He stood at the edge of a vast, infinite expanse.
There was no sky above, no water below, no horizon to anchor the eye—only flat, endless ground stretching in every direction like a forgotten canvas. Light existed here without a source, casting no shadows, yet he was made of them.
A figure cloaked in darkness.
He wore a mantle woven from void, its edges fraying against reality like smoke. His face was hidden behind a mask of smooth onyx, marked only by a single, glowing yellow V across the mouth. Silent. Watching.
His opponent stood across from him—solid, real, and radiating power. They circled each other slowly, steps echoing into the silence of the unformed realm.
Then the stillness broke.
"Ironic, isn't it?" the adversary said, voice calm, edged with disdain. "You stand before me as if this is your choice. As if you came here on your own."
Their eyes flicked to the mask.
"But you wear that symbol."
The figure did not reply.
The opponent crouched low, power rippling outward from the flex of their stance.
"The mask of an Apostle of Time."
And then they moved.
Two forces collided in a flash of fury and silence. There was no explosion, no scream—just a shift. A ripple through existence itself. Every being tuned to the higher realms felt it. A tremor in the weave of the timeline.
And the battle began.
----------------------
Charles sat to Scar's left.
It was a subtle shift in seating, but not meaningless. Normally, that seat belonged to him—he had always claimed Scar's right side, the position of seniority, of confidence. But today it was filled by Johnson, who now sat with a composed stillness that belied the storm of change within him.
It had been an eventful few days.
Since that mission, everything had changed. The boy had potential, but potential meant nothing without precision, and Charles made that clear from the start. He'd drilled Johnson day and night, wearing away the novice edge, forging understanding through fire. Not just how to use his ability—but how to feel it.
The breakthrough had come yesterday.
Where Johnson once tried to exert control over objects around him—swords, armor, stones—Charles forced him to turn inward. To dig into the well of raw force in his own body. To recognize that the ability wasn't an extension of his will, but a core part of it. That his true strength wouldn't come from reshaping the world, but from reshaping himself.
And when he finally did, the room trembled.
The glow of energy radiating from Johnson's frame wasn't just power—it was identity. It was terrifying potential. That was the moment Charles knew he had to warn him.
They were mid-spar, the clang of limbs and aura still echoing in the training chamber, when Johnson paused and asked the question.
"Could I use this power to increase my own level?"
The room fell silent.
Charles didn't answer immediately. He stepped back, caught his breath, and then motioned for Johnson to sit.
The boy complied.
Charles' tone lost its usual sharpness. It wasn't a reprimand, but something quieter. Stern, and burdened.
"When Scar creates angels," Charles began, "he earns rings."
Johnson blinked. "Rings?"
Charles nodded. "Invisible, unless he allows you to see them. Each ring is tethered to one of us. Every angel under his command, every chosen, every experiment—he marks us with one. They connect us to his power. Give him a way to track us… or worse."
Johnson listened, brow furrowing.
"When one of us kills another celestial, our core refills. It's how we survive long battles. But for Scar? It's different. At any moment, he can shatter one of those rings."
There was a pause.
Johnson slowly pieced it together. "Killing us."
"Yes," Charles said. "Killing us. Instantly. From any distance. And when he does, he absorbs the energy. He replenishes himself by breaking his own tools."
Johnson's face remained unreadable, but Charles saw it in his eyes—the subtle clench, the momentary flicker of calculation. He was smart. He understood exactly what that meant.
"If you ever get strong enough for him to notice you," Charles said quietly, "if you ever burn too bright… he'll put you down before you become inconvenient."
Johnson nodded once.
No panic. No denial. Just quiet acceptance. A calm that made Charles uneasy, even as he respected it.
Now, the next morning, they sat in silence as they waited for Scar's allies to arrive.
Johnson was still composed, his face still and thoughtful. Charles, for once, had chosen not to sit at the right. Not because he was ashamed. Not because of rank.
Because Johnson needed to be seen.
Scar remained still. He always did, like movement was a waste of authority. In this room, it was. Around the long, matte table, the military leaders and government strategists of the ACS filtered in, each marked by the weight of a war that hadn't truly moved in twenty years.
General Myles arrived first, flanked by two aides and the stench of habitual arrogance. Then Vass, older and slower than his reputation, but still dangerous when underestimated. Ashir followed—tactician, pacifier, survivor. And finally Cao, the only one Charles respected. She didn't posture or fill silence. She observed. She adapted.
None of them knew about gods or angels. They knew only what was charted, measured, militarized. Scar, to them, was a high-clearance political operative with an elite private army. A man of black files and unsanctioned victories. That was enough.
Scar didn't bother with introductions.
"Twenty years," he said. "That's how long you've been circling yourselves—trading hostages for zones, maintaining old fronts, calling it stability. But it's paralysis. And it's decaying."
Charles watched the room. Tension, not resistance. They knew this was coming. They just hadn't expected it would come here.
Myles leaned forward. "Containment has prevented total collapse."
Scar ignored him. The table lit up. Projections flooded the surface—sector maps, conflict zones, deep-red fractures turning blue.
"We reclaimed three hundred thousand square kilometers in seventy-two hours," Scar said. "No artillery. No orbital intervention. No public cost."
Ashir squinted. "Losses?"
"None."
Silence followed. Not disbelief—discomfort. They'd long accepted blood as the necessary currency of control. A war that didn't bleed challenged everything they understood about power.
Cao studied the projection, fingers tapping thoughtfully. "You don't have the volume to scale this kind of push. You're not running divisions."
