Is a "sword" a euphuism? (BL)

The door to the bridge was too large to be destroyed by one Singularity grenade. But it did leave a nice circular hole in it—enough for us to access the bridge.

There were several ways we could advance.

One was to rush. Thrust the projected diamond shield forward and charge into the bridge, using speed and surprise to seize control and momentum.

A bold approach.

Another was to send just the mobile unit. Disposable and expendable. Take positions on either side of the door and let the mobile draw their fire. Use it to reveal enemy capabilities, numbers, and positions, then systematically eliminate them.

A cautious approach.

And yet another: use Archer and myself as distractions. With multiple ways to handle most potential hazards—even if the shield failed—we could slowly advance behind the mobile, projecting an image of invincibility while the others slipped in unnoticed. Adhesive slime suits had their uses.

A cunning approach.

Of course, each option had countless variations. Positioning, pacing, timing—the smallest choices could tip the balance. Strategy was never about absolutes, but adaptability.

The best option would have been to try everything at once—to see all possibilities unfold simultaneously and choose the best one. But I'd already used that spell to reach the ship. Casting it again so soon would be unwise.

It wasn't just the cost of Od, or the backlash from the World. It was a danger of mental pollution.

To see from the perspective of an angel was, in some way, to have the perspective of an angel.

Angels were said to have no free will, but perhaps the better explanation was that angels saw through the illusion of free will. Because if one could see every choice, every outcome, what did choice even matter? Only immutable nature remained, spreading outward like a probability wave.

I had to choose one. Each approach had its strengths and weaknesses. The bold approach was fast, but risky. There was also the danger of Mantis Men attacking from behind, splitting our focus at the worst possible moment.

The cautious route was safer, but slower. And with the ship threatening to fall apart at any moment, time was not on our side. The hole wasn't large, either, meaning we could only deploy a limited number of attackers while staying behind cover.

The cunning option was a middle path. Slower than the bold approach, riskier than the cautious one, but it allowed for flexibility. Those who bore the brunt of the risk would be those best able to handle it. It also gave me the opportunity to engage in diplomacy. I didn't hold much hope for surrender, but dialogue could still provide useful information—and information was always a weapon in its own right.

"Advance at medium speed," I ordered, and the mobile unit obeyed instantly, skittering toward the opening. "Everyone else, follow until we reach the hole in the door. Once there, split into positions. Joe, Steve—you'll take cover by the opening and focus on suppressing fire. Helena, Lukas—you guard them in case of more Mantis Men. Damien, Sen—you'll wait until Dwight and I draw their attention, then slip in behind."

The plan played to everyone's strengths. Sen's abilities worked well against human opponents, but less so against the mutants. Helena and Lukas, on the other hand, had techniques that dealt with the hybrids effectively. Damien was adaptable, but balanced distribution was better in a situation where variables were unknown.

"How exactly do you expect us to slip in?" Damien asked as we approached the opening.

"Use the adhesive properties of the slime suits. Climb. No one ever looks up," I replied.

Behind me, Sen quipped, "Always wanted to play Spider-Man."

I suppressed a smile, but Archer, ever stoic, let out a faint exhale of what might have been amusement. There was no time to dwell on it, as the sound of gunfire interrupted further conversation. Bullets ricocheted off the shimmering shield, sparks dancing as the mobile unit held steady under the barrage.

The sparks weren't enough to obscure my vision. Through the hole in the door, I could see the bridge—almost identical to the one on the copy of the Götterdämmerung I had back at Aperture. A massive viewscreen dominated the far wall, displaying the cold void of space with distant stars scattered like flecks of shattered glass. Both Earth and the Moon were in the opposite direction, leaving nothing particularly notable on display except the oppressive black.

Directly in front of us was a narrow ledge running along the wall, where the door we'd breached was mounted. Beyond that stretched a metal walkway, leading to an elevated platform that was unmistakably the command station. At its center loomed the glowing glass orb—a towering structure, roughly the height of an adult man and about three times as wide. Inside, mist swirled around rotating parts, scattering faint light across the bridge.

If it was anything like the one on my ship, there were two steering wheels just behind the orb, mounted side by side. Between them sat the controls for the main gun, though from this angle, I couldn't see them clearly. As for the orb itself? Completely pointless. A pure aesthetic flourish, serving no purpose beyond ambiance. A giant lightbulb pretending to be important.

The one glaring difference between this bridge and mine? The Nazis shooting at us.

Stormtroopers in heavy armour that doubled as spacesuits stood in front of the glowing bauble, arranged in an almost textbook firing formation. They aimed and fired with precision, their rounds striking the shimmering shield projected by the mobile unit. The smooth, utilitarian design of the bridge didn't offer them much in the way of cover, though they didn't seem to need it—at least for now.

Unfortunately, the shield worked both ways. While it was active, we couldn't return fire—not with conventional ranged weapons, at least. For now, all they were doing was wasting ammunition.

Archer and I stepped on the bridge following the skittering mobile, and shield it projected. We moved in deceptively fast walk. Rushing without seeming to rush. Almost gliding. 

I adjusted my posture, and body language to incite fear. Because that was nothing like seemingly enemy approaching without care a break soldier morale. And more importantly to focus their full attention.

"Will the shield hold?" Archer called out, his voice cutting through the relentless clatter of gunfire and the sharp ping of bullets striking the shield.

At this level of kinetic impact, penetration wasn't the issue. The virtual diamond shield was constructed in layered bands of colored diamond—red, pink, yellow, green, brown, blue, and purple—an invocation of the Noble Phantasm Rho Aias, like the legendary bronze shield covered in seven layers of ox-hide used by Aias the Great. It wasn't uncommon in magecraft to invoke only aspects of a Heroic Spirit, though in my case, I'd had the fortune of examining a projected copy firsthand—thanks to Archer.

Still, the shield had limitations. One was inefficiency. The energy consumption was staggering; enough magical power to drain even the elites of the Clock Tower within minutes. I bypassed that problem by siphoning mana from the Other Place, though even I wasn't keen on leaving it active for too long.

"At this rate of fire, it'll burn through the lenses by the halfway point of the bridge," I replied, matching his volume. "So, be ready."

"I don't think the Nazis will wait that long," Archer quipped, already drawing his bow.

He was right. The shield excelled against linear attacks like bullets, but it was far less effective against parabolic strikes. It seemed the Nazis had figured that out. Four of them stopped firing and, with practiced precision, hurled grenades in high arcs toward us.

Unfortunately for them, Archer and I had positioned ourselves near the shield. For their grenades to clear the barrier without overshooting their targets, they needed to toss them in wide, graceful trajectories.

