《Through the Distant Universe》


 Chapter 1 - Dawn of a Grand Game

    I was sitting in my room on the second floor, unable to tear my eyes away from the laptop screen. My fingers trembled every time I hit ¡°Refresh¡± on the AP exam results page, as if I were touching a forbidden launch button, until the numbers finally settled. My heart was pounding in my throat, like a trapped bird, and the muscles in my neck tightened from the tense anticipation. And then I saw what I¡¯d both feared and awaited: 5 out of 5 in math, physics, and computer science. Plus ¡ª an email from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) in my inbox.


    It sank in like a slow-motion scene: my dream, the one that had kept me warm through endless nights hunched over textbooks and my laptop, had become reality. Full admission with a massive tuition discount ¡ª instead of seventy-five thousand dollars a year, just twenty-two and a half. I almost feared it was all an illusion, one that might vanish with a gust of wind, so I ran my finger across the screen, trying to grasp the happiness, to keep it from slipping away.


    ¡ª It can¡¯t be¡­ ¡ª I exhaled, and my voice cracked traitorously, betraying the boundless joy mixed with fear.


    I leaned back in my chair, feeling a shiver run down my spine from the flood of emotions. The room suddenly felt cramped, though just minutes ago it had seemed spacious. I slowly surveyed it: the walls breathed with my aspirations and phantom hopes. Posters of engineering blueprints hung there, each line hinting that the future could be rewritten by your will if you had enough grit. Photographs of the starry sky, where I¡¯d so often searched for answers about myself. Shelves buckling under the weight of robotics and physics books ¡ª many pages worn thin, scribbled with notes and faded ink. And on the desk ¡ª a mountain of notebooks filled with formulas and sketches I¡¯d painstakingly drawn during countless sleepless hours. All those years, tears of exhaustion when my eyelids felt like lead, the constant mental training ¡ª it had all led to this blinking email in my inbox.


    I squeezed my eyes shut and felt hot tears welling up. It¡¯s not a dream, I repeated to myself, trying to convince myself of the reality.


    Then an image of my parents flashed in my mind, and my heart swelled with warm gratitude. Dad and Mom¡­ They¡¯d poured everything into me to make this moment possible. I vividly recalled sitting with Dad in the garage at eight years old, burning with frustration as my first homemade robot fell apart in pieces. And he, barely holding back a smile, just put his hand on my shoulder and said: ¡ª Adam, every failure is a chance to learn something new. Let¡¯s figure it out. ¡ª We stubbornly fixed that awkward, clumsy thing over and over until it finally moved. That¡¯s how I learned to fall and get back up, to understand that perseverance matters more than talent.


    And Mom¡­ Her lessons were just as profound, but gentler. In the kitchen, amid the scent of orange peels and rubbing alcohol, she taught me to stitch fruit. ¡ª Patience, Adam, ¡ª she¡¯d say softly, her words always sounding like a calm melody. ¡ª In medicine and in life, every little thing matters, every detail shapes fate. ¡ª She opened up the world of cells and the heart to me, explaining how science heals bodies and souls. There were days I¡¯d practically fall asleep on the bench by the table, drained from studying, but her quiet voice brought me back to life. My parents gave me an arsenal ¡ª Dad taught me to think and never give up, Mom gave me that inner light that keeps you from breaking when everything seems to collapse.


    Footsteps sounded below ¡ª light, almost inaudible. Then the door opened, and there stood Mom, Elizabeth Perkons, with strands of dark hair falling loose and flour smudged on her apron. Her eyes glowed with a mix of worry and anticipation. When she saw my smile, her face lit up from within.


    ¡ª Adam, what¡¯s happened? ¡ª she asked, and I could hear her voice tremble with tender curiosity and a hint of expectation.


    I jumped up so fast the chair clattered behind me, sliding across the floor. A wave of emotions crashed over me, and I couldn¡¯t hold back:


    ¡ª Mom, I got in! To MIT! And all my APs are fives! Full scholarship! ¡ª I shouted, my voice wavering, caught between joy and lingering doubts.


    Mom gasped, and her eyes instantly filled with tears, as if a dam of feelings had burst. She rushed toward me with such force I nearly lost my balance, grabbing my shoulders and pulling me close. I felt the air leave my lungs as her tears rolled down onto my shirt, hot like molten metal.


    ¡ª Oh, Adam, I¡¯m so proud of you! ¡ª she breathed out, her voice like strings taut in the wind. ¡ª You¡¯re my hero¡­ I always believed, but¡­ This is more than I could¡¯ve imagined!


    Tears streamed down her cheeks, and I felt a lump tighten my throat, my own joy stinging my eyes. I hugged her back, burying my nose in her familiar shoulder, radiating the scent of lavender and vanilla ¡ª a mix that always meant warmth and safety to me.


    ¡ª Thanks, Mom, ¡ª I whispered, feeling a sun bloom inside me after a long, long winter.


    The door creaked open again, and I saw Dad¡¯s figure in the doorway, James Perkons. Tall, with silver threads in his hair, he stood like an unshakable rock. His dark blue eyes, just like mine, gazed calmly, but a spark of genuine pride flickered in them, like distant stars briefly revealing their power. He adjusted his shirt sleeves and gave a slight smile with the corners of his mouth ¡ª that was enough for me to know he already understood everything.


    ¡ª What¡¯s all this commotion? ¡ª he said softly, and I caught the warm undertone in his gentle tease. ¡ª I hope it¡¯s not a fire?


    I couldn¡¯t help it and laughed through my tears:


    ¡ª Dad, I¡­ I got into MIT! And aced all my exams! ¡ª I blurted out, feeling my smile stretch wide. My cheeks felt like they might ache from the joy.


    He stepped closer, his footsteps steady and heavy, like hammer strikes on an anvil. He placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed lightly. That simple gesture ignited a storm of gratitude and pride in me.


    ¡ª Incredible, son, ¡ª he said, and there was a rare warmth in his tone. ¡ª I always knew you were determined. You¡¯ve proven it.


    His words were always a special reward for me, since he rarely offered praise so directly. Now, I felt my chest tighten with happiness, like someone had wrapped my heart in a warm grip. My cheeks burned: he didn¡¯t often show his pride so openly.


    ¡ª Thanks, Dad, ¡ª I mumbled, looking down, feeling a bashfulness that still warmed my soul.


    Mom wiped her tears with her sleeve, and her face glowed again with such a radiant smile it was impossible to look away. Then she clapped her hands sharply, like an excited child:


    ¡ª We have to celebrate! I baked an apple pie, Adam, your favorite. And I got some non-alcoholic cider! Let¡¯s go downstairs to the table, ¡ª her voice rang with unrestrained delight.


    We went down to the living room, and I was enveloped by a familiar warmth. Mom seemed to have crafted this cozy nook on purpose: the soft couch beckoned to collapse onto its pillows, bookshelves overflowed with magazines ¡ª half medical, half technical ¡ª and sunset light poured through the huge window. Beyond the glass, the branches of an old maple swayed slightly in the breeze, looking almost alive. On the coffee table sat a glistening pie, smelling of cinnamon and baked apples. Next to it was a bottle of cider and three glasses, trembling in the soft glow of a floor lamp.


    Mom poured the cider with shaky hands, and I could feel her wrestling with the emotions overwhelming her. We took our glasses, and tiny glints danced across the table, reflecting off the glass like flickering lights.


    ¡ª To our son, to his success, and to a new future! ¡ª Mom proclaimed, her voice trembling but ringing with triumph, like a violin hitting its peak in a concert.


    ¡ª To you, Adam, ¡ª Dad added quietly, looking straight into my eyes. I felt goosebumps run down my spine and understood what ¡°support¡± truly meant in its deepest form. ¡ª You¡¯ve made us happier than we ever dreamed.


    The glasses clinked with a chime, and I took a sip, letting the cool cider refresh my throat and spread a sense of calm through me. I ate a piece of pie, and each crunch of cinnamon and apple took me back to childhood, when Mom first shared this recipe with me. But now it was different: this pie was a bridge to a new chapter of my life.


    We ate and laughed, recalling funny moments. Mom told us how she¡¯d wake up at night, worrying about my exams, while Dad recounted stories of my childhood obsession with taking things apart ¡ª from remote controls to a random mixer. Once, I nearly blew up the microwave and reprogrammed the coffee maker so it stopped working as intended. We laughed, and I felt the bittersweet lump in my throat dissolve in this atmosphere of love.


    ¡ª You were always so curious, ¡ª Mom said, smiling. Her eyes sparkled as if holding a million bright memories. ¡ª I knew something great was waiting for you.


    I smiled back, but inside, a swirl of fears began to churn: MIT, that unique world of geniuses, where everything would be different, and I might stumble. But today, I wanted to conquer those doubts. This was my celebration.


    Finally, the pie was nearly gone, and the cider was running low. Mom stood, wiping happy tears:


    ¡ª We need to call Grandma and Grandpa, ¡ª she said, beaming with pride. ¡ª They¡¯ll be over the moon.


    She left, and it was just Dad and me in the living room. He pushed his glass aside and looked at me with an intensity that made something inside me tremble. It felt like he was about to say something big, something powerful.


    ¡ª Adam, ¡ª he began quietly, his voice soft but deep, like a distant roll of thunder. ¡ª You¡¯ve done something incredible. MIT and those fives ¡ª that¡¯s your hard-earned victory. I can¡¯t describe how proud I am. But remember: this is just the first step.


    I felt my shoulders tense. His words always carried strength, but also a weight of responsibility.


    ¡ª There¡¯s a tough road ahead, ¡ª he continued, leaning forward. ¡ª Studies, battles with yourself, choices that will shape your fate. Your mom and I will be with you as long as fate allows. But soon, you¡¯ll walk alone.


    He paused, and in the silence, I heard my heart pounding loudly. His gaze softened.


    ¡ª I¡¯m not trying to scare you, ¡ª he added with a tender note, noticing my expression. ¡ª I just want you to be ready. Because life sometimes throws you into an abyss so deep that light feels like an illusion. But I know there¡¯s a fire in you that can¡¯t be extinguished.


    His hand rested on my shoulder, and I felt warmth seeping through my shirt. Our eyes met, and I saw such confidence in his that my heart surged forward. It was as if he was trying to pass his inner strength and faith to me.


    ¡ª When the day comes, and you¡¯re on your own, prove something, Adam, ¡ª he said, emotion breaking through the restraint he usually held. ¡ª Not to me, not to Mom, not to the world. Prove to yourself that you can stand, even if everything falls apart. Prove your spirit is stronger than any darkness.


    ¡ª I¡¯ll try, Dad, ¡ª I whispered, feeling tears prick my eyes again, my voice hoarse, but inside, it was like steel rang out. ¡ª I won¡¯t let you down.


    He smiled, and that smile truly chased away the shadows of my fears.


    ¡ª You know, I wasn¡¯t always ¡°wise¡± myself, ¡ª he added, a grin tugging at his lips. ¡ª I nearly burned down a lab once, trying to ¡°improve¡± a circuit. But someone told me: ¡°Mistakes are lessons. Don¡¯t repeat them.¡± So learn from yours too, son.


    I laughed, feeling my chest lighten and free, and nodded:


    ¡ª I¡¯ll try not to blow anything up. But no promises on the experiments.


    ¡ª You¡¯ll manage, ¡ª he repeated, clapping me on the shoulder. ¡ª You¡¯ve got everything it takes to conquer the world. And not just the world.


    I thought about how grateful I was to my parents. Their persistence, their faith, their patience made me who I am. Even if I¡¯m one day left without their support, I¡¯ll stand ¡ª they taught me to fall and rise like no one else could.


    ¡ª Thanks, Dad, ¡ª I said, my voice trembling.


    He just nodded, and a magical silence settled over the living room. I glanced at the clock ¡ª nearly eight. I remembered I¡¯d promised to head to Felicia Green¡¯s place, our class president, where it turned out there¡¯d be a gathering not just for A-class but also reps from B and C. I wanted to share my joy and hear where everyone else was headed. I stood, grabbing my jacket.


    ¡ª Dad, I¡¯m going to Felicia¡¯s. It¡¯s a post-admission party¡­


    ¡ª Alright, son, ¡ª he nodded, his eyes gleaming with that familiar warm light. ¡ª Just don¡¯t stay out too late, and be careful.


    I stepped outside, and the cool breeze, scented with blooming trees, stung my face, as if washing away the last traces of tears and pulling me out of the warm, cozy cocoon of family into the real world. I hopped on my bike and sped down the lantern-lit streets, my heart still echoing Dad¡¯s words: ¡°Prove it to yourself.¡± I believed I was ready for any challenge that might come my way.


    But I didn¡¯t yet know that this night would turn my entire life upside down.


    ***


    The March evening of 2025 was cool but surprisingly invigorating. I pedaled my bike, feeling the sharp wind slip under my jacket, cooling my body still buzzing with victorious adrenaline. Familiar suburban streets flickered by under the wheels, glowing in the light of streetlamps and lined with blooming maples. It felt like I¡¯d ridden here a thousand times, but tonight everything seemed new because I wasn¡¯t just heading to friends ¡ª I was going to celebrate.


    Numbers spun in my head: 5 out of 5 on AP math, physics, and computer science, an MIT acceptance with a grant slashing tuition from a daunting $75,000 to $22,500 a year. I planned to share it myself when the moment felt right. I wanted to hear the buzz of amazed gasps, exchange handshakes, maybe even shout with joy. Some knew about my exams, but I¡¯d kept the grant quiet ¡ª let it be a surprise.


    Felicia Green¡¯s mansion loomed ahead at the street¡¯s edge, like a palace from a show about the rich life: a three-story house with white columns, wide windows spilling light, and a garden where every bush was trimmed to shine under neon glow. Music ¡ª a mix of pop, light rock, and electro ¡ª pulsed against the glass, and the huge yard was already alive with people. I braked at the wrought-iron gate, hopped off my bike, propped it against the fence, and scanned the facade:


    ¡ª Cheap show-off, ¡ª I muttered under my breath, smirking crookedly.


    Three floors, a fountain with gilded fish, pool lighting ¡ª it all screamed money flowing like water. But it didn¡¯t impress me: my house was smaller but ¡°alive.¡± We had smart lights, a robot vacuum (which I¡¯d reprogrammed myself), a coffee maker tied to a neural network Dad coded. Everything in the Perkons family had purpose, not just pricey flair.


    I pushed the gate open and stepped into the yard, where the crowd buzzed like a beehive. Figures from A-class, B-class, and C-class ¡ª the three graduating tracks this year ¡ª darted around, noisily celebrating their wins. My nose caught whiffs of pizza, damp evening grass, and something sweet ¡ª punch or cider. Someone yelled by the pool, people danced near the speakers, and in the shadows, a loud argument brewed.


    Diving into the chaos, I wove toward the house, scanning for familiar faces. I quickly spotted a small A-class cluster ¡ª the cheerful brainiacs whispering about colleges. But then someone called from behind.


    ¡ª Adam!


    I turned ¡ª it was Alexander Blake, my brother not by blood but by spirit. He stood by the drink table, holding a cola can, staring at the star-strewn sky with that special smile he got when lost in his theories.


    ¡ª Blake! ¡ª I shouted, clapping him on the shoulder. He spun around, and a wide grin instantly spread across his face.


    ¡ª Perkons, finally! ¡ª he exclaimed, hugging me so hard I nearly spilled the can I¡¯d grabbed on the way. ¡ª I thought you¡¯d crashed into a ditch with your sky-high scores and missed all the fun!


    ¡ª You¡¯d drag me back even from the afterlife, ¡ª I chuckled. Around him, tension always melted away: Blake was the one who pulled me out when a physical threat loomed, while I helped him when he couldn¡¯t crack a study problem for weeks.


    ¡ª Damn right, ¡ª he grinned, squinting. ¡ª So, what¡¯s new? You¡¯re glowing like a hundred-watt bulb. Spill it!


    I savored the moment for a few seconds, then let it out with relief:


    ¡ª MIT. Aced my APs ¡ª math, physics, computer science. And snagged a grant: twenty-two and a half grand a year instead of seventy-five.


    Blake froze for a second, his eyes widening, then exploded with a shout of such genuine joy that people turned to look.


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    ¡ª Are you serious?! ¡ª He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. ¡ª MIT, man! Honestly ¡ª I knew you¡¯d pull it off. Remember when you fixed my dorm computer in half an hour after I¡¯d struggled for three days? It was obvious then!


    I laughed awkwardly, my heart dancing in my chest. ¡ª And you? Where¡¯re you headed?


    ¡ª Princeton, ¡ª Blake said, puffing out his chest proudly. ¡ª String theory¡¯s calling. So we¡¯re officially geniuses tearing up conferences left and right!


    ¡ª If you don¡¯t blow up a lab with your experiments, ¡ª I teased, earning a light elbow nudge.


    ¡ª And you don¡¯t burn down a workshop with your robots, ¡ª he shot back, and we burst out laughing together.


    Just then, Felicia Green, A-class president, approached with a tray of canap¨¦s, a gentle smile on her face.


    ¡ª Adam, Alexander, what¡¯s the racket? ¡ª she asked, setting the tray on the table.


    ¡ª This genius got into MIT! ¡ª Blake slapped my back so hard I nearly choked on air. ¡ª Can you believe it, Fel? Full ride!


    ¡ª Seriously? ¡ª Felicia¡¯s eyes widened, and she nearly dropped the tray. ¡ª Adam, that¡¯s incredible! Congrats!


    ¡ª Thanks, Fel, ¡ª I nodded, still flustered by her enthusiasm. ¡ª Where¡¯d you end up?


    ¡ª Harvard, ¡ª she shrugged, a hint of pride in her voice. ¡ª Full scholarship. So we¡¯re almost neighbors in the ¡®top tier.¡¯


    ¡ª Watch out, ¡ª Blake chuckled. ¡ª Adam and I are gonna storm in and wreak scientific havoc!


    ¡ª You better not, ¡ª she laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Then she turned and called to the crowd: ¡ª Hey, guys! Adam¡¯s going to MIT!


    I flushed as heads turned. Alexandra Richmond, dubbed A-class¡¯s ¡°queen,¡± crossed her arms, eyeing me with a cool glint:


    ¡ª MIT, huh? Not bad, Perkons, ¡ª she drawled. ¡ª I¡¯m off to Yale. Dad knows the dean.


    I glanced at Blake and whispered: ¡ª Connections, of course¡­


    He snorted: ¡ª But she got fives on her APs too, by the way.


    Just then, Jasper Flame burst through the crowd, a loud guy clutching a pack of fireworks.


    ¡ª Perkons in MIT?! ¡ª he bellowed. ¡ª We need a salute for that!


    ¡ª Just don¡¯t burn down the gazebo, ¡ª Evelyn Stone muttered from a corner, sketching in a notebook. ¡ª I¡¯m headed to Stanford, by the way. Math and physics.


    ¡ª Wow, another genius, ¡ª Jasper smirked, then bolted off toward the exit, yelling: ¡ª Fireworks time!


    I caught sight of napkins scattered on the table. Someone had knocked over a tray, and I reflexively grabbed one, slipping it into my pocket ¡ª ¡°just in case.¡± A fleeting thought: small, but sometimes useful.


    Over by a chessboard, Lucius Frost looked up and said quietly: ¡ª Good choice, Adam. I¡¯m going to Columbia ¡ª statistics and econ.


    ¡ª Happy for you, ¡ª I smiled. ¡ª With your analytical mind, you¡¯ll kill it there.


    Meanwhile, the noise grew louder: B-class reps approached, led by Logan Carter and Tyler Brooks. A playful scuffle by the pool had just ended, and they walked up, holding each other by the collar.


    ¡ª Perkons! Where you off to? ¡ª Logan shouted, catching his breath.


    ¡ª MIT, ¡ª I replied.


    ¡ª Man, what¡¯s with you brainiacs and that place¡­ ¡ª he grinned. ¡ª I¡¯m going for sports ¡ª Texas A&M, football. We¡¯ll survive.


    ¡ª And I¡¯m Michigan-bound, ¡ª Tyler grumbled, glaring at Logan. ¡ª I¡¯ll show you, Carter.


    ¡ª Keep dreaming, ¡ª Logan smirked, and they wandered back to the pool, jabbing at each other.


    I felt a tap on my elbow. Turning, I saw Blake handing me a small pocket flashlight:


    ¡ª Here, take it, man. Call it a lucky charm. You never know when it¡¯ll come in handy, ¡ª he winked.


    I grinned, took it, and tucked it into my jacket¡¯s inner pocket: ¡ª Thanks, bud. Might actually need it.


    Then I noticed a quiet C-class crew ¡ª the laid-back slackers and geeks ¡ª camped out near the speaker. Max Velarin, their leader, crossed his arms:


    ¡ª Perkons, MIT, huh? Alright, not bad, ¡ª he said gruffly. ¡ª I¡¯m starting at a local college, but I¡¯ll level up soon. Gonna grind it like an RPG.


    ¡ª Well¡­ good luck, ¡ª I sighed, mentally noting that people have different paths.


    Nearby, Reina Solvein scrolled her phone, barely hiding her bored look: ¡ª MIT? Hm, I¡¯m going to a nearby institute, but I¡¯ll climb the ranks. Gotta hit SSS-tier IRL, ¡ª she quipped.


    ¡ª One percent chance, ¡ª I smirked.


    ¡ª Watch me roll it, ¡ª she tossed back, scoffing.


    It was clear C-class wasn¡¯t too stressed ¡ª for many, ¡°parents paid their way in,¡± while others lived ¡°whatever.¡± To each their own.


    Then I noticed three adults entering the garden.


    Amid the bustle, someone whispered: ¡ª The teachers are here! ¡ª I looked closer: sure enough, it was Henry Withers (A-class curator), Graham Harper (B-class coach and mentor), and Adrian Crowley (C-class overseer).


    Henry Withers, a man in a tweed suit with a neat cane, had steel eyes gleaming with stern wisdom. He scanned A-class like he was assessing each one.


    Graham Harper, fit in a sports windbreaker, strode confidently, exuding a former athlete¡¯s poise.


