My Shard Bearer System - Elias's Legacy
Chapter 121: Stride After Pain

Chapter 121: Stride After Pain

"Let’s see what you’re really after," Silas muttered.

The boy walked casually beneath a lone streetlamp, the package already behind him.

The drone dropped elevation—low enough to scan.

Just before the sensor could tag him, the kid turned.

A faint scar ran along his chin, clean and thin like it had been etched with glass.

He stared at the drone.

"Make sure you make the right play here," he said. "We’ll be waiting."

The light around him pulsed, almost unnaturally bright for a second—

—and then he was gone.

Gone. No trace.

Silas snapped a frame and froze it. The drone climbed back, sweeping the street twice before returning.

"Flash the package," he said.

The screen shifted. The drone hovered above the box now, scanning it with short-wave filtered light.

A second later, the image sharpened.

Inside—paper.

A folded letter, dark red trim.

Silas magnified the text.

You are hereby invited to join the Primed Epics.

Refusal means opposition.

We can track you.

He stared at the words. Then leaned back, slow.

Rirana whistled under her breath. "Subtle."

Silas scoffed lightly. "Yeah... subtle threat."

He typed in a string of commands, then leaned back just slightly.

"We’ll up security. Have all supporting acts localize themselves and focus on recovery. Blend back into their current jobs for now. We’ll need to sponge people’s records—same as usual."

He glanced at the monitor once more. The screen still showed the message.

"For now, we focus on surviving. Once the ninety are set... then we move on the Primed Epics. If we need to."

"Sounds good, buddy." Rirana gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. "But get some sleep. I’ll start that process and get back to sleep myself."

—

—Meanwhile, nearly a day later—

Elias panted at the far end of the obstacle course, hands on his knees, sweat dripping down his jawline. His breath came in short bursts as he looked back at the path behind him.

Dot’s sat lazily on his shoulder.

"Holy cow," she said, wings flicking. "That’s a new record for you."

He smirked. "Yeah... but that’s still on the current setting."

He straightened up, rolling his shoulders once.

"Maybe one or two more runs, and I’ll up the difficulty."

Dot’s wobbled a little in the air. "You better rub that in Oliver’s face when you see him again."

Elias chuckled. "I plan to."

He turned, making his way off the course, joints stiff with effort.

"But right now, we need rest. I’m worried about tonight."

"Yeah, you and me both. Everyone’s been working so hard, and to think it could all just... end after one night is..." She trailed off, then shook her head. "It’s just brutal."

Elias didn’t answer right away.

He found his bunk, pulled the blanket halfway up, and stared at the ceiling.

"Yeah," he muttered eventually. "For now, we just focus on surviving. Then help the others when we can."

Time passed.

Eventually, the silence grew long, and the aches in his body settled.

"I will say," Elias added, voice low, "seeing the stats while they fought... and how it absorbed soul energy... that was pretty unique."

Dot’s made a small noise. "Yeah. I agree. It was... pretty cool, if you look past the death and all that."

Neither said much after that.

His eyelids drifted.

The light in the room dimmed slightly.

And when Elias blinked again—

He wasn’t in bed anymore.

That same space stretched out beneath his feet. Cold, still, quiet.

And the Announcer stood at the center, waiting.

His blazer shifted like wind tugged at the hem, even though the air didn’t move. The white shirt underneath was open at the collar, forming a sharp V. Blue slacks shimmered faintly with steam near the ankles, catching the overhead glow. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine.

And the glasses? Still wrong. A red diamond over the left eye, a blue over the right. Both jutting too far from his face. Still watching everything.

He twirled the silver microphone once, catching it between two fingers without looking.

"Well," he said, grinning. "Someone’s eager."

Elias didn’t respond. He hadn’t moved. Neither had anyone else.

The arena hadn’t formed yet. The walls didn’t exist. Just that dark platform suspended in every direction, as if the floor was the only thing that ever mattered.

The Announcer raised one brow. "No questions this time? No internal monologue? No dreams you’d like to discuss?"

He stepped forward. The shoes didn’t make a sound.

"No matter. You’re not the one stepping in today anyway."

He tapped the mic against his palm.

"Let’s get back to it, shall we?"

The space around them rippled. The void shifted.

Behind him, twin monitors rose from nothing—massive screens flickering to life with sharp white glow. One horizontal. One vertical. Static bled away as the system initialized.

"Contestant number two," the Announcer said softly. "Let’s see which hopeful becomes history."

The screen began its spin.

Dozens of faces. Blurred names. Affiliations. All flickering by in rapid succession.

Then—

Click.

The screen stopped.

And so did the world.

The image snapped into place. A face appeared—young, maybe early twenties. Dark eyes, no smile. Cropped hair. Jaw tight. No insignia. No faction.

The name unfurled across the base in clean font.

Camber Tullis

Affiliation: Unaligned

Home Sector: Low-Registered Gridpoint, District Zeta

Soul Energy Available: 90

Ikona: "Bairn"

Human Skill: Recoil Sync

Ikona Skill: Cradle Shell (1/5)

Ikona Tree: Cradling Faultline

The Announcer tilted his head.

"Oho. A sleeper."

He tapped the side of his mic. "Unregistered? Zeta Grid? That’s what we’re drawing from now?"

His grin widened. "I love it."

He turned toward the crowd—still silenced, still frozen.

"Let me tell you about our first wildcard, folks."

He raised a hand—and the beam fell.

A bolt of pale energy cracked down into the void, splashing light upward in a perfect column. It pulsed once, then congealed into shape. Sand hissed beneath the heat of arrival.

Camber Tullis stood center, back straight, hands loose at his sides.

His Ikona shimmered into being beside him—a hunched figure with soft limbs, three arms, no face. Its torso inflated slightly as it adjusted, thick digits curling without tension.