The Fortress had not changed.

The outer courtyard still stank of rust and old ash. The soulsteel barricades hummed faintly in the rising light, not because they were strong – but because they were tired. Liz walked the perimeter anyway. She always did. It was the one place people didn't try to speak to her.

Except today, they watched.

Her boots crunched across frost-flecked concrete. A slow wind dragged banners across the broken towers – tatters of resistance insignia, faded near-white. The sun bled up behind the highlands in streaks of dull gold, catching the edges of her cloak, the plates of her armour. She wore black. Not ceremonial. Functional. Seamless. Reinforced at the chest and spine for combat-level psychic recoil.

Above her head, the red halo shimmered, faint and coiled like stormlight caught in a snare. It throbbed with her heartbeat. Faster than usual.

She was already impatient.

Chloe and Ying were back. She'd felt it. A ripple through the mental wards. Their thoughts were locked down tight, but there was a pulse in the ether – a familiar pressure she hadn't sensed in days.

They'd found something. Maybe him.

She clenched her jaw and walked faster.

People moved as she passed. Some bowed their heads. Others stepped back – not far, just enough to widen the gap. A group of engineers looked away as she approached. A medic made the sign of the cross on her chest.

A little boy ran up to her with a broken flower clutched in a dirt-caked hand. "For the—"

His mother yanked him back by the collar before he could finish.

Liz didn't say anything.

She didn't need to. She felt everything.

Not thoughts. Not voices. Just fragments – impressions bleeding off the minds around her like static:

Too powerful. Not human anymore. That's her—she's the one from the pod. She doesn't even blink. Red Crown. Red Angel. Red Death.

She exhaled through her nose. No steam, despite the cold.

She'd walked these same walls for five years. At first, to remind herself the world was still real. Then to prepare. Then to wait. But now… now she felt like a knife in a sheath that didn't quite fit anymore.

Fifteen years inside her own head. Fifteen years trapped with the Devourer. And the last five spent bleeding herself dry against demons – fighting, building, enduring – for one purpose:

To find her father.

She could feel the blood still singing in her veins. Not anger. Not yet. But close.

They see the crown. Not the girl. That's fine. I didn't come back to be soft.

A soldier at the north gate snapped to attention as she passed. Saluted.

"Ma'am."

She flinched – just slightly. Her step didn't falter, but her stomach did. It always hit harder when they said it like that.

Not Liz. Not even Jaeger.

Just Ma'am.

She kept walking. The red glow behind her pulsed once, brighter than before.

***

The strategy hall felt smaller than Liz remembered.

Maybe it was the ceiling. Maybe it was the walls. Maybe it was the weight of what she was about to hear. Either way, the air was dense with dust and psychic residue – fragments of thoughts from previous briefings, still echoing like footprints in snow. She stepped through them without flinching.

The new map was already spinning when she entered.

It hovered in the centre of the chamber – red-sheened and sickly, rotating slowly on its axis. Earth, fractured and bleeding with overlay data: leyline tears, demonic concentrations, soul flares, irradiated dead zones. But it was the glowing core – Prague – that pulled her focus. A sphere of pulsing red shimmered around the city like a heartbeat.

Or a warning.

Chloe stood near the edge of the display, arms folded. Ying beside her, hands behind her back, silent. Both watched Liz as she approached – but said nothing.

At the far end of the table, Dr. Grimm stood flanked by two sentinels: Alpha, still as stone, and Omega, who twitched slightly at her presence like a hound sniffing a rival predator.

Grimm tapped the projection once. The map flared and zoomed in on Europe.

"I'll spare you the repetition," he said, voice raw from lack of sleep. "Ying gave you the battlefield breakdown yesterday. This is… a different lens."

He adjusted something on his gauntlet. The colours shifted – military data faded into something more abstract. Philosophical. Symbolic. The Prague overlay remained steady.

"The world, as it stands," Grimm continued, "is a carcass. Torn. Burned. Left to rot under the weight of new gods."

The map swept across the continents.

"North America marches to Belail's gospel. Asia fractures beneath Zagan's curse. Africa drowns in Lilith's brood. The rest? Scraps. Screams. Silence."

He paused.

"Except for Prague."

The image locked into place. The city came into sharper view – roads intact, buildings untouched, energy grids glowing soft blue. Too clean.

Grimm's voice dropped an octave.

"No war. No collapse. No screams. That kind of peace can't be natural."

Liz said nothing. She didn't need to.

Grimm turned, face lit dimly by the red glow. "Two theories."

He raised one finger. "One: Moloch did this. Sculpted the city. Turned it into a theatre stage. Gave the world a mask while he feeds on its hidden underbelly."

