My Shard Bearer System - Elias's Legacy
Chapter 138: Finding the Path

Chapter 138: Finding the Path

Graffiti screamed "No Rules" across rusted walls, a torn Federation banner dangling, air thick with cigarette smoke and Ikona hum. Sylira hunched over a console, her wire-like Ikona coiling around her wrist, sparking as it patched into the system, her blue shard flickering.

Roachaline slammed her knife into a table, shards sparking, her insect Ikona skittering beside her. "Talk," she said, voice sharp, leaning forward, her attractiveness fierce, scars glinting. Sylira’s fingers danced, console beeping, map sharpening. "Depot’s got rations, ammo, three shard signatures," she said, voice low, wire Ikona twitching. "Patrols cycle hourly."

Torqa lumbered in, stone Ikona grinding, ochre shard pulsing. "We hit now," he growled, cracking his knuckles, sand dusting his boots. Vexen’s hawk screeched, landing, as she leaned against a crate. "Not yet," she said, eyes narrowing at Torqa. "Need the shard count locked." Her green shard glowed, hawk’s amber eyes scanning.

Roachaline’s red shard sparked, violet hummed, her knife twirling faster. "We bait," she said, voice biting, cigarette hissing out on the table. "Draw their shard users, strip ’em." Her Ikona’s claws snapped, power complex radiating, as Torqa’s stone Ikona rumbled. "Ravel’s ash now," he said, voice low, challenging. "You slowing?"

Her eyes burned, shards flaring, stepping close, knife glinting. "Test me," she snapped, her Ikona hissing, attractiveness stark in her fierce stance. Torqa’s Ikona shifted, but he backed off, muttering, his shard dimming. Sylira’s console beeped, wire Ikona sparking, breaking the standoff. "Got patrol routes," she said, screen flashing a grid, depot gates marked red.

Roachaline exhaled smoke, pacing, her shards pulsing. "Vexen, scout tonight," she said, voice sharp. "Sylira, sync the drones. Torqa, leash your temper." Her Ikona skittered, claws clicking, as fodder soldiers watched, their awe clear, red flags clutched tight. The monitors flickered, "93 shard users" glowing, Ravel’s loss a raw wound, the raid’s need pressing, Vardency’s dust settling on the tables.

The training pit’s sand crunched under Roachaline’s boots, bloodstains dark under flickering lights, rusted railings creaking in Vardency’s winds. Torqa sparred a fodder soldier, stone Ikona smashing the ground, sand flying, his ochre shard pulsing with each roar. Sylira crouched nearby, tweaking a shard-powered comm, her wire Ikona sparking, coiling tighter, blue shard glowing. Vexen patrolled the edge, hawk Ikona circling, amber eyes scanning signals through the ash-heavy air.

Roachaline lit a cigarette, smoke curling, her red shard sparking as she paced, knife flipping in her hand. "Seven," she muttered, voice low, Elara’s kill burning—Ravel’s charred body, one of seven, 93 left. A monitor crackled, Federation chatter spilling: "93 shard users, arena carving ’em up." Her knife spun faster, violet shard humming, scars glinting on her arms, her attractiveness fierce in her scowl.

Torqa’s Ikona slammed the soldier, who crumpled, blood dripping. "Soft," Torqa growled, stone limbs grinding, shard flaring. Roachaline’s eyes flicked to him, lips curling, power radiating. "Save it," she said, voice sharp, cigarette hissing out in the sand, her Ikona’s claws clicking, mirroring her restless steps, Vardency’s dust swirling through cracked walls.

Vexen’s hawk screeched, landing, talons scraping. "Patrol’s doubled," she said, voice clipped, brushing her cropped hair. "Two shard users, heavy gear." Sylira’s comm beeped, wire Ikona sparking, her fingers steady. "Got their freq," she said, console glowing, depot gates flashing. Roachaline nodded, knife pausing, shards pulsing, her fierce beauty commanding as she leaned on a railing.

She barked at Vexen, "Scout now," her Ikona snapping, claws glinting. Torqa’s stone Ikona rumbled, soldier staggering up, believers cheering from the pit’s edge, their red flags frayed, zeal raw. The pit’s air pressed heavy, sweat and ash, monitors flickering with "93," the raid’s shadow growing, Ravel’s grave a silent weight, Vardency’s plains stretching beyond the ruins.

The tech room’s consoles hummed, wires dangling from rusted panels, air stale with ozone, Vardency’s winds rattling a loose vent. A wilted red rose lay on a console, its petals curling, Ravel’s memory carved into the silence. Roachaline sat, shards pulsing, her insect Ikona curled nearby, claws still. She flicked her knife, blade catching the console’s glow, muttering, "Ravel, you burned too fast," her pale gray eyes fixed on the rose.

Sylira’s console beeped, depot layouts flashing, gates and patrols marked red, but Roachaline’s gaze stayed on the rose, cigarette smoke curling from her lips. Her red shard sparked, violet hummed, scars stark on her arms, attractiveness undimmed by her scowl. She gripped her shards, knife pausing, the arena’s count—93, seven gone—burning, Elara’s kill a blade in her chest.

She stood, kicking a crate, wood splintering, her Ikona skittering upright, claws clicking. "Depot’s ours," she said, voice low, twirling the knife, shards flaring, her fierce stance commanding, power complex clear. The console’s glow flickered, wires sparking, the raid’s plan sharpening, Ravel’s loss fueling her stride, Vardency’s dust settling in the room’s corners.

Roachaline paced back to the courtyard, the rubble crunching, dawn’s light now a faint gold, Vardency’s winds softer but still sharp with ash. Ravel’s grave sat unchanged, roses wilted, his charred body a stark reminder—Elara’s work, one of seven. She lit another cigarette, smoke curling, her shards pulsing, red sparking, violet humming, her Ikona’s claws clicking as she knelt again, fingers brushing a rose, trembling faintly.

"Stronger than them," she muttered, voice raw, knife glinting as she twirled it, her attractiveness fierce, scars catching the light. A fodder soldier stood watch, his red flag clutched, eyes wide with reverence, muttering a chant to "power." Roachaline’s lips curled, shards sparking, as Vexen’s hawk screeched overhead, signaling another scout’s return, its amber eyes glowing in the dust.

She stood, exhaling smoke, pacing the courtyard, her Ikona trailing, claws scraping. The factory’s rusted walls loomed, red Epics flags flapping, believers’ graffiti—"No Chains"—slashed across them, Vardency’s plains stretching beyond, dotted with ruined towns, the Epics’ red-flagged outposts barely visible. Her knife flipped, cigarette hissing out, the raid’s need a fire in her chest, Ravel’s grave a wound that wouldn’t close.

Roachaline Vaslix sat still, the tech room’s consoles humming, a wilted red rose curling on the rusted panel, its faint scent lost in the ozone-heavy air. Her insect Ikona curled at her feet, claws silent, her shards dim—red a dull glow, violet a soft hum. Vardency’s winds rattled a loose vent, dust swirling, the comm’s glow fading: "93 shard users." Her knife rested in her palm, Ravel’s charred face flickering in her mind, the hideout’s silence warm like hearthlight, holding her a moment longer.