Charles replied, voice quiet but unyielding. "We don't need to. You're playing on a chessboard. We're breaking into the operating system."
Vass grunted. "Bold words. Bold doesn't hold borders."
Scar didn't turn. "Borders are what's killing you. You define them, defend them, and die on them. We're not drawing lines. We're ending the game."
Ashir leaned back, measuring. "So you want what, full operational license? No oversight?"
"I want the war back," Scar said. "Not the stalemate. The war. And I want it concluded."
The words dropped heavy. They all felt the weight shift.
Myles looked skeptical. "You want to reignite an open campaign? Against every remaining militant coalition across six continents? You'll destabilize everything we've frozen."
Scar replied without inflection. "Frozen things rot."
He tapped the table again. Logistics unraveled—supply lines, collapsed air corridors, insurgent comms. The ACS intel network was a corpse, rotting behind bureaucratic blinders. Scar's people were already moving.
Charles glanced at Johnson. The boy hadn't flinched. Good.
Ashir looked at Cao. "If he's wrong, we lose control of two-thirds of the active field."
"If he's right," Cao said quietly, "we win the future."
She turned to Scar. "You'll have orbital support in Corridor Eight. Silent, off-book. No boots until you clear civilian metrics."
Scar nodded once. "You'll have results before the next tide cycle."
He stood, no dismissal needed. Charles followed. As they exited, the table behind them shifted again. Sector Nine blinked from amber to white. Silence followed them out.
The war hadn't restarted.
It had resumed.
----------------------
Charles woke with a pressure behind his eyes, like a storm gathering in reverse. No dreams, no voices, just a prickling unease across his skin. The kind that refused to name itself.
He slid out of bed and moved with habit. The room was cold, not by temperature but by feel. He dressed without rush—black field pants, reinforced boots, a layered combat shirt with synth-mesh underlay. His cloak hung by the door, still dusty from the previous mission. He swung it over his shoulders, fastening the magnetic clasp beneath the collar.
Phone buzzed. One new assignment.
Gregory. Recon. Unity Line forward installation. Disguise required. No combat anticipated.
He studied the mission details longer than he needed to. It felt... too clean.
Gregory was waiting by the jump pad. He leaned against a rust-stained crate, a cigarette burning lazily between two fingers.
"You look like someone kicked your grave marker."
Charles didn't respond.
Gregory took a final drag, dropped the cigarette, and crushed it with his boot. "Lighten up. This is clean work. In and out. You copy my cloak, we move through their camp like we belong there, grab the logs, done. Nobody dies."
"I'm not worried about dying."
"Sure you're not," Gregory muttered. "You just act like it."
The ride was silent. Low-altitude glider, no insignia, black paint scrubbed from its hull. Inside, Charles sat opposite Gregory, arms folded, gaze fixed out the side window as broken terrain passed beneath them. Nothing alive down there—just miles of silence, burned-out villages, static-choked fields.
When the drop came, they landed soundlessly among a cluster of skeletal structures. Once a checkpoint. Now just bones.
Gregory's ability flared softly—a shimmer of shifting color, reweaving the illusion over his skin, his clothes, his posture. He no longer looked like Gregory. He looked like a soldier who'd been stationed on the Line for six months and had started to forget what home smelled like.
Charles studied him, then mimicked the ability. Not just the appearance, but the weight of it—the way Gregory's version bent light, fooled sound sensors, altered retinal scans. Charles wrapped himself in it tighter, more exact, less improvisational.
They moved through the ruins. Approaching the perimeter fence, they joined a patrol. Two guards nodded them through with barely a glance.
Inside the Unity camp, nothing moved quickly. Men and women stood near half-charged generators, smoking, muttering about dry rations and no reinforcements. Radios buzzed with old orders. Barracks were half-full and under-cleaned. No one polished boots anymore.
It wasn't a camp. It was a waiting room for the end.
Gregory led the way into the inner sector. Canvas walkways, metallic partitions. He slipped past two guards and ducked into the main operations tent. Charles followed, scanning the corners of the room, checking the shadows, the seams in the walls.
Inside, Gregory plugged into their systems—data siphoning, pulling files. Supply charts, troop numbers, medical logs, forward positioning.
Charles stood near the entrance, keeping watch.
The sensation came again.
Wrong.
The kind of wrong that didn't announce itself. It just... sank in.
The sound outside had changed. Not quieter. Not louder. Just... different. Like a shift in pressure before a thunderclap. Like the ground inhaling beneath your feet.
Charles stepped outside.
Soldiers were still milling about. Smoking. Arguing. Eating.
But something was... off.
He glanced toward the fence line. At first, he saw nothing.
Then, movement.
Three figures.
Too far to make out details. But they weren't in uniform. And they weren't moving like soldiers.
Not cautiously.
Not nervously.
Like they already owned the place.
He stepped back inside.
"Gregory. Cut it."
"I'm not finished."
"Now."
Gregory paused, noticed his tone, then started disconnecting.
Charles exhaled slowly.
Outside, the figures had passed the outer barricade.
Still no alarm. No guards noticed.
But he did.
They weren't using stealth tech. No distortions, no cloaks, no shimmer.
Yet no one saw them.
Except him.
And they were getting closer.
Gregory unplugged the last cable. "We moving?"
"We're leaving."
"Charles?"
He didn't answer.
The tent flap rustled.
Charles turned-
And froze.
Someone was standing just beyond the fabric.
Not a soldier.
No insignia.
No footsteps.
Just a shadow behind canvas.
Breathing.
Watching.
Then—
The flap began to lift.
And everything—
Stopped.