Second finger. "Two: Someone else did. Someone quiet. Someone strong enough to hold a city from chaos… without ever being seen."

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He let the words hang.

"Either way, the entity that controls Prague – if it's not Moloch – is Demon Lord-tier. Minimum."

Liz stepped closer. Her eyes were locked on the perimeter of the red field around Prague.

"You think it's someone new?" she asked.

"I think," Grimm said carefully, "there's too little data to know. But Moloch hasn't been seen – truly seen – in months. We've had false sightings, dead cities, bait trails. But nothing definitive."

He pointed to the heart of the projection – an almost imperceptible flicker, pulsing near the city's centre.

"But Max? He's there. Now. No question. His soul signature is anchored. Deep."

Liz exhaled, slow.

The red halo behind her began to rise again, faint and steady.

"Then it's not a question of if," she said. "It's when."

***

The chamber was small. Bare. Reinforced.

Soulfield wards pulsed faintly along the walls, etched in a nervous grid of silver and ash. The only light came from the projection node in the centre of the room – its glow waiting like an open wound.

Dr. Grimm stood by the control panel, half in shadow.

"You deserve to see it for yourself," he said.

Then he shut off the lights.

The chamber fell silent.

The feed began without fanfare. No sound. No voiceover. Just the flickering, unstable footage Liz had already felt on the edge of the Fortress's psychic web – now forced into clarity.

And there he was.

Dad.

Chained to that obsidian rig, skeletal and unmoving. His arms stretched too high, joints locked. His chest rose in shallow, effortful breaths. His hair hung in thick, matted ropes. The spike – that thing – was impaled there, jutting from his thigh like a crucifix pinning him to reality.

From his spine, that terrible black aura pulsed out again. Steady. Rhythmic. Each wave felt like a cold hand pressed to her skull. Feed. Reset. Feed again.

Liz didn't blink.

She couldn't breathe.

Her lungs moved, but the air felt wrong. Too thin. Too sharp. Like it belonged to that place – where Max hung like meat beneath a godless sky.

Her hands curled into fists. Hard. Her knuckles cracked as power surged behind her bones. Nails bit into skin. Blood welled between her fingers and dripped, silent and warm, to the cold floor.

The red halo above her head flared brighter – its edges fraying, lashing outward like a crown of flame.

Inside her mind, the storm broke.

No. No. No. No. No. NO—

This wasn't right. This couldn't be him.

He was strong. He's always been strong. He walked through fire for me— Killed demons with his bare hands— Carried me across the world when I couldn't stand—

He saved me.

He's my dad.

The siphon pulsed again.

Cold. Mechanical. Merciless.

And now they'd turned him into a battery.

A thing. A tool for filthy demons. Chained. Drained. Kept alive just enough to suffer.

Her vision blurred with red. Not tears – fury.

The world around her tilted. Not literally – but emotionally. Like gravity had betrayed her.

This is what they did to him while I waited. While I trained. While I believed. I was too late. They broke him.

Her mind flooded with static. A scream tried to claw its way up her throat but never made it. It imploded inward instead – into a storm that detonated behind her eyes.

The walls groaned.

Her red halo flared violently, streaking the room in arcs of wildfire. The soulfield projector crackled. Furniture scraped across the floor, caught in a wave of raw psychic force.

The wall behind her split with a jagged crack, webbing from ceiling to floor.

Grimm's implants sparked and shorted – he recoiled instinctively.

"Liz—"

He didn't finish.

Chloe moved first. Silent. Calm.

She stepped behind Liz and placed one steady hand on her shoulder.

Liz didn't move.

She stood still, surrounded by the pulsing glow of her rage, the room creaking around her like a ship in storm.

But when she finally spoke, her voice was ice. Not loud. Not cracked. Just… steady. Cold as truth.

"He's still alive."

A pause. Her fists unclenched, slowly. Blood dripped onto the floor.

"That means he can still be saved."

There was no time left to grieve. Only action.

***

The war council room was always cold.

Not from the weather – though the reinforced stone walls held chill like a tomb – but from the people inside. Strategy didn't allow for warmth. Not here. Not anymore.

They sat around a long metal table scarred with age and use. Low lights buzzed overhead. Tactical screens flickered with glitching maps and mana-heat signatures. One projector cycled between threat alerts in red and yellow.

Grimm stood at the head, hands clasped behind his back. Chloe leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed. Ying stood silent in the corner, barely blinking.

Liz sat at the far end, back straight, eyes locked forward.

Grimm spoke first.

"We need time."

His voice was calm, but there was tension behind it – fatigue too. He gestured to the projection: a schematic of Prague, its glowing heart pulsing faintly on the surface.

