The rear maintenance gate of Meiji Shrine wasn't monitored after 10 p.m.
No cameras. No active patrols. Just a gravel service path choked with weeds and vending machine refuse — a forgotten strip of city where damp earth, syrup rot, and fox piss clung to the air. It was a quiet blind spot in one of Tokyo's most trafficked landmarks. Ideal for unauthorized access, or clandestine checks.
A three-person team moved through the undergrowth with trained economy. Civilian clothes. Concealed bindings. The lead, Agent Saito Renji, carried a tuned spiritron suppressor in one sleeve and a veil-spell trigger in the other. He didn't use either yet.
They weren't here to breach. Only to observe.
Chaldea's Tokyo surveillance net — still technically unofficial — had flagged unstable bounded field activity around this location. Weak stuff, barely pinging the array. But it was odd. Just strong enough to indicate deliberate placement. Crude enough to not match Association standards. Could've been a failed experiment, an amateur workshop, or a leftover familiar post.
Still, oddities mattered. Even if it was nothing, pattern recognition was part of Chaldea's charter now. Especially with the Antarctica project back online.
"We're not gonna find anything in this dump," Hoshino Aya muttered, brushing a branch aside.
"Probably not," Keller replied. "But it's better than the last one."
"The Pachinko parlor?"
Keller's mouth tightened into something near a smile. "At least this one doesn't smell like beer vomit and unpaid rent."
"You know," Saito added dryly, "when recruitment told me I'd be scouting mages, I imagined symposiums. Not graveyard shifts in shrines and alleyways."
"You want symposiums, go back to Atlas. This is how Chaldea recruits now. Random screenings. Drift netting. Sometimes we even hand out flyers."
Aya groaned. "Again?"
"Hey, it worked once. Cincinnati guy."
The group halted. Obstruction ahead.
By the rear gate's utility stairs were four civilians — homeless. One leaned against the base of a rusted service pipe, wrapped in a blue tarp. Another was curled in a nest of grey blankets under the eaves of a shuttered storage shed. The others were nestled in the shadow of a broken vending machine, breathing slow and even.
"Problem?" Keller asked.
Saito assessed quickly. "Locals. Not ideal witnesses."
He raised two fingers. Minor hypnosis — subtle, noninvasive. Standard practice. Just wipe the last ten minutes.
The incantation was silent. His breath left his lungs in a smooth exhale as the bounded field spread out, a ripple only the trained could see.
Three of the four reacted instantly. Slouched. Breathing leveled. Eyes dulled.
The fourth blinked.
No visible recoil. Just a small facial twitch — a microsecond of tension in the jaw. Then: focus. Presence. Awareness. Gaze locked.
Saito didn't lower his hand.
"One resistant," he said.
Keller stepped forward. Young. Early twenties. Male. Japanese-European descent. Unwashed, maybe underfed, but broad-shouldered. Still. Watching.
"Intentional shielding?" she asked.
"Doubt it. No glyph signatures. No formal scripts."
"Circuits, then."
"Most likely."
Keller exhaled. "Rare for someone this off-grid."
The subject didn't move. Just stared. Not fearful. Just present.
"Do we engage?" Aya asked.
"We can't leave him now," Keller said. "He saw us cast."
Saito nodded once. "We'll bring him in."
-
Ten minutes later, the maintenance stairs were empty again.
The rusted utility gate stood closed behind them, undisturbed.
Now, the black Toyota Century glided through midnight traffic, its engine a whisper against the hum of Shibuya's sodium lights.
The car wasn't built for collecting strays. It was for Foundation execs, diplomats, and discreet handoffs. But needs changed.
Agent Saito shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat, eyeing the rearview mirror like it personally offended him.
Keller's tablet was already out, a pale glow against her face as it parsed biosignatures and spiritron markers.
In the back, their guest sat silent, hands in his lap, eyes watching the passing skyline.
"What now?" Aya asked.
"We log him. Diagnostics. If he has circuits — and he does — we screen him for Rayshift compatibility."
"He's not trained. He's not even registered."
