The moment Rana stepped into the portal, he felt no violent vortex, no tearing sensation. The transition was unnervingly smooth — as if an unseen force had lifted him from the air and gently placed him somewhere else.
It disturbed him more than turbulence ever could have. Chaos was predictable. Violence made sense. But gentleness? Gentleness meant intention.
His feet touched solid ground.
For a second, he didn't open his eyes. He simply stood there, breathing. Listening.
Silence.
Not the natural silence of night. Not the peaceful quiet of an empty field. This silence had weight. It pressed against his ears.
He slowly opened his eyes.
Standing before him was the Ovilious Astra Building.
His pulse stuttered.
This time, it was not half-collapsed or leaning in ruin. It stood upright — silent, intact, and towering with its full magnitude. A vertical titan of three thousand floors pierced the violet sky, disappearing into a layer of endless darkness. The air was completely still. No mechanical hum. No life signs. Only a suffocating silence.
It looked untouched.
Too untouched.
"Why does it look… restored?" he murmured to himself.
His voice felt small against the structure.
Rana inhaled slowly and moved toward the entrance. Each step echoed faintly against the metallic ground. The massive metallic doors were half-open — as if the structure itself was inviting him inside.
Or swallowing him.
The temperature dropped instantly when he stepped in. His skin prickled. Dim emergency lights cast a faint blue glow across corridors littered with debris, shattered panels, hanging cables, and broken holographic screens. His footsteps echoed unnaturally loud in the emptiness. The building appeared abandoned — yet he felt watched.
He stopped.
Turned.
Nothing.
Still, that sensation remained — like unseen eyes adjusting to his presence.
The ground floor was entirely dead. No defense drones. No Raxorian presence. No living soul.
Only destruction.
Only memory.
He reached the central lift shaft. The elevator was nonfunctional. The cables inside hung lifeless like snapped veins.
Beside it, a spiral maintenance staircase remained intact.
He looked up.
Three thousand floors.
The ceiling vanished into darkness.
A bitter thought crossed his mind.
If this building is a grave… why am I the only one walking through it?
Without hesitation — or perhaps because hesitation would break him — he began climbing.
Each step rang metallic.
Each floor looked almost identical — broken workstations, cracked walls, shattered genetic pods. On one level, a burned tactical hologram chamber. On another, the remains of a star-map projection system. Everywhere, the haunting residue of a fallen civilization.
He paused near a shattered pod, running his fingers across its cracked surface.
"Who were you?" he whispered under his breath. "Did you survive?"
No answer.
Time began losing meaning.
Ten floors.
Twenty.
Fifty.
He stopped checking.
His breathing grew steady, mechanical. His thoughts drifted. Zyphoros. Zaneath. The crash. Riya.
Riya.
Her name tightened something inside him.
Eventually, he entered a corridor marked faintly on the wall:
FLOOR 005.
Rana froze.
A three-thousand-floor structure… and disturbance only on the fifth?
His brow furrowed.
"That doesn't make sense," he muttered. "Why here?"
As he advanced, the air grew heavy. Not colder — heavier. As if oxygen itself resisted him.
The temperature dropped further.
At the end of the corridor, a dense gray smog slowly spread outward. It wasn't ordinary smoke. There was no chemical scent.
No burning.
No toxicity smell.
It felt alive.
The fog moved deliberately — not randomly. It shifted like breath.
Rana swallowed.
"Is this what you're hiding?" he asked quietly, though he didn't know who he was speaking to.
He stepped forward.
Rana extended his hand.
The smog coiled around his fingers — as if recognizing him.
His breath caught.
It didn't burn.
It didn't sting.
It responded.
Instantly, flashes erupted in his mind.
An airship control panel.
Red warning lights.
Riya's voice screaming something he couldn't fully hear.
A violent impact.
Metal tearing apart.
His own hands gripping controls.
Failure.
His chest tightened violently.
"No…" he whispered. "No, that's not—"
His vision blurred. The walls seemed to stretch unnaturally tall. The floor tilted beneath him. A piercing ringing filled his ears. The smog entered his lungs — his breathing became labored.
He coughed.
The air felt thick like liquid.
"Riya!" he shouted instinctively — though he knew she wasn't there.
He tried to step back.
His legs went numb.
His fingers twitched.
His heartbeat pounded so loudly it drowned out everything else.
Darkness consumed him.
Not sudden.
Not instant.
But slow.
Like sinking into deep water.
When he opened his eyes again, white light overwhelmed his vision.
It hurt.
He squinted, raising his head slightly.
The air smelled sterile, metallic. A low mechanical hum resonated in the background.
Alive.
Functional.
He wasn't in the building anymore.
He was lying on an elevated platform. Transparent energy restraints lightly secured his wrists and ankles.
Not tight.
Controlled.
He tested them.
They hummed softly in response.
He turned his head.
Aliens surrounded him.
His breathing slowed.
Some were tall and thin, faint glowing veins pulsing beneath their skin like slow lightning. Others were smaller, with elongated skulls and pitch-black eyes that reflected no emotion. A few had near-human proportions, though their skin shimmered with an unnatural silver tone.
