Primordial Heir: Nine Stars

’’We expected this,” Adam said. ”The festival, the lax security. We knew they would try something.”

Nero sheathed his sword. ”Normally, we need to report this. The headmaster needs to know.”

Khione’s eyes met his. ”He already knows. That’s why security is lax. To draw them out.”

Nero nodded. It was a gamble, using cadets as bait. But it was working. The organization was showing itself. And now, they had proof.

They left the tower, the cold night air washing over them. Behind them, the room was silent, empty, save for the dark stain on the floor. The Fixer Club had stopped a killer. But there would be more. There always were.

The festival was coming. The organization would try again. And they would be there to rip some lives.’’

°°°

The two days passed in quiet intensity. Each of them trained alone, in their own spaces, honing their bodies and their laws. Nero ran the mountain trails at dawn, his feet pounding the earth, his breath steady. He sparred with training dummies, his sword a blur of fire and lightning, his movements sharper than they had been a week ago. Khione meditated in her frozen pocket world, the cold seeping into her skin, her ice wings spreading wide as she practiced new formations, new angles, new ways to kill. Lux practiced his light in the mirrored chamber, bending beams around corners, focusing them into blades. Adam lifted stones in the earthworks yard, his connection to the ground deepening. Blake slept. Then trained and then slept again.

In the evenings, they gathered in the club room. The masks lay on the table, the fox, the monkey, the dog, the tiger, the koala. They talked about the investigation, about the festival, about nothing at all. They played cards, read books, and listened to music. They unwound, letting the weight of the past days settle.

On the second day, Nero and Khione slipped away.

They rented a pocket world, a labyrinth of stone walls and twisting passages, its corridors filled with gray orcs. The orcs were powerful, tougher than the ones in the tower, their skin like granite, their axes chipped but sharp. They moved in packs, hunting, waiting.

Nero and Khione stood at the entrance, facing the dark maze. She wore her training suit, dark and fitted, her white hair tied back. He wore grey, loose, his sword at his hip. They did not speak. They did not need to.

They entered.

The first pack found them at the first turn. Four gray orcs, their eyes yellow, their axes raised. They charged.

Nero moved left. Khione moved right. His sword blazed with fire, hers with ice. The first orc lunged at him, axe swinging. He ducked, the blade passing over his head, and drove his sword into its chest. Fire erupted from the wound, consuming the orc from within. It fell, already ash.

Khione’s wand traced a circle. Ice spears shot from her fingertips, three of them, each finding an orc’s throat. They dropped, clutching their necks, their blood freezing before it touched the ground.

The fourth orc hesitated. Nero was already there. His sword swept low, taking its legs, then high, taking its head. It fell into two pieces.

They moved deeper.

The labyrinth was a maze of dead ends and hidden chambers. The orcs came in waves—five, then seven, then ten. They fought back to back, their movements synchronized, their laws complementing each other. The fire melted the ice she had created, turning it to steam that blinded their enemies. Ice cooled the air he heated, creating pockets of fog that confused and disoriented him.

He would strike high; she would strike low. He would draw their attention; she would flank. They did not need to speak. They did not need to signal. They simply knew.

A gray orc, larger than the others, charged at Khione from a side passage. She raised her wand, but it was too close, too fast. Nero was there. His sword caught the axe mid-swing, the impact jarring his arms. He held, giving her time. She stepped around him, placed her wand against the orc’s temple, and froze its brain.

It collapsed, twitching.

They continued.

The labyrinth grew darker, the passages narrower. The orcs pressed harder, their numbers seeming endless. But Nero and Khione did not slow. They did not tire. They were a single entity, two halves of a whole, their fire and ice weaving a dance of destruction.

He created a wall of flame, driving the orcs back. She froze the floor beneath their feet, making them slip and stumble. He picked off the leaders with precise thrusts. She finished the stragglers with ice darts.

They fought for an hour, then two. The labyrinth echoed with the clash of steel, the roar of fire, and the crack of ice. Bodies littered the corridors, their gray skin blackened or frozen.

Finally, they reached the center.

A chamber, large and circular, lit by a shaft of pale light from above. And in the center, a gray orc chieftain, twice the size of the others, its axe wreathed in dark energy. It roared, and the walls shook.

Nero looked at Khione. She looked at him.

They moved.

He went high, his sword blazing with fire, aiming for the chieftain’s head. She went low, her wand trailing ice, aiming for its legs. The chieftain swung its axe in a wide arc that would have cut them both in half. Nero leaped over it, his fire wings carrying him upward. Khione slid under it, her ice smoothing her path.

He landed behind the chieftain, his sword already swinging. She rose before it, her wand already casting. Fire struck its back. Ice struck its chest. The chieftain roared, stumbled, fell.

Nero’s sword took its head.

The labyrinth went silent.

They stood in the center of the chamber, breathing hard, surrounded by the bodies of their enemies. Nero’s sword dripped with dark blood. Khione’s wand glowed with residual frost. They looked at each other, and a smile passed between them—small, tired, satisfied.

They walked out of the labyrinth together, their shoulders touching, their steps slow. The sun was setting outside, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose. The day was done. They had trained. They had fought. They had grown.

And tomorrow, they would do it again.