    Nora Meyer, with a tired face and a backpack slung over her shoulders, looked like she¡¯d been talked into coming but still cast warm glances at her chaotic ¡°charges¡± from C-class.


    The crowd hushed slightly. Withers stepped up to the makeshift platform by the pool, surveyed the group, and spoke quietly but clearly enough for all to hear:


    ¡ª Friends, we¡¯ve gathered today to bid farewell to school and this chapter of your lives. A-class, you¡¯re the academic elite. I¡¯m proud of your grades, your acceptances, and remember: when you head to college, it¡¯s just the start. I wish you to keep not just your minds but your humanity.


    He shifted his gaze to B-class, raising his cane: ¡ª B-class, your athletic feats speak for themselves. You¡¯re the spirit of victory, the physical strength of our school. But don¡¯t forget: strength without reason becomes a flaw. Stay balanced.


    Graham Harper nodded approvingly, and Withers turned to C-class: ¡ª C-class¡­ I know you¡¯re no picnic, ¡ª a faint smile flickered in his eyes, ¡ª but you¡¯ve got creativity and that spark ¡°nerds¡± sometimes lack. Your path might be the wildest. I hope you¡¯ll find yourselves without losing what you¡¯ve got.


    A brief pause followed, and Harper stepped forward: ¡ª Well, I¡¯ll say this: I watched you run the field, train, win games, ¡ª he eyed B-class. ¡ª And not just you, but others too. Everyone here today has faced their trials. My advice: stick with the team ¡ª sometimes in life, you need to work together to win.


    He stepped back, and Nora Meyer reluctantly adjusted her backpack, giving C-class a tired but warm look: ¡ª I know you love freedom and doing things ¡°your way.¡± That¡¯s not bad, ¡ª she said softly. ¡ª But remember: freedom demands responsibility. I hope you¡¯ll get that without too many big mistakes. Good luck, kids.


    The crowd erupted in claps and cheers; someone from C-class shouted ¡ª Teacher, well said! ¡ª while another (from B-class) yelled: ¡ª We¡¯re the best! ¡ª But overall, the vibe was uplifted and friendly.


    As I took in the scene, Felicia suddenly clapped her hands, grabbing our attention: ¡ª Friends, quiet for a sec, I¡¯ve got something to say too! All three tracks ¡ª A, B, and C ¡ª united at one party for the first time! Crazy, right? I want us to share the joy today and send each other off into adulthood. Some are leaving for new cities, some will chase careers, and some¡­ ¡ª she gave C-class a knowing smile, ¡ª will definitely find their way too.


    The crowd reacted: some clapped, some cracked jokes, some shouted. Then, through the noise, a new voice cut in ¡ª soft but oddly resonant. Gabriel Knight, usually a cheerful guy, suddenly spoke loud enough to be heard: ¡ª There¡¯s only a little time left¡­


    ¡ª What¡¯re you on about? ¡ª someone called, but Gabriel didn¡¯t reply, just squinted up at the sky.


    ¡ª Today¡­ it feels like the threads of fate are shaking, ¡ª he muttered. ¡ª Like we¡¯re on the edge of something irreversible.


    ¡ª Okay, Gabi, don¡¯t get dark, ¡ª Felicia waved it off, giggling nervously. ¡ª Let¡¯s crank the music instead!


    But something was shifting in the air. I felt the wind, cool and fresh a moment ago, turn static and thick. The speaker¡¯s sound wavered; the music faded, then kicked back in. The mansion¡¯s facade lights flickered like a bad horror flick.


    ¡ª What¡¯s this? ¡ª Blake whispered, frowning.


    Right then, all the garden lights blinked and died. The house plunged into half-darkness, and the crowd murmured in unease. A faint hum rolled in from afar, barely audible but buzzing in my ears. The hairs on my neck stood up.


    ¡ª Power outage? ¡ª Felicia pressed a remote button, but it stayed dead.


    ¡ª Maybe the fuses blew? ¡ª Logan suggested, glancing around grimly.


    At that moment, a blinding flash of white light slashed the sky. It was like someone fired lightning straight down, though no clouds or thunder loomed. I squinted against its glare as panic swept the yard: someone screamed, others bolted for the gate. But my body locked up, and I just stared as the sky seemed to fracture.


    ¡ª We¡¯re on the brink¡­ ¡ª Gabriel Knight¡¯s voice drifted again, now a hushed near-sob. ¡ª The game¡¯s begun¡­


    Then a jolt ¡ª like an electric shock. I yelled, my legs buckling as a veil draped my mind. Terror shuddered in my chest. I faintly caught Blake shouting ¡ª Adam, hold on! ¡ª but my brain was shutting down.


    A white flash blasted the space, and I fell into darkness, feeling like I was being ripped apart inside. Everything spun and vanished, and blackness swallowed my consciousness.


    ***


    I wake slowly, through a sticky haze, as if surfacing from under a thick layer of water. It feels like just hours ago I was in familiar surroundings ¡ª my warm home, Felicia¡¯s garden, or my room, scrolling through success emails. Yet jagged memories flare too: a blinding flash, strange voices, smells¡­ Then I realize a sharp, almost physical pain stabs my chest and throat. I cough ¡ª dry, grating, like my throat¡¯s been sandpapered. My mouth tastes harsh, chemical, as if I¡¯d swallowed hydrochloric acid. I inhale, and it¡¯s like glass needles pierce my throat: the cough wracks my lungs, and I bite my lip to keep from screaming.


    I force my eyes open, then wince ¡ª my face slams into something rusty and sharp, cold as a blade jutting from the ground. My cheek burns; I hiss through clenched teeth, trying not to tear skin on jagged edges. My trembling fingers probe the surface: rough metal, damp and coated with sticky filth that turns my stomach. The air hits my nostrils ¡ª acrid, thick with rot, chemicals, and decaying flesh. It¡¯s not just a stench ¡ª it¡¯s poison, clawing into my lungs, searing them, leaving a taste of blood on my tongue. I press my sleeve to my face, but the fabric¡¯s useless against this choking venom.


    Everything¡¯s murky: a rusted surface, dim, sickly light overhead. No familiar ceiling, no normal lamps. My head spins, a ringing swells in my temples, like my heart¡¯s trying to bash its way out through my skull.


    I awkwardly roll onto my side, careful not to cut myself more. A grating screech echoes through metal sheets ¡ª like it might all collapse under me.


    The ground under my hand is cold, brittle, like twisted metal dusted with prickly shavings. I muster the courage to look around: an endless junkyard of mangled iron, torn pipes, and grotesque tech fragments sprawls out. The surface bristles with jagged edges and heaps of metal debris. Above, a hazy sky looms, the color of pus and smoke, no sun or moon in sight. A wave of dread hits me: the smell. I finally breathe it in consciously, and it nearly makes me retch. A vile, heavy reek of rancid meat mixed with stale chemical fumes. It¡¯s like someone dumped mounds of long-rotted corpses here, stirred in industrial acid, and let it simmer, poisoning the air. Each breath feels like inhaling ground-up waste settling in my lungs.


    And here I am, sprawled on a pile of mottled metal scraps, warped iron sheets, and rusty frames. Similar trash heaps stretch everywhere. Panic flickers deep in my mind: ¡ª This isn¡¯t a yard, not a garden, not my room¡­ everything¡¯s wrong¡­


    My insides clench. I run a hand over the ground ¡ª my fingers snag on sharp crumbs. My hand jerks, blood oozing from a cut.


    ¡ª Was I at home? No¡­ I was at the mansion¡­ ¡ª My brain thrashes, desperate for a rational explanation. But what could explain this hellscape?


    I take a short breather, listening to my own breathing: it¡¯s ragged, strange, like the air stings my throat from within. A chill creeps over me as I try a deeper breath. It goes badly: my lungs resist, my throat tightens, and a cough claws its way out. This cough¡­ it¡¯s like my body¡¯s rejecting the air itself, laced with something toxic and rotting. It feels like every inhale drags in a cloud of debris, sprouting glass needles in my throat.


    ¡ª Damn¡­ ¡ª I rasp weakly, my voice sounding alien and frail.


    Fumbling, I search for a handhold. My fingers find only coarse metal and crumbling rust. Each move to shift away rattles and clanks. I¡¯m terrified this noise might draw something ¡ª or someone. A nagging thought pounds inside: ¡ª Where is everyone?


    I try to recall my last moment at Felicia¡¯s: friends, teachers, that flash. ¡ª Are they all here too? ¡ª A lump rises in my throat.


    My final memory is the party, meant to be our step into the future. Teachers spoke proudly of our college plans, how we¡¯d all scatter. I remember smiles, joy, then that white explosion of light¡­ I recall frantic screams¡­ And now, it¡¯s like the Earth swallowed me and spat me out in this alien place. No one¡¯s near, no familiar faces. No hum of civilization. Just deafening silence and stench.


    I attempt to stand. My legs wobble but don¡¯t crack. ¡ª At least I¡¯m intact¡­ ¡ª But then the muck in my lungs flares up: a fresh, tearing cough doubles me over. I hack up a choking wad of mucus, horrified to realize this air will kill me if I linger too long.


    ¡ª What¡­ is¡­ this place¡­ ¡ª I force out, knowing no answer will come.


    My heart races again. If I don¡¯t pull myself together, I¡¯ll collapse in panic and suffocate. I swallow hard, the taste bitter and metallic, my throat raw, coughs clawing to escape. Suddenly, warm moisture stings my eyes ¡ª tears of fear and pain. ¡ª Breathing¡¯s impossible. How can anyone survive here?


    I take a few shaky steps, gripping protruding slabs. Then a sound cuts through my thoughts ¡ª muted, rhythmic. A scrape or thud, like someone dragging metal scrap across an iron floor. I freeze: could it be alive? A person, maybe? But fear tears at me ¡ª the sound¡¯s unnatural, not like normal footsteps. Then a hiss follows, strained, unlike any human throat.


    I crouch, trying to stay quiet, but I can¡¯t stifle the cough, and pain flares in my throat again.


    Peering cautiously from behind a dangling plate, I spot a figure about twenty meters off, hunched low, with freakishly long arms clutching a twisted metal shard. Its skin ¡ª or whatever covers it ¡ª hangs in rotting clumps, bones peeking through rust-caked growths. My brain refuses to accept this was ever human. It¡¯s a monster, risen from some abyss.


    My blood runs cold: ¡ª No way¡­ this place is full of monsters? ¡ª Absolute terror grips my chest. I stumble back, but my foot slips, knocking a piece of rebar that clangs down. The creature¡¯s tone shifts to a loud, guttural growl. It lifts its eyeless head, turning toward me, as if sensing my heat or scent.


    ¡ª Damn¡­ ¡ª My breath catches, panic surging through me. I¡¯ve got one option ¡ª run.


    I lurch back, spinning around, and frantically weave through the metal maze. Every second counts as I hear the thing scramble after me, its blade scraping iron with a sickening screech. I imagine there could be more ¡ª faint howling echoes suggest it. I want to scream ¡ª Help! ¡ª but my brain yells: ¡ª You¡¯ll draw more of them, shut up!


    Breathing gets harder: coughs tear free, and I choke on this foul excuse for air. Gasps burn my lungs like acid. Adrenaline drives me; I leap over another junk pile, seeking escape. I realize I might die of suffocation before the monster gets me, but fear propels me forward. Behind me, the creature bounds over metal, blade clanging, hissing ominously. More voices join in ¡ª there¡¯s more than one¡­ I crash through the heaps, snapping rusty flakes with my nails, tearing my palms bloody, unable to stop.


    The monster¡¯s shrieks grow closer, turning into a ragged wail, like it¡¯s calling others. The nightmare party rages on. ¡ª No¡­ no¡­ ¡ª I mutter through gritted teeth, zigzagging between corroded structures. My heart¡¯s about to burst my ribs. I know I¡¯ll collapse soon if I don¡¯t find cover.


    I keep snagging on sharp bits, narrowly avoiding impaling my foot. I can¡¯t keep this pace long. ¡ª Help, anyone¡­ ¡ª my mind screams, but I don¡¯t dare voice it, lest I summon more beasts.


    Clattering, I stumble onto a flatter patch. Ahead, a metal ledge ¡ª I can skirt it or jump. I go for the jump. But I misstep fatally: my foot slips on slick metal, and I leap blind, hoping to clear the drop.


    The jump¡¯s a disaster: my foot slides, and I crash down hard. My ankle twists with a sickening crunch, a ragged groan escaping me. I land chest-first on a jutting sharp beam, narrowly missing skewering myself, but the impact slams my ribs with searing pain.


    ¡ª A-ahh¡­ ¡ª A half-cry slips out. Fear of the creatures forces me to clamp a hand over my mouth to stay silent. Pain crashes in waves: I¡¯ve likely cracked or broken ribs. My ankle throbs ¡ª probably sprained. My vision darkens, heart hammering, coughs clawing up again. ¡ª Get up, or you¡¯re dead¡­ ¡ª instinct bellows.


    I try to rise ¡ª my leg buckles, a sharp jolt in my ankle making me stifle a yell. Tears stream down. ¡ª No, not this¡­ ¡ª Panic swells inside. Now I¡¯m limping, each breath stabbing my ribs. The monster¡¯s close ¡ª its vicious hiss loudens. I drag myself along, scraping hands on jagged edges, leaving blood smears.


    Then ¡ª a gap in the wall, like a hatch. It¡¯s dark inside, but better than staying exposed. Groaning, I crawl in, grab a gnarled metal chunk, and block the entrance. My hands shake, coughs overwhelm me, and I nearly pass out from the burning in my ribs.


    Inside, I scan the dimness: a low, narrow space reeking of mold and rot. Rust streaks the walls, slime in patches. A hole in the ceiling shows that same pus-yellow sky. The air feels heavier, like a stale chamber with no vents, but I¡¯m out of the monsters¡¯ sight¡­ for now.


    ¡ª Ahh¡­ ¡ª I can¡¯t hold back a moan as I try to sit, leaning on the wall. My ankle aches ¡ª likely sprained ¡ª and each breath knifes my ribs. I gingerly touch my side ¡ª the pain¡¯s so bad I break into a sweat. Outside, shuffling hints the creature¡¯s lurking, sniffing me out.


    Hissing and steps, like those dead things are scoping the entrance. I clamp my lips, fighting the cough. ¡ª Please don¡¯t let them find a way in¡­ Please¡­


    Rustling beyond the wall signals they¡¯re close. I go silent, desperate not to scream. I breathe in short, jerky gasps ¡ª a full inhale makes my ribs scream. My head¡¯s foggy from pain and stench; reality slips. But fear of dying keeps me tethered.


    My heart thuds wildly; I¡¯m scared to even breathe. My eyes sting from caustic fumes, my throat scratches with the reek. I sit, taking shallow breaths to avoid passing out. If I black out, I¡¯m easy prey when (not ¡°if¡±) the monster breaks in. Or I¡¯ll just choke on this toxic dump. I¡¯ve never felt such terror.


    Minutes pass, the harsh sounds outside seem to fade, but I don¡¯t relax. How could I? With cracked (or broken) ribs, a swelling ankle throbbing, and a cough shredding my throat every second. No medicine, water, food. No people, no warm hearth. Just eerie half-light, the metallic scent of death, and my ragged, pitiful gasps.


    I listen again: silence beyond the wall, occasional ¡°drip-drip¡± and a faint ¡°khrr¡­¡± in the distance. More monsters might be prowling; I can¡¯t risk peeking out. I lift trembling fingers to my face, wiping sweat and grime. My body shivers ¡ª fever¡¯s setting in, maybe. If so, I¡¯ll die from infection, hunger, or a monster¡¯s claws. Honestly, I don¡¯t know what¡¯s worse. I press against the wall, glimpsing flickers of sickly light through gaps. Maybe it¡¯s ¡°night¡± now, or maybe night never comes here? Eternal dusk, perhaps? I don¡¯t know. I just tremble, legs cramped with pain, head growing heavy, consciousness flickering.


    ¡ª Please¡­ ¡ª I croak into the void. My voice is hopeless. It doesn¡¯t matter if I¡¯m pleading to God, my parents, my friends ¡ª it¡¯s pointless. No reply breaks this strange, dead world¡¯s indifference, save for drip¡­ drip¡­ drip¡­ and my cough.


    Despair pulses inside. I recall home¡¯s comfort, Mom¡¯s smile, Dad¡¯s words ¡ª Prove to yourself you can stand if everything falls. ¡ª But how now, when I can¡¯t physically stand, and monsters roam around? How many hours do I have? A day? Less? I¡¯m drained, ready to slip into oblivion, but the fear of not waking keeps me sharper.


    At some point, I close my eyes, press my forehead to my knees, and sob quietly, almost inaudibly. My lungs burn, crying hurts, every move sparks pain in my ribs, but I weep, seeing no other outlet. No hope, no kind face to offer a hand and say: ¡ª It¡¯ll be okay, Adam¡­


    A distant ¡°clack-clack¡± and rasp outside jolt my breath back to silence. They¡¯re still there, maybe lurking. This world feeds on human screams and rust, a slow death sentence for me. Even if they don¡¯t break in, I could die of thirst, wounds, infection. And this damn air ¡ª it¡¯s built to kill.


    Minutes or hours drag ¡ª what¡¯s the point in counting? I drift into a strange, half-conscious state where pain ebbs and surges. My brain teeters on shutdown, but I fight, biting my lip bloody to stay awake. I don¡¯t want to be torn apart in my sleep.


    Surviving is excruciating. But my body clings to life, and my mind commands: ¡ª Hold on, just a bit longer. ¡ª I obey: eyes shut, shallow breaths caught, ignoring how my chest shudders, how my throat burns with each gulp of poison. I dream of one thing: someone ¡ª or something ¡ª ending this horror. But beyond the thin walls, only shuffling steps, drip¡­ drip¡­ drip¡­ and gray smog linger. And I, heart pounding, face this lifeless, rusty abyss alone.


    ¡ª Mom, Dad¡­ ¡ª I whisper their names faintly, grasping for a shred of the warmth I felt at home. Nothing ¡ª just cruel shivers and stabbing pain in my side. Outside reigns a vast, dead junkyard teeming with grotesque monsters. This is the new world that greeted me¡­


    I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. How long I can keep surviving is unknown. But while my heart beats, I¡¯m not a corpse yet. I exhale carefully, forcing myself to feel each pulse, each second of awareness: I¡¯m alive. In darkness, stench, and utter hopelessness, but alive.


    A far-off ¡°clack¡­ shh¡­¡± echoes again, like a monster circling back. I freeze like a statue, inner sobs still tearing at me.


    I¡¯m trapped¡­


    Go out ¡ª they¡¯ll rip me apart. Stay ¡ª I¡¯ll die slowly in agony. It¡¯s not even a dilemma; it¡¯s a verdict. Nausea rises from helplessness, but I grit my teeth, stifling it to stay quiet. Only faint, broken breaths prove I¡¯m still here.


    Finally, the rustling outside fades, taking the last echoes of the nightmare chase with it¡­ Like the creatures moved off, sensing another prey or losing interest in me. But I don¡¯t dare check the gap ¡ª too risky.


    So here I stay, hunched against cold, slick metal, lost in uncertainty ¡ª alone against this venomous chaos. No one can say if dawn will come, or if morning ever arrives here. It reeks of death, madness surrounds me, and I cling to a fragile belief I can still fight. My foggy brain conjures parents, friends, teachers¡­ but reality shrinks to this dark, filthy corner and the sound of monsters beyond the wall.


    I press against the metal, trembling with ache and dread. Outside ¡ª an inhuman world; inside ¡ª pain and coughs. And so ends my introduction to this ghastly place. A hopeless, toxic hell where every breath is a feat, and any sound could be my last. My eyes droop, fear and pain wrestle with sleep, and I whisper:


    ¡ª Please¡­ someone¡­


    No answer, no rescue: just the wind¡¯s faint moan and metal¡¯s creak, mirroring the apathy of this awful world that cursed flash dumped me into.

 Chapter 2 - Rusted Hell

    It feels like I¡¯m waking up for the umpteenth time, though I haven¡¯t truly slept once. A grating screech somewhere beyond the wall, cold metal against my cheek, and a ghastly emptiness inside, as if I¡¯m melting into pieces in this endless junkyard. The moment I inhale, I regret it: a sharp pain shoots through the ribs on my left side, as though someone fired a bullet straight into my chest. My throat scratches, a cough rips its way out, slicing my lungs like they¡¯re filled with shards of glass. My eyes water, and the air takes on an almost tangible taste of rust and moldy decay.


    I¡¯m still here.


    In this diabolical place.


    When my memory clears even slightly, I recall fragments that only make it worse: the recent evening, the warm living room at home, Mom¡¯s face glowing with pride, Dad¡¯s words about ¡°proving to yourself you can stand when the world crumbles.¡± Then the party at Felicia Green¡¯s, our chatter about college acceptances¡­ and the flash. That sudden, white burst, like lightning splitting the sky. How we all screamed, how I felt a jolt pierce my chest. Then¡ªnothingness. And now I¡¯m here, in an iron hell, alone.


    Every time I think of that flash and my friends, a wave of helplessness crashes over me. Just yesterday¡ªor was it the day before?¡ªI was celebrating my acceptance to MIT, seeing my parents¡¯ joyful faces, laughing with Blake, Felicia, and the others. And then it all collapsed, as if someone yanked reality out from under me.


    Now I don¡¯t know where I am, why I¡¯m here, or how to get out.


    My ankle has swollen even more. Even through the fabric of my pants, I can feel the heat radiating from the sprain. The slightest twist of my foot sends a flash of pain shooting up my spine. I don¡¯t want to scream¡ªI¡¯m terrified that someone (or something) might hear and come back.


    Leaning against the cold steel wall, I carefully shift my weight to avoid pressing on my cracked rib. It¡¯s likely broken, or at least badly fractured: every deep breath stabs my left side with sharp agony. If only I had painkillers, any kind of medicine¡­ I¡¯m no doctor, but Mom sometimes told me how to handle rib injuries. Now, those scraps of knowledge are all I have.


