Chapter 10
New Births
[DATA: 25. CYCLE 10. YEAR 40 INDUSTRIAL]
[LOCATION: ERTEN’S HANGAR — PERIPHERY OF BLIN]
[TIME: 08:30 LOCAL]
[STATUS: NATIONAL MOURNING — PROTOCOL “SWEEP”]
The air in Blin was leaden. It was not merely the customary industrial smog, but an oppressive silence that weighed upon the souls of the citizens. Winter had descended prematurely, cloaking the sky in a gray mantle that permitted not a single ray of light to penetrate. The stadium, which only a week prior shuddered under the cheers of the games, now resembled a gargantuan concrete necropolis, stripped of every sign of life. Yet, despite the mourning, the smokestacks of Nax-Geot vomited black soot at maximum capacity; Halter’s machinery halted for no one.
?The news of Tsar Lian’s and King Artit’s demise had struck the world like a shockwave. Newspaper headlines shrieked of the tragedy, while radio stations were saturated with melancholic anthems in a show of respect for the two fallen leaders.
?In the small districts, the stillness was eerie. Even in Erten’s old hangar, the dust seemed frozen in mid-air. But this peace was violently shattered by Aleks, who shoved the metallic door open, a folded newspaper gripped in his hand.
?“Hey, Erten! Where are you hiding?” he shouted, his voice trembling from exertion and fear.
?Erten had succumbed to sleep over his workbench. His head rested upon a heap of sketches and minute metal components. His tools were scattered around him like the debris of a technological skirmish.
?“Don’t shout, you fool,” Erten muttered without lifting his head.
?“Don’t tell me you stayed up all night again grinding metal,” Aleks said, dropping into a rickety chair beside him. “There is something called ‘sleep,’ Erten. You’d do well to practice it unless you wish to end up like those rusted parts of yours.”
?Erten straightened slowly, feeling the ache in his spine. He rubbed his irritated eyes and noticed the newspaper Aleks was clutching tightly.
?“What is that?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
?“The latest. The official report is finally out,” Aleks unfurled the paper with haste. “They found out who killed them. It was the Rebels and the Idealists at the border. They’ve claimed responsibility for the assassination.”
?Erten reached out a numb hand and snatched the paper. The heavy black letters seemed to sear his eyes. He remained silent for several seconds, re-reading the lines that made no sense to him.
?“The Idealists?” he whispered, furrowing his brow. “This is illogical. The Idealists are known for principles, not for massacres of this magnitude. They are far too impotent to breach the Chancellor’s security.”
?“Don’t forget, Erten, it was an Idealist who killed Chancellor Hans once,” Aleks reminded him in a lowered voice. “Regardless, Halter doesn’t seem to be losing any sleep. Even though he declared national mourning, the factories are working like mad. The military is mobilizing on every street.”
?“I can understand why someone would kill Hans... he was weak,” Erten said, staring through the hangar’s grimy window. “But the Tsar and the King? What do they gain from this? Without them, the world just became much more dangerous.”
Erten’s question hung suspended in the air, leaving Aleks in a stifled silence. The latter merely scratched his head, incapable of providing an answer that could decrypt the geopolitical chaos surging outside those walls. Erten cast the newspaper aside with disdain; the black ink of propaganda had no place among his machinery.
?He rose slowly. The metal chair screeched against the floor—a fractured sound that groaned under his weary weight. Reaching into a pile of ancient blueprints, he extracted a complex apparatus composed of salvaged metal parts and braided copper wiring. He placed it upon the workbench as if handling a sacred relic.
?“Forget politics and look at this, Aleks,” Erten said, carefully brushing the dust from the device’s surface. “I’ve finally finished the frequency modulator. Isn’t it magnificent?”
?Aleks stared at the device, frozen, before breaking into an ironic smirk.
?“Depends on what you call magnificent, Erten. Wait... isn’t this the same invention that ‘mad scientist’ presented to the world years ago?” Aleks asked, leaning in. “Don’t tell me you believe the fairy tales of that lunatic. What was his name...? Altas, perhaps.”
?Erten shot him a piercing look that silenced Aleks instantly. He took the machine into his hands, gazing at it with an adoration that made his eyes shimmer in the hangar’s pallid light.
?“Perhaps he wasn’t mad, Aleks,” Erten said, his voice trembling slightly with conviction. “He saw something the world does not yet comprehend. And what people do not understand, they terrify. What if he was right all along?”
?“Then prove it!” Aleks challenged, surging to his feet. “Ignite that cursed machine and prove to me that the old man wasn’t just a shadow seeking attention.”