"Max is anchored deep. We don't know the full extent of the perimeter defences. There are at least three confirmed demon patrol circuits, possibly more. No established ingress. No mapped exit. We're still decoding the psychic lattice."

He let that hang before continuing.

"If we rush in now, we risk the entire squad. Worse – we risk alerting whoever's running Prague. And if it is Moloch..."

Chloe cut in, voice low but firm. "Then we definitely don't go in half-ready."

She didn't look at Liz. Not directly.

"We need everyone. Dan. Victor. Hana. Alyssa. Recon time. Equipment prep. Coordinated movement. This has to be precise."

Liz didn't move.

The silence stretched.

Then she spoke.

Quietly. But there was steel behind every syllable.

"He doesn't have time."

Grimm looked at her. Said nothing.

She stood.

"I lead the psychic wing. I'll scout the outer field tonight. My clairvoyance can get us a path in. I'll burn through their surveillance net before we breach. No warning. No signal flare."

She started walking slowly around the table as she spoke, boots echoing on the cold floor.

"I can mask our insertion. I can disable any demon eyes on the route. I know what to look for. And if I get even a whisper of Max's aura, I can guide us straight to him."

No one interrupted.

She could feel it – all of it. The hesitation. The doubt. The silent exchange of thoughts.

She's too close to this. She's not thinking straight. She's strong, but unstable. Too emotional. Too raw.

She didn't argue. Didn't need to.

She stopped beside Grimm and looked him in the eye.

"We're going. Tonight."

A pause.

"Or I'll go alone."

The room held its breath.

No one challenged her.

No one dared.

***

The rooftop faced the dying sun.

It cast long, red shadows across the Fortress grounds, gilding the broken towers and burned-out sensor pylons in firelight. The wind had teeth up here. It bit at her coat, pulled at her hair, lifted the torn edges of her armour.

Liz didn't notice. She was floating six feet off the ground.

Her body was still, suspended in the air like an accusation. Her boots didn't twitch. Her hands were raised slightly at her sides. The red halo behind her flared wide and furious, threads of raw psychic energy lashing outward in long arcs that whipped and snapped in the dusk like banners caught in a storm.

Below her, the training ground had gone silent.

Residents had gathered. Not close. Not too close. Just… watching. From windows, from the edges of battlements, from behind rusted crates and broken barriers.

Some whispered. Some dropped to one knee.

A few simply stared, hands clasped, eyes wide with something between awe and fear.

Liz felt it all. Their thoughts brushed her skin like frost.

She shouldn't be able to do that without a Contract. Is she human? That's Jaeger's daughter… the Red Crown… the psychic god-child…

She didn't care.

She closed her eyes for one long moment – and then, slowly, let herself descend. Her boots touched the roof with a faint thud. The tendrils of psychic force curled back toward her like snakes into a nest.

She turned as Dan approached.

He looked tired. Armour half-secured, hair wind-blown and too long, lips pressed in a familiar scowl that didn't quite mask the worry beneath. His steps slowed as he reached her.

For a moment, he just stood there.

Then, softly: "You've changed."

Liz turned to face him. The wind caught her coat again. Just for a second, her eyes softened.

"So did the world."

Dan gave a quiet, bitter laugh. "Not wrong."

They stood in silence, the sounds of the Fortress below faint and distant.

Dan took a breath. "Grimm's worried. So is Chloe. They want to move smart. Coordinated. You don't have to carry this by yourself."

"I do."

Her voice was gentle, but firm.

Dan shook his head. "You don't. Not anymore. Max wouldn't want you to burn yourself out to—"

"I'm not burning out," she said. "I'm lighting the way."

He looked at her for a long time.

Liz didn't waver. Her voice didn't rise, didn't tremble.

"If it were me in that prison – he wouldn't have waited. Not for the perfect moment. Not for better odds. He would've gone. For me. For you. For any one of us."

Dan exhaled slowly.

Then he smiled.

It was faint. Sad. But real.

"You're as stubborn as your dad."

Liz's eyes shimmered faintly – just a flicker.

Then she looked past him, toward the Fortress gates far below.

Dan followed her gaze.

"Victor has the team ready. Everyone's waiting."

Liz nodded once. No words.

She stepped past him.

Walked to the edge of the rooftop.

And stepped off.

Her body dropped like a blade—

—then halted midair.

She hovered above the courtyard, cloak unfurling behind her like wings of flame, halo blazing against the dusk.

Below, the soldiers of the Fortress looked up and saw the shape of their fury.

Their hope.

Their crown.

The Red Crown had risen. And night was coming.

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