They observed him — studying him.
Like a specimen.
His heartbeat accelerated again.
"Am I a subject?" he asked quietly.
No one answered.
Then one figure stepped forward.
Humanoid in structure. Composed. Controlled.
He wore a fitted black suit that absorbed light rather than reflected it. A smooth metallic mask covered his face, a single vertical strip of light glowing faintly.
The others instinctively stepped aside.
Authority.
"Do not be afraid," the masked figure said. His voice was calm, slightly mechanical through the mask. "We will not harm you. We only wish to tell you the truth."
Rana stared at him.
Truth.
That word felt dangerous.
"Truth?" Rana repeated quietly. "Or your version of it?"
A faint pause.
Interesting.
"You have many questions," the masked man replied. "But before anything else — you must understand your truth."
"My truth?" Rana's jaw tightened. "You mean the part you erased?"
The room grew subtly tense.
A holographic projection activated at the center of the room.
Earth appeared.
Small.
Fragile.
The image zoomed into an industrial zone.
The warehouse.
Rana's breath halted.
The structure dissolved in the projection.
In its place: twisted metal.
A crashed airship skeleton.
Burn marks.
An impact crater.
The room felt smaller.
"This," the masked man said calmly, "is where your airship crashed. Where it was damaged. Where Riya died."
The words landed heavy.
Not sharp.
Heavy.
Rana shut his eyes tightly, as if refusing the image.
"She didn't die," he whispered. "You're lying."
Silence.
The hologram zoomed further. Strange energy signatures pulsed beneath the crash site — unstable quantum fluctuations.
"There is still energy present there," the masked man continued. "The same energy that enables the portal."
Rana opened his eyes, confusion and anger clashing within them.
"You're showing me wreckage and calling it truth," he snapped. "Why are you telling me this? When was I here before? Why don't I remember?"
The masked figure paused.
Longer this time.
"We are survivors of the war five years ago," he said finally. "Look at them."
For the first time, Rana observed the others carefully.
And this time, he saw it.
Dark patches marked their skin. Veins dimmed in irregular patterns. Some trembled slightly as if fighting invisible currents. Deep shadows hollowed their eyes. Their posture was burdened — as if time itself weighed upon them.
They looked far older than they should have.
"Most of them suffer multiple diseases," the masked man explained. "Their biological age is accelerating. Cellular degeneration. Radiation exposure. Atmospheric collapse. Resource scarcity. The aftermath of war."
Rana swallowed.
War.
Not explosion.
Decay.
"You collapsed on the fifth floor," the masked man continued. "Residual toxins and quantum particles destabilized your body. Two of our soldiers retrieved you."
"Soldiers?" Rana echoed.
A faint reaction moved through the room.
"We are weakened," the masked man said. "But not extinct."
Rana's mind shifted.
"And the other times?"
A breath.
"The first time," the masked man said steadily, "you were brought here by an alien named Xyolithian."
The name struck something faint in Rana's memory — a silhouette, blue light, unfamiliar language echoing in darkness.
"I've heard that name," Rana murmured.
"Yes," the masked man replied. "Because he chose you."
"And the second time?" Rana pressed.
"You opened the portal yourself. Using a device. Through the warehouse."
Rana felt something cold settle in his spine.
He opened it.
He came back willingly.
"And these 'Upper Aliens'?" he asked slowly.
The masked man exhaled quietly.
"After the war, our species divided."
He gestured to the weakened beings.
"We are the Lower Aliens. We lacked resources. Radiation spread among us. Medical reserves were insufficient. Genetic stabilizers depleted. Our bodies began degrading."
A pause.
"The Upper Aliens had access to advanced medical pods, stabilized environments, genetic repair chambers — concentrated in Astra Building's upper levels. Scientists. Defense elites. Command leaders."
"They survived," Rana whispered.
"Yes," the masked man confirmed. "The war did not only destroy our civilization. It divided us."
Silence filled the room.
Division.
Hierarchy.
Survival at cost.
"And Xyolithian?" Rana asked carefully.
"He is one of them."
Rana frowned.
"But he said he wanted the good of the universe."
A faint bitterness entered the masked man's tone.
"What the Upper Aliens want, we do not fully know. But one thing is certain — they prioritize their survival first. Perhaps their version of universal good excludes beings like us."
Rana felt conflict build inside him.
Was Xyolithian a savior?
Or a strategist?
"And Veyrath?" he asked.
The room shifted instantly.
Aliens grew restless. Fear flickered openly now.
The masked man went still.
Even the mechanical hum seemed quieter.
"Veyrath," he said heavily, "is not an alien."
A pause stretched long.
"He is a devil. The one who betrayed his own kind."
The word betrayal lingered.
Slowly, deliberately, the masked man removed his mask.
Blue light illuminated his face.
Not monstrous.
Not grotesque.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
The room fell silent.
Rana stepped back, breath caught in his throat, eyes wide with shock.
Memories collided violently in his mind.
Recognition.
Impossible recognition.
His voice trembled.
"You… you're—"
And the realization began forming — terrifying, incomplete, and undeniable.