Point of View: Luan
The active camouflage shimmered in bluish tones as Luan silently cut through the skies of Arus. The faint hum of the stealth technology was muffled by the atmospheric winds, and the tactical visor before his eyes displayed a holographic map updated in real time. He had already memorized every route, every potential obstacle, every estimated response time of the Galra.
The black ship moved like a living shadow, almost imperceptible among the low clouds. The camouflage field enveloped both the hull and Luan's armor in pulsating bluish hues, while the onboard AI, NOVA, projected real-time data, recalculating routes and mapping the energy flow of enemy patrols.
"Evasion and monitoring protocol," Luan murmured, his voice firm but low. "Every second counts."
NOVA complied immediately. The route adjusted with fluidity, almost like an invisible dance with the enemy, dodging the Galra sensors. Yet, despite the calculated calm of his movements, Luan's mind was far from peaceful.
Technically speaking, she thought—referring to herself with the gender she secretly recognized in her thoughts, something only NOVA might notice in the linguistic patterns of her internal tone—the Galactic Garrison is a force focused on space exploration. But let's be honest: we never developed real parameters for contact with intelligent alien life. Nor guidelines for dealing with Neolithic-stage cultures. Maybe a few loose ethical debates during philosophy classes—when data. And only in the medical branch.
Luan knew this better than anyone. He had graduated with a medical specialization, where at least it was mandatory to discuss ethics, responsibility, first-response dilemmas, the impact of introducing technology to fragile societies. But in other sectors? At most a superficial, forgettable module. It was quite possible that most cadets, especially those trained for combat and patrol, had been instructed under a "shoot first, ask questions later" model.
The presence of the Galra had brutally exposed this gap. Up until the encounter with Shiro, and the subsequent escape with the Blue Lion, the Garrison still treated aliens as theory. Academic hypothesis. Material for speculative essays, not operational protocols. It took a warship appearing in our backyard to stop us from pretending we were alone in the universe, and yet it was quite possible that some idiots would try to cover it up to avoid mass panic, ignoring the threat instead of preparing for a potential invasion.
With this in mind, Luan did what she had always done: improvised. In the absence of protocols, she turned to her former life. To the nights when, still as Diana, she marathoned Star Trek while studying. The Prime Directives echoed in her mind like mantras of common sense—even if they were fiction. Do not interfere. Observe. Do not alter the natural history of a people. Avoid cultural contamination. Respect the other's time.
Though it was much harder to follow them when the culture in question was on the brink of being destroyed by outside forces.
She parked the camouflaged ship among the trees, far enough not to startle the inhabitants, but close enough to observe. The hatch's field of vision revealed circular buildings and a central clearing, where small figures were beginning to gather. The air vibrated with anticipation. They had already noticed her.
The dense vegetation cast long shadows over the clay-like ground, and white smoke rose from one of the communal fires. The eyes of these people—large and gleaming—did not reflect ignorance. It was faith. It was waiting.
In the center of the village, a leader stood out among the others. His attire was more elaborate, adorned with carvings and feathers, and a few elders accompanied him in silence, forming a small circle of respect and tradition before her. None of them carried weapons. They were unarmed… but not defenseless. The way they positioned themselves, firm and alert, made it clear that something older and more resilient than any shield was present: the ancestral memory of a silent resistance.
Luan adjusted the communicator strapped to her wrist with a mechanical gesture. A few button presses were all it would take. Just follow orders, protocols, pre-established commands. But there, surrounded by the forest's silence and the gazes that held hope and fear in equal measure, the weight of the decision was undeniably hers. The choice belonged to no chain of command. It was intimate. It was hers.
What if pressing that button was enough to change the history of these people?What if it was enough to save them, even if they never knew my name?
She drew a deep breath, as if seeking air not from the thin atmosphere of that planet, but from her own heart. Before her, a people who had never asked to be in the path of the Galra. A people who only wanted to live, to love, to remember their dead, and to care for the living. They did not need gods. They never had. What they needed—what they deserved—was respect. Attention. Discreet help, delivered with the delicacy of someone who understands that not every presence should be felt.
A faint chime filled her mind, like the ethereal toll of a distant bell, resonating through time and the living forest. Something was vibrating—not in the air, but somewhere deeper in reality, where technology and instinct met. A blue flash appeared in the corner of the visor, translucent, almost shy. No one else could see it.
