens of shards harmlessly aside.

Miles Rowan: You picked the wrong speedster!

The remaining shards curved around him anyway.

They weren't attacking.

They were surrounding.

The fragments suddenly converged behind him.

The Glasswraith reformed instantly.

A massive crystalline fist slammed into Kishi Green's back, launching him across the street.

Lena Solis: Miles!

Kishi Yellow charged, Aymr glowing gold.

She swung the massive axe with enough force to split the pavement.

The Glasswraith simply dissolved.

Her axe struck nothing.

The creature emerged from the polished head of Aymr itself.

A claw lashed toward her face.

Kishi Black intercepted with Gravebrand, knocking the attack aside.

Ashlyn Westbrook: Don't trust any reflection!

Trace had remained unusually quiet.

He watched.

Studied.

Kingslight reflected the monster every time it moved between surfaces.

The Glasswraith lunged again.

This time toward Ashlyn.

Trace Mercer: Ashlyn! Down!

She dropped instantly.

Trace surged forward.

Instead of swinging at the monster...

He thrust Kingslight directly into the reflection beneath its feet.

The blade pierced the mirrored image on the polished pavement.

The real monster screamed.

Emerald sparks erupted across its body.

For the first time it failed to phase away.

Lena Solis: Trace!

Trace Mercer: We need to strike while the iron is hot, Kishirangers!

The Glasswraith staggered backward, its crystalline body flickering violently.

Vire's smile faded.

Vire the Swift: ...Interesting.

The monster desperately tried to dissolve again.

Half its body became shards.

The other half remained trapped in place.

Its own powers were fighting against the holy energy coursing through Kingslight.

Trace raised the ancient blade.

Golden light erupted from its edge.

Trace Mercer: Everybody! Now!

The team understood immediately.

Kishi Blue charged first.

Shield Vanguard crashed into the monster's chest like a battering ram.

Kishi Black followed, Gravebrand carving black sparks across its shoulder.

Kishi Green spun Gungnir overhead before driving the spear into the creature's side.

Kishi Yellow leapt high above the battlefield. The enormous axe slammed down onto the Glasswraith's back.

The combined assault drove the monster to one knee.

Trace appeared directly in front of it.

Kingslight blazed brighter than the setting sun.

Trace Mercer: Kingslight...Lion's Judgment!

One perfect slash.

Golden light cut completely through the Glasswraith.

The holy energy spread through every crystal composing its body.

Instead of shattering...

The monster froze.

Every fragment stopped moving.

Its body became a motionless crystalline statue.

Miles Rowan: It's stunned!

Roland Vander: Don't give it time to recover!

The five Rangers sprinted backward simultaneously.

Their Oathlinks flashed.

Trace Mercer: Kishirangers!

All: Kishi Lion Cannon!

The massive lion-headed artillery weapon rushed to the scene, locking into position before the team.

The Rangers moved with practiced precision.

Golden energy flowed from Kingslight directly into the Lion Cannon's core.

The lion's eyes ignited.

All Five: KISHI...LION...CANNON!

The lion's mouth opened with a deafening mechanical roar.

A colossal beam of crimson, gold, emerald, sapphire, and amber energy erupted across the intersection.

The Glasswraith had only begun to crack free of Kingslight's stun when the beam struck.

Its body shattered instantly.

The blast consumed every fragment before they could scatter.

Each crystal dissolved into motes of silver light that vanished completely, leaving nothing behind for the monster to regenerate from.

The beam continued into the sky before finally fading.

Silence settled over the ruined intersection.

Miles let out a long breath.

Miles Rowan: Well...that's one way to stop something from turning giant.
 
For a moment, the plaza was quiet.
 
Then Vire made his move.
 
Vire the Swift: Predictable. Just what we wanted. Time to truly set the stage.
 
He snapped his fingers, and the scattered fragments surged upward, gathering and multiplying at a great speed. The creature reforming at a scale that dwarfed the surrounding buildings within seconds, its mirrored surfaces now vast enough to reflect entire city blocks back at the people staring up at it in horror.
 
Vire the Swift: ...You're up.
 
Miles Rowan: Stop doing that!
 
Trace Mercer: Everyone! Call them now!
 
The five Stahlritter rose into the night sky in their familiar streaks of red, blue, yellow, green, and black. The five colors converged in the plaza's center in a column of light. The team immediately began the procedure to combine.

All Five: TRUE VOLL STAHLRITTER!
 
The combined knight met Glasswraith's first strike head-on, the creature's massive mirrored limb shattering against True Voll Stahlritter's raised forearm. The combined knight's superior strength gradually wearing down the creature's defensive trickery as Kingslight rose from its housing, ready to deliver the finishing blow that had ended every giant battle since the sword's recovery.
 