    ¡ª Mom, Dad¡­ ¡ª I whisper faintly, not even noticing I¡¯ve spoken aloud. ¡ª Damn it¡­


    I try not to think about the possibility that they might be hurt too. Maybe it¡¯s just me who vanished? Maybe my home is fine, and I was snatched into this insane world at the last second? It¡¯s strange that I still cling to hope. My mind replays the moment of the flash in vivid detail: I blinked¡ªand woke up amid twisted metal wreckage.


    I hear the echo of those creatures¡¯ footsteps in my head again. When I first landed here and climbed out of the debris pile, those shambling silhouettes attacked me¡ªlike living skeletons draped in rusted flesh. Their hollow eyes burned with hunger, and shards of metal protruded from beneath tattered skin. I don¡¯t understand how such things can exist. But I saw them with my own eyes.


    Since I barricaded myself in this narrow compartment, time seems to have frozen. I might have drifted into oblivion three or four times, but I haven¡¯t truly slept. A cough, pain, or the fear that those monsters would return kept jolting me awake. The air here is steeped in such a vile stench that I¡¯m nearly constantly nauseous, and my throat grows rawer by the minute. It¡¯s like a toxic blend of industrial poisons, rot, and ancient chemicals. My lungs burn as if scorched.


    One thing is clear: if I stay here forever, I won¡¯t last long. I need water, some kind of medicine, and a sturdier shelter. Through the trembling and pain, I force myself to stand.


    I cautiously brace my right hand to push myself up, clamping my lips shut as my left ankle flares with hellish pain. God, I just hope I don¡¯t scream¡ªthere¡¯s no telling who or what might be lurking nearby. My ¡°door¡± is just a metal beam wedged into the narrow passage, hastily propped up. A single push from outside, and it¡¯d fall in a second.


    Limping, I take a few steps along the crooked steel corridor. The dim light of the keychain flashlight (how did it even end up in my pocket? I think it was Blake¡¯s gift from the party¡­) picks out the grotesque outlines of the walls: everything¡¯s rusted, some parts warped as if torn apart. It looks like a corridor inside a massive ship, reduced to scattered sections. Broken bulkheads jut out from the sides, bent beams protrude, and above, twisted, corroded frames loom.


    How I ended up inside some kind of spaceship is beyond comprehension. But I don¡¯t have time to ponder. I need to explore. Maybe I¡¯ll find a ramp, an exit, or something like supplies or medicine?


    I sink back into a crouch¡ªmy legs can¡¯t hold me up from the pain and weakness. My ears ring, my head feels stuffed with cotton from dehydration. Yes, thirst is outright choking me now. I need to find some kind of liquid, or it¡¯ll all end very soon.


    Through the haze in my mind, I recall family holidays, the table always set with water, apple juice, cola¡­ such a trivial thing, and I never realized how vital clean water is. I want to scream at the unfairness, but I hold back.


    Gathering my strength, I try to move forward. My flashlight glides over the corridor¡¯s metal flooring. In places, it¡¯s burned through, forming pits. I can¡¯t gauge their depth¡ªjust pure darkness, shifting with ghostly shadows. I stick to where the plates seem mostly intact.


    After about fifteen minutes of helpless shuffling, I spot a strange sign on the wall: rust and paint streaks make it hard to read, but the letters ¡°MED¡± stand out clearly. The symbols are framed by unfamiliar, alien hieroglyphs. My heart pounds: I have no idea what this ship is or who it belonged to, but ¡°MED¡± surely means ¡°medical bay.¡± There might be something useful¡ªbandages, medicine, water¡­


    The door that presumably led inside is crumpled like an accordion, its tracks skewed. I examine it from the side: the edges are coated in rust, and odd dark crystals, like dried mold, have settled in spots. I touch the door¡¯s seam¡ªmy fingers come away smeared with grime. I need to try opening it. But it looks completely stuck, as if the metal is fused shut.


    I glance down¡ªa piece of rebar lies at my feet, about the length of my forearm. I pick it up. It¡¯s heavy, rough, encrusted with flakes of rust. But it¡¯s better than nothing. I wedge it under the door¡¯s lower edge and start prying, arching my back. Every inch gained comes at such a cost that my chest tightens with pain, and the rust-dusted handle slips in my sweaty palms. Each jerk sends a jolt through my cracked rib¡ªI want to scream, but I bite my lips and endure.


    A hideous metallic screech grates my ears, fine rust flakes shower down¡ªsome get in my face, onto my tongue, and the bitter taste of corroded iron intensifies my nausea. My eyes water: from pain or dust, I can¡¯t tell anymore. After what feels like an eternity, the door finally shifts a couple of inches, forming a gap. It¡¯s enough for me to suck in my stomach, squeeze sideways, and slip through. At one point, a sharp metal edge tears my shirt at the shoulder, scratching my skin. I hiss in pain but make it inside.


    The sight beyond the door makes me squeeze my eyes shut for a moment: the medical bay looks more like a battlefield or an exploded lab. Everything is warped and dead, as if centuries have passed here. Rows of cabinets lie toppled, tangled wires snake out from somewhere, the walls are streaked with dark stains, and overhead, the bent ribs of the structure dangle. It smells of dampness, rot, and a sharp chemical tang, as if fumes are seeping from ancient, long-damaged tanks.


    I take a cautious breath, knowing the air here might be even more toxic than in the corridor. For a second, my head spins from the suffocating stench. I cover my nose and mouth with my sleeve, trying not to cough. The last thing I need is to choke on my own cough in this godforsaken place.


    I approach the first overturned cabinet, brushing its edge; it slides and dumps a handful of broken glass vials onto me. Some shatter underfoot, releasing a fresh wave of stench: rancid reagents clumped together. I clamp my mouth shut, trying not to breathe it in, but notice that some ampoules are intact. Small vials of various colors, covered in symbols I can barely read. I catch glimpses of letters vaguely resembling Latin¡ªmaybe ¡°antibio¡±? Maybe ¡°analg¡±? It¡¯s impossible to tell by sight. But I¡¯m too exhausted to be picky about what might help. I carefully tuck the ampoules into my pocket, mindful not to break them.


    The cabinets lining the bay are tilted, their paint peeled off, doors caked with thick dust. I spot dubious scraps of rubber on the floor¡ªlikely remnants of medical gloves. Everything¡¯s rotted from time and moisture. I nudge the scraps aside, hoping to find something intact. I stumble on a smashed capsule storage unit¡ªinside, there¡¯s dry slime, the contents long evaporated. Once, it seems, there were medicines here; now, just traces of powder remain at the bottom.


    Suddenly, my gaze catches two metal cans, less corroded than the rest. On the side, I make out: ¡°H2O Emerg¡­¡±. A shiver runs down my spine: this is likely an emergency water supply. Maybe it¡¯s gone bad over centuries, but I¡¯m so desperate with thirst I¡¯d drink from a filthy puddle. My hands tremble as I pry the edge open with a metal shard. With a faint pop, a repellent, stale smell escapes. I pinch my nose but take a cautious sip of the murky liquid, wincing at the bitter, metallic taste. My throat spasms, my body protests, but I force down a second gulp.


    ¡ª Sorry, Mom, ¡ª slips out as the acrid taste of rot lingers on my tongue. ¡ª I know this is insane¡­


    But the thirst eases slightly, my lips less parched. There¡¯s another can¡ªI stash it in a small backpack I find by the wall. It¡¯s medical too, once strapped to the wall, now just moldy straps remain. I shake it off and decide it¡¯s still better than carrying things in my hands.


    I rummage through the wall drawers next. Some are so rotted that a touch makes the lid cave in. But I find something vital: a few syringes in sealed packs. The labels show cryptic pictograms, but I can guess¡ª¡°analg-¡± (painkiller?), ¡°antibio-¡± (antibiotic?), and some ¡°stim-ul¡­¡±. Dubious, but I have no choice¡ªI take them. A sudden cramp seizes my side, and I slump against the wall. I need something to dull this pain so badly¡­ but I¡¯m scared to try unknown chemicals yet.


    In one cabinet, I find what looks like bandages. The top layers crumble to dust at my touch, but deeper inside, there¡¯s a denser bundle. I struggle to separate it¡ªseems like multilayered dressings, partially preserved. If I could clean them, they might work.


    Before leaving, I decide to disinfect my right palm, cut by a rusty plate in the corridor. With shaking hands, I break open an ampoule of clear liquid, hoping it¡¯s an antiseptic and not something worse. I soak a scrap of cloth and press it to the wound. It stings fiercely¡ªI nearly drop everything, cursing under my breath. It smells sharp, like alcohol, but who knows. There¡¯s no other option. I quickly plug the cut with a bit of bandage, wrapping it sloppily.


    I realize my ankle¡¯s a problem too: it¡¯s so swollen I can¡¯t stand properly. Using a rag and old bandages, I fashion a makeshift splint over my pant leg. The pain is excruciating, but it might stabilize the joint a little. Sweat beads on my forehead with every move, and my rib flares with agony. I sink to the floor, close my eyes, and breathe for a couple of minutes, fighting waves of nausea and dizziness.


    Then I notice a small steel container with a broken lid in the far corner. I lift it with the rebar, and my heart leaps: inside are several cylindrical objects in sealed packs. They look like flares, capable of bright light or signaling. ¡ª Hell yes, ¡ª flashes through my mind, ¡ª this could be valuable. I stuff them into the backpack, though a nagging worry lingers: light might attract worse creatures. But better to have something than nothing.


    Finally, I exit this grim infirmary, squeezing back through the crumpled door. The corridor still creaks, metal crunching underfoot, no signs of life. Just a faint draft stirs rust dust. I move slowly, every second taxing my worn-out body. But, as eerie as it is, a tiny spark of hope flickers: there¡¯s something to find here, even if it¡¯s in awful shape.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    I trudge onward through the thickening gloom. It feels like something¡¯s hiding behind every bulkhead, but there¡¯s no sound, no tracks. I pass a row of small cabins: all open, either empty or chaotic¡ªbroken beds, metal pits in the floor, remains¡­ In one room, I spot a bare bone jutting from rags¡ªonce a human (?) skeleton. My heart sinks. It¡¯s unbearable to look at; fear crashes over me in waves. But I grit my teeth and press on, repeating to myself: ¡ª I won¡¯t give up. I¡¯ll find a way out. Or it¡¯s over.


    So, limping and battling terror, I leave the medical bay¡¯s remnants, like a soldier stumbling from a battlefield where I scavenged some supplies. One thought drives me: ¡ª Don¡¯t die. Hold on a little longer. And¡ªfind an exit¡­


    In another cabin¡ªnarrow and half-buried in debris¡ªI start searching the corners almost mechanically. The flashlight¡¯s dim beam picks out ghostly shapes in the dark piles, each step crunching disgustingly: either tiny fragments or broken fixtures scattered across the floor. It smells of dampness, dust, and something sour and stale, like moisture long trapped here.


    Near the far wall, I spot a metal bedframe, twisted and bent. Below it, something protrudes¡ªa drawer or container. I carefully pry it open with the knife¡¯s edge, expecting another pile of junk to spill out¡ªor worse, some abomination to crawl free. Instead, a faint scrape sounds, and a bundle slides out, sealed in cracked, filthy plastic.


    I angle the flashlight closer and hold my breath: it¡¯s clearly not just rags inside. I tear at the plastic, which crumbles like old cobwebs in my hands. And there it is¡ªclothing. Not rotted or mold-ridden, just dusty and intact. I pull out the first pieces and nearly cry out with joy: military pants with reinforced patches, heavy but sturdy. Then tops: a shirt with chest reinforcements, a long coat with armored shoulder pads, gloves, goggles, and even a balaclava.


    ¡ª No way¡­ ¡ª I whisper, gauging if it might fit me. Someone must have sealed their gear in a airtight bag long ago, but the bag tore over time. Luckily, the fabric survived¡ªno mold, no major damage, just dust.


    I squeeze the material¡ªtough, feels like dense synthetics. The pants and shirt could shield me from cuts and cold, while the coat seems designed for shoulder protection, maybe even shrapnel. But put it all on now? I¡¯m half-delirious, and the space is tight¡ªlingering here to change is suicide. The more I rustle and move, the greater the risk of drawing unwanted attention.


    Plus, the coat¡¯s long hem would snag on every corner, and I¡¯ve already hit sharp protrusions and gaps. Too dangerous. After a moment¡¯s thought, I decide to pack this ¡°treasure¡± into my backpack. It¡¯s already overloaded, but tossing such a find is madness. I stuff the clothes in, grunting and trying not to strain my rib. My side throbs in protest.


    Crawling out of the tiny cabin, I pause at the threshold, checking my ankle wrap and fighting dizziness. The backpack¡¯s heavier now, digging into my shoulder, but I¡¯ve got a shot at not freezing to death if the temperature drops. Soon, I¡¯m moving down the corridor again. It twists, branches off. Signs of destruction appear: holes in the walls, as if burned by weapons or energy blasts. I find melted patches, and in places, odd diagonal scratches¡ªlike massive claws raked the metal. My heart sinks at the thought: I picture monsters scaling the walls, shredding steel like foil.


    Finally, I reach massive doors that look sturdy¡ªbut they¡¯re torn open, as if by a giant hand, along with part of the bulkhead. The sheer force it took is horrifying. Beyond lies a spacious compartment: logically, a command center or bridge. Sure enough, I see remnants of control panels, broken consoles, screens¡­


    I take a few steps, and my courage evaporates. Remains are everywhere. Not just bodies¡ªdried or gnawed skeletons in shattered armor. Some chest plates are ripped open, exposing jutting ribs. Dark, thick stains coat the walls¡ªblood, perhaps, faded and blackened over centuries. I swallow hard, battling nausea.


    I want to run, but I need to check for anything useful. Weapons, ammo, batteries, maybe. I approach a body in mangled armor. A touch, and the metal flakes off in rust, bones crumbling to dust. I shudder. ¡ª Sorry¡­ ¡ª I whisper inwardly and pull back.


    A little farther, I spot a corpse in better-preserved armor: a black cloak lies over it, embroidered with what looks like radiating sunrays. But the head¡¯s gone¡ªthe helmet and jawbone lie nearby. Ugh¡­ I force myself to approach and touch the cloak. It feels like tough fibers, woven with metallic thread, lined with thin insulation. It could work as a warm wrap or blanket. I quickly strip it off, avoiding the remains as much as possible.


    ¡ª Sorry, ¡ª I whisper, looking away, ¡ª and thank you¡­


    I fold the cloak into my backpack. It¡¯s bulging now, weighing me down, but these items could mean life or death. Then I notice a military pack at the dead officer¡¯s feet. I open it: rotted explosives inside, useless and risky to carry. I toss them. But the pack itself is sturdier than mine, with more pockets. I transfer everything into it. As I do, I spot a small rectangular device by the corpse¡¯s hand¡ªa ¡°data bank¡± or ¡°personal terminal,¡± maybe. The bones snap as I pry it from cold fingers. I try not to dwell on it. The device is intact, its surface smooth, uncracked. If I can charge it, I might learn something about the ship.


    Just as I tuck it into the new pack, my flashlight catches a knife lying nearby amid armor fragments. I pick it up: the blade is black, almost light-absorbing. I drag it across a bulkhead¡ªit leaves deep scratches, like cutting butter. Impressive and unnerving. This might be my first real ¡°weapon.¡± I hope I never have to test it on anything, but in this place, any defense is vital.


    I glance around, and my stomach chills: piles of skeletons, flesh scraps, severed limbs. One body has a chest cavity torn open, as if claws ripped it from inside. It¡¯s so horrifying my brain refuses to process it. Maybe this was a last stand¡ªsomeone fought back, but they were slaughtered. Or bitten?


    After scouring the bridge, I find little of value. Weapons have crumbled to dust, ammo turned to powder, instruments wrecked. Only a cylindrical container on the headless officer¡¯s belt catches my eye. I open it with a creak¡ªinside are sh syringes with cryptic symbols: a lightning bolt, a blood drop, a medical cross¡­ Looks like a combat injector kit, from stimulants to hemostatics. A precious find.


    ¡ª This could save my life¡­ ¡ª I whisper, turning one syringe in the flashlight¡¯s glow.


    I take the set and, catching my breath with effort, survey the scene: shattered consoles, heaps of debris, black stains on the walls. Everything¡¯s dead here. A warm dread creeps into my heart, as if this place has soaked up despair.


    ¡ª Enough, ¡ª I mutter, ¡ª time to go¡­


    The creatures outside haunt my thoughts: what if they¡¯ve caught my scent? I try not to make noise, slipping back to the doorway. Glancing at the corridor, I realize returning to the breach I entered through is risky¡ªmonsters roam there. But what choice do I have? I need a safer ship section or another exit.


    I cast a final look at this death-soaked command post: it repulses me, but I can¡¯t afford squeamishness¡ªI¡¯ve taken what I could. Fear gnaws at me from within, warning that it¡¯ll only get harder. No choice. I grip the black knife, adjust my pack¡¯s strap, and step out cautiously, carrying the weight of what I¡¯ve seen. My back feels the empty sockets of those soldiers watching.


    ¡ª I hope you didn¡¯t die for nothing, ¡ª I say mentally, crossing the threshold. ¡ª These things you left¡­ they¡¯ll help me survive.


    I trudge through corridors on stiff legs: each step flares hot pain in my ankle, and my cracked rib hampers breathing. I stifle coughs into a clenched fist, though every ragged breath scrapes my throat like sandpaper. Sometimes I duck through crumpled bulkheads; other times, I climb over metal plates that clang hollowly underfoot. Every shadow seems a threat¡ªI keep turning, knife ready.


    Small compartments along the corridor yield nothing but rusted junk. Tools, wires, batteries¡ªall decayed. I find an armory, heart leaping, but it¡¯s pointless: just a pile of time-eaten trash.


    At last, the corridor widens and curves into a semicircle. I spot a cabin door to the side, almost untouched¡ªby this hellhole¡¯s standards. My scratched hands and throbbing side ache: exhaustion is breaking me down. I need shelter and a chance to rest.


    I approach and see the door¡¯s been forced open. Comforting, though¡ªI can prop it back with metal sheets to clatter if someone tries to enter. In the corridor, I gather debris and stack it to ring out at any stranger¡¯s step. A makeshift alarm.


    The cabin¡¯s tiny: a rotted cot on the left, an upturned narrow table on the right. The floor¡¯s sticky and foul, black-brown¡ªmaybe machine oil or organic remains. Fine cracks spider the ceiling, but no holes break through. At least there¡¯s no open passage. It¡¯s grim, but better than the corridor.


    With a weary exhale, I slip back to the corridor and drag metal chunks inside, arranging them before the door. They¡¯ll make noise if anything tries to get in. Back inside, I toss the officer¡¯s cloak onto the rusted cot frame. It reeks of stale metal and mustiness, but it beats lying on the thoroughly rotted mattress fabric.


    My throat burns again, a cough clawing free. I fish the second water can from my pack¡ªthe one I¡¯d saved ¡°for later.¡± I take a couple of sips: the taste is revolting, but it softens the thirst a bit. The murky bitterness stings my stomach, a chill creeping over me. My head throbs, fever setting in. My fingers tremble, as if I¡¯m shivering.


    My gaze falls on the syringes and ampoules I scavenged¡ªmaybe there¡¯s an antibiotic or stimulant. But fear holds me back: what if it¡¯s poison or worse? I¡¯m still breathing, so I¡¯ll wait. If it gets unbearable, then I¡¯ll risk it.


    With effort, I lean against the wall to shed the backpack. Sharp pain stabs my side, my leg pulses. The cough feels like it¡¯s incinerating my lungs from within. And I¡¯m forced to breathe this stifling air, laced with rust and decay particles, it seems. I need real rest, or I¡¯ll lose my mind. But the thought of monsters prowling nearby keeps me on edge.


    I probe my broken rib and realize it needs fixing fast. I strip off my torn shirt, ripping it into strips. A short breath: ¡ª Easy, Adam, ¡ª I force myself not to panic. I bind my chest with the makeshift bandage. Every touch is fire under my skin, an ache in my bones like twisted nerves. I bite my lip so hard I taste blood¡¯s metallic tang. But the rib¡¯s somewhat stabilized¡ªhopefully, it won¡¯t pierce a lung.


    Slowly, barely breathing, I lower myself onto the cot. The metal frame creaks. My ankle blazes, but I can stretch my legs at least. I drape the cloak over me, trying not to inhale its foul stench. My head swims with chaotic images: home, parents, friends, university¡­ all so distant and unreal now. My eyes sting, tears welling up.


    ¡ª How did I end up here¡­ ¡ª I whisper, voice trembling. Salty trails streak my cheeks. This world of death and grotesque monsters doesn¡¯t mesh with the life I had yesterday, a dream that felt within reach.


    I clutch the knife from the bridge. Its blade is light but razor-sharp. It seems my only chance if those horrors break in. I¡¯ve no strength to flee¡ªonly to fight to the death or¡­¡ªthe thought cuts off: in despair, I whisper half-aloud, would it be easier to slit my own throat? But I shove the idea away, even as fear and hopelessness surge stronger.


    Something creaks in the corridor¡ªmaybe just wind swaying the hull, or a beast creeping closer. Each new sound sends my heart racing. I press a cloth to my lips to muffle a cough if it hits.


    Gradually, I grow cold: either my body temperature¡¯s dropping, or this place chills to the bone. I huddle under the cloak, clutching the backpack to my chest. A feverish thought pounds: maybe I caught something from that rancid water or the poison-laced air. My strength ebbs, sleep tugging at me.


    Suddenly, my mind dredges up a memory: I¡¯m a child, lying with a high fever, and Mom strokes my forehead, saying, ¡ª Breathe, dear, it¡¯ll pass. Her hands soothed any pain then, her calm certainty healing wounds on its own. Now, I¡¯m alone, no medicine, no loving embrace. Yet her words calm me slightly: ¡ª Breathe, Adam¡­ breathe¡­


    I try to find a position where my rib hurts less, closing my eyes. The moment my lids shut, images flare: dismembered corpses, gaping eye sockets, vile claws. I try to banish the nightmares, but my sick mind gleefully blends memories of friends and parents with slaughter scenes. Each half-sleep, I dip into visions of home, then wake with a stifled scream, clutching the knife.


