Biocores: The Legendary Weapon Designer

The east quadrant of the battlefield smoldered with residual heat from Hermes' Zone, but the real storm was forming elsewhere.

Aphrodite stepped lightly across the shattered ground, almost like she was dancing. Her crimson biocore pulsed with an intoxicating rhythm, releasing a soft pink haze into the air. She tilted her head, long silver hair waving unnaturally as if pulled by unseen strings.

"So brutish," she mused, watching the two heirs land in front of her.

Magnus arrived first, clad in ceremonial gold mech-armor lined with sunburst engravings. Ten golden rings hovered around him like a miniature solar system, each one glowing faintly with heat and motion. His arms, layered in rotating metal plates, hissed with pressure—each coin-like railgun chamber locked and ready. Only five of the suns flared bright. The others remained dormant.

Lithaa crashed down next to him like a falling star. Her mecha frame was stone-gray, thick with brutal armor plating and burn marks from past battles. Steam rose from the vents on her shoulders. A meteor hammer, the size of a boulder and spiked with embedded rebar, unfurled behind her like a flail ready to demolish mountains.

Aphrodite smiled. "You really think muscle and bullets will work on me?"

Suddenly, Magnus frowned. His coins began to tremble, slightly off-rhythm. The rings flickered.

"Don't look at her eyes," he warned.

But it was too late.

The world around them shifted.

The stone battlefield dissolved into a pristine ballroom, chandeliers floating midair, silk curtains billowing with phantom wind. Hundreds of mirrors lined the walls—all showing different versions of Aphrodite, smiling, crying, mocking.

"Welcome to my garden," she whispered.

Lithaa roared and launched her hammer—but it passed through air, slamming into a mirror that shattered like smoke.

Dozens of Aphrodites multiplied around them, walking calmly, hands raised in elegance. Her voice echoed in all directions.

"You brute won't touch me. And your little coin-slinger can't aim when his mind is spinning."

Magnus gritted his teeth. The second ring flared, then the third. Coins launched—golden streaks tearing through multiple illusions—but none hit flesh.

His mind stuttered.

"Lithaa—close your ears, now!"

But it was too late. The next mirror exploded, and Aphrodite's voice entered their heads not as sound, but as thought.

"Tell me, Magnus… what do you fear more? Failing this mission, or outshining your brother?"

Magnus froze.

"Lithaa… what if your strength was all for nothing? What if the people you love prefer gentleness?"

The illusions crept closer, the ballroom narrowing, the walls bleeding with roses.

Aphrodite, untouched, raised her hand—and summoned a curtain of blades made of mirrored light.

The ballroom twisted tighter. Walls once mirrored now became living memories, distorted by fear and doubt.

Magnus staggered as Aphrodite's voice slithered into his skull.

"You were always second best. Not to enemies… to your brother. Even now, you wear a borrowed legacy. Ten Suns? As if you can hold more than five."

The third ring flickered, then dimmed.

He could see it—his older brother, Solas, standing over him, sunlight in his wake, a real Ten-Sun wielder. "You're not meant for greatness," the vision sneered. "Just support roles and cleanup."

"No…" Magnus clenched his fists. "That's not real."

But the fourth ring died down, unstable, reacting to his inner turmoil.

Across from him, Lithaa grunted, her knees buckling.

Aphrodite's illusions surrounded her in soft tones and gentle faces. Her father appeared—broken, tired from the mines—and her mother, gaunt and disappointed.

"You could've been a healer, a builder… Instead, you chose to smash things. You think that hammer makes you strong? It makes you small. A brute. A tool."

Her hammer trembled, the chain pulling taut as if resisting her grip. Lithaa let out a guttural growl, trying to rip herself from the mirage—but her breath hitched. One of the illusions had taken the form of a little girl, staring up at her with soft eyes.

"You scare me," the girl whispered. "Don't you want to be loved?"

Lithaa's strength faltered. The air choked with sweetness and shame.

Aphrodite's real form, serene and untouched, floated above them like a goddess on her altar.

"I don't need to lift a finger," she purred. "You'll both fall on your own."

Magnus dropped to one knee, rings destabilizing. The weight of failure, of unworthiness, crushing him.

But something flickered behind his eyes.

Not light. Gold.

The raw glint of resistance. Of spite.

He grabbed one of his railgun coins, pressed it to his forehead—and burned himself with its heat. Skin blistered. Pain sharpened his senses.

"Lithaa!" he yelled, voice cracking. "They're just illusions! Hit yourself—snap out of it!"

She didn't move.

Until the girl whispered again, "I wish you were softer…"

And Lithaa snarled.

"Soft doesn't break walls!"

She headbutted her own hammer, splitting her forehead open—but the pain shattered the mirage. The ballroom cracked, turning sideways.

Aphrodite's smile faltered.

"I'm done dancing," Lithaa said.

The fifth sun on Magnus' ring ignited.

And this time, the golden railgun didn't tremble.

The assault was relentless.

Magnus stood firm, golden fire pulsing through his gauntlets as he raised five glowing rings into orbit around his arms. "Sunburst Protocol—Engage!" he shouted, and in a blinding flash, each gold coin he fired became a burning meteor, propelled like a railgun round at hypersonic speed. The force behind five suns cracked the air itself.

Beside him, Lithaa roared, spinning her massive meteor hammer with brute precision. With every swing, the ground trembled—shockwaves blasted through the shattered floor as she hurled the spiked head at Aphrodite with ferocious momentum, collapsing walls, craters following her wake.

Aphrodite dodged nimbly, her mecha form gliding like silk through the carnage. But even she couldn't keep up with both. One golden coin nicked her shoulder, tearing off a chunk of her cloak. The meteor hammer missed her by a breath but sent debris flying that cut across her cheek.

She landed with a flicker of genuine frustration crossing her face.

"So crude. So predictable..." she whispered.

Her eyes narrowed, and she raised both hands as her biocore flared to its full strength—Seven-Star brilliance, violet and pink bleeding across the battlefield. "Let's end this game."

The world around them shifted—time slowed, air thickened.

A dome of light descended, ethereal and almost invisible. Aphrodite's Zone bloomed into existence, swallowing them whole.

Suddenly, the battlefield was gone. Replaced by a soft, haunting garden of mirrors and thorns, where the air shimmered with perfume and despair. Every movement felt delayed. Every breath came with effort. The ground reflected their doubts—Lithaa saw her hammer strike civilians. Magnus saw his coins scatter, useless.

Voices whispered at the edge of hearing. Familiar ones. Twisted truths spoken in tones they once trusted.

"Do you really think you're heroes?"

"You'll never reach their level."

"You were meant to be side characters."

Aphrodite walked calmly between reflections, her real body indistinguishable from the dozens of illusions now drifting around them.

"This is my Zone," she said softly. "Where your strength breaks beneath the weight of who you really are."