Chapter 242: Better than them?

Chapter 242: Better than them?The question dug deep.

It hadn’t let go since he woke. Since he remembered.

It gnawed behind every word he said, clawed at every choice he didn’t. A tether—thin, invisible, unbreakable—ran somewhere between this body and the boy he’d become on Giselsin.

He didn’t know what held it in place.

He only knew it hadn’t snapped.

Elara’s eyes surfaced—sharp, green, steady. That last look she gave him before the door closed. Loyalty worn raw.

Then Kikaru, blood and light streaking down her face, that final scream still echoing in the pit of his chest.

His mother’s hands followed. Gentle. Certain. From a world this one refused to acknowledge.

I failed them. Once already. Maybe more.

But they still tethered him.

Anacards. Primed Epics. The Federation’s silence. The crystal. The gem.



I need answers.

But if he chased them recklessly—if he pushed too far, said too much, opened the wrong door—

I could lose both worlds.

His fingers twitched against the chair’s armrests. He felt the tremble, tried to stifle it. Not from fear. Just speed. His thoughts were moving faster than his breath could hold.

Ease back.

Control what I can.

The crucifix’s voice hadn’t returned—but its weight lingered. A presence. A pressure behind his ribs that never blinked, never left.

He let the silence stretch.

The weight of it all pushed hard against the surface. But Geras couldn’t see it. Wouldn’t.

He wouldn’t give him that.

Geras’s eyes narrowed.

The change was slight, but it pulled the room tighter.

He’d seen hesitation before—heard it in cadet briefings, in battlefield debriefs, in the cracked silence of survivors who carried more than they could say. Elias wasn’t dodging out of fear. He was guarding something. And Geras could smell it.


He’s holding back.

But the flicker of restraint stirred something else in him too—something quieter. Dorian’s son. Of course.

The resemblance was more than physical. That same bone-deep resolve, the kind that didn’t bend when protocol said to kneel. The kind that earned medals and made enemies.

The Federation didn’t like that kind of man.

Too unpredictable.

Too human.

"You don’t have your Ikona anymore," Geras said, voice smooth as polished steel. "No powers. No link."

He let that truth hang.

"Do you still want to be useful?"

The question wasn’t a trap. Not yet. But it tested something. The Federation had its roles, its systems. Useful tools were kept. Unstable ones... weren’t.

Elias didn’t answer right away.

His fingers twitched against the metal rest, one tremor threading into the next. Not weakness. Recovery. The kind no one had patience for.

Then he looked up.

One brow lifted.

"I’m not going back to cooking," he said.

The words came slow, but clear. His voice wasn’t at full strength—still raw in the throat—but it held.

"I want to protect this world."



His gaze didn’t flinch.

"When the aliens return... I don’t care what the role is. I’ll take it."

The words left his mouth, but his mind drifted a breath too long.

Not forward.

Sideways.

A smell hit him first—smoke and spice, something older than Earth’s air. Bonewood cider. Sharp on the nose, warm in the lungs.

The sterile walls of Cube X blurred.

In their place, red-roofed terraces rose beneath twin moons—one pale, one bruised gold—casting long, curved shadows that danced across stone paths and garlanded pillars. The crowd swelled with song. The Banquet of the Twin Moons. Giselsin’s grand illusion of unity.

Voices chanted. Glasses clinked. Somewhere, wind chimes rang.

Beside him, Torren had stood straight-backed in ceremonial cloth, eyes hard, tone darker still.

"Blue-face thieves," he’d whispered. "Stealing our lives. Bit by bit."

Elias had said nothing then. Just listened. The words had sunk deep.

Now they echoed.

Kikaru’s face followed next—rage twisted into grief, spear drawn back, her cry cracking through the arena.

He hadn’t stopped her.

Didn’t try.

The heat of her strike still lived somewhere in his ribs. Same bitterness. Same betrayal. It wrapped around Torren’s words like thread through bone.

I failed her.

Just like I could fail them all here.

The weight rose again, pressing behind his eyes, behind his breath. He forced it down.

There was no shard to anchor him anymore. Just the memory—and the pressure it carried.

His jaw clenched. His spine straightened.

The sharp clap of Geras’s hands broke the silence.

It wasn’t loud. Just sudden. Deliberate.

The sound snapped Elias back to the room like a wire pulled tight. The sterile hum returned. The flicker of drone movement caught the edge of his vision.

Geras leaned forward, not much—but enough to break the distance between formality and intent.

"Listen, Elias," he said. "I like you. Not just because of what your father did for us when he was still around."

His voice lost a layer then. Not strength. Just polish.

The tone shifted—still firm, but edged with something closer to memory than protocol.

For a breath, the Warden disappeared behind the man.



Geras’s thoughts drifted—uninvited but not unwelcome—back to the fringes of Cradle Planet. A storm like nothing they’d trained for had rolled over the outer settlements. Plasma laced the sky, streaking down in arcs that tore buildings open and vaporized stone into glass.

People panicked. Civilians ran in every direction—no plan, no cover.

But Dorian Kael hadn’t wavered.

Geras could still see him—jacket half-burnt, comms unit sparking, face streaked with ash. His voice had been calm. Clear. He’d moved through the chaos like someone who’d already accepted the cost.

One hand on a child’s shoulder. Another pulling an injured worker up by the belt.

He didn’t hesitate. Not once.

Geras swallowed back the weight of it.

"He was a hero," he said aloud. "Relentless. Always pushing forward. No matter the odds."

The words came clean, but they didn’t land clean.

Pride twisted around something heavier—regret that had never burned out. Not over what Dorian did, but over what came after.

Elias’s fingers curled tighter around the chair’s edge.

The frame didn’t move, but the metal pressed back against bone. His knuckles paled, the strain crawling up his forearms like heat beneath the skin. The urge to speak—to snap—pressed against his teeth.