My Shard Bearer System - Elias's Legacy
Chapter 120: Coiled Coin Pain

Chapter 120: Coiled Coin Pain

"Luckily," he added, "the fail-safe didn’t do what it was designed to. This should’ve self-destructed the whole rig. It didn’t. That gives me room to work."

Her brows raised, barely.

"The pins here," he went on, pointing to the collar and upper chest segments, "connect straight to the body’s major output lines. Nervous system routes. You move, you think, it fires—that’s how the suit runs. No battery. No backup cell."

"So it runs off a person," she said.

"Not just runs. Syncs. Pulls from whatever they can give it."

She gave the suit another look, slower this time. One finger tapped along the collar.

"But that doesn’t explain everything. This kind of design... even I wouldn’t try to mass-produce it. Too specific."

Silas nodded once. "That’s what I’m thinking. They’ve got lower-tier versions. You’ve seen the ones the Scouts use—external ports, slower response, all that noise. But this?"

He gestured again. The render rotated.

"This was built for someone. A one-off. Probably doesn’t even calibrate to half the people who’d try to wear it."

Her eyes narrowed. "What about the damage around the neck? That whole area’s scorched."

He hesitated, then zoomed in.

"Still working that out," he admitted. "But if I had to bet—it was the source. The spark. You lose collar integrity, the whole spine circuit collapses. Might even fry the user on the spot."

"So not mass production. Custom fit. Bio-synced interface. Nervous system keyed."

She stepped back, arms still crossed. "Sounds like hell to calibrate."

He nodded again, more to himself than her.

"You should get some rest," she added. "You’d probably make better progress with a few hours of sleep, some coffee, and a fake sunrise."

Silas chuckled at that, short and dry.

"This isn’t desk work," he said. "And I don’t have time to slow down. Not with what’s happening in Vadency right now."

Her expression shifted slightly.

"You mean the video the Primed Epics posted?"

Silas didn’t answer at first.

He just stared at the suit.

"You think we’ll get pulled into a conflict with them?" she asked.

Silas didn’t look up. "I’d rather not," he said. "But they’re a real threat. More than the Federation’s military ever was."

Her brow lifted. "That same Federation? The one that sold you out?"

He leaned back slightly, hand sliding beneath his chin. The final rotation of the suit’s model clicked into place on the screen.

"They didn’t have much choice," he said. "I’m not defending them. Federation’s got problems—more than they’ll ever admit. If they didn’t, I’d be working under their flag. I’d have funding. Access."

He tapped twice, saving the file, then turned slightly in his seat.

"But they operate at a scale I can’t. When you reach a certain point... you have to pick between protecting everything or being the good guy. You almost never get to be both."

Rirana let out a short chuckle. "And what am I to you, then?"

Silas sighed. "The maniac I grew up with. The one who never stops trying to grow things—whether they need growing or not."

He glanced toward the hanging suit again. "For better or worse... I’m stuck with you. Same as with Vincent."

A pause.

"...Though I’m starting to worry about him."

Rirana folded her arms. "Yeah. I noticed it too. Every time he gets a ’quest,’ like you two call it... something shifts. He gets sharper. Quieter. Not cold, exactly. Just... locked in."

Silas nodded faintly. "He’s still Vincent," he said. "But it’s changing him. And we don’t fully understand how yet."

Her tone turned thoughtful. "Still, it’s not him I’m worried about. It’s them."

"The Primed Epics," he muttered.

"They’re drunk on power," she said. "A full organization keyed on destruction and chaos. No vision. Just motion."

Silas clicked through another tab, pulling up a side-window of live feeds. "They create noise. Variables we can’t afford. Especially now—especially if the aliens come back in force."

Rirana gave a small smirk. "Sort of like what we’ve been for the Federation. I bet that’s how they see us."

He gave a dry laugh. "They’re not wrong."

"But that’s fine," she added. "I like that."

Silas nodded. "We cause problems. But ours have direction. We’re trying to uncover what the Federation’s hiding—about the shards, about the suits, the tech, all of it. Their structure isn’t what I’d call wrong, honestly. It’s an upgrade from the mess politics gave us. But the Epics..."

He clicked again. A black-and-white image sharpened on the monitor—one of the recent public broadcasts.

"They’re actively recruiting now. Sent an open invitation to rogue shard users. Join them, be welcomed. No rules, no oversight."

"That’s good," she said. "At least those people will be protected."

Silas didn’t answer right away.

He stared at the screen, jaw tight.

"I have my doubts."

Before he could say more, the screen blinked.

A red box appeared near the top corner, its border flashing.

[ALERT: Appearance at Front Door]

Silas leaned forward.

Great now what is this.

Silas’s eyes widened.

At this hour?

The clock in the corner read 00:57.

The feed zoomed in, adjusting its lens automatically. Outside the compound, a figure stepped into view—young, maybe sixteen at most. Thin frame. Loose vest hanging off his shoulders, its trim lined with gray fur that curled up near the collar.

He carried a small package. No markings. No rush in his pace.

The boy approached the reinforced entrance, crouched low, and set the box down just outside the threshold.

Then he looked up—right into the camera.

"I imagine you can hear me," the kid said. "If you’re not still asleep, take a look inside once you’re up. Think it over."

He turned, calm as ever.

Rirana leaned in, her voice low. "Who the hell is that?"

Silas didn’t blink. "One of our supply lines must’ve been tracked. Either on the return from Vincent’s extraction or some time earlier. That outpost was disposable. But they’re getting bolder."

His fingers moved quickly across the keys.

The feed split. A second screen showed a top-mounted drone lifting from the armory’s upper dock and angling toward the perimeter road. Its onboard camera locked onto the retreating figure.