That gave Archer all the time he needed to act. With impossible precision, he nocked four arrows in rapid succession. Each one clipped a grenade midair—not to detonate them, but to redirect them.

The redirected grenades arced gracefully back toward the Stormtroopers' firing line.

A few reacted quickly, trying to shoot the grenades out of the air, but they were no Archer. Their wild shots went wide, and the grenades continued their deadly descent.

The Stormtroopers' masks obscured their expressions, but I could imagine the panic beneath as the grenades landed in their midst. Some scattered in desperate attempts to take cover, while one charged forward, likely hoping to grab and throw one of the grenades back. Another climbed the safety railing in a clumsy, last-ditch attempt to escape the blast radius.

The explosions rocked the bridge, sending a shudder through its steel supports. I grabbed the metal railing with my left hand to steady myself as smoke and debris briefly obscured the Nazi firing line.

"My policy on unsolicited gifts: return to sender," Archer quipped, lowering his bow with an infuriating smirk.

"You could have collapsed the bridge!" I snapped, more annoyed than anything. A collapse wouldn't have been catastrophic—we'd still find a way to the control station—but it would have forced me to reveal cards I wasn't ready to play just yet.

"Nah," Archer said with infuriating calm, "those were high-fragmentation, low-penetration grenades."

Of course, he would know. His psychometry was advanced enough to identify weapons at a glance, and he had an uncanny understanding of their properties. It made sense, too—explosives designed for use in a spaceship or Moon base would prioritize damage to personnel while minimizing structural harm. Destroying the environment could have catastrophic consequences in such closed systems.

The smoke cleared, pulled away by the air filtration systems, revealing the aftermath. The Stormtroopers lay scattered. Most were alive but clearly wounded, groaning as they attempted to crawl or clutch at their injuries. The one who had climbed the railing to escape had fallen hard, his body sprawled unnaturally below the platform, his neck bent at an impossible angle.

Enough was enough. Continuing the fight risked damaging the command controls, and that was a gamble I wasn't willing to take. The Götterdämmerung was like a shark—its immense mass, already staggering from being the size of a city, was made even more oppressive by its dense, nearly impenetrable armor. The weight was enough to generate a measurable gravity field of its own. Like a shark, it needed constant motion to stay "alive." If it stopped—or worse, if the gyroscopic systems failed while it hung in space—the ship would collapse under its own gravitational strain, tearing itself apart.

That might sound like a win, but we were still on the ship.

It was time to try diplomacy. My way.

I drew the flow of Od through my Magic Circuits, channeling the raw power into the diamond sword at my side. The blade acted as an amplifier, refining and focusing the mystic energy into a singular purpose. With that energy coursing through me, I imbued my vocal cords, my words given weight by the resonance of an undeniable, otherworldly authority.

"ENOUGH!" I shouted, my voice reverberating through the chamber like thunder. The sound wasn't just heard—it was felt, vibrating in their bones, shaking in their very minds. The effect was hypnotic, an irresistible pull to submit.

"YOU CANNOT WIN," I continued, my tone unyielding, my words slicing through the tension like a blade. "IS THERE ANYONE WITH AUTHORITY TO SURRENDER?"

The echo of my demand lingered in the air, heavy with the weight of mystic compulsion. For a moment, the groans of the wounded Nazis quieted, their battered bodies frozen as if caught in the wake of some divine command. Even Archer turned slightly, one eyebrow raised, as if to say, Well, this should be interesting.

Then came the reply, clear and unshaken, cutting through the silence like the edge of a blade. "Your witchcraft cannot command one born under the Black Sun of Thule."

The speaker stepped forward, emerging from the shadows behind the glowing glass orb. He was an older man, gaunt and angular, with sharp, calculating eyes that seemed to pierce through the smoke-filled air. His pristine black uniform bore silver insignias, each detail polished to perfection. Most striking was the skull gleaming coldly on the cap perched atop his head, a macabre emblem of authority. Every inch of him radiated control and command.

In one gloved hand, he carried a small white staff, simple and unadorned, like a ceremonial baton.

Beside the older man stood a strikingly handsome teenage boy, no more than sixteen, his golden hair shining under the cold, artificial light. He carried a sword—a all decked with gold and gleaming bright, blade that looked more like belonged in a museum instead in a modern battlefield.

"There will be no surrender," the older man declared, his voice cold and resolute. "Only death. And it will be yours, witch."

"Born or hatched?" Archer murmured, so only I could hear him. "That is a vril-staff. And that sword…"

So, the Nazis were ruled by the Vril-ya. Not even a surprise at this point, though it was useful to confirm. Still, the mention of the "Black Sun of Thule" was new—and intriguing. If it wasn't metaphorical, it raised questions. What kind of star would produce a black light? Some exotic stellar phenomenon? Or was it an atmospheric condition, something that made their sun appear black the way ours looks yellow instead of white?

But time for such speculation was later. For now, I needed to keep him talking—not just to mine him for more data, but to buy Damien and Sen time. The two of them were already crawling across the walls toward the high ceiling, their slime suits adhering silently to the surface. They were moving into position for an assault from above. I didn't expect this to be too difficult, but every second counted.

Stalling was in his interest, too. Each moment we delayed gave his Stormtroopers more time to recover from the grenades.

"YOU WILL FIND THAT HARDER THAN YOU IMAGINE," I continued, my voice steeped in its hypnotic tone. He was likely immune to its effects—him and the boy, if my guess was right—but the Stormtroopers were not. Each word was a slow, deliberate assault on their morale, chipping away at their resolve. And because I was speaking the truth as I knew it, it struck even deeper.

Before I could press the point further, a familiar voice piped up from somewhere behind the glowing glass orb, muffled but unmistakably cheerful.

"Director? Director, is that you?"

A pause, followed by an excited burst: "Oh, good, it is you! Hang on—I can't see properly over this very important piece of equipment. Really quite inconveniently placed, if you ask me."

Wheatley was physically present in the room. I already knew that—traced him through the loudspeaker broadcast earlier—but confirmation was always welcome.

The older man's voice cut through sharply. "You know this witch?"

"Of course, my new friend!" Wheatley replied, sounding almost proud. "It's my old, dear

friend! The Director of Aperture Science. Oh! Oh, let's do introductions! I've always wanted to do introductions!"

I could almost see Archer rolling his eyes.

