Contracts, Contracts, Contracts.


    The foolish sign them with enthusiasm; the wise dot them with reluctance. What’s the difference?


    There is none. They all choose wrongly in the end. One should only forge Lightless Pacts after strict and careful consideration. They cannot be revoked. They cannot be tiptoed. They cannot be crossed.


    Few bear the write to wield the pen. Fewer ever get the chance to write a second time. Should the Lightsea lend an ear, speak as though it is a deal which will take your greatest love.


    <ul>


    <li>


    Legate Oswort, in the opening of his book, “Lightless Pacts”.


    </li>


    </ul>


    A tanned boot crashed against the concrete as Dante ran, one person clutching onto his back. He wished they could move faster, but he knew it was futile. After his sighs, he leaped over the stone wall and slinked into the propped open door of the prison with the two behind him. When they departed last, they used a pipe to hold heavy glass.


    Dante set Archimedes down, as the boy loathed the close contact, and rounded the corner into the ruined prison’s main room. The upper floors lay open before him, revealing a tense standoff. Atop a cracked steel slab sat Lucius, with his spear in one hand, staring down a young man in an immaculate suit.


    The man’s race was hard to discern, not quite Tianshe but not quite human, yet his head twisted entirely around to meet Dante’s gaze.


    “Oh! Hello! You must be Dante. It’s... a nuisance to meet you,” he said, clapping loudly, much to Dante and Sonna’s confusion. “So, is this everyone? You and the little ones behind you?”


    Dante glanced at his hastily formed crew, going from Rejo to Sonna, then Joan and even Lucius, all while hovering a hand over Archimedes.


    Claudius emerged from a side door, snapping his communicator shut. While he disregarded the uncanny young man, the Judge nodded at Dante, “Good, this is everyone. Eight. Not the worst for a Vector-4. Now, let’s move.”


    Despite raised eyebrows, no one disobeyed Claudius. The young man in the suit gracefully hopped off his steel chair and silently followed his Judge, setting the pace for the others.


    As they made their way out, Rejo leaned toward Dante, whispering, “No ‘uck with the ship?”


    Dante shook his head, meeting Rejo’s hopeful gaze. He had to be honest, even if it meant shattering Rejo’s dreams with his bluntness, “No. We’re in this for the long haul. If you can’t awaken your Qualae, we’re as good as dead. Stay focused.”


    Rejo nodded solemnly. Dante’s decision to stay was final. He couldn’t leave Rejo behind, nor could he leave Archimedes. Berudgingly, he also acknowledged Sonna as part of that equation now at this point. Joan, too.


    They were bound, for better or worse. If he was going to survive, he needed a solid crew—and he couldn’t afford to play by his old rules anymore. Money couldn’t be the measure of loyalty.


    He needed those who would follow him into Hell on the slim chance that he, and only he, could deliver them their highest wishes.


    When they reached the main street, Claudius turned to face them, arms spread wide. In the distance, monstrous figures climbed skyscrapers, smashing through windows or diving into glass structures.


    The Judge addressed them, as if blind to the disaster, “Vector-4s, or Anathemas, differ from the lower tiers. They don’t kill mindlessly. They have a purpose—a directive—and follow a higher power. The Anarchies are strategically placed, with the Anachronisms stationed at vital points. Astraeus is up to something big here. Any insights, Eight?”


    Dante’s eyes locked onto the suspicious figure, a briefcase somehow appearing in his hands out of nothingness. Dante could swear he felt a subtle breeze in the back of his mind, but he didn’t know what it was.


    Nonetheless, this ‘Eight’ held some information for everyone. He clambered upon a broken-down car, kicking it for what appeared to be fun, before glancing around at the nighttime. It was silent beyond the echoing crumbling glass and the surrounding breathing.


    He smirked, an unsettling glint in his eyes manifesting before he spoke, “Anathema are like captains among the Dirge. If they’re here, it means they want a bridgehead. They’ve set bait to anchor their presence. For what? Who knows?”


    Eight’s gaze landed on Rejo, who shifted uncomfortably. By pointing a finger, he ratified Dante’s fears, “You. I sense my same affinity. Astraeus used you as a pawn, exploiting your fear and affinity to get here. Someone higher up orchestrated this.”