"Doesn't matter," Saito said. "Compatibility isn't about pedigree anymore. They're testing for raw receptivity. That Cincinnati guy didn't even know what prana was."
"You're kidding."
"Nope. Said he thought magecraft was a 'trading card gimmick.' Scored higher than three Clock Tower grads."
"So we just grab randos now?" Aya muttered.
Keller didn't look up. "We already cast in front of him. Protocol's clear: terminate or contain. And I'm not spending two days explaining to HQ why I clean-wiped a kid with circuits in his spinal tract."
"Easier than handing out flyers," Saito added.
"Exactly."
"Worst case," he continued, "he's useless. Best case? We found something interesting."
"You're all very charming," said the man in the back.
Silence.
"You understand what happened?" Keller asked.
"Yeah. You tried some Jedi mind trick. I didn't flinch."
"Correct."
"And instead of panicking or explaining, you stuffed me into a black car."
"Also correct."
"Now you're talking about scans and testing like this is an HR onboarding session for a secret society."
"It's more professional than that."
"Right. Cult with dental."
Keller finally sighed. "We'll give you treatment. Bath. Food. Clean clothes. After that, if you want to leave — you leave."
"And if I don't?"
"Then we test you. And maybe make you an offer."
"Employment?"
"Eventually."
He leaned back against the seat, eyes half-lidded, thoughtful. Not panicked. Not scared. Just quiet.
Keller tapped her screen once. "Name?"
There was a pause.
He looked out the window again — watching Tokyo slide away, neon giving way to freeway. He wasn't hesitating from fear. Just thinking.
His real name was long gone. He hadn't used it in years. Shelters didn't ask. Cops didn't check. The ID? Lost at Fussa Station, or maybe the coin locker in Shin-Koiwa. Didn't matter.
This felt like a border crossing.
A reset.
He could call himself anything. Anything at all. And yet...
"Jack," he said finally.
"Last name?"
He shook his head slightly. "Just Jack."
Aya frowned. "That's not a name."
"It is now. Universal. One syllable. Easy to say. Works in kana."
Keller didn't argue. She just typed it in.
Outside, the city lights dimmed. The Century merged onto the Shuto Expressway, bound for Haneda's private terminal.
A Chaldea Foundation charter would be waiting. Destination: Antarctica.
In the dark, with the window slightly cracked and the wind tugging at his ragged collar, Jack allowed himself a thin smile.
He didn't believe in fate.
But this felt close enough.
-
Chaldea Security Organization — Orientation Suite 7C
Elevation: 6,400 meters above sea level.
Temperature: -38°C outside. Artificial 21°C inside.
The mirror didn't lie. That was the problem.
Jack stood in front of it, frowning slightly at the reflection — clean-shaven, sharp-lined, freshly cut. He looked hygienic. The blue uniform clung a little too well, the white jacket still creased from the fold. A subtle scent of sterilized air and synthetic detergent clung to it.
Hair cropped just above the ears, face clear, posture accidentally confident. He looked like someone who got regular paychecks and worried about tax brackets.
It was unnatural.
He rubbed his jaw absently. Smooth. Too smooth. No city grime, no bristle, no shadow. Even his hands were cleaner now — the calluses hadn't gone, but the grime under the nails had.
"Out of the gutter and into the snow," he muttered. "Should've asked for a beard exemption."
Overhead, a chime. Female voice. Clean, clinical, too chipper for subterranean Antarctica:
"Subject 0471: JACK. Final clearance complete. Orientation resumes in five minutes. Please proceed to Corridor B3."
"Of course. Corridor B3." He stretched lazily, then rolled his shoulders. "Because corridors A through Z weren't enough."
The corridors of Chaldea were all the same: white, cold, clean. Smart panels lined the walls, constantly shifting, quietly humming. Jack passed multiple doors labeled with things he didn't understand — "Leyline Harmonics," "Temporal Anchoring Lab," "Animusphere Pulse Index."
Most of them locked. Some glowed faintly. One smelled like burnt ozone.
