The moment hung suspended—Silas's kill completed, the Crownhold operative's body collapsing, death appearing from nowhere while everyone's attention remained fixed on Adept Goba's overwhelming presence.

Bright's spatial foresight had tracked it all.

Every microsecond of Silas's movement. The Speed Enhancement carrying him across the corridor. The blade finding throat. The Sense Fade making witnesses forget what they'd barely perceived. The perfect execution that capitalized on distraction.

He killed the operative, Bright understood with crystalline clarity. Used the adept's arrival as cover.

Bright's danger sense hadn't even warned him—because Silas wasn't a threat to Bright. Wasn't a danger to the squad. Was just… removing a problem. Quietly. Efficiently. The way assassins operated when everyone was watching the spectacle.

Across the corridor, Adept Goba's enhanced perception had registered it too.

Not through spatial foresight—that was Bright's unique capability. But through decades of combat experience, through Adept-level awareness that made him sensitive to disruptions in the battlefield's energy flow, through simple recognition of what sudden death looked like when it appeared from nowhere.

The invisible one, Goba identified, his perception finding Silas in shadows despite his Sense Fade making him forgettable.

Smart. Ruthless. Exactly what I'd do in his position.

Their eyes met briefly—Bright's and Goba's—across the corridor's chaos. Understanding passed between them without words.

You saw it.

I saw it.

We're not mentioning it.

Because what was there to say? The Crownhold operative had been an enemy combatant, had been coordinating assassination attempts, had been complicit in an orchestrated massacre. His death was convenient. Removed complication. Eliminated witness who might testify about political maneuvering.

Better dead than creating problems later, Goba calculated with cold pragmatism as he hated the politics of the matter.

One less variable to manage, Bright agreed silently.

Neither spoke. Neither acknowledged. Both simply… moved on.

Because in Vester, during Clear Light's Eve, some deaths were justice even if they weren't legal. Some eliminations served greater good even if they violated formal rules.

And sometimes, the best response was tactical blindness.

-----

Adept Goba surveyed the corridor's remaining occupants with calculating assessment.

Few surviving Crownhold operatives, weapons lowered but not dropped, clearly calculating whether fleeing or surrendering offered better survival probability.

Some Covenant specialists, eyes still burning with religious conviction despite their depleted numbers, their fanaticism making them unpredictable even facing overwhelming force.

Academy candidates—injured, exhausted, barely functional.

Too many variables, Goba decided. Too much potential for complications.

The Crownhold operatives represented political entanglement. If they escaped, they'd report to Vaelith, create narratives, complicate the already messy situation. If they were captured, they'd demand formal processes, legal representation, House protection that would bog everything down in a bureaucratic nightmare.

The Covenant fanatics were simply dangerous. Unpredictable. Likely to martyr themselves or attempt suicide attacks if given opportunity.

I didn't come here to manage prisoners, Goba thought. I came here to stabilize a crisis.

So let's simplify the variables.

"Last chance," Goba announced, his voice carrying casual finality. "Surrender means interrogation, trials, political complications I don't want to deal with. Running means I let you go and hope you don't cause more problems. Or—"

His Electric Hand crackled, electricity arcing between his fingers.

"—option three. I kill you all right now and file reports saying you died in combat. Clean. Simple. No politics."

The Crownhold operatives' expressions shifted from calculation to horror as they recognized he was serious.

"You can't—" one started. "We're Republic soldiers! We have rights! House Crownhold will—"

"House Crownhold is always neck-deep in filth," he said flatly. "You lot just happen to be a bite-sized piece of it. And from what I've seen so far?"

His gaze hardened, dismissive.

"You're not even the good kind of trouble."

."I'm Kiliman's Adept. I don't answer to Crownhold. And honestly?" His Tank core rumbled, stored power ready to discharge. "I really don't want to spend weeks dealing with legal proceedings when I could just solve the problem permanently in next thirty seconds."

"We surrender!" another operative pleaded. "We'll cooperate! We'll testify! We'll—"

"Against your own House?" Goba's expression was skeptical. "You'll flip on Vaelith Crownhold, risk retribution, become witnesses in case that takes years to prosecute? Or will you lawyer up, claim you were following orders, drag everything through political channels until people forget why we were even investigating?"

The operative didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Because they both knew the truth.

Politics protects the powerful, Goba understood. These operatives will never actually face consequences. Crownhold will protect them. And my testimony—as an outsider Adept with no political connections—will get buried in procedure.

So fuck procedure.

His Electric Hand discharged.