    The suited young man exposed his unexpected experience, taking the spotlight away from the Judge himself.


    Dante watched the exchange, withholding his own suspicions. Somehow, Eight already knew more than he should.


    “Considering that... Yes. One of ‘Them’ was around here, right? Any known stars go dark? Any recent Sectors stop echoing?” Eight’s question targeted Claudius, and the Judge didn’t wait to answer.


    Still, Claudius looked troubled by the question and gestured westward as he said, “We lost contact with the Reikshi Sector. I was heading there to assist a Praetor and some Judges. It looks like they’re setting up a Juncture here, too.”


    “Yes,” Eight confirmed with a curt nod. “They’ll nest in the most populated areas. To them, negative emotions are a feast. Astraeus will establish his bridgehead in the centermost position.”


    Dante’s question came out piping hot, his frustration spilling over, “Why the city center? What’s the connection to the population?”


    With scarcely bent knees, the young man hopped off the car’s roof, laughing aloud and giving Dante and those behind him a jeer. His mocking gestures were impossible to miss, “Really, Claudius? These four? At least the Martian has some experience. Do you even think, Dante? Figure it out. Or don’t. Just keep up and try not to die.”


    Teeth gnashed in Dante’s jaws as Rejo joined him, somehow understanding the young man perfectly, despite the many words relayed to them all. The Araki’s wrath swooned in place of his ally’s while Dante clamped down on his own emotions.


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    It was as if one lever had flipped on and the other clamped shut.


    Tranquil now, Dante observed the back of Claudius, Eight, and the third, who never introduced himself while walking alongside... his crew. One of them he doesn’t trust, another he doesn’t like, the third he can’t lose, the fourth a requirement for his success, and the fifth a phantom from his past.


    Lucius, Sonna, Rejo, Archimedes, and Joan.


    Their smiles vanished, but Sonna and Rejo boasted the most crestfallen faces. The former wished she were off-planet, sipping martinis, while the latter craved putting a bullet in Eight’s head. The first was known from her complaints, and the second was visible to the naked eye.


    Dante’s mind, however, was segmented away from the emotions and the fear that clouded it before. Slowly, he was settling back into this feeling, the premonition of the end.


    It had been a while since he was at death’s courthouse, just waiting for her to call his name with the gavel.


    With his brain ticking to its limit, he floated into his mind, reflecting deeply about the situation. Once he did, the answer unveiled itself.


    Population. The Lightsea feeds on negative emotions. The more the merrier, right? Is that how Astraeus plans to construct it? What is our job here, though? Stop it? Kill him?


    “Alright, Eight,” Dante demanded, his voice cutting through the tension as he was tired of Eight’s attitude, “What’s the plan? We can’t just walk in and hope to survive. Give us something tangible.”


    The noise rebounded above as a Dirge made itself known, falling from above toward the group. Before it came anywhere near them all, however, a tug emerged in Dante’s senses. And an instant later, the Anomaly was high in the air.


    Eight swung his briefcase, slamming it into the Anaphage with a spike of ice before it careened back into the building, cascading glass below. In a blink, he was back at Dante’s side, unruffled.


    On his tiptoes, visibly annoyed at having to rise too high, he patted Dante on the shoulder with that same foul attitude, “Of course, lad, we will not fight them all. We just need to get Astraeus to lose concentration on his incomplete Domain. If we could break it, that’d be even better since they can’t produce it more than once a day. Once that’s done, our Judge here will make a call. In less than five minutes, we should have dozens of Judges and a Centurion or two. Maybe we’ll even be so lucky as to receive a Praetor’s upturned nose! Oh, wouldn’t that be great, Claudius?”


    No one answered the presumptuous boy’s monologue, but his strength was clear to see, as the Anaphage didn’t move anymore. One hit. That is all it took.


    From Claudius to Lucius, the surprise was not short-lived.


    While the others’ concerns focused with his power, Dante’s mind lingered on the future of all those Judges and Centurions. His self-assurance led him to believe that Claudius wouldn’t double-cross him after they went through with this, but... the others...