He passed staff along the way. Scientists. Operatives. Interns. One girl with bright green hair and a stack of data tablets gave him a wide berth.
Others didn't notice him. Or pretended not to.
In one of the lower halls, he passed a group of uniformed candidates, clearly recruits like him — but shinier. You could smell the pedigree. One wore a black cloak with silver runes stitched at the hem. Another stood ramrod straight, with a shock of pale hair and the kind of jawline that probably came with its own monogrammed cutlery.
The tall one was already talking to a cluster of others, confident. Another, a girl with auburn hair and an eye patch, stood off to the side, arms crossed. A third, shivering slightly despite the internal heating, had white-blond hair and the posture of someone who never expected to be here in the first place.
Jack didn't slow down.
Kirschtaria Wodime. Ophelia Phamrsolone. Kadoc Zemlupus.
He didn't know the names. But he'd remember the types.
And then, a few paces later — an odd sight.
A girl. Young. Maybe early teens, maybe younger. Purple hair in a short bob, glasses slightly oversized. She was struggling to coax a tiny, vaguely rabbit-shaped creature off her shoulder. It barked. Or squeaked. Something in between.
Jack stared.
The creature blinked at him.
He blinked back.
"...Okay," he muttered. "First magical animal. Guess that's done."
He then entered the Orientation Room B3, expecting either a boring corporate talk, that he'll be forced to accept anyways, or magical jargon that he'll never put in the effort to understand.
-
A whole, boring hour later...
"...so, to summarize: out of the forty-three active candidates, your Rayshift compatibility scored the highest on record. Including staff. Including legacy lineages."
Jack was back in the padded restraint-chair. Not his favorite. Felt like a dentist's chair, but for existential surgery. He had to admit, he zoned out for most of it, but he thinks he got the gist of it.
Across from him, Director Olga Marie Animusphere clicked her stylus with increasing agitation.
"You say that like it's a bad thing," Jack said, voice flat.
"It is inconvenient," Olga replied. "We were expecting someone with formal training. Not..." she gestured at him. "...this."
Jack raised both hands, palms out. "Hey. I didn't ask to be your best option."
"And yet here we are."
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Fine. We're adapting. Starting today, you'll be given an accelerated magecraft primer. Field utility only. No theory, no high thaumaturgy. Just enough to survive — projection, Gandr, bounded field awareness, maybe basic hypnosis."
Jack gave a slow, mock-nod. "Magic boot camp. Got it."
"Expect to be outclassed by most of the others."
"I usually am," he said, without a trace of concern. "Makes me easier to underestimate."
That gave her pause.
Before she could fire back, the door slid open.
Lev Lainur entered with a smile too white for a place this sterile. Jack had seen it before. That smile belonged to loan officers and con artists.
"Director. Subject 0471," Lev said, bowing slightly. "The demonstration chamber is prepped. Other candidates are ready."
Olga gave Jack one last glance. "Try not to burn the place down."
"No promises," he said, already on his feet. He felt a bit annoyed, but it was expected. He had entered a room, just to need to move to another right after.
And, again, he navigated the "labyrinths" of Chaldea, intent on finding his destination - 'Observation Theater 2B', supposedly.
At least this time, it was close by. As he he entered close, the mechanical doors opened by themselves.
-
Ten candidates stood within the chamber. Jack made eleven.
Most were already paired off or silently staking out turf like cats in a new apartment. Several bore signs of elite training — coats cut with Academy lines, or rings etched with familial crests. One girl had full-body support gear fused to her spine. Another boy, maybe twelve, levitated slightly off the floor, eyes closed in concentration.
Jack kept to himself. No point in making friends. Not unless they came with keys or shortcuts.
Overhead, observation drones buzzed faintly.
"Testing sequence begins in five. You will each perform the following: basic projection, Ether stabilization, bounded field deployment. Summoning protocols are optional. Injuries will be healed. Death is discouraged."
The voice was automated, but Jack could hear the technician behind it smirking.
The test began.
