Sovereign of the Deep

District 10 - Sector 4

——

The sun blazed high over the terracotta rooftops, casting a golden sheen across the narrow, cobbled streets of Sector 4's old town—deep in the heart of District 10. The air was alive with the scent of roasted corn, citrus, and blooming bougainvillea spilling over balconies in bright, jubilant reds and purples.

Somewhere in the distance, a mariachi band played softly, their trumpets and guitars floating through the streets like a memory.

Children chased each other between the market stalls, their laughter echoing off adobe walls. Vendors called out in their native language, offering fresh tamales, sugar-dusted churros, and handwoven crafts in every shade imaginable. Colorful papel picado fluttered overhead, strung between buildings like ribbons of celebration.

And above it all, rising at the heart of the old town like a sentinel of faith, stood the cathedral.

It was a towering structure of weathered stone and white stucco, its twin bell towers casting long shadows across the square. A sea of marigolds lined the cathedral's steps, and the heavy wooden doors were shut to keep the solemn ceremony private.

Inside, the air shifted.

Cool and perfumed with candle wax and incense, the cathedral was drenched in soft golden light that streamed through stained-glass windows, painting the pews in hues of crimson, sapphire, and emerald. Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, adorned with faded murals of saints and angels watching from above.

The wedding was already underway.

The bride stood radiant at the altar, her dress a flowing ivory river edged with lace, her veil glittering faintly like mist in the sun. The groom beside her beamed, eyes full of tears he didn't bother hiding.

Family filled every pew, pressed close, whispering blessings and laughter. Smiles bloomed on every face. Children fidgeted in their best clothes. Someone passed tissues. An old man clutched his wife's hand a little tighter.

The priest raised his arms, his voice warm and resonant as he spoke words of unity, of love sanctified by heaven.

Bang.

The cathedral doors flew open, slamming against the walls with a thunderous crash that silenced the organ mid-note.

Every head turned.

A girl?

She stepped inside without a word. Her figure was lean, small—perhaps in her twenties. But no one saw her face. It was hidden behind a smooth white mask. No eyes, no mouth. Just one word carved into the forehead in deep red:

Silence.

Everything about her felt wrong. Unnatural.

She wore no gown, no ornament. No badge. Just combat-black: boots, close-fit trousers, bandaged wrists—all soaked in blood. Her hair, cut into a blunt bob, clung to her cheeks in dark strands. Drops of red slid from her chin and fell like seconds ticking off the clock. Behind her, a trail of blood whispered across the floor. And on her back, an elegant katana—longer than regulation, its sheath dark as oil.

She stepped forward. Slow. Unhurried. Steady as a ticking clock.

A collective breath drew in. People began to shift. Pale. Whisper. Pull their children closer. Back away.

She kept walking.

Toward the altar.

"Who are you?" the priest called out, voice trembling but loud. "You're not allowed in here!"

The groom—Diego Cordero—stepped forward. The joy in his face had vanished. His hand slipped into his jacket. He pulled a gun and aimed it straight at her chest.

"You heard the man," he snarled. "State your purpose—or get the fuck out of here."

It was a signal.

Almost instantly, the congregation moved.

Dozens of hands dipped into jackets and handbags. Guns emerged, pistols clicking, safeties flicked off. Even the priest reached into the folds of his vestment and pulled out a small, polished handgun—his hands shaking, but his aim steady.

Within seconds, the entire cathedral had transformed from a holy place of celebration to a pressure cooker armed to the teeth.

And still, she walked forward, unfazed.

Then she stopped. Center aisle. Halfway to the altar.

She tilted her head slightly, scanning the guns, the people, the fear.

And then she sighed, like someone tired—or bored.

"Diego Cordero," she said, looking at the groom.

Her voice was like water on glass.

The groom flinched.

"You have been declared Null."

Everyone in the room tensed.

The groom began to sweat. He didn't understand what she meant by 'declared null.' No one did. But something about it felt wrong.

Diego's hand trembled around the trigger.

The girl lifted her gaze toward the vaulted ceiling.

She sighed.

"I came for Diego alone," she said softly, almost regretfully. "But I don't like the welcome I'm receiving."

A pause.

"I now declare… this congregation—this building—Nullified."

She breathed out slowly.

From her mouth, a pale mist spilled out—light at first, like breath on glass. Then thicker. Heavier. It rolled across the cathedral floor, curling around pews, creeping between ankles like fog rising from an unseen sea.

Guns began to lower in confusion. People blinked, unsure.

She whispered, soft enough to sound like the wind:

"Massacre of the Pale Ghost"

The moment the words left her lips, the air shifted.

