There was something heavy in the air—like the world itself had paused to hold its breath.
It wasn't just nerves or anticipation. It was instinct. That silent tension that coiled in the belly before a storm broke, even if the sky looked clear. Everyone in "Linked Hearts" felt it. From Lina's tightened gloves to Iris's subtle glances over her shoulder, from Jax unusually refusing alcohol to Kira checking the locks twice on every door, they all knew something was coming. They just didn't know what.
Preparations had begun as a form of distraction more than necessity. Lina trained with a new intensity, her flame magic more volatile than usual. She blew up half the training field trying to master a high-compression fire shot, and when the smoke cleared, she was muttering to herself about "needing an edge" against whatever was coming. Iris, typically calm, was spending hours fine-tuning the delay of her time freezes—so surgical that she could now freeze just the blink of an eye if she needed to. It made the others dizzy just thinking about it.
MC, trying to be the responsible leader, called for a strategy meeting… which immediately devolved into Jax trying to use hand puppets to reenact their past battles, Kaela using a squirrel army to steal all the snacks, and Kira throwing a knife across the room and pinning Jax's sleeve to the wall just to shut him up. But despite the chaos, they did talk. About the rival guild—"Storm Reapers"—and their sudden rise in the rankings, the rumors of backroom deals, sabotage incidents, and shadowy patrons.
What made them dangerous wasn't just their power. It was how clean their record looked. Too clean. No failed quests. No political enemies. No complaints. Either they were unbelievably perfect… or they were erasing the evidence.
Linked Hearts had embarrassed them once during the Guild War Trials—barely, messily, and unintentionally—but it was enough. And now, according to a shaky informant with a suspicious eye twitch, the Reapers were planning to make their move. Publicly. In a grand arena match scheduled to "celebrate inter-guild unity." The perfect stage to settle grudges.
Kaela patrolled the perimeter of their temporary headquarters, her beasts unusually restless. Even the most obedient ones paced in circles or snarled at shadows. Something was setting them off. She didn't say anything—Kaela rarely did—but the bags under her eyes betrayed the truth. She hadn't slept well in days.
Luna, meanwhile, smiled like always. Brewed tea. Healed bruises. Polished equipment. And in the dead of night, she stared into a mirror, whispering things too soft to be heard. Her dual life was fraying at the edges. She could feel the pressure from both sides mounting. The Cult had gone quiet again, but that didn't mean they weren't watching. And the more time she spent with the guild, the harder it became to tell where her loyalty truly lay.
MC pretended not to notice. Or maybe he genuinely didn't. He kept trying to focus on battle plans, even though his version of planning involved drawing stick figures on a chalkboard and accidentally spilling juice on half the notes. But beneath his lightheartedness, there was weight too. He'd felt it ever since the Guild War Trials ended—like the System was watching him more closely now, testing him. The more attention he attracted, the less control he seemed to have over the random power copies. Sometimes he'd wake up with a new ability he didn't even remember stealing. That wasn't normal. Not even for his broken System.
And yet, despite everything—despite the tension and the dread and the growing threat that none of them could quite define—there was something beautiful in the way they stuck together. In how Iris handed Lina a snack without asking. In how Kira sharpened everyone's weapons without telling them. In how Jax, drunk or not, always managed to sing just the right song to lighten the mood. They were a disaster of a guild, but they were theirs. A patchwork of chaos stitched together by shared victories, inside jokes, awkward crushes, and the one guy too dense to realize everyone was fighting for his attention.
The sun set blood-orange that night. The horizon burned with fading light. And as they stood on the edge of whatever storm was coming—whatever trap or battle or betrayal awaited them—they didn't run.
They sharpened blades, tightened armor, adjusted spells.
And waited.
END OF CHAPTER 55