After the collision of two colossal spheres — artifacts carrying the will of the ancient gods Kairus and Hanaris — silence falls over Earth's orbit.
Not merely the absence of sound.
A sacred, suffocating stillness, as if the universe itself holds its breath before pronouncing judgment.
No waves. No signals.
Only the rare hiss of dead static — fragments of speech long extinguished —
and sensors shivering on the brink of failure,
as if the machinery itself senses it has crossed a forbidden threshold.
Satellite feeds stutter, falter.
Even they seem to whisper
of an ending that has already stepped out of theory.
---
On board the flagship station Cobalt,
deep within layers of armored plating,
a scent lingers — not just that of scorched metal.
It is older. Alien.
The scent of matter smoldering under a will not its own.
Corridors quake beneath pounding boots.
Shouts ripple through the air, orders snapped like frayed wires,
as though even words themselves resist obedience.
Yet in the command hall — absolute silence.
As though the Void itself has taken up residence there.
---
At the center stands the tactical display.
On it, a single mark.
The sphere of the god Hanaris.
It moves. Swift. Unstoppable.
Like a verdict. Like a prophecy returned from exile.
Its surface pulses with living light,
as if beneath it churns the blood of a star.
---
President Marcus sits rigid,
his fingers clamped so hard on the armrests his knuckles have turned white.
His eyes are the scars left after storms.
His back is straight, yet beneath it weighs the whole history of humankind,
pressed between his shoulder blades.
Behind him, the screens pulse with warning glyphs.
The whole hall breathes as if underwater.
Every inhalation feels stolen from a drowning man.
If I break now… everything will collapse. But I will not yield. Not to a god. Not to zealots. Not to the abyss.
---
"Mr. President…"
The operator's voice trembles like a live wire.
"The alien vessel is initiating direct contact."
Marcus exhales. Slowly. Deeply.
As though shedding with that breath a thousand dead decisions.
"Patch them through."
The lights dim.
Air over the holographic dais compresses,
as if the fabric of reality itself is folding into a single point.
A flash. Silence.
And then — him.
Ferand.
Tall. Gaunt. Inhuman.
A resonance of light and shadow,
a figure memory itself refuses to hold.
His face seems carved from some element unknown to man.
Around his head burns a living corona.
And in his eyes — not a gaze, but a will.
A consciousness older than language.
---
"I am Ferand,"
his voice does not sound so much as penetrate.
"Adept of Hanaris. We have come to stop Kairus…
and to save those who can still be saved."
The hall freezes.
Marcus says nothing.
Even the systems seem to hold their pulse.
He speaks like a god. But he has come with an ultimatum.
Marcus rises. Slowly.
Not in surrender, but as a man announcing himself.
"I am Marcus. President of Mars.
We are biological — the children of Earth.
We believe in the Creator. But our will is our own.
Tell me, Ferand… what do you want?"
---
Ferand inclines his head.
The gesture is polite, almost human —
yet in it lies an abyss of detachment.
"On your station are our kin.
Prisoners. We ask… we demand their release."
Marcus turns his head.
Wordless.
Agent Anni is already standing.
Silent.
Leaving, as if she had known this moment was coming.
"It will be done,"
says Marcus.
And for the first time, his voice carries the weight of compliance.
---
Ferand steps forward.
The light trembles.
Space itself seems to retreat before him.
"Accept the faith of Hanaris,
and you will be preserved.
Reborn in Osari.
Merged with the eternal."
He smiles.
But it is the smile of a closing cell door —
no warmth, no gesture,
only the cold certainty of possession.
---
Marcus answers with a soldier's grin,
the kind born on the front line when there is no one else left to stand.
A grin through ash.
"Judging by your results,
resurrection is not exactly your strongest field."
Ferand pauses.
His voice dips into shadow.
"The moment will come.
But first — transformation.
The faith of Hanaris brings light.
Freedom. Release from tyranny.
Choice — that is its creed."
"Choice?"
Marcus's voice is all blade now, sharp with irony.
"And where was that for the worlds you erased?
Your 'light' is the dust of civilizations.
It is blood.
You call it salvation.
I call it disposal."
---
Ferand lowers his gaze.
And for a single, fragile instant
his voice carries something almost human — grief.
"Our world died.
In fire.
We are the remnants.
The last of the living."
Marcus steps closer.
The hologram's light carves his face into steel.
There is no fear in his eyes — only fire.
"And you would have ours be next?
You would have us feed your gods?
We will not become someone's fertilizer.
Not for anyone."
---
Ferand meets his stare.
No tremor.
No anger.
Only the stillness of a scanner meeting resistance.
"Kairus will give you no choice.
He will consume all.
Hanaris… offers a chance.
We are messengers."
"We remain ourselves,"
Marcus says,
his voice like iron pulled from the forge.
"Human. Alive.
Not made by you.
And not made by your gods."
---
And then — everything vanishes.
Ferand departs without farewell.
The hologram shatters into dust.
Cold. Soundless.
Silence drapes itself over the hall.
Like an epitaph not yet written.
And in that silence, something grows —
not merely an answer.
A new war.
Not for resources.
Not for territory.
But for souls.