Power

Countless rays of light began to spread.

It was a kind of light beyond description.

It possessed neither the concentrated killing intent of lasers nor the fleeting ferocity of an explosion.

It spread from the pure-white machine known as "Judgment," like an aurora delicately brushed across a canvas of absolute darkness.

Streams of seven-colored particles, carrying a strange rhythm as though alive, extended in every direction.

"So beautiful—"

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On the bridge of the Vesalius, a young communications officer stared at the dreamlike sight on the main screen and unconsciously murmured those words.

He had been born in P.L.A.N.T. and raised beneath an artificial sky. To him, the auroras described in textbooks had been nothing more than a distant, abstract term.

He had never imagined that the first time he saw such a beautiful spectacle with his own eyes would be on a battlefield drenched in blood and fire.

"Heh."

Upon witnessing the same scene, the corner of Le Creuset's mouth curled beneath his mask, forming an arc no one could see.

Beautiful? Perhaps.

Yet behind that dazzling curtain of light, he caught the scent of death powerful enough to freeze the soul.

As one of the few people in the world with extraordinary spatial perception, he had once been invited by lord Durandal to participate in the system's initial testing.

The device's prototype had been a cumbersome metal box that required an external power source.

Using that device, he had triggered the same phenomenon. From thirty meters away, he had focused all his concentration and projected his will onto an aluminum soda can on the table.

He remembered how he had felt then—his brain had seemed to be drained dry, while his temples throbbed as though pricked by needles.

Then, amid