Chapter I — The Sky That Burned Twice
The year was 3984, the dawn of the Great Interstellar War—a conflict that would stain both Earth and Controval-3 in fire and silence.
It began not with words, but with light.
A thousand beams lanced across the void, slicing through the dark like angry gods. The peace treaties of the Solar Accord were ash before the first fleet even crossed the orbit of Mars.
Earth's defense array—the Aegis Line—was the first to fall. Once hailed as unbreachable, it shattered under the fury of Controval's opening assault. Warships, sleek and black, slipped past the satellites like knives through paper.
And from the blue marble of Earth, humanity answered.
The Defense of Earth's Orbit
The Terran High Fleet rose from the planet's shadow: hundreds of colossal warships bearing the markings of every surviving nation. Their engines burned bright against the void, forming constellations of steel. The flagship Erevos Prime, a vessel the size of a city, led the formation—its captain's voice echoing through every comm channel:
> "This is not the end of humankind. This is the beginning of resistance."
Controval's armada responded in silence. No demands. No diplomacy. Just movement—surgical, precise, merciless.
Their warships were smaller but faster, built with angular armor that absorbed radar and bent light. They carried weapons forged in the black storms of their twin suns—graviton torpedoes, neural disruptors, and quantum imploders that could erase entire fleets in seconds.
The first collision of forces near lunar orbit was cataclysmic. The sky above Earth became a canvas of fire and ruin.
Missiles spiraled like comets. Battleships detonated in blossoms of light. The Moon itself trembled under the bombardment, its crust fractured by orbital strikes.
From deep beneath the planet's crust, Earth unleashed its final defense—the Hyperion Array, a weapon so powerful it was never meant to be used. Hidden since the early centuries of expansion, it drew energy from Earth's core and focused it through orbital prisms. When it fired, the entire night side of the planet turned white.
The beam struck Controval's central cruiser fleet dead-on. Twelve warships disintegrated instantly. The shockwave rippled across the void, scattering debris for thousands of kilometers.
For a brief moment, humanity believed the tide had turned.
But Controval-3 had come prepared.
They deployed Phase Veil, a defense matrix woven from dark energy—a living field that twisted space itself. Earth's projectiles bent away mid-flight, their trajectories dissolving into nothingness.
And then, the Controval legions descended.
They fell through the atmosphere like burning meteors, encased in armored capsules that split open upon impact. Entire regions went dark as they cut through communication grids and energy lines.
The first ground battles erupted across Asia, the Americas, and Europe. The sky turned crimson with re-entry fire.
Earth's armies rallied—battalions in mechanized armor, swarms of hover-tanks, drones equipped with particle lances. In the smoldering ruins of Tokyo's megadome, soldiers fought among collapsing towers, their rifles glowing with residual plasma.
At the edge of the Atlantic, the Leviathan Corps deployed the Titan-class mechs—machines so large their footsteps left craters. Their cannons roared like thunder, melting Controval skimmers mid-air.
Still, the enemy advanced.
Controval's soldiers moved with chilling coordination, their armor shifting shades like oil on water. They wielded electro-spines, energy blades that could cut through reinforced steel. Behind them came the Harvesters—autonomous siege units that devoured everything in their path, grinding metal and bone alike to ash.
Three weeks into the invasion, the Earth Defense Command authorized its most desperate measure: Operation Solstice.
Using the last remaining space elevator, scientists aboard the Aurelia Station launched the Solarlance—a doomsday railgun capable of piercing planetary shields. Its single projectile, forged from neutron-star alloy, was meant for one purpose: to strike directly at Controval-3 itself.
But the cost was devastating.
As the Solarlance charged, Controval forces detected the energy surge. They retaliated with the Omega Vein—a weapon that disrupted gravity itself. The resulting collision tore open the upper atmosphere.
Half of the orbital fleet was obliterated. The Aurelia Station fell from the sky, breaking apart over the Pacific in a burning arc of debris that could be seen from every corner of the world.
And yet—the Solarlance fired.
The projectile crossed the void, a streak of burning light. It struck Controval-3's largest ocean, boiling it in an instant. The explosion fractured their moon and hurled continents into darkness.
Both planets reeled. Both sides bled.
The war continued for six years—six years of endless bombardments, famines, betrayals, and fleeting victories.
Fleets were rebuilt and lost again. Oceans rose, skies darkened. The Earth's magnetic field collapsed twice. Cities drowned. Controval's twin suns dimmed under the radiation storms that followed.
When the war finally ended, it was not because one side triumphed. It was because there was nothing left to fight for.
The last transmission ever received from Controval-3's Supreme Command was faint, distorted through static:
> "We have become what we swore to destroy. End this."
Then silence.
The stars grew cold.
And from that silence, from the smoke and bones and grief of a dying world, one man would rise—Fujita Giono.