In a place that was a place, within a span where there was no span to measure, in a realm stripped of all but the barest abstractions, there stirred entities beyond the comprehensive faculty of the mundane.
They bore no form, and thus could not be described, for to describe is to confine–and nothing could confine them. Yet their existence pressed upon the void with an undeniability as sharp as a blade against the throat. They were. That was certain. They could be perceived, yes, but never observed; never understood.
And it was only for a mere moment.
A moment that might have been an eternity stretched thin, or the blink of some dead god's eyelid. There was no measure, and thus no anchor. And within that moment, everything changed.
Reality convulsed, superimposed upon Nothingness, its skin stretched taut over a hollow frame.
Abstractions rushed in like floodwaters through the rupture of a dam, frenzied and uncontainable.
Time rippled through this newborn plane, breaking and remaking itself like glass struck with a hammer.
Space wove itself into a vast fabric; endless, self-mending, and yet always threatening to unravel at the edges.
From nothing, something had been birthed.
But even as it drew its first breath, the Reality revealed its absence.
It was hollow.
It lacked something essential; an unspoken marrow, a silent tether.
Meaning?…
The Antecessors stirred. They pressed their incomprehensible essence into the fragile shell of the incomplete world, their presence warping it further. Their forms remained unspeakable, yet now there lingered a faint intimation of shape–as though they were blasphemous jargons made of flesh. One could, perhaps, almost understand them. But only at the price of one's sanity, only by letting the mind come unstitched.
How many were they? Thirteen? Four? Fifty? An uncountable host? No… their number was definite, exact, razor-sharp. But to name it was to fracture thought itself.
Then, from within the chorus of formless voices, the murmurs began:
"The Seraphim have begun weaving their threads. How recklessly ambitious. Do they now imagine themselves sovereign? Have they forgotten what lingers beyond Reality's veil? Forgotten what festers beneath the Shadow of CHAOS?"
"They have not forgotten. Yet memory does not equate to wisdom. Their arrogance drives them to stir calamities that should remain unprovoked. How long can we allow this to continue?"
"The Shards were never meant to awaken. What has possessed them? Has the weight of their dominion finally corroded what remained of their reason? Decay was inevitable, yes… but to this extent?"
"Why indulge in further debate? Send a ripple. The tides will shift, and their design shall collapse into ours."
"They weave, and so shall we. Thread against thread, until their arrogance unravels. They have forgotten us, but we do not condemn their ignorance. The Sentinels have not forgotten, however. They still brand us as quarry, their presence saturating our essence like poison."
"How many realities have we conjured merely to escape their pursuit? How many have we abandoned to ashes in flight from their shadow? Our essence thins; dwindling like embers in a cold wind. If this path continues, one Epoch more will be enough to see us consumed, amalgamated into their abhorrence."
Then it came.
A gaze.
Something twisted–beyond sense, beyond shape–settled its weight upon the trembling Reality.
The Antecessors quivered, for though no voice named it, they knew.
"A Sentinel…"
"What a curse we have shackled to ourselves…"
At that whisper, the fragile world ruptured.
Time curdled into stillness, stagnation spreading like rot.
Abstractions bled away, and with them all semblance of meaning.
Space shrieked as it tore open, its will to mend snuffed out when Meaning withered.
The Reality convulsed, its scaffolds splintering, its husk dissolving. The Antecessors' forms crumbled alongside their creation, unmade in tandem with the very fabric they had pressed themselves into.
And thus…
There was nothing.
Yet even within Nothing, a gaze endured.
It watched the carcass of Reality with the patience of an eternity.
ITERATE.
A word, or a command? No. It was less–and more. A murmur uttered with the weightless indifference of infinity, and yet it unspooled through the void like a blade through flesh.
And so all shifted.
All reassembled.
A trembling iteration, a convulsion of being; an answer not born of will, but of obedience to something greater than themselves.
*****
Far from the coasts of the Asparicin Continent, on an island absent from every recorded map, a secret slept beneath the earth. At first glance, it appeared ordinary; an island like countless others, covered with mountains, hills, and ridges. Yet every protrusion of land was a lie, carefully sculpted through terraformation to disguise what truly rested below.
Hidden within these reshaped landscapes was a vast military complex, one that stretched across nearly three hundred square kilometers. The surface was merely a mask; the real structure lay beneath, a network of facilities each designed with precision to fulfill a specific purpose. Some served as centers of intelligence, collecting information from every corner of the world. Others specialized in operations far less subtle: the swift elimination of threats before they could ever take root. Together, these parts formed a machine of power and secrecy, the culmination of years of planning and resources on an unimaginable scale.
This base was no creation of a single nation. It was the result of a rare collaboration, forged by the combined strength of Asparicin's greatest Republics. Framor, Ventica, and Polaras were among the foremost contributors, a fact unsurprising given their role as core members of the Founding Council. Their involvement ensured that the structure was not merely a military installation but a symbol of unity, one that only the most powerful hands on the continent could have shaped.
