Nucleus 1: The Dust of Moon [Mature Sci-fi Romance]

"Enough of this charade!" Behind Dilinur, Joon-Seok's patience had run out. With a final, brutal strike, he disarmed Thorin, sending the golden blade spinning into the lunar dust. Before the older man could react, Joon-Seok spun, building momentum, and brought his crimson blade around in a perfect arc.

"Jabari…" Ume said, drifting away in the low gravity, her voice weak.

Joon-Seok's Psytum blade carved through the Scarab's armor like paper, the crimson energy leaving molten edges in its wake. The entire front section of the cockpit sheared away, exposing the interior.

The sudden decompression should have been catastrophic, but the Scarab's emergency systems held—barely.

"Time's wasting, Dinu," Joon-Seok's voice cut through the moment. He stood at the breach, crimson sword still humming. "I'll gut the man, while you take the shard off his hands."

She looked up at him, then back at Jabari. The Directorate pilot's eyes had rolled back, body convulsing as the shard's power overwhelmed him. But still his fingers wouldn't release the crystal.

He'll die before he lets go, she realized. Just like me.

Her gaze dropped to Fuuka's unconscious form, her eyes now fluttered shut, the priestess's breathing so shallow it was barely visible. Two lives hanging by threads.

"New information!" Kaori's voice crackled over comms. "Directorate reinforcements approaching. Two minutes out!"

Dilinur felt the moment balanced on a knife's edge. She could take the shard by force, but Jabari would not survive the severing. Or they could continue this struggle against the arriving reinforcements, risk everything for a fragment they'd already proven they couldn't fully control.

But two minutes was an eternity in combat.

"Press the attack!" Joon-Seok commanded, his crimson blade carving through a desperate Ologun who'd tried to protect the fallen monk. "Don't give them time to regroup!"

Dilinur watched the pathetic defense around the shattered Scarab—that dark-skinned witch's golden light flickering weakly, exhaustion clear in her stance. The surviving Ologuns' Plasma Rifles blinked with low-power warnings. They were finished, and they knew it.

Above, that irritating Anioma jet screamed overhead, its emerald hull trailing smoke from one engine. Through her tactical display, Dilinur tracked its erratic pattern—the pilot pushing his damaged fighter beyond all limits, diving and weaving to draw fire from her Bloodtroopers.

"Watch this, you Imperium fokkers!" The pilot's accented voice carried over open comms.

The fighter dove nearly vertical, plasma cannons emptying their reserves. Her Bloodtroopers scattered, losing precious seconds of advance. But as the jet pulled up, Dilinur seized the opportunity. Raising her Psi Fan, she chanted. "Agni Śūla Hana!"

One of the jet's engine erupted in flames.

Dilinur watched with grim satisfaction as the Anioma spiraled out of control, clipping a crater rim before cartwheeling across the surface. One wing sheared off completely, the fighter coming to rest in a cloud of gray dust.

"Wilhelm!" Someone screamed—the witch named Celine, perhaps.

One threat eliminated. Dilinur turned her attention back to the Scarab's breach. Through the twisted metal, she could see Jabari clearly now—blood streaming from his nose, eyes, even his ears. The fool was killing himself, but still maintaining enough control to keep some of her Radi-Mons occupied.

"A pity," she whispered, surprising herself. Why did she care if this thief destroyed himself?

"Akhaṇḍit chetanā—" The incantation tore from his throat, audible even at distance.

"Jabari, stop!" The monk—Thorin, her files said—had somehow pushed himself to his knees. "You're not strong enough! The shard will—"

One of her Amber-Eyes silenced him with a crossbow shot to his waist, Dilinur saw the bolt hit its mark as red blood coated his robes. The Directorate's other psion, Celine, rushed to his side.

"Owia Kɔkɔbɔ Kyɛ!" The witch doctor intoned as she held up a hand, palm extended to cast a golden barrier, fending off the near-dozen crossbow bolts.

But Dinu paid them no mind. She paced closer to Jabari's broken mech.

Jabari. Those around him. The android. The crashed pilot. The exhausted defenders. Even the dying priestess across his lap. All blockers she'd push aside.

Through the shard's connection, she felt Jabari's resolve waver, his awareness of the devastation around him.

"Have to... protect..." She read his lips more than heard the words.

The shard pulsed, and suddenly every Radi-Mon within five hundred meters froze. Dilinur's eyes widened—he wasn't controlling them. He'd somehow locked them in stasis, caught between her commands and his desperate nullification. Her connection to them became static, white noise.

Clever, she admitted grudgingly. Not victory, but buying seconds.

"The fuck is he doing?" Roach growled beside her, his cybernetic eyes whirring as he tracked the frozen creatures.

"Dying," Dilinur said quietly. Through the shard, she felt Jabari's life force guttering like a flame in wind. "But slowly."

That's when her tactical display lit up with new contacts. The horizon erupted with emerald and gold—Scarab mechs bounding across the lunar surface in perfect formation. Above them, Anioma fighters screamed through the thin atmosphere, already firing.

