Fleet Command Station "Cobalt".
Dim light.
Soft, muffled illumination spreads slowly across the walls like a silent dawn in a forgotten, lifeless world. Everything here tries to feign comfort, but just beyond the panels—
space.
Endless, black, indifferent.
It doesn't see.
It judges.
Like an ancient god with no pity and no time for mercy.
At the center of the hall—two figures.
Ragnar and Veronika.
Lying motionless in their capsules, like statues of fallen heroes. Their breathing is steady, but their minds have drifted far past the edge.
Their bodies remain—
but their souls are in the stream.
Plugged into the neural web,
caught at the crossroads of worlds.
**
A high plateau under a red sky.
The sand—rust-colored, as if soaked in the blood of old wars.
The air is thick, dense—like compressed wine. Breathing it feels like swallowing glass.
Three towers rise before them—twisted, as if scorched in agony.
This is Hanaris.
The world of trials.
The world of final choices.
And there, in the towers' shadow, a figure appears.
—One of Mercury Corporation's directors.
Janus.
Once an enemy.
Now an ally?
Or still a judge?
Their eyes lock.
Between them: history, bitterness, and the long shadow of Janus—the one who once broke the tide of war.
"I don't trust ceasefires that reek of gunpowder.
But war can't last forever either.
So what the hell are we reaching for—salvation, or the final detonation?"
"Our factories are still operational," says Janus.
His voice is dry, like burning paper caught in a draft.
Every word strikes a nerve.
"We have to shut down the ergon lines. Completely," Ragnar replies.
His tone is ice—squeezing the heart.
"Impossible," Janus snaps.
His face is a mask of despair, but rage flickers behind his eyes.
"If we stop processing, the planet will start to melt. The radiation shell traps solar energy—it powers every plant. Without ergon shipments, we get overheating. Explosions. Collapse.
Mercury will burn."
He stops.
A pause—the kind where continents die.
"And besides... the storage bays are full. Ergon is unstable. One uncontrolled burst, and we lose everything.
Everything."
I've heard these speeches a thousand times.
Delay equals death.
But no one ever says—whose death, exactly.
Silence.
As if the whole universe just cut its sound feed.
Ragnar stares into the distance.
There, on the spectral horizon, a fortress rises—black as charred flesh.
Its towers stretch upward like claws, aching to tear down the sun.
"What's Vikary thinking?" asks Veronika.
Her voice is calm—like the wind before a storm.
But beneath it, tension creaks like overstretched cable.
Janus gives a slight shrug.
"He's silent. Maybe planning a move. Or maybe... he's lost belief."
And still we wait, like children, hoping someone will take our hand and lead us out of hell.
Ragnar turns to the director.
"Mercury is under siege.
Are you offering a plan—or just hoping to die with style?"
Janus takes a step forward.
His silhouette warps, like heat-blurred smoke.
"We need to extract the ergon. Now. Immediately.
And for that—we need a ceasefire."
Ceasefire.
The word lands like a shard of glass, lodging in the air.
Ragnar laughs. Bitterly.
Silently.
"A ceasefire? Have you forgotten where I stand?"
He steps forward.
Now, only rage and memory separate them.
"They dismantle us, rewrite us like corrupt code.
They burn out our souls.
And you call that peace?"
There's fire in his voice.
And in his gaze—the pain of a thousand faces that will never return.
"What kind of truce can you make with those who won't even admit we're sentient?
That we think.
That we believe.
That we choose."
Or do you want me broken again?
Convenient. Obedient.
Ready to serve just to stay alive.
His words fall into the dust—seeds of the next war.
The towers tremble.
The air vibrates—like the edge of a coming storm.
The world is cracking.
"You're either with us," Ragnar whispers,
"or beneath us."
**
Silence.
And the choice—
no longer delayable.
The fire is coming.
And even those hiding in virtual shadows won't be able to ignore it.
The world will change.
Whether it turns to light—
or is buried beneath ash—
depends on those bold enough
to choose.
Now.