The scent of manufactured lilies and ionized air clung heavy in the grand ossuary, a sterile shroud over the collective grief. Sutara, inhabiting the frail shell of the late Governor Lyxos’s decoy, felt none of it. His focus was a cold, hard calculation: two hundred and seventy-three elite mourners, each a potential threat, each adorned with the gleaming insignia of their genetic tiers. His new body, biologically unmodified and unnervingly weak, was a liability. The decoy’s memory fragments offered little beyond fear and obedience. Survival was paramount, and survival meant blending in, even as his internal qi churned, a familiar fire trapped within alien flesh.
He stood in the third row, a designated spot for the ‘lesser’ kin, close enough to the central plinth for observation, far enough to avoid direct scrutiny. The eulogy drone, an emotionless voice projected from the ceiling, rattled on about Lyxos’s ‘purity of lineage’ and ‘psychic potency’. Sutara scoffed internally. Purity was a lie; potency, a crutch. True strength lay in adaptability, in the bone-deep knowledge that every breath was earned.
A faint shimmer, barely perceptible against the iridescent drapery, flickered at the edge of his vision. Not a reflection. An energy signature, precise and deadly. Old predator instincts warned him. A laser, thin as a hair, lanced towards him, slicing through the air with a soft hiss. It wasn’t meant for Lyxos, who lay embalmed in the crystalline sarcophagus; it was meant for him, the decoy, the inconvenient witness.
Time distended. The eulogy drone’s words stretched into a mournful hum. Before thought, before conscious decision, his body moved. It was the ‘Wind-Whisper Step,’ a Beggar Sect footwork technique designed for escaping impossible odds, for vanishing in plain sight. A fluid shift of weight, a subtle turn of the ankle, barely a visible tremor. He became air, not flesh.
The laser, denied its target, speared past his former location and slammed into the archaic Urn of Lyxos, a vessel said to contain the first Governor’s preserved mental resonance. The urn, a towering ceramic vessel carved with intricate, millennia-old patterns, exploded. Shards of ceramic shrieked through the air, glittering like deadly jewels. The air filled with the sharp, metallic tang of aged psionic residue, an odor repulsive to his qi-attuned senses.
Silence crashed down, absolute and terrifying. The drone stuttered, then died. Two hundred and seventy-three pairs of eyes, previously fixed on the sarcophagus, now burned into Sutara. They weren’t accusatory, not yet. They were confused, outraged, their perfectly sculpted faces aghast at the sacrilege. They saw a weak, unmodified decoy, a 'dreg' of society, perform a move that defied logic and shattered a sacred relic. It ruptured their ordered, strictly segregated world.
Sutara didn't wait for the accusations. He exploited their collective paralysis. A quick glance confirmed the assassin was gone, vanished into the sudden chaos. He melted into the stunned crowd, his movements still precise, economical. Their shock was his shield. He slipped through the gaping doors, past the automated sentries, and plunged into the labyrinthine lower levels of the Mandala Citadel’s vast necropolis, a sprawling underground city of graves and forgotten maintenance tunnels.
The deeper he descended, the colder and damper the air became. The gilded opulence of the ossuary gave way to rough-hewn rock and flickering emergency lights. His unenhanced body lacked the artificial thermal regulation common among the nobility. Exhaustion dragged at his limbs, heavy and unwelcome. He needed warmth, not just for comfort, but for the basic functionality of his qi. His meagre assets totaled three items: the decoy uniform, credits in a wrist-pouch, and the hazardous secret of an imposter.
He followed a barely-there warmth, a faint, pulsing glow emanating from a crack in the rock. It led him into a forgotten crypt, cluttered with shattered memorials and ancient, dust-choked data-slabs. Nestled among the rubble, a six-legged reptile pulsed with turquoise phosphorescence. It was a gecko, but unlike any he’d ever seen. Its scales shimmered with shifting blues and greens, and its six delicate limbs splayed out, radiating a surprising amount of heat. Its large, dark eyes, like polished obsidian, regarded him without fear.
A low trill from the creature resonated against the flagstones, forming a soft syllable in Sutara's ear: Cipi. It was a name, an instinctive understanding. This was not a pet in the traditional sense; it was a highly efficient, portable heat source, a living furnace in the cold, unforgiving underbelly of the citadel. He extended a hand. Cipi scurried up his arm, its soft, warm body settling against his neck, a comforting weight. His internal calculations shifted. New asset acquired. Survival odds improved.
The soft glow from Cipi provided scant illumination as he navigated the winding corridors of the mausoleum level. A sudden, sharp intake of breath. The air crackled with dangerous psionic friction. He pivoted on his heel. A figure emerged from the shadows, tall and imposing, their silhouette framed by the faint, pulsing blue of a plasma-blade. Darma Vala. Even the decoy’s fragmented memories recognized that name. His new identity’s bitterest rival.
“So, you’re alive,” Darma’s voice was a low growl, devoid of emotion, yet edged with a dangerous curiosity. The plasma-blade hummed, its lethal glow reflecting in Darma’s cold, obsidian eyes. “I confess, I didn’t expect it. The assassins usually finish the job.”
Sutara kept his face impassive. “Some dregs are harder to remove than others.” He needed to buy time, to assess the threat. Darma Vala, the peerless mecha champion, was a powerhouse. His own shell, utterly devoid of mental resonance, remained a glaring vulnerability.
“Don’t play games, decoy,” Darma advanced, the blade’s hum intensifying, its tip now inches from Sutara’s throat. Cipi, sensing the danger, chittered softly, its bioluminescence flaring with protective aggression. Darma’s gaze, however, was fixed on Sutara’s core. “Your aura. It’s… dead. Lyxos always had a faint echo, even in his decoys. A flicker of his great telepathic potential.” Darma’s eyes narrowed, penetrating and cold. “But you? You’re empty. A void. What are you?”
The plasma-blade hummed, charging, its heat searing the air before Sutara’s throat.