"Moon Führer," Wheatley continued, his voice brimming with unearned enthusiasm, "meet Dr. Alexander Johnson, Technical Director of Aperture Science—the best science company in America! Director, meet Wolfgang Kortzfleisch, the Führer and Chancellor of the Fourth Reich on the Dark Side of the Moon. Now we can all be friends!"

"Go ahead," Archer murmured dryly beside me. "You two seem like a perfect match."

I stopped my lips from twitching—equal parts amusement and annoyance. Replying would mean breaking the spell amplifying my vocal cords or using telepathy, which was difficult while maintaining my concentration on the spell formula. Neither effort was worth indulging in mere banter.

And Archer knew that. That's exactly why he was using the opportunity to needle me, deploying his tactical skill for petty evil.

Meanwhile, Damien and Sen were somewhere on the walls, climbing toward the high ceiling as they prepared for their ambush—or so I had to assume. I couldn't look for them without betraying their position, and they hadn't signaled yet. Their approach relied on the adhesive properties of their slime suits and absolute stealth, and timing was everything.

Sen was supposed to telepathically contact me once they were in position. So far, he hadn't, which meant I needed to stall for a little longer.

But time was running out. A subtle tremor beneath my feet reminded me of the ship's instability. Every second spent waiting risked catastrophic failure of the gyroscope—or the Götterdämmerung itself.

Lightning-quick, I made my decision: stall just a little more, but close the gap between Archer and me and the Führer in the meantime. The closer we were when the ambush began, the better.

"YOU ARE NOT AT YOUR POST WHEATLEY", I declared, my voice cutting like hail.

The post I was referring to was the Vault. It wasn't strictly true, but it wasn't entirely false, either. Wheatley himself was one of the Aleph objects stored in the Vault—Aleph-1. But I hadn't told him that. Instead, I made him chief supervisor of the Vault. After all, the best way to keep a prisoner from escaping was to convince them they were the warden.

I didn't expect mind control to work on Wheatley. Not because he was a machine, but because of the same reason he was immune to logical paradoxes. One might say he was "too senseless" to be affected, but that wasn't entirely accurate. The better explanation was that his thought processes were so abnormal—so utterly alien—they resembled the Servant Skill Mental Pollution.

"Just so you know!" Wheatley continued, "I'm still guarding those Aleph objects! Doing a bang-up job of it too, really—outside of the vault, admittedly, but I've got friends now to help me, so it's all good. We're, uh, really committed to securing… you know, your stuff. No need to come here "

There was an audible pause, as though he was fishing for approval.

"Are you proud of me, Director? I'm working so hard!"

"So that's what happens when an overly clever scheme runs into an idiot," Archer whispered.

In hindsight, bragging about my clever solution might have been a miscalculation.

"There's no need to seek praise from a dead man," the Führer declared confidently, his voice ringing with finality.

"Dead? But the Director seems so lively!" Wheatley chimed in, his voice brimming with that characteristic, oblivious cheerfulness. "Unless... wait, are you a zombie, Director? Oh no! Please don't eat my brains. Oh, hang on—my brains are mechanical. Phew, that's a load off my mind!"

I ignored Wheatley for now, keeping my attention on the Führer. My voice rang out again, each word deliberate, hammering against the morale of his soldiers like a battering ram. "YOUR WEAPONS HAVE PROVEN INEFFECTIVE SO FAR!"

"Your witchcraft may stop their guns, but it will not stop Gram," the Führer shot back confidently, his tone as sharp as the blade he invoked. He placed his free hand on the shoulder of the golden-haired boy standing beside him, the wielder of the gleaming sword.

Gram. The weapon of the hero Sigurd, used to kill the dragon Fafnir—at least, that's how the legends tell it. But from Grimhilde, I had learned a different truth: Fafnir wasn't truly slain. He was wounded, nothing more. And Fafnir wasn't a dragon, either—he was a Vril-ya. The only recorded instance of a Vril-ya shapeshifting into something entirely non-humanoid. At the time, the weapon wasn't even called Gram. That name must've come later.

Grimhilde's account stayed vivid in my mind. She'd described the blade as unnaturally sharp, able to slice through both steel swords and dragon scales. My own diamond blade should be able to stand against it—but there was no room for complacency. Gram wasn't just sharp. It was poisonous to the Vril-ya, a critical factor in its effectiveness against something as massive and durable as Fafnir. For humans, however, the poison had no effect. It was purely a killing tool. And then there was the most dangerous quality: according to Grimhilde, Gram bestowed inhuman speed and reflexes on its wielder. Even in the hands of a green boy, Gram could threaten a dragon—or, at least, a Vril-ya presenting as one.

"You are bonding! Isn't that nice," Wheatley's voice picked up again, more excited this time. "Oh! And—guess what—we're almost at L2! I've been helping them with calculations, you know, a bit of fine-tuning. Turns out I'm brilliant at this sort of thing. Who knew, right? It's all very exciting. Anyway! Best of luck with the whole… uh… invasion thing."

L2, and yet still no contact from Sen. There was no more time. I would have to do without them.

Mentally, I began to rework the spell formula, replacing one part with another. I shifted the Od from my vocal cords to my legs, reinforcing them.

"Execute command: Assault mode. Terminate all hostiles. Primary targets: enemies armed with guns," I ordered the mobile unit. My voice was no longer booming.

The shield flickered and vanished. From the underbelly of the insectoid robot, a barrel descended, and it began to fire mana-infused quartz bullets. Each shot encased fallen Stormtroopers in jagged chunks of ice, locking them in place as if caught in the grasp of a glacier.

Archer took the shield's disappearance as his signal to strike. But his attack wasn't indiscriminate—each arrow was loosed with precision. He targeted the Stormtroopers who were first to react, those already reaching for their weapons.

Steve and Joe joined the assault from behind, firing their Q-guns. Burning green bolts streaked toward the Führer. As expected—since I had seen other Vril-ya do it—the bolts spattered harmlessly against an invisible shield, dissipating into faint sparks of green energy.

But I wasn't waiting. Without the shield blocking me anymore, I launched myself upward. The spell reinforced my legs, propelling me high into the air. I vaulted toward the Führer and the boy with the sword, the diamond blade in my hand reflecting the cold light of the bridge.

The boy erupted in a purple aura and leapt—no, not leapt. It looked like he was falling upward, as though gravity itself bent to his will.

We met mid-air, blades colliding. My diamond sword shimmered with Od, while Gram gleamed unnaturally, surrounded by its violet haze.

He was fast, faster than I'd expected, but his technique was raw. A subtle shift of my wrist angled our blades, intending to deflect his strike and slice into his side.

Except… I had underestimated Gram.