The mist stirred.

At first, it crept like a breath—soft tendrils winding across the cathedral floor—but in an instant, it thickened. It bloomed outward in violent silence, swallowing pews, altars, and faces. In less than a second, the entire cathedral vanished into a white, blinding void.

No one could see.

No one could breathe.

No one could think.

Silence clung to the space like a second skin—cold, wet, suffocating.

Somewhere in the pews, a woman clutched her son's arm, pulling him tightly to her chest. Her heart raced. Her breath trembled.

"Stay close," she whispered, voice breaking.

Then—

Splatter.

Something warm hit her cheek.

She raised her hand. Rubbed it. Sniffed.

'Blood?'

Her son grew heavy, slumping against her side. She turned to him—

His head was gone.

Still warm.

Still spurting.

She opened her mouth to scream, but before a sound could escape, something took form in the mist.

A single word—Silence—stared back at her, written in pale vapor and streaked with blood, hanging in the air like judgment.

Then her vision turned sideways as her head slid from her shoulders and hit the marble with a soft, wet thud.

Panic detonated.

Gunshots erupted in every direction—wild, desperate flashes tearing blindly through the mist.

People screamed. Bullets tore into pews. Some struck family. Others ricocheted into walls. Blinded by fear, they became their own executioners.

Footsteps pounded.

Bodies slammed into one another.

Voices screamed names that were never answered.

In the fog, blood painted the air like ink in water. And dancing between the gunfire—unseen, unfelt—was a single blade, moving faster than the eye, carving through lungs, necks, hearts.

One man fired until his clip emptied, hands shaking. Then something brushed his throat.

And that was the last thing he felt.

The chaos raged for three full minutes—but to those inside, it stretched into eternity.

Then—

Silence.

A sudden, brutal silence that rang louder than the gunfire.

Then it happened.

As if some god had drawn a sword across the heavens, a vertical line split the cathedral in two. From the main doors to the very altar, the stone trembled—a clean, supernatural rupture tearing across ceiling and pews.

And then—

Collapse.

The cathedral cracked.

Groaned.

And folded inward.

Stone screamed as the roof caved. Marble shattered. Stained glass exploded outward in a symphony of color and ruin. Dust and ash rose in a pillar that swallowed the sunlight.

When the mist cleared, all that remained was rubble.

Men. Women. Children.

Buried.

Crushed beneath the bones of a sanctuary that had become a tomb.

It was grotesque.

Outside, screams broke out like an alarm.

People in the market dropped baskets and plates—some frozen in place, others fleeing in every direction. A few rushed toward the wreckage, shouting for loved ones, scrambling through debris for survivors.

Amid the chaos, she walked.

Calm.

Unbothered.

Covered in blood, her boots trailing scarlet across the stone, she moved through the marketplace like a ghost.

People screamed as she passed.

Some ran.

Some dropped to their knees in shock.

No one dared stop her.

She turned her head lazily, glanced at a food stall on the corner, and stepped in.

Moments later, she emerged chewing on a tamale, still steaming—her mask tilted just high enough to eat.

She sighed.

"I'm starving."

Then her phone rang.

She paused mid-step, slipping a hand into her pocket and pulling it out. The screen lit up with the name:

Spoiled Brat.

She frowned.

'Tch. What does this bastard want?'

She answered without a word, lifting the phone lazily to her ear.

Sami's voice came through, chipper as ever.

"Hey Aika, how've you been?"

Her reply was flat. "What."

"I need your help."

She pulled the phone away, thumb already moving to end the call—but his voice shot through the speaker, urgent.

"Wait, wait! Please, just hear me out. Don't hang up."

With an irritated sigh, she returned the phone to her ear.

"You've got one minute."

Sami spoke quickly. "I've got someone who needs help resonating with his element. He's core water—just like you. Still new to all of this."

She clenched her jaw. A cold breath escaped her lips.

"You little spoiled brat," she hissed. "I gave you one minute and you're asking me to babysit?"

"I'll pay you double," he replied instantly. "Double what you made on your last job."

A pause.

Aika said nothing.

Sami sensed the hesitation.

"Okay, fine. You can ride my bike. Solo. No restrictions."

Her eyebrow twitched behind the mask.

She raised the phone slowly back to her mouth.

"Triple. And you're booking my flight to District 4."

Click.

She ended the call.

Then she looked down at the tamale in her hand.

"Now this shit's cold."

Without a second thought, she tossed it to the pavement and kept walking—boots crunching through the dust as she disappeared into another sector of District 10.