Umbra Prime didn't sleep.
It rusted.
And in its rust, it whispered.
Kiro sat on the cold remains of a half-buried Kruger drone, arms draped loosely over his knees, cloak folded beside him like a discarded skin. Above him, the artificial moons flickered like dying memories, caught in a rotation cycle that had long since forgotten its rhythm.
For the first time in weeks, his heartbeat wasn't a war drum.
It was just… a heartbeat.
He closed his eyes.
The dreamworld hadn't followed him out, not completely, but echoes of it still lingered at the edges of thought — like bruises that hadn't quite faded from the inside.
He remembered the faceless colossus, how it had shattered the concept of time with a single blow.
He remembered the veiled swordswoman, whose every strike forced him to remember what he had tried to forget.
And he remembered the last one—himself, but hollow. Cold. Without mercy.
He'd killed that version.
But the whisper it left behind remained:
"You already gave up mercy once."
That part still hurt.
Pablo had fallen asleep in the hollow of a nearby comm-cradle. Even he, soldier of steel and legacy, needed rest.
Kiro didn't.
Not because he couldn't.
Because he was afraid of what he'd see when he closed his eyes too long.
His hand drifted to the ground.
The soil was coarse with scrap dust and dried fuel — unnatural, metallic, but warm in its own way.
"Do you think they're scared of me now?" he whispered to no one.
No answer came.
Only the wind, dragging cables like chains through the dark.
He remembered Zion's voice from long ago.
"Power doesn't change who you are. It just exposes it."
He remembered Niro, bloody and laughing in the second trial.
"We weren't built for peace, brother. We were built to survive it."
He remembered Arton's silence after their first duel — a silence that screamed louder than war.
And Neix… Neix had never spoken to him directly. Not once.
But her presence had always felt like a mirrored warning.
Be careful. You might become me.
He stood.
He needed to move. Not out of urgency. But because stillness would eventually become a trap.
Every second of rest made it harder to return to the fire.
He looked down at his hands again.
They no longer shook.
But they weren't at peace either.
The Blood System hadn't spoken since the dream. Not directly. But its presence was stronger now — no longer an interface, but a pulse. As if it were waiting for him to speak first.
"Alright," he said to the dark. "Let's try something different."
He turned from the ridge and walked down into the wasteland, boots now donned, cloak clipped back on. He walked for hours, letting the stars rotate in awkward spirals above him. Until he reached a broken arch—half a bunker, half a buried cathedral.
Inside: silence.
Perfect.
He sat cross-legged in the center of the ruin, and placed both hands on the stone.
And he whispered:
"Show me someone still worth saving."
The Blood System flickered. Not a screen. Not a map.
Just a heartbeat.
Small. Distant. But defiant.
It echoed from deep space.
A station far from the war fronts. A Kruger signal. Civilian. A girl's voice—half a distress call, half a lullaby coded into old tech.
She was singing in fractured Binary.
Not crying. Not begging.
Singing.
Kiro's heart ached.
"[Archive Link Request: Sanctuary Beacon – Solaris Relay Station 717]""[Signal Strength: 11% and fading]""[Blood Apostle Path – Secondary Thread Activated: Rescue or Witness]""[System Question: Will you go?]"
He didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
Not because she was special.
Not because she was a warrior.
But because someone, somewhere, was still trying to be human in the middle of this ruin.
And maybe—just maybe—that meant he was too.