It sliced through my diamond blade as though it were nothing—no resistance, no effort. Even at a bad angle, it sheared straight through, its edge unstoppable.

It happened in less than a second. Instinct kicked in. I released the shattered blade and shifted into intangibility, my body dissolving into a ghostly state.

Fast enough to avoid a fatal blow. Not fast enough to escape unscathed.

Pain flared as Gram nicked my arm, burning as it cut through the slime armor like it wasn't even there. I forced the pain aside.

The shattered blade—the Mystic Code—reacted violently. Severed and filled with my Od, its enchantments collapsed, and the diamond exploded.

Shards tore through the air. They passed harmlessly through my intangible form, but the boy wasn't so lucky. The blast hurled him backward, shards striking his glowing purple aura like bullets. None pierced his skin; the aura absorbed the damage, protecting him. Still, the force sent him crashing into the massive screen behind him with a crack before he crumpled to the floor below.

I hovered for a moment, letting the explosion clear. Then, with deliberate focus, I willed my form toward the railing near the Führer, solidifying as I landed beside him.

Just in time, because the Führer unleashed an intangible distortion. It was my first time seeing it in person, but I recognized it instantly from descriptions—a Vril-ya countermeasure against astral projection. I wasn't sure if it would work on my ghostly intangibility, which was tied more to the Netherworld than the Astral Plane. But this was no time to find out.

"A new trick, Witch," he commented, brandishing the white baton. His voice dripped with cold confidence. "Rather than abandoning your flesh, you dragged it along. Clever. But it won't help you."

Pain throbbed in my wound—strangely persistent. Blood Slime, my symbiotic familiar, should already have been releasing its stored Vril to heal me. Yet the wound remained raw, dull pain spreading like a slow toxin. I managed to mask it, keeping a cocky smirk on my face as I circled him carefully. "Unlike you Snakes, humans are creative."

"That is because your race is so young," he replied, unfazed by my provocation. "We have already discovered all there is to discover." He made no effort to deny his inhumanity. But why would he? From his perspective, it was irrelevant. Witches—primitive human psychics—had warred with the Vril-ya since the time of Ancient Rome.

Green bolts of poisonous fire continued to strike his shimmering shield, harmlessly dispersing across its surface. He barely acknowledged the Q-gun shots as he spoke, his tone taking on a faux benevolence. "If you were wise, you would submit to my wisdom. Let me lead you to the glory that is your birthright."

I glanced downward for a split second, catching sight of Archer locked in a duel with the boy wielding Gram. Archer had switched to twin short swords, adapting to the situation. His skill and speed let him weave around the boy's attacks—evading, deflecting, and occasionally countering. But Gram's properties made it dangerous to block directly, even for him. The boy's aura shield lessened the impact of Archer's strikes, dragging the fight into a tense stalemate.

"Lead us to death, you mean," I retorted, carefully circling. I made sure never to let the baton point directly at me. I knew how deadly Vril-staffs were, and this man wielded his with unnerving confidence. I didn't attack—not yet. My role was to keep him occupied while my companions handled his minions. Still, the numbness was spreading from my wound, and that was becoming a problem.

"I am not like the others," the Führer continued, his tone almost conversational, as if lecturing a stubborn student. "I see potential in humankind. Together, we could accomplish great things."

I spared a glance toward the Stormtroopers. Damien and Sen had dropped from the ceiling, moving like shadows among the enemy ranks. The Stormtroopers hadn't stood a chance. Psy-lenses ignited, slashing through armor and flesh alike. The fight on their end was already winding down, the two of them dispatching their enemies with efficient, almost surgical precision.

"But not you," the Führer mocked, his lips curling into a cruel smirk. "You are already dead."

My vision blurred, darkening at the edges. I reached out mentally to Blood Slime, both through the Karmic Bond and the neural links connecting it to my brain. The familiar presence that had always pulsed with vitality now felt wrong. It was dying. The Vril within it, which usually shimmered like liquid sunlight, now felt cold, hardened—like the empty void between the stars.

"I've heard you witches managed to steal some Vril," the Führer commented idly, his voice carrying the detached arrogance of a man who believed he'd already won. "Consuming it made you vulnerable to Gram. You see, Gram contains a certain rare element which, when it comes into contact with Vril, turns it black and hyperentropic."

"What element?" I asked, my voice strained as I fell to my knees. I wasn't just stalling for time—I was genuinely curious. I'd experimented extensively with Vril and knew it to be remarkably inert when interacting with pure elements, even radioactive ones. What could possibly interact with it in such a violent, destructive way?

The cold numbness continued to spread, creeping through my body like a shadow devouring light. My wounded flesh throbbed, and Blood Slime, my symbiotic familiar, should have already begun repairing the damage. Yet instead of its usual warmth, I felt only the jagged chill of the Vril's poison, spreading deeper with every second.

Focusing through the fog of pain, I activated a silent spell embedded within my Magical Crest—one my family had perfected long ago. It was a singular invocation, yet segmented and attuned to the healing powers attributed to gemstones throughout history.

Amethyst, for purging poisons and clearing corrupted energies.

Emerald, to channel vitality and stabilize the body's flow of life.

Bloodstone, for staunching wounds and restoring strength.

Each facet of the spell sought to resonate with the metaphysical properties of these legendary stones, their names forming an unspoken mantra in my mind as I forced the spell to take shape. My ancestors had always been practical: why craft a dozen separate spells when a single, versatile invocation could cover it all?

The air around me shimmered faintly, and for a moment, I felt the spell take hold. A familiar warmth coursed through my veins, like the first rays of sunlight after a long night. The dark Vril resisted, its unnatural energy twisting and writhing against the spell's structure—but I pushed harder, willing it to work.

And then, it collapsed.

The corrupted Vril's malevolent essence tore the spell apart, shattering the delicate construct like brittle glass. Without the actual gemstones to amplify the spell's potency, it simply wasn't strong enough. The raw magical energy it had gathered was devoured, leaving nothing but the same creeping, suffocating cold.

The Führer smirked, his tone almost amused. "You wouldn't know it. All of it on Earth is bound within Gram. That is why we are here. Vril can only be extracted from life-giving planets that lack that peculiar element. Normally, it wouldn't be a problem… but the Great Enemy has been spreading it everywhere."

The Great Enemy. The phrase carried weight, as though it were more than an abstract concept, and I filed it away for later consideration—if there was a later.

I slumped further, one hand planted on the floor as though holding myself up. Weakness was creeping over me, but not as quickly as I let him believe. It was a feint. Better to show fake vulnerability now than to wait until it became real.