    Finally, painful apathy and weakness win. I opt for a desperate move: I pull out an ampoule with a symbol like a screaming face¡ªmaybe a painkiller. I drip some ¡°antiseptic¡± on the needle, inject it into my thigh, close my eyes, and freeze, waiting. My head spins, my chest burns with nausea. ¡ª Don¡¯t kill me¡­ ¡ª I plead silently. But after a couple of minutes, the pain in my side dulls, like a curtain over smoldering coals. It works.


    ¡ª Thank you¡­ ¡ª I whisper. I don¡¯t even know to whom¡ªfate, or the dead man I took these syringes from.


    Sleep rolls in like a wave, its icy fingers embracing me. I sink into it in fragments, jolting awake from coughs or imagined noises at the door. Deep in my mind, fear spins: what if a creature tears through the corridor sheets, and I wake to inhuman shrieks? But my exhausted body gives in: my eyelids grow heavy, limbs turn to cotton.


    My dreams mix horrors with bright memories. I see familiar rooms, talk with Dad about college, feel Mom set a bowl of hot soup before me¡­ Then the scene rips apart, and I¡¯m in a blood-drenched corridor, skeletons reaching for me. I thrash in sticky terror, unable to move¡­


    I wake repeatedly in cold sweat. My heart pounds, the knife trembles in my hand. I gulp air convulsively, cough, slip back into murky half-sleep. Somewhere on consciousness¡¯s edge, I vaguely note no monster has appeared. Maybe luck, or maybe they¡¯re distracted elsewhere.


    At some point, I sink deeper¡ªmaybe an hour, maybe more. The hot ache in my body isn¡¯t as sharp. My chest wheezes, but the painkiller does its job. Thoughts tangle, slide, but I¡¯m alive, still breathing. All the while, my fingers clutch the knife¡¯s handle like a final anchor to reality.


    I know: if I survive to ¡°tomorrow,¡± I¡¯ll have to move on¡ªfind food, water, an exit. Maybe I can locate a generator and power some ship systems. Just don¡¯t become someone¡¯s meal. But that¡¯s for later.


    For now, I lie under the cloak, backpack pressed to my chest, my mind teetering between delirium and sleep. I see Dad¡¯s face, recall his steady, ¡ª You¡¯ll manage, Adam. It sparks a faint glimmer of hope.


    Yes, Dad. I¡¯ll try.


    In the dark, to the rhythm of my ragged breathing, I finally slip into a deep, pained sleep that, oddly, brings the long-awaited, if uneasy, oblivion.

 Chapter 3 - The Arrival

    First there was light. Not blinding, not scorching¡ªsoft, like the touch of feathers. It streamed from all sides, caressing the skin, evoking not so much sunlight as the glow of distant stars on a clear, moonless night.


    Then came the smells: the scent of blooming trees, warm moss, faintly sweet hints of pollen, and a subtle, almost imperceptible tang of unknown essential oils drifting through the air.


    Then came awareness.


    Someone opened their eyes first. Then another. And another. People began to stir, lift their heads, sit up. All at their own pace, in their own way. Someone jumped up abruptly, spinning their head around in bewilderment, while another barely turned their neck and froze, trying to understand what was happening.


    The world into which they awoke was beyond imagining.


    Underfoot stretched a covering of thick, soft grass, like silk, sprinkled with rare crystalline flowers that opened at the slightest ripple of air. Yet the grass itself seemed merely a curtain for a far grander backdrop¡ªa garden surpassing any earthly notion of beauty. Tall floral arches, vines with glowing buds, light wisps of haze floating above them, infused with a pearly glow. It seemed every inch of ground was imbued with a certain magnetism.


    Nearby stood tall, slender trees. Their trunks were covered with patterned bark, which, seen from the side, resembled stained-glass mosaics. The leaves shimmered as though a quiet pulse glowed within, and the breeze only emphasized this living radiance, making the foliage rustle like the wings of mysterious butterflies. From the crown of one such giant drifted fireflies¡ªnot the familiar earthly insects, but tiny spheres of light, like droplets of liquid gold drifting aimlessly in the air.


    But the most entrancing sight awaited above.


    From the heavens over that place flowed magic. It was literally visible: in the gaps between branches and flowers lay not merely a night sky, but a colossal panorama of space, which no earthly eye could ever observe under normal conditions. Not just a starry sky¡ªsomething incomparably more colorful and alive.


    The sky was no ordinary one. It breathed, shimmering with unknown hues, as though the very space here was saturated with magic and light. Right overhead stretched gigantic bands of gleaming nebulae, lazily drifting across the firmament. Their shapes sometimes resembled massive animals, sometimes the faces of gods, as if they responded to the onlookers'' gazes. Stars were visible everywhere: they burned slowly but appeared closer and far livelier than on Earth, as though they truly beheld this land.


    Transparent rings often passed across that sky¡ªperhaps remnants of gas or alien matter enveloping the planet, or maybe the rings of some giant satellite. At certain angles, these rings reflected light, forming iridescent trails like pearlescent veils.


    Yet the most unexpected thing: from time to time, mysterious points of light glided in the depths of that sky¡ªlike distant ships or mechanisms crossing the horizon, leaving quick trails of light. They differed from the twinkling of stars: they moved steadily, confidently, and vanished beyond the horizon or into the bands of nebulae. This added to the impression that the "paradise garden" in which the schoolchildren awakened was by no means isolated from other civilizations. Even to the naked eye, one could tell these weren''t meteors or mere comets¡ªtheir trajectory was too smooth, their artificial nature unmistakable. And that made it stranger still: it felt as though they were not merely in another world, but at the heart of a cosmic hub, where advanced technology and magic could coexist.


    Night had only just assumed its reign. The sun, almost invisible, slipped beyond an unseen mountain ridge, leaving a warm orange-pink glow on the horizon, but above, shadows and starlight already held sway. Under earthly conditions, even in the planet''s most pristine locations, one would never see such a fantastic sight: too much excess lighting, city illumination, dust. And the Solar System, with its rather ordinary sky, could not compare to this place, which, judging by everything, was in a particularly vibrant corner of the galaxy. From here, star clusters and nebulae looked unbelievably bright, as though a painter had spilled all the universe''s colors across a black canvas and, in places, added mysterious bands of light resembling spacecraft engines.


    It was a place where even breathing felt foreign to everyday reality. And that feeling only grew upon realizing that, at that very moment, overhead, constructions akin to spacecraft were gliding across the sky, leaving long beams of light.


    And in this marvelous, crystalline, and impossible realm, figures began to rise. Schoolchildren. Their bodies lay scattered around the meadow, as though they had slept upon some lavish banquet bed.


    The first to get up was Blake from Class A¡ªhe sat up sharply, automatically clenching his fists. His face showed clear readiness for battle, but his eyes widened as he surveyed the surroundings:


    ¡ª What the¡­ - he could only exhale, feeling that his usual "earthly" reflexes seemed out of place in this idyllic scene.


    Next, Victoria Locks of Class A stirred. She was in no hurry to stand; first she set her hand on the grass and slowly ran her palm across it, as though verifying its reality. Her face was calm yet tense¡ªwithin Victoria, an analytical process was igniting: "This is not Earth''s flora¡­ and certainly not Earth''s sky. Where are we?"


    Laughing Liara of Class C awoke with genuine delight.


    ¡ª We¡­ are we in some friggin'' fantasy?! - she half-whispered, nearly bouncing on her toes, fascinated by the glowing motes. Yet her voice carried not just excitement but also bewilderment: "Can that be? And what if this is real magic?"


    Max and Logan managed to stand, murmuring among themselves and rubbing the back of their heads. One asked hoarsely:


    ¡ª Hey, you alive?


    ¡ª Yeah. If this is hell¡ªit''s fairly cozy, - the other snorted, but a naked fear flickered in his eyes.


    Luna Shade stood up slowly, unsteadily. Her hands shook, yet she forced composure. Her face reflected terror and reverence at once: in her mind flared worries about where Gabriel was, how he would handle this if even the transition itself seemed to wrench the soul from the body.


    Taira from Class B rose with catlike precision and briskness, scanning the environment distrustfully, as though expecting an ambush from those flowering bushes or perhaps from the sky, where the lights of unknown craft shone.


    Felicia Green was helping those nearby to stand, not asking questions. She was organized by nature: "First, count everybody, figure out who''s conscious and who isn''t." Thoughts darted through her head about how to arrange the group in a safe spot.


    Graham Harper, the B-class mentor, was already up, casting a studious glance around the meadow. His ex-military reflexes kicked in¡ªhe was looking for quick escape routes or cover, though everything seemed "too beautiful to be dangerous."


    Nora Meyer, the C-class teacher, was at no distance behind¡ªshe knelt beside one of the still unconscious kids, speaking with nearly professional calm:


    ¡ª No one''s hurt. That''s already something,


    though her look betrayed perplexity: "Impossible that no one got injured after¡­ something so inexplicable."


    Henry Withers, the A-class mentor, knelt with his palms on his thighs, staring blankly at the star-filled sky with its drifting lights. He presumably realized they were not merely on another planet, but possibly in a place where advanced technology, magic, and strands of fate intertwined. "So not all miracles are fables," flashed through his mind.


    ¡ª Is this a dream? - came Mia''s thin voice from Class C. ¡ª Or¡­ that Game?


    ¡ª Ha! If this is isekai, then I guess I''m finally home! A genuine paradise! - shouted Kody with dubious vigor, jumping to his feet. He spread his arms wide, as though eager to embrace such splendor, yet fear gleamed in his eyes: "What if it''s just a fa?ade, while behind it all is something far grimmer?"


    ¡ª Take it easy, - muttered Edmund Crowe, standing up.


    ¡ª Paradise wouldn''t give you such a headache.


    ¡ª Paradise?.. - Luna repeated softly, glancing around. ¡ª It''s so beautiful¡­ so why am I so scared?


    ¡ª Watch where you''re stepping! - snapped Yuna irritably when someone from Class B nearly crushed her shoelaces. ¡ª Careful!..


    ¡ª What a magnificent landscape¡­ - Sebastian whispered, tilting his head back to admire the stars, the nebular bands, and the mysterious streaks of ships crossing the sky. ¡ª I should at least imprint it in my memory¡­


    They all rose, stunned, subdued, enthralled. Somewhere a quiet conversation began, someone called out for the teachers, a half-whispered roll call. One helped a friend, another tried to pose questions but got only anxious stares in response.


    ¡ª Where are we? - finally asked Violetta, gazing at the rings overhead. ¡ª Is this space? Or¡­


    No one had time to answer, because a hoarse, spasmodic sound came from the side, like a mortally wounded beast. Luna turned first, eyes widening in horror, letting out a sharp cry:


    ¡ª Gabriel!


    He was lying a short distance away, body arched in an agonized bow, as though his spine would snap under some inner force. His skin was marble-white, almost transparent, and his lips were moving, uttering broken phrases like some torn radio frequency:


    ¡ª Light¡­ unbearable¡­ cycle¡­ spiral¡­ cries and suffering¡­ laughter¡­ they crave¡­ silence¡­ over and over¡­ over and over¡­


    ¡ª What''s wrong with him? - Felicia rushed over, touching his forehead. ¡ª God, he''s freezing¡­


    ¡ª He''s not responding, - Luna said in a shaking voice, grabbing his hand tightly. ¡ª But he''s muttering something¡­ like he''s trying to warn us¡­


    Gabriel squeezed his eyelids and began violently shaking his head, as though fighting off unknown demons pushing into his consciousness. His voice was ragged and chaotic, filled with such panic and reverence that it was as if he beheld both horror and majesty incarnate:


    ¡ª A voice¡­ bodiless¡­ cold¡­ fear¡­ hatred¡­ a voice¡­ malevolence¡­ a rift¡­ the gates are open¡­ It awakens¡­


    Suddenly he trembled, releasing an inhuman, excruciating scream:


    ¡ª DOOM! DOOM! DOOM! ¡­ Darkness¡­ the End¡­ Death¡­ all shall be devoured¡­


    ¡ª That''s no delirium, - Edmund whispered faintly, his face whiter than chalk. ¡ª It''s prophecy¡­ He''s seeing something¡­


    ¡ª We can''t just stand here! - Victoria took a step forward, but her voice faltered. ¡ª He''s obviously trying to warn us!


    Some students backed away, others froze, drawn by the frightening sight. The murmurs died down, everyone listening intently to that fractured torrent of words. Gabriel''s convulsions grew so fierce it looked like his bones would crack, while thick, dark blood trickled from his eyes, ears, and nose, as though something inside him had shattered beyond repair.


    Felicia''s gaze swept over everyone again, darting from face to face, until suddenly alarm flared in her eyes:


    ¡ª Wait¡­ Adam''s gone, - she said, her voice trembling. ¡ª Nobody''s seen him?


    They fell silent, scanning one another in anxious stillness.


    Then Gabriel abruptly opened his eyes, in which pure, inhuman terror was mirrored, and focused on Felicia. His voice was hollow and distant, as if sounding through some barrier between worlds:


    ¡ª He¡­ is not with you¡­ he¡­ remained¡­ no¡­ they took¡­ they took him, in order¡­


    ¡ª Who took? Adam? - Blake barely forced out, coming closer.


    Gabriel tensed again, his entire body bending as though struck by lightning. A shriek was torn from his throat¡ªa wail of pain, dread, and something ominous, unfathomable. His voice splintered into numerous layers, each pouring out its own words:


    ¡ª Despair¡­ disappointment¡­ defeat¡­ the past¡­ hope¡­ light¡­ the future¡­ the path¡­ destroy¡­ save¡­ mistake¡­ name¡­ no-name¡­ a tool¡­ triumph¡­ rebirth¡­ apotheosis¡­ the end¡­ doom¡­ doom¡­ DOOM¡­ He is coming!


    Those words slammed into the mind, like thousands of voices united by one excruciating truth. Around him, the air began to ripple, as though reality itself could not withstand the strain. Black blood oozed from his eyes, nose, and ears, and his glassy gaze was fixed somewhere distant, where lurked a monstrous secret that had destroyed his reason.


    ¡ª It''s as if¡­ he was broken from within, - Edmund whispered, barely moving his lips.


    Gabriel convulsed again, then fell still. His body went limp, breathing shallow, almost imperceptible. His eyes closed, and he drifted into unconsciousness.


    Felicia dropped to her knees, pressing an ear to his chest.


    ¡ª He''s alive, she said with simultaneous relief and dread. ¡ª But it''s as though something vital''s been wrenched out of him¡­ as if he was just a vessel for something horrifying.


    Several students retreated further, while others exchanged tense, worried looks.


    ¡ª Whatever it was¡­ - Luna carefully touched Gabriel''s shoulder, ¡ª it seems to have gone.


    ¡ª What in the hell is happening here?! she added.


    Then, from the far edge of the meadow, where faint shimmering paths led, came a new sound. At first scarcely audible¡ªdistant, hollow, even, like the heartbeat of the world itself. But it gradually strengthened, becoming a low, measured rumble of footsteps, mixed with barely perceptible vibrations in the air, as if someone were striking colossal, invisible drums.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    The students stiffened, peering into the gloom beneath the trees, hearts pounding faster. Victoria felt her fingertips turn cold as she clenched her fists and whispered, tense and quiet:


    ¡ª Someone''s coming¡­


    Shadows deepened, and soon the first silhouettes appeared in the pale semidarkness. Tall, gaunt, cloaked in heavy robes and mantles, they moved slowly and solemnly, as if performing an ancient, sacred rite. Their forms seemed elongated, unreal, woven from the very dusk. An impenetrable hush followed their approach, making one''s blood freeze.


    Stepping forward were shapes reminiscent of monks or priests, wearing long hooded robes that completely concealed their faces. Each held a massive staff topped with unfamiliar symbols, faintly glowing and shimmering in time with their steps, as though charged with an energy of their own. Their garments flowed like liquid light, woven from gleaming threads shifting through all shades of silver and gold.


    Behind them came figures in long mantles and wide-brimmed hats adorned with elaborate patterns and metal inlays, reflecting the dim glow of the surrounding realm. Each bore a scepter or artifact that glowed from within with a mysterious, muted radiance. It seemed their very presence distorted the space around them, making the air thick, almost tangible.


    Warriors closed the procession. Their armor looked forged of star-metal, gleaming with a cold, austere light. Some suits were traced with ancient symbols and patterns, others seemed alive, like shifting fabrics continually morphing from light to metal and back. Their helmets covered their faces completely, leaving only dark slits for eyes. Their movements were stately, unhurried; each step echoed with a profound vibration that resonated in the chests of all who beheld them.


    An invisible power radiated from every being in that procession, so overwhelming it seemed nature itself bowed before them in submission. Their presence stirred a strange, twofold sensation¡ªless a threat than a primal awe and trembling before something infinitely ancient and mighty.


    As the procession drew near, the light around them receded, as though reality itself dared not intrude upon their aura of majesty. The air began to thrum, like the moment before a thunderstorm. Even the trees, grass, and very earth underfoot quivered slightly, as if paying homage to their grandeur.


    When they reached the meadow''s edge, they halted. An absolute, utter silence fell, so dense and profound that each student could hear their own breath. Then, as though obeying an unheard command, every member of the procession dropped to their knees in wordless, profound reverence. The moment felt so grand and significant that no student dared break that sacred hush, not even to breathe.


    And then the sky flared.


    In the meadow''s center rose a pillar of light¡ªbrighter than any star, dazzling like a supernova unfolding. It pierced the evening darkness, driving out everything else. From inside that radiance emerged three silhouettes. Tall. Flawless. Godlike.


    The first figure, shrouded in a heavenly blue glow, was feminine, her hair drifting softly as though woven from moonlight. The second figure, bathed in golden radiance, moved with vigor, ease, and joy, as if every motion were a celebration of life. The third, male, encircled by amethyst flames, stood before them in shining, austere armor etched with patterns, gleaming as though forged from the very facets of stellar metal.


    At that very moment, all living beings in the clearing felt the space around them compress, becoming dense, almost tangible. The pressure was so overwhelming that students and teachers fell to their knees, unable to resist. Their breaths were cut short, hearts trembling from an unbearable, almost painful reverence.


    Suddenly, the air itself began to resonate, filled with subtle vibrations, each particle seemingly repeating words clearer than any thought in their minds.


    The figure bathed in blue light spoke first, her voice soft and profound, gentle as a comforting lullaby penetrating to the depths of their hearts:


    ¡ª Children of distant stars, welcome. You have arrived in a world that has long awaited your coming. Now you are no longer wanderers, but heirs, chosen by the Universe that has taken you under its protection and granted you strength.


    She took a graceful step forward, and beneath her feet, silvery flowers bloomed, as if nature itself celebrated her words.


    Next, the figure in gold spoke, her voice vibrant, full of joyful optimism capable of instilling courage even into the most frightened hearts:


    ¡ª We sense your excitement, and it is beautiful! Your path is already marked on the tapestry of fate, and the entire Universe will respond to your intentions if you move forward with an open heart and determination!


    Finally, the amethyst figure spoke up, her voice strict and majestic, like a battle cry stirring the spirit and reinforcing the will:


    ¡ª You were not chosen by chance. Your arrival is not an accident but the outcome of a great resonance. Your souls have been heard, and now you are not merely witnesses but participants in the events to come, upon which the future of the universe depends.


    The blue figure gently inclined her head and spoke softly once more:


    ¡ª This world will not test you; it will reveal you. Each of you already carries everything necessary within, so that your talents may flourish fully.


    The golden figure joyfully added, as if reminding them of an upcoming celebration:


    ¡ª Your true qualities are already clear to us. We will help uncover them. Each of your groups will receive a patron who will open new horizons of perception and help you see what has been hidden before.


    The amethyst figure sharply raised her head, her gaze piercing everyone, and spoke with firmness, almost as a command:


    ¡ª Accept this honor with dignity. Your awakening is not a battle, but an opportunity to manifest the greatness long residing within you.


    The blue figure concluded the address, smiling softly:


    ¡ª There is enough time. It will not be an obstacle but an ally. Ask, learn, and believe¡ªnothing is impossible for you now.


    The trio fell silent. The pressure, which had seemed eternal, slowly receded, and the students felt the air become light and clear again, allowing them to cautiously and fearfully lift their heads and slowly rise. Silence prevailed for several seconds¡ªso complete that every breath could be heard. No one dared break it. Then, as if an echo of permission resonated in the air itself, Violetta spoke first, her voice trembling and barely audible:


    Struggling to suppress her shiver, Violetta forced out her question:


    ¡ª Where are we?..


    The blue figure answered calmly and gently, her voice reaching directly into their souls:


    ¡ª You are exactly where you should be. This place is beyond names but filled with meaning. But if you desire a more precise answer, you are on the planet Elyra.


    Logan''s shaky voice broke the silence:


    ¡ª Why us?


    The golden figure laughed brightly, brimming with energy and delight:


    ¡ª Because you are ready! The stars chose you, and your arrival is no accident, but fate.


    Liara, fighting her excitement, asked quietly:


    ¡ª Is this¡­ another world, or did ours change?


    The amethyst-clad man, grave and stern as if delivering orders, replied:


    ¡ª This is another world. You have crossed the boundary of the familiar reality, and now you must move forward.


    ¡ª Will we be able to return? Luna asked, her voice almost cracking with tension.


    The blue figure spoke gently, reassuringly:


    ¡ª Whether you return depends entirely on you. The path forward is open, but there is no going back without transformation.


    ¡ª Is this punishment or a gift? Edmund''s voice held an undercurrent of threat, laced with deep anxiety.


    The golden figure lightly, smiling:


    ¡ª Of course, a gift! An opportunity granted only to the chosen, to change not just themselves, but entire worlds. The entire universe!


    Henry Withers, mentor of Class A, broke his silence. His voice was firm and demanding, filled with deep authority:


    ¡ª Why are we really here? What is our purpose and goal? Why were we singled out?