    Dante remained quiet as he walked, stuck in his mind. Eight wouldn’t hesitate to turn him in, nor would those that arrive later.


    Yet, Eight wasn’t done. He glanced up at the human alongside him, finding something to latch onto. Dante internally groaned before Eight even spoke, “Hoh! Is there something you don’t like about that plan, human? Wouldn’t all those authority figures just dive on you?” the mechanical face of Eight leaned in closer, far too close for comfort, as he continued, “Rip you limb from limb? Probably. You don’t have many other options. Suck it up, buttercup. The only way you could have won was not to play. But you broke the table and glued our feet to the floor. Now we have to play blackjack with splinters.”


    Dante stifled a sigh, choosing silence over a pointless argument. Eight fished for a rebuttal, twisting his head back and forth, but Dante didn’t care. He shut out the ignorant boy.


    As he returned to the rear, Claudius spoke again, “The water treatment plant is the likeliest spot for the Juncture due to it being exactly central and the only building large enough for it in the vicinity. We’re half a mile from it. We’ll split into two teams.”


    Dante and Rejo shared a knowing glance before Claudius suddenly drew his Executioner and pointed it directly at Rejo’s mouth tendrils. His partner, the Harenlar, split four knives out and held them along Joan’s throat.


    The two criminals believed they knew what was happening, but they were unaware of Claudius’ resolve. They thought they would simply be sacrificial pawns. Unbeknownst to them, the Judge saw himself as a pawn, too, destined to perish.


    As such, Dante reacted without his typical swiftness, only lifting his gun a moment later while Lucius backpedaled, holding Arch behind him. Eight with his whistling blond hair, on the far end of the group, stared into the distance, silently grasping his hands behind his back.


    Veins grew upon Dante’s forehead as he shouted at the Judge in fury, “What are you doing? Aren’t we supposed to work together!?!”


    Claudius looked resigned but firm. He hated the choice he had to make, but he felt better knowing they were criminals. Still, his words did not depart his lungs easily, “This is working together. They need to awaken their Qualae. Now. Or they die. We can’t carry dead weight. Joan is a doctor, Lucius is a Martian, and the boy is a mechanic. You two hold nothing. Astraeus will obliterate you. Here and now. Either you die, or you unlock that darkness within the lights of your eyes.”


    The Judge’s palms were sweaty, his finger locked around the trigger of his gun. It was clear he didn’t wish to kill them. Nevertheless, Claudius knew that the most decisive choices were the toughest.


    They were criminals anyway. This method of brute-forcing one’s connection to the Lightsea rarely worked. But when it did...


    It was a wonder. Claudius would know. His grandfather’s protégé was the one who did this to him, after all.


    Sonna, too terrified to move, howled for help at the top of her lungs, “Dante! Stop him! I don’t know how to control this shit!”


    Meanwhile, Rejo stared Dante down, the Araki ready to die should the human say so. They didn’t exchange any words, but Dante knew exactly what his friend meant. Because that’s what they had always been, even if Dante refused to accept it until now.


    Dante couldn’t fight back. If he did, Rejo would die anyway.


    He could only close his eyes with a curse, “You bastards. I’m sorry, Sonna. Rejo...” Dante didn’t stop there, however, and, opening the blue pupils within, he glared right back at Seafarers, “You got this. Just find it. Find the Lightsea.”


    A shout came from afar as Eight delivered them all a warning, “We’ve got some curious ones from their yelling! More will be coming! I’ll handle what I can!”


    The mysterious lad evaporated into thin air, only to have his briefcase embed an eight-legged monstrosity into the concrete, wherein it ceased movement from growing icicles across its joints.


    Claudius’ hands tightened around the gun, his eyes telling Qain to prepare himself. He began a countdown, “You have until those Qualae overwhelm Anomaly Eight-Eight-Eight to shed away your pasts. Everything you have been until now is meaningless. You are one of the few blessed and cursed by the evils in the universe to possess power. Yet, it is a case of wrong place and wrong time, as with most of our kind, only yours is far shittier than mine.”


