Druuumm—
The thunder rolled again—deeper, farther away—no longer like a sound descending from the sky, but something retreating backward through the consciousness of the world itself.
The view, once bound to a single point—the left eye of a child—slowly loosened.
Rain-soaked eyelashes no longer filled the frame. A jawline came into view. The curve of cheeks that had lost the softness of childhood. A face that had grown longer, tighter, forged by time and by something that had never been given a name.
The child… had grown.
The rain still fell, but now only in thin, orderly droplets, tapping against ceramic tiles with faint, nearly inaudible sounds—tik… tik… tik…—filling a silence too precise to be called natural.
He stood among a formation.
Dozens of other figures stood rigid to his left and right, arranged neatly in platoon order. Black cloaks hung down to their knees, hoods pulled tight, concealing faces that did not wish to be known. Beneath the dark fabric, segments of glossy black armor—neither steel nor iron, but carbon-based material—caught the dim light of the overcast sky with a cold, sterile sheen.
They did not look like a force meant to be seen by the world. They looked like a force that had never existed.
The boy stood there without distinction. His height matched. His posture aligned. His breathing was held in the same rhythm they had been taught. To a passing glance, he was nothing more than one shadow among many.
Yet inside his chest, something moved—slow, calm, and sharp.
The field was vast, bordered by tall, unmarked buildings, their dark windows swallowing reflections of light. Trees grew along several edges, their leaves wet and heavy, without flowers, without color—only a dull green surviving out of habit. In empty patches of ground, small plants crept low, as if unsure whether they were allowed to grow further.
There was no sound but rain.
Then, footsteps broke the silence.
Tap…
Tap…
Tap…
Three figures emerged from the side of the field. Two walked half a step behind, shoulders stiff, eyes fixed forward. The one in the center moved with a different rhythm—more relaxed, more certain.
He wore a dark military uniform, immaculate, without flaw. Rank insignia glimmered faintly on his chest. A military cap shadowed a hardened face, carved by experience and decisions history had never recorded.
The formation did not move. No command was given. No boots scraped the ground.
Only the rain continued to fall.
The man stopped before them.
Several seconds passed before he spoke—long enough for the air itself to feel heavier.
"In this world," he said at last, his voice flat, low, yet cutting cleanly through the rain, "not every killing is a crime."
No one moved.
"And not every truth deserves to be kept alive."
His tone did not rise. He did not shout. Precisely because of that, every word felt as though it were being placed directly into the chests of those standing before him.
"You were chosen," he continued, walking slowly along the line, "not because of courage. Courage is cheap. Anyone can act recklessly."
He stopped briefly, standing directly in front of a female soldier in the front row.
"You were chosen because you can kill without leaving a trace. Not just blood—but intent. Memory. Even questions."
Rain slid from the edge of his cap, dripping onto the ground.
"If you hesitate… it means you do not yet understand what it is you are protecting."
The boy stared straight ahead. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as the voice reached his ears—a voice he had known far too long, even before he had learned to memorize it as command.
"This world is built upon things that must not be known," the commander said. "And Tyrak… survives only because those secrets remain buried."
He stopped walking, standing upright at the center of the field.
"But today," he went on, "you were not gathered to clean something out there."
His tone shifted—just slightly. Almost unnoticeable. Yet enough to make the air tense.
"You were gathered… to clean something inside."
Several breaths were held at once.
"There is someone among you," he said quietly, "who does not belong here."
The boy's heart struck once—harder than before.
"An infiltrator," the commander continued, "who believes that wearing the same cloak… means sharing the same purpose."
His gaze swept across the formation, one by one, unhurried—almost savoring the tension growing between the falling drops of rain.
"Your task is simple," he said. "Find them. Observe them. And when the time comes—erase them."
There was no emotion in the order.
Only certainty.
The boy did not move. Did not turn. Did not react. Yet beneath his black hood, his eyes widened slightly—not from fear, but from something far more dangerous.
Awareness.
"Never live just to die for something you do not understand," the commander added, his voice returning to flatness, almost like advice. "Understand first… then kill."
