A Blunt Taste of Truth

The Outcasts did not call themselves that.

It was a name given to them later—by the Eight Superentis, by historians loyal to Facilís, by those who needed a simple word to file away inconvenient people. In truth, they were two nations that never asked to be part of the system. Two populations that refused the Montlaif’s blessings, refused the marks, refused the promise of an easier life bought with obedience.

They lived simply. They worked, traded, raised families, and minded their own existence.

Until the world grew too perfect.

Until technology advanced faster than restraint. Until devices like Point Touch Zero rewrote conflict itself, and machines like the TSM vehicle erased distance, resistance, and privacy. Until peace became enforced rather than chosen.

That was when the danger began.

And that was when Wrex arrived.

The dust had not yet settled when the last body hit the ground.

Five of them lay scattered across the stone-lit clearing—breathing, alive, but broken in posture and pride. Wrex stood at the center, shoulders rising and falling, blood tracing thin lines across his knuckles and cheek. Sweat dripped from his jaw, darkening the earth beneath him.

This was not rage.

This was refusal.

The Outcasts watched him now from a cautious distance. What they had expected was strength. What they had prepared for was resistance. What they were not ready for was certainty.

“You didn’t have to do that,” one of them said, voice strained, hand hovering near a weapon he no longer trusted himself to use.

Wrex turned slowly.

“You tested me,” he replied, calm, controlled. “You surrounded me. You spoke as if I was already yours.”

His eyes lifted—sharp, cutting, unwavering.

“I don’t belong to anyone.”

Silence pressed in. Midnight hung heavy above them, the moon casting pale light across his bloodied face. For a moment, he looked less like a guest and more like a verdict.

Another voice—older, cautious. “You’re in unknown territory. You don’t understand what’s at stake.”

Wrex exhaled through his nose.

“That’s the problem,” he said. “Everyone keeps deciding what I should understand.”

He took a step forward. Several Outcasts instinctively stepped back.

“You brought me here fast. Too fast. You intercepted my path, my training, my future. You tell me this was coincidence?”

No answer.

His jaw tightened.

“I want the truth. About the marks. About Facilís. About why the world is divided when it claims unity.”
A pause.
“And I want to meet whoever planned this raid.”

A murmur rippled through the group. Fear—not of his strength alone, but of what he represented if unleashed without control.

One of them whispered, “He doesn’t like being forced.”

Another replied under their breath, “Neither do we.”

Wrex closed his eyes briefly. Not in regret—but in restraint.

“I do not seek,” he said quietly.
“I do not follow trails laid by others.”
His eyes opened again, burning with resolve.
“I simply live.”

The vow had begun.

Steel sang in the narrow passage.

Loria moved like a blade drawn with purpose—clean, fast, relentless. Her boots struck stone as she pivoted, ducked, and surged forward, the white glove flashing as it caught the light. One strike shattered a weapon. Another sent a soldier crashing into the tunnel wall.

She did not hesitate.

She did not listen.

Behind her, Rizor’s voice echoed sharply. “You’re rushing into something you don’t understand!”

“I don’t intend to,” Loria shouted back, already moving.

Fozic stood further ahead, strangely calm amid the chaos, hands behind his back as if observing a demonstration rather than a battle. The soldiers with him were equipped differently—lighter, adaptive, trained for confined spaces.

“She’s faster than predicted,” one of them muttered.

Fozic smiled faintly. “So was he.”

Loria closed the distance, breath steady, eyes blazing.

“You planned this,” she accused. “You used him.”

Rizor stepped forward now, voice strained. “Before Grenik—before the TSM training, before HSK—someone guided us. Made us believe that was the correct path. That delaying was safer than acting.”

Loria struck again, forcing another opponent down, never once looking away from Fozic.

“And now?” she demanded.

“Now,” Fozic said calmly, “the story has reached the point where it can no longer wait.”

Their blades clashed. Sparks flew.

“You think you can stop me halfway?” Loria snarled. “I will reach him.”

Fozic met her gaze—not threatened, not angry.

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.”

Their fight intensified—precision against resolve, strategy against instinct. Loria fought not for victory, but for arrival. Every step forward was a declaration.

She would not be late.

Far apart, yet bound by momentum, Wrex and Loria moved toward the same truth—each carving their path through resistance, each rejecting the hands that tried to steer them.

Facilís trembled quietly under the weight of unseen decisions.

The Outcasts had revealed no ultimate weapon, no triumphant answer—only a shockingly human truth: the world had been shaped by choice, not divinity.

And those choices were beginning to fracture.

The dawn was coming.

And with it, the vow of liberation.