Jack watched the others. Some tried too hard. Others clearly knew what they were doing. The Atlas uniform girl layered a bounded field in under three seconds. Kirschtaria (if that was his name) launched a spell that turned half the arena floor into polished obsidian.
Jack moved last.
Projection: a short dagger. Clean. Stable.
Gandr: crude but fast — like a stone flung by instinct.
Field: rough around the edges, but reactive. Anchored to him like a second skin.
He didn't chant. He didn't pose. He didn't care.
It worked. That was the point.
SUBJECT 0471: "JACK"
CIRCUIT PROFILE: MAXIMUM COMPATIBILITY (RAYSHIFT)
MAGECRAFT RESPONSE: ABOVE AVERAGE
FIELD INTEGRITY: EXCEPTIONAL
SUMMONING INDEX: [REDACTED – INTERNAL REVIEW PENDING]
Olga, from the control booth: "He's too relaxed."
Lev, smiling: "Or too efficient."
Jack walked off the field before the system even called time.
-
Later — Cafeteria Block, Sublevel D
He ate quietly. Plastic tray. Clean protein, vitamin-saturated broth, synthetic carbs. Not bad. A far cry from convenience store leftovers and half-frozen vending sandwiches.
He sat alone. Observed the others from a distance.
No homesickness. No awe. Just an internal calculation.
"These people deal with monsters, ghosts, history gone wrong. They treat magic like a job."
"I can work a job."
In the reflection of the polished metal table, he caught his face again.
Still didn't like it.
But if this was the new uniform? He'd wear it. For now.
Jack's footsteps echoed softly down the endless white corridor, the cold hum of the ventilation system humming low behind the sterile walls. The air was thin, artificial — the kind of place designed to keep the outside world locked out, or maybe locked in. He pulled his hands from his pockets, fingers brushing the smooth metal of the activator rod tucked inside like a security blanket. His calves ached from muscles unused to this kind of controlled movement, but it wasn't fatigue. More like a spring wound tight, waiting to snap — no outlet.
He approached the junction where the hall branched left toward his quarters when a voice drifted from behind the observation window beside the training room's entrance.
"There's no way that file is legit. Nobody with zero formal training learns projection and bounded field that fast."
The tone was calm but sharp, laced with disbelief.
Jack's pace slowed. His lips twitched, a faint smirk pulling at the corner. "Guess I'm on someone's radar now".
He didn't bother to look back. Didn't really care.
Turning down the long corridor leading to the candidate quarters, he passed walls lined with blinking panels and locked doors stamped with obscure labels — Animusphere Analysis, Leyline Resonance, Quantum Synchronization Lab. Jargon he didn't bother to remember, the kind of words meant to impress or confuse whoever glanced their way.
His steps dragged slightly, heavier now, the weight of the day settling in as he passed by a handful of other candidates — heads down, talking quietly, moving with purpose or nerves. He ignored them all. Not his problem.
Finally, he reached the door marked "471." It slid open silently at his approach, then shut behind him with a muted hiss, sealing him in a small, impersonal cell of metal and synthetic plastic.
The low drone of the base's systems blended with the soft hiss of ventilation. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a sterile white glow that did nothing to warm the space — not that Jack cared.
He dropped onto the cot with the grace of a man who's done this routine a thousand times before. The mattress was thin, the pillow flat and plasticky. Nothing inviting here. Nothing soft. Perfect.
He lay back, one arm slung lazily over his eyes, and let out a long breath — not quite a sigh, but close enough.
"Great," he muttered to the ceiling. "New city, new gig, same bullshit."
His eyes scanned the ceiling tiles, counting the tiny imperfections, the hairline cracks in the paint. They were the only thing in this room that felt real.
Jack didn't want to think about the day's tests. Didn't want to replay the sparks of magecraft, the way his projection dagger had solidified from nowhere. It wasn't like he had control over it — more like reflex, luck, and a deep-seated habit of doing things at the last possible second.
But of course, his brain didn't get the memo. It kept running through the possibilities, the implications.
"So, what now?"
His fingers tapped an absent rhythm against the mattress. Lazy. Disinterested. But underneath, sharp as ever.