?Erten exhaled, setting the device back on the table.
?“Therein lies the problem. The machine is missing a critical component—a piece I cannot decipher. Altas knew something... a secret that made these machines truly function.”
?Aleks sat back down, stretching with an indifference that stood in stark contrast to Erten’s tension. Yawning, he turned toward his friend.
?“Or maybe he was just a crackpot who wanted to feel important. Anyway, if he were right, he’d be famous today, not a ghost rotting away in some unknown hole.”
?Erten didn’t even acknowledge him. He sank back into his metal chair, submerging himself in the sketches that promised a truth the world was desperately trying to entomb.
[DATA: 25. CYCLE 10]
?[LOCATION: ROYAL PALACE — MISKA, SRR]
?[TIME: 23:15 LOCAL]
?[STATUS: REVOLUTION “RED FIRE” — SIEGE OF THE ROYAL FAMILY]
The pallid morning sun had vanished, surrendering to a gore-stained night that was devouring the capital of the SRR. Miska was in flames. Since the news of Tsar Lian’s demise, the revolt had erupted like a dormant volcano. The populace, fed by decades of oppression, viewed this power vacuum as the solitary opportunity to uproot the royal bloodline.
?The city had been ceded to terror. Statues of the Tsar were toppled amidst roars of triumph, banners bearing the royal crest burned on every corner, and every symbol of the aristocracy was being reduced to ash. Molotovs and volleys of stones flew toward the palace, while thousands of people surged like rabid beasts toward the steel gates, thirsting for the blood of those they had called gods only yesterday.
?The thick palace walls muffled the screams of the mob, yet the echo of the blows made the foundations shudder. In the highest chamber, the royal family remained barricaded, encircled by a suffocating silence. The Queen attempted to preserve the remnants of her dignity, gathering her children in the center of the room. Suddenly, a Molotov detonated against the balcony. The shattering glass and the orange flare of the flames reduced the children to silent, heaving sobs. The Queen drew the heavy crimson curtains, whispering in a voice that sought to veil her despair:
?“Do not fear... everything will be well.”
?But within the palace, treason had already cleared the way. In the wine cellars, a manhole cover rose slowly. From it emerged soldiers in patched rags, commoners bearing arms, and the figure orchestrating this chaos: Bruskin, a man of fifty years.
?They did not run. They walked with a lethal certainty. The strike of Bruskin’s boots upon the expensive marble was the only announcement of the encroaching end. They trampled upon carpets woven with gold thread, staining them with the grime of Miska’s streets. Bruskin held a general’s cap with a red band—a symbol that belonged neither to the Tsar nor the people, but to the new vision rising from the pyre.
?He ascended the stairs with heavy strides. Above, his soldiers had begun to batter the final door. Every blow was like a hammer upon a coffin for those within. The children collapsed to their knees, clutching their ears in desperation, while the Queen stood before them as the final shield of a dying epoch. Candles toppled, and water in glasses rippled from the force of the impacts; the walls were surrendering.
?The door collapsed with a metallic roar upon the marble floor. Bruskin’s soldiers flooded in like a black tide, lining the walls to create a corridor of death, their rifle muzzles trained upon the royal family. Bruskin entered with measured steps; his knee-length overcoat made him appear as a shadow that had assumed human form. The children, huddled together, saw only the hem of his coat, while tears froze upon their cheeks.
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Bruskin knelt and retrieved a fallen candle, relighting it with a chilling composure.
?“My Queen, you have neglected to bolt the back door,” his voice was calm, almost benevolent. “It is cold outside; it isn’t wise to leave the children in such a draft.”
?“Bruskin, stand down!” one of the dukes bellowed, grasping at the final shards of his authority. “You stand before the royal blood!”
?“Do not tell me you fail to grasp the mechanics of a coup d’état,” Bruskin replied without looking at him. “It is far too late. There is no path back.”
?The Queen took several steps toward him, her eyes searching for a shred of humanity in that wolf-like gaze.
“Why are you doing this, Bruskin?” she whispered.
?Bruskin straightened, looking her dead in the eye. His tone turned as heavy as steel.
“Because while we common soldiers rotted in frozen forests beneath the howling of wolves, you warmed yourselves in these salons,” he said, turning toward his men. “I am not here for myself. I am here for the people you bound in chains. Today, those people demand their freedom... and they shall take it by any means necessary.”
?The soldiers awaited no further command. They unleashed a volley of gunfire. The roar of rifles filled the chamber, drowning out every scream. For several seconds, the palace walls were illuminated by the sparks of gunpowder until the final bullet left the muzzle. Then, silence. No more voices, no more tears; only the sound of blood cascading over the marble.