    For a moment, the trio fell silent, then the amethyst figure stepped forward, voice dark and serious, almost menacing:


    ¡ª Because a great darkness is coming. A force capable of devouring all existence, snuffing out life at every point in creation. This darkness is already awakening, growing stronger. And only those chosen from beyond can stand against it, for your souls are not bound by the cycles and laws of this world. Your alien nature is the only weapon against the inevitable catastrophe.


    A tense hush followed. Victoria gathered her courage and quietly said:


    ¡ª What happened to Adam? Why is he not here with us?


    The blue figure did not answer at once. Several moments passed in silence, as though she listened to something far and unseen. Finally, her voice emerged gently, almost sorrowfully:


    ¡ª He did not go with you. He stayed¡­ there. Whether by his own choice, we cannot say. But you will see him again. Perhaps not in the form you once knew. Perhaps not at a time you expect.


    Some exchanged glances. There was no falsehood in the blue figure''s words, but no assurance either. Had he stayed by his own will? Was he even alive? Or used somehow?


    ¡ª And Gabriel? ¡ª asked Luna, barely restraining the tremor in her voice.


    The golden figure answered sooner than anyone expected. A peculiar excitement tinged her tone, as though observing a fascinating experiment:


    ¡ª He has received the rarest gift of foresight. His third eye awakened, but too abruptly. His mind has absorbed not only the essence of this world, but echoes of countless others. Past, present, future¡ªall superimposed, shattering ordinary perception. Right now, he is vulnerable, but he will survive. And when he awakens again¡­ he will be different. What he was meant to be.


    The amethyst figure stepped forward, voice commanding and resolute:


    ¡ª Now you shall receive your gifts and power, but remember: this is not privilege, it is a tremendous responsibility.


    The golden figure waved her hand, and glowing symbols shimmered in the air. A luminescent window appeared before Blake:


    **Name: Alexander Blake**


    **Race: Human (Carbon-based life form)**


    **Level: 1**


    **Class: Water Caster**


    **Subclass: None**


    **Primary Attributes:**


    - Strength: 4


    - Agility: 3


    - Endurance: 4


    - Intelligence: 6


    - Charisma: 4


    - Luck: 3


    **Additional Attributes (cannot be raised by attribute points):**


    - Spirituality: 2


    - Perception: 4


    - Willpower: 4


    - Concentration: 3


    - Composure: 4


    - Courage: 4


    - Wisdom: 2


    - Fighting Spirit: 3


    - Resilience: 3


    - Allure: 2


    - Leadership: 2


    **Free Attribute Points: 3**


    **Health: 10/10**


    **Energy: 30/30 [Type: Magical ¡ª Water Elemental | Rank: I] Energy recovery speed: 1.0/5 min.**


    **Skills:**


    Water Manipulation [E rank | Lv. 1, 0/500 exp]


    Fluid Attack [F rank | Lv. 1, 0/300 exp]


    Fluid Defense [F rank | Lv. 1, 0/300 exp]


    Skill Points: 3


    **Abilities:**


    - "Water Blade": Creates a sharp blade of water for melee combat, dealing physical and water damage.


    - "Tidal Shield": Forms a dense liquid barrier, reducing incoming physical and magical damage.


    - "Depth Breathing": Enables underwater respiration and increases energy recovery by 10% in water.


    **Special Talents:**


    - "Water Affinity": Accelerated mastery of water-element skills (+15% learning speed).


    - "Innate Flexibility": Improved agility and evasion in aquatic combat (+10% dodge chance).


    **Reputation: 0**


    **Equipment:**


    - Armor: None


    - Weapon: None


    - Accessories: None


    **Note:**


    Your combat strength at present is quite limited. You can reliably handle only minor threats. It is recommended you develop your skills and actively employ your abilities in combat and unusual circumstances to further enhance your potential.


    Alexander Blake read the message, feeling his heart race as he realized the new possibilities and responsibilities placed upon him. He took a deep breath, knowing a challenging and exhilarating road lay ahead.


    The trio fell silent; the tension dissipated. The air became light and transparent again.


    Unease took hold of the meadow. Alexander Blake stared at the glowing window before him, eyes feverishly flicking across the lines, rereading them over and over.


    ¡ª Water manipulation? he whispered in amazement and disbelief. ¡ª Is that¡­ possible?


    Nearby, Victoria Locks was studying her own window intently, her face deeply contemplative:


    ¡ª It looks like a video game interface. Why?


    ¡ª Exactly! Why do we have these¡­ gaming abilities? Liara''s voice trembled with both excitement and fear. ¡ª It feels unreal!


    Henry Withers frowned, looking up at the gods:


    ¡ª Why display it like this? Why in the form of¡­ a game?


    The blue figure smiled gently, her voice filled with calm and wisdom:


    ¡ª Your minds interpret our gift in whatever way is easiest to comprehend. You are accustomed to games and leveling systems, so you perceive your new power that way. It''s merely a convenient shell for your understanding. All of it is necessary for your further development.


    The golden figure laughed joyfully, adding:


    ¡ª Precisely! You''ll be trained and taught, and soon you''ll manifest the full power of your new gifts! But remember, your fate is to embark on a great journey. You can do it alone or stick together; the choice is yours.


    The amethyst man nodded firmly, an unshakable seriousness in his tone:


    ¡ª But you must scatter through the universe, gather strength and experience to face what''s coming. The great darkness will not wait while you prepare. The sooner you grow strong, the better your chances.


    The students exchanged tense looks. Blake lifted his hand slightly, picturing a stream of water. To his shock, his fingertips felt damp, as if he touched a lake''s surface.


    ¡ª Unbelievable¡­ he muttered, a mix of awe and a hint of fear.


    ¡ª If this isn''t actually a game, why do we have an interface? Victoria asked skeptically, although her eyes gleamed with curiosity and intrigue.


    ¡ª So that you clearly see your path of advancement, the blue figure explained calmly. ¡ª It will help you master your abilities more quickly and effectively oppose the encroaching darkness.


    The golden figure eagerly went on:


    ¡ª And now¡ªrest. Anything your heart desires shall be granted. Our faithful servants await only your word, she said, voice bright and inspired, as though bestowing a grand feast upon them.


    The amethyst figure stepped forward, gaze heavy and penetrating:


    ¡ª We have done all that was necessary. From here, your path is yours alone. In a moment of genuine need¡ªwe will come. We are ever near. But do not be deceived: help will not come at your first cry.


    The blue figure cast a long, contemplative look over everyone, then softly whispered almost tenderly:


    ¡ª May Truth be with you¡­ in all its many facets.


    With those words, the trio vanished. The light faded, and with it disappeared the invisible pressure weighing upon their chests. For the first time since arriving in the meadow, everyone felt they could truly breathe, as if the unseen grip that had held their bodies and minds had loosened at last.


    The procession at the meadow''s edge had not uttered a sound. They did not move, did not breathe¡ªit seemed time held no sway over them. Only after the gods were gone did their faces stir slightly, and the fanatical gleam in the servants'' eyes turned upon the chosen ones with an expression of immeasurable anticipation and readiness.


    One of the warriors, clad in armor, slowly approached Gabriel. Wordlessly, as though handling something infinitely precious, he gently lifted the boy in his arms and turned with reverence, beckoning the others to follow.


    An elder priest took a step forward, breaking the silence for the first time in a deep, measured voice:


    ¡ª Great Chosen Ones, come with us. Your rest and quarters are ready.


    The chosen followed behind the procession, each step echoing softly in the air, like the mountain itself attending to their progress. None spoke¡ªthe only sounds were the rustle of garments, the faint squeak of armor, and the measured beat of footsteps. Their thoughts fluttered like caged birds: "Where are we? What happens next? Who are we now?"


    Time turned fluid. None could tell if they walked a minute, an hour, or an eternity. Gradually, the surroundings changed. From the grandeur of the forest, they emerged onto a mountain ledge, confronting a colossal wall soaring into the sky as though the horizon had flipped. Its surface shimmered like living stone, as if it breathed, absorbing the glow of distant stars.


    Enormous gates¡ªskyscraper-high, carved with scenes of cosmic wars, rises and falls of civilizations¡ªslowly parted, revealing something beyond human imagination.


    Before them stretched a vista that could silence even gods. A city¡­ no, a world-city, sprawling in every direction like a river of light and splendor. Giant snow-white towers, sparkling with thousands of crystal facets, pierced the sky, interconnected by floating bridges. Across them slid transport platforms reminiscent of transparent manta rays, carrying cargo and passengers. Creatures¡ªsome sentient, some clearly not¡ªhovered in the air, while overhead drifted starships of shapes and sizes that seemed the fantasies of madmen.


    The metropolis pulsed with life: music, light, energy, rituals, ancient tech and magic melding into one. There were cathedral domes, futuristic spires, waterfalls streaming straight off rooftops, creating an illusion of perpetual aqueous breath.


    But the chosen did not head there. They were led along a separate pathway, winding upward along the mountain slope, toward another destination. Passing through an arch guarded by four silent sentries in curved, organic-looking armor, they reached a monumental structure¡ªa castle carved as if from a single block of shining stone. It was so vast that some of its towers lost themselves in the clouds, and each balustrade could host an entire village.


    Its facades displayed statues not only of gods, but also of other beings: heroes, fallen titans, faceless figures with hundreds of eyes. Tapestries seemingly woven from starlight itself swayed without wind. Crystals set into the walls emanated a gentle, pulsing radiance, while runes¡ªsome ancient, others shifting and changing¡ªcovered the entire building like the skin of a living titan.


    Inside, the castle was no less astonishing. The ceilings resembled a night sky alive with stars, the floor a mirrorlike marble reflecting not people but their essences. Frescoes lined the walls, telling of worlds unknown, battles beyond time, and figures whose names had been seared from the universe''s memory.


    The scents within were elusive yet piercing: coniferous forest, sea salt, pollen of unearthly flowers, and something ancient, primeval. The air itself felt filled with knowledge and awareness, as if the castle were watching each newcomer.


    The newly arrived, shaken to the core, moved slowly, as though not wanting to break the spell. And each understood: they had stepped into a domain where the familiar laws did not apply. A place where their new story would begin. A path from which there could be no turning back.

 Chapter 4 — Relics

    In my half-sleep, it seems like someone is shuffling outside the door. A dry, dragging sound, like claws scraping on metal, like a memory of pain. I abruptly grab the knife¡ªthe movement is automatic, like a spasm. But... silence. Only a faint humming and a rustling inside my skull. Maybe it''s just my inflamed consciousness. Maybe someone was actually there.


    I place the knife nearby, the handle pointing towards myself, like the only symbol of control. I try to relax again. To breathe quietly, imperceptibly. A cough rises, deep, with a wet catch, I press my palm against my mouth, holding it back as if my life depends on it. My forehead is on fire, the sweat is viscous. The painkiller slightly dulls the pain, but not the anxiety.


    Sleep comes like an attack. Disjointed frames: my mother leans over me, explaining Latin terms, her voice is gentle and stern. My father is nearby, handing me a tool, saying, "Look at the structure, not the form." Somewhere¡ªthe laughter of friends, the noise of a celebration. And suddenly everything is §à§Ü§â§Ñ§ê§Ö§ß§à in a rusty-bloody color, faces merge, the walls swell with metal, hands reach out from there, covered in blackness. A scream. Real, torn from my throat.


    I wake up in absolute silence. As if reality itself has quieted down, so as not to startle death. The trembling doesn''t go away. My eyelids are heavy, but my body seems a little lighter. The peace is illusory, but at least it''s there.


    I run my fingers over my cheek¡ªdirt, sweat, a crust of dried blood. I wipe my hand on my cloak, but it only gets more disgusting. Thoughts race: water, warmth, cleanliness¡­ A luxury suite in my parents'' apartment. There was always a hot shower there. Now¡ªrot, and a rusty can, which reeks of death. But I drink¡ªat least a sip, at least an illusion.


    How long have I been here? I don''t know. Morning doesn''t come. The light through the gaps in the plating doesn''t change, as if the world is devoid of the very concept of time. I''m not in the world. I''m in a trap, in a snare, where even the laws of nature are forgotten.


    I slowly rise, as if my body is not mine, but someone else''s, a poorly assembled contraption. My ribs immediately remind me of themselves¡ªa dull, aching pain spreads through my side, as if a foreign fragmentation grenade is stuck there, not yet exploded. Not as sharp as before, but... constant. It doesn''t go away. Either the painkiller continues to work, or I''ve begun to merge with the pain, like with an implant. A new organ. A new rhythm.


    My ankle throbs nastily, dully, with a vile pulse. It doesn''t hurt¡ªit humiliates. Every time I move, it seems to whisper: "You won''t get far. You are broken." But screw it. To limp is to live.


    I reach for the can. I moisten my lips. The metallic bitterness spreads through my mouth like a rusty ribbon. The liquid is warm, as if someone left it on a radiator. But still¡ªa greedy gulp, like a final act of mercy. Disgusting. Damned, foul, dead water. But now it''s like wine from an old life. I choke, but I drink. Because even filth is a luxury in this world.


    Enough of wallowing.


    Those who wait don''t survive here.


    Here, those who wait are eaten.


    If I lie here¡ªI''ll become a piece of meat. Convenient. Warm. Stupid. I have to move, while I can. To search: for living compartments, for malfunctioning airlocks, for corridors where something still flickers. Old cryo-chambers, ventilation systems, any sign that someone once lived here, and didn''t just die.


    The main thing is to stay away from those who are moving now.


    I get dressed. My old t-shirt is a rag, soaked with sweat, blood, and fear. It reeks of something that makes not only my stomach, but also my soul, want to vomit. I put on the found reinforced pants¡ªthey fit heavily, as if resisting. The gloves are sticky, but intact. The balaclava is stuffy. The glasses are fogged, but better than blindly squinting in the toxic haze. The t-shirt from the set is a bit large, but doesn''t fall apart at the seams. Already a victory.


    I leave the coat. The fever still holds. Sweat runs down my shoulder blades, rolls down, tickles¡ªdisgusting. To overheat is to collapse again. And I''m still on my feet. For now.


    Before leaving, I inspect the trap: the metal plates installed at the entrance, everything is in place. No one touched them. Or, worse, touched them so skillfully that I didn''t notice. That thought makes everything inside clench. I roll up the cloak, thinking¡ªto put it on? No. It''s too early. Into the backpack.


    I notice an old valve in the corner, grown into the rust like a suppurating tooth into a rotten gum. I pull. A screech. And¡ªa stream bursts out. Air, dead, foul-smelling, like the exhalation of a rotting dam. It smells like a swamp, poison, rotten meat. I release the handle, almost vomiting. My eyes water. Damn. How I just want to open a tap and drink.


    I grab the knife. I check the flashlight. I prepare myself.


    I open the door and slip into the corridor, like a beast. Every step is under control. Heel. Toe. I breathe through my nose, slowly, as if whispering. This is not a place for loud people.


    A fork. Faded letters are guessed above one of the openings: "CREW...". Living quarters. Maybe something is left. I enter.


    It smells of death. In the first cabin¡ªtraces of a fight. The beds are moved, as if someone tried to build a barricade. On the walls¡ªbrown stains. Smears. They are not brown¡ªthey are almost black. Dried. I don''t ask myself whose they are.


    The second one¡ªsilence. But not peaceful. Rotten. The mattresses crumble under the gaze. The clothes turn to dust at the slightest touch. No one has lived here for a long time. And no one has even died. Everything here has simply disappeared.


    And suddenly¡ªa find. A container, wedged under the lower bunk. Almost no rust. As if someone deliberately left it, sheltering it from time. The lock¡ªcracked, but holding. I pry it open with a knife, a crowbar¡ªa screech, the lid yields with a wheeze, as if exhaling.


    Inside¡ªclothes. Clean. Ordinary. Intact. In transparent bags. God. Almost wild relief overwhelms me. This is not a find¡ªthis is utopia. I close my eyes. Just to not cry. This is not funny¡ªthis is a shock.


    I grab thermal underwear, socks. I feel the fabric: dense, dry. Pants with protective inserts¡ªlet them lie for now. Into the backpack. It''s already like a concrete block, but I carry it. I will carry it until I fall. Or until I kill the one who tries to take it away.


    A package on the side. A §á§Ñ§Û§Ü§Ñ. Sealed. I pray without words. I pierce the film. And immediately¡ªa rollback. A stench. A wave of deadness. I almost throw up. The film bursts, from the inside¡ªa decomposed mass, once food. I throw it away. No one has ever died of hunger in five minutes. But you can easily die from a toxin.


    A box. "Flare". I lift it like a trophy. I open it. Two flares. Now I have four. Light is a weapon. And deception. And hope. When everything collapses¡ªthey can become the last word. Or the last blow to the monster''s face.


    I exit. The air is thick, viscous, like spoiled honey. Ahead¡ªa wide corridor. A highway? A hangar? Or a trap? It doesn''t matter. To stand is death. I choose movement. I choose pain. I choose to go.


    My side burns, as if a piece of red-hot iron has been implanted there. Every step is a hammer blow to the insides. But I go.


    Because the one who doesn''t go is already dead.


    I decide. I strain from the pain in my side, every step echoes with pulsating agony. It feels like someone is plunging a red-hot knife into my ribs with every movement. In places, the flooring under my feet treacherously collapses, forcing me to balance on one leg, seeking support in the rusty debris. Metal screeches under my boots, and every such sound makes me freeze, my heart pounding in my chest like a trapped bird. I wait for this hellish screech to attract the attention of those creatures that roam the ship. But so far¡ªonly a heavy, ominous silence.


    And I go on. Stubbornness and fear drive me forward, intertwined in a tight knot inside.


    A sinister picture opens at the turn: a gaping breach in the hull. Pieces of plating are torn out by the roots, disheveled, sticking out at an unnatural angle. An icy draft blows from there, saturated with a suffocating mixture of rot, machine oil, and something else, indescribable, but causing nausea. It seems that it was through this hole that I first penetrated the ship, fleeing from the monsters that pursued me. The memory of their clawed paws and insane eyes makes me shudder. No, I won''t go back there. They are there, I feel it.


    I look around, looking for another way. My gaze clings to a dark gap in the floor. A ladder? Yes, it looks like the remains of rusty steps leading down into the bowels of the ship. Beams, covered with a thick layer of rust, descend there too, creating an unreliable structure. Perhaps this is the path to the lower decks, deeper into the heart of darkness.


    I take the first step on the ladder. The metal whines plaintively under my weight, bends, threatening to collapse. The combat knife in my hand becomes an extension of my will to live, cold and hard. I descend slowly, cautiously, almost crawling, clinging with my fingers to the rusty edges, so as not to fall into the abyss. My mouth is dry again, bitterness rises to my throat. I take a greedy sip from the second, already dented, can of water. The liquid burns my parched throat, but I drink greedily, trying to leave a little for later. You never know when you will find another one.


    Below, the corridor becomes noticeably lower, forcing me to bend my head. It seems that I have entered the former technical sections of the ship. Burned-out wires, torn pieces of insulation, and twisted distribution panels are visible on the walls. It looks like there was a fire here, or a powerful explosion. The smell of burning and molten metal hangs in the air, mixed with the putrid stench of the ship.


    And suddenly, ahead, I notice how the corridor rests against massive gates. They are partially crushed, deformed, but there is a narrow gap between the leaves. It looks like an entrance to a warehouse or repair bay. My heart starts beating faster. I move forward, straining all my senses, trying to catch any rustle, any sign of the presence of monsters. But a frightening silence still reigns around.


    I pry the gap between the gate leaves with the blade of my knife, trying to widen it. The rusty metal yields with a squeal, crumbling into crumbs. Finally, with difficulty, I squeeze inside.


    I find myself in a spacious room cluttered with scattered tools. Wrenches, screwdrivers, some incomprehensible devices¡ªeverything is covered with a thick layer of rust, many are broken or deformed. In the middle of the room lie the fragments of something large, of complex construction¡ªmaybe parts of a mechanism, or maybe something else. I see several large boxes, some open and looted, others¡ªsurprisingly, intact. I approach one of the undamaged ones and try to open it. The lock, of course, is rusted through and breaks under the pressure of my knife. Inside¡ªonly a tangled tangle of wires, rusty boards, some broken sensors. Useless junk.


    The second box contains a pile of metal sheets and some parts. Their condition is not much better than the contents of the first box¡ªrust and rot. I am amazed at the antiquity and degree of destruction of this ship. How many years has it wandered in the void, turning into this eerie crypt?


    The third box turns out to be quite large. I break the lock with growing hope. My heart pounds in my chest: suddenly I''ll find cartridges here? Or at least some food? But no, inside there are only rows of boxes with some incomprehensible technical means. Symbols and inscriptions that cannot be deciphered are stamped on them. Alas, another failure¡­


    When I''m about to leave, disappointed and exhausted, my gaze clings to the far corner of the room. There, by the wall itself, stands a massive structure resembling an "industrial chest". A huge lid, thick walls, the lock looks surprisingly strong, especially compared to everything else I''ve seen on this ship. Something in this chest attracts me, as if calling.


    Trying not to limp, I head towards it, but halfway there I stumble over an iron beam protruding from the floor. Sharp pain pierces my leg, and I barely manage to stay on my feet so as not to fall. A curse escapes through my clenched teeth, but I bite my tongue in time so as not to attract attention. I look around, listen. It seems that no one is running to the noise.


    Overcoming the pain, I reach the chest. I examine the lock. It looks very impressive, a complex structure, but, unfortunately, it is covered with a thick layer of rust. I insert a piece of metal pipe found nearby into the keyhole and start pressing. A loud crack is heard, and the lid opens with difficulty. I direct the beam of my flashlight inside.


    Inside¡ªsomething similar to clothes? But denser, heavier, with some inserts made of metal. Upon closer examination, it turns out that these are elements of a pressure suit. But it looks hopelessly damaged¡ªthe fabric crumbles into dust in places, and the metal inserts are covered with deep corrosion. I touch the fabric¡ªit crumbles in my hands, leaving a brown dust on my fingers.


    Next to the pressure suit, in the same chest, lies a small plastic case. It is surprisingly well preserved, neatly closed. I open it with a sinking heart. Inside¡­ several vests with inscriptions written in an incomprehensible language, but one word is repeated several times: "resist-fire" (it seems?). But, alas, touching them, I realize that the material of the vests is also hopelessly damaged¡ªit cracks and breaks like old plastic. Sadly. Another hope was shattered against the rusty reality of this ghost ship.


