September 1st, 2029.
Two and a half years ago, a sound was heard from the skies above, one heard across every home, every human and every nation. No natural force could birth that rumble, and no machine we'd built could mimic it. It was like a massive, gut-wrenching horn roaring across the globe.
Within the hour, forty-four crimson portals had torn through the skies worldwide, pulling in crowds of brilliant minds from every field to gawk and study. Interest exploded when word spread, that these things radiated infinite energy, and were thus a bottomless well of power.
That was the point of view of the many governments, but the normal people just called them beautiful.
For thousands of years, the world had gone without miracles. When the crimson storms first appeared above the cities, people wept in the streets. And ohhh no, it was not from fear, but from awe. Billions of eyes looked upward, hungry for proof of something greater than themselves. A lot of them dropped to their knees in prayer for the first time in their lives.
Governments raced to stake their claims on those portals, desperate to own a piece of the miracle. Corporations jumped in, slapping trademarks on them for absurd prices, and overnight, new religions popped up everywhere, each one declaring the portals sacred, as the first true signs from above. Watching over the whole chaotic mess was Matthew Steel.
He was already the richest man alive, and that was by far. His empire of bioengineering, military contracts, and global infrastructure had made him a god among mortals long before the sky ever opened. When the portals appeared, nearly half of them were within Steel Enterprise territories.
Matthew Steel warned humanity not to be fooled by the portals as divine omens or proof of God, stressing that their true nature, origins, and sustaining force remained unknown. They could signify even extraterrestrial life, but until measurable, they were neither holy nor damned.
To his dismay, the world had been godless for too long. And when something finally answered, no one cared who was speaking.
Under Steel's forced leadership, America sealed its portals behind fortified walls. The rest of the world did the opposite. They built around them, in forms of massive facilities designed to siphon the portals' energy, or even holy grounds.
Seven days later, the first gate opened, and that day would forever be known as the Day of Blood. Not a week passed before the whole of humanity had to say goodbye to their proof of God, and in its place came something so much worse.
Hell.
It was Hell on earth.
Creatures that escaped from those portals could only be described as Demons. They were creatures made purely for the purpose of killing, and each of their many body parts was a weapon in itself. They varied greatly, in both size and power, but each and every one looked like a wolf set loose in a field filled with sheep.
Humanity stood no chance. The vanguard armies were butchered in hours. Only when waves of heavy reinforcements poured in, did the lines begin to hold, fragile as they were. These demons shrugged off rifle fire like raindrops, and it took heavy ordnance, missiles and autocannons, to even scar their hides.
The apocalypse raged for a mere ten hours, yet the toll was beyond reckoning. Hundreds of millions perished in the bloodbath and many countries were reduced to smoldering craters.
North America bore the lightest wounds, shielded by Steel Enterprise's prescient fortifications across the United States and Canada. Still, the price was steep: New York's iconic skyline got erased, and vast expanses of Texas and Alabama were cordoned off as "Red Zones," irradiated hellscapes where no sane soul ventured.
The other continents fared far worse. South America lost its heart, the Amazon. It was devoured by fire-breathing abominations, and thousands of them roam it to this day. Cities crumbled from Lisbon to Vorkuta, and nations like Estonia and Yemen toppled entirely as demons rampaged through them.
The difference in power was simply too large and even Steel's private army, backed by drones and experimental tech began to buckle under the onslaught. The remaining survivors truly thought that this was the end for the human race.
But fate had one more card up its sleeve, and this one tilted the scales back toward the living. In every language known to man, translucent screens appeared before all the survivors. Words materialized on them, foreign symbols at first, then translated into the language each viewer knew best.
Each screen offered a question: [Do you wish to resist?]
Those who accepted changed. Their strength multiplied, their senses sharpened, and their very souls burned with power.
The ones who chose to fight back found they could actually hurt the demons now, punching right through their hides with bare hands. The System handed out skills tailored to each person's soul and backstory, and it introduced itself as everyone's personal guardian angel, watching their back.
Just like that, the battle flipped. Humanity clawed its way out of the grave, living to see another day.
In the thick of the Day of Blood, twelve standouts rose up, having the greatest powers out of anyone else. They banded together, stormed the fallen nations, and people started calling them the Twelve Apostles, the first group of living Saints.
In fact, anyone stepping up to shield the world and play hero got dubbed a Saint. Before long, it turned into a real job, where the best ones obtained celebrity like status.
The film ended.
The great white hall dimmed, the last flicker of red from the projector fading into the marble walls. Rows upon rows of students sat frozen, faces lit by the pale light of the podium ahead. Then, from behind the curtain, a woman stepped forward.
Her presence filled the room before her voice ever did. Long dark hair spilled over a white grand uniform, and on her back was a long cape that on her slender form managed to look like a pair of wings. Her eyes were of unnatural blue color, and they moved with great haste, over all of the students present. When she reached the microphone, the sea of students stood as one.
"Merci," she began, her voice carrying a soft French lilt. "Thank you, dear students, for your attention. Welcome to the grand halls of the Minos Prime Institute, the current leading school for all Saints in training. I know this… history lesson was long, hm? But it is necessary."
