The air in Camp Solace convulsed with dust and heat as the Bright Light Empire's spacecraft turned the dawn into a maelstrom of sand. Its towering ramp still lay open at the edge of the landing zone, armored soldiers spreading outward like deadly roots. And there, in the center of the chaos, stood Opera—tall as a four-story scaffold, his four eyes gleaming with unnatural calm.
Aren moved like a specter, his heart pounding in rapid beats as he edged closer to the ramp, cycled low over the sand atop his battered Cytra. His cloak rippled behind him, a thin shield of ragged cloth. Erina was somewhere inside that ship, her red hair freshly covered in gray dust. He could feel her fear, her longing to come home to him.
He had to get her.
The presence of Opera made every adult freeze; mothers clutched children, and guards tightened their grips on useless rifles. The Duke and Larisa lay crumpled near the ramp base, his prosthetic leg twisted in the dust. Opera's soldiers fanned out ruthlessly, tearing apart tents—women wept, children screamed, girls ran only to be caught by armored grips.
Aren's blood ran hot. He could smell fear, sweat, and burning ozone from the ship's thrusters. He grounded himself, tightening the strap on his scavenger satchel where the broken plasma blade lay inside.
He slowed his Cytra, stepping off lightly—his boots silent. He circled around a broken tent frame, scanning for a line of sight. A pair of soldiers escorted a group of girls toward the ramp—Erina's form was just visible.
They moved slowly, dirts and sand caught in her hair, her shoulders slumped.
Aren clenched his fists.
This wasn't his fight. He had no training, no powers. But he had one edge: the desert.
He kicked sand toward Opera's feet and extended his arm into its path. A simple distraction.
"EY-ah!" Aren called out, voice rough and strong.
Opera's four eyes snapped to the motion. White-golden robes billowed.
Three imperial soldiers snapped to attention and leveled weapons.
Aren sprinted forward, moving between higher dunes of metal debris. He sped toward the ramp, heart pounding—you could hear it in his ears.
Opera remained still.
Aren kicked up floods of sand, directing them straight into Opera's eyes—the four strange alien eyes perched high above. Desperation fueled the whirlwind.
A moment of hesitation flickered across Opera's face.
Aren seized it and darted across the final stretch. The girls were a mere 20 meters away, steps into rescue.
They were slow, tired. But safe.
Aren yelled again:
"Erina, run!"
He closed the distance and saw her raise her face.
Aren reached out—
—And crashed into something unseen.
Without warning, Opera stepped forward, pressing his palm into the swirling sand like the killer blow of a hammer.
A sudden squeeze—not of arms, but of reality. Pressure built in the atmosphere, like inside a pressure cooker. Air condensed. Sand stilled. Even his hair lifted slightly off his skull. The world around Aren blurred with force.
The air shrank.
Aren's lungs shrieked for breath.
He dropped to his knees. The Cytra fell over, its engine sputtering.
Something snapped in his chest.
He cried out for Erina, but his voice was squeezed until the words were nothing more than a broken gasp.
Opera's cloak shimmered. His human-like features were tense. His lips parted, and the deep quiet in his voice rolled out like thunder:
"This is where hope ends."
His hand bent toward Aren's throat.
Aren looked up, seeing Opera's eyes shift. Harsh. Curious. Deciding.
He tried to answer, but only pain responded.
Sand ground between them—trapped by Opera's grip. The air refused to move. At that moment, Opera's soldiers closed in behind him—guns raised, boots still.
At the ramp, one of the soldiers seized Erina's arm and pushed her onto the ship. She looked back—wide-eyed.
Aren screamed but all Opera did was tilt his head.
The soldier shoved Erina inside, slamming the ramp door halfway—just before a massive clamp latched.
Opera revolved his gaze back to Aren, still pressing.
"You attempted to obstruct. You tried to save.
A faint tear coursed through Aren's cheek, dripping salt into the sand.
Opera's face remained stoic, yet something flickered—none of compassion.
Their eyes locked.
Aren's chest heaved, mind struggling.
He jerked his head.
"Erina…" he whispered.
Opera pulled his hand back, letting the air decompress; a cloud of sand collapsed over Aren like a landslide.
He slumped forward, knees collapse. Coughing up blood, sand, and exhaustion. Blood soaked through his shirt, thin and breathing.
Opera stood over him—a living colossus. He stared—silent. The noise of sandstorm and humans crying quietly swirled behind him.
The weight of his gaze was absolute.
Marcello, a guard nearby, whimpered and lifted his rifle. Opera didn't bat an eye. The guard turned and fled.
Opera's voice was calm now, low as a planet's roar:
"All youths within the correct demographic shall embark. Nothing from camp outside those bounds shall remain."
The soldiers obeyed mechanically.
Duke Kamaro crawled forward, reaching for Larisa's hand, watching Opera's words become law.