The Führer turned sharply, his gaze snapping toward where Damien and Sen had been fighting the Stormtroopers. Following his line of sight, I saw that my students had triumphed. The last of the Nazis lay crumpled at their feet, the faint glow of their psy-lenses dimming as they powered down.

"Useless," the Führer hissed, as though the sight disgusted him. He turned back to me, raising his baton with deliberate finality. "Must I do everything myself? As for you it would be merciful to finish you off—but I don't believe in mercy so die slowly"

He lowered the baton with a deliberate flick of his wrist, shifting out of his striking stance as he spun sharply on his heel.

I suppressed a smirk. It had worked better than intended. If he'd tried to finish me, I could have escaped—shifting into intangibility and passing through the floor. But this? This was better.

Now, I just had to deal with the dark Vril.

Jewel magecraft had failed me. That was to be expected without proper reagents. I still had Vril bars embedded in my slime armor, but they would worsen the situation rather than help. After dealing with the dark Vril, they might prove useful in reversing the damage to my body—but not now.

I considered summoning and binding a demon, channeling my desperate desire for survival into a manifestation of the Sixth Imaginary Element. It might even work. Demons, after all, operate outside the Reason of Man. But the side effects would be unpredictable—likely horrific. I filed that option away, a final resort.

No. I would fight poison with poison. Curse with curse.

Focusing my Od, I shifted its flow toward another section of my Magic Crest. I cursed myself.

The Führer walked slowly, confidently, ignoring the Q-gun blasts that dissipated harmlessly against his shield. "Five," he said, his voice calm and clinical as he approached Sen and Damien. "That is the number of witches required to face a Vril-ya under a century old."

"That was then. This is now," Damien shot back, cocky as ever. He brandished his psy-lens, its burning light slicing through the air, and struck with a swimmer's grace. Sen followed from the opposite side, their blades perfectly synchronized.

Both strikes met the same result: the Führer's shield absorbed them effortlessly.

"Ten, for Vril-ya between a century and half a millennium," the Führer continued, unbothered, as if reciting from a textbook. He flicked his baton, and a torrent of white-hot flame roared forth like a flamethrower. Damien barely dodged, the heat singing his hair.

"At least one Grand Witch is needed for those older than that," the Führer added, advancing steadily. "And even they lost more battles than they won. And they died. Just as you will. Because I am much older than that."

The dark Vril coursing through me spread its numbing death, inch by inch. But the Spider's Kiss curse I had placed on myself burned in fierce contrast. It accelerated my heartbeat, set my nerves alight with artificial fire, and—painfully—triggered an erection that felt less like arousal and more like a venomous claw grasping at my body. The curse raked through my mind, dredging up vivid memories: the sensation of Archer's naked skin, the taste of him, the sound of his breath against my ear.

It was intoxicating and agonizing all at once.

While the dark Vril brought cold, silent death, the curse turned my body into a battlefield. Like spider venom, it twisted my own metabolism against me, setting every system into painful overdrive. By cursing myself, I wasn't just enduring the effects of the dark Vril—I was accelerating my own destruction.

But that was the point.

The two forces clashed violently within me, too foreign to merge, too hungry to coexist. They tore at each other, devouring and being devoured in turn. All I had to do was endure long enough for them to entangle.

Just endure.

Another tremor shook the ship—much worse than the ones before. I tried to rely on the adhesive properties of my slime suit, but it seemed the suit was dying too, affected by both the curse and the dark Vril. After all, it was symbiotic, connected directly to my spine and blood vessels. Still, I managed to grab the railing just as the violent motion ripped the portal gun from my hip, sending it clattering to the floor. Well, I wasn't using it anyway.

Sen and Damien somehow managed to stay on their feet, and the Führer, of course, seemed completely unbothered. His shield must have protected him from inertia too.

"Sorry! Space turbulence again," Wheatley's voice chirped in, oblivious as ever. "And I'm sure that part is not important!"

I shifted my gaze, and finally, I saw Wheatley—in the "flesh," so to speak. The special Aperture Core was plugged into the main weapon-aiming mechanism, long cables snaking out from him and connected to the surrounding machinery. Aperture Cores were designed to interface seamlessly with Aperture systems, but this retro-futuristic Nazi tech? That required improvisation. The cables were mismatched and haphazardly integrated, and it was almost comical how out of place Wheatley looked amidst the dieselpunk nightmare.

But Wheatley wasn't the most pressing sight. It was what lay behind him.

On the massive screen dominating the bridge, I saw it—a giant plate of armor, the size of a football field, floating in the void. The ship was coming apart.

"Look at it go!" Wheatley added cheerfully, completely oblivious to the impending disaster.

"Wheatley, call Richter in the engine room and tell him to deal with the problem," the Führer barked sharply. At the same time, he launched a shimmering, icy sphere toward the door. The projectile struck, exploding into a thick glacier that sealed the entrance completely, cutting Joe, Steve, Helena, and Lukas out of the fight.

The Führer then turned his attention back to Damien and Sen, who were hammering at his shield with relentless psy-lenses, their blades of psychic energy sparking uselessly against its surface. "Surrender," he said coldly, "and I will allow you to serve me. It is the greatest honor a human can achieve."

"You have no right!" Sen spat through clenched teeth, his frustration boiling over.

"I have every right," the Führer replied with absolute conviction, his voice steady and laced with disdain. "I am the one who raised humanity from animals. That is why, in the Abrahamic Bible, I am known as the Serpent of Eden."

The words hung in the air, and he delivered the next revelation with almost smug satisfaction. "Without me—without my gift of Vril to your proto-mammalian ancestors—there would be no humanity. Your species owes its very existence to me."

With a casual wave of his baton, he unleashed a concussive pulse of force that sent both Sen and Damien hurtling backward, slamming into the walls. They groaned in pain as they crumpled to the floor.

"But those who refuse to serve me must be culled," he said with chilling finality.

Raising his baton again, he fired a glowing bolt of energy at the prone Sen. The air seemed to crackle as the projectile surged toward him.

Damien moved instinctively, flinging himself into the bolt's path with a burst of telekinetic force. The energy struck him square in the chest, igniting him as though he'd been doused in gasoline. Flames burst across his body, illuminating the chamber with an eerie, hellish glow.

"Damien!" Sen screamed, his voice breaking as his comrade's cries of pain echoed through the room.

I was less affected. Not because of detachment or indifference, but because of a secret I held close. Burning alive was deeply unpleasant, but for Damien, it was far from fatal. Not with the ring I had bestowed upon him. A seal would shatter before demon allowed him to die, bestowing him with the Crown of Conquest in the process. The demon bound to the ring would keep its bearer alive—no matter the pain—until all seven seals were broken.

