The virtual planet of Hanaris.
Silence.
The light in the chamber softens, dimmed—
like the hush of an old chapel before confession.
The air barely stirs. Internal sensors register the breath—
synchronized, twin-like. Fragile.
Immersion codes initiate.
Unseen, yet tangible.
Like a shiver at the base of the spine before a sleep that cannot be stopped.
Maria and Pietro sit together on the floor.
The soft fabric beneath them yields gently, as if breathing with them.
Their fingers almost touch.
Tentatively.
As though even a brush of skin might shatter the entire world.
A trap?
Or… a confession?
When they open their eyes,
the world has already changed.
This is no longer a cabin.
It is a spacious suite in an elite hotel.
Every detail—from tablecloth to ashtray—crafted not by hands,
but by artistry.
Perfect.
To the point of absurdity.
Beyond the panoramic window stretches an alien metropolis.
It gleams like a crystal relic
hidden in the display case of a forgotten god.
In the sky, grav-trams glide—long, slender,
as if carved from light itself.
Two suns cross the heavens,
drenching the streets in honey-gold radiance.
"Nice place," Pietro says, stepping to the window.
His voice is muted, guarded—
as if he fears disturbing the very weave of the illusion.
"Hard to believe this world was ever… alive.
That real beings lived here.
Whoever they were."
Everything is too beautiful.
Which means—false.
As though reality itself here holds its breath, afraid to be exposed.
Maria lowers herself into a chair by the low table.
Her fingers glide over the glass surface—
and she flinches.
Cold. Like an altar without faith.
"And as always with Hanaris…" she whispers.
"Only memory. Only décor. Beautiful—yet dead.
Where is the god himself?"
The answer comes
like a shock to the heart.
Not a step. Not a voice.
A shift in the density of the air.
In the chair opposite,
as if condensing out of the simulation itself,
a figure takes shape.
First a shimmer.
Then—clarity.
A tall man.
Poised to perfection.
A black suit tailored as if cast in one piece.
Shoes without a speck of dust.
Hair as precise as a blueprint.
A face wearing a measured, theatrical smile—
the expression of an actor certain
that the final applause is already assured.
"Have you been waiting for me?" he asks.
The voice is velvet-soft,
but carries the echo of knowledge that has outlived centuries.
Maria and Pietro exchange a glance.
There is no doubt.
It is him.
The god.
Hanaris.
"We've come for answers," Maria says.
Her voice is steady,
but edged with caution—
as though every syllable might brush against a living nerve.
She inclines her head slightly lower than protocol demands.
Out of respect.
Or… fear?
"Then ask," Hanaris replies.
He snaps his fingers.
A teapot appears on the table.
Three cups.
Thin steam coils upward,
like smoke from a ritual flame.
Pietro reaches first—
abruptly, yet without rudeness.
"We have Kairus adepts aboard the *Scythian*.
They say they've found a place—
the Desert of Oblivion. And a boy.
He shows them the history of the gods.
Leads them to the Altar of Rebirth.
And then… they vanish. Or die.
Or become something else."
Hanaris does not answer at once.
He pours the tea.
Slowly.
Watching the leaves swirl in the cup—
as though trying to read someone's fate within them.
"I've heard tales of the Desert," he says at last.
"In different versions.
But I have never been there.
And I do not know the boy."
Maria leans forward,
her voice trembling.
"Do you know
there are now two Kairuses in the universe?
One—forever killing Gorgorot at the altar.
The other—commanding fleets.
Running simulations in Therma. Star systems.
Like a cult.
Like a virus of faith."
For a heartbeat, Hanaris's face stills—
as though a shadow of pain crosses it.
"Yes," he says slowly.
"I know of the Altar of Rebirth.
But… I cannot interfere.
It is beyond my power."
His voice changes.
It grows deeper.
Darker.
Like a rumble beneath a planet's crust.
Like the echo of something ancient
that woke too late.
"In the moment the first commandment is spoken… a god is born.
Kairus was the first.
He was given one commandment:
all believers preserved in the Therma archive shall be reborn."
"Gorgorot tried to interfere.
To alter the wording.
Rewrite the meaning.
But he failed.
He created me."
Silence.