Larisa wept. The world had become smaller.
Aren's hand pressed into the scarred sand. The broken plasma blade slid from his bag, shining faintly.
His breath rattled.
He thought of return journeys, of relics, of hope—but they dimmed.
Opera's figure blocked the only path to Erina.
For a moment, he felt rage boil—but the pressure still lingered in his lungs. He coughed.
He saw Erina once more through the half-open door.
And suddenly she disappeared—engulfed by fluorescent hull.
Erina left.
His heart broke.
Opera stood at attention.
He raised his hand again—
But instead of power, Opera reached—took the plasma blade from Aren's bag and tossed it away like trash.
Aren flinched, lunging to retrieve it. But Opera flicked his other hand.
A resonant echo transmitted through the ground.
Aren's mind fractured. Everything slowed.
The Cytra engine stopped sputtering.
He passed out.
Opera stood over him. A vast company watched.
Opera nodded toward the ramp.
The journey began.
The Empire's waves swallowed the camp's youth.
A ringtone-like hiss signaled the ramp fully sealed.
Opera turned around once—one head facing back—observing Aren collapsed on the sand.
One of his four eyes glinted eerier than the rest.
Then he stepped into the ship.
The sky above Camp Solace was still choked with the dust kicked up by the descent of the Bright Light Empire's spacecraft. Its wings hummed low like a monstrous machine breathing steadily, a sound that gripped the hearts of the camp's survivors with unrelenting dread. The scent of heat and ozone lingered in the air, mixing with the fear that had clung to everyone since the Employer—Opera—had descended onto their land like a specter from an age humanity had tried to forget.
Now, the Employer stood tall before the broken crowd, his towering four-meter figure casting a long, commanding shadow. His four alien eyes glowed softly in the haze, each pair scanning a different direction with calm menace. Though humanoid in shape, the unnaturalness of his posture and presence made it impossible to mistake him for one of their own.
Aren lay motionless in the dust, face turned to the side, unconscious after being slammed into the ground by Opera's pressure ability. Sand still clung to his trembling hands—the very sand he had tried to use moments ago to blind Opera, in a desperate lunge to save Erina. He had failed.
Opera stepped closer, the crowd flinched with each step. The alien soldiers stood ready, their weapons pointed outward, forming a living wall between Opera and the remaining survivors of Camp Solace.
The Employer's voice came low and resonant—each syllable slicing through the tension like a cold blade.
"The Central World was defiled," he began, his tone emotionless, yet filled with something deeper—contempt. "During the coronation of a new governor… the rain covered the movement. The rebellion struck during a moment of tradition and peace."
A ripple of murmurs flowed through the survivors. Few understood the politics of the Central World, but all knew one thing: a rebellion, even whispered, meant a slaughter would follow.
Opera's eyes narrowed as he continued.
"They moved in silence… no trace left behind. Like rats fleeing a burning nest. The timing, perfect. The weather, ideal. Luck and cowardice masked them well."
He paused, as if savoring the thought—calculating, adjusting unseen pieces of a much larger game.
"But every act of rebellion," he said, his voice rising just enough to press down on every heart, "is suicide. Delayed… but certain."
He turned his gaze toward the boy in the dirt—Aren.
"This one," Opera said with disgust, "is not even useful for entertainment purposes. Weak. Reckless. Unworthy."
A mother in the crowd sobbed quietly. A few of the guards who had once served Kamaro exchanged bitter glances but dared not speak. Not now. Not against a being like Opera.
Erina, bound and held by two armored soldiers, screamed through her gag, tears streaming down her face as she fought like a trapped animal. Larisa, too, lay still, only barely conscious after being struck during her attempt to defend the girl.
Opera showed no concern. No empathy. No acknowledgment of their emotions.
"The employment," he said, facing the crowd now, "was accelerated. Your Duke failed to notify the Empire of logistical inconsistencies. As punishment, all eligible candidates are to be retrieved… immediately."
Duke Kamaro, still kneeling after the earlier blow, clutched his cracked ribs and stared up at the towering Employer. Behind his pain, behind the fear and shame, something else stirred—hatred. But it was the cold, buried kind. The kind that waited years if necessary. He dared not speak now.
Opera raised his hand. The soldiers moved swiftly, herding the selected boys and girls toward the spacecraft's loading ramp. Some cried. Some shouted for their families. Others were quiet, as if their spirits had already left their bodies.
Erina's eyes lingered on Aren's broken form until she was forced out of view. The ramp hissed shut. With mechanical grace, the spacecraft began to lift, kicking up another violent gust of wind and sand. Children clung to their mothers. The elderly covered their faces. Everyone else stood in stunned silence.
As the ship ascended into the skies, its metallic hull reflecting the early sun, a silence deeper than any before settled over Camp Solace.
No words could be spoken.
A boy had tried to fight.
A sister was taken.
And the monster called Opera… had left.