A shadow stretches over paradise.
Earth—still the only place in the Solar System where the illusion of peace holds.
People stroll the boulevards, laughing, hands intertwined.
They sip drinks at cafés, scroll holographic newsfeeds, talk about weather, sales, fashion.
They have no idea the world is already cracking.
That above their heads, war is smoldering in the sky.
Beneath the shadows of the ad towers walks Ivor.
His stride is light, almost a waltz—but there's a survivor's certainty in each step.
He's walked through bullets, betrayal, and the ruin of civilizations.
His lips curl into the faintest smirk—not joy, but irony.
He's no hero.
But he's stayed alive too many times to be just another pedestrian.
Whatever this is—it's façade, he thinks.
Holograms, faces, buildings—it's all smoke. I've walked through this kind of illusion before.
His shadow glides across mirrored facades, past neon-painted scenes of alpine lakes, children playing with robotic dogs, infinite summer days that never were.
A paradise printed on the canvas of lies.
And then—silence.
Not calm. Not a lull.
Absolute stillness.
As if someone hit pause on the entire planet.
The world freezes.
A woman with a stroller stops mid-step. The child inside hangs open-mouthed in motionless awe.
A girl holding ice cream is caught mid-stride—her cone mid-fall, yet suspended.
Even the birds are frozen in mid-air, like cutouts of glass.
"Shit…" Ivor spins.
This isn't just some effect. This is something else.
He lifts his hand, waving through the air—nothing. No interface. No field.
But there's something… off. A tear. A rupture in the weave of the world.
It smells like ozone.
Or static.
Or fear.
And then—it all changes.
One breath—
—and the streets vanish.
Beneath his boots: violet gravel, smooth and alien, like it was gathered from a world no human has ever touched.
It crunches underfoot as he crouches and picks up a stone.
"What the hell…" he breathes.
The stone is cold. Glassy. Alive?
He stands.
This isn't Earth.
Canyons rise like petrified waves reaching into a rose-gold sky.
The light bleeds pink and crimson, the air hot and humming—
as if the planet itself is breathing beneath its skin.
This isn't a dream.
This isn't a simulation.
This is a crossing.
A passage to somewhere governed by different laws.
He takes a step. The gravel groans—like reality itself protests his weight.
Then the ground—exhales.
At first faint. Then deeper.
Then comes the rumble.
As if something is clawing through the seams of space.
From the canyon depths, something rises.
A figure.
Monolithic.
Not man.
Not god.
Something beyond both.
Taller than the cliffs. Semi-transparent, yet radiating raw energy.
A living storm of light shaped into form.
Each step sends out flashes—like the air itself fractures in its presence.
In its right hand: a sword of flame so massive its tip gouges into the earth.
In its left: a clenched fist, raised to the heavens.
No.
This isn't a projection.
This isn't a vision.
This is—Kairus, Ivor realizes, trying to breathe—
but it feels like his lungs are being held shut by something unseen.
And I'm here for a reason.
The world holds its breath.
And then—a voice.
No—an impact.
As if air itself becomes thunder.
As if the sky speaks.
"Believers."
Ivor doesn't move.
Can't move.
His body is locked—not by fear—
but by truth.
Something ancient, vast, speaks not to the mind, but to the marrow.
This isn't a summons.
It's judgment.
A voice from the void.
A voice not spoken, but forged—
from sound and light, fused into presence.
It isn't human.
And yet it feels known.
Like a song you forgot, echoing in your blood.
It comes from everywhere—
the sky,
the stone,
his own chest.
"I am Kairus."
A thousand voices braided into one.
A harmony of awe and terror.
A god forged of fire and memory.
"I have gathered you here," Kairus declares, "to celebrate our shared victory. As of this moment, all inhabitants of Earth are my disciples. And soon—your entire kind, on every world, will march beneath my banner."
The crowd stands still, caught in a trance.
Their faces pale, as if the blade-light of the god sears away their old selves.
The stones beneath their feet shimmer, reflecting divine fire.
Their skin whitens, takes on a marble hue—statues beneath the torchlight of a foreign sun.
"Now, your lives are filled with purpose," Kairus continues,
his voice rumbling like thunder over a chasm,
a verdict disguised as mercy.
"That purpose is to serve my will.
I shall be your loving father.
I will free you from illusion.
Forget ambition. Desire. Thought.
What makes you believe you know what you deserve?"
He speaks like a teacher, Ivor realizes, but hidden in every word— a cage.
Beautiful. Gilded.
Locked from the inside, inside your own mind.
Kairus's eyes ignite—two suns no mortal can gaze upon.
They don't just shine. They burn.
Thoughts evaporate.
Selfhood disintegrates.
"I have lived through trillions of lives.
I am knowledge.
I am destiny.
Preservation in the Vault of Therma—that is your fate.
Walk to it. Do not look back."
Something inside Ivor breaks.
But not from fear.
From recognition.
I've heard this voice before...
I've stood at this crossroads...
He remembers.
The ancient encounter.
The same question.
Once, he asked Kairus:
"When will those preserved in Therma awaken?"
And the answer had been glacial:
"When there is only one god.
When all live under his law.
When my brother Hanaris is erased forever."
So this is what it's all been for.
A war between brothers.
Between gods.
And every one of us—just coins tossed into their wager.
But before the thought fully forms, he feels it—
A gaze.
Sharp. Icy.
Like a sniper's aim from the far side of reality.
He whirls around.
There, behind him, stands a boy.
No more than ten. Pale. Almost translucent.
As if light flows through his skin.
His eyes don't blink.
They don't show fear. Or curiosity.
Only knowing.
He sees me, Ivor realizes.
Not the mask. Not the name.
But the core.
"Where did you come from?" Ivor whispers.
"What are you?"
The boy says nothing.
But in that silence, there's too much knowledge.
A cold twist tightens in Ivor's chest.
Something ancient clicks into place.
Androids don't have children.
It's taboo. Heresy.
An ethical fracture. A crime against the natural order.
Yet the boy stands there.
Real.
Impossible.
Alive.
And then—he turns.
And runs into the crowd.
Ivor doesn't hesitate.
He dives after him, shoving past the still bodies of the disciples, skidding over violet stones, stumbling—but running.
His heart pounds like war drums, his breath ragged in his chest.
Don't lose him.
He's the key.
Whatever this means—he knows.
But the boy is already gone.
Dissolving into light, like a drop vanishing into a boiling star.
The glow swallows him like a curtain falling on the last act of a tragedy.
A beat. One breath.
And then—
Silence breaks into noise.
Ivor finds himself back on the street.
The city flows as if nothing happened.
People walk. Laugh. Cry.
Holograms shine.
Cars hum.
What the hell was that?
Ivor stands frozen.
The sweat on his temples hasn't dried.
His fingers tremble as he touches his face.
He scans the crowd.
No one notices him.
No one saw the boy.
Or the giant.
Or the blade.
If it was a dream—why do my legs ache?
Why does this cold still live inside me?
There's no answer.
But one thing he knows:
He saw something real.
And now—
there's no going back.