He paused.
"That is all. Dismissed."
The formation remained still for a fraction of a second—then moved in unison, orderly steps slicing through shallow pools of water.
The commander had already turned away.
But just before his next step, he stopped.
Turned.
The glance was brief. Too brief to be called acknowledgment. Too sharp to be coincidence.
His eyes met the boy's beneath the shadow of the hood—one second that felt longer than all the rain that had fallen upon that field.
Then he turned back.
And walked away.
The rain continued to fall.
And the world—elsewhere—laughed.
"AHAHAHAHAHA—!"
The laughter burst out loud, dry, and utterly misplaced in any space that still dared call itself rational. It rebounded off towering walls of glass and metal, then returned to its source like an echo deliberately preserved.
A man stood on the upper level of a colossal laboratory.
His back faced the sea of light below—dozens of scientists, technicians, and personnel in pristine white uniforms moved swiftly between transparent panels and tiered floors. Data flowed through the air as projections, numbers and symbols rotating slowly, calmly, almost beautifully.
He faced a translucent mirror.
His reflection was clear: a firm jaw, sharp eyes behind thin-framed glasses, a smile far too alive for a man speaking of the world's future. His white coat was no simple fabric, but a synthetic material layered with subtle light that followed every movement—clean, expensive, and impossibly perfect.
Beyond the thick glass before him, something floated.
The core rotated slowly in empty space—a structure that refused to be called a machine, yet had not earned the right to be called a living being.
Four diamond-shaped forms hovered in pairs, two above, two below, spinning like compass needles that had lost their north. Matte gold lines framed each facet, while within them, green light pulsed—data flowing, gathering, separating, then returning again, like thoughts that breathed.
At the center, a gold ring layered with nickel rotated gently, surrounded by concentric rings floating freely, interlocking without physical contact. No cables. No supports. As if gravity itself had been instructed not to interfere.
PRISMA (Prismatic Regulatory Intelligence Matrix Authority).
The man pressed his palm against the glass.
"At last," he murmured, his breath trembling with something almost religious. "At last… you are nearly complete."
He laughed again, softer this time, like someone who had just realized his prayer was being answered—not by God, but by his own creation.
"They don't understand," he said, speaking to his reflection—or perhaps to whatever existed beyond the glass. "They never do. They talk about freedom, about will… as if humans ever knew what they wanted."
He shook his head slowly.
"This world is chaotic not because it lacks heart," he continued. "But because it has too many choices."
His hand lifted, pointing toward the rotating core.
"You are different. You do not hesitate. You do not fear blame. You only calculate… and choose the optimal result."
He smiled, proud.
"With you, humanity no longer needs to choose. They will be guided, maintained, and utilized efficiently."
Below, the scientists worked without looking up. They were accustomed to the monologue. Or perhaps they had learned not to listen too deeply.
"Do you know what peace truly means?" he asked softly, almost tenderly. "Peace is when no one is capable of defiance."
He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching the glass.
"I don't want to be God," he said, then let out a small laugh. "I just want… the world to stop screaming."
Then—
That prayer was cut short by the sound of a door opening.
Rapid footsteps approached from behind.
"Doctor."
The laughter vanished instantly.
The man straightened, his expression shifting—not to anger, but irritation, like someone abruptly woken from a beautiful dream.
A staff officer in a similar coat stood several steps behind him, a data tablet trembling faintly in his hands.
"What is it now?" the scientist asked without turning.
"Armed conflict has escalated again," the officer reported. "The Eastern Isles have officially severed cooperation with us. They're being backed by three other regions. Open warfare has already broken out along two border zones."
The scientist snorted.
"Again?" he said. "It's always them. Always nostalgia and honor."
The officer swallowed before continuing. "Their rejection of the PRISMA update—version fifteen point five—is growing louder. They consider the new regulations too restrictive. Their population refuses total surveillance."
"Surveillance," the scientist repeated, letting out a short laugh. "Such a beautiful word for something that saves them from themselves."
