Even When the Sun Comes Out

Even when the sun comes out,
the world keeps on going—
as all things should.

Wrex had said those words once, quietly, to himself, not as wisdom but as resignation. He did not yet know that the persecutors, the governments, the survivors, the chosen heirs, and even the royal-blooded elites would soon repeat them as prophecy.

Far beyond the gates of the eight Superentis, deep within the silent chambers guarded by old symbols and new technology, the Persecutores convened.

Their leader stood before a circle of strategists, holograms flickering around him. Their goal was spoken plainly:

“Facilis is reaching its limit. The people must be reminded who gave them peace.”

Their plan was not destruction, but reset.

To push the people to fear, then to depend, then to obey.

But for the reset to work, they needed a catalyst—
someone unpredictable, someone powerful, someone with a hidden lineage.

Someone like Wrex.

“He thinks the raid is for discovery,” one of them muttered.
“Let him. A willing pawn behaves better than a forced one.”

But their greatest miscalculation was simple:

Wrex was no pawn.
He was becoming the knife.

While the Persecutores sharpened their plans, the group Wrex traveled with prepared to depart for the raid—the same mysterious invitation that had lit his journey on fire.

Yet now, under the cold hum of the outcast sky, Wrex learned the truth.

There never was a raid.

Not in the sense he thought.

The raid was an evaluation. A selection ritual. A hunt for something beyond power:

A hunt for the Usurper.

Even now, Rizor withheld the full truth, watching Wrex not as a friend, but as a man testing a blade’s sharpness.

The truck hit a bump.
Wrex’s vision trembled.

And suddenly—

He was back in that white room.

No doors.
No windows.
Only light.

He remembered the moment with painful clarity now.

The more he tried to understand, the more the voice twisted around him like smoke:

“Wrex… not all truths are for you yet.”

He remembered reaching toward the figure in the shadows.

He remembered the cold metal chair beneath him.

And he remembered the document on the table—
the one the figure shoved forward.

“Invitation to the Raid.”
But now he recalled the other line, the one he had missed:

“Observer: Heir of the Forbidden Line.”

Then a whisper:

“Only those who seek you… will retain what is yours.”

As quickly as it came, the memory dissolved again.

Wrex blinked, panting.

What heritage did he carry?
What did they want from him?
And worse—

Why was he starting to feel like he already knew?

Unlike the others, Wrex made no moves to manipulate or deceive.

He chose instead a strange, silent tactic:

Let them underestimate him.
Let them use him.

Because only then would every faction reveal their cards.

His mind sharpened, emotions tightening into a single resolve:

“If I must be the fool to break the world open…
then so be it.”

Elsewhere in the metallic corridors of the outcast camp, Fozic stood before a broken terminal, the glow reflecting in his restless eyes.

His mind was louder than the alarms around him.

Curiosity.
Restlessness.
A heart that refused to settle.

He knew the world was shifting.

He felt it in the pulse of the Point Touch Zero.
He saw it in the broken streets of Facilis.
He sensed it in Wrex’s strange aura.

And though he walked alongside Wrex, he walked with his own questions:

Was he supporting a savior?
A destroyer?
Or merely the inevitable?

The readers would have to decide.
The world would decide soon enough.

But Fozic’s final thought was simple:

“In a world built on perfect lies, the curious man is always the first threat.”

Back in Facilis, in the city of Grenick—
a quiet man watched everything through a fractured screen.

No one knew his name in this part of the world.
But they knew the crest on his wrist.

A crescent broken in half.
A symbol older than the royal family.

He smirked as he saw the chaos unfolding: the Normalist attacks, the royal weaponry, the rising tension.

“Perfect… everything is moving as planned.”

He tightened his gloves.

The strings of Facilis were finally visible—
and he was the one pulling them.

Despite the destruction.
Despite the fear.
Despite the outcasts approaching.

The royal family announced their “Grand Festival”—
a celebration of unity, peace, and renewed justice.

The citizens cheered.

But in their shadows, loyalists whispered:

“They will use this moment to reset the world.”
“Their power has grown too untouched.”
“Montlaif… is more than energy.”

In the highest tower, a royal official murmured:

“Once the festival begins, all minds will bend.
Facilis will be perfect again.”

End of Arc — The Royal Agenda

The Persecutores prepared their “reset.”
The Royal Family prepared their “festival.”
The Outcasts prepared their “strike.”
The True Residents prepared their “return.”
And Wrex, unknowingly, prepared his destiny.

The strings tightened.
The world shifted.
The vow of liberation breathed awake.

And as the sun rose slowly over Facilis—

Wrex whispered his mother’s old phrase:

“Even when the sun comes out… the world keeps on going.
As all things should.”

But for the first time in history—
the world was about to go somewhere new.

Somewhere dangerous.
Somewhere free.
Somewhere broken enough for an Usurper to rise.

Next Arc: The Catalyst Crown ...