It never got the chance.
 
The ground at the plaza's far edge cracked open in a violent upheaval, and suddenly another figure emerged. Malachor rose from the fissure in a single, unhurried motion, his already massive frame swelling further, doubling, tripling in scale within seconds, ancient muscle and corrupted green energy expanding until he stood eye to eye with True Voll Stahlritter itself, his enormous axe scaling up to match.
 
Roland Vander: What in the—where did THAT come from?!
 
Lena Solis: That wasn't there a second ago!
 
Malachor swung the massive axe in a single brutal arc before True Voll Stahlritter could fully reset its stance, and the combined knight took the full force of the blow across its chest, the impact driving it backward through three city blocks before it finally skidded to a halt against the base of a half-collapsed parking structure.
 
Trace Mercer: Everyone, status!
 
Miles Rowan: Alive! Rattled! Extremely confused about the dark knight who just appeared out of nowhere! Since when do they team up against us like this?! Is that legal?!
 
True Voll Stahlritter rose unsteadily, bracing against the parking structure's remains, and Malachor advanced with the same unhurried, predatory patience he'd shown in Vantrex's throne room, axe dragging a deep furrow through the plaza's already ruined pavement.
 
Malachor: I feel it. The power of Uther's legacy. I, Malachor, will tear it asunder.

Lena Solis: What?! Malachor?! That's the guy! That's the guy Vance Lot plotted his insurrection with!
 
Trace Mercer: Malachor...you're welcome to try us.
 
He raised Kingslight, the blade's gold and white glow flaring in answer to the challenge, and the two combatants closed the distance between them in a single explosive exchange, Kingslight meeting the massive axe in a clash that shattered windows for blocks in every direction and sent a shockwave rolling visibly across the plaza's surface.
 
Neither gave ground.
 
Roland Vander: He's matching us. He's matching us evenly!
 
Lena Solis: Nothing we've fought has ever matched True Voll Stahlritter evenly!
 
Behind them, Glasswraith, momentarily forgotten in the chaos of Malachor's arrival, surged forward to rejoin the fight, mirrored limbs lashing out toward the combined knight's exposed flank, and for a long, brutal stretch, True Voll Stahlritter found itself caught between two giants at once, fending off strikes from both directions with a desperation none of them had felt since the earliest, most uncertain battles of the team's history.
 
Ashlyn Westbrook: We can't hold both of them off forever!
 
Trace Mercer: We just need an opening!
 
The opening, when it came, arrived from a direction none of them expected.
 
A piercing mechanical shriek split the air above the plaza, and every head, human and monster alike, turned skyward to track its source.
 
Silberritter descended in a streak of silver light, landing atop a half-ruined office tower with cold, deliberate precision, and beside him, emerging from the Gral Liner came something far larger, far more horrifying. A massive mechanized reconstruction of Marionettor, the captured Worzol beast Der Gralsbund had taken from the battlefield weeks before, its organic puppet-theater horror now encased in layers of silver-black plating, its needle-thin fingers replaced with gleaming mechanical talons, its wind-up key transformed into a grinding mechanical core that pulsed with contained, weaponized Worzol energy.


 
Roland Vander: That's... that's Marionettor. They WEAPONIZED Marionettor?!
 
Ray Matthews: Father Lughbow always said nothing captured should go to waste.
 
Trace Mercer: Ray! Don't do this! This isn't your fight!
 
Ray Matthews: It's exactly my fight, Trace. I'm simply choosing which side of it to stand on.
 
The mechanized Marionettor let out a shriek of grinding metal and corrupted energy, its scale rivaling both True Voll Stahlritter and Malachor combined, and without further warning it lunged into the fray, talons swiping indiscriminately at both the combined Kishiranger knight and Malachor's massive frame alike, an entirely third force now thrown into a battle that had, moments before, already strained past the team's limits.
 
Malachor: MORE!
 
Vire the Swift: Incredible! Templar, what exactly do you think you're doing?!
 
Ray Matthews: Reclaiming an asset. Try not to get in the way.
 
The plaza, already a wreckage of shattered glass and cratered pavement, became something closer to a warzone in the truest sense, three colossal forces colliding in overlapping, chaotic violence, True Voll Stahlritter forced to defend against strikes from Malachor's axe, Glasswraith's mirrored limbs, and the weaponized Marionettor's grasping talons all at once, while Silberritter circled the perimeter above, watching, waiting, his intentions for the moment entirely his own.
 
Trace Mercer: Everyone, hold formation! Whatever happens, we hold!
 
Lena Solis: Hold against THREE giants?!
 
Trace Mercer: We don't have another option!

To Be Continued...