Not targeted strikes. Area effect. Electricity flooding the corridor's remaining combat space, seeking conductive pathways, finding flesh and moisture and organic tissue.

The remaining Crownhold operatives died instantly—their nervous systems overloading, their hearts stopping, their brains ceasing function before pain receptors could register agony.

The four Covenant specialists died slightly slower—their fanaticism providing exactly zero defense against fundamental biological processes failing under the electrical assault.

One managed to scream "For the Great One!" before his vocal cords seized and his lungs stopped functioning.

Then silence.

Just corpses. Just eliminated variables. Just problems solved through overwhelming force rather than complicated legal proceedings.

The Academy candidates stared—shocked by the casual efficiency, by the willingness to execute rather than capture, by the recognition that Adept-level authority meant having power to simply kill people who represented complications.

"You just—" Duncan started, his voice tight. "You executed them. Without trial. Without—"

"Without wasting everyone's time on process that wouldn't produce justice anyway," Goba finished. "They were enemy combatants in active crisis situation. I have authority to neutralize threats to Republic assets. Which I did. Efficiently."

"That's murder," Mara said quietly.

"That's pragmatism," Goba corrected. "Murder implies illegal killing. This was an Adept exercising combat authority during an emergency. Completely legal. Completely justified. Completely—" He paused. "—convenient for everyone who doesn't want to spend next year dealing with political fallout."

Bright understood, even if he didn't like it. Goba had just solved multiple problems simultaneously—eliminated witnesses, removed operatives who'd been complicit in massacre, prevented Covenant fanatics from attempting future attacks.

And he made it look like combat casualties, Bright recognized. His report will say they died fighting. No one will question an Adept-level combat assessment during crisis.

It's efficient. It's pragmatic. It's probably even right, given what they'd done.

But it's also exactly the kind of authority that could be abused if wielded by someone less… principled? Honest? Whatever the adept actually is.

"Now," Goba continued, already moving past the executions like they were administrative tasks rather than death sentences, "I need to find the other Adepts. Kill whatever's coordinating the ant colony. You—" He gestured at Bright's group. "—you find secure position. Rest. I'll handle the remaining crisis management."

"Sir," Bright said carefully, "Lieutenant Estovia Armand has evidence of—"

"Political corruption that I absolutely do not want to get involved with right now," Goba interrupted. "Get her to the convoy compound. Let House Aurin's Adept deal with that mess. I'm here to kill Crawlers and stabilize defensive infrastructure. Everything else is someone else's problem."

He departed before anyone could argue, his massive bulk moving with surprising speed, his Engine talent rumbling as he headed toward where his Adept-level perception had located Atheon and Vaelith.

The Academy candidates stood among fresh corpses, processing what they'd just witnessed.

"He just… solved problems by killing them," Duncan said, still trying to reconcile the casual efficiency with what should have been moral complexity.

"He did what Adepts do," Bright replied quietly. "Made decisions that can't be questioned because who's going to challenge his authority during crisis? Who's going to investigate combat kills that solved immediate threats?"

"Is that what we're going to become?" Mara asked, her voice carrying genuine concern. "People who solve problems through overwhelming force? Who execute rather than capture because it's more convenient?"

"Maybe," Bright acknowledged. "Or maybe we become people who understand when force is necessary but still wrestle with the choice. When execution is pragmatic but still costs something. When we do what survival requires but don't pretend it's costless."

"That's optimistic," Silas said from shadows, his Sense Fade finally releasing enough that they could perceive him properly. "Most Adepts I've seen just… do what Goba did. Make hard choices without hesitation. Kill when convenient. Justify through authority."

"Then we'll be different," Duncan said firmly. "We'll be Adepts who remember that every death matters. Who don't just execute because it's efficient."

"Good luck with that," Silas replied. "The world has a way of grinding idealism into pragmatism. Ask me in ten years if you're still wrestling with moral complexity or just killing problems like the fatty."

None of them had an answer to that.

Because they all suspected Silas might be right.

-----

Adept Goba found Atheon and Vaelith at the ant colony's main breach point—massive opening in Vester's infrastructure where the queen had emerged, where Rowan and the Covenant Adept had fought, where the night's crisis had reached its most concentrated point.

Rowan lay on a stretcher, still unconscious from the queen's venom, his body showing signs of ongoing internal struggle as Republic healers worked to neutralize the toxins that resisted conventional treatment.

The Covenant Adept—Tertius—lay similarly incapacitated, his religious conviction providing zero defense against biological weapons that attacked fundamental cellular processes.

