The ship Scythian.
After the clash between two alien entities, a suffocating silence settles over the deck.
The consoles hum softly, as if afraid to disturb the quiet,
as though the ship itself has come alive—
holding its breath, terrified to make a sound.
The air is dense. Viscous.
As if something unseen is watching from within.
Faces of the crew are etched with exhaustion.
But beneath it—fear, burned into their pupils.
This is no longer war.
This is an invasion into the very fabric of reality.
And we are but threads—stretched thin, ready to snap.
**
Pietro and Maria stand together.
They say nothing.
And they don't need to—
their silence is heavier than a scream.
They know:
there's no more time.
It's now—or never.
Perhaps this is their only chance
to wrest even a shadow of meaning from the approaching horror.
They enter one of Hanaris's worlds.
**
A flash.
A jolt—like electricity piercing the brain.
Consciousness drops,
gravity vanishes,
space cracks like an old mirror.
Shapes blur.
Laws collapse.
And a world is born.
**
A purple sky hangs above,
pulsing like a monster's breath.
Thin strands, like vessels,
bleed into eternity.
The ground—glasslike.
It reflects their silhouettes—
not embracing, but repelling.
Crystalline spires cut the horizon.
Cold.
Inhuman.
As if sprouting from the planet's own bones.
The silence—
rings.
Unnatural.
Almost painful.
And then he appears.
A figure.
Tall.
Slender.
Skin—pink, translucent.
Eyes—bottomless.
He looks.
And in that gaze—
no hostility.
No threat.
Only… pity.
And something close to reverence.
Pietro swallows.
His throat clenched tight from within.
But he speaks:
"Who are you?.."
"I am Ferand,"
he replies.
The voice doesn't sound.
It wraps around you.
Like wind at the shore of a dream.
Like a thought before words.
"You sought answers.
I felt the call.
We appeared in the form
you associate with Hanaris."
Maria steps forward.
The air stirs her hair—a warm, impossible wind.
Is this a dream? Or a new reality?
Her voice is restrained,
but within it—a blast:
"What are you going to do?
What awaits us? Our world?"
Ferand bows his head.
When he speaks again—his voice is fractured,
like an old record:
"After the coming of the gods, only those remained
who were preserved in Osari.
They were promised a Return.
But tens of millions of years passed…
and no one returned."
"Osari?.."
Pietro tenses.
He senses a trap. Something about this sounds too good to be true.
"The Temple of Memory.
The world of the sleeping.
A hope we carried
like the final flame,"
Ferand whispers.
"But time betrayed us.
Now—it is your time.
Fate already stands at your threshold."
"What fate?!"
Maria erupts.
Her voice—a cry among ashes:
"What does that mean?!
How do we stop this damned war?!"
Ferand watches her for a long time.
Too long.
And then—
something human flickers in his eyes.
"As long as you're alive—there's a chance.
But you must understand
what came before you.
Otherwise, you will become
just another turn in the old nightmare.
A memory trap."
Consciousness falls.
Vistas.
Galaxies crumble into dust.
Planets implode.
Cities collapse into black earth.
Civilizations scream—and vanish.
Erased.
Forgotten.
And again—Cairus.
And again—Hanaris.
A cycle.
A bloody pendulum.
Infinity.
Therma.
Osari.
Thoughts that once lived in bodies.
Ash, where once was eternity.
They return.
Pietro and Maria—
like the drowned.
Emerge into a trembling reality.
Breathing ragged.
Eyes—hollow.
Hands shaking.
"Why are you here?.."
Pietro croaks.
He can barely stand.
"If everything is burning…
why did you even come?"
Ferand spreads his arms.
"Because if we are gone—
Cairus will consume everything.
Without pain.
Without resistance.
Without memory."
Maria gazes into the void.
Her voice—a wind through scars:
"Maybe… that's for the best.
If Cairus wins—
at least humanity will survive.
As slaves.
Without will.
But… alive."
Ferand freezes.
A trace of a smile on his face.
But there's no joy in it.
Only the weariness of eras.
"Perhaps you're right,"
he says.
"But every battle we fight brings the end closer.
We will not retreat.
Not now.
You called—and we answered.
That is… courage.
That is—faith."
Pietro takes a step.
Almost falls.
But holds on.
"What will you do?.."
"We will gather the adepts of Hanaris.
We'll raise the final flame.
We'll fight the last battle."
Maria clenches her fists.
"You want to repeat
what's failed a thousand times?!"
"Every new world—is a chance,"
Ferand says.
"Maybe yours
is not a repetition.
But a resolution."
Pause.
"Not exactly inspiring,"
Pietro mutters.
His voice—like ash.
"We're not gods.
We get tired."
Ferand doesn't answer.
He simply vanishes.
No light.
No sound.
Only golden dust
settles on the ground.
Like a silent farewell.
Pietro and Maria are left alone.
The world is dead again.
Silent.
Alien.
They return.
To Captain Manuel's ship.
They return with eyes
that now reflect stars long dead.
With souls
where silence has become a scream.
With answers
more terrifying than any question.
With the realization:
that the history of humanity
is now just a single episode
in a war
whose combatants
no longer remember
why it began.
But the war of the gods continues.