"They think I'm some kind of anomaly. A fluke."
"Probably not thrilled that a civilian with zero training pulled off basic magecraft better than half their pet geniuses."
He snorted quietly, the sound almost lost in the room's sterile emptiness.
"No one's gonna believe the file. 'Homeless drifter,' they say. 'No lineage. No pedigree.' Yeah, sure."
He cracked one eye open, staring at the small locker in the corner — his only link to anything personal, though mostly empty.
"That means I'm on a list. Not a 'Welcome' list, either. More like a 'Keep an Eye on This One' list."
He tilted his head, rolling the thought around like a stone in his mouth.
"Not surprised. Hell, I'd watch me too."
Jack's gaze drifted to the door, as if expecting it to open and spit out some new authority figure with a clipboard.
"They want me to learn fast, move fast. Survive. But don't expect me to sit through lectures on magical history or theories."
He waved a lazy hand. "Boring as hell."
The weight of the day's exhaustion pressed down on him, and he welcomed it like a warm blanket he never asked for.
"I hate thinking this much. It's too much work."
His lips twitched into a grin, one corner lifting in bitter amusement.
"But apparently, thinking's all I'm good for right now."
His fingers drummed against the thin mattress again.
"If there's a shortcut, I'll take it. Always do."
"But until then?"
He closed his eyes fully, voice dropping to a near whisper.
"I go with the flow. See where the wind blows me."
"Not like I've got a plan anyway."
The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
He thought about the others he'd passed — Kirschtaria with his sharp edges, the purple-haired girl with that weird creature that barked or squeaked, the pale boy levitating like he was born to do it.
None of them were him.
"They're all playing the game their way. Fancy spells, fancy gear, fancy names."
He shook his head slightly.
"I'm just a guy who got dropped in a world that doesn't make sense, wearing clothes that don't fit, trying to make the best out of a shitty hand."
His mouth twitched into a smirk.
"Lucky for me, losing's not the end of the world."
He let out a long breath, settling deeper into the cot.
"If I screw up, whatever. I move on. Life goes on."
"But I'll keep my eyes open."
"And I'll make my move when it counts."
Jack's mind wandered, untangling the mess of rules and threats lurking behind the sterile walls.
"Magecraft's broken. Dangerous. Like handing a kid a loaded gun and hoping they don't shoot themselves."
"There's gotta be hidden costs. Mental strain, magical backlash, soul rot — call it what you want."
"Those who survive long enough to become 'masters' probably have scars no one talks about."
He smirked again, barely suppressing a dry laugh.
"Sounds like a charming club."
He pushed himself up on an elbow, glancing at the ceiling again.
"Secret societies, politics, turf wars. The deeper you dig, the uglier it gets."
"They probably watch each other like hawks, waiting for a slip."
"I'm a loose cannon, or a wildcard. Either way, interesting."
Jack yawned, stretching his arms above his head.
"Too much thinking for one day."
He swung his legs off the cot, boots hitting the floor with a soft thud.
"Tomorrow's another day. Same rules, different targets."
He turned the lights off, leaving the room in shadows.
"Let them watch."
"I'll do what I do best."
"Nothing."
And with that, the exhaustion finally claimed him.
-
Candidate Quarters – Room 471
The second time the alarm went off, it didn't even have the decency to be shrill. Just a calm pulse, a low-frequency hum that grew louder until it was impossible to ignore without having a neurological breakdown.
Jack opened one eye. Groaned. Threw a sock at the wall panel like it had insulted his ancestors.
He sat up slowly, sheets tangled around one leg, shirt twisted halfway up his back. The cot creaked. His mouth tasted like recycled air and stale protein. Jetlag, gravity changes, artificial oxygen — none of it made for restful sleep.
He rubbed his face with both hands.
"Late. Yep."
Still didn't care. Not really. The only reason he got up was the same reason he did most things — because not doing so would probably be worse. One shortcut over another.
He pulled on the fresh uniform jacket someone had folded and left on the nearby chair — probably an intern — and stepped out into the corridor with unbrushed hair and the casual dishevelment of a man who'd once lived in a subway station and survived fine.
