Silence.
Only the dull, rhythmic beat of a forgotten machine echoed through the void, a mechanical pulse that resonated like the heart of a dead god.
Inside the capsule, the boy's body floated in a thick, cold fluid. Red lights blinked at irregular intervals, as if the system itself doubted it should still be functioning after so many centuries.
A soulless voice murmured through the static:
[Transfer initiated. Critical error in biological memory.]
[Forced synchronization. Consciousness integrity: 43%.]
The small form of Eryn stirred. His breathing quickened within the fogged crystal. His eyes snapped open—pale gray and trembling—and a foreign, golden light began to seep from beneath his skin.
The capsule shuddered. His muscles tensed to the point of tearing. And then, as if his flesh were an unstable projection, the boy's body began to fracture into overlapping flashes of light: a luminous figure—tall, of impossible proportions—was projected over him, a holographic skeleton of another being, an echo of the one about to be born.
The system spoke again, distorted:
[Manual processing: consciousness forced into vessel.]
[Purging host neural residue.]
Eryn's face contorted in a silent scream. He tried to cry out, but his voice was lost in the fluid. The light in his eyes shattered like glass. And in the final instant, his mind unraveled into fragments of fading luminance.
The boy… was no more.
The capsule exhaled a sigh and hissed open, venting hot gas. From within, the body fell—weak, naked, and slick with viscous fluid. It coughed and trembled. Then, slowly, it pushed itself upright.
Its eyes opened slowly, and the gold within them stabilized to a dull, almost inhuman amber.
"What damned body have I taken?" it murmured in a voice that was rough, dry, and laden with contempt. The words were those of a man who had forgotten how to sound human.
He looked at his hands: thin, bony, and scarred. He flexed his fingers clumsily, watching as the Aether swirled between them, only partially obedient. He clicked his tongue in disgust.
"A child…" he spat the word with derision. "A vessel of clay and weak bones. After all that I was… reduced to this."
He leaned against the open capsule, breathing with difficulty. Around him, emergency lights continued to flicker, revealing a ruined hall littered with broken conduits, dead screens, and the ghosts of forgotten technology.
"The system worked, even if only partially…" he muttered, running a hand over his forehead. "It seems my backup protocol survived the collapse. Perhaps some shred of me still remains in these rotten machines."
He paused and smiled—a smirk of arrogant defiance from one who refuses to accept defeat.
"The arrogant Union of Light… so convinced their purity would make them eternal. And look at them now." He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, as if he could see straight through the stone. "Dead. Dust. Defeated by that thing."
His voice resonated, low and laden with an ancient bitterness. He touched his chest, feeling the irregular heartbeat beneath the skin.
"Altering the backup system… was a risk," he continued, as if speaking to someone unseen. "But it was worth it. Erasing their data, inserting my genetic code, my consciousness… If not for that, I would be sleeping alongside them, forgotten forever. The irony is rich, is it not? The old geniuses of the Light, seeking to conquer death… and it was a prisoner of the Dark Empire who succeeded."
His laughter filled the chamber. It was not a loud laugh, but a dry, hollow one. A chuckle that sounded of rust and despair.
When it subsided, he leaned against a broken console, staring at the distorted reflection of his new face in a cracked panel. For a moment, the holographic projection of his true body—tall, with dark skin and crimson eyes—flickered behind the childlike outline. Then it faded.
"I suppose this will have to serve," he concluded. "It is not the body I deserve… but it is a beginning."
He looked around. The air vibrated with a distant murmur. Beyond these walls, he could feel the pulse of the world—a deep, irregular throbbing, as if the entire planet were breathing.
"The Aether is sick," he murmured. "Perfect. Everything the Light touches ends in rot."
He closed his eyes for a moment. And in the silence, amidst the shadows of the dead ship, he smiled.
"Then I still have time. Time… to reclaim what was taken from us."
The chamber still smelled of metallic dust and burnt gas. The red lights had died one by one, leaving only a pale blue glow emanating from the ancient consoles. The air was thick, warm, and charged with static. The boy—or what was left of him—moved with slow, unsteady steps. His thin hands trembled, but his gaze… was no longer human.
The boy surveyed the place with the cold calm of one awakening in his own mausoleum.