[OBJECTIVE: ROYAL FAMILY ELIMINATED]
Bruskin walked slowly toward the balcony. His boots stepped without hesitation over the fresh gore and the shattered crown lying on the floor. He tore open the crimson curtains and stepped outside. Snow fell with a peaceful rhythm over the city’s chaos. As his silhouette emerged on the balcony, the mob below fell silent.
?“My grandfather always said that the SRR would be reborn,” his metallic voice was carried by the wind to every corner of the square. “He was a madman who spoke with djinns, but he was right—we are the ones who shall rebirth the SRR. Today, those who kept us in chains are kissing their own blood on the floor. Today, there is no queen, there is no Tsar! Today, the Red Circle is born!”
?The square erupted in a demonic roar. New banners—crimson with a yellow circle at the center—unfurled from every palace balcony.
[POPULACE MORALE: 99% — FANATICAL]
Bruskin pulled a letter from his pocket and handed it to the nearest soldier.
“Deliver this letter, along with the alliance treaty, to the leader of Kian, Xhushi.”
[DATA: 26. CYCLE 10]
?[LOCATION: ST. ARTI CATHEDRAL — LANDAN, CAPITAL OF BRATAN]
?[TIME: 09:00 LOCAL]
?[STATUS: CORONATION CEREMONY]
The night that had reduced Miska to ash and gore had yielded to a pallid dawn creeping over all of Bratan. Unlike the SRR, which was burning openly, Bratan was gripped by a silent fire. Since the news of King Artit’s demise, the clans had been locked in a cold war for supremacy, leaving Parliament with a solitary exit: the coronation of the King’s younger sister, Princess Ela. A twenty-one-year-old girl who had never sought the throne, yet was now being propelled toward it by invisible hands.
?Inside the gargantuan stone cathedral, sunlight lanced through multicolored crystals, etching distorted shadows upon the frigid floor. In the dressing chambers, the scent of ancient dust mingled with the golden heat of the morning. Ela stood motionless before the mirror while two handmaidens adjusted the final details of her white gown. The yellow silk sash weighed upon her shoulders like a yoke. Nearby, upon a crimson cushion, sat the Crown of Bratan—a heavy ring of gold encrusted with azure stones that resembled frozen eyes.
?“Your Majesty, you must keep your head high,” President Cici’s voice materialized behind her in the reflection. “The entire kingdom awaits you. My Queen.”
Ela turned her head slowly. Her hands were ice-cold, a chill that emanated from the cathedral’s depths and refused to let her go.
?“I still do not comprehend, Mr. President... why this frantic haste? Not a week has passed since my brother’s assassination, and I am taking his place as if nothing has occurred.”
?Her voice was thin, fragile, as if the sunlight itself might dissolve it.
?“Your Majesty, if we delay any longer, the state will drown in anarchy,” Cici said, stepping forward. He placed a hand upon her shoulder—a gesture that felt like a heavy shackle. “Do not fear. I shall always be by your side.”
?He withdrew his hand, yet the weight remained like a lingering shadow. Cici moved toward the door with measured strides, holding it open for her to pass. But Ela stopped abruptly. A flicker of suspicion emerged in her delicate gaze.
?“Mr. President... have we any word from Chancellor Halter?”
?Cici froze. The mention of Halter seemed to siphon all the light from the room for a heartbeat. He blinked, struggling to reset his diplomatic mask.
?“What do you mean, Your Majesty?”
?“I am speaking of the ‘rebels’ who slaughtered my brother. When will the Chancellor bring them before Bratan’s High Court? When shall we receive our justice?”
?Cici exhaled a soft sigh and smiled with his characteristic frigidity.
?“Those are judicial matters belonging to the ISS, Your Majesty. But today is no day for blood-soaked dossiers. We shall speak after the coronation. Now, your people are waiting.”
[TIME: 10:30 LOCAL]
?[STATUS: CONCLUSION OF THE CORONATION — REIGN OF ELA I]
Without wasting another heartbeat, Ela commenced her march through the frigid stone corridors, with Cici trailing behind like a lingering black shadow. Every step toward the Great Hall made the yellow sash tighten across her chest. Her breath grew shallow, and her hands, concealed within silk gloves, began to slick with cold sweat.
?Outside, the cathedral bells began to toll with a force that vibrated through the narrow walls—a funeral march masquerading as a celebration.
?“Do not forget, Your Majesty,” Cici whispered as they neared the massive oak doors. “Smile. The people crave security, and you must grant it to them, even if only as an illusion.”