The officer hesitated. "There are other consequences, Doctor. Food crises. Mass suicides in several regions. Natural resources—"
"—are insufficient for humans who don't know when to stop multiplying," he cut in coldly. "That's not a system failure. That's a biological one."
He finally turned, fixing the officer with a direct stare.
"Are they threatening the core?" he asked.
"Yes. If negotiations fail, the Eastern Isles and their allies intend to strike the central facilities directly."
Silence lingered for a moment.
Then the scientist smiled—a thin, dismissive smile.
"They won't make it," he said. "And even if they do… they won't understand what they're looking at."
He stepped closer, his voice light again. "Prepare gold. Rare minerals. Whatever it takes to keep the Archipelago on our side."
The officer nodded quickly. "How much, Doctor?"
"As much as necessary," he replied without hesitation. "One ton, ten tons—numbers are an illusion when you control the system."
He waved a hand as if shooing away a fly. "They're hungry, corrupt, and desperate for direction. Give them a taste of importance, and they'll fight in your name."
The officer fell silent, then bowed his head. "Understood."
"Good. Do it."
The officer turned and left, his steps hurried.
The scientist faced the glass once more.
PRISMA continued to rotate—calm, obedient.
"See?" he murmured, his voice once again brimming with fervor. "They call themselves free, yet they're always waiting to be commanded."
He smiled broadly.
"Humans are the only creatures truly fit to be tools," he whispered. "Pieces. Labor. Data."
His hand pressed against the glass again.
"And you…" his breath trembled, "…you are the only god they truly created."
The green light within the core pulsed softly.
And far beneath the earth, far from that sterile laboratory—the world began to prepare for collapse.
Tap… Tap… Tap…
Footsteps echoed.
Not hurried. Not hesitant.
The corridor was long, narrow, and far too quiet for a center of power. Its walls were lined with finely etched black titanium—geometric patterns that were not decoration, but structural reinforcement and security fields. Thin streams of bluish-white light ran along the floor, following each step like a system that recognized whoever passed through.
Double security. Three layers of biometric identification. One layer of consciousness recognition.
The door at the end of the corridor stopped glowing.
Identity confirmed.
Commander Zeth.
Without a sound, without delay—the door slowly opened inward.
The chamber beyond was circular.
Vast, tall, and silent in a way that pressed against the chest. Not an office—but a throne room. Dark gray titanium formed its curved walls, adorned with surveillance screens reflecting the outside world: cities, facilities, fleets, numbers measuring life and death.
Living plants grew in certain corners, green and carefully maintained—symbols of life preserved, not allowed to run free. A low table of black metal stood nearby, weapons stored neatly within wall panels, relics of old and new technology coexisting without sentimentality.
And at its center—
An old man sat upon a chair that resembled a life-support apparatus more than a throne.
His body was pale, nearly translucent. His skin had lost its color, like paper left too long beneath harsh light. Thick cables pierced his chest, neck, and spine—data and energy flowing in, sustaining a consciousness that should have collapsed long ago.
Yet his eyes were still alive.
Calm. Sharp. More than a century old—yet filled with calculation.
The sixty-eighth successor of Tyrak.
A ruler who refused to die.
Zeth stepped inside.
From the throne's vantage point, he appeared imposing—his posture straight, his military uniform immaculate, the aura of someone accustomed to standing with equal weight on battlefields and in negotiation chambers.
The old man smiled faintly.
"Oh," he said softly, his voice steady despite his fragile body. "Commander Zeth… you finally came."
He studied him for a long moment, as if reading something beneath the surface.
"I want you to remain within this organization," he continued lightly. "As long as you are still one of them."
The words fell gently—yet carried immense weight.
Zeth did not answer.
He kept walking, steps firm, approaching the center of the room.
The founder's smile did not fade.
"You've served Tyrak for many years," he said. "From spy… to trusted hand. A fascinating journey."
Zeth stopped a few steps away.
Then the voice dropped, just slightly.
"And tell me," the founder asked slowly, "have you found the child?"
Zeth lifted his gaze.
"The primary fragment of the core," the old man continued. "The one we need to keep the system from collapsing. You know who he is, don't you? Or… perhaps you've already brought him to me?"
