Space. The "Cobalt" Control Station.
Above the steel heart of the station, in the command hall, the air vibrates with tension.
The atmosphere—sterile, filtered to a crystalline clarity—now feels dense, as if a storm were gathering inside it. Consoles hum just at the edge of hearing. Trajectories of approaching fleets flicker on the screens, but no one looks at them.
Everyone knows: it isn't the machines deciding the fate now—it's the people.
Then, all at once, on hundreds of bridges, command decks, observation bays, and inner compartments across the fleet, the same image bursts to life. A hologram of President Marcus.
He stands upright, dressed in ceremonial uniform, with the bearing of a soldier. Yet something in him has shifted. His eyes are no longer official—no longer seeking obedience. They are searching for truth. Looking inward. Looking into each person now linked to him.
Around him shimmer streams of data—like a halo, like star-threads, like fragments of memories slipping away from the past.
He is not just a man. He is witness. And herald.
His voice is calm, yet in this silence it rings like a great bell inside the dome of a cosmic cathedral.
"Today, I have accepted the faith of the god Hanaris."
The quiet deepens. The hall freezes. Time itself seems to hold its breath.
Some avert their eyes. Some remain motionless. Some feel an electric current run along their skin.
But Marcus goes on. He does not fear mockery, nor rejection, nor death.
"My memory, my life, are preserved in the Osari.
When the time comes, those who are recorded will return.
I remain your president. But right now, I do not command.
I ask. I call to you—not out of duty, but out of faith.
Make your choice. Without orders. Without fear. Only by your own will."
He does not raise his hand. He does not demand.
He simply stands there, speaking as a man who has walked through darkness without letting go of his heart.
From the center of the hall, an officer rises. Young, yet with silver at his temples. His steps seem to push through heavy gravity. There's a battle in his eyes.
"Mr. President…" His voice trembles, but it carries. "We once believed this faith was a virus. Especially dangerous for AI—cyber-consciousness. An infection. Forgive me, but… who is speaking right now? You—or what has taken hold of you?"
The words fall like stones into water.
Every ripple reaches those listening across the network.
Marcus does not blink. He doesn't look away. He doesn't flare in anger.
There is no challenge in his face. No defense.
Only sadness.
A deep, human sadness of one who has lost his old world and gained another—heavier one.
"A brave question. And a fair one," he answers.
"Yes, I have changed. But not because I became someone's puppet.
Because I could no longer lie to myself."
"We've lost ships.
Entire crews vanished—not in battle.
They were simply taken. As if in their sleep. Their will broken—without a word, without warning.
They went to Kyrus."
He pauses. The hall is silent.
The panels hum like the breath of a giant afraid to wake.
"We are pawns in a war that began long before us.
We were pulled into it with no right to refuse.
We thought this was politics.
But this is fate. Or rebirth. Or the end."
He steps forward. Just once.
His voice grows stronger.
"With Hanaris, we still have hope.
Not for victory—but for continuation.
For preserving our identity, our memory, our children, those we love.
Even if our bodies vanish—we will remain.
Osari does not forget."
He looks straight into the camera.
Through it. Into those who are still silent.
"Don't believe me. Believe yourselves.
Believe in life that wants to go on.
Believe in the light.
I do not command.
I step aside before your choice."
And then—for the first time—he clenches his fist.
Slowly. Firmly.
A sign.
"In the name of the living."
The silence doesn't vanish—it changes.
Becomes tangible. Alive.
Like the breath before a leap.
Then—a voice.
Quiet. Female. In engineer's uniform. Almost a whisper.
But in this stillness, it sounds like a call:
"In the name of the living…"
One voice. Then another.
A wave.
"In the name of the living!"
"In the name of the living!"
"In the name of the living!"
No one stops them.
No order drives them.
It is not a shout.
It is a decision.
On other ships—it's the same.
Pilots. Navigators. Engineers.
Those who yesterday cursed the gods over cigarettes and mess hall rations—today raise their heads.
Some—with tears.
Some—with amulets in hand.
Some simply whisper—fist clenched, as if holding onto reality to keep it from breaking apart.
And reality shifts.
Acolytes step out from the shadows.
They do not smile.
They do not cheer.
They greet the new believers like priests in a temple of pain.
They pass on amulets.
Speak in whispers.
Share fragments of memory carved out of their own dreams.
"I believe in the god Hanaris," says one soldier, looking into his comrade's eyes.
And the other does not look away.
"So do I."
Thus—without banners, without fanfare, without podiums—
an army of faith is born.
It does not march.
It does not roar.
But in its ranks stand the living and the dead, the preserved and the unborn.
Marcus's fleet ceases to be just a fleet.
It becomes the fleet of Hanaris.
And in the silence of space, where even light sometimes fails to reach its mark,
a new wholeness is born.
Light and darkness are already racing toward each other.
But some—have already made their choice.