Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)
Chapter 414 - 408: The fall of Hadeon

Chapter 414: Chapter 408: The fall of Hadeon

The air in the command chamber grew colder with the creeping staleness of certainty, Hadeon had seen sieges before, rebellions, and full collapses of faith and loyalty, but never from inside the epicenter, never while still holding the reins of a war beast that refused to move.

He crossed the room, boots ringing sharp on polished stone, and pressed his palm to the center console again, this time forcing his ether signature through the lock, commanding as if sheer will could patch together a system already rotting from within.

For a moment, something responded.

The screen pulsed.

Data fluttered to life.

Maps, ether spikes, the fragment of a comm line, then a sudden jolt of resistance, as if the system inhaled sharply against his touch and rejected him.

The console flickered once, twice, then shut down in full, the entire wall of data vanishing into black.

A sharp, electric sting lanced through his palm, tracing up his arm with the precision of a needle sliding into a nerve. Hadeon jerked back, glove smoking faintly, and for the first time in days, the pain wasn’t imagined.

"What the..."

"Sir," came a voice from the tactical desk, tense and breathless. "We’ve got a corruption warning in the internal ether lattice."

His eyes snapped toward the man speaking.

"What kind of corruption?"

"The kind that doesn’t come from inside," the officer muttered. "They hijacked our channel structure. Internal ether flow’s collapsing. They’re bleeding the grid from the primary junction."

Another voice joined, this one from the weapons subdeck, barely audible over the rising buzz of failed systems. "Backup artillery nodes just blinked out, station three reports full crystal burnout. The internal defense cannons won’t respond."

Hadeon didn’t speak. He stood there, the light gone from his eyes but not the fury, not yet. His throat worked around something bitter and burned as he pulled off the useless gloves and flung them aside.

"Who the hell..."

But then the monitors above flickered back to life, just one, but it was enough. Not a map. Not a battlefeed. A live satellite scan from the western ridge.

Rows.

Lines.

Dots of steel and silent fire, spaced evenly like chess pieces arranged with surgical precision.

Pais.

Their colors barely showed in the low light, but the shape of the machines was unmistakable: modern artillery, low-profile tanks, and carrier units built to deliver both man and drone alike. The kind of force not built to siege... but to execute.

"Eastern border node just lost contact," someone whispered. "Sir... they’ve closed ranks."

It wasn’t a panic. Not yet. Just the final confirmation of what the city had refused to name for weeks.

Hadeon reached up, slowly, removed the receiver from the main override line, the only one still functioning, locked behind too many signatures for even Damian’s elite to touch, and turned it over in his hand once, twice, before pressing it to his ear.

"Get me the bunker. All of them. I don’t care if they’re nobles or scavengers. Anyone with blood left in their body and a spine in their back, I want them armed and awake in the next ten minutes."

The silence on the line answered him before the voice did.

"Sir," the response crackled, clipped and raw. "There’s no one left in the lower bunkers."

"Then open the vault."

"You said we’d..."

"I don’t care what I said."

He dropped the receiver before the reply could come, turned toward the center of the room, and stared at the last flickering feed from the south.

"They think this city will fall in silence," he said, voice soft, almost reverent. "Let’s teach them how loud desperation can be."

But even as he said it, the ether in the walls stuttered again, stalling between pulses like a heart running out of rhythm. And somewhere far beneath the command floor, a hum began, low, metallic, rising with the steady inevitability of something far, far too late.

The hum deepened.

It wasn’t part of the base infrastructure; Hadeon knew that immediately. He knew every machine in the command floors, every line of ether conduit stitched beneath the walls, every fail-safe, and every cursed relic they’d buried for contingency. This wasn’t any of them.

This was older... and still hungry.

He moved faster than he should have, crossing the chamber with long, hard strides that didn’t falter even when the lights above began to flicker, catching at the edges of something unseen. The emergency ether generator kicked once and failed to start.

There was no time.

"Bring it to me," Hadeon snapped, voice like broken flint.

The guards at the western vault didn’t question him. They had seen the contingency before, locked behind eight layers of fail-safes, a containment ward so unstable no one had dared disturb it for over a decade.

A small black case, square and quiet, carved from obsidian and laced with an old imperial seal scorched out of its original alignment. The box trembled in the man’s gloved hands as he brought it forward, and when Hadeon touched it, the tremble stilled.

Not because it obeyed.

But because it recognized him.

He pressed his ether signature into the seal carefully, ignoring the faint hiss that bloomed under his skin as the wards bit into him. Blood welled from a reopened mark along his thumb, Olivier’s mark, old and faded but still anchored to what remained.

The box opened.

And the air changed. It simply shifted, as if the atmosphere itself remembered something ancient, something it had sworn never to house again. The shard inside the principal ward no longer shimmered like glass or glowed like a tool meant for power. It watched. Its transparency was gone, swallowed by a pitch so dense it seemed to fold the light around it. Veins of dark ether webbed through its core, pulsing with slow, intelligent rhythm, like a second heartbeat entering the room.

That was odd; it shouldn’t be like that. Hadeon leaned closer, and the shard smiled back.

Not a human smile. Not even a sentient one. Just the pressure of a presence, curled and coiled within the shard like smoke behind frosted glass. The kind of familiarity that turns the stomach before the mind can name it.

He should’ve turned away.

But he didn’t.

His hand lifted, trembled once, then steadied by sheer force of habit, the same grip he used to sign death warrants, to command armies, and to conquer. He placed it flat against the central seal of the ward, and in doing so, he opened the last door he would ever step through.

The response was immediate.

It didn’t start with sound or light, but with removal. A thin slice through consciousness, a severing so clean he didn’t feel it at first, a slip, like standing too close to the edge of a stair and forgetting how feet work.

Then pain bloomed.

His body became a network of fire, every synapse overloading at once. Ether backlashed through his veins with the precision of a surgeon and the cruelty of a god. He screamed, or tried to, but the sound caught in his throat, strangled by his own lungs as his ribcage constricted and his spine seized.

Blood erupted from his nose, warm and wet, but it was the sensation inside his skull that split him, as if something had reached in with both hands and begun pulling pieces of him apart. Memories cracked like glass under a hammer, names and faces shredding at the edges, and through it all came the rising, impossible certainty that this, this agony, was earned.

His knees hit the floor. Hard.