The Pulse Bell glowed faintly in the dimly lit studio chamber aboard the Eclipse, its resonance lingering like a heartbeat. BTS stood silently around it, the weight of their recent trials pressing into the air like invisible gravity. Two relics now lay in their possession. The Orb of Echoes pulsed with ancient resonance, while the Pulse Bell shimmered with unspent possibility.
Namjoon stepped forward, fingers brushing against the relics. "We're not just gathering relics anymore," he murmured. "We're rebuilding something ancient. Maybe something bigger than us."
Yoongi leaned against the console, eyes sharp but heavy-lidded. "The world's already listening. They don't know what they're waiting for."
"That's why we write it," Jimin added quietly. "We give them the rhythm to follow."
Jungkook nodded. "We give them a reason to fight."
They gathered in their studio, which had become more than a place for recording. It was a sanctuary, a war room, a memory vault, and the birthplace of revolutions. Sound filters absorbed the ambient noise of space travel. The relics, now connected to their makeshift harmonic interface, thrummed with alien energy. It was unlike anything they had ever composed with. Their usual software trembled when exposed to it. Frequencies fluctuated in unpredictable ways. But it was beautiful.
Hoseok tapped a sample pad and watched it flash with a foreign glow. "This thing's talking in wavelengths I've never heard before."
Namjoon tilted his head. "Maybe it's not supposed to be heard. Maybe it's supposed to be felt."
For days, they worked in layers. Yoongi laid down the base track: raw pulses, syncopated with cosmic background radiation, smoothed into a dark, slow-burning rhythm. Jin added vocal swells that felt like wings unfurling from grief. Jungkook's falsetto layered over Jimin's silken harmonies, weaving tension into hope. Taehyung's baritone anchored the chorus, vibrating like an ancient drumbeat lost in fog. Hoseok's frequency manipulation added kinetic tension, bending rhythm, and breathing into something alive, and Namjoon? His verses stitched it all together. Memory, loss, warning, flame.
When the track was complete, they sat still, the last note fading into silence. No one moved. The air carried weight. Something had shifted.
Yoongi broke the silence. "It's not a song."
"What is it then?" Jin asked softly.
"It's a weapon," Yoongi said. "But not for destruction. For awakening."
Namjoon whispered the title. "Soundbreaker."
They encoded the song into multiple formats. Audio waves, harmonic imprints, rhythm-coded light pulses. Hoseok worked with Jin to transfer it into encrypted data packets. Jungkook slipped it into hologram shells disguised as merchandise. Yoongi rerouted it through a deep-web sequence once used by exiled beatmakers. Jimin and Taehyung reached out to rebel nodes through the Harmony Underground. Namjoon sent pieces of the track through diplomatic frequencies, tagging it with neutral metadata to evade detection.
The song slipped into the wild.
At first, it was subtle. A faint humming in cargo bays. A melody heard by maintenance droids long deactivated. A janitor on Tyrren Station found herself mouthing the chorus unconsciously. Children on the mining colonies in the Neron Belt began tapping out the rhythm on metallic pipes. Once silenced by Federation surveillance, old radio hosts played ambient versions of the track beneath their nightly broadcasts.
On Vorexis Prime, a dancer in a hidden club choreographed an entire performance to it. There were no lyrics—just motion, echo, and soul. The audience cried and didn't know why.
On a prison moon in the Dzarri cluster, inmates found the tune etched into their dreams. One by one, they began to whistle it in unison. Guards panicked. The Federation issued white-noise overrides, but the rhythm returned like a heartbeat.
The song had become an infection of hope.
"They're trying to ban it," Taehyung said one night, watching the intercepted headlines. "Calling it 'sonic subversion.'"
Namjoon smirked. "Which means it's working."
Federation media scrambled. Propaganda bots pushed counter-frequencies. Entire satellites were hijacked to emit silence. They issued a blanket ban across twelve systems. Soundbreaker was officially labelled as "anti-unity interference." Executions were threatened for anyone caught spreading it.
But the more they tried to kill the song, the more it grew.
Even non-audio versions caused reactions. A dancer uploaded the waveform visual to a blank art forum. The comments exploded with people describing how they felt "like the universe blinked." Someone translated the track into vibrational patterns readable by Braille interfaces. Blind children claimed they could "see" for the first time through the sensations. Deaf communities transmitted the song as colour gradients. The hues stirred emotions they hadn't felt in years.
In the depths of the outer systems, rebel fleets began broadcasting Soundbreaker before launching attacks. Pirate vessels painted the waveform on their hulls. Worn graffiti in broken cities now bore its name. Whispered, sung, etched.
Soundbreaker was no longer a song.
It was the anthem of awakening.
Back aboard the Eclipse, BTS sat in the studio again, drained but proud. Hoseok winced as his shoulder twitched involuntarily. His harmonic channel, damaged during the drone incident, pulsed with inconsistent rhythm. He didn't tell the others, not yet.
Jin placed a hand on his knee. "You alright?"
"Yeah," Hoseok lied. "Just… feeling everything at once."
Jimin smiled faintly. "That means the song's alive."
Namjoon leaned back. "We don't need to be gods or warriors. Just… reminders. Of what people forgot they could feel."
Jungkook stared at the relics, glowing quietly now. "Two down. How many more?"
"Doesn't matter," said Yoongi. "The galaxy is humming again. That's what matters."
Outside the Eclipse, space shimmered as though listening. Someone was hearing the first verse of Soundbreaker—and deciding to rise somewhere, on some hidden world.
The rebellion was no longer a whisper.
It had become a roar.