One console was still breathing. Its screen, embedded in a wall of corroded steel, flickered weakly with archaic characters. The boy approached. He placed his hand upon it, and the crystal recognized the genetic signature.
The system flared to life.
[IDENTITY VERIFICATION SUCCESSFUL]
[ACCESS: IMPERIAL CLEARANCE — CLASS 01]
A cascade of data streamed down the screen: codes, dates, names, fragments of voices. The boy narrowed his eyes. His breathing slowed. The hum of the machinery blended with the echoes of his memories—if they could still be called that.
[USER PROFILE FOUND]
[NAME: HANEUL GWAN / 하늘관]
[RANK: PILLAR OF THE DARK EMPIRE — DIVISION XIII]
[DESIGNATION: PROJECT OBSIDIAN – "THE BLACK SKY"]
[STATUS: TERMINATED]
The blue light reflected on his face. For an instant, a shadow crossed his expression: not joy, not fear. Only recognition.
"So, a shred of me still remained here after all…" he murmured, his voice deep, rough, aged by centuries of silence.
He leaned his forehead against the cool glass. The system continued to display lines of text, fading and reappearing. Among the fragments, a header blinked, almost illegible:
[FINAL LOG: UNION OF LIGHT // ARCHIVE – FALL OF HUMANITY]
Curiosity burned in his veins. He typed with trembling fingers, and the record unfolded. Only pieces remained. Distorted voices, fractured images.
"...skies aflame… last fleet fallen…"
"...the weapon responded… it wasn't a machine… it was consciousness…"
"...the sky itself screamed…"
The sound died.
Gwan closed his eyes. He felt a pulse in the air—the memory of a cataclysm so vast not even the gods dared to name it. He smiled. A faint, almost human smile.
"So that was the end, was it?" he whispered. "No redemption, no punishment… just silence."
He turned back to the console. The system archives still showed endless lists of names: commanders, scientists, saints, heralds, bearers of light…
The Union of Light. The army that had defeated the Dark Empire. Their names still shone in the registry, clean and arrogant.
[SAINT OF THE SWORD – ACTIVE]
[LYSANDRA OF THE FLAME – STATUS UNKNOWN]
[IMPERIAL ARCHON OF ETHER – LOST IN VOID]
[SERAPHINE VHALOR – ACCESS RESTRICTED]
Gwan observed them one by one. His golden eyes reflected the letters like living embers.
"Hypocrites…" he murmured, dragging his fingers across the panel. "Even in death, you still take up space."
He keyed a command. The interface flickered.
[WARNING: DELETING RECORDS MAY CAUSE SYSTEM INSTABILITY]
"Instability…" he repeated with a twisted smile. "That's what they said last time, and they fell all the same."
He pressed ENTER.
One by one, the names began to vanish. The console spat sparks. Lights went out. The metal groaned.
[DELETING: SAINT OF THE SWORD… SUCCESSFUL.]
[DELETING: ARCHON OF ETHER… SUCCESSFUL.]
[DELETING: LYSANDRA OF THE FLAME… ERROR.]
Gwan leaned closer to the screen, curious. "An error?" He repeated the command. Nothing. Only an echo:
[DATA PROTECTED – BY IMPERIAL GRACE]
"Imperial Grace…" he whispered with a bitter grimace. "So, someone still clings to their fantasies."
He stared at the screen for a long moment. Then, he took a deep breath. His reflection stared back: a young, unfamiliar face with eyes from another time.
"Haneul Gwan…" he repeated, testing the name on his tongue. It didn't sound like his own. Too solemn. Too… ancient.
He placed his hands on the keyboard again and began to type.
[EDITING USER PROFILE...]
[NAME: HAN-GWON]
He deleted a letter, rearranged another. The new name was shorter, more alive, less divine. Han Gwon. An echo of his old name, but human. Imperfection disguised as anonymity.
"The dead should not bear eternal names," he said, his voice low, almost a sigh. "Let the gods remember Haneul Gwan… I only need the world to fear Han Gwon."
He pressed CONFIRM. The panel went dark. The lights died out.
In the darkness, only his breathing remained, and the distant sound of the ship, as if the metal were laughing at his resurrection.