My Shard Bearer System - Elias's Legacy-Chapter 228: Silver Strikes

Does she still hate me?

Had twenty minutes dulled the blade? Or made it sharper?

"Stop it," Dot snapped, her light dimming slightly in his mind. "You can’t fix that from a bassinet."

There was no warmth in her voice this time. Just blunt honesty. The kind that cut through self-pity fast.

"Focus on... I don’t know. Not crying for once."

Elias’s lips moved.

Not much. Just a twitch. The closest thing he had to a smile right now.

"Fair," he admitted, letting the thought hang.

But then the shard answered.

A dull throb—not quite pain, but colder this time. Deeper.

It pulled his mind downward again, past Dot, past Kikaru, toward something older. The gem. The one buried under the capital. The one the crucifix wanted.

Bring it to me, he’d said. And I’ll show you the truth. Your father. Your world.

But Torren’s words about the blue-faces, Gavric’s guarded tone, all of it painted something else. A different picture. Like this world was already splitting along fault lines Elias didn’t yet understand.

What if the gem’s tied to them?

The thought stuck.

Not because he wanted it to—but because it made too much sense.

The shard pulsed again, colder still.

Across the room, Seraphine glanced up.

Her eyes found him instantly.

"You’re quiet today, Veyren," she said, voice softer than usual.

She crossed the floor with ease, kneeling beside the bassinet. Her hand slipped under him, arms lifting his small body as if it weighed nothing. But Elias felt it. The care in the gesture. The steadiness. Like she wanted to hold him without waking whatever ache still lingered in her own chest.

He didn’t struggle.

Couldn’t, really.

But he didn’t want to.

"Let’s get you some air," she murmured.

The window creaked as she pushed it open. Outside, a thin breeze slipped through—cool, damp, edged with river silt and distant ash. Elias’s skin prickled from the change. It wasn’t unpleasant. Just real.

She held him steady, arms cradling him close as they stared out over the city.

Kenosha Shibuya stretched wide beneath them. A patchwork of red roofs and angled terraces. Sky bridges hung like veins across the upper districts, catching the light with flashes of silver. There was movement everywhere—smoke from cook fires, children darting between carts, the blur of spirit-powered vehicles humming quietly along raised tracks.

It looked alive.

Whole.

But even now, Elias saw the cracks.

A column of dust rose far off near the edge—Anacraid work teams, probably clearing tunnels. Down one of the roads, a convoy of carts moved too slowly, their engines stuttering. A system stretched thin.

This world’s not mine, he thought, the weight of Seraphine’s arms a temporary shelter. But I have to live in it.

The shard pulsed again.

Heavier. Colder. Like something waiting beneath the surface.

What if getting the gem saves Alec Vunentind...

...but destroys this family instead?

That question settled deeper than the rest.

What if I choose wrong again?

Veyren’s fingers tightened around the wooden rattle.

Not by accident this time. Intent drove the motion. Grain pressed into his palm, rough and uneven. Each squeeze burned in his wrist—small, tired muscles trembling from the weight.

But he held it.

A victory. However minor.

The Kaelithar manor stretched around him—long, wide halls lined with carved beams and old stone. The ceilings soared too high for warmth. Every shadow cast by the dark oak twisted as spirit lamps flickered overhead, their gems humming just above audible. Some wavered. One stuttered near the archway, its light blinking in and out like a breath caught in a throat.

The air tasted dry.

Dust. Wax. Faint hints of crushed leaves and spent flame. Autumn pressed itself into every crevice of the house, hiding in the curtains, coating the floorboards.

Through narrow windows, the outside world rolled on.

Kenosha Shibuya gleamed in pieces. Terraced fields layered the hillside, carved in rings. Red-roofed homes clustered between stone pathways, their outlines soft in the morning haze. Farther still, the sky bridges caught the sun—curved spans of metal and spirit conduit, bending like shells over the horizon.

He couldn’t reach them.

But he could see.

Seraphine sat at a thick table nearby, posture curved into the grain. Her braid had slipped over one shoulder, auburn strands falling loose as she bent over a worn ledger.

The quill in her hand scraped steadily—ink spilling numbers into tidy rows.

Gems. Grain. Ore.

Everything tallied into the leather pouch resting at her elbow.

A quota, not a profit.

She didn’t say it aloud, but Elias saw it in her hand. The way her grip tightened. The feather of the quill bent, pinched too hard. She stared at the line she’d just written, lips thin.

"Not enough," she said.

Quiet. Even. But her shoulders sagged under the words.

The quota wasn’t hers. It hadn’t been for generations.

Ysmera’s coffers. The blue-faces’ demands.

Set sixty-five years ago, when their ships carved streaks into Giselsin’s skies and called it peace.

Outside the window, a spirit cart groaned. freёnovelkiss.com

Its core flickered. Weak blue light pulsed as the gem inside lost rhythm. The whole cart shook as workers shoved it forward—grunts and metal grinding over clay.

Elias winced.

The shard in his shoulder reacted.

One pulse. Then another.

Not pain. Just a hum. Cold. Familiar.

It throbbed in sync with the cart’s broken rhythm, like something distant pulling on a thread woven through both of them.

Connected, he thought.

The word came hard, like it had to crawl through fog.

He didn’t remember much. Not clearly.

But Cube X’s weapons... plasma-laced rails, artificial gravity pulses... that wasn’t gone. It just felt like a dream now. Slipping through fingers too small to hold it.

Still, the shard whispered.

Not in words—but in pulses. Echoes.

Networks. Energy systems. Hidden veins under the world’s skin.

Giselsin runs on them, Elias thought. And this shard... it knows.

Across the hall, Torren swung his wooden sword in a wide arc.

His arms weren’t strong yet, but they moved with intent. His frame was wiry, stretched tight with focus—shoulders hunched, feet planted too rigidly for balance. He didn’t notice. He was too busy imagining an enemy.

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