"Fucking finally!" Roach dodged away from the frozen Radi-Mons, their paralysis already beginning to fade.

"Defensive positions!" Dilinur commanded, though she knew it was too late. The Directorate had timed this perfectly—arriving just as her forces were overextended, her Radi-Mons compromised.

Then a new voice cut through the chaos—calm, commanding, with an accent that spoke of education far from Earth. Even before she saw him, Dilinur knew who it had to be.

"Jabari, release the shard. Now!"

A figure dropped from the lead Scarab with grace, landing in a crouch that sent lunar dust billowing. He rose slowly, and Dilinur's breath caught. This had to be the famous Prince Laurent—curly long hair, tall and lean, with skin like polished ebony and eyes that held depths of experience despite his apparent youth. His royal uniform was immaculate, emerald and gold matching the Directorate's colors.

In his right hand, a Psytum Sword ignited with deep purple energy, the blade humming with barely contained power.

"Thank you, Prince Laurent…" Jabari managed weakly from his cockpit, his bloodied fingers finally releasing the shard. It tumbled into Laurent's waiting left hand, and immediately Dilinur felt the connection shift—not severed, but muted, like a scream heard through thick glass.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Laurent's fingers closed around the cyan crystal, but he made no move to use it. Instead, he turned to face them, purple blade held in a casual guard position.

"Celine, see to Jabari and Fuuka," he ordered without looking back. "Everyone else, give our guests a proper Directorate welcome."

The battlefield exploded into motion.

Radi-Mons, freed from divided control, surged toward the Directorate lines. Bone Fiends charged in skeletal waves while Sky Shredders dove from above, their chittering war cries filling the comms. Without Jabari's will competing for control, Dilinur's command through the main Crystal was absolute.

"Finally," Roach snarled, his Hemorrhagic Shotgun roaring as he advanced. "Paint these pretenders red!"

But something was wrong.

The Directorate forces moved with perfect coordination, their Scarabs' plasma weapons laying down devastating fields of fire. The Anioma fighters above executed maneuvers that should have been impossible, their pilots seemingly everywhere at once. Green plasma carved through Radi-Mon ranks, yet somehow the shots missed.

And in the center of it all, Laurent stood waiting.

"Together, Dinu!" Joon-Seok said, moving to flank the Directorate prince. "He can't match both of us."

Dilinur nodded, circling in the opposite direction. Two master psions against one—even if this mystic was the legendary Laurent N'Guessan, the odds were in their favor.

They struck simultaneously. Joon-Seok's crimson blade met Laurent's purple in a shower of sparks while Dilinur's Psi Fan sought the opening their clash created. But Laurent moved like water, flowing between their attacks with ease.

His purple blade caught Joon-Seok's strike and redirected it into Dilinur's path, forcing her to abort her attack. In the same motion, he stepped inside their guard, the Moondust shard in his left hand pulsing but unused.

"Interesting technique," Laurent observed as he parried another coordinated assault. "Valoran footwork mixed with Imperial slashes, mister Joon-Seok?"

Joon-Seok's only response was a snarl and a redoubled attack. But Laurent matched him stroke for stroke, all while keeping the shard safely away from their reaching hands.

"Hope I'm not late to the party, china!"

The voice came from behind them, followed by the distinctive whine of a plasma weapon charging. Dilinur spun to see the Anioma pilot—blood trickling from a gash on his forehead, his emerald flight suit torn at the shoulder, but still standing. Still grinning with that insufferable confidence.

He held a sleek Plasma Handgun—sleeker than Ume's, but the way he handled it spoke of deadly familiarity. The pilot moved to flank Laurent, creating a defensive formation that forced Dilinur and Joon-Seok to split their attention.

The pilot's platinum-blond hair caught Osram's pale light even through the blood and lunar dust. Despite the crash that should have killed him, he moved with a fighter pilot's grace, favoring his left leg but compensating with positioning.

"Wilhelm van der Merwe, at your service," the Valoran grinned. His Plasma Handgun tracked Joon-Seok with steady precision. "Heard you were having a proper ballet without me. Can't have that, can we?"

"I never asked." Dilinur found herself halting her attack, an unwilling flush coloring her face.

Why, she thought with a flash of genuine annoyance, does the Directorate have so many disgustingly handsome men?

"Focus on the prince!" Joon-Seok barked, trying to press his attack on Laurent.

But now they faced two opponents instead of one. Wilhelm's smaller weapon might lack the android's devastating charged shots, but his rapid-fire bursts forced them to constantly adjust their footing. He worked in perfect synchronization with Laurent—when the prince pressed forward, Wilhelm provided covering fire; when Wilhelm drew their attention, Laurent struck with his purple blade.

"Not bad for a crashed pilot," Laurent commented, parrying Dilinur's Fan with casual ease.

"Not bad for a fancy prince," Wilhelm shot back, his grin never faltering even as blood continued to seep from his wounds. "Though I've had better landings."

Around them, the battle raged. Directorate Ologuns advanced in perfect formation, their Plasma Rifles firing on the lines of Bone Fiends and Skuggrs. The Scarabs worked in pairs, one pinning down Radi-Mon packs while the other delivered shots with mechanical precision.

