My Shard Bearer System - Elias's Legacy
Chapter 139: Sovereign Thoughts

Chapter 139: Sovereign Thoughts

Her eyes snapped open, cot springs creaking in the sleeping quarters, dawn’s gray light seeping through cracked shutters. The air stung with oil and sweat, Vardency’s dusty winds rattling the rusted walls. A comm buzzed on a scavenged crate, screen flashing: "93 shard users remain, arena active." Roachaline’s pale gray eyes glinted, sharp cheekbones catching the dim glow, dark tangled hair spilling over her shoulders, scars flexing on her arms.

She swung her legs off the cot, boots scuffing concrete, shards sparking—red flaring, violet humming—strapped to her patched fatigues. Her Ikona skittered from the shadows, jagged claws clicking, glinting in the light. "Another one’s ash," she muttered, voice a low growl, snatching a cigarette from a crumpled pack. The match flared, smoke curling as she paced, knife twirling, her fierce beauty radiating, power complex in every step.

Graffiti slashed the walls—"No Chains" in bold red, Epics creeds scrawled in dust. Mismatched cots crammed the space, fodder soldiers snoring, rifles propped, red flags draped over looted crates, their zeal etched in patched fabric. Roachaline tore into a stale ration bar, grain sticking to her tongue, wrapper crackling. "Elara’s ice took you," she hissed, shards sparking, muttering Ravel’s name, cigarette ember glowing as she chewed.

Vexen slipped in, lean and sharp-eyed, green shard pulsing at her neck, hawk Ikona perched on her shoulder, talons glinting. "Ritual’s set for Ravel," she said, voice clipped, brushing cropped hair. "Believers are chanting. Got a rogue shard signal, ten klicks out—video’s pulling ’em." Her hawk screeched, amber eyes scanning, wings twitching, locking on an invisible pulse.

Roachaline’s knife paused, red shard flaring, her attractive scowl commanding. "Signal strength?" she snapped, tossing the wrapper, cigarette hissing in a crate’s dust. Vexen’s hawk flapped, circling the cramped space. "Faint but moving," she said, boots scuffing. "Could be one of ours soon." Roachaline’s lips curled, violet shard humming, Ikona’s claws clicking as she kicked the door open, striding toward the courtyard.

The courtyard’s rubble crunched under Roachaline’s boots, Vardency’s winds sweeping through weeds, ash-heavy air stinging her throat. Ravel’s grave stood stark—a pile of concrete chunks, a rusted rebar marker, now a shrine draped with wilted red roses, shard fragments glinting, knives and red flags piled as offerings. Believers knelt, chanting, "Power reigns, new blood answers!" their voices raw, Epics flags flapping on splintered poles, Vardency’s dusty plains stretching beyond broken walls.

Roachaline stepped forward, shards pulsing, red sparking, violet humming, her insect Ikona skittering, claws slashing air. She flared her Domination Aura, level three, a ripple of coercion bending the crowd, their chants surging, eyes wide with zeal. Her Ikona’s Swarm Strike erupted, claws slicing in a shimmering arc, dust swirling, believers gasping, her fierce beauty captivating, dark hair catching the light, scars flexing as she raised a hand.

"Ravel burned bright," she said, voice sharp, cutting through the chants, a rose clutched tight, petals crumbling. Her fingers trembled, placing it on the shrine, shard fragments glinting under her touch. "Elara’s ice took him, but we rise," she growled, cigarette smoke curling, grief flashing in her pale gray eyes, buried under a commanding scowl. Believers roared, "New blood! Video calls!" their fists raised, red flags waving.

Vexen stood at the edge, hawk Ikona circling, amber eyes glowing, Signal Trace locking a rogue shard signal, ten klicks and closing. "It’s stronger," she muttered, boots shifting, green shard pulsing. Torqa loomed nearby, stone Ikona grinding, Stone Crush ready, ochre shard flaring as he eyed the crowd, guarding. Sylira fiddled with a hacked speaker, wire Ikona sparking, Wire Hack amplifying the chants, blue shard glinting, her sly grin sharp.

A fodder soldier surged forward, zeal blazing, shard fragment raised, shouting, "For Ravel, we hunt!" His voice cracked, believers shoving, a scuffle erupting. Roachaline’s violet shard hummed, her glare slicing through, Domination Aura flaring, silencing the crowd, the soldier freezing, eyes wide. "Kneel," she snapped, knife twirling, Ikona hissing, her power complex radiating, attractive stance unyielding.

Her comm buzzed, screen flashing: "93 shard users, spiritual contest ongoing." Vexen leaned close, hawk screeching. "Rogue’s moving fast," she said, voice low, brushing her hair. "Video’s working." Roachaline’s lips twitched, red shard sparking, tossing her cigarette, ember hissing in the rubble. "Let ’em come," she said, voice biting, believers chanting louder, "New blood! New blood!" as she turned, striding toward the corridor.

The hideout’s corridors stretched rusted, graffiti slashing the walls—"No Oversight" in bold red, curses etched in dust. Flickering lights buzzed, shard-powered, crates of looted bandages and weapons stacked unevenly, Vardency’s winds carrying dust through cracked windows, air thick with oil and smoke. Roachaline’s shards sparked, violet hum sharpening, her insect Ikona skittering, claws scraping concrete, cigarette smoke curling as she walked.

Torqa sparred in the training pit, stone Ikona smashing sand, a fodder soldier stumbling, believers cheering from rusted railings, red flags frayed. His ochre shard flared, Stone Crush grinding, his growl echoing, "Weak!" Roachaline’s knife twirled, her attractive scowl glinting, ignoring a believer’s salute, their flag clutched tight, zeal in their eyes, muttering, "Video’s bringing rogues."

Vexen followed, hawk Ikona flapping, amber eyes scanning, Signal Trace pulsing. "Rogue’s eight klicks now," she said, voice clipped, boots scuffing, green shard glowing. Sylira trailed, hacked comm in hand, wire Ikona sparking, blue shard flickering. "Got depot patrols," she said, sly grin flashing, "and rogue chatter." Roachaline’s red shard sparked, her stride fierce, pushing into the main hall.

The main hall sprawled cavernous, scavenged tables littered with ration wrappers, shard-powered monitors glowing with depot maps, gates marked red. Looted crates—ammo, medical scraps—teetered, graffiti screaming "No Rules" across rusted walls, a torn Federation banner dangling, smoke filling the air. Believers’ chants drifted from the courtyard, "New blood!" echoing, Vardency’s dust settling on crates, the hideout’s decay stark.

Roachaline slammed her knife into a table, red shard sparking, insect Ikona hissing, violet shard humming. "Talk," she said, voice sharp, leaning forward, her fierce beauty commanding, scars glinting, power complex radiating. Sylira’s wire Ikona coiled, hacking patrol routes, console beeping, blue shard flaring. "Depot’s got rations, three shard signals," she said, voice low, sly grin sharp, map sharpening.