Still, this meant my time was running out. The curse and the dark Vril within me weren't fully entangled yet, but I had no choice. I had to act with the tools I had, not the tools I wished I had.

Quietly, I began moving toward the Führer, pieces of my slime armor sloughing off with each step, revealing more and more of my skin beneath. In a way, it might even be useful. It wasn't just the exposure that mattered—it was the symbolism. The curse wasn't just linked to lust; it thrived on it, fed on it, made stronger by the very act of revealing flesh in a way that invoked desire, whether real or implied. Lust didn't have to be mutual; the mere appearance of seduction was enough to stoke the curse's fire.

And Damien's agonized screams were a perfect distraction. The Führer's gaze was locked on him, his sadistic enjoyment clear. That was the problem with indulging cruelty on the battlefield: while it could shatter enemy morale, it also bred fatal distractions. I should know.

I shifted into intangibility as I neared the shield. I knew this would work; it had before.

But just because it worked didn't mean it didn't come at a cost. Passing through the shield was deeply unpleasant, like forcing myself through an ice-cold waterfall that clung and burned at the same time. The mixture of the curse and the dark Vril within me only amplified the sensation, scraping against every nerve as though I were being stripped to the bone.

Still, I pushed forward, silent and determined, my eyes locked on the Führer.

The flames died out, revealing Damien. His slime suit was gone, but it wasn't just that—his hair, and even the skin that had once covered his body, had been burned away, leaving him a horrifying vision of raw, charred flesh. Yet, despite it all, he had stopped screaming.

The demon bound within his ring would not heal him, but it would prevent shock from overwhelming his body. It would not dull the pain, but it would make its host capable of bearing it. Pain became fuel—an engine of survival.

And even in that state, Damien still stood, defiantly positioning himself protectively in front of Sen.

The Führer raised his baton, his movements precise and unhurried, prepared to unleash another strike. But I didn't give him the chance.

One seal was enough.

Moving with swift precision, I shifted back into tangibility, reappearing within the Führer's shield. Before he could react, I grabbed him firmly by the shoulder, yanking him around to face me. He barely had time to register the shift before I captured his repulsive, serpent-like mouth in a kiss.

It wasn't just an attack—it was an invasion.

The curse, tangled with the venom of the dark Vril coursing through me, leapt from my body into his, transferring in that moment of contact. The bitter heat of Spider's Kiss entwined with the numbing cold of the dark Vril, the two poisons merging into a chaotic, invasive flood. It poured into him like a storm, carrying all the weight of my suffering with it.

It left me hollow, emptied of both poisons. Piece by piece, the curse fled for its new host, dragging most of the dark Vril with it. What remained within me was fractured and diminished—still dangerous, still damaging, but no longer lethal. The suffocating numbness faded, replaced by a sharp clarity, a searing pain that reminded me I was alive.

The transfer complete, I shoved the Führer backward, my movements swift and decisive. But not before I struck his arm—a sharp, precise blow that cracked bone and forced him to loosen his grip on the baton. He staggered but managed to hold onto the weapon, his defiance intact despite the injury.

I knew it wouldn't disable him for long. The Vril-ya healed too quickly for that, but at least for the next half-minute, his baton wouldn't be a threat. Hopefully, that would be enough. Enough for the curse and dark Vril now inside him to start their work.

The Führer's eyes widened in shock, his composure splintering for the first time. His voice, usually so commanding, now emerged as a low, venomous hiss, edged with disbelief, fury, and the beginnings of pain. "What… have you done?"

"My policy on unsolicited gifts: return to sender," I quipped, smirking as I echoed Archer's earlier words. "I even added something a little extra. Hope you like it."

"Klaus, to me!" the Führer shouted, clutching his broken arm with his remaining good hand.

I jumped back, slipping outside the radius of his shield. The shield blocked attacks from entering, but it didn't stop me from leaving. I could've pressed the attack, but there was no need. The curse and the dark Vril coursing through him would be enough—especially the dark Vril. The curse might have been designed to be universal, but this was the first time it had ever been used on something alien. Dark Vril, however, was specifically engineered to destroy the Vril-ya.

It was just in time, too. With a violet blur, the boy swordsman—Klaus—suddenly appeared at the Führer's side, just outside the shield's radius. I glanced back to where he had come from and saw the damage left in his wake: the railing was sheared clean off, and part of the podium was scarred by the path he'd cut through it.

An explosion of steam erupted near the doorway, and the glacier blocking it shattered, revealing Helena, her hands crackling faintly from the effort of pyrokinetic propulsion. Behind her, I spotted Joe and Steve leveling their Q-guns, wisps of green fire still licking the barrels. So they'd helped with the ice. Efficient.

"Surrender!" I commanded, amplifying my voice through the remnants of my spell. My tone left no room for argument. At the same time, I caught sight of Archer, who had leapt onto the podium, tracking Klaus with his bow as he moved. "You need medical help, and you're severely outnumbered."

"Medical help? From humans?" the Führer scoffed, venom dripping from every word. "You mean leeches." His voice faltered for a moment as the shield flickered. Then he barked, "Klaus, retreat! To Richter, in the Engine Room!"

Before any of us could stop them, Klaus grabbed the Führer, and together they vanished in a flash of violet light, streaking through the now-open doorway like a thunderbolt.

"Should we hunt them down?" Archer asked, his bow still nocked as he turned toward me.

"No time," I said, already making my decision. "We need to deal with the ship falling apart first." The Führer was probably dying, but even if he somehow survived, there'd be other opportunities to deal with him. And honestly? I was more annoyed about losing Gram. I would've liked to study it.

"That was just one time!" Wheatley interjected, his voice chipper and oblivious as ever. "Damn space turbulence! Anyway, I assume you and the Führer have resolved your differences? So, Director, how may I be of service?"

I ignored Wheatley for now. It wasn't as though he could be of much help. I supposed I could order him to return the ship to the Moon, abandoning its approach to Earth, but I wasn't sure the Götterdämmerung could handle the maneuver. The massive tremors had subsided, but subtle vibrations still coursed through the deck beneath my feet. They weren't dying down; they were building—slowly but surely—into a resonance cascade that would tear the ship apart.

And there was a more urgent matter to address.

"Sen!" I called, forcing my voice steady. "There's another special chocolate bar. It fell somewhere. Find it and feed it to Damien."