-
Corridor B2 → B3 – Late Morning
The hall was emptier now. Everyone had probably made it to their briefings, suited up, taken their little magnesium pills, and already listened to some lecture about "Rayshift responsibility" and "heroic legacy."
Jack ambled along at his own pace, hands tucked into his sleeves, gaze skimming the cold white walls. Signs blinked faintly — ← Orientation Briefing, Field Deployment, Armory. Everything was labeled like a mall directory, except half the words weren't real.
That's when he saw her again.
The girl from earlier — the one with the glasses and purple hair, the weird rabbit-creature still perched on her shoulder like a squirrel cosplaying a manager.
She nearly bumped into him rounding a corner. Blinked once. Then offered a soft, startled smile.
"Oh! Sorry, I didn't think anyone else was still... oh."
Jack raised a hand lazily. "Yeah. Late arrival. Running on 'fashionably unconscious.'"
She paused, looked at him more carefully. A little concern flickered across her face. Not judgment — just soft, earnest curiosity.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Define okay."
"I mean... you're not lost, are you?"
"Chronically," he said. "But also, yes."
That seemed to amuse her. She adjusted her glasses.
"You're supposed to be in Orientation Briefing Room 1-A. Director Olga is already waiting."
"I had a dream where I wasn't," he muttered. "Think I liked that version better."
She smiled again — gentle, patient. The kind of smile that didn't ask for anything in return.
"Come on," she said. "I'll take you there. You'll get in less trouble if you're at least moving in the right direction."
"Do they reduce the sentencing if you show intent to reform?"
She tilted her head. "Only a little."
Jack let her lead the way. She didn't talk much. Neither did he. The silence was companionable, though — the rare kind where nothing felt like it had to be said.
When they reached the double doors at the end of the corridor, she paused, turned to him.
"I hope it goes okay," she said, quietly. "The Director's strict, but she means well."
Jack looked at her for a beat.
"Thanks, Four-Eyes."
She blinked. A bit startled.
Then: "...I wear contacts sometimes."
Jack gave a small grin. "I respect the commitment."
She nodded once, then stepped back as the doors slid open.
-
Orientation Briefing Room 1-A – A Minute Later
Olga Marie Animusphere did not look pleased.
She stood with the precision of someone who organized her anger by the minute. Floating screens surrounded her, casting flickering light across her tailored coat and clenched fists. She looked like she'd been practicing a lecture all morning, and now finally had a target to unleash it on.
"You're late," she snapped, voice sharp.
Jack didn't reply immediately.
Instead, he took three slow, deliberate steps into the room, then—
—he knelt.
Not halfway. Not ironically. He dropped to one knee, hand to his chest, head bowed like a knight swearing fealty to someone who had just caught him stealing her horse.
"I offer myself for punishment," he said, calmly, eyes still cast downward. "Kneeling on frozen corn, dish duty for a month, latrine soul-cleansing. Anything, really."
Silence.
Not because she was impressed.
Because she was stunned.
"What… are you doing?" Olga demanded, more flustered than furious now.
Jack looked up — not smiling, not smirking. Just... sincere. In the weirdest possible way.
"I was late. Unforgivable. I'm a disgrace to humanity's last hope. A rat in the walls. A mildew on the marble."
Olga blinked, visibly uncertain if she was being mocked or recruited into a cult.
Lev looked like he was biting his lip to keep from laughing. Jack caught it and turned his head just slightly.
"Is this not protocol?" he asked mildly.
"Get up," Olga finally barked, flustered.
Jack stood, brushing his knee. "As you command, O' wrathful one."
She growled under her breath, whirled toward the terminal, and practically slapped the screen on.
"You're here because of compatibility alone. Your scores are off the charts. But you are not irreplaceable."
Jack nodded gravely. "Wouldn't dream of being special. I hear expectations lead to disappointment."
"You—!"
Lev stepped in smoothly before she could explode further. "Director. We're ready."