[Historic Mission: Save the Children of the Goddess]Description:A critical event is approaching. The Arusian village is on the brink of extermination by Galra forces. As the designated—or perhaps chosen—agent, your priority is to ensure the survival of all 360 villagers. Interference must be subtle, preserving the faith and cultural order of the natives.
Primary Objective:✔ Evacuate all 360 villagers without any casualties.
Secondary Objectives:• Preserve spiritual structures intact.• Ensure the safety of the Elder Leader until the extraction point.• Avoid any direct confrontation with Galra troops.• Maintain the mystical narrative (villagers must believe they were saved by divine intervention, not technology).
Conditions:— Unidentifiable intervention.— Total discretion required.— Time limit: before the first Galra patrol arrives.
🎖 Primary Reward:• Prismatic Shadow (Legendary Tactical Armor)• Dimensional Call (active ability for rapid evacuation with spatial anchoring)• +15 Strategic Intelligence points• +20% Affinity with Arusian Botanical Knowledge (enables identification of medicinal herbs, toxins, and rare plants for tactical or medical use)
🎖 Excellence Reward (for completing secondary objectives):• Eye of the Goddess (Divine Artifact: enhances perception and intuition, granting superior strategic vision)• Unlocked Trait: Guide of the Dispossessed (+10% leadership and diplomacy when interacting with primitive cultures)]
(S/N IS NOT OPTIONAL.)
What…?
The word floated in her mind like a distant whisper, while the blue symbols burned on the visor with an almost living intensity. Historic Mission. Two words that had never appeared to her in a real sense. This was not just any designation.
Luan knew exactly what it meant. She knew the classifications, had obsessively studied every type of event the system could trigger. Normal missions were almost mundane—repetitive tasks, maintenance, minor rescues. Global missions appeared when something big moved on the map, when an entire fleet invaded a sector. But Historic… those were different. They bordered on myth.
Her heart raced. She had never seen this happen. Not even during massive events. The escape with the Blue Lion? No. Shiro's liberation? Also no. Of course not. Those moments belonged to the original timeline. They would happen with or without her presence. The system ignored her because it didn't need her to maintain the natural course of events.
But now… now it was different.
The interface pulsed like a living organism, each pixel vibrating with a suffocating anticipation. She remembered what the tutorial had etched into her mind long ago, a verdict burned in memory:
"Missions whose option to decline is extremely rare. You will be forced to accept in order to continue the story, with the possibility of choosing your role. Depending on the difficulty and the role chosen, you may receive rewards of rare, legendary, or even divine items."
The words sank deep, freezing her spine. Air vanished. Her lungs faltered, as if her body had forgotten how to breathe. The sounds around her—the ship's systems, the hum of energy—disappeared. All that existed was that phrase, that glowing blue seal, beating like a heart condemned to stop if she didn't act.
For a moment, Luan froze, hands gripping her knees, body rigid inside the armor. Her mind screamed questions with no answers. Why now?!
The system wasn't supposed to interfere like this. Yet it did.
And the implication burned hotter than plasma: this mission wasn't in the canon. It had NEVER EXISTED. It had never been mentioned. It wasn't a "side challenge." It was a complete branch, a new path opened solely because she WAS THERE.
What did this mean? Was the system reacting to her choices? Or—worse—rewriting the main timeline based on them?
Her body trembled. Each heartbeat echoed in her skull, drowning any semblance of logic. Historic. The word hammered in the back of her mind, heavy and definitive.
The screen returned to displaying coordinates, but Luan barely saw them. All she could think of was the final phrase, cold and merciless, at the bottom of the interface:
"NOT OPTIONAL."
She closed her eyes for a second, trying to draw a breath. But it came harshly, slicing like glass through her dry throat. This wasn't a game. Not a cartoon episode. It was real. Lives were at stake. Three hundred of them. Beings with families, cultures, dreams. If she failed… there would be no restart screen. Only silence. Only ruins.
And then the question burned in her mind like liquid fire: how could she save them without destroying everything? How to ensure necessary intervention didn't turn into cultural dependence? How not to transform hope into idolatry for something that wasn't divine—just her, improvising with tools that should never have existed in that time?
