I saw the records. I read them, studied them, memorized them. Dates, figures, production outputs, energy yields, population growth charts. But no record, no matter how detailed, ever truly captures what that time felt like.
The golden age that followed was unlike anything the world had known.
Factories that didn't poison the air. Machines that moved without horses or hard labor. No smoke choking the sky. No children coughing themselves to sleep.
Electricity flowed through Babel like blood through veins—steady, constant, alive. It reached every corner of the city, every home, every street. Night no longer meant darkness. Knowledge no longer belonged only to the elite.
Babel shone.
Ave's logic and innovation matched perfectly with Papa's leadership and ambition. She built the future, and he protected it. She designed systems meant to last centuries; he ensured no one tore them down out of fear or ignorance. Together, they created something fragile and powerful all at once.
Together, they made Babel shine.
That was why it shocked everyone when they decided to have children.
The elders were speechless. Men who always had something to say suddenly found their mouths dry.
Every lady left hopeless. Women who had admired Papa from a distance, who whispered his name like a legend, realized they no longer had a chance with him.
Even the Summoned were shocked. Nine thousand warriors who feared nothing whispered among themselves like startled children.
Zefar, the unbreakable.
Ave, the intellect.
Parents?
No one had seen that coming.
First came Ruse. My brother.
Mama taught him basic engineering before he could even tie his shoes. Papa showed the importance of the Slayers and why keeping the world peaceful was their sole purpose.
Ruse grew up among blueprints and machines, his crib placed in labs more often than nurseries. He watched gears turn before he learned to walk.
By nine, Ruse had built machines that even the most experienced inventors struggled to comprehend. He could see systems in motion before they existed, deconstructing problems as if they were simple puzzles. He didn't guess. He calculated. He didn't imagine. He knew.
When Ruse was ten, I was born.
I didn't scream as much as other babies, or so they said. I watched. I listened. I learned patterns. I was quiet, careful, curious—the one who was destined to measure, dissect, and repair flesh, not metal.
I understood life the way Ruse understood machines.
In a family of geniuses, I possessed something different:
Precision plus instinct.
Analysis on impulse.
And hands made to heal.
Mama noticed early. She watched how I touched things gently, how I reacted to injury instead of danger. She said I didn't fear blood; I respected it.
She got pregnant again when I was five.
She never knew until it was too late. She had bigger problems at the time.
She was dying, and it was all her doing.
The sun had long set the night Ave finally leaned back from the prototype, exhaustion etched into every line of her face.
The lab was quiet except for the low hum of power running through reinforced conduits. She was early in pregnancy, but she barely noticed. Her mind was alive with numbers, energy curves, and probabilities.
"Wind and solar aren't enough," she whispered to herself. "Not for Babel. Not with its growth. There must be a better way."
Zefar stood behind her, silent, as he often did. He had learned when to speak and when to simply exist. She didn't flinch at his presence. He was there to see her latest invention, not to stop her.
She gestured to a glowing vial of radioactive material suspended inside a containment field.
"This is the most efficient energy source I have ever discovered," she said. "If this works, Babel will never need to burn another ounce of coal."
She hesitated.
"But…" her hand trembled slightly, "it's dangerous. Zefar, keep Ruse and Naya out of my lab from now on."
His hand rested briefly on her shoulder.
"Tell me this isn't a suicide project," he said quietly. "Tell me you can control it. I won't leave you behind if it ends up exploding.
I will walk through the flames to find you—because your kids still need you."
Ave turned to him then, eyes sharp, tired, unwavering.
"You think I don't know that?" she asked. "I am doing this for them. Any unfinished work I leave will become their burden. I want them to be free. I want them to explore."
She swallowed.
"And most of all, I want you to keep them as far from this project as possible. The cost to perfect it is a price only I can pay."
From then onward, she spent every late night and waking dawn on that experiment. She refused shortcuts. Fossil fuels, she said, were destructive and temporary.
She wanted sustainable development, not borrowed progress. The energy demands of the Empire fell squarely on her shoulders.
