My Shard Bearer System - Elias's Legacy
Chapter 200: Morning Dew

Chapter 200: Morning Dew

Circuits in the headset surged, feeding him data he no longer trusted; half the metrics blinked NULL, the rest screamed in scarlet alerts.

"Much like you," he said, his tone sharp, cutting through the hum of the portal, "my mission is to stop you from letting power corrupt you and bring you... well, those above you, technically."

A humorless laugh snagged in his throat; those above you sounded absurdly fragile against the presence towering a dozen paces away, yet he pushed on.

He paused, his breath hitching, sweat rolling down his cheek as he adjusted his blazer, the fabric clinging to his frame.

Damp silk rasped across his ribs, reminding him that the suit—tailored for pomp—offered no armor at all.

"I don’t believe you’ve ever created anything," he added, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, though his eyes betrayed the fear still clawing at his chest.

The smirk quivered, threatened to break, but held—just long enough to show he still understood how theater worked, even on the edge of annihilation.

The figure’s gaze narrowed, the faint smile returning, a glint of something dangerous in his unreadable eyes as he stepped forward, the red lining of his cloak catching the torchlight, painting a brief smear of color across the pale ground.

The cloak’s hem whispered over the glass‑smooth floor, leaving a wake of chilled air that curled against the Announcer’s ankles and made the silver circuits beneath the surface spark in protest.

"Stop stalling and hand that half shard back," the Announcer said, voice rising, the mic letting out another burst of static as he swiped his hand through the air, silver circuits flaring faintly beneath the floor.

Tiny halos of white code blossomed where his gesture ended, then collapsed under the realm’s sudden gravitational tug—proof his administrative tags were being stripped line by line.

"The universe must have order and hierarchy. Your group slows the progress and allows alienated groups to steal and garner more power to challenge the stars!"

He tried to infuse the words with iron, but the echo that bounced back sounded thin, as though the arena itself questioned his right to speak of order.

The figure’s smile widened, his claws flexing around Dot, her glow flickering weakly as she let out a faint, stuttering whine.

The sound threaded through the torchlight and made each flame recoil, orange shrinking to a nervous pinprick before re‑steadying.

"Then let them," he said, voice calm, resonant, each word a weight that seemed to press against the realm itself, bending the air around him.

"It is natural law and order if they are able to do such. But we have had this discussion before, and I got locked away for thousands of years, so I know what I say will fall on deaf ears."

His tone never shifted, yet the admission carried the chill of glaciers grinding.

He paused, gaze sharpening, the pale blue‑white of his skin glowing faintly as he tilted his head, voice dropping to a low, almost amused murmur.

"We will meet ag—"

He stopped mid‑sentence, unreadable eyes narrowing as he looked down, a faint tremor running through his frame.

Something pried at his clawed hand, a small force nudging his fingers apart—a ball of light, faint and translucent, gripping his finger with a determination that defied its size.

The sphere pulsed, glow a soft blue, and the torchlight around it elongated into spears, as though the realm itself wanted to witness the intrusion.

A voice echoed from within, sharp and defiant, slicing the hush like tempered steel.

"Don’t you hurt Dot’s!" it cried, words trembling with fierce resolve, the cadence so unmistakably familiar that even the portal’s rumble faltered in recognition.

Kikaru would have known that voice anywhere—Elias, soul anchored to the shard’s ragged core, refusing surrender, refusing silence, refusing to let go.

The figure’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise crossing his unreadable face as he muttered, "Well, I’ll be damned. His soul got latched onto the shattered shard."

A faint tremor passed through his shoulders—barely more than the twitch of a muscle, yet enough to send ripples through the cloak’s red lining and make the torch‑flames quiver as if sensing doubt.

His grip faltered, the ball of light prying his claws apart, and Dot slipped free, her blue glow flickering weakly as she darted away, trembling in the air, her light dim but unbroken.

Tiny splinters of radiance trailed behind her like comets, dissolving the moment they touched the floor, and the sight drew a ragged exhale from malfunctioning speakers overhead—an involuntary cheer from the arena’s dead sound system.

The Announcer seized the moment, lunging forward, his polished shoes skidding on the unseen ground as he materialized a blade of energy, its edge a shimmering silver that cut through the air with a low hum.

For an instant the weapon’s glow cast his shadow across the figure’s chest, branding a silhouette that screamed retribution.

He swung at the figure, the blade arcing toward his chest, but the figure brought his hand up to block, the energy slicing clean through his pale flesh, severing his hand in a spray of dark blood that shimmered faintly in the torchlight.

Cooled droplets pattered onto the plane and sizzled out, releasing curls of gray vapor that smelled of hot metal and something older—ozone laced with history.

The figure jumped back, his cloak rippling, the red lining catching the light as he flexed his dripping hand, the blood stopping mid‑flow, his flesh rupturing outward, growing a new hand instantly, the claws glinting as they re‑formed.

The regenerated fingers clicked once—like a pianist testing ivory keys—before curling into a loose fist, perfectly whole, perfectly lethal.

The Announcer laughed, a sharp, triumphant sound that echoed through the realm, his lenses flashing with a sudden intensity as he stepped back, rolling his hand around to reveal the half shard he’d been holding, its blue glow pulsing faintly in his grip.

That pulse synced with the HUD overlay dancing across his optics—heartbeat, power levels, probability riffs—all spiking in euphoric confirmation that the tide had momentarily turned.