Zeth bowed his head slightly—a stiff gesture of respect.
"Not yet," he answered at last. His voice was calm, flat. "But covert units have been deployed. The process requires time."
His tone did not waver.
"I apologize for the delay in fulfilling that promise. There are many matters I must resolve to maintain corporate stability."
The founder drew a long breath.
"Nine years," he said quietly. "Nine years, Zeth."
The chair emitted a low hum as he leaned forward slightly.
"Without that fragment, PRISMA cannot evolve much further. It will fracture… disperse. The Divine Interface, the Environmental Nodes—none of it will synchronize."
His eyes narrowed.
"If you fail again," he said coldly, "I will deploy the war fleet. I will find him myself."
Zeth lifted his head.
"There's no need," he said.
His tone remained courteous—yet something within it had shifted.
"He will come on his own."
The Founder fell silent.
"What do you mean?"
"This time," Zeth continued, "I'll do it… just for you."
Silence descended.
At last, the old man smiled—a tired, worn smile.
"Very well," he said. "But remember this, Commander. If you fail again… I will remove you."
Zeth gave a short nod.
"Understood."
He lowered his head slightly, the motion precise, almost polite.
"Before I leave," he added in the same flat voice, "do you have any final requests?"
The Founder smiled faintly, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes shifting.
"Oh," he said lightly, as if asking for a glass of water.
With a finger still threaded into data cables, he pointed to the side of the room—a solitary glass case, isolated, bathed in dim bluish light. "Bring me that visor."
Zeth did not respond.
He complied.
Each step of his boots echoed softly across the titanium floor, reverberating against the chamber's curved walls. The glass case opened with a gentle hiss, its security seal dimming at once.
Inside lay a black visor helm—sleek, sharply contoured, its design closer to a crown than to protective gear. Two vertical protrusions rose from its top, like frozen blades of judgment.
Across the face, a dark visor reflected faint light—and behind it, a deep violet glow lay dormant, calm, like an eye that never slept.
The symbol of Tyrak's authority.
Zeth lifted it without hesitation.
But he did not turn back.
Did not step forward.
Did not offer it up.
Instead, the helm rose to his own face.
And when the visor sealed shut, the violet light within ignited slowly—not bright, but profound.
The Founder chuckled softly, mistaking it for a fleeting indulgence. "Still playing at old games? Don't do that again. Give it to me. Now."
In the very next second—
All the lights went out.
Completely.
No alarms. No warnings.
Only darkness.
"Zeth?" the voice changed. "What's happening? Why has everything gone dark?"
No answer.
Then—
"This isn't a system failure," Zeth's voice said, close… far too close. "And it isn't an intrusion."
The tone was cold, layered with a strange echo.
"It's me."
Footsteps sounded.
Tap…
Tap…
KRECCKHH—
A hand clamped around a throat.
The frail body was yanked from the chair. Cables tore free, striking the floor with dull, pitiful snaps.
The Founder choked, gasping for air.
Deep violet light flared from the visor.
Those eyes—no longer Tyrak's.
"I was prepared to wait for you to die on your own," Zeth said quietly. "But it seems… you're far too stubborn."
He leaned in closer.
"To rule the world," he continued, "I must first rule Tyrak."
The grip tightened.
"Before I kill that child… I must remove you."
The old body trembled.
"You… betrayed me…" the Founder hissed.
Zeth did not deny it.
He only replied coldly, "Betrayal is just a word used by the defeated. I'm merely ensuring… that power no longer rests in the wrong hands."
The pressure increased. More cables tore loose, falling soundlessly.
"And from this moment on," he continued, almost whispering, "loyalty is no longer a relevant word."
Silence reclaimed the room.
Then, with his final breath—
"If this is how I end," the Founder whispered, "then the ending of your story… will be the same."
His voice was heavy with hatred—and prophecy.
"The world will demand retribution. And a traitor like you… will suffer a punishment more cruel than death in hell."
The grip tightened.
And the darkness… swallowed everything.
***