Olga took a breath that sounded like it had been years in the making. "Alright! All candidates! Move to the observation deck, in order!"
-
CHALDEA – OBSERVATION DECK
A low thrum echoed across the facility. Unusual, but not yet panic-worthy. The staff were still busy finalizing rayshift tests. Jack had finally been ushered off to the main testing bay, where a final check was being run before tomorrow's "real" operation.
He hadn't seen their doctor, so-called "Roman", yet — not properly. The guy was apparently head of medical, but missing during check-in.
Mash stood quietly by the capsule system, glancing at her terminal nervously. She had already been fitted into the test suit, pale fingers hovering near a command panel. Jack noticed the slight quiver in her stance. She was trying very hard not to show her unease.
He slouched against a nearby column.
"So, 'Mash', right?" he muttered, "You always get roped into volunteering for death machines, or is today special?"
Mash looked up, startled. "Ah…! No, I— this is just a test. I mean— I'm fine with it. I volunteered."
Jack raised an eyebrow.
"Sure. Totally normal teen girl things."
Mash blinked. "I'm not—"
Then it happened.
The light dimmed.
No warning.
Suddenly. Silence. Then pressure.
Like the facility exhaled, and the air never came back.
A second later — an explosion rocked the entire central deck. Glass shattered. Warning sirens blared.
ALERT. CALDEAS CORE DETONATION DETECTED.
REACTOR FAILURE.
TEMPERATURE STABILIZERS OFFLINE.
Mash turned to Jack, eyes wide.
"Something's wrong. The reactor—!"
Another explosion tore through the southern wing.
This wasn't a simple failure.
Someone had sabotaged Chaldea.
Mash reached for the panel.
Jack didn't move — not yet. He was watching the lights flicker, counting the pattern.
"What the hell kind of test is this?" he muttered.
-
MAIN CONTROL ROOM – MOMENTS LATER
Olga burst in, coughing. Smoke was pouring through the cracks in the wall. Half the terminals were fried. Staff lay dead at their stations. Others were missing.
Roman's voice crackled faintly through the overhead comm — distorted, like it was being torn apart by static.
"—repeat, all staff must evacuate. We're under attack— reactor has been breached—!"
Lev was there, calmly typing at a single still-functioning console.
"Director, please. Stay calm. I'm working on stabilizing the rayshift grid."
"You—!" Olga was furious. "How could this happen?! You were in charge of—"
"I'll handle it," he said, smoothly. "Get to safety."
Jack and Mash emerged from the side passage — Mash guiding him through smoke and debris.
Then another alarm hit.
EMERGENCY RAYSHIFT COMMENCING. UNAUTHORIZED SIGNAL DETECTED.
DESTINATION: FUYUKI, JAPAN. SINGULARITY TIMESTAMP: 2004.
RAYSHAFT POD INITIATED – DEMI-SERVANT PROTOCOL ONLINE.
Mash froze. "That's my pod—!"
Lev glanced at them.
"Director," he said, "it seems we have no choice. We'll have to send them. Mash Kyrielight and… this civilian." He glanced at Jack. "He survived orientation. He might as well survive this."
Jack coughed, waving smoke away. "Oh, sure. Just another day in space hell."
Mash took his arm.
"Come on. We have to go. I'll protect you."
He let himself be pulled.
"I don't recall signing up for this much cardio."
They reached the pod — half-collapsed, flickering with blue light.
Olga looked at them both, jaw tight. "You're our only chance. Just hold the singularity long enough for us to get support through."
Lev nodded, smiling just enough to hide it.
As the rayshift began, Jack felt the air get thicker, colder — and then break.
Behind them, Lev stood at the edge of the platform, hands folded behind his back.
His eyes glowed faintly.
No more need to smile now.
The remaining chambers collapsed one by one.
All other Masters — dead.
Chaldea's mainframe began to fall apart.
Only Olga's spiritual signal managed to follow after the two rayshift survivors, flung into the Singularity — her form half-materialized, her body left behind.
Lev watched the lights fade.
Then he turned, and walked into the fire.