    I feel the strength leaving me. Disappointment and fatigue roll over me in a wave. But I force myself not to give up. "A little more," I say to myself. "We need to inspect everything."


    I inspect the far wall¡ªthere is only an empty niche and a pile of rusty metal debris. Nothing interesting.


    Suddenly, in a gap in the wall, my attention is drawn to some kind of bag. It is stuck between the debris, and I pull it out with difficulty. And almost immediately I notice two objects inside, which, at first glance, may be useful. One is a gas mask. It looks quite reliable, but its connecting mechanism is broken. However, the filters seem to be intact. The second item is a respirator mask. Its mechanism is intact, but there are no filters, the mounts for them are broken, and the glass is cracked. I examine the finds more closely. Yes, my assumptions are confirmed. The respirator is almost completely destroyed, but some of its elements can be used to repair the mask. I put both finds in my already heavy backpack, noting in my head that now I need to get tools at all costs.


    Further, rummaging through the debris in the niche, I come across a strange tool. It looks like¡­ a cutter? Yes, it looks very similar to that thing from¡­ a game about an engineer surviving on an abandoned station teeming with monsters, as if they crawled out of the movie "The Thing". But its power unit is completely decayed, having turned into dust, but the design itself seems to be intact. I grab the cutter. Instinct suggests that it might come in handy. Maybe I can fix it.


    Now I have at least something that can be turned into a weapon or used to break down doors. This gives me new hope, a tiny spark in this pitch darkness. We need to move on. Let the pain tear my body apart, let hopelessness squeeze my throat in a death grip¡ªI''m still not going to die in this damned metal tomb. I will get out of here. Whatever it costs.


    I understand: there is no point in going further, the room ends. However, before returning back to the ladder, I notice another gap between the wall slabs, as if there is a passage to a separate section. I push my way there carefully, feeling the rusty metal scratching my skin. Inside¡ªabsolute darkness. I turn on the flashlight, and a beam of light pierces the musty air, snatching from the darkness an eerie picture that takes my breath away.


    This is not just a compartment. This is a battlefield, an arena of titans, where the last, desperate battle took place.


    In the middle of an improvised repair hangar, littered with debris and twisted metal, directly opposite a soot-covered technical installation, lie two dead giants. One is a combat suit, a colossus of metal and rage, the embodiment of power and destruction. The other is something that came from the depths of an alien nightmare, flesh and bone, intertwined with monstrous, unnatural mechanics.


    The monster towers over the battlefield even in death, its huge carcass occupies almost half of the hangar. Its height is not less than five meters, maybe even more. Its body is a rough mess of intertwined, like ropes, muscle bundles, covered with chitinous growths, gleaming in the light of the §æ§à§ß§Ñ§â§ñ, and shiny, pulsating biomechanical inserts, like living implants. Two powerful legs ending in clawed paws, capable, it seems, of tearing metal, and four arms, each armed with razor-sharp claws. And two long, segmented tails ending in bony spikes, one of which is broken at an unnatural angle, like a broken whip. One arm is missing from the shoulder, as if torn off by an explosion of monstrous power, the second¡ªpierced the thick armor of the combat suit and plunged deep into the flesh of the dead pilot, holding him as if in a deadly embrace. The third is pressed to the floor, as if the creature was trying to hold on in the last moments of life, §Ú§Ù§Õ§Ñ§Ó§Ñ§ñ a last, dying roar. The fourth¡ªcrushed the pilot''s helmet, turning it into a bloody mess of metal and flesh.


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    But the creature paid a terrible price for its victory.


    Its torn body is riddled with ragged holes, as if swarms of bullets from large-caliber machine guns had gnawed into it, leaving gaping wounds, and plasma shells had burned through, burning flesh to the bone. There is nothing left from the neck up. Instead of a head, there is a charred crater, as if burned out from the inside, going deep into the hangar wall, where there is a huge hole the size of a door, through which the pitch darkness is visible. Judging by the trajectory of the shot and the debris of armor scattered around, the combat suit fired last, in agony, gathering all the remaining strength. Too late to save the pilot from imminent death, but enough to tear off the damned creature''s head¡­ if it had a head in the usual sense of the word.


    And the suit¡­


    This is not just an exoskeleton. It is a walking artillery platform, a titan of war, clad in multi-layered armor capable of withstanding monstrous blows. The inscription, barely discernible on the burnt and twisted hull, reads: MK.V A symbol of power and unstoppable rage.


    Almost three meters high, covered with smoky and melted armor plates, it seems to have been born from the very womb of war, forged in the fire of battle. The right arm is a monstrous weapon, a massive cannon resembling a field howitzer, with a complex system of stabilizers, thick, like snakes, intertwined cables, and ominous cooling fins that once emitted steam. It seems that she could have demolished not only the head, but also the building behind her, turning it into dust. The left one has three rotating barrels of a hellish machine-gun unit, capable of spewing thousands of bullets per minute, powered by wide ammunition belts, now lifelessly hanging, like a broken limb, devoid of life.


    The legs are powerful, ending in something like manipulators, capable, it seems, of pushing through any surface. Complex hinges, hydraulic drives, stabilization rails, providing stability even on the most uneven surface. An ordinary person could not wear such a suit. Only something much larger, genetically modified or cybernetically enhanced. Or more deeply integrated with the machine, a symbiosis of flesh and metal, where the line between the living and the dead is blurred beyond recognition.


    The helmet visor is pierced by the titanic paw of the monster, which went through the helmet and the pilot''s head. The reactor unit on the back of the suit is burnt out and charred, as if struck by lightning, one of the thick cooling channels is jammed, the twisted metal sticks out like torn flesh. The pilot is missing his left arm¡ªtorn off along with part of his shoulder, it lies nearby, unnaturally twisted, like a broken doll, reminiscent of the cruelty of this battle. The armor on the torso is crushed and torn, like a tin can, where the clawed limb of the monster passed, leaving a deep mark not only in the metal, but also in the flesh, splashing the inside of the cabin with blood and mucus.


    They killed each other. One fired in mortal agony, putting all his rage and despair into the last shot, the other¡ªbroke through the defense, driven by the instinct to kill. None survived.


    This was not a battle. It was a ritual. An exchange of death, an offering to the gods of war, a bloody dance of steel and flesh.


    I stand, barely breathing, leaning my back against the cold, damp wall. My legs are shaking, and my stomach is twisting into a tight, painful knot. This is not just a battlefield. This is a warning, carved in blood and metal, a reminder of the fragility of life and the inevitability of death.


    I step back, backing away, unable to take my eyes off this silent monument to senseless war and rage. Instinct screams¡ªrun, survive at any cost, suddenly this creature will come to life now. But I see how death has already passed here, leaving behind only piles of twisted metal and steel, saturated with pain, despair and dying cries.


    ¡­Now it''s definitely time to leave. I need to run away from this damned place before it takes me too.


    But still, before finally leaving this cursed place, I approach the remains of the combat suit, as if fascinated by its destroyed power. Trying to see if there is anything useful left that could help me survive in this nightmare. The helmet is pierced, the control units are dead and melted, the armor is melted and deformed in places, as if it had been in the mouth of a volcano. It would seem that everything is hopeless. But when I''m about to turn around and leave, my gaze clings to a strange pictogram on the body of the right gun¡ªa stylized lightning bolt, like a symbol of some long-forgotten military corporation or cult. Below is a narrow slot, covered by a deformed panel, through which the insides of a complex mechanism are visible.


    With difficulty I pull myself up, leaning on the twisted armor of the suit, climb onto the burnt-out frame, feeling the fragments of metal and bones crunch under my feet. It smells of ancient burning, machine oil, ozone and old, dried blood, causing nausea. I raise my knife, pry open the deformed metal panel with it, feeling my fingers slide over the rusty metal. With a crunch, it gives way, opening access to the insides¡ªa complex web of burnt-out electronics, burnt-out modules, melted bundles of wires and torn hydraulic hoses... But among all these charred remains I notice several rectangular blocks, neatly built into a special slot, protected by dampers.


    I pull one out. With difficulty. Heavy, as if cast from a solid piece of metal. To the touch¡ªa smooth metal case with ribbed heat sinks, emitting a faint heat, and tactile contacts. It looks like a powerful battery or energy module. I check the connector¡ªit seems to be intact and undamaged. It fits the socket on the very cutter that I found earlier. My heart shrinks with hope, as if an icy hand has squeezed it. If I''m lucky, the cutter will work, and I''ll have at least some chance to survive in this metal hell. I take out the second block, feeling a faint spark of hope ignite inside. The rest are burnt, they cannot even be pulled out of the molten sockets, they are firmly welded to the body. One of them crumbles in my fingers, turning into a pile of metal dust, like ash.


    I go down to the other side, bypassing the twisted remains of the monster, trying not to look at its torn flesh. The left gun of the suit lies separately, torn off by an explosion of monstrous force. I examine it: a similar compartment for power units, but already damaged. But the lid is badly deformed and jammed. Neither a piece of pipe, nor a knife, nor even a crowbar helps. I try again and again, from different sides, wasting precious time, but to no avail. With annoyance I spit on the futile attempts and retreat, feeling fatigue and disappointment shackling my body. And so I found more than I expected, and this is already luck.


    Before finally leaving, I take out one of the surviving batteries and take out the cutter from my backpack. My hands are shaking with tension and anticipation, as if I''m holding not just a tool, but fate itself. My heart is pounding in my chest, tapping out a tap dance on my ribs. I insert the power element into the connector on the cutter body and freeze in anticipation, holding my breath. A couple of long seconds¡ªnothing happens. Only silence and tension. And then¡­ a short electrical impulse runs through the body, making it vibrate slightly in my hands. Something clicks quietly inside, a faint mechanical sound is heard, and a barely noticeable LED lights up, blinking with a dim light, like a faint spark of life. I take a deep breath, trying to calm the shivers running through my body: so, the power is on. I carefully press the main trigger, feeling my fingers slide over the cold metal. I hear the starting mechanism start inside, accelerating with a quiet, growing buzz, like a waking beast. And in the next moment there is a sharp activation sound, like a short crack of lightning, piercing the silence of the hangar.


    A thin, trembling beam extends from the front block of the cutter, resembling a line of bluish-white light, like a miniature lightning bolt that has broken free. It hums, emitting a tangible tension and heat. I jerk my hand away sharply, feeling a slight tingling on my skin: warm, but not deadly. I carefully run the beam over a piece of metal lying nearby. It instantly melts on a tangent, leaving a thin, glowing trail, as if someone had drawn it with a white-hot razor, leaving behind a thin haze.


    I press the second trigger, fixing the beam and stabilizing it. Now it''s not just a weapon for self-defense. This is a tool. A cutter. Real. Powerful. Dangerous. Capable of cutting metal like butter. I barely hold back a triumphant laugh, feeling a hot wave of triumph and relief spreading inside: it works. I''m alive. And I have a chance to get out.


    Trying to conserve power, I turn off the cutter, feeling the beam extinguish, leaving behind only a faint smell of ozone. One charged battery is a chance for survival, a faint hope in this bleak place. Two is already a serious tool that can help me get out of this cursed tomb, cutting my way through metal and darkness. Now I am definitely not unarmed. Now I have a chance.


    I realize: there''s no point in going further, the room ends. I return back to the ladder. I take a couple of steps, and suddenly freeze, my whole body tensing: did it seem to me, or did I actually hear a faint, barely audible rustling? The sound was strange, muffled, as if someone had carelessly pulled on a long metal beam, and it had touched the neighboring structures.


    Instinctively, I freeze, gripping the handle of the knife tighter in my sweaty palm. My heart is pounding in my chest with such force that it seems like it''s about to burst out. I slowly turn off the flashlight, plunging myself into a thick twilight, trying to make out at least something in this oppressive darkness. Every nerve is on edge. A few long, agonizing moments of absolute, ringing silence hang in the air. Maybe it''s just a trick of my imagination? Hallucinations caused by fever and exhaustion? Or did I accidentally touch something when I passed by?


    I wait for half a minute, holding my breath, ready at any moment to take off, run, or engage in a desperate fight. But no one appears. No sounds. I have to exhale with difficulty, trying to calm the trembling, and slowly, cautiously continue on my way. Maybe it really did just seem like something? Or is this damned poisoning starting to play tricks on me, slipping me deceptive sounds and visions?


    With the utmost caution, I climb back up the creaking ladder, every step echoing with a loud groan of rusty metal. The thought obsessively pulsates in my head: "If those creatures hear this hellish noise, I''m done for. They''ll come, sensing prey, like predators." But there is no choice. I have to move forward, despite the fear. And finally, I''m at the top, in a relatively familiar corridor. With relief, I turn around and head back to that very ill-fated turn from where I descended into this cursed lower section.


    At some point, I begin to notice that it is unbearably difficult to breathe. The air seems to thicken around me, enveloping me in a dense, suffocating shroud. I am catastrophically short of oxygen, my lungs are burning with fire. Maybe some sections of this ghost ship are more or less ventilated, but here, in the depths, poisonous gases accumulate? An icy wave of panic washes over me. Yes, it''s poisoning. And it''s progressing with every minute. My head is spinning, everything is floating before my eyes, the cough is becoming more and more violent and painful, tearing my chest from the inside.


    With hands trembling from weakness, I barely manage to find one of the ampoules with an illegible marking, vaguely resembling "anti..." in my pocket (or is it still in my backpack?). Maybe it''s an antidote? An antidote to one of the countless toxic substances that permeate this cursed place? I don''t have time to think and guess now. It certainly won''t get any worse, I think. Either inject it, or suffocate in agony. With trembling fingers, I extract a strange syringe from the ampoule, peering at its body. Some incomprehensible inscriptions-pictograms, crossed bones... Or is it a warning of danger? Or maybe it''s a sign indicating that the contents are intended to combat toxins?


    ¡ª Whatever happens, happens... ¡ª I whisper with my lips, trying to give myself courage, and with a sharp movement I inject the contents of the ampoule into my forearm.


    For a couple of seconds I feel only a stabbing pain at the injection site, then a cold sweat slightly breaks through, covering my skin with a sticky sweat. My whole body is tense to the limit. I''m on edge, ready for any turn of events. But a minute, maybe two, passes, and I begin to notice strange changes. The cough seems to calm down a bit, ceases to be so racking, and my head stops spinning so wildly, allowing me to focus my gaze at least a little. Maybe it worked. Maybe I snatched a few more minutes or hours of life from fate. I feel a strange, mixed gratitude and anxiety. Of course, I may later discover some terrible side effect, but now it has become a little easier to breathe, and that''s the main thing.


    From the experienced tension and the struggle for every breath, I am completely exhausted. I feel like I''ve run a marathon without sleeping for several days. Staggering, I try to return to the cabin that I chose as a temporary shelter, walking through the already familiar corridors. I navigate by my own marks left on the walls. Yes, I didn''t bother and scratched the rusty plating in some places along the way with a knife, so as not to get lost in this labyrinth.


    While I was wandering through these gloomy corridors, the thought of that strange "data bank" that I found came up again in my head. Maybe it''s worth studying it? A spark of curiosity is born inside, flaring up stronger and stronger. But common sense and fatigue prevail. Now I need to lie down and try to regain my strength. Tomorrow will be a new day, full of dangers and unknowns.


    Here, finally, I reached the familiar corridor and with relief recognized the door I needed. Gritting my teeth from pain, I lean on the rusty wall, trying not to lose consciousness. And suddenly I notice a strange detail. My "ringing traps", a primitive alarm system that I installed at the entrance to the cabin, are slightly shifted. How?! Did someone or something rummage here while I was gone? While I was away? A wave of sticky, paralyzing fear instantly overwhelms me, poisoning the already meager remnants of my strength.


    I listen, straining my hearing to the limit. But a sinister silence still reigns around. Maybe I accidentally touched them myself when I left? Or a gust of wind wandering through the ghost ship? I can''t remember exactly, my memory is poisoned by pain and fatigue. But, it seems, the door is not broken, and there are no signs of intrusion. Gathering the remnants of my courage, I still cautiously enter inside, holding the knife in front of me as a last resort. It''s empty inside. The flashlight slides over the walls, snatching familiar outlines of objects from the darkness. Everything seems to be in place, nothing has been touched.


    Just in case, I knock on the doorframe several times with my knife, checking if any of the monsters have hidden behind the nearest corner or in a dark corner. Silence. Phew. I guess I''m starting to get paranoid. But it''s better to be safe than sorry. I go inside, put down my already battered backpack again, and cover the entrance with improvised means, blocking it with the found iron plates.


    ¡ª Okay, ¡ª I whisper to myself with my lips, trying to cheer myself up. ¡ª I''ve lasted a little longer... And that''s already a small victory.


    I glance at my damaged ankle. It is badly swollen, taking on a threatening bluish tint. Damn. It seems I seriously injured it. Maybe I should apply something cold to it to reduce the inflammation. But where will I get cold in this cursed metal crypt? Bad. Very bad. On top of that, my ribs are still echoing with hellish agony with every movement, although the painkiller from the syringe has dulled the pain a bit.


    A sharp, all-consuming fatigue rolls over me. The whole world narrows to the size of this cabin. I shoot my eyes around the room, trying to make sure that I am alone here. It seems like no one is here. With relief, I lean against the cold wall, slowly sliding down until I am on the floor. I fold my dusty cloak under my head, instead of a pillow, and settle down as comfortably as possible on this hard metal floor. I decide that I need to try to study this damn "data bank". Maybe there is some useful information there. Gathering my strength, I sit up straighter and take the device in my hands. It seems to have a small screen (a black rectangular panel) and several touch zones located around it. I try to press in several places at random. Nothing happens. The screen remains dead. No power? Maybe it needs a special battery to work?


    I try to open the back cover of the device, hoping to find a power compartment. It doesn''t give in easily, as if welded to the body. But I don''t give up. With a knife, I pry open the edge and tear it off with force. Oh, I see a cell inside for a small cylindrical power source. Empty. Then I remember that I don''t have anything like this available, and attempts to connect this device to a larger battery will most likely lead to its final breakdown. With a sigh of longing, I set the "data bank" aside. So, I need to find a suitable power element. Maybe someday... If I ever get out of here.


    Okay, now is not the time for that. I set the device aside. I take out my trusty knife and a couple of found flares, and put them next to me, within arm''s reach. I take out my last two syringes with an incomprehensible liquid from my backpack, wondering if I should risk and inject them. There is no strength to guess what it is. The risk is too great. I close my eyes, desperately dreaming of normal sleep, a soft bed, and silence.


    I realize that this day (or cycle?) has flown by with frightening speed. It seems like I just woke up, and I''m already going to spend the night again in this cursed place. But perhaps I lost track of time, wandering through these endless corridors, losing consciousness and fighting for my life. My internal clock is completely broken, turning into a chaotic set of impulses.


    I start to suffocate again from a painful cough, covering my mouth with a piece of dirty rag to at least muffle it a little. It seems that the poison has not completely left my body, or the air in this cursed place is poisonous in itself, and the "antidote" only temporarily alleviated my suffering. I must find a source of fresh air, try to fix this damn mask, or somehow get out of this metal trap. But I am too weak now. Too exhausted.


    From pain and exhaustion, my eyes begin to double, the world blurs, losing clear outlines. With difficulty, I take a small sip of water from the dented can, cursing its disgusting, metallic taste. I once again scroll through my plans for tomorrow in my head. "Tomorrow¡ªfurther, look for an alternative exit. I need to find the airlocks, or maybe a hangar, to try to determine where we are and if there is any chance of salvation."


    With these thoughts, I put my head on my backpack, instead of a pillow, and pull my cloak over myself, trying to wrap my legs and chest to at least warm myself in this cursed cold. I hope that I won''t freeze to death tonight, and that no one will break in here to finish me off in my sleep.


    My breathing becomes heavy and intermittent. My chest is stabbing, as if someone is driving red-hot needles into it, my throat is sore and burning with fire. I climb deeper under the cloak, trying to hide from the cold and fear, tightly clutching a knife in my hand, ready to stir at the first alarming sound. I don''t know how much longer I have to live in this cursed place. But I will cling to every second, to every opportunity to survive. Only this way.


    My eyes are closing from fatigue and exhaustion. I hear a dull groan of metal beyond this room, as if the ship itself is moaning in pain. Somewhere in the distance, drip-drip-drip... the monotonous sound of dripping water can be heard. A hum, maybe it''s the howling of the wind in the twisted corridors. I repeat to myself, like a mantra, fragments of phrases from my past life:


    "I will manage. I will not die here. I will get out."


    I grind my teeth from impotent rage, mentally addressing my parents, my father and mother, left somewhere far away, in another world:


    "Dad, Mom... I will do everything possible to survive. I will find a way to get out of this cursed place. I promise you."


    And imperceptibly I plunge into the muddy abyss of restless slumber, embracing my black knife as my only friend and protector, ready to stir at the first alarming sound. Yes, I am in the dark, almost a hostage to my own despair and horror. But as long as my heart is still beating, I am still here. I''m still alive.


    I don''t know who sent me to this cursed place and why. I don''t know if I will ever be able to find a way out of this labyrinth of steel and darkness. But I want to believe that as long as I am able to step over fear and move on, I have a tiny chance of salvation.


    I will definitely try. I just can''t do otherwise. This is all I have left.


    With this thought, curled up on the hard floor, trying to muffle the painful cough, I fall asleep for real for the second time in this rusty hell. And even though hopelessness and despair reign around me, I hope that tomorrow I can step even further along these cursed corridors... And something, finally, will change.

 Chapter 5 — Alien sky

    Alexander Blake was slowly coming to his senses. With difficulty, he opened his heavy, lead-filled eyelids and stared at an unfamiliar stone-crystal ceiling. For several minutes, he lay motionless, trying to convince himself this wasn¡¯t a dream.


    Gradually, memories began to return. A party celebrating their admissions, a blinding flash, Gabriel¡¯s mad ravings, strange beings calling themselves gods. An alien world, a castle, a room. His heart clenched, his breathing quickened. Panic crept into him, cold and merciless.


