The victory in Tokyo was a scar, not a triumph. It had cost thousands of lives, crippled a global metropolis, and proven, with brutal finality, that humanity's squabbling nations were utterly unprepared for the predators who now waited in the dark. The fear was a tangible thing, a cold blanket that settled over the globe.
It was from this fear that a new hope was born.
The invitation was not sent through diplomatic channels or military communiques. It was a psychic whisper, a call sent out by Amira Khan from the heart of the Giza Plateau. Using the ancient tomb's resonant energies as an amplifier, she reached into the minds of the world's most powerful Awakened. She did not send words of politics or strategy. She sent a feeling: the shared terror of the Vulture's arrival, the shared grief for the fallen, and a single, fragile, desperate spark of hope for a united front.
One by one, they answered.
The Global Awakened Summit was held in a massive, open-air pavilion erected at the foot of the Great Pyramid of Giza. It was a place where ancient power met the terrifying uncertainty of the new world.
It began in a state of tense, frigid hostility.
Lin Feng, representing the EAC, stood with his arms crossed, a silent, imposing statue of military discipline. Jack Wilson, now a political refugee granted asylum by the EAC, stood beside him, his eyes scanning the other attendees with a sharp, analytical distrust. Ivan Petrov, the Winter General, had arrived alone, a ghost from the north in a heavy greatcoat, his presence radiating a cold that had nothing to do with the desert heat. Diego, his face a mask of grim resolve, represented the LAAU's nature-wielders. Sophia Cohen, escorted by a grim-faced Professor Brandt, was the face of the scientific resistance. And Sakura Miyamoto had simply... appeared, a shadow detaching from the shade of the pyramid itself.
The politicians and generals who had come with them did the talking. They postured. They argued over jurisdiction, over resource sharing, over command structures. The Alliance representatives, led by a new, less overtly hostile diplomat, spoke of "integrated command," a softer version of Thorne's failed power grab. The EAC and LAAU delegates countered with proposals of a "rotational leadership council." It was the same old world, playing the same old, tired games, completely oblivious to the fact that the board itself was about to be burned.
The summit was on the verge of collapse. The fragile hope was dying, strangled by the ego and ambition of dying nations.
It was then that Amira Khan stood. She had been silent throughout the proceedings, a calm, observant presence. She walked to the center of the pavilion, and the arguing voices slowly fell silent, drawn by the strange, ancient authority in her eyes.
She did not speak. She closed her eyes and placed a hand on the sand.
The world dissolved.
She did not show them a vision; she gave them one. With the High Priest's spirit as her conduit and the Pyramid as her amplifier, she tore a hole in their minds and showed them the truth.
They were no longer in the desert. They were in the cold, silent void of deep space, looking down upon a planet of swirling, toxic gas. And around this planet was a fleet. Not the small, surgical fleet that had attacked Tokyo. This was a wave of ships so vast it blotted out the stars, an armada of tens of thousands of the same black, insectoid vessels, a locust swarm of cosmic proportions. They felt the cold, unified, and utterly alien hunger of the hive mind. They felt the Vultures' casual, contemptuous view of Earth as a single, ripe fruit on a vast, cosmic tree. They felt their own planet's utter, absolute insignificance.
The vision lasted for less than a second, but it was an eternity of pure, cosmic horror.
The connection broke.
A collective gasp went through the pavilion. Generals who had seen a hundred battles were pale and trembling. Politicians who had built careers on bluster were speechless. The seven heroes at the center of it all stood frozen, the phantom terror of the abyss still clinging to them like a shroud.
The arguments were over. The posturing was finished. The old world, with its borders and its flags and its petty squabbles, had just been rendered utterly, irrevocably obsolete. They all now understood the terrifying, simple truth.
They would stand together, or they would be harvested alone.
In the center of the silent pavilion, Lin Feng looked at Jack. Ivan looked at Diego. Sophia looked at Sakura. For the first time, they were not soldiers or scientists or rivals. They were survivors. And in the silent, shared understanding of the abyss they had just witnessed, a new alliance was forged, not of nations, but of necessity.