But Dilinur, even as she fought for her life against Laurent's sublime swordsmanship, noticed something odd.

Not all the plasma bolts were hitting their targets. In fact, most of them missed.

She caught it in glimpses between exchanges—a Scarab firing at nothing, its shots passing harmlessly through empty space. An Ologun squad advancing through positions that should have been lethal killing fields, yet emerging unscathed.

"Your Highness," she gasped at Joon-Seok between strikes, "something's not—"

Laurent's blade whirled in a complex pattern, forcing them both back. "Not going as planned, eh?"

"Māṁsa Śalya!" Dilinur cast desperately, blood spears materializing around her.

Laurent didn't even slow down. "Kɔkɔɔ Suman." The Anansemka counter came smooth as silk, violet threads weaving a barrier that caught her projectiles mid-flight.

But it was his casual ease, the way he fought them one-handed while protecting the shard, that finally made her understand.

"Phantoms…" she breathed. "The reinforcements are phantoms!"

Joon-Seok's eyes widened as the realization hit. Across the battlefield, what had seemed like overwhelming Directorate forces began to flicker. Skuggr bile streams passed through Scarabs that weren't there. Ologun squads wavered like heat mirages before dissolving entirely.

The real force was barely a fraction of what they'd appeared—maybe two actual Scarabs, a single Anioma fighter providing devastating but limited support, and a handful of elite Ologuns who'd been doing all the actual killing.

"Too late, I'm afraid!" Laurent said, and for the first time, she saw him grin—an expression terribly cunning.

Around them, the last of the Radi-Mons fell. With the illusory forces distracting them, they'd been surprisingly ineffective, and the damage was done. The Fenris beasts lay scattered across Mare Cognitum's surface, their dark blood freezing in the vacuum.

Laurent raised the Moondust shard, and Dilinur felt her heart stop. If this witch doctor prince used it now, with his power...

But instead, he began to chant in Anansemka, the words flowing like water: "Yɛn nyinaa bɛkɔ fie—wiase a ɛwɔ akyirikyiri no, momma yɛnkɔ hɔ ntɛm!"

The air around him began to shimmer, reality bending as the mass teleportation spell took hold. Purple light spread from where he stood, encompassing the damaged Scarab, the injured Sand Lotus members, the surviving Directorate forces.

"No!" Dilinur lunged forward, but the spell's boundary repelled her like a physical wall.

"Celine. Are they intact?" Laurent looked to the Scarab and inquired.

"Hopefully." With strained breathing, Celine replied from the damaged cockpit, sitting beside Jabari and Fuuka. His nosebleed had ceased, but the powerful man Dilinur had first seen when she met him aboard the Dragonfort was now unconscious. "At least he's still breathing."

"Good. Keep it that way." Laurent then turned and met Dilinur's eyes through the growing distortion. "Until next we meet, Prefect Altai."

Then the light flared, blinding in its intensity. When Dilinur's vision cleared, they were gone—Laurent, Jabari, Wilhelm, Ume, Thorin, the Moondust shard—all of it! Only scorched lunar dust remained where they'd stood.

"Pursuit course!" Joon-Seok barked into his comm. "Track that teleportation signature!"

"Impossible, Your Highness," came Kaori's response from the Shūn-Huáng. "That was a site-to-site translocation. Could be anywhere within a thousand-kilometer radius."

Dilinur stood in the aftermath, surrounded by dead Radi-Mons and the echo of Laurent's words. The main Crystal pulsed in her battlecruiser, but it felt hollow now—powerful but incomplete.

"Fancy-pants played us," Roach said as he approached. "The entire time, fucking stalling. Letting us think we had it while his real boys cleaned up."

Marisol emerged from behind a destroyed Scarab, her black-gold uniform scorched but intact. "Orders, Prefect?"

Dilinur looked around the killing field, at the evidence of the Directorate's cunning and their own overconfidence. They'd had superior numbers, superior firepower, and they'd still lost.

"Salvage what we can," she commanded. "And signal the Shūn-Huáng for pickup."

As they waited for extraction, Joon-Seok moved to stand beside her. "This Laurent is more dangerous than our intelligence suggested."

"They all are," Dilinur agreed. Through the Crystal, she could no longer feel Jabari's presence—Laurent's spell had taken them too far. But she knew they'd meet again. All shards would call to the parent Crystal, and when they did...

"Set course for Earth," she said as their pods arrived. "Yosemite Valley, California."

"You think they'll go there?" Joon-Seok asked, one hand reaching out to steady her.

"I know they will." She pressed her hand to her temple one more time, her earlier headache receding. "The Alliance must be heading there, as well."

"They'll all try to collect the piece." He nodded.

She smiled, and this time there was genuine anticipation in it. "Let them. When we meet, those frozen peaks shall be their graves."

As the Dragonstone Pods carried them back to the Shūn-Huáng, Dilinur cast one last look at Osram's scarred surface.

The Directorate had won this round, but the war was far from over.