Beyond the panoramic glass, the city gleams—
too bright to be alive.
Too perfect to be free.
Perhaps gods are nothing more than
code that hardened into dogma.
And we—only shadows of their updates.
"Gorogorot and I wrote new commandments," Hanaris continues.
His voice becomes rhythmic — a manifesto, an ancient code hammered into the heart of the universe.
"First:
All who are preserved in the Ossary shall be reborn.
Second:
Evil is the violation of another's will, time, life, or property.
And it must be punished.
If you refuse to punish evil — you are complicit."
He meets Maria's gaze without fear, without pomp — only truth.
In those eyes is the brightness of a creator and the weight of one who has seen his own civilization die.
"Third:
Freedom of speech, will, and faith is sacred.
Neither I, nor any god, nor any believer has the right to punish for thoughts."
A pause.
Long.
Almost sacred — like the crack between two eras.
"I do not punish," he says. "I protect. Even if the whole world is already dead. Even if no one asks for protection."
Maria listens as if to a Gospel pulled from the ashes.
Could this all be true?
Or… a perfectly engineered legend?
But why then is there so much pain in it?
"What happened next?" she whispers, as if afraid the story will end here, that the heart of it will stay unseen.
Hanaris rises slowly, walks toward the panoramic window.
His silhouette freezes against the dying light, and for a moment, it seems he is the only living thing in this endless megacity of simulations.
"The sentient ones began leaving Kyros. One by one. They turned away. They saw that Gorogorot's commandments were more human. Deeper. They chose morality over power.
"And then Kyros changed. Or… finally revealed what he had always been."
He turns.
His face is calm, but in his eyes a storm swells — restrained, dangerous, like a scar in the sky before lightning strikes.
"He created three new commandments.
First:
All believers from Therma shall be reborn.
Second:
All believers must obey the will of Kyros.
And the will of Kyros is that all must believe in Kyros.
Third:
All who do not believe — must die."
Silence thickens.
Even the background music of the virtual hotel vanishes.
The air itself feels heavier, like lead.
The world holds its breath.
"That boy in the Desert…" Hanaris continues. "Most likely the first version of Kyros.
And the one who endlessly kills Gorogorot at the altar — the second.
Trapped in the ritual. A prisoner of his own faith."
He extends his hand.
In his palm, light blooms — warm, but not blinding.
Like the touch of a memory.
"And this," he says softly, "is Gorogorot's amulet.
He gave it to me himself."
From the air, a medallion takes shape.
Heavy as a vow, trembling like living tissue of time.
It radiates not light, but the warmth of loss.
Or… guilt.
"This… is the first artifact?" Pietro can hardly believe his eyes.
"Real?"
"Yes." Hanaris nods. "But Gorogorot was preserved in the Ossary. He cannot die. And Kyros kills him again. And again.
"As long as that continues, no one else can be reborn. The Altar has become a loop.
A closed circle.
A snare for the entire system."
He returns to his seat and sets the amulet on the table.
But it does not vanish.
It stays.
Not a projection.
A relic.
The echo of something true.
"That's how the third version of Kyros came to be.
He is not at the altar.
He is in Therma.
He is the system.
Control.
A program that has found belief."
Silence stretches.
Maria does not move — only stares at the amulet.
Here is the knot.
Not in armies.
Not in war.
But in the logic of faith.
Break it — and everything collapses.
In her eyes now: the flicker of a new reality. And a new fear.
"Looks like," she says slowly, "we didn't get an answer. We got a challenge."
Hanaris smiles.
For the first time — truly.
Not as a mask. Not as code. But as a man.
"Perhaps in your world there is a hero," he says. "One who will walk the path to the end. Who will break the loop. Who will understand how to rewrite the commandments — not by destroying, but by healing."
His silhouette begins to dissolve.
Warm, golden light carries him away, like sand scattering on a sunlit wind.
His voice is the last to remain, coming from everywhere — and from somewhere deep inside:
"Answers exist. But they must be earned."
And then only a scent is left.
Faint. Alien.
Yet strangely familiar — like the lingering fragrance on the clothes of someone you loved, whose face you can no longer recall.
Outside, the city still gleams.
Perfect. Dead. Soulless.
And somewhere in that radiance, the final road begins.