My Shard Bearer System - Elias's Legacy
Chapter 137: Staff Strike

Chapter 137: Staff Strike

Elias’s eyes shut, the pod’s green sheets rustling, his shard’s faint thump fading into the hum of recycled air. The clock’s red glow—23:00—blurred, the metal cube in his hand slipping, rolling across the laminate floor. Sleep swallowed him, heavy and unyielding, the arena’s shadow—94 users, seven gone—sinking into darkness.

Roachaline Vaslix jolted awake, her cot’s springs creaking in the dim sleeping quarters, the air thick with oil and stale sweat. Dawn’s gray light seeped through a cracked window, glinting off her scarred arms, Vardency’s dusty winds rattling the rusted shutters. Her pale gray eyes snapped open, sharp cheekbones catching the glow, dark tangled hair spilling over her shoulders. A comm buzzed on a scavenged crate, screen flashing: "93 shard users remain, arena active."

She exhaled sharply, shards pulsing—red sparking, violet humming—strapped to her patched fatigues. Her Ikona, a jagged insect with glinting claws, skittered from the cot’s edge, clicking on the concrete floor. "Another one bites it," she muttered, voice a low growl, snatching a cigarette from a crumpled pack. The match flared, smoke curling as she stood, boots scuffing, her attractiveness stark in her restless stride.

The quarters sprawled chaotic, mismatched cots crammed against graffiti-scrawled walls, Epics symbols slashed in red paint—"Power Rules" glaring bold. Fodder soldiers snored, rifles propped, red flags draped over crates, their zeal etched in the dirt-streaked fabric. Roachaline’s red shard sparked, fingers twitching over the knife at her hip, her power complex radiating as she grabbed a stale ration bar from a crate, its wrapper crackling.

She tore into it, the dry grain sticking to her tongue, muttering, "Elara’s got blood on her ice now." Her violet shard hummed, Ikona’s claws scraping, as she paced, cigarette glowing. A looted Federation rifle leaned against a cot, its barrel scratched, and she lifted it, checking the clip with a flick, her scars flexing under the dim light. The comm buzzed again, "Arena update: 93," the words stinging, Ravel’s charred face flashing in her mind.

Vexen slipped in, lean and sharp-eyed, her green shard pulsing at her neck, hawk Ikona perched on her shoulder, talons glinting. "Depot signal, twenty klicks east," she said, voice clipped, brushing her cropped hair. "Federation’s stocking rations, maybe shards." Her hawk screeched softly, amber eyes scanning invisible signals, wings twitching.

Roachaline’s knife glinted, twirling in her hand, cigarette smoke curling. "Patrols?" she snapped, setting the rifle down, her Ikona hissing, claws clicking. Vexen’s hawk flapped, circling the cramped space. "Ten, heavy gear," she said, boots scuffing. "Shard hum’s faint but there." Roachaline’s lips twitched, red shard sparking, her fierce beauty commanding as she kicked the door open, heading for the courtyard.

The courtyard’s rubble crunched under Roachaline’s boots, Vardency’s dusty winds sweeping through weeds, the air sharp with ash and rust. Ravel’s grave sat stark—a pile of concrete chunks, a rusted rebar marker stabbed into the earth, his charred body exposed, skin cracked black from shard loss, Elara’s kill one of seven. Wilted red roses, scavenged from a ruined garden, lay scattered on his chest, their petals curling in the dawn’s gray light.

Roachaline knelt, her shards pulsing, red sparking, violet humming, her insect Ikona skittering around the grave, claws clicking on stone. Her fingers trembled, adjusting a rose, cigarette dangling, smoke trailing. "You were my sharpest blade," she whispered, voice raw, dark hair falling over her sharp cheekbones, scars glinting on her arms. Her attractiveness burned fierce, grief a flicker in her pale gray eyes, quickly buried under a scowl.

She lit another cigarette, match flaring, exhaling sharply as she touched Ravel’s burned gear—a scorched belt, its buckle warped. "Elara’s gonna pay," she muttered, knife twirling in her free hand, red shard sparking brighter. The courtyard’s silence pressed heavy, Vardency’s plains stretching beyond the factory’s broken walls, red Epics flags flapping on makeshift poles, believers’ zeal carved into the rubble—"No Chains."

Torqa lumbered in, his stone Ikona grinding, ochre shard pulsing at his chest, his bulk casting a shadow. "Soldiers are restless," he growled, boots kicking weeds, stone limbs flexing. "Want blood, not graves." Roachaline’s violet shard hummed, her Ikona hissing, claws snapping. "They’ll wait," she snapped, standing, cigarette hissing out in the dirt, her power complex radiating, knife pausing mid-twirl.

A fodder soldier approached, his red flag patched, eyes wide with awe, clutching a single rose. He placed it on Ravel’s grave, muttering a prayer to "strength," his zeal raw. Roachaline’s lips curled, shards sparking, as Vexen’s hawk screeched above, circling, its amber eyes glowing. "Scout’s back," Vexen said, striding up, hawk landing on her shoulder. "Depot’s got two shard users, confirmed."

Roachaline’s knife glinted, her Ikona’s claws clicking faster. "Map it," she said, voice sharp, pacing toward the corridor, her fatigues clinging to her wiry frame, attractiveness undimmed by the ash dusting her boots. Torqa grunted, stone Ikona rumbling, trailing her, while the soldier knelt, adding another rose, Vardency’s winds carrying his whispered chant.

The hideout’s corridors stretched rusted and narrow, graffiti slashing the walls—curses, Epics creeds, "No Oversight" in bold red. Flickering lights buzzed, looted crates stacked unevenly, their contents—bandages, ammo, stale bread—dwindling. Roachaline’s shards pulsed, violet hum sharpening, as she passed the training pit, bloodstained sand glinting under broken skylights, Vardency’s dust swirling in.

Torqa’s stone Ikona smashed a crate, splinters flying, his ochre shard flaring with each grunt. A fodder soldier saluted, rifle slung, but Roachaline ignored him, twirling her knife, cigarette smoke curling. Her Ikona skittered ahead, claws scraping, as Vexen’s hawk flapped, scanning signals, its screech faint. "Depot’s locked tight," Vexen muttered, boots scuffing, her green shard glowing softly.

Roachaline paused, leaning against a crate, inspecting a looted Federation pistol, its grip worn. "Guards?" she asked, voice biting, shards sparking, her attractiveness stark in her focused scowl. Vexen’s hawk circled, talons clicking. "Fifteen, rotating," she said, brushing her hair. "Shard hum’s stronger now." Roachaline’s lips twitched, knife flicking, cigarette ember glowing, her Ikona hissing as she pushed into the main hall.

The main hall sprawled cavernous, scavenged tables cluttered with ration wrappers, shard-powered monitors glowing with hacked Federation maps.