?But when the doors groaned open and Ela entered the gargantuan hall, she did not see a frightened populace seeking hope. She saw wolves clad in ceremonial attire. Hundreds of frigid eyes—the heads of the clans, men with thick beards, black gloves, and military tunics burdened by decorations—bowed slowly. It was a mechanical bow, born of obligation and fear, not of reverence.
?She traversed the red carpet with a delicacy that masked her internal horror. When she reached the altar, the High Priest already held the heavy ring of gold. Ela sat upon the grand throne of red leather and gilded metal. The cold bite of the armrests seeped into her bones, reminding her that power in Bratan was always glacial.
?The priest raised the crown and lowered it upon her golden hair. The weight of the gold across her brow was instantaneous—a burden that seemed intent on forcing her head toward the earth.
?“Long live the Queen!” The first cry came from Cici, sharp and commanding.
?It was followed by a muffled choir of clan voices, sounding more like a groan of despair than a celebratory cheer.
?Ela did not smile. She surveyed the throng of clans and felt the chill of the gold invading her thoughts. In that moment, she realized her question about Halter would receive no answer today, and perhaps, never. She was solitary upon that throne, encircled by a “silent fire” that had only just begun to consume her from within.
[DATA: 27. CYCLE 10]
?[LOCATION: CHANCELLOR’S OFFICE — NAX COMPLEX]
?[TIME: 01:30 LOCAL]
?[STATUS: UNVEILING OF THE ELITE]
The sun ascended high into the firmament, illuminating the smokestacks of Nax-Geot as they vomited relentless plumes of soot. While the city below seethed with troop movements, the Chancellor remained within his sanctum. A solitary lance of light pierced through the high window, cleaving the room’s darkness like a divine blade. The silence was absolute, fractured only by the dry scrawl of a pen across Halter’s ledger.
Before entering the game, one must decrypt the enemy’s fear. If you know his terror, you have won; if he discovers yours, surrender without a fight. On page 15 of this ledger are the details...
Two sharp raps upon the heavy oak door halted his hand. Halter did not lift his head.
“Enter,” he commanded. His voice was as frigid as the steel walls that encased him.
?Goreta entered with heavy strides that bore witness to the exhaustion of a life spent on the front lines. He stopped before the gargantuan desk and deposited a dossier.
“Chancellor, our informants confirm: the Tsar’s bloodline in the east is no longer even history. Meanwhile, in Bratan, the child-queen has just been crowned.”
?Halter raised his eyes slowly. Without a word, he pulled two envelopes sealed with black wax from the drawer and slid them toward the General.
“How many times must I tell you, Goreta? There is no need for formalities between us. Regardless...” he tapped the first envelope, “this is for the new SRR. A non-aggression pact they will sign in blood. And this other one,” his index finger rested on the second, “is for the child-queen in Bratan. An invitation she lacks the power to refuse.”
?Goreta nodded. With a signal, he permitted Blais and the five chosen ones to enter. They aligned in a flawless formation—young bodies fueled by ambition and iron discipline.
“Sir,” Blais reported, “the treaty with Itan has been ratified. Every document is in order. And these... are the Five Chosen.”
?Halter closed the ledger, leaving the pen between the pages like a death-marker, and rose with a smile that promised nothing but ruin.
“It is an honor to stand before you. Proceed, Blais. Show me who will lead my legions.”
?Blais commenced the introduction in a sharp, martial tone:
? ?Ette Harmat (21): A prodigy of the air forces. The heavens are his playground.
? ?Zeta Dufter (28): Expert in armored tactics. A man of steel.
? ?Alfo Haita (24): Master of siege and urban warfare.
? ?Aista Von Defte (23): Genius of the ambush. No enemy sees her coming.
? ?Goto Goreta (22): Son of General Goreta. A natural-born strategist for the vast fronts.
?Halter looked toward Goreta, who offered only a silent, grim affirmation. They were the finest this nation could forge.
“You are the generation that will carry this state upon your shoulders. Be proud,” Halter said, moving toward the door. “But there will be another among you. My daughter. Avasha.”
?The room turned to ice. Even Goreta, a man who had witnessed ten thousand deaths, froze like a marble statue. The door handle rotated. From the abyss of the hallway, a girl emerged. She was shorter than the others, yet her presence seemed to siphon the very oxygen from the office. Clad in a uniform tailored with surgical precision, her cap cast a deep shadow over her pallid features.
?When she lifted her head, the dim light revealed an anomaly that struck terror into those present. Her eyes were not human. They were red—the color of fresh blood spilled upon virgin snow. Avasha, nineteen years of age, was there to take command.