Finally, her hand moved on its own, trembling, reaching toward the panel. The blue seal glowed one last time, demanding a touch. A brief sound cut through the silence as her fingers pressed the command.
Luan remained still for a moment, eyes fixed on the pulsing glow of the screen, feeling the weight of the sentence seal her fate. Her first Historic Mission. Hers. The screen vibrated in deep blue, as if placing trust in her skill—or casting a burden disguised as a blessing. She knew the protocol. She could refuse, she could merely observe. But she also knew that people would not survive without her intervention.
The screen dissolved into particles of light that floated briefly before vanishing, leaving the air thick with anticipation. This was no longer a simulation, nor advanced training: it was real. Every second counted, every life had value, and every failure would carry a cost.
The soft descent thrusters engaged, and the old support ship—now retrofitted with Altean engineering—touched the sandy ground with almost surgical precision. The landing struts absorbed the impact with a soft hydraulic hiss, and for a few seconds, the world remained silent, as if the universe itself held its breath, waiting for the next move. Then, Luan deactivated the camouflage.
The ship's surface gleamed for a moment, as if the air around it had undergone a silent thermal shock. Soon, the structure was fully revealed, solid and black, contrasting sharply with the deep green of the forest. Without the active visual shield, local sensors began registering it as a physical presence—now undeniably visible.
Almost immediately, movement began to stir among the rocks and the natural contours of the terrain. Small, slender figures emerged with extreme caution, sliding out from rocky ledges and the rudimentary entrances of their dwellings. Strange, and yet fascinating, they had disproportionately large heads, immense expressive eyes, long arms with thin fingers, and a posture that blended wariness with an almost ceremonial solemnity.
The first to approach was a youth—perhaps the equivalent of a human adolescent, sent by the elders as an emissary or as part of a rite of courage. His clothing was simpler and more worn than that of the others, as if hastily prepared or meant to signify a passage of status. Each step was measured, almost ritualistic, and his enormous eyes blinked slowly, reflecting the tension and determination of one carrying a message larger than himself.
Luan maintained a calm expression as she activated the [Observe] ability. Subtle data appeared before her eyes, digitally scanning the young figure and organizing basic information.
[Name: PihkLevel: 5Species: Arusian (Arus primordialis – juvenile stage, aruning)Profile: Young scout apprentice. Son of a village healer and a hunter who died in a confrontation on the hills. Grew up among medicinal herbs and hunting trails. Anxiety makes him cautious, but instinctive determination drives him to face situations requiring courage beyond his age.Detected abilities: Basic stealth, forest tracking, mobility over uneven terrain. Preliminary knowledge of herbs and poisons (family influence).]
"Greetings, Guardian of the Great Goddess!" he exclaimed, his voice wavering but carrying solemnity. "Are you the envoy from the stars who has come to protect us from the shadows?"
For a moment, Luan felt the urge to deny it. She almost said she was neither guardian, nor goddess, nor sacred warrior—just someone trying to do what was right, as she had always done on Earth. But the weight of the youth's gaze, full of faith and expectation, silenced that truth. Prime Directive, she reminded herself. Do not destroy the culture, do not deny what sustains their hope. Adapt. Protect.
"I am Luan McClain," she replied, her voice firm but controlled, allowing the title imposed upon her to mold itself to her role. "And I have come as the Goddess's envoy to guard this people."
The youth's eyes widened even more, not in fear, but in respect. He bowed, touching the ground with his hand, then raised his fingers in a ceremonial gesture before running back to the village. The circle of figures around the ship closed in tighter, now with curious reverence rather than hesitation.
Luan exhaled, the visor still projecting data on the approaching Galra. Time was short, but for now, she needed to sustain the narrative. Do not interfere beyond what was necessary. Maintain faith, preserve culture. Offer aid without breaking what made them who they were.
In the center of the village, the elders were already waiting. Their robes were marked with spirals resembling orbits and energy flows, embroidered with small stones that pulsed as if storing fragments of the forest's own light. One of them knelt upon seeing her, while another raised a staff crowned with a floating crystal that shimmered as if it recognized her presence.
"The Goddess has returned to guide us. The temple has risen, and the skies roared with the arrival of the Sacred Blue Beast," declared one elder, his voice heavy with solemnity.