Atheon stood guard, his expression grim, his combat cores still active despite obvious exhaustion. Blood stained his uniform—some his own, most belonging to things he'd killed during the night-long crisis.

And Vaelith… Vaelith maintained his usual composure, showing exactly the right amount of concern and determination, his performance flawless even knowing his orchestration had created the chaos they were supposedly managing.

"Goba," Atheon acknowledged, relief visible. "About time you arrived. This situation has been—"

"Clusterfuck," Goba supplied. "I saw. Multiple shits were all over the place. Where are your operatives?" He directed this at Vaelith specifically.

Vaelith's expression didn't waver. "Deployed throughout the outpost.They are defending the critical infrastructures."

"Interesting," Goba said flatly. "Because I just found several of them in the medical bay. Attacking some kids. Coordinating with Covenant forces. Acting like assassins rather than Republic soldiers."

Vaelith's pause was a microsecond—too brief for most people to register, but Goba's Adept-level perception caught it. The moment of calculation, of deciding which lie to deploy, of assessing whether denial or justification served better.

"Confusion of combat," Vaelith offered smoothly. "They were probably multiple threats, limited visibility, friendly fire incidents are inevitable during—"

"Yeah, man," Goba interrupted, his casual tone carrying absolute certainty, "we all know most things coming out from your mouth is shit. Let's just not waste time on the performance. Your operatives were executing your orders. They were hunting someone—probably that lieutenant the Academy candidates were protecting. They coordinated with Covenant forces because you fed intelligence to both sides. This whole night was orchestrated political maneuvering disguised as crisis response."

Atheon's expression hardened. "You have proof of—"

"I have Adept-level authority to make assessment during crisis," Goba said. "And my assessment is that investigating this properly would take months, would bog down in political complications, and would ultimately produce nothing actionable because Crownhold will protect their own. So—" He gestured dismissively. "—I'm declaring it combat confusion. Tragic friendly fire. Chaos of coordinated assault. Everyone moves on."

"You're letting him—" Atheon started, fury building.

"I'm simplifying variables," Goba corrected. "Because the alternative is legal proceedings that accomplish nothing while we still have actual crisis to manage. Like—" He gestured at the colony breach. "—the fact that there's still a queen down there coordinating ant swarms. Still an active threat that needs elimination before we can stabilize this outpost."

The redirection was blatant. Obvious. But also… pragmatic.

He's right, Atheon recognized bitterly.

Proving Vaelith's orchestration would take forever and might not even stick. Meanwhile, the ant colony remains active threat.

Priorities. Damn him.

"Where is the queen?" Goba asked.

"Retreated deep into colony network after poisoning Rowan and the cultist," Atheon reported. "It was too dangerous to pursue without Adept-level support. That's why we've been waiting for—"

"For me. Got it." Goba's Engine rumbled, his Tank core still overflowing with stored power from his meal before departure. "Let's go kill it. All three of us."

"What about —" Vaelith gestured at the unconscious Covenant Adept. "—he's incapacitated. We can't—"

"He wakes up, he dies," Goba said flatly. "He's Covenant leadership. Coordinated tonight's assault. I have standing orders to eliminate Covenant Adepts on sight during active operations. So either he stays unconscious and we deal with him later, or he wakes up and I execute him immediately."

Vaelith's expression suggested he was calculating implications, running scenarios, deciding whether having the adept alive or dead served his interests better.

"Leave him," Vaelith decided. "Focus on the queen. We can address… other issues… after the immediate threat is neutralized."

Translation: Let the adept die from the poison as he couldn't be sure what had spilled from that markus boy's mouth.

Goba understood perfectly. "Acceptable. Atheon, you're the Fist of Men, right? Earned that title during the western campaigns?"

"Yes," Atheon confirmed, something like pride cutting through his exhaustion and fury.

"It's an honor to fight beside you," Goba said genuinely. "Heard stories. Looking forward to seeing if they're accurate."

"They're probably exaggerated," Atheon replied.

"We'll see." Goba turned to Vaelith. "And you—Crownhold Adept who definitely didn't orchestrate any of tonight's chaos—you're coming too. Because I want you where I can see you."

Vaelith's expression remained neutral, but recognition flickered: He doesn't trust me. Won't give me opportunity to create complications.

"Of course," Vaelith said smoothly. "A united response to immediate crisis. Exactly as it should be."

"Yeah," Goba said. "Let's just get this over with."

They descended into the colony breach—three Adepts with opposing agendas and mutual distrust, unified only by immediate necessity of killing something that threatened everyone equally.

This is going to be interesting, Goba thought. And probably complicated.

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