Deep beneath the shattered bones of the floating city, the rebel base stirred like a hive of waking giants. Walls of carved concrete and scavenged metal framed long tunnels lit by scavenged bulbs. The air buzzed — not with chaos, but preparation.
Shivam hadn't woken in five days.
He lay still, pale and silent on a rust-stained cot, surrounded by machines too old to hum properly and medical tech barely held together. The Noctirum wound had stopped bleeding — but not reacting. It pulsed faintly, eerily, like something was alive beneath the skin.
Aman, Naina, Aanchal, and Dikshant had rotated in shifts, refusing to leave him alone. Even when his breath was steady, the dread in their bones refused to settle.
Tonight, they sat quietly in the hallway just outside the infirmary chamber, the light above them flickering softly. No one spoke. The silence wasn't hostile — just heavy. The kind that filled the lungs like fog and refused to leave.
Aman leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed, fingers rhythmically tapping against the hilt of his knife. Dikshant sat cross-legged, arms on his knees, staring blankly into the dimness. Naina hugged her legs close, her chin resting lightly on her knees. Aanchal stood apart at first — pacing a little — until, without warning, she halted and turned.
"I've been meaning to say something," Aanchal said softly, her voice a strange mixture of defiance and hesitation. "To all of you, maybe. But mostly… to you, Naina."
The girl in question blinked, lifting her head. "To me?"
Aanchal nodded and exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of her neck before crouching down to sit beside her. "That night — back in Raghu and Janvi's place — when we broke in and argued… I was harsh. Too harsh."
Naina's eyebrows knit slightly, unsure how to react. "You mean the first night in the floating city?"
"Yeah," Aanchal replied, her gaze drifting downward. "I came in acting like I knew everything. Like my plan was the only one that mattered. I spoke to you like you were… just in the way."
There was a pause. Long enough for the quiet hum of the hallway's failing light to fill the space.
"And?" Naina said, but there wasn't venom in her voice. Just a softness. Maybe even a flicker of curiosity.
"And I'm sorry," Aanchal said finally, looking up. "I'm not great at this — apologizing. But I was out of line. I treated you like someone who didn't matter when, truth is… you're one of the few who still do."
The words seemed to break something in the quiet. Naina's breath hitched, her expression softening. Her lips trembled slightly as she replied.
"I'm sorry too," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "For that night. For the way I acted. I… I never trusted easily. And I thought maybe you were just another bossy loudmouth who'd ditch us when it got tough."
Aanchal laughed, gently. "I was a bossy loudmouth. You weren't wrong."
They looked at each other then — properly looked — and the tension from days past melted like ice left in the sun. There weren't grand speeches. Just a pair of eyes that had seen too much, too fast, meeting the same pain in someone else.
"I always felt like I had to be in control," Aanchal admitted. "The one with the answers. Back in school, I was the queen bee, the girl who had it all figured out. Or pretended to. But that night in that house, with the world burning… I didn't know what the hell I was doing."
Naina nodded, tears starting to gather at the corners of her eyes. "I've always been the quiet one. The one who watched from the back of the room. I never knew how to deal with people like you. Confident. Loud. Certain. I thought if I pushed back hard enough, I could protect myself. From you. From being hurt."
Aanchal reached forward and took Naina's hand gently. "You didn't have to protect yourself from me. Not anymore."
And without another word, they leaned into each other and hugged — tightly, fiercely, as if letting go would unravel everything they had built together since the world had fallen apart.
Aman opened his eyes and smiled faintly. "Finally," he muttered.
Dikshant chuckled under his breath. "Took a floating city and a half-dead Shivam to make that happen."
Naina laughed through her tears. "Shut up, Dikshant." "Make me," he shot back, grinning.
But the moment was warm now. The air felt lighter, like some invisible weight had been lifted off them all. A crack in the armor. A small fracture through which hope could seep in again.
In the room beyond, Shivam remained still. But maybe, somewhere deep inside, even he felt the shift. The day after that outside the Infirmary in the Rebellion Bunker
Commander Vidhart stood in the central command tent; eyes scanning maps lit by flickering holoprojectors. Rebel squads trained in rotation, and new recruits drilled with whatever weapons they could afford to swing.
Across from him, Aanchal and Dikshant stood in dirtied combat gear, wiping sweat from their brows after a sparring session that had left two veteran rebels stunned.
"You two fight like you've trained under Dominion officers," one soldier had muttered, half in awe, half suspicion.
"No," Aanchal had answered. "We trained under a girl who didn't know she was royalty." Later, in the command tent, she repeated the same to Vidhart.
"She taught us more than we understood at the time — movement, reaction, even disarming techniques. I thought she was just trying to help us survive. I think she was preparing us for something bigger."
"She betrayed us," Dikshant muttered. "But that doesn't mean she didn't believe in us once."
The tent fell quiet for a moment, their memories of Adhivita layered with confusion and regret.
Then Naina stepped in. "What about the others?" she asked. Vidhart looked up.
"The others from the train. We lost contact after we lost the phone. We had five groups. Rathod's was one. We haven't heard anything since."
"I've already sent out runners to all districts in contact," Vidhart said. "Especially the outer sectors. If they're alive, we'll find them."
"And Raghu?" Aanchal added. "He and Janvi risked their lives for us. The Dominion will come for them too."
"They're already on their way here. One of my people extracted them two days ago."
She nodded. Gratitude, quiet and unspoken.
Above their hidden world, the Dominion cracked at its gleaming seams. Reports streamed in from across all seven numbered continents — renamed and coded under the new regime.
Continent A: 84 metric tons mined, 14 dead in a tunnel collapse.
Continent B: 97 tons, 26 starved.