Luan's eyes narrowed behind the visor. They were speaking of the Castle of Lions… and the Blue Lion itself. For an isolated people, this made perfect sense: the castle floating in the skies became a sacred temple, and the paladins, divine emissaries.
"We saw the celestial beast fly to the temple, and metallic beings emerge from it. Are you one of them?" asked another priest, trembling with reverence.
"We are paladins," Luan replied, weighing each word like a fine blade. "And the Goddess… Allura… lives. She fights for you."
The young emissary reappeared at her side, eyes wide with expectation, as if each sentence were a long-awaited revelation. Luan drew a deep breath, recalling the principles that had always guided her: protect life, respect cultures, act ethically in new worlds.
"I am under the protection of the Great Blue Beast," she said, her voice firm, carrying disciplined calm. "I am the Second Guardian—healer and protector of life. My role is to preserve and support all those under my care without causing unnecessary harm. I have come on a mission from the Goddess herself, sent to defend this people against the dark forces approaching. My task is to ensure that your hope is not extinguished."
One of the elders stepped forward, posture erect like a seasoned warrior, perhaps a former general. "We will not flee from the fight," he proclaimed, pride unyielding. "If the threat descends from the sky, we will raise our spears against it. We will not bow."
Luan raised an open hand, calling for silence, her gaze sweeping over each face marked by time and faith. "I recognize your courage, Elder, and the honor you carry. But this battle is not like the ones you know. The enemy does not fight with spears or fire—they will bring destruction that no ancestral memory can withstand. You are the heart of this land, and you cannot be sacrificed in direct confrontation. Other Celestial Warriors—the paladins sent by the Goddess—have already positioned themselves before the storm. Their mission is to distract the enemy, to draw it away, so that you may survive."
Turning to the warrior-elder—the one whose posture spoke of scars from many battles, a possible general—she continued: "The courage to face the enemy head-on is worthy of honor, but true victory now lies in ensuring that every life is preserved. The faith you carry will be our greatest weapon. I trust you will understand this."
Convincing them cost her precious minutes. Every sentence, every gesture, every explanation about the magnitude of the threat and the urgency of evacuation was repeated with calm patience. The weight of the decision hung in the villagers' eyes—tension and fear still present. But little by little, reason began to take the place of fear, and trust in Luan solidified like an anchor in the midst of the approaching storm.
Despite the solemnity of the moment, Luan remained focused. "We have three hundred sixty to evacuate, and there is no time. The enemy will soon be upon us." Her gaze swept the terrain with surgical precision—assessing trails, slopes, natural cover. Quickly, she organized the total evacuation: six groups of sixty, each led by local guides, all with strategic meeting points. The most vulnerable would go first, followed by the others. The forest and the rocks would become a cloak hiding the entire village. Every step had to be silent. Every life protected. No detail could be wasted.
As she organized the retreat, one of the young ceremonial soldiers approached. His voice was thin but firm: "Celestial Guardian, allow our scouts to learn from you. We want to serve."
Luan lowered her eyes to him. He barely reached her thigh, but the conviction in his gaze left no room for doubt. "Very well. But you will remain out of the line of combat and follow every instruction I give, without question."
The boy nodded so quickly he almost lost his balance. Soon, others joined, forming a kind of improvised escort around the Guardian. The scene was, at once, absurd and… strangely inspiring.
A warning cut through the silence inside the visor:
[Alert: energy signature detected 12 kilometers northwest. Galra patrol approaching. Estimated time: 50 minutes.]
Luan held her breath for a second. When she lifted her eyes, she distinguished a distant shadow on the horizon—a light pulsing intermittently between the low clouds. It wasn't just a signal on the visor. It was real. The threat was already approaching.
"NOVA, recalculate evacuation routes. Priority: vulnerable first." Luan's voice was firm, each syllable carrying the urgency of someone who knew time slipped like sand through her fingers.
Her eyes narrowed as she addressed the warrior-elder. "I need your men to escort the children, the elderly, and the wounded immediately. Lead them to the safest point you know."
