MTLNOVEL Chapter 16: Chapter 16: Echoes of the Void
Roen Kast crouched behind the dais's shattered remains, his blood-slick hands clamped around Liya's shoulders, her limp form a dead weight against his chest. The Crack Void Hub loomed overhead, its jagged walls trembling under the Kast fleet's relentless barrage—blue veins flickering faint, like a heartbeat struggling to hold. The platform was a wreck—stone cracked and tilting, dust swirling thick in the howling wind, the air heavy with the tang of plasma, blood, and scorched metal. Ten hours, fifty-two minutes glowed on the system panel—a lifeline slipping through his fingers as the hub's pulse faltered—thump, thump—weaker with every hit.
Liya's breath rasped shallow, a wet gurgle against his ear, her wild hair matted with grime and red. Her sword lay abandoned beside her, its blade notched and dull, a mirror to her fading spark. "Kid…" she whispered, her voice a threadbare croak, "you're… loud…" A faint grin twitched her lips—broken, defiant—but her eyes fluttered, half-shut, glazing over.
"Stay with me, damn it!" Roen snarled, shaking her, his voice rough with panic and rage. His side screamed—blood oozing fresh through his rags, ribs a throbbing ache—but he ignored it, his grip tightening as if he could force her to hold on. "Liya—ten hours, we move, we win!" Her head lolled, a faint wheeze escaping, and his chest seized—fear slicing sharp, a blade he couldn't dodge.
The hub jolted—a deep, guttural roar—and blue light flared, weak but fierce, as a plasma blast slammed its wall. Stone cracked loud, shards raining hot across Roen's back, the shockwave rattling his teeth. He ducked lower, shielding Liya, dust choking his lungs as the system chimed, cold and unyielding:
System Notification: Structural integrity at 50%. Energy reserves: 40%. Kast fleet stabilized at 310 meters—reinforcements at 900 meters, closing. Wraith signatures at 500 meters, converging.
"Wraiths," Roen muttered, his breath hitching, spitting grit as he peered into the mist. Red eyes flickered through the fog—five shapes, cloaked and twitching, gliding closer with an eerie grace. The whispers swelled—traitor, failure, you cannot escape—slithering into his skull like oil, stirring memories of the Kast trial: cold stares, mocking laughter, chains biting his wrists. He grit his teeth, shaking it off—not real, not now.
The lead ship fired—plasma streaking red—and hit the hub's rim, shredding stone into a hail that slashed Roen's cheek, hot and sharp against his skin. The hub roared—thump—its field crackling faint, static buzzing as the ship wobbled, pulling back to 320 meters. Roen's jaw clenched—50 percent, bleeding reserves, but it held, a beast snarling back against the sky.
"Liya," he rasped, brushing her face—cold, too cold—his voice low and urgent. "They're coming—fleet, wraiths—we've got to hold." Her grin flickered—weak, jagged—and she coughed, blood flecking her lips, her hand twitching toward her sword.
"Still… here, kid," she whispered, her voice wet and fading. "No… bugs…" Her eyes fluttered shut, and Roen's gut twisted—panic clawing raw, a desperation he couldn't bury. She'd fought with him—wolves, mechs, ships—her chaos his lifeline, and he wasn't letting it slip away.
"Damn right," he said, his throat tight, hauling her closer. "You're not checking out—not yet." He propped her against the wall's shadow, her head lolling, her breath a faint rasp—still there, still hers. The hub pulsed—thump—weaker, flickering, and he pressed a hand to its stone, warm and trembling under his palm. "You either—hold, you bastard."
The mist churned, red eyes piercing closer—450 meters now—wraiths gliding silent, their whispers a chorus of hate. Roen's stomach sank—fleet above, ghosts below, a noose tightening. The system chimed:
System Notification: Wraith signatures at 400 meters—non-corporeal entities converging. Energy field interference ineffective against non-physical threats.
