More and more people began to notice the sudden surge of people sprinting toward the border. First a few, then dozens, then hundreds. Some rushed forward without hesitation, while others trembled before finally finding the courage to join in. Micheal hadn't meant to spark it, but his desperate run had become the spark that lit inside the hearts of the people of Paradise.
What started as a lone figure now swelled into a tide. Broken car doors were raised as shields, shattered bottles gripped like blades, torches fashioned from scraps of wood lit the sky. Civilians, Resistance members, the desperate, and the hopeless—all charging forward together. An army that hadn't existed minutes ago was now forming with every step, screaming their defiance against CORE.
Cael had noticed this though, with a sharp twist, he locked blades with Shirley again, the clash sending sparks showering across the cracked underpass. Using the momentum, Cael launched himself backward, closer to the swelling crowd. But Shirley was faster. He dashed forward with blinding speed, cleaver cutting through the air and grazing across Cael's arm, drawing a thin line of blood.
Cael's wings flared, he tried to take flight
"Nope!" Shirley snarled, seizing him mid-flight. He yanked Cael down with brutal force, their bodies colliding against the ground as steel met steel again. The impact thundered through the ruins. Presence flared outward like a shockwave, a raw eruption of strength that made the crowd stumble, their eyes wide.
The battle wasn't theirs anymore, it was the symbol at the center of a rebellion.
BORDERS OF THE LAND OF PARADISE
Six hundred guards stood watch at the border, rifles in hand, their post as routine as breathing. In the Land of Paradise, borders were sacred lines. Crossing was forbidden unless you were: a government official or agent, a chosen Selectee of The Selection, or someone CORE himself demanded to see. Even then, crossing wasn't simple. Guards escorted travelers along the colossal rope bridges that stitched together the lands of Choreees.
The Lands themselves formed a circle: the Land of Snow sat in the center, the only gateway. To reach the Land of Paradise, you had to pass through Snow. To reach the Land of Flames, you had to pass through Snow. And if you wanted to go from Flames to Paradise, or Paradise to Flames, the Land of Snow always stood between. It was the crossroads of Choreees.
The guards at the border knew this. They also knew nothing of the chaos brewing miles away. The riot, now a storm of footsteps and shouted defiance, had just broken through the tree line. The woods were short, a final veil before the border itself, and the crowd was coming fast.
Suddenly, footsteps pounding, branches snapping, dust kicking up in clouds. The guards at the border stiffened. Peering through binoculars, they saw the crowd surging out of the treeline like a wave of bodies. Their jaws clenched, rifles were raised, fingers hovered on triggers.
LAND OF SNOW – CORE'S POV
Inside the castle, CORE stepped out of the cylinder of viscous fluid, muscles gleaming as he casually wrapped a towel around his waist. He moved without urgency, picking up a book from his desk as if the world beyond the stone walls did not matter.
The landline rang, the shrill tone echoed through the chamber. CORE frowned, more irritated than surprised. If this wasn't important, someone would be executed. But he already knew what it was. He had predicted this. Chaos was knocking, and he found himself itching for it.
"It's been a while since I've had real company," he muttered, striding over and lifting the receiver.
A panicked voice blared through the line:
"Father, they're coming! A massive group, approaching fast! I repeat, they are approaching!"
CORE smirked.
"Let them in."
A pause. Then the stammering reply:
"Wha—what?!"
But it was too late.
The riot hit the border like a storm. Guards were trampled underfoot, their rifles ripped away, tables turned against them. Rebels smashed through the booths and gates, glass shattering, torches waving. The guards, six hundred trained grown men, were overwhelmed in seconds.
One tried desperately to reach the control booth, hand slapping against the button, but a rebel slammed him to the ground. Another seized the lever and wrenched it down. With a mechanical groan, the border gates creaked open.
The rebels roared forward. Micheal led them, sprinting onto the colossal ropes, the abyss yawning below and the Land of Snow waiting ahead. The fire in their chests had only just begun to blaze.
Their journey to the Land of Snow, the crossroads of Choreees, had begun.