The elder nodded, striking his spear against the ground with a deep sound that echoed across the clearing. With a slow gesture, he indicated his own dwelling—a straw-and-wood house, reinforced and arched like the shell of an ancient creature. "There are tunnels in the hills. Ancient refuges. The shaman calls them the Goddess's Path—stones that confuse the enemy's eyes and dampen the heat of the living. Many believe it is magic. Whatever it is, it has saved us before."
"Then we'll use them again," Luan replied, her voice heavy with determination.
She drew a deep breath, absorbing every detail with careful attention. If these tunnels truly offered protection against thermal sensors and tracking, they would be the village's best chance of keeping hundreds of people alive. "I need to see them with my own eyes," she said firmly. "Take me to the entrance, Elder. I need to assess if everyone can be moved there safely."
The old man inclined his head in respect, spinning the staff in his calloused hand. The hollow sound of wood against the ground echoed like a call to order, and a few young warriors approached, ready to serve. Yet the elder's gaze remained heavy, as if silently carrying the weight of the choices they would have to make.
With slow steps, the elder guided Luan to his dwelling. Around them, chaos took shape in quiet restraint: small beings ran back and forth, gathering provisions, filling baskets with roots and sturdy fabrics. Some carried improvised spears, others shielded younglings wrapped in fiber blankets. The house, which at first glance seemed fragile, revealed itself to be solid—built with woven wood and thick straw, its arched roof shaped like a shell that held the memories of entire generations.
There, hidden beneath layers of tradition and apparent simplicity, rested the secret that had sustained the village's survival for centuries.
With effort, the elder pulled aside a thick mat, woven from the rigid skin—resembling keratin—of a creature reminiscent of a hairy lobster. Beneath it, a snugly fitted wooden plank was revealed. The elder lifted it carefully, and there appeared the dark mouth of a wide tunnel, supported by intertwined roots as if the forest itself had shaped the path. A cold breath escaped the opening, damp and dense, carrying the deep scent of the earth. For a moment, it seemed as if the entire hill was breathing, holding within its belly the village's last hope for survival.
Luan raised her right arm and activated the visor. A beam of blue lines traced the tunnel's entrance, mapping its walls and depths. The panel confirmed her suspicions: minerals embedded in the rocks dispersed heat and energy readings, making it impossible for external sensors to detect signs of life inside. She let out a brief sigh, feeling some of the tension in her shoulders ease. The "Goddess's stones" worked, after all.
Luan kept her gaze fixed on the visor, following the blue graphics adjusting in real time. The minerals embedded in the tunnel walls formed perfect energy-dispersing patterns, almost like a protective cocoon. "Not a single thermal signal gets through," she murmured to herself. The brief relief made her forget, for a moment, the weight of the eyes watching her.
Her eyes remained glued to the visor, lines of data crossing the screen in rapid calculations. The readings confirmed what she had already suspected, and each result was another thread of hope for the village's survival. Her concentration was so intense that the words slipped out before she realized it:
"Pihk… the brave aruning."
The phrase came out as a mental note, a distracted comment, but in the silence of the room, it carried the weight of a proclamation.
The young boy froze. His enormous eyes widened, and his breath caught for a moment. Then, raising his clenched fist to his chest, he mimicked the gesture of the adult warriors. He said nothing immediately; he simply held his gaze on Luan, as if wanting to etch that moment into his very being.
Pihk blinked, startled, and turned to the elder, feeling the elder's gaze. Anxiety tightened in his chest, transforming into something else: an unexpected, yet welcome, sense of responsibility.
The warrior elder, who had been observing silently, narrowed his eyes. His fingers tightened around the spear, but not in reproach—there was a silent acknowledgment there. When he finally lowered his head, he struck his fist against his chest and closed his eyes, whispering something. Then he stepped closer and placed his heavy hand on the boy's shoulder, firm but not suffocating.
Before returning to his original position, the boy shook himself off and, slowly, struck his fist against his chest, firm, just as he had seen the warriors do, repeating the elder's actions before speaking.
Without them noticing, a brief alert flickered almost imperceptibly to Luan:
[Profile Updated: Name registered—Pihk. Level: 5→7.]
She lifted her gaze, firm. "Pihk," she called, and the boy startled at hearing his name recognized. "Gather twenty of the best warriors. I want leaders among them—men and women capable of maintaining order under pressure."
Pihk nodded, the weight of responsibility reflected in his eyes.
