Aethelburg didn't do subtlety. Not when it came to power, and certainly not when displaying its newest, most potent assets. Tonight, the city, a vertical forest of chrome and synthesized light climbing towards an artificial twilight sky, held its breath for the Procession. They didn't call it a parade, not officially. That implied something frivolous, something merely entertaining. This was presentation. Revelation. A carefully orchestrated unveiling of the Eight.

  Vector Plaza, the city's heart, pulsed with light bled from towering edifices. Geometric patterns shifted across the ferrocrete underfoot, waves of cool blue chasing emerald green. The air hummed, a low thrum of energy conduits and the higher-pitched frequency of a thousand suppressed anxieties disguised as anticipation. Spectators lined the designated corridors, their faces upturned, bathed in the unnatural glow. Their cheers, when they came, felt prompted, amplified by hidden speakers woven into the architecture, a sound slightly too uniform to be entirely genuine. Security cadres, clad in matte-grey armor, stood unnervingly still at precise intervals, their mirrored visors reflecting the manufactured spectacle.

  Then, silence fell. Not a natural absence of sound, but an engineered one, the ambient hum deliberately dampened. A spotlight, sharp as diamond dust, cut through the artificial dusk, illuminating the central platform.

  One appeared. A woman, composed, her movements fluid beneath a uniform of pristine white and silver. [Lian - 1] As she raised a hand, not in salute but in a calming gesture, a visible shimmer, like heat haze over asphalt, rippled outwards. The low murmur of the crowd closest to the platform smoothed out, expressions momentarily slackening into an unsettling placidity. A wave of forced serenity washed over the front ranks, brief and unnerving, before the programmed cheers surged again.

  Next, a man, sharp-featured, analytical eyes scanning the scene with detached intensity. [Koru - 2] He made no grand gesture. Instead, he focused on a specific point high on a nearby tower where a cluster of automated news drones hovered. A low, almost sub-aural frequency emanated from him. One drone wobbled erratically, its targeting laser flickering. Another simply went dark, drifting aimlessly for a second before its backup systems kicked in. A subtle, targeted disruption, unnoticed by most, but a clear demonstration of focused intent.

  Another man stepped forward, exuding an aura of chilling precision. [Draven - 3] He moved with an economy of motion that bordered on predatory. He simply extended his hand, palm up. A sphere of pure white energy coalesced above it, perfectly stable, burning with a cold, contained light. It lacked the raw flare of some others; it was controlled, calculated, almost disdainful in its perfection. He held it for precisely five seconds, then closed his fist. The light vanished without a trace.

  A sudden burst of chaotic energy announced the fourth. [Rias - 4] He was younger, coiled tension radiating from him. As the crowd roared – a genuine surge this time, perhaps fueled by the raw display – shimmering, indistinct figures flickered around him like after-images caught in strobe lights. They weren't solid, more like heat distortions mirroring his form, echoing the ambient excitement for a fleeting moment before dissolving back into him. It was raw, barely contained.

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  Then, a woman whose presence felt like static cling. [Silane - 5] She ignored the crowd, her gaze fixed on the massive, ceremonial archway at the far end of the plaza, currently sealed by interlaced bars of pure light. Without moving towards it, she subtly tilted her head. A discordant screech echoed, not audibly, but through the network. The light-bars flickered violently. The security sigil projected onto the archway fractured, pixelating into nonsense before reforming sluggishly. The system, momentarily defied, reasserted control, but the breach had been made visible.

  The sixth arrival was hesitant. [Noah - 6] He seemed younger than his years, his eyes wide, darting, taking in too much. As he stepped into the spotlight, he visibly flinched, staggering a half-step as if struck. Ghostly trails, faint outlines of movements not yet made, flickered at the edge of perception around the security guards, the other figures on the platform. He froze for a bare second, overwhelmed, a deer caught in the glare of infinite oncoming headlights. Then, with visible effort, he focused, took a steadying breath, and simply walked to his designated spot. The action itself was unremarkable, yet the timing, the way he navigated the unseen currents of potential, felt unnervingly precise.

  Detached, almost serene, the seventh figure emerged. [Tao - 7] His eyes seemed to look past the present, focused on a horizon only he could perceive. He moved slowly, deliberately. As a transport craft overhead let out an unexpected sonic boom from its atmospheric entry, startling the crowd, Tao showed no reaction. He had tilted his head slightly towards the sound a full second before it arrived, his expression unchanging, as if hearing an echo from the future. He remained subtly disconnected, a man listening to tomorrow's news.

  Finally, the eighth. A woman whose empathy was almost a physical presence. [Eliz - 8] As she took her place, a soft, opalescent light pulsed gently around her, mirroring the dominant emotions washing off the crowd – shifting from the bright, harsh yellow of forced excitement to the cooler blue of underlying anxiety and back again. She winced slightly as the amplified cheers reached a crescendo, a feedback loop made visible, her connection to the collective a tangible, vulnerable thing.

  There they stood. The Eight. Aethelburg's curated miracles, presented under the sterile glow of manufactured night. Instruments of order, symbols of progress, paragons of the new age. The light show intensified, bathing them in glory, the music swelled, and the crowd roared on cue.

  But beneath the polished surface, in the slight hesitation of Number Six, the raw energy of Number Four, the detachment of Number Seven, and the cold precision of Number Three, lay the unseen cracks. The gods were on parade, but the ground beneath Vector Plaza felt unnervingly thin. The spectacle concluded, the lights dimmed fractionally, and the Eight retreated, leaving the city to its humming, hollow luminescence and the faint, lingering scent of ozone and controlled power. The night was still young, and the performance had only just begun.