And so she finally perfected the harnessing of nuclear energy. Her work, however, condemned her in the end.
Radiation exposure. Cancer. Too many cancers for anyone to count. Every calculation, every experiment, every sleepless night brought her closer to an inevitable death.
They tried to save her. Papa, the doctors, the advisors—they all tried. But she refused to slow down. She didn't stop until those tasked with maintaining her dangerous invention were properly trained.
She ensured that Babel had the energy and the expertise to thrive without her.
She then died peacefully in her sleep the same night her job was done.
I was told she felt no pain. No terror. Just a mind finally still after building a legacy that would last centuries.
Zefar remembered that night vividly.
Ave's breathing was quiet, almost serene. She had calculated the cost and accepted it.
He sat near the window, holding her hand.
He whispered, "You had to die for Babel, didn't you?"
She smiled faintly.
"I didn't die for Babel," she said softly. "I did it for you and the kids. For progress. For knowing that my work on Earth was finally finished."
Her voice weakened.
"I told you, Zefar… there's lots of rest in the grave. Too bad I'm leaving you guys behind. Tell the kids I am sorr—"
She never finished apologizing.
Life left her eyes, and the world seemed to pause for Zefar.
He couldn't believe she was gone. And when he finally stood, something in him changed. He ensured her memory would last beyond his own legend.
He made sure everyone in Babel knew the name of the woman who gave her life for their growth.
Her work lit every street, powered every engine, and advanced Babel beyond imagination.
When the news of her death spread, the city mourned.
They say the funeral lasted a month. The minute of silence changed into a day.
Machines halted. Streets emptied. The entire capital paused, as if the city itself was holding its breath.
The world noticed the absence of the one woman who had quietly shaped it.
I was too young to remember her clearly.
But her brilliance paved the way for my excellence.
Just like Ave, Ruse worked and rarely rested. I had to beg him to stop most of the time. I brought him meals inside his workshop because working without food was normal to him.
I didn't want him pushing himself too far.
I didn't want him to end up like—
It was accurate to say we were her mirror: the next pioneers of human advancement.
I felt it every time I touched a scalpel, every time I measured a pulse, every time I tried to fix a body. No matter how many I healed, my world would never be whole, because her love was missing.
I glanced down at Oma again.
Dark hair brushing the edge of the bed. Breathing shallow but steady. Alive.
He didn't know I was aware of his plan to kill Father.
He didn't need to.
What he required was love and genuine care, not judgment and hate. Whatever Father did to him changed his life forever.
He left his world to come to Babel, knowing there was no going back.
Hunter called him dangerous.
But wasn't Papa called the Devil for the same misunderstood reasons?
To outsiders, to enemies, to anyone who only knew their rage and not the cause, they were terrifying.
But to me, Zefar was just my dad.
Oma was also angry and vengeful—for the right reasons. They were terrible to most.
But I knew the truth.
They were terrifyingly human.
Mere mortals blessed by the Heavens.
Their only curse was being born without love. So rage became their companion instead.
I was the one who saw through them.
I was the healer who noticed the scars on their souls.
They called me angelic. Sweet. Kind. Quiet.
But I was still the beloved daughter of Babel's so-called Devil.
Maybe that fact made me look at Zefar without flinching. I loved him regardless, no matter what they named him.
I adjusted the bandage on Oma's arm. A small tear. Nothing life-threatening—but every wound mattered.
I learned that from Mama.
She was too ambitious and driven for her own good. Could I ever carry that same fire without burning myself?
My mind kept wandering as I sat beside Oma, who I realized wasn't so different from my father.
They were both—
Dangerous.
Misunderstood.
Calculated.
And emotional.
Oma was a boy capable of changing the world for good, not just through war. I truly believed he could become better than Zefar—but only if he let go of his anger.
He had every right to be furious. But it was hurting him more than it helped.
I wasn't going to pretend I understood his pain.
I was, however, going to be there for him.
Someone had to.
Using a glass thermometer, I checked his temperature. The fever from his injuries was finally coming down. He looked peaceful lying there.
And for now…
That was good enough for me.