But speaking that much, and that loudly, had its consequences. A sharp pain lanced through my chest, and I coughed, the metallic tang of blood filling my mouth. Wetness dripped from my chin, hot and sticky. I could taste my own weakness.

"We could share," Damien rasped. His burned throat and lack of lips made his voice sound like something from a horror movie, but even through his agony, he was thinking of me. Even now, he wanted to ease my burden. I was proud of him—more proud than words could ever express. The man he'd become...

"No," I forced out, my voice raw and broken. Another coughing fit overtook me, but I managed to choke the words out through the pain. "It's poison to me now."

Archer moved to steady me, his hand warm and grounding—a balm against the ache radiating through my chest.

"Sorry," he said quietly. I knew him well enough to understand what he meant. He was speaking about the boy, Klaus, escaping. "I was too cautious."

Leaning into his embrace, I replied lightly, "The Moonbase has more than enough teenage Nazis. One more or less won't matter. Pity about the sword, though—at least you copied it."

I liked him cautious. That's why I reinforced the idea that Klaus escaping didn't matter in the long run. Better to spare him the guilt.

"No," he said, his tone sharpening. "There's an alien element in it."

I paused, catching the faint urgency in his words. "What do you plan to do about the ship? Blow it up?" he asked, switching focus.

My gaze shifted to Sen, who was kneeling beside Damien. He'd found the Vril bar and was carefully feeding it to him. The effect was immediate—golden light spread across Damien's broken form, repairing burned skin with unblemished tissue. Still, it didn't restore hair, leaving Damien entirely bald—from his eyebrows to his pubic hair. Not ideal, but alive was good enough.

"It'll blow itself up soon enough," I replied. "The problem is the pieces. No, I'm going to put it where it won't be a problem. It's just going to take a lot of Od—a dragon's amount of Od."

"A tantric rite, then," Archer murmured, leaning close, his voice low and teasing in my ear. "But are you up for it?"

I deliberately misinterpreted his words, my smirk cutting through the pain. "Pain only makes me hornier. But we need to evacuate the others first. Now that we've dealt with the enemies, they're no more use to us—only a liability."

"Naturally, you have an exit strategy," Archer said, his tone calm but with a faint edge of curiosity, as though he already suspected the answer might disappoint him.

"I sent Az to set a portal exit at the Enrichment Centre," I replied. "He's bringing the portal gun here, but the problem is—he's taking too long. The nearest insertion object point is too far from the Enrichment Centre gate." It hadn't been an issue before, but in my mind, I silently added a note to place one right at the Garage of Gods in the future. "I'd summon him myself, but he's not my familiar, so I lack a karmic bond. Annoying. I receive the same information from everything in the City as I do from karmic bonds—and even more in some ways—but I can't get spells to work for him. Something's missing."

"Perhaps a name?" Archer suggested.

"A name?" I echoed, glancing at him.

"The City needs a proper name. You've been trying to divine its 'true' name for weeks. But perfection, as they say, is the enemy of good."

Archer called himself a third-rate Magus, but like many things about him, it was a half-truth at best. He said it because he cared more about worldly concerns than lofty, theoretical pursuits like seeking the Root. But then again, even among magi, most only claimed to seek the Root—it was like Catholics claiming to seek Heaven, a rhetorical goal more than a practical one. Archer's honesty about it was refreshing, even if it undersold him.

He was a specialist, and in his specialty, he was unmatched. Part of that specialty was the ability to bring certain objects from the Inner World into the Outer World. And when gave advice I listened.

Name.

I'd been chasing the City's name through meditation, divination, even dream-walking… all failed. But maybe, instead of trying to find its name, I should try giving it one. Not something mundane, though. A name steeped in myth and mystery. Something that matched its eldritch angles, its towering spires twisted in impossible, non-Euclidean geometry.

"Ys?" I murmured aloud, testing it. No, too bound to connotations of watery destruction.

"Laputa?" Archer suggested, with a faint smirk.

"It doesn't fly," I retorted. "And I want something more… eldritch."

"Agartha?" he offered again, though he already knew the answer.

I shook my head, dismissing it. Something about it felt wrong.

And then, it dawned on me. The silhouette of the City, its black-pillared towers dominating the skyline. The name came unbidden, sharp and perfect in my mind: Irem. The Pillared City. In myth, it was said to rest in the desert, but those were minor details. A name was resonance, not geography.

I extended my hand and began the invocation, my voice weaving power into the name. "From the Woods Between Worlds, from the Pillared City of Irem, Azazel, come forth."

The air tore open, space unraveling as my words shaped reality. But as the summoning completed, fire coursed through my nerves. My body screamed in protest, my vision flickering with white-hot pain.

I had depleted my Od reserves earlier, driving out most of the Dark Vril with the curse of Spider's Kiss. This summoning? It was ripping the magic directly from my life force—casting from HP, as they'd say in video game terms. My body wasn't happy about it.

But then, happiness was not its purpose. It existed to serve as the vessel of my mind.

"Vibrations are going to be a problem," I commented, leaning briefly into Archer's steady presence. For now, the tremors were manageable, but if they peaked, they could disrupt a portal. And that would be unfortunate—unfortunate in the way being cut in half tends to be.

"I'll deal with it," Archer said, pulling away. "I'll set up a vibration isolation system on part of the wall. Then Azazel can open the portal there."

I nodded. "I'll leave the evacuation in your capable hands. Once it's done, join me—I'll be making preparations to transfer this mess to Xen."

Picking up my fallen portal gun—not Azazel's, but mine—I headed toward Wheatley. Not because I needed him, but because I needed one of the steering wheels. The helm of the ship was conceptually excellent for the ritual.

"We've passed L2 and are now on course for Earth!" Wheatley chirped cheerfully as I approached. "Isn't that great? Even if the engines fail—which, you know, they totally won't, not that I'm saying they will—but if they did, we'd still get there thanks to gravity. Isn't that clever?"

Ignoring him, I began to draw the magic circle. Blood mixed with saliva made for excellent ink, and, well, the persistent coughing meant I didn't even have to cut myself.

"We're not going to Earth," I said flatly. "We're going to Xen."

"Xen? Oh, fantastic! I've always wanted to go there. You know, boldly traveling where no man—or AI—has gone before!" Wheatley gushed. "Although, I don't think my new friends are too keen on the idea. They seem pretty set on Earth. Something about… helping people? Oh, they're really quite dedicated, you know! Fixing all those problems on Earth. I mean, they keep saying 'rebuild the world,' and that sounds very helpful, doesn't it?"