"And one more thing," Luan continued. "Begin moving the weak, the young, and anyone unable to fight. Take them immediately to the tunnels. The evacuation starts now."
---
A murmur ran through the villagers, but the elder silenced any hesitation with a gesture. He understood: this was not just strategy, it was survival.
Quickly, small groups began to form. Children grabbed their parents' hands, elders leaned on young shoulders, and the wounded were carried in silence. The steps, though hurried, kept a restrained rhythm—as if even the air itself demanded reverence for the Celestial Guardian who guided them.
Luan watched each one disappear into the darkness. Each beat of her heart sounded like the relentless tempo of a countdown. No deaths, she vowed to herself, clenching her fists inside the gauntlets of her armor. I will not let this people be slaughtered.
Soon, Pihk's chosen fighters appeared around her. They were hunters, young warriors, veterans of past forays. Their curved bows reflected the torchlight, the strings greased with pale resin; the healers carried pouches full of herbs and luminescent powders.
"Listen well," Luan said, her voice low but sharp as tempered steel. "We will not face the Galra head-on. The forest is our ally. Use the terrain, the shadows, the sacred stones."
She looked at every face around her, gauging the resolve kindling in silence.
"Create false noises, confuse trackers. Set decoys, but never reveal your position. Every minute we buy will be a saved life. And remember: the tunnels need time. Protect those who go down them as if they were your own flesh."
The wind made the branches creak, as if the forest itself approved her words. The villagers' eyes shone with a mixture of fear and fervor—not mere peasants anymore, but guardians of what remained of their people.
Luan inhaled deeply, feeling the weight of the moment. She was not only a medic, nor merely a strategist. Now she was commander of a guerrilla being born beneath the dark trees, with the goddess and the night as witnesses.
The rangers nodded in unison. One of them discreetly tapped the arrowhead against his chest in a sign of understanding. The healers adjusted their pouches and sighed, ready to deal with the pain that would surely come.
One of the young men looked at her, hesitant. "Celestial Guardian, what about those still in the village?" The question cut the silence like a blade.
Luan held her breath. The truth was hard: there would not be time to save everyone at once. The rescue would have to come in waves, and part of her rebelled against that. But when she met the hopeful eyes of the youth, she knew she could not falter. "They will reach the tunnels too. I promise. But now we must ensure the Galra do not find us before then."
The air seemed to vibrate as the shaman raised his staff, murmuring chants to the circular stones that bordered the forest. To Luan's eyes, they were natural formations that interfered with heat sensors and energy readings. To the people… it was the blessing of the Goddess.And, for the first time, she prayed that it would not be in vain.
Point of View: Lance
"If I take one more missile on the flank, I'm going to need a whole new set of stabilizers!" Lance shouted, pulling the Blue Lion down in a risky maneuver. The Lion rolled in a barrel roll, a swift and elegant twist, before slicing through the space between two ruined towers, narrowly dodging enemy fire.
"Then don't!" Hunk shot back, releasing a burst of energy at a group of drones chasing them. "You said you were good at this!"
"I am good at this!" Lance replied, nervous but still dripping with his usual sarcasm. "It's just that there are like a hundred Galra trying to turn my Lion into Swiss cheese!"
A shrill alarm cut through the cockpit. Lance looked at the sensors and felt his stomach drop. Troops moving south. Fast.
South.
LUAN.
"NOVA, confirm movement near the evacuation point?"
The AI responded in its metallic, sober tone:"Confirmed. Three Galra squads. Light infantry. Two support mechs. One minute to visual contact."
"Damn…" Lance muttered, gritting his teeth.
Even amid the tension, a spark of relief ran through his chest. He was genuinely grateful — though he would never admit it aloud — that his sister had somehow managed to connect that medical AI to the Blue Lion's system. He didn't know how, and he didn't want to risk finding out, but if he had to guess, it definitely had something to do with that mini-computer she had discreetly plugged into the controls before leaving.
He grabbed the communicator, his voice steady despite the pressure."Luan, if you can hear me… hold tight. I'm on my way."
The channel went silent for a few seconds, but just imagining his sister facing that alone sparked something within him like a new fire.
The Blue Lion roared through the skies, diving once more into the heart of the battle.