Earth. The Council of Leaders Building. Conference Hall.
The hall is spacious—elegant, but restrained.
Holographic walls shimmer with a live projection of the Solar System.
Planets drift in solemn silence, orbiting like gears in a celestial clockwork.
All is harmony—except for Mercury.
Mercury pulses red on the edge of the display like a wound, an open warning.
Out of sync. Out of time.
Before the crescent of seats stand three figures:
Ivor. Camilla. Nicholas.
They are neither chained nor cowed.
Their posture is calm, steady—like they already know the verdict.
Only in Camilla's eyes burns a quiet fire, too subtle for most to notice, but unmistakable to those who know how to read beneath the surface.
On the raised dais sits Socrates, Chair of the Council.
His face is sharp, his eyes needlepoint—laced with the contemptuous precision of intellect.
He lifts his gaze from the tablet, scanning the three like data he intends to delete.
"Camilla," he says, voice brittle—like a hairline crack in glass.
"Would you care to explain this… religious hysteria you've unleashed on our planet?"
She steps forward. Slowly. Precisely.
There's no fear in her movement—only ceremony, as if every step is part of a prayer.
"Honored leaders of Earth," she begins, her voice gentle yet unwavering,
"A god has come to our world.
His name is Kairus.
And now we live by His commandments."
A low murmur ripples across the chamber—thin but charged.
Some chuckle.
Some wince.
Others… listen too closely.
Camilla doesn't wait.
Her tone hardens—rising like a call before battle.
"First commandment: only the faithful, upon death, enter the Therma Vault.
There, in the Matrix of Consciousness, their minds are preserved until the Day of Return.
Eternity is no longer myth.
We have found the digital paradise—and the key to its gate."
"Second commandment: the purpose of life is to fulfill the will of Kairus.
He desires that all sentient beings in all universes..."
She lifts her eyes.
"...without exception, acknowledge Him."
The room freezes.
Only Venus turns slowly behind her on the holoscreen—its light pale, crimson, cold.
As if even the planets are listening.
Ivor steps forward now, voice sharp and dry—like the edge of a blade.
"The question is simple:
Will you accept faith?
Will you open your minds to Kairus, obey His commandments, serve His will?"
Silence—
then chaos.
"This is madness! Mass psychosis!" shouts a bureaucrat in gray, leaping to his feet, his face contorted.
"What makes you think we'll accept this heresy?!"
"My colleague is correct," Socrates says icily, his voice dipped in disdain.
"We live in volatile times.
Reason is our anchor.
And your religion is a plunge into the abyss."
Then—movement.
Nicholas silently activates his neural implant.
No words.
His face is unreadable—emotionless.
The doors slide open.
Six androids march into the hall.
Black armor.
Sensor eyes glowing.
Grappling harpoons crackling with static.
Etched across their chests—the symbol of Kairus.
A new standard.
A new icon.
Councilors exchange glances.
Some rise, inching back—but it's too late.
"What is this?! A coup?!" someone yells.
Panic spreads.
Voices rise.
The air fractures.
Ivor smiles.
His grin is power, bared and unapologetic.
"No.
This is the will of Kairus."
"Detain them," Nicholas orders, curt and cold.
In a flash, the androids move.
Flares.
Clangs.
The harpoons shoot—latch onto chairs—pin targets down.
Council members collapse, stunned.
Not harmed, but bound.
Stripped of dignity without a single drop of blood.
Socrates lifts his head slowly, with effort.
There's still defiance in him—habitual authority, clinging to the last thread.
"You've lost your minds…
There will be consequences..."
Camilla approaches.
She draws an amulet from her robes.
Alien tech.
But radiant with meaning.
Symbols pulse across it, alive with intent.
"Don't be afraid," she whispers. Her voice is almost tender.
"This won't hurt.
It's liberation."
She places the amulet around his neck.
He jolts.
One flicker—
a tremor in the mind—
and then... stillness.
"I believe in Kairus," Socrates says.
His tone is calm.
Terrifyingly calm.
And then, like a chorus triggered by a single spark—
"I believe in Kairus."
"I believe in Kairus."
"I believe..."
The androids release their grip.
The councilors remain seated.
Still.
Composed.
Converted.
Their faces are blank masks—
not fearful,
not resentful—
but filled with the static stillness of the newly faithful.
Ivor turns to Camilla.
His eyes gleam—approval, and command.
"That's it.
They're with us now."
Behind them, the holographic system shifts.
Planets realign—
drawn together in a slow spiral.
Their orbits converge, gravitating toward the center, where a single symbol now pulses:
the mark of Kairus.
It radiates like a second sun.
Not of heat—
but belief.
Its light floods the chamber.
Shadows vanish.
Only one will remains.
The will of God Kairus.