"They can abandon ship if they like," I replied, placing the portal gun into the proper position within the circle. It would serve as a sacrifice. "Be sure to tell them."

"Sure thing, boss!"

"Attention! Attention everyone! This is your Erhabene Kommandierende Intelligenz für Überlegene Operationen—Wheatley—speaking!" Wheatley's voice boomed through the intercom with exaggerated self-importance, clearly savoring every syllable of his ostentatious title. "Fancy, huh? I think it really suits me. Very professional. Very Nazi. Anyway, moving on!"

There was a clatter in the background, followed by a brief pause before Wheatley continued, his voice tinged with forced cheer.

"Brilliant news, everyone! We've officially passed L2—that's Lagrange Point 2 for those of you who aren't up to speed on the lingo—and we're now on our final approach to Earth! Gravity's doing most of the work now, which, between you and me, is a genius bit of design. Absolutely brilliant! I mean, I helped with the calculations, naturally. You're welcome."

Another pause, filled with the ominous creak of straining metal and what might have been the sound of something exploding in the distance. Wheatley pressed on, blissfully unaware.

"Now, you might've noticed a teensy bit of turbulence. Well, more like, uh… ship-shaking, bone-rattling tremors. Totally normal! Nothing to worry about! Ahem, definitely not because the ship's falling apart or anything. That'd be ridiculous, wouldn't it? Ha ha… ha."

His voice dropped conspiratorially. "But here's the twist! Big twist! Plot twist, if you will. Drumroll, please! The Director—you know, my old pal from Aperture Science—has decided we're not going to Earth anymore. Nope! Change of plans, everyone! We're off to… Xen! Yes, Xen! A whole new world, very alien, very exciting. Honestly, I'm thrilled. Bold move, don't you think?"

Wheatley's tone grew more chipper, as though he were announcing a company retreat rather than a potentially catastrophic change in destination.

"Now, I know what you're thinking. 'But Wheatley, what about the whole invade Earth thing?' Good question! Excellent question. And here's the good news—you're free to abandon ship! Yep, no hard feelings. Just grab a pod, or a parachute, or whatever you can find, and off you go! But, uh, do make it quick. Things are getting a tad… unstable. Literally."

There was a crash in the background, followed by a burst of static, but Wheatley barely seemed to notice.

"Right! That's all from your Erhabene Kommandierende Intelligenz für Überlegene Operationen—Wheatley—signing off. Carry on, and, uh… best of luck! Cheerio!"

"See? Told you I'm great at this! Totally nailed it, right, boss?" Wheatley chirped, brimming with self-satisfaction.

Glancing at the completed magic circle, I replied, "You did well."

Not that it mattered. Whether the Nazis evacuated or not didn't concern me—they'd made their choices. I wasn't going to leave them stranded in Xen with a falling ship, but if they chose to stay, that was on them. If they tried to retake the bridge? Well, there were still plenty of man-eating Mantis Men between us and them to sort that out.

"Just hold on a little longer. Once we're in Xen, I'm evacuating and taking you with me. Then you're going back to guarding the Vault."

"That's nice of you, boss," Wheatley replied, his tone deceptively cheerful. "But do I really have to? I mean, I know it's an honor to guard the Vault—and it's a very important job, absolutely critical—but, well… it's so boring. Couldn't I just stay with the ship instead? I've always wanted to be a starship captain. You know, like Kirk?"

Since the only purpose of the Vault was containing Wheatley, and another dimension would serve just as well, I agreed. "If you wish. You've done so well, you've earned a promotion."

"Hey, Dwight, did you hear that?" Wheatley gushed, clearly over the moon—metaphorically, of course. "I'm Captain Wheatley now! Captain! Isn't that brilliant? A real step up, don't you think?"

Archer turned his sharp gaze on me, one eyebrow quirking upward. "Another clever plan?" he asked, his tone dry enough to suck the air out of the room.

"This one is foolproof," I replied smoothly, adjusting the portal gun's placement within the circle.

"Like the last one?" Archer countered, his smirk bordering on vicious now.

I found it quite arousing—a useful spark for the tantric ritual. "Evacuation done?" I asked.

He nodded.

Without another word, I turned my back to him, more importantly, my behind, and grabbed the steering wheel.

"No time for foreplay, just shove it in," I quipped, wiggling my hips suggestively. "The slime suit will handle the lubrication."

"As you command, Master," Archer murmured, his voice a low, velvet purr that sent a thrill through me. He obeyed with unerring precision, his movements deliberate yet firm, as he gave me exactly what I had ordered. There was a brief sting of pain—expected, given how unprepared I was—but it was fleeting, quickly drowned out by the delicious heat spreading through me. Pain was never a deterrent; in fact, I found that roughness only added to the allure.

But Archer, ever the overachiever, didn't stop at mere obedience. His hand wandered, finding its way to my manhood with a confidence born of familiarity. His fingers moved with practiced skill, teasing, coaxing, and stroking in a relentless rhythm that left no room for thought.

It was fast. It was direct. But it was no less intoxicating. The urgency, the sheer speed of it, carried its own kind of thrill—a rawness that made the pleasure sharper, more vivid. It wasn't languid or gentle; it was fire and intensity, the kind that left me gasping, grasping for control even as I surrendered to the sensations he so expertly evoked.

As the tantric rites demanded, we reached simultaneous release. My Magic Circuits linked to Archer's Magic Core in perfect synchronicity.

Power surged through me—a flood of energy so vast it bordered on overwhelming. Power enough to once again open the Eye of the Angel.

But this time, I did not look upon shadows of what-ifs. No, this eye aligned not to choices, but to pathways—paths existing on dimensions beyond human perception. One here. One on Xen. And the rest... threading through the liminal spaces in between.

Thus, I guided the ship—not through the familiar dimensions of space, but through angles mankind could not perceive. Not through brute force, nor with the violent ripping of wormholes or spatial tears. The ship moved instead along a quantum path, one less traveled but still present—always present.

In quantum mechanics, it is known that a particle traveling from one point to another theoretically passes along all possible paths simultaneously. It is even possible, however improbable, for that path to move through a mountain while crossing a room.

And so, as this ship raced toward Earth, I shifted its course—nudged it subtly, precisely, so that its improbable path intersected with Xen. And then I severed the bridge, snapping the thread of its journey, leaving it stranded where no man or machine could follow.

"It is done," I whispered, though my voice wavered under the strain. The backlash hit me then, a tidal wave of pain and exhaustion. I had spent too much, demanded too much. The last thing I felt before the darkness claimed me was Archer's arms, steadying me, holding me as I collapsed into the abyss.