"Ineffective," Roen muttered, his voice a snarl, gripping his bent sword—useless against ghosts, but it steadied his shaking hands. His architect's mind raced—angles, weak points, survival. The hub's field zapped ships, not wraiths—physical versus shadow, a gap he couldn't bridge. His eyes darted—the platform's edge, the rubble pile, the void below. No cover, no tricks left.
A blast screamed—plasma streaking red—and hit the dais's remnants, blasting stone into a shower that pelted Roen's back, hot and jagged. He ducked, curling over Liya as the hub jolted—thump—its walls flexing, a crack splitting wider, blue veins dimming. The field buzzed—faint, faltering—and a ship wobbled, pulling back to 330 meters, cannons glowing hotter.
"Kid…" Liya rasped, her voice a whisper, her hand twitching toward him. "They're… close…" Her eyes cracked open—dull, fading—and Roen's chest seized, rage boiling over the panic.
"Too close," he growled, peering out. The wraiths—350 meters—glided fast, their cloaks rippling like smoke, red eyes locked on him. Traitor, failure—the whispers stabbed deep, hooking into his skull, dragging up the trial again: cold chains, colder voices, the Kast family's scorn. He shook his head, snarling, "Not real—get out!"
The hub pulsed—thump—weaker still, and Roen felt it stagger, a beast on its last legs. The system chimed: Structural integrity at 48%. Energy reserves: 37%. His gut sank—48 percent, bleeding fast, the hub's defiance crumbling under the strain. He'd built things—died under one—and this wasn't falling, not yet, but it was close—too damn close.
A ship fired—plasma streaking—and grazed the wall, blue flaring faint, a chunk tumbling into the void with a hollow crash that echoed in his ribs. Roen ducked, dust raining hot, the platform tilting wild. He braced Liya, her weight heavy, her breath a faint rattle against his neck—hold on, damn it, hold on.
"Kid," she whispered, her voice fading, "you're… a fighter… keep it…" Her hand slipped—limp, cold—and Roen's chest seized—panic clawing sharp, a blade he couldn't dodge.
"No!" he roared, shaking her, his voice breaking raw. "Liya—don't!" Her eyes fluttered shut, her grin gone, and he pressed his forehead to hers, blood and sweat mingling—not now, not her. She'd been his chaos—wolves, mechs, wraiths—her fire his anchor, and he wasn't losing it to this.
The wraiths closed—300 meters—red eyes blazing, whispers swelling—traitor, you'll fall. Roen snarled, hauling Liya tighter, his bent sword useless but clutched like a lifeline. The hub pulsed—thump—and he felt it—a beast gasping, defiant but dying.
A blast screamed—hit the platform's edge, shredding stone into a hail that slashed his arm, hot and sharp. Roen dove, dragging Liya under the wall's shadow as rubble rained, the hub jolting—thump—its field crackling faint against the fleet's hum. The ships loomed—310 meters—cannons glowing hotter, reinforcements breaking the mist at 900 meters—more black scars slicing closer.
The system screamed: Structural integrity at 46%. Energy reserves: 34%. Wraiths at 280 meters—fleet reinforcements at 850 meters. Roen's breath hitched—46 percent, a beast bleeding out, wraiths and ships tightening the noose.
"Ten hours," he muttered, his voice a snarl, hauling Liya closer, her blood slick on his hands. "We've got ten hours." His architect's mind churned—angles, weak points, survival. The hub was dying—cracks splitting, veins fading—but it held, a jagged defiance he mirrored. He'd died once under steel—screaming metal, his own blood pooling—and he wasn't doing it again—not here, not with her.
The wraiths glided—250 meters—red eyes piercing, whispers roaring—failure, you'll break. Roen snarled, his grip tightening—not yet. A ship fired—a barrage streaking red—and Roen braced, curling over Liya as the hub roared—thump—its pulse a last stand against the void.
"Bring it," he rasped, his voice raw, defiance burning through the haze. The blasts rained—stone shattering, mist swirling—and Roen held, the hub's pulse his only shield.