Continent C: 300 executed during a work strike.
Miners worked till their bodies gave out. Some collapsed mid-shift. Others never rose again. Nutrition was failing. Oxygen thinning. Madness creeping in.
And still the command came from on high: "The mining must continue. No delays. No excuses. The Dominion demands its fuel."
Commander Navek Vyer didn't blink as the broadcasts played on repeat, echoing from drones and glowing across walls of Dominion cities. In the palace, dissent wasn't a conversation. It was a death sentence.
In the lower sanctum of the Dominion's oldest wing, Dr. Agastya Ved Rao moved alone through the forgotten halls. His footsteps echoed in the dusty chambers once used for knowledge, not conquest.
He reached the old flooring of his private lab — sealed decades ago — and knelt to pull loose the floor panel with trembling fingers.
Underneath: a crate. Inside it: his greatest failure... and maybe the last truth left in the world.
He lifted a sheaf of yellowing papers, opening one marked with red wax.
"PROJECT: N-0 // NOCTIRUM COMPATIBILITY — YEAR 102 A.V."
His eyes scanned the page, words flooding back into his memory like blood rushing into an old wound.
"Subject observations — raw Noctirum enhances psionic strength, regenerative acceleration, thought-based manipulation of energy structures... only within select hosts."
The final page froze him.
"Compatibility with post-Reset genetics: 1.2%. Severe rejection rate."
"Compatibility with old-world bloodlines: 93.7%. Full integration possible. Risk of deity-level capacity. Recommend suppression."
Agastya's breath caught. His hand trembled slightly.
The words haunted him still — because he had once shared them. Trusted a young idealist with fire in his eyes. A man named Navek.
In the cold memory of fifty years ago, Agastya had stood in the old council hall, placing the research before the young commander.
"You're telling me," Navek had said slowly, "that the people who lived before the Reset — they could become gods?"
"With the right emotional alignment and training," Agastya had replied. "Yes. But it's unstable. Dangerous." Navek hadn't blinked. Hadn't argued. He had simply smiled. And then, like the flick of a blade, he began erasing the old world. Families with pre-Reset blood vanished. Cities with known survivors were bombed. Children born afterward were modified in vitro — inhibitors introduced to cripple compatibility with Noctirum. The Dominion made sure its own people would never have the power to rise.
Back in the lab, Agastya sank into his old chair. He looked up, thoughts heavy, memories cutting into him like knives. He didn't know who these new intruders were. He didn't know where they came from. But he remembered Adhivita's words, whispered between heartbreak and hope.
"Is it possible, Professor... that someone from the old world could've made it here?" He hadn't answered then. Now, the weight of his silence crushed him. "They survived," he whispered to the empty room. "They came through." And then, to no one at all — or maybe to history itself: "Let the Dominion fear what they have forgotten."
Inside the rebel med-bay, Shivam's body lay motionless — a prisoner of silence, still untouched by time, save for the shallow rhythm of his breath. But within his mind, far beneath the surface, the battle had already begun.
It was the third day since the blade of Noctirum had pierced him. Three days of stillness in the waking world — and three days of relentless struggle in the unseen world of his mind. Here, Shivam had floated in meditation, facing the endless void. His thoughts had twisted, broken, reformed. He had learned to silence the noise within. He had listened.
And now… he had endured. The transformation came not with a bang, but with a breath. A single pulse of stillness. A shift. Then, light — warm, golden — broke through the endless dark. The void cracked like ice beneath sunlight. In its place bloomed memory.
A schoolyard. Sunlight glinting off the metal railings. The thud of an old basketball against concrete. The scent of monsoon-drenched earth. The school building rose — four stories tall, red-bricked and faded with time. Benches scattered beneath neem trees. A garden at the edge. The echo of a bell long since silenced.
Shivam stood in the center of it all. Not dreaming. Not imagining. Creating. The voice returned, not from above but from within, deeper now, pleased — resonant.
"You have done it. You have taken the first step. This is your forge — shaped by memory, molded by will. From here, you will rise."
Shivam turned slowly, breathing in the warmth of familiarity — and then he saw him. A man in uniform, arms crossed, watching quietly from beside the basketball court. The brown of the police fatigues was sun-faded. The stance was firm, proud. Unmoving.
"Dad?" Shivam whispered, his throat tight. The man didn't answer at first. Then, his lips curved into a subtle smile. But his eyes — those weren't his father's. They were ancient. Deep. Filled with something eternal.
"I am not your father," the voice replied — but now it came from the man's lips. "But you shaped me in his image. The mind seeks what it trusts most. The first guide. The one who taught you strength — not with power, but with presence."
Shivam swallowed hard, taking a step closer. "Why now?" he asked. "Why show me this form?" The figure nodded toward the schoolyard, the rusted hoop swaying gently in the wind.
"Because you need a teacher. Not just a voice. A face. A memory that gives you courage."
The wind blew gently. The light shimmered like heat rising off old pavement. And then the man stepped forward into the open court. His voice deepened again — the Voice of Noctirum.
"This place is where you will train. This realm is your crucible. Here, your will shapes the world. And here, your power will be born not through rage, but through discipline."
He turned, raising a hand in challenge — part mentor, part opponent.
"Power must be earned. Control must be forged. And if you fail here, the world outside will burn — and you with it."
Shivam took a breath. The weight of it all pressed against him — and yet, he stood taller. Firmer. Grounded by this place, by this moment.
The court. The garden. His father's form. The Voice of Noctirum. He stepped into the center of the yard and locked eyes with the figure.
"Then let's begin," he said. A slow smile crossed the man's face.
"Your training starts now, boy." And as the sun rose in the world of his mind, so too did Shivam — into something more.