    "This is impossible," flashed through his mind. His entire previous life had crumbled in an instant. Family, parents, close friends¡ªall of it was now impossibly far away, perhaps forever. He felt a lump in his throat, his breath faltering. Alexander instinctively clutched his neck, as if hoping to feel that none of this was real.


    "What¡¯s happened to them now? They¡¯re back there. How did they react to my disappearance?" his thoughts tangled, fueling his panic. And Adam¡­ Gabriel¡¯s words wouldn¡¯t leave him alone. He clearly knew something the goddess had dismissed as nonsense. But what if it wasn¡¯t nonsense? What about Adam then¡ªwhere was he now, and why was he the only one taken?


    His head throbbed with anxious thoughts. Blake took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, but the unease wouldn¡¯t fade. He closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to regain control of his breathing.


    "Maybe it¡¯s not that bad?" he tried to reassure himself. "Maybe the goddess was telling the truth?" Yet doubts continued to gnaw at him. It was all too simple and too complicated at once. A typical tale of chosen ones and a battle against darkness¡ªclich¨¦s hard to believe, yet now his reality.


    He slowly sat on the edge of the bed, attempting to organize his thoughts and find some footing in this new world.


    But what if he was overthinking it? Perhaps the goddess had spoken the truth. On the other hand, why would she lie? What could be the point of such deception? He clutched his head in confusion, searching for a logical explanation. But everything seemed too convoluted and, at the same time, impossibly straightforward¡ªa classic story of chosen ones, fighting darkness, and training the powers bestowed by mysterious beings.


    Power. Right.


    The moment Blake thought of it, a translucent window appeared before him, resembling a game interface. He reached out, watching his fingers pass through the image without resistance. Despite that, the window felt real¡ªlines, numbers, and stat names shimmered as if inviting him to confirm their authenticity.


    "It¡¯s all too much like a cheap, clich¨¦d isekai," Alexander thought with irony.


    Taking a deep breath, he rose from the bed and carefully examined himself. His clothes were the same as last night, slightly wrinkled and uncomfortable after a long sleep.


    He recalled how they¡¯d been led into the castle, separated into individual chambers, and told to rest. Alexander had barely entered his room before collapsing onto the bed and falling into a deep, heavy sleep. How long he¡¯d slept was a complete mystery.


    Morning. Time. Yes, time.


    Alexander¡¯s gaze settled on a clock on the bedside table. Mechanical, styled like an antique, it showed 8:05.


    He pondered. Time here might work differently. But perhaps the clock was set to their familiar rhythm to ease their adjustment. Though now that he was here, the very concept of time felt relative and unreliable.


    Pushing those thoughts aside, Alexander finally stood and began examining the room more closely. It was massive, far larger than any space he was used to. Numerous wardrobes, strange unfamiliar devices, and an exquisite design¡ªit was all breathtaking yet slightly alienating. The walls of pristine white stone were adorned with multicolored crystals that clearly served as lighting. The moment Blake thought of light, the crystals flared brightly, illuminating the room further.


    "Technomagic," flickered in Alexander¡¯s mind.


    He headed toward what he assumed was the bathroom and, after walking about ten meters, stepped into a truly impressive space. A massive stone bathtub stood in the center, beside it a spacious shower, and a sink and toilet that looked unusually elegant.


    Blake quickly shed his clothes and stepped into the shower, turning the handle to full blast. An icy cascade poured down, snapping him out of his lingering daze and grounding him in reality. A shiver ran through him, his breath catching. He quickly touched a crystal embedded in the shower wall, and it warmed instantly, glowing reddish as the water became pleasantly hot.


    After standing under the warm streams for about ten minutes, Alexander stepped out, only then realizing he had neither a towel nor spare clothes. A brief wave of panic hit him, but he shook it off and began checking the cabinets, finding everything he needed. Inside were magnificent towels with intricate patterns, more like museum pieces than everyday items.


    "It¡¯s strange to use something so luxurious and beautiful so casually," Alexander thought, but he had no other choice. He dried off and continued exploring the cabinets, discovering various clothing sets that seemed tailored specifically for him. It was an odd sensation, as if someone had measured him while he slept¡ªor was it magic again?


    Selecting a white-and-gold outfit adorned with blue crystals, along with all the necessary undergarments, he was about to leave the bathroom when his gaze lingered on a large mirror. Alexander cautiously approached and froze, struck by his reflection.


    It was him, but¡­ different. The face he¡¯d known his whole life now looked perfect. Every small scar, blemish, and faint trace of fatigue had vanished without a trace. It was as if someone had performed subtle, masterful plastic surgery with no sign of intervention. Blake examined his entire body. He¡¯d always been fit, training for physical health, but now his body was an enhanced version of itself. Muscles were more defined, excess fat gone, skin flawless.


    "Did my body¡­ change while I slept?" he thought with a mix of alarm and curiosity.


    To be sure, he slapped his cheek hard. It hurt. So this wasn¡¯t a dream. Though, honestly, after the shower, that was already clear.


    Fully dressed, Blake returned to the room, where something incredible awaited him on the table¡ªfood, his favorite food. Mushroom and pepperoni pizza, cream pie, roasted turkey, and an array of other dishes, alongside glasses of various drinks. It seemed no one had entered, or had he simply not noticed?


    Alexander cautiously sat at the table and hesitated as he picked up a slice of pizza, sniffing it. The aroma was divine, the pizza perfectly warm, as if fresh from the oven. Deciding to risk it, he took a bite and nearly closed his eyes in bliss¡ªthe taste was impeccable, perfect. Blake devoured several slices in quick succession, only later noticing that the pizza he¡¯d nearly finished was whole again.


    Puzzled, he picked up a glass of juice, sipped it, and set it down, only to see it refill itself.


    "Does all the food here just¡­ appear on its own?" he marveled.


    Somewhat sated, Alexander returned to the bathroom to wash up and brush his teeth. He found no toothpaste, but as he began brushing, a fresh, minty sensation filled his mouth, and a foamy substance appeared on the toothbrush, resembling paste.


    "Another wonder of this place," he thought, finishing up.


    When he returned to the room, the main dishes had vanished, replaced by an assortment of snacks and drinks.


    "Time to stop being surprised," Alexander decided, heading for the exit.


    The door slid open silently, and he stepped into a spacious corridor.


    The corridor was impossibly wide and tall, as if built for giants. The walls, made of the same white stone as his room, were decorated with stunning engravings. Blake walked slowly, studying the images. The walls depicted scenes of epic battles with astonishing creatures, heroes in majestic armor, unfamiliar cities, massive fortresses, and intricate star maps studded with glowing crystals. It was all so detailed and lifelike that Alexander couldn¡¯t help but slow his pace, taking in every detail.


    The corridor seemed endless. He walked for a while, losing track of his steps, until he reached massive double doors adorned with complex runic patterns. On either side stood giant statues¡ªor so he thought until one of them moved, and Blake froze, feeling the blood drain from his face. Before him towered a figure at least two and a half meters tall, clad in massive iron armor etched with mysterious runes. The giant wielded an enormous halberd with ease, its blade gleaming menacingly in the soft crystal light.


    For a few seconds, they stared at each other. Alexander¡¯s heart pounded wildly, and he had no idea what to say. But the guard spoke first.


    ¡ª Glad to see another chosen one has awakened, ¡ª boomed a deep voice, amplified by the helmet. ¡ª You need to head to the inner courtyard. The others are already waiting for you.


    Blake felt a wave of relief and gave a slight nod.


    ¡ª Thank you¡­ How do I get there?


    The giant guard calmly and unhurriedly explained the route, accompanying his words with gestures that made the directions immediately clear.


    ¡ª Thank you, ¡ª Alexander said again, cautiously passing the towering figure and heading toward the inner courtyard.


    The further he went, the more incomprehensible and magnificent the surrounding spaces became. He passed through vast halls with ceilings stretching into infinity, covered in frescoes and paintings that took his breath away. Everywhere, giant statues rose dozens of meters high, carved from shimmering multicolored crystals. Some bore a striking resemblance to the beings who had greeted them on their arrival¡ªgods, majestic and enigmatic.


    Despite its grandeur, the castle felt strangely empty. Alexander saw no servants or other people anywhere. Only occasionally did he encounter guards, frozen in their massive armor at intersections or corners. Each time he approached, they stirred just enough to offer a slight nod of greeting and point the way before returning to stillness.


    Gradually, he realized he couldn¡¯t grasp the castle¡¯s layout. The corridors and halls seemed designed to confuse him, twisting and diverging in an incomprehensible pattern. At some point, he understood he had no idea how to retrace his steps. There was only one option¡ªkeep moving forward.


    Finally, the corridors parted, revealing what might be called an inner courtyard¡ªif the word could capture the scale of what he saw. Walls soared upward, curving and dissolving into a radiant sky. Instead of clear boundaries, structures stretched into the distance¡ªarches and bridges connecting towers, platforms, and terraces, as if the castle grew not just upward but in every direction at once.


    Around the courtyard¡¯s perimeter stood enormous statues, silent witnesses to eternity. Some held swords, others sat on throne-like pedestals, and still others reached toward the heavens. Each was carved from a single crystal, varying in color and texture: ruby-red, silver-blue, smoky-black. Some faces seemed familiar¡ªBlake recognized the features of the gods who had appeared to them that day.


    Between the statues, like amidst giant columns, stretched pristine gardens: trees with turquoise leaves, glowing flowers, fountains with hovering water. It resembled not architecture but dreams¡ªdreams of a grandeur long beyond human reach.


    Yet, amidst this splendor, there was no bustle. No people. No voices. Only the wind rustling through the monuments and leaves, and a soft light pouring from above, as if the sky itself blessed this place.


    But in the distance¡ªbeyond a winding path, among crystalline arches and trees¡ªhe heard a familiar sound. Voices. Speech. Words in his native tongue.


    Alexander strained to listen. Someone laughed. Someone argued. The words weren¡¯t fully clear, but he knew: others were there.


    With each step, he felt a spark of something like hope ignite within him¡ªalongside a growing, strange tension.


    Passing through an arch of crystalline vines, he entered a majestic open-air gallery. Sunlight streamed through tall arches, casting soft shadows over blooming pathways and marble fountains. There, in this strange, almost fairytale-like space, his classmates were already gathering. They¡¯d split into groups: by energy, by power type, by temperament¡ªas if an invisible hand had already sorted them into categories.


    To the right clustered the A-class. They exuded calm and inner focus, as if they knew something the others didn¡¯t.


    Felicia Green stood by a crystalline pedestal, speaking in a low, persuasive tone. A few students listened, entranced, as if hypnotized. Her voice wasn¡¯t loud, but each word seemed to imprint itself on their minds. Mind influence? Sound manipulation? Perhaps both. The effect was tangible.


    Evelyn Stone sat cross-legged, tracing glowing geometric shapes in the air. From the ground beneath her sprouted statuettes that shifted forms, responding to her calculated patterns. Astonishingly precise control¡ªher name a reflection of her essence.


    Leon Stark stood with his face slightly tilted toward the sun. Light fell on him like on an ancient statue, and the air around him shimmered. His skin glowed with a soft golden hue. He seemed to absorb the light, transforming it into something inexplicable. His aura was¡­ enhancing. Pleasant. Warmth radiated not just from the sun.


    Iris Vale sat with a trembling C-class girl clutching her cloak¡¯s edge. Iris spoke calmly, quietly, touching her shoulder. As she talked, the girl¡¯s breathing steadied, her gaze cleared. Empathy. Genuine, not performative. A gift for calming. Holding steady.


    Jasper Flame twirled a fireball with genuine curiosity. It changed colors with his emotions¡ªcrimson, green, blue. He laughed like a child, but his presence carried a dangerous volatility. The flame, like him, was fickle, capricious, alive.


    Gabriel Knight leaned against a statue¡¯s base, motionless, staring into the distance. The wind tousled his hair, and his gaze¡ªsharp, piercing¡ªseemed to search for something only he could see.


    To the left surged the raw physical power of the B-class.


    Max Tian, like a titanium fortress, sparred with a C-class student. His movements were forceful yet controlled. He knew where and how hard to strike. His opponent flew across the field but rose with a grin.


    Raina Steel vanished and reappeared across the area, sometimes phasing through objects¡ªeven the fountain. Each time she solidified, a faint click sounded. Phase shifting? Instant teleportation? Her grace carried a threat.


    Grok Strike sat on a stone slab, tinkering with a piece of metal. Under his fingers, it flowed like clay, forming blades, spikes, axes. He fused branches and metal into new shapes, weaving weapons from chaos. Matter manipulation, no doubt.


    Klaus Blade trained before a mirror that wasn¡¯t ordinary. His movements were precise, like a fencing master¡¯s, with magical flickers dancing around him. At times, his reflection doubled, as if it, too, learned. Himself against himself.


    Thorn Wild stood in a clearing, absorbing sunlight. His skin glowed from within, and when he thrust his hand forward, a pulse of light erupted. A blinding flash illuminated the area. Stored energy? Or something else?


    Taira Hunt lingered in the shadows, doing nothing. But the grass beneath her swayed. The air nearby warped, like heat haze. Her outline occasionally blurred. Spatial manipulation. She had no need to prove anything.


    Logan Carter was the group¡¯s center. He spoke, joked, encouraged. His charisma rivaled his strength. He gripped a boulder, squeezed¡ªand it crumbled to dust. Beneath his cheerful mask lay near-monstrous power.


    At the courtyard¡¯s heart, surrounded by both attention and disregard, gathered the C-class¡ªthe strangest, most unpredictable, and perhaps most dangerous.


    Raina Solvain stood still, but golden light flickered around her. She stared ahead, as if through time, while a ghostly figure fluttered above her head¡ªa being from another game, another world.


    Ron Tarvin sat on the ground, seemingly tweaking an interface. His fingers danced over invisible panels. He frowned occasionally, like a programmer deep in debugging.


    Thorn Elword gathered herbs and crystals, humming to himself. He placed them into a glowing cube that shifted colors with each addition. His alchemy looked like play, but it held more meaning than some lectures.


    Zara Welton sat on a bench. Nearby lay items¡ªtowels, trinkets. In an instant, they vanished, replaced by a shimmering scroll. Turning junk into treasure? A perfect survival skill.


    Saira Telmik stomped her foot¡ªthe ground trembled. She waved her arms, unleashing lightning. A small golden dragon burst from her back and crashed into a statue. No damage, but impressive. Something wild and untamed burned in her.


    May Zorvel skipped along the clearing¡¯s edge, laughing. Each step sparked energy, scorching leaves, tearing petals. A halo flickered above her¡ªpure, joyful chaos.


    Blake stopped. He watched them all and realized: these weren¡¯t just teenagers. They were blueprints for future gods or executioners. Potentials wrapped in flesh.


    Yet none of their gazes held pain. No one¡¯s face faltered at the word ¡°home,¡± no one searched the sky for something familiar. Only excitement, awe, the euphoria of power. Except, perhaps, for one.


    Gabriel.


    He stood apart, near a crystalline arch¡¯s base. The wind tousled his hair, and he seemed tenser than the others. When Blake approached, Gabriel noticed him immediately. Their eyes met.


    ¡ª Glad you¡¯re awake too, ¡ª Gabriel said with a faint attempt at a smile. ¡ª The morning here¡­ it¡¯s weird.


    ¡ª You okay? ¡ª Blake asked. ¡ª You¡­ yesterday¡­ you said some strange things.


    A shadow crossed Gabriel¡¯s face. He looked away, as if reluctant to answer right away.


    ¡ª I remember what the gods said. I remember how we were brought here. I remember everything. Except¡­ ¡ª he paused, frowning. ¡ª Except myself. What I said then¡­ what I felt¡ªit¡¯s a blank. Like it wasn¡¯t me. Just a strange dream, like someone was whispering to me from the other side. I¡¯m trying to recall, but¡­ it won¡¯t come.


    His words sounded sincere. But his eyes. That gaze¡ªlike it pierced through something beyond what could be spoken. Blake realized: he¡¯s lying. Or no¡ªhe *can¡¯t* speak. Not yet.


    He nodded.


    ¡ª Alright. If you remember, let me know.


    Gabriel said nothing. He gave a brief glance, and in that look was enough for Blake to decide: best not to push him. Not now.


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    He stepped away, weaving through the buzzing groups. Some were already forming mini-squads, others showing off abilities. It all felt too¡­ normal.


    He paused when he saw Felicia. She stood by a fountain, talking to Iris, but upon noticing his approach, she nodded to her companion and stepped forward.


    ¡ª Blake. Good to see you¡¯ve come around too, ¡ª her voice was steady, calm, as always. Almost comforting.


    ¡ª Good? ¡ª he chuckled, but there was bitterness in it. ¡ª Yeah, I¡¯m fine. Just¡­ all this¡ª ¡ª he gestured at the courtyard, the crystals, the glowing figures, the laughing kids. ¡ª It feels too¡­ polished. Too arranged. Don¡¯t you feel it?


    Felicia paused, glancing at the dancing energy above the fountain.


    ¡ª I do. It all looks perfect. Like we¡¯ve stepped into a fairytale. But that¡¯s exactly what¡¯s unsettling. They took us, yes. Gave us powers, rooms, food¡­ But behind it all¡ªsilence. No explanations, no assurances. Just: ¡°Wait.¡± ¡ª She frowned. ¡ª And we¡¯re waiting. But for what?


    ¡ª And how long do we wait? ¡ª Blake interjected. ¡ª We don¡¯t even know where this place is, who¡¯s behind it. They called themselves gods, but¡­


    ¡ª But they didn¡¯t even give us a name, ¡ª Raina finished, stepping closer. ¡ª Hi there, you¡¯re heroes now. Go sleep. Convenient. Stylish. And no clue what¡¯s next.


    ¡ª And Adam? ¡ª Jasper asked. ¡ª Does anyone even know what happened to him?


    They exchanged looks. Silence.


    ¡ª I think¡­ ¡ª Leon began, ¡ª we shouldn¡¯t dwell on it now. If something happened to him, we won¡¯t find out. If he¡¯s alive, he¡¯ll show up. If not¡ªthey¡¯ll tell us. Maybe. Someday. I say we assume he really stayed home.


    Felicia nodded.


    ¡ª Yeah. Right now, we can¡¯t do anything. Tormenting ourselves is pointless. Better to save our strength and regroup.


    ¡ª As if we know what we¡¯re regrouping for, ¡ª Blake grumbled, though softer now.


    They fell silent. The conversation shifted to what each had seen in their rooms, what their interfaces could do, how wild their first ability activations were. Laughter, amazement, attempts at analysis. More joined in¡ªKlaus, Iris, May. The group grew.


    Gradually, late risers trickled in. First came Sonya, hair disheveled but eyes wide with puzzled awe. Then silent Kir, heading straight for Logan. After them, Arthur, brooding and thoughtful, as if seeking meaning in the architecture¡¯s shapes. Then Hanako, cautious but composed. And finally¡ªthe teachers.


    Henry Withers, precise as a formula, appeared at the clearing¡¯s edge. He stopped by a path and struck his cane sharply against the stone. The sound was crisp, cutting, like a timestamp¡ªand everything froze, as if by inertia. Even the talkers turned. Faint red threads stretched from the cane up his fingers, thin as spells or a spatial grid tied to the world itself.


    Behind him came Graham Harper, stern and assured. His face was calm but alert, instantly gauging distances, crowd density, threats. Nora Mayer brought up the rear, weary, with a worn backpack, but her gaze warm. Despite everything, she held on¡ªfor them.


    ¡ª Everyone, listen, ¡ª Withers said, voice low but clear. ¡ª No time for panic now. We¡¯re alive. We have you. We have each other. Our task is to come together. Not to obey, but to figure out what to do next, together.


    ¡ª B-class, ¡ª Graham said, quiet but firm. ¡ª Come here. Let¡¯s check everyone¡¯s accounted for. If you¡¯re in shock, sit. If you¡¯re fine, help the others.


    ¡ª C-class, ¡ª Nora spoke softly, with warmth. ¡ª I¡¯m here. Come over. We¡¯ll start simple: names, how you¡¯re feeling, who¡¯s nearby. Right now, it¡¯s about staying together.


    For a few seconds, no one moved. Then it began. People stopped standing idle. They spoke. Some counted, some helped, some just listened to the adults¡¯ voices like an anchor.


    At that moment, Henry Withers stepped forward and struck his cane against the stone path again. A clear, sharp sound rang out, echoing in the silence like a command. Faint red threads stretched from the cane¡¯s tip to his fingers¡ªbarely visible, but felt on an instinctive level. All eyes turned to him.


    ¡ª A-class. Everyone else. Listen. ¡ª His voice was quiet but distinct. ¡ª No time for panic now. We¡¯re alive. We have each other. That means we can act. Together. Calmly. Rationally.


    ¡ª Stop pretending you¡¯re still in charge, ¡ª Alexandra Richmond¡¯s voice cut through. She stood tall, eyes gleaming. ¡ª You were dragged here too. You¡¯re not our superiors. You¡¯re just like us.


    ¡ª And you don¡¯t have answers, ¡ª Max Velarin muttered, glaring from under his brows. ¡ª Why should we listen to you?


    ¡ª We shouldn¡¯t, ¡ª Max Tian added. ¡ª And you¡¯ve got no right to order us around. There¡¯s no ¡°teachers¡± and ¡°students¡± now. Just people with questions.


    Some nodded, others exchanged glances. But Withers didn¡¯t snap back. He merely raised his cane slightly.


    ¡ª You might be right, ¡ª he said calmly. ¡ª We¡¯re not in charge. But we¡¯re the ones who remember how you¡¯ve handled tough times. We know you. We¡¯ve seen you break and rise again. And that¡¯s why we¡¯re not stepping back yet.


    Nora stepped closer.


    ¡ª We¡¯re not commanding you. We just want to gather you. Not for power. For order. So no one gets lost. So everyone¡¯s seen.


    ¡ª Want to ignore us? ¡ª Graham added. ¡ª Go ahead. But when it gets real, remember who didn¡¯t abandon you from day one.


