Night had descended upon Natlan—not as silence, but as a different kind of fire.
The jungle breathed.
Ancient trees towered skyward, their bark scorched black by ages of volcanic heat, veins of ember-red sap glowing faintly beneath the surface. Leaves the color of dried blood rustled softly in the warm night wind, carrying with them the scent of ash, sulfur, and burning stone. Far in the distance, volcanoes pulsed like slumbering beasts, their throats glowing dimly beneath the full moon.
The moon itself hung high—round, pale, and watchful.
Under its light, three figures moved through the forest.
They did not hide.
They did not rush.
The jungle seemed to part for them.
At the front walked Il Capitano.
Towering, broad-shouldered, clad in heavy dark armor marked with the insignia of the Fatui Harbingers, he moved with absolute composure. Each step was deliberate, precise, leaving no wasted motion. His helmet concealed his face entirely, yet the presence beneath it was overwhelming—like a blade still in its sheath.
Behind him followed two escorts.
One carried a massive war hammer, its head etched with Cryo conduits and Fatui runes, the weapon resting casually on his shoulder as though it weighed nothing. The other bore a brutal polearm-axe, its edge serrated, stained dark from battles long past. Both were elite—silent, disciplined, their auras sharp and dangerous.
They were not scouting.
They were advancing.
After several moments, Il Capitano spoke.
His voice was deep, calm, and absolute—cutting through the jungle's murmur without effort.
"Tomorrow," he said, "the vow that endured five hundred years comes to an end."
The two behind him straightened instinctively.
"From tomorrow onward," he continued, "we move. We strike. We take the Gnosis."
He did not raise his voice.
He did not emphasize the words.
He did not need to.
Then, after a brief pause, he added:
"I have also received word that a new individual has joined Natlan."
The hammer-bearer tilted his head slightly.
"A native?"
Il Capitano shook his head once.
"No."
The axe-wielder spoke next, voice low.
"…Then a hero?"
There was the faintest hesitation before Il Capitano answered.
"No. Not a hero."
They continued walking.
"He received an Original Name," Il Capitano said. "Registered through the Wayr Stone."
Both escorts stiffened.
"That is… recent," one said.
"Very," Il Capitano replied. "Which means he was not born of Natlan's flame."
They reached a clearing.
A hidden Fatui encampment lay within—tents reinforced with dark alloy, signal pylons humming softly with Cryo energy, the faint blue glow contrasting sharply with Natlan's red earth. Fires burned low, masked to avoid detection.
Il Capitano stopped.
"Summon our agent stationed within Natlan," he ordered.
"I want every detail. Power. Origin. Conduct. Combat records."
"Yes, Harbinger!" both escorts answered in unison.
They turned and vanished into the jungle at once, their movements swift and silent.
Il Capitano remained.
For a moment, he stood alone beneath the moonlight, the jungle crackling softly around him. Then he turned and walked toward the largest tent at the center of the camp.
Inside, the air was cool.
Maps of Natlan were spread across a reinforced table—tribal territories, volcanic zones, ley line intersections, and locations marked with unfamiliar runes. Several symbols had been circled repeatedly in red.
Il Capitano removed his gauntlets and placed them aside.
Then he spoke—this time to no one but himself.
"A new member," he said quietly. "Registered by Wayr. Not acknowledged by blood."
He studied a marked region on the map—the site of recent Abyss incursions.
"If he were a hero," he continued, "Natlan's flame would have recognized him immediately."
His fingers traced another symbol.
"But he was recorded only through the Wayr Stone."
He paused.
"That means he was not chosen by tradition… but by existence."
Il Capitano straightened slightly.
"Which also means he is not bound to Natlan's past."
His thoughts sharpened.
"The Sacred Flame," he murmured. "Will it acknowledge him?"
He remained silent for several seconds.
Then—
"Will it judge his will… or observe it?"
Il Capitano recalled the report.
A lone individual.
Abyss creatures annihilated completely.
No corruption.
No backlash.
A shattered shoulder—healed.
And most concerning of all—
"…A black energy," he said slowly. "Unknown. Not Abyssal. Not elemental."
His hand clenched slightly.
"Darkness that consumes negative energy… yet remains neutral."
That was not Abyss.
That was not Void.
That was something else entirely.
He considered the possibility without surprise.
"An outworlder," Il Capitano said. "Or one displaced between dimensions."
Such beings were rare.
But not unheard of.
"In the end," he concluded calmly, "origin does not matter."
Only strength.
Only resolve.
Only whether one could stand before the Tsaritsa's will.
He turned his gaze toward the jungle canopy, toward the distant glow of Natlan's sacred lands.
"Jin," he said softly.
"…Or Lucifer."
The name lingered in the air.
"A name that challenges the flame."
Il Capitano stepped back, shadow enveloping him.
"If you are an obstacle," he said evenly,
"you will be removed."
"And if you are a weapon—"
A faint, dangerous edge entered his voice.
"—then we will see who claims you first."
Outside, the jungle shuddered.
Far away, deep beneath Natlan's earth, something ancient stirred.
And somewhere else—
The Sacred Flame watched.
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heat: Thank you very much for reading.