She smiled at a certain student in the crowd. "For those who do not know me, I am Philippa D'Aubigny. One of the Twelve Apostles… and, for your sins, your future teacher." A few nervous laughs rippled through the hall; she let them live for a second before continuing.
"You already know most of what you have seen today. You have read it in books, seen it on television, and many of you have even experienced it firsthand. But here, at Minos Prime, you will learn the truth. Due to the impending third horn, it has been greatly incentivized that the education of you all proceeds more quickly, so that you may be of use sooner rather than later. The second horn inflicted far less damage than the first, and we fervently hope the third claims no civilian casualties at all."
She stopped to take a breath. "Cela dit, the second year is still ongoing for most students, but an exception has been made for those of you in this room. You are all what many refer to as the golden generation, and unlike the others in this school, you were brought here not for what you are currently, but for what you may yet become."
Philippa leaned closer to the microphone, her blue eyes sweeping over the sea of white uniforms below. Her voice softened. "Listen well, mes enfants. You stand here because each of you carries le plus grand potentiel humanity has left. The world expects miracles from you… and here, you will learn to deliver them."
Her hand brushed through her dark hair as she straightened.
"But do not mistake this place for a dream," she said, her accent curling around the words. "Minos Prime is no paradise. Non. It is a forge. You will be melted and reshaped. You will be pushed harder than you ever believed possible. And when you fall, and you will fall, there will be no angels waiting to catch you."
Her tone dropped lower, almost conspiratorial. "Of course, you may leave, oui? No one is bound to stay. You may return to the world, live quietly, become one of the petits Saints, the nameless ones who keep the streets clean. There is honor in that."
She paused, letting the silence stretch, every eye on her. Then, with a faint, sharp smile, she added, "But if you wish to be remembered, if you wish to stand where we, the Apostles now do, then survive. Endurez. Outlast the pain, the doubt, the others beside you. That is all this academy asks of you. Endurez, ou partez."
"You will be divided into four classes: Alpha, Beta, Gamma, and Delta. Twelve students per class. Consider this your first trial, mes chéris. The higher your class, the closer you stand to greatness. You will have more missions, more recognition, more exposure, et bien sûr, more danger."
Her gaze swept across the sea of faces once more. "But remember this, every month, les portes s'ouvrent. The low may rise, and the high may fall. Talent brought you through those gates, oui, but only discipline will let you stay. If you falter, even for a moment, someone stronger will take your place, and you will watch your future walk away."
A ripple passed through the crowd. Philippa smiled faintly, tilting her head, excited for the part she herself was waiting for.
She then clapped her hands, and the shockwave that rippled through the hall was easily comparable to a bullet being fired. The sharp crack startled the muttering students into abrupt silence.
She let the quiet hang for a beat, her faint smile returning. "I know you are all excited to take a look around this famous campus, oui? To wander the grounds, interact with your seniors, perhaps even challenge one to a spar?" A few chuckles bubbled up from the crowd, but she raised a hand, quelling them. "But before that, there are some extraordinary people from your own generation I would like to introduce. They will share a few words, to inspire you on this path."
With a subtle gesture toward the technicians in the shadows, the projector hummed back to life. The massive screen behind her flickered, then steadied on an image that drew a collective gasp from the hall. It was a beautiful girl, her long white hair cascading like fresh snow over her shoulders, framing a face that seemed carved from porcelain. Her eyes were a piercing blue, but what truly captivated were the pupils, which were shaped like delicate crosses. She wore the same pristine white academy uniform as everyone present.
Philippa's smile widened, her voice swelling with pride. "With over sixty million followers on Halo, as the younger sister of one of the Apostles, and the highest leveled and ranked student of this year... Enochia Adams!!!!"
The hall erupted in a roar of chaotic mix of cheers, whistles, and exclamations. Names were shouted, questions flung into the air like confetti, and a few students even rose halfway from their seats, craning for a better view. The energy pulsed through the room, feeding on itself for several long seconds before it began to ebb, the crowd settling back as they waited expectantly.
But no one approached the podium. The image on the screen remained static. Philippa cleared her throat a few times, the sound amplified through the microphone. "Enochia Ad—"
The video on a certain phone was paused. Someone had been watching the entire event off her own device. The hand holding the phone trembled slightly, then set it down on a polished bench she was sitting on.
'I mean, I told them I wasn't gonna do that. That old man Steel was so forceful that it made me not even want to attend the ceremony. Good luck Philippa, I'll apologize the next time I see you.'
Enochia Adams herself stared at the paused image, her expression unreadable as she glanced back to her phone, and on the image they had used to introduce her. 'Also, someone from my PR team is super fired, that pic sucks.'
Her gaze quickly went from the phone to a little squirrel that ran in front of her bench.
For a long, reverent moment, she just watched it, head tilted, expression somewhere between divine awe and existential confusion. The creature twitched, and she squinted, leaning in just slightly.
"What a fucked up looking cat."