    Some of the bolder ones turned away, but most fell silent. Order began to form. Quietly. Stubbornly. Through distrust¡ªbut it began.


    The silence after Withers¡¯ words and the brief flare of retorts was broken by a new sound¡ªrhythmic, heavy, like the beats of an ancient mechanism. From an eastern arch emerged a procession: several figures in long hooded robes, followed by towering, nearly three-meter-tall guards clad in segmented armor. Their steps reverberated in the stone, their bodies glowing with a soft inner light, as if crystals burned within.


    The priests moved unhurriedly, each step seeming to dampen the clearing¡¯s noise. Their robes shimmered like oil on water, and on each chest was a symbol¡ªa circle split into three: flame, eye, and star.


    One, the eldest, stopped at the central fountain¡¯s base. He removed his hood¡ªhis face ageless, with fine features as if carved from amber. When he spoke, his voice was low, melodic, resonating in the chest.


    ¡ª We welcome you, chosen ones. Those selected to become something greater. We see you¡ªand we rejoice.


    Others spoke in turn:


    ¡ª From this day, you are not alone. You are part of the Path. And the Path demands knowledge, strength, and discipline.


    ¡ª Here, you will be trained to wield what has awakened within you. Not just magic. Not just power. But understanding¡ªof what you are, and what you can become.


    ¡ª You will be taught to fight. But also to think. To see. To feel. To judge. We will reveal not only this world¡¯s workings but what lies beyond its borders.


    ¡ª When you are ready, you will embark on the Great Journey across the universe, to gain experience and strength to face the coming darkness and discord. Until then, we will care for you and prepare you for all that lies ahead.


    Their voices weren¡¯t threatening. They carried care. Confidence. A touch ceremonial, yet not false.


    One guard knelt, as if showing respect. The others formed a semicircle¡ªliving walls, ready to protect or observe.


    The priest continued:


    ¡ª You are the seeds of a new cycle. But to sprout, you need patience. Order. We will be with you. And none of you will be left without will, without direction.


    The clearing stilled. Some looked on with unease. Others with awe. A few with suspicion.


    Max Velarin snorted, arms crossed.


    ¡ª ¡°Prepared.¡± And who decides when we¡¯re ready? You? Or the ones who dragged us here without asking?


    Alexandra Richmond tilted her head, a smirk escaping.


    ¡ª Pretty words. Very¡­ lofty. Can we skip the theatrics? Or is everything here scripted?


    Max Tian stepped forward, eyeing not the priests but the guards.


    ¡ª We don¡¯t need babysitting. We¡¯re not kids. Give us a goal, and we¡¯ll handle it. Or just admit it¡ªare we prisoners here?


    A few froze. Some raised brows. Others nodded, as if their words voiced a shared ache.


    The priest didn¡¯t reply immediately. He simply watched them¡ªcalmly, attentively. Then nodded.


    ¡ª Doubt is reasonable. Your mistrust and questions stem from your youth. But there¡¯s no need for fear. No need for reverence or rebellion. Just¡ªgo. Listen. Learn. The rest will come in time. Let the day pass¡ªand you¡¯ll see for yourselves why you were chosen.


    He stepped back, allowing Henry Withers to reclaim the focus. Withers tapped his cane against the stone path¡ªa short, sharp sound rang out, silencing the murmurs like an unseen signal. Faint red threads wove from the cane to his fingers, channeling something beyond mere attention.


    ¡ª Who, and how, will prepare us for this¡­ Path? ¡ª Withers asked steadily, firmly, addressing the priests.


    The eldest priest nodded with a faint smile.


    ¡ª Your first training begins today. You will be taught not only by us, the Temple¡¯s servants. We have summoned great warriors, sages, and keepers¡ªthose who have walked through wars and mysteries. They will pass on strength, knowledge, and will.


    From the opened gate emerged a figure.


    Tall. Cloaked in a heavy, iridescent mantle, its colors shifting like the night sky at different hours¡ªstarlit blue, ashen gray, deep violet. The hood hid their face, but glints of light flickered in its folds, like quiet sparks in the dark.


    In their right hand, they carried a weapon¡ªor perhaps a tool. A staff-spear-sword. A long, two-handed shaft studded with crystals, patterns, and runes. The blade flared from the tip¡ªwide, silver, threaded with dark veins and blue flecks, as if forged from the shards of fallen stars.


    They stopped and, without removing the hood, spoke. Their voice was simple yet deep. Like one who doesn¡¯t rush. Who has seen enough to let silence speak.


    ¡ª Greetings.


    A pause. They let the word settle. Then glanced at the waiting priests.


    ¡ª My name is Il¡¯Ravel. I heard your request, received payment, and have arrived, ¡ª they surveyed the gathered people. ¡ª Now I understand why I was summoned.


    With a gaze deeper than an ocean trench, they looked at each person present. Lingering less than a second on most, but pausing notably on Gabriel.


    ¡ª Within each of you lies great power, granted from beyond. No. Mere sparks of power that must be nurtured to become yours, not someone else¡¯s.


    They shifted the spear to their left hand and planted it vertically. The metal rang with a faint, pure note, like a plucked string. Some students flinched¡ªnot from fear, but surprise. Only then did they lower their hood.


    His face was refined, statuesque, and strikingly calm. Pale skin with a faint silver sheen. Eyes the color of cold gold, deep as an autumn sky. On their temples glowed faint tattoos, like trails of light that faded and flared with their words.


    Some students gasped. Not in reverence, but in the primal sense of encountering something truly ancient. Il¡¯Ravel smiled¡ªwarmly, humanly.


    ¡ª I¡¯ll admit, I¡¯m a bit surprised. So many faces. And nearly all so young. Not even twenty standard years, correct? ¡ª They tilted their head slightly. ¡ª Yet in each of you, sparks of power already shine. More than you realize. And that¡­ is beautiful.


    They paused briefly, then inclined their head toward the priests.


    ¡ª What exactly am I to teach them?


    The eldest priest stepped forward.


    ¡ª You will teach them to see. To feel. To wield what slumbers within. You will show them the Path.


    Il¡¯Ravel nodded, eyes still on the group.


    ¡ª I see you¡¯re split into groups. Convenient. Then that¡¯s how we¡¯ll begin.


    They swept their gaze over everyone.


    ¡ª Group A¡­ You¡¯ll be my special focus. In you burns the power of the mind and the universe¡¯s energy most fiercely. I¡¯d wager you¡¯ve been gifted various¡­ magical abilities. If that¡¯s easier for you to grasp.


    A few in Group A exchanged glances. Some straightened, others frowned.


    Il¡¯Ravel smirked.


    ¡ª No need to get cocky or scared. It just means your abilities¡­ require a unique approach. And¡­ ¡ª they glanced at Gabriel again, ¡ª ¡­your connection to what¡¯s coming is stronger than ever.


    Gabriel flinched but stayed silent.


    Il¡¯Ravel continued:


    ¡ª The other groups¡­ don¡¯t worry. You won¡¯t be overlooked. Others will work with you, I assume, ¡ª they briefly turned to the priests, who seemed to be waiting for something. In the distance, another figure emerged from the gates, clad in striking armor.


    ¡ª Well, let¡¯s postpone our detailed introductions until all the mentors arrive.


    From the opened gates stepped another figure.


    Clearly not human, they were clad not in armor but in living metal shaped like a woman of unearthly beauty. Standing about two meters tall, her proportions were impossibly perfect, as if sculpted by a divine hand.


    Her skin gleamed silver, adorned with intricate technological patterns and embedded symbols that pulsed softly, drawing the eye and mesmerizing. Her hair seemed forged from dark metal, segmented into flowing strands that framed her face, enhancing her otherworldly aesthetic.


    She wore a form-fitting exosuit¡ªnot clothing, but a second skin, symbiotically tracing every curve and underscoring her majesty.


    Her eyes didn¡¯t blink. They radiated an inner, alien glow¡ªdeep turquoise-green, shining with wisdom and power, hypnotizing with a single glance.


    Her body bore faint circles and lines, pulsing in rhythm with her breath, hinting at the hidden strength and energy thrumming beneath her ¡°skin.¡± She moved with fluid grace, exuding calm and confidence, yet radiating an aura of absolute dominance.


    Her presence wasn¡¯t just restrained power. It was something that commanded without words.


    She stopped at the courtyard¡¯s center, scanning the group. When her eyes lingered on Il¡¯Ravel, they held a trace of condescension. A faint shadow of superiority. As if she¡¯d weighed his worth¡­ and found it lacking.


    Then she turned to the priests standing nearby.


    ¡ª So, priests, ¡ª her voice turned cold, formal. ¡ª What are my further instructions? And what is the extent of my involvement with these¡­ charges?


    Blake noticed Il¡¯Ravel tense slightly, as if sensing a trap or veiled threat.


    After hearing the priests¡¯ brief reply, Elael turned back to the students.


    ¡ª Greetings, so-called Chosen Ones, ¡ª she said, her deep, melodic voice silencing even the chattiest. ¡ª I am Elael.


    She paused briefly, letting her words sink in.


    ¡ª I am one of those who will aid you on your path. And I hope our collaboration proves fruitful.


    Elael surveyed the group, a hint of arrogance in her tone.


    ¡ª Well, there are quite a few of you¡­ More than I expected in such a¡­ trivial place. I hope you realize the honor bestowed upon you by my overseeing your training.


    She paused again, as if testing their reaction.


    ¡ª I¡¯ve been hired to refine your¡­ rather raw abilities. To turn you into something¡­ greater. Something useful. Let¡¯s see if I can work a miracle with this¡­ material.


    Murmurs of indignation rippled through the crowd.


    ¡ª What right do you have to talk to us like that? ¡ª someone shouted from the back. ¡ª We¡¯re not kids to be lectured like this!


    ¡ª Who are you to order us around? ¡ª another chimed in.


    Elael fell silent.


    The atmosphere shifted. Pressure thickened the air. Breathing grew difficult. Voices died. An unseen weight pressed down on everyone.


    She slowly scanned the crowd. Her eyes flared with cold, alien fire.


    ¡ª You, pitiful ants, dare snap at me? ¡ª her icy tone no longer sang¡ªit commanded. ¡ª You should be grateful I¡¯ve deigned to train you at all. Learn manners and obedience. Especially toward those stronger and older than you. Your mentors are not your playthings.


    Silence became absolute. Only the crackle of energy from her form broke the void.


    ¡ª Remember that well, ¡ª she added. ¡ª And think before opening your insignificant mouths in my presence again.


    But then Il¡¯Ravel stepped forward. His staff tapped the stone slab lightly. A wave of gentle energy dispersed the oppressive atmosphere.


    ¡ª I believe, ¡ª he said evenly, ¡ª you too, Lady Elael, should not forget where you stand. And what your place is.


    Elael turned. Irritation flashed in her eyes.


    ¡ª What did you say, elf? ¡ª she hissed.


    ¡ª I merely reminded you of courtesy, ¡ª Il¡¯Ravel replied calmly. ¡ª These people are not ants. They are the future. Treating them with disdain disrespects the very purpose of our presence here.


    Elael unleashed another wave of pressure. But Il¡¯Ravel didn¡¯t budge. He gripped his staff tighter. The runes along its shaft glowed, pulsing with his energy.


    ¡ª Nor should you forget, Lady, ¡ª his voice hardened, ¡ª that arrogance rarely leads to wisdom. And here, we teach wisdom. Including to you.


    Blake held his breath. He sensed something¡­ dangerous hanging in the air. One wrong move, and it could all spiral into disaster.


    But the priests intervened.


    ¡ª Enough! ¡ª the eldest priest declared, stepping forward. His voice, amplified by magic, echoed across the courtyard, smothering the rising confrontation. ¡ª This is no place for quarrels. Especially now, with the last mentor arriving.


    He glanced at Elael and Il¡¯Ravel, his look a stern warning.


    ¡ª Remember why you¡¯re here. You¡¯ve come to help these young men and women prepare for the trials ahead, not to flex your strength against each other.


    The priests looked skyward, and all eyes followed, awaiting the final mentor¡¯s arrival.


    Suddenly, the sky darkened, as if a colossal shadow engulfed them. The crowd looked up in awe as a massive ship descended majestically through dissipating clouds. Its size was staggering¡ªat least three hundred meters long, perhaps more. It resembled a titanic fortress, clad in armor like a dragon¡¯s scales, bristling with weapons like the maws of monstrous beasts.


    Powerful gusts radiated from the ship, slamming into the ground with growing force. Trees bent and snapped like twigs under the invisible onslaught, some torn up by their roots and spinning helplessly in the vortex. Statues and objects, once unyielding, swayed, lost balance, and crashed into rubble with a roar.


    The earth shook as massive landing struts extended from the ship¡¯s belly. They struck the ground with a deafening clang, and the vessel, like a giant beast, settled onto a relatively flat clearing, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris.


    After a moment, a platform-lift descended from a side compartment. On it stood a lone figure clad in sleek military armor¡ªfuturistic yet elegant. He seemed the most ordinary of all they¡¯d seen so far.


    Without waiting for the platform to fully lower, he leapt off, landing neatly with the aid of a small jetpack at his waist. The armor looked heavy but didn¡¯t restrict him. It bore intricate designs and symbols, like ancient script, and the helmet featured a striking blue cross-shaped visor glowing atop his head. A heraldic wolf emblem on the helm lent him a wild courage and nobility.


    Approaching the priests, he stopped, sized up the eldest, and spoke without waiting for an invitation¡ªhis voice a blend of artillery fire and frontline morning coffee:


    ¡ª So¡­ you¡¯re the local robe-wearing bosses, huh? Be straight with me¡ªwas it for THIS you dragged me across three and a half galaxies? For a sum that made even my account blush like a virgin on her first date? And yanked me from Jakraxis-4, where my red-faced morons in the Iron Wolves are currently gnawing at the C¡¯Rak Syndicate without me? All for a bunch of pups with ¡°where¡¯s the toilet¡± eyes and ¡°mom, I shat myself in space¡± faces?


    He slowly scanned the students, like a general surveying a battlefield where someone forgot to dig trenches.


    ¡ª I thought I was hired to train an elite. A team I could take into a final stand. But this¡­ classes. Cliques. Young talents with combat readiness at the level of preschool calisthenics.


    ¡ª Well, since you¡¯re silent, I¡¯ll take that as a yes. I¡¯m here, contract¡¯s signed, the zeros in my account are singing serenades, and flying back sounds like a drag. But mark my words: if all that¡¯s left of these brats are skills to kill any enemy and survive any hellhole, don¡¯t come crying to me¡ªtake it up with your weirdo megalomania department.


    He turned to the crowd and stepped forward, as if at a drill.


    ¡ª Alright, listen up, snot-nosed dream cadets! I, your worst nightmare and last shot at combat dignity, have arrived. Anyone still clinging to naive hopes of a kind mentor with cookies¡ªhead to daycare. They¡¯ve got an opening in the ¡°we don¡¯t cry, we sulk quietly¡± club.


    He swept his gaze over their faces.


    ¡ª While you¡¯re whining, I¡¯ll already be digging a pit. And it might just be for you. Want to be fighters? Learn to be someone worth looking at in armor. Right now, you¡¯re tour guides to your own incompetence. But maybe¡ªjust maybe¡ªI can pull some of you out of the swamp called ¡°I can¡¯t handle it.¡± We¡¯ll see. First, you yell. Then you think. Then you fight. And maybe you live. Got it? Great. Didn¡¯t get it? Training¡¯s gonna be even more fun.


    He glanced at Il¡¯Ravel and Elael.


    ¡ª And who¡¯ve we got here? Mr. Cloak and Miss Glam from the ¡°all-inclusive¡± section? This is your serious prep? For a second, I thought I¡¯d landed in a Temple, not a second-rate cosmic drama set. Surprise me, will you?


    Elael lifted her head. Cold fire flared in her gaze.


    ¡ª Surprise? ¡ª her voice rang like glass, laced with venom. ¡ª I¡¯m not here to entertain soldier boys with hero complexes and nuke-ram psychology. My task is to turn this raw mess into something that can think. Not meat for your trenches.


    Michigan smirked, squaring his shoulders.


    ¡ª Let¡¯s clear this up. Michigan. And yeah, I¡¯m the guy they call when everything¡¯s already gone to shit. Because I turn the sniveling-est brats into legends¡ªor martyrs, if it doesn¡¯t work out. Fair and square. No tears.


    He stepped closer, locking eyes with her.


    ¡ª And you, princess, seem to think playing transcendence with shiny antennas and a polished attitude beats experience. So let me be clear¡ªyour ¡°thinking¡± hasn¡¯t saved anyone bleeding out. I¡¯ve pulled those out. Bare hands, from ashes. So before you open your mouth, consider who you¡¯re planning to teach.


    ¡ª I¡¯ll teach them to win, ¡ª Elael cut in coldly. ¡ª To win, not scrape by on instincts like savages. I¡¯ll burn weakness out of them. Including worship of pointless violence and heroism for heroism¡¯s sake.


    ¡ª Savage? ¡ª Michigan chuckled. ¡ª You haven¡¯t seen savage. Savage is when tenth of second decides who wakes up tomorrow. And I¡¯ll teach them this tenth. If need be, I¡¯ll teach them to kill gods. Even ones like you.


    Elael stepped forward. The air thickened. Space trembled. Her form shifted: she grew taller, her skin turned silver-black, clad in living metal. From her back erupted blazing ring-wings, slowly spinning, studded with spear-like protrusions. A helmet-diadem snapped over her face, sprouting glowing antennae. Her aura of suppression became monstrous, the air syrupy. Even Il¡¯Ravel stepped back instinctively.


    ¡ª Think you¡¯re a threat to me, mortal? ¡ª her voice boomed like a bell, rattling bones and minds.


    Michigan didn¡¯t flinch. His helmet clicked open. A weathered, scarred face. Wars etched into skin, eyes sharp as a double-edged blade. No fear in that steel¡ªjust calculation and memory.


    ¡ª Think I¡¯m scared of you, girl? ¡ª he smirked. ¡ª I know what you are. Niflung.


    Il¡¯Ravel tensed. His grip tightened on his staff. But he stayed silent.


    ¡ª You¡¯re Tarshim if to be precise. One of the ancient kind. And you¡¯re damn far from home. I¡¯ve met your type. Killed them too. Last time, it took thirteen tries to finish one of your kin. How many revives you got? Ten? Eleven? Wanna test it?


    Elael flared. Her regalia pulsed. Pseudoswords formed around her¡ªnot blades, but stellar clots, burning and hissing like dying stars. A wave of force slammed everyone to the ground. Space howled.


    But Il¡¯Ravel finally acted. He raised his staff, traced a symbol in the air, and struck the ground. A flash¡ªand the gravitational pressure scattered like a storm swept away. He straightened, gave both mentors a weary look, then lowered his gaze.


    ¡ª Enough. Do what you want. But not in front of them.


    He said no more, stepping aside as if relinquishing control. It wasn¡¯t approval¡ªmore a surrender. He¡¯d chosen not to push further.


    From behind came the calm but firm voice of the eldest priest:


    ¡ª That¡¯s enough. You¡¯re not here for this. We summoned mentors, not throne claimants. Calm down. Or leave the Temple¡¯s bounds.


    The words settled like clicks in the air. A pause. A second¡ªand the tension slowly ebbed.


    Michigan, as if taking the cue, stepped forward and addressed the students¡ªno venom now, just rumbling conviction:


    ¡ª So there¡¯s no confusion. I¡¯m G1 Michigan. Veteran of forty-two campaigns. Commander of the Iron Wolves. The guy who didn¡¯t burn in hell because I was the senior in the squad.


    He scanned the students:


    ¡ª My job¡¯s to make you not corpses with special effects, but survivors. Run, fight, endure pain, make decisions. Reality doesn¡¯t come with subtitles. Every day now is a test with no retakes.


    He nodded toward Il¡¯Ravel:


    ¡ª This elf¡¯ll teach you tricks, magic, inner glow, and all that jazz. Maybe he even believes in you. Props to him for that.


    A nod toward Elael:


    ¡ª Iron Lady, from what I gather, handles physical upgrades and tuning you to some higher-form standards. Sure she¡¯ll ¡°appreciate¡± you too.


    He turned back to the students:


    ¡ª I¡¯m not your friend. Not your crutch. I¡¯m a tool. Sharp. And if you don¡¯t want to change, it¡¯ll cut you down into something useful.


    A pause.


    ¡ª Tomorrow at dawn¡ªfirst training. Today¡ªfood, sleep, prayers. Or if you¡¯re an atheist, just think of whoever¡¯s back home and why you¡¯re still breathing.


    He noticed the students had already clustered¡ªnot around the mentors, but near the adults standing aside. Teachers, presumably. Michigan¡¯s face twitched, like he¡¯d seen this before.


    He snorted:


    ¡ª Tell me this isn¡¯t¡­ Are we doing this again? Teens ripped from their beds, handed powers, given a mission, and they¡¯re praying you at least make it to the john without a manual?


    One of the teachers nodded. Silent. Affirmative. Michigan exhaled heavily, shaking his head.


    ¡ª Well, fuck me. Again?


    He sighed like he¡¯d just shouldered not a pack, but the world. Then jabbed a finger at the teachers:


    ¡ª You lot. By tonight¡ªdetailed dossiers on every one of them. Personality. Behavior. Abilities. Fears. Quirks. Even how they sneeze. I don¡¯t play guess-who, I train survivors.


    He stepped back and turned to the students. His voice rose slightly:


    ¡ª And you, kiddos. From now on, no ¡°hey¡± or ¡°dude.¡± To me, it¡¯s ¡°sir¡± or ¡°instructor.¡± For the disciplined¡ªG1. Or Grey-Leader. Clear?


    Silence. Some nodded, some swallowed, some froze, faces blank as after a blast.


    Michigan grinned, like a tank locking onto a new target:


    ¡ª Perfect. So not a total zero yet.


    Without waiting for replies, he turned and stomped back to his ship, as if this whole scene had been rehearsed on battlefields long past.


    And Alexander, who¡¯d watched it all in silence, was left pondering one simple thing: "Just what¡ªand how deep¡ªhave we gotten ourselves into?"