Yet, even among those who knew of its existence, its true name remained unspoken. Outsiders were unaware such a place existed, and those within its walls chose silence. Instead, it was referred to simply as the Bastion. The name carried its own weight, and perhaps it was all the explanation needed.
The island had not always been what it was now. A thousand years ago, it was known for something far greater, something revered enough to stand in history alongside the fabled City of Laston. Its meaning then was far different, tied not to warfare or secrecy but to a legacy long since obscured by time. The transformation of that sacred ground into a hidden fortress only deepened the significance of its new identity.
The Bastion was many things at once: an intelligence hub, a research facility, a fortress of execution. Its reach extended across nations, and its influence lingered like a shadow over unseen battlefields. But at its core, it remained a singular creation; an island that listened to the world, learned its secrets, and acted with silent precision when the time came.
"Casualties?" Raevon asked tiredly, his fingers pressing against his temples in a futile attempt to subdue the pounding ache gnawing at his skull. The headache had long since become part of him—an unwelcome shadow that lingered, day and night. No medication could ease it. How could it, when the very cause of his torment was everywhere around him–etched into the walls, humming through the machines, and echoing in every grim report brought to his desk?
But he endured it. He had no other choice. Pain was a trivial cost compared to what was at stake.
"Mounting at an alarming rate, Sir!" The officer, dressed in standard grey–insignia denoting his rank–snapped upright from the terminal as soon as he realized he had been addressed. His voice carried the crisp weight of military discipline, but there was an undertone of dread he could not mask.
Raevon's gaze hardened. "Be precise, Sergeant. I want a full breakdown: the nations with the highest casualty counts, the status of the so-called Chosens responsible for the chaos–alive or dead, active or dormant–and the condition of our surviving populations. Do you need me to spell out what complete means?" His tone was firm, clipped, and distinctly commanding. The authority in his voice masked his fatigue, even if his appearance betrayed it; unkempt stubble, deep shadows beneath his eyes, and the drawn, worn face of a man who hadn't rested in weeks.
When the world was falling apart, appearances meant nothing. Solutions were all that mattered.
"Yes, Sir." The sergeant swallowed before continuing. His eyes flicked back to the scrolling lines of text on the screen, each update harsher than the last. "From highest to lowest casualties: Gremaen, Seventico, Framor, Despiratia…" He listed eighteen countries in total, each name like another nail driven into the coffin of humanity's confidence. "Current estimates put casualties between four hundred and five hundred million worldwide, Sir."
Raevon felt his chest tighten, despair clawing at the edges of his composure. Half a billion lives, erased in less than a week. His thoughts trembled into chaos, a cacophony of figures, screams, and hollow strategies.
"As for the Chosens…" The sergeant hesitated for only a fraction before pressing on. "There were forty confirmed active as of Day One. Twenty-two have since been neutralized or otherwise confirmed dead. Twelve remain unaccounted for; their last known locations suggest inactivity, but their silence cannot be trusted. That leaves six. Four continue to spread terror, though not with the same ferocity displayed on 'Day Four'. The reduction in aggression remains unexplained. And the final two…" He turned from the screen, meeting his superior's eyes. "They reached out to us directly."
Raevon dug his fingers deeper into his temple. The pressure behind his eyes swelled like an oncoming storm. Solutions, always out of reach. Hope, dwindling like smoke in the wind. What they were fighting… it wasn't war. It wasn't a rebellion. It was something monstrous, torn from the pages of nightmare.
Powers.
Men were never meant to hold such things. Power, in its true form, had boundaries: law, mortality, responsibility. A ruler, no matter how ambitious, understood his strength was borrowed from the people, and thus constrained himself for their sake. But this–this unnatural power that had surfaced overnight–was unshackled, limitless in cruelty, and their weapons… their carefully engineered firearms and artillery… had proven nearly useless against most of them.
Not all Chosens were equal, but even the weakest among them could bring a city to its knees.
"Those two," Raevon said, his voice quiet but edged like a blade.
"Yes, Sir."
"Have they provided any intelligence? Any indication of their intentions? Last I recall, they promised contact. And send a line to the Council, press them for a final stance on that matter."
"Yes, Sir!" The sergeant straightened. "Regarding the two, the only message they left was a single word: Soon."
"Soon?" Raevon's voice dipped with uncertainty.
"Yes, Sir. Nothing else."
Raevon's jaw tightened. "…Very well. Execute my other orders. Inform me the instant the Council responds."
"Understood, Sir."
Raevon turned away, his boots echoing dully against the steel floor as he left the operations chamber. Every step felt heavier than the last, as if the burden of humanity itself had been dropped on his shoulders.
One thought tore relentlessly at his mind, more honest than any order he had given:
'I'm tired… so fucking tired. Just a little rest. That's all I want.'