Jayden woke up with a groan as his eyes struggled to focus from another round of strange dreams and scattered flashbacks. He didn't jolt upright, didn't gasp in fear, and didn't bother questioning it. Not anymore. In the beginning, those visions had shaken him. They'd made him question his grip on reality. Now, they were just a nuisance.
"This is getting old," he muttered, rubbing his eyes as he sat up. "Maybe I really am losing it."
He let out a short, dry laugh as he rolled off the bed and started his morning training. His body moved through the old MMA routines his grandfather had drilled into him, one repetition at a time. These were techniques from another era—practical, brutal, efficient. His muscles moved on memory, not motivation. There was no music playing, no fire in his chest. Just habit.
Outside, the final days of the year slipped by like snow melting underfoot. Nothing remarkable happened, at least not for Jayden. But elsewhere, the world was buzzing, and the buzz turned into a roar on the first day of the new year.
More than ninety-five percent of Earth's population was watching the same thing.
It didn't matter where someone was. At home, at work, at a party, or in a crowd of millions standing in city squares, all eyes were locked onto a single event. Holograms lit up cityscapes. Screens blinked to life in rural villages. Even those who rarely tuned in were drawn to it by sheer gravity.
The countdown began. Numbers echoed around the globe.
"Ten…"
"Nine…"
"Eight…"
"Seven…"
"Six…"
"Five…"
"Four…"
"Three…"
"Two…"
"One…"
The screens went black for a few seconds.
Then, slowly, the feed returned.
The camera panned across a massive stadium. Thousands stood in silence. At the center, a wide, circular stage had been constructed. Intricate sculptures curved outward from the platform—metallic, organic, and alien in design. Robotic figures, nearly indistinguishable from humans, stood along the perimeter. Their blank expressions and mechanical precision kept the crowd in line.
A hush fell over the audience.
An older man appeared on stage, walking with calm confidence. Though his hair was white and his beard neatly trimmed, he moved with the posture of someone who still trained daily. His presence alone drew immediate attention.
Behind him stood a small group, stoic, flawless, and unsettlingly still. For those who paid attention, it was clear these were not humans. These were artificial lifeforms, high-grade constructs built by the Interstellar Alliance. They looked, sounded, and acted like people, but they were not born. They were made.
And they were far more advanced than any previous model.
The man let the silence hang before lifting the mic.
"Ladies, gentlemen, and citizens watching from across the universe, my name is Nicolas," he said. "I am the Vice President of the Interstellar Alliance."
Everyone already knew who he was.
There wasn't a single developed world in the known galaxy where his face hadn't been broadcast, printed, or discussed. Nicolas was a celebrity, politician, and enforcer of IA policy. His words held weight, sometimes the kind that could crush worlds.
"Before we begin, allow me to say this on behalf of the Alliance," he said with a warm smile. "Happy New Year."
A few polite claps followed, though most remained silent. No one was here for greetings. Everyone wanted answers.
"As you all know, our civilization has changed dramatically over the past centuries. With new advancements come new challenges, new responsibilities, and greater risks for all of us. That brings me to the purpose of today's announcement."
He stepped aside.
A small woman, nearly frail in appearance, walked up beside him. Though quiet, her presence triggered a shift in the room. Massive holographic screens bloomed into life above the stadium.
One word appeared across them all: Pantheon.
"There are countless cultures across the stars," Nicolas continued. "Billions of unique beliefs, customs, and histories. Very few things unite us, but one of the strongest is our shared passion for virtual gaming."
He turned and pointed toward one of the hovering displays.
"This industry has changed everything. It has become a cornerstone of our economy. A vehicle for diplomacy. A platform for art. In some cases, entire civilizations rely on the infrastructure of gaming to function. We love this. But with love comes danger."
Murmurs broke out in the crowd. Some were skeptical. Others angry. The word "danger" was never thrown around lightly.
"In fact," Nicolas added, "the level of dependence we've developed on gaming systems has reached a point where one major failure could collapse multiple planetary economies overnight."
Now the murmurs turned into full-blown shouts.
"What's the problem?" someone yelled. "So what if gaming runs everything?"
"Yeah, you just want a bigger cut, don't you?" another shouted. "You bureaucrats can't stand not having control!"
"Exactly! Leave it alone!"
Nicolas raised one hand. He didn't look surprised. In fact, he looked amused.
"Athena," he said softly to the woman beside him, "funny how quickly they jump to conclusions, isn't it?"
The woman tilted her head, her voice calm and melodic. "It is one of the many quirks of emotional thinking. Something we synthetic minds are still learning to understand."
He nodded with a chuckle. "Still, it's fascinating. I haven't even said anything and I'm already the villain."
He turned back toward the crowd and raised the microphone.
"Everyone, please. Let me finish."
Nicolas gave the crowd a moment to settle before continuing.
"Because of the crucial role gaming now plays in the lives of nearly every citizen in the galaxy, the Interstellar Alliance proposed a review. After years of research and deliberation, guided by the Holy Guide, a decision was reached. The system as we know it must evolve."
The moment he mentioned the Holy Guide, everything stopped.
There were no more outbursts. No complaints. No sarcasm.
The Holy Guide was not a person. It was a living planet, if "living" was even the right word. It was a superintelligent AI megastructure, hundreds of times larger than Earth, created and maintained by the Alliance itself.
Few had seen it.
Fewer understood it.
But its influence stretched across every civilization under the Alliance's domain. It was the quiet architect behind nearly every law, every advancement, and every standard of modern life.
No one dared oppose a directive from the Holy Guide.
"As directed by the Holy Guide," Nicolas said slowly, "a new system will be introduced to stabilize, unify, and elevate the gaming infrastructure across all known systems. That system is a single, universal game. Its name is Pantheon."
The screens above him shifted.
For a moment, they flashed rapid imagery: titanic beings battling across shattered landscapes, avatars with divine power soaring through the skies, colossal cities built into the sides of planets, alien species coexisting, and war breaking out in the farthest corners of the universe.
"The development of Pantheon has been underway for years. Every known advancement in neural simulation, full-dive hardware, AI decision-making, and psychological mapping has been funneled into this single project. Unlike previous games, Pantheon will not simply be played. It will be lived."
The crowd had gone from defiant to captivated.
"In Pantheon, every action matters. Every choice you make can ripple across the galaxy. It will not be limited to a planet, nor even to your species."
He paused.
There was silence again, heavier than before. The weight of the announcement had begun to sink in.
"And so," he said, stepping back toward center stage, "as part of this new initiative, all previously developed VR games have been acquired by the government. Their servers will be archived and retired. Effective immediately, the development of new virtual games will be prohibited by law."
The crowd didn't explode this time.
They were too stunned.
Too confused.
Too overwhelmed to react.
Nicolas cracked a rare smile. "Almost forgot that last part," he said with a shrug, as if talking about a late grocery list item. "That's all for now. Further information will be delivered to you shortly."
He gave a quick wave, turned on his heel, and walked offstage.
And just like that, the feed cut out.
Trillions of people remained motionless, staring at frozen screens, still processing what they'd just heard. Conversations wouldn't start for several more minutes. Social feeds would be flooded within the hour. Protests would follow. So would celebrations.