    Sonna’s hand reached out to Rejo, and the Araki took it begrudgingly as he respected Dante’s decision. The two clasped together tighter, aware that their deaths were just moments away.


    Dozens of Anaphages and two Anarchies surged toward Eight, the latter proven by their more streamlined forms, less blob and waste, and more function. The Anomaly proved his strength while the visible timer ticked away.


    Quickly, Eight reached his limits. Eight’s mightiness, perhaps equal to the Judge, was evident, but with more and more opponents closing in, his movement, which was his strongest asset, faced heavy restrictions.


    Without a Domain Collapse to extend one’s power, numbers could strike down even the greatest power. Quantity boasts its own genre of quality. It was nearly impossible to damage an entire continent, let alone a planet in absence of such supreme techniques.


    Fortune smiled on Claudius with strange lips, for Astraeus did not possess a true Domain, instead such were home to the next step in Dirge in virtually every case.


    A sigh broke out among the crowd as Lucius strode past them all, lifting a hatchet from Rejo’s belt. He held no mystical strength, far from demolishing a city, yet he stood up nonetheless. The soldier stole a gun from Qain’s holster, the Harenlar too preoccupied to stop him.


    Regardless of their surroundings, Claudius focused wholly on the two before him, hopeful for their prolonged existence as he spoke, “Delve deep. Find it. Because if you don’t... You will die. I am sorry. I don’t wish for this, but we already taking care of one useless in a fight. We cannot have two more.”


    Rejo’s eyes closed with those comments, his mind coming to terms with his death. Beneath his lidded, accepting gaze, however, a brewing madness emerged. The man was not the kind to die without a gambit, though he would follow orders. In counterbalance, Sonna pleaded for her life, well aware that she was not capable of Claudius’ demands. Her pleas boasted not a noise in Rejo’s raging calm.


    He grew up on a farm. A peaceful one. Tractors, corn, and cows.


    The Roman dream, one would say.


    However, he hated it. He hated it so much. The quiet winters, the buzzing summers, and the constant peace. The young Rejo merely wanted excitement and adrenaline, and for that, his kin ostracized him.


    On his sixteenth birthday, over ten years ago, Rejo ran away, joining the first mercenary company he could. He went from company to company, planet to planet, Sector to Sector, never finding a good place where he fit in.


    He still hadn’t. But what he uncovered was a man that he believed was worth following. To him, Dante was a liar, a cheat, and a schemer, but that was perfect for the Araki.


    Rejo despised such things, but he recognized their necessity. So...


    He left them to his friend to worry about. All Dante had to do was point, and Rejo would wrap his hands around any gun. And more than that... Dante held the secrets of the world to Rejo.


    Only Dante could deliver him to the providence he sought, not that Rejo knew what that was.


    The Araki faced ostracism for more than just his peculiar ambitions. Truth was, he had never been quite right in the head. A whisper to himself, a bizarre phrase, or a false memory were not unheard of for him to share.


    Rejo’s left hand ascended to the barrel of the gun planted against his forehead while the other released Sonna’s sweaty palm. He then retrieved the pocket-watch Dante gave him on his last birthday, glancing down at the memory of the singular one they shared on the Starsinger.


    Air filled his lungs. He had lived a life. Worth living? He wasn’t sure. Regardless, he held faith in his captain.


    “Do it!” Rejo exhaled, carrying little hope for his survival, and yet he asked for his death. The more time he wasted, the more likely Dante would get hurt. And for his sole friend in the whole vast galaxy, Rejo simply smiled.


    The red-skinned Araki knew Dante would save him. Somehow. It was a ridiculous thought for anyone else. An observer would have called the Araki insane, and they’d be accurate. Regardless of the truth, Rejo felt what he felt.


    Even if Dante didn’t feel the same kinship, that was fine with Rejo. Few had treated him with kindness, yet the human did. Repeatedly. They shared beers. Long nights wasting away in the Skull. Early mornings still playing Liar’s Dice. The little things won his loyalty.


    Few could understand Rejo’s resolve because of his cheap translator and foreign language, but Claudius nodded his head in understanding.


    Without another word, a single digit closed around the trigger, and sparks ignited as Rejo’s life flashed before his eyes.