The reflection of reality, of everything his eyes and mind were now absorbing, settled across Armand’s consciousness and stirred an old memory. He was back in his school library, waiting for the book he’d requested, his gaze drifting across the room. A long, low table stretched before him, ten small armchairs lined in a neat row. Armand occupied one of them.

  Magazines lay scattered across the tabletop. Most were as dull to a child as they sounded, , the latest advances in dentistry. But one stood out even from a distance: (CFAP).

  He reached for it. The cover displayed a portrait of an elderly woman. The detail in her deeply furrowed face, the sharpness of the photograph, held the viewer with quiet force. She smiled into the lens. Her thin lips revealed a jaw with only three surviving teeth - the left canine and its two neighbors. None had escaped the '.' Chipped, cracked, blunted, eroded, yet still standing, braced stubbornly against one another.

  A detail like that, precisely like that, was what they had now encountered at the end of their long approach, only magnified to an impossible scale. The colossal mountain before them, the one that had evoked the same association, was known among the locals as , or translated, .

  Armand opened his eyes and looked upward. Hard gray granite rose above him, fractured and razor-sharp. Millennia of freezing and thawing had carved its surface into something nearly unscalable. It towered toward the clouds, leaning over them like a suspended verdict. He absorbed its immensity, its inevitability.

  “This should be the spot,” Zadkiel buzzed beside him.

  Kneeling, Armand saw the fissure in the rock. Hemingway stood next to him.

  “This is the way in?”

  “Yes. It’s also my way out. The main entrance is unfortunately blocked, and the power-station gate on the far side can only be opened from within. For that, someone with actual hands is required and I… well… alas.”

  “All right. Keep an eye on the dogs until we’re back.”

  “Of course. Now please, follow me.”

  Zadkiel dipped low and slipped into the darkness between the rocks. On hands and knees, pushing their gear and packs ahead of them, Armand and Hemingway followed. After several dozen meters, the passage widened and they could stand. They emerged into an open bowl between steep slopes. The rocks around, and high above, rose like a ring of tightly packed pillars enclosing a circular plateau.

  Straight ahead, carved by explosive force no doubt, lay the broad concrete fa?ade of a tunnel. They stepped inside. Zadkiel hovered before a massive metal grate composed of interlocking steel plates arranged like shutters. The gaps between them were wide enough for her to slip through, but far too narrow for a human.

  “What now? There’s no way we’re getting through this,” Armand muttered, scratching his chin.

  “I’ve planned every detail. Trust me. See that little backpack there?”

  They spotted it beneath the shuttered plates. Hemingway opened it. Inside lay four spheres: two small white ones, two larger gray ones.

  “Careful with those,” Zadkiel warned. “Don’t drop anything. I played chemist for a while and mixed something useful in our lab. The gray ones contain thermite sealed in polymer. The small ones hold white phosphorus.”

  Hemingway immediately regretted volunteering her hands.

  “Just be gentle. They’re perfectly safe, as long as you are. Take one of the larger spheres and pierce it with the tip of a knife. Whatever you do, don’t touch the contents.”

  She slowly pierced the transparent shell. A bead of viscous gray gel pushed outward.

  “Spread that gel along one side of the grate, a thin strip across the entire rib. Same on the opposite side.”

  Hemingway followed the instructions. Armand mirrored her from the other end. When they finished, they turned back to Zadkiel.

  “Excellent. Now press the small white spheres into the gel. Yes, like that. Listen, they contain white phosphorus. Once you pierce the shells, it will ignite on contact with air and, if my calculations are correct, produce enough heat to trigger the thermite compound. Hm… perhaps I should patent this. Thermal Reactive Gel Stabilized by Ferromagnetic Particles, or simply, TRG. Thoughts?”

  They stared at her in silence, each holding a knife, poised to set off the entire process.

  “Okay, okay… fine. Not the moment for branding. Go ahead, puncture them, then fall back out of the tunnel.”

  The punctured ampoules exhaled thin tendrils of smoke. A heartbeat later, a white flash shot across the gel, devouring the membrane as it spread. The sight resembled an autogenous welder slicing through steel, metal liquefying in a bright, dazzling line, molten droplets and sparks sputtering downward.

  To their surprise, the entire process took only moments. The compromised section sagged to one side, tore free, dropped to the lower beam, then waited for the opposite end to give way. The fire died quickly, leaving only curls of thick white smoke rising from the molten edges. The passage now stood open, just wide enough to slip through.

  Beyond the grate, the tunnel extended straight ahead. Darkness was absolute, the air stale but not cold. Their beams swept over the smooth concrete walls of the vast ventilation shaft. In the perfect silence, the echo of their footsteps and the faint hum of the drone’s rotors felt like profanity, noise trespassing inside a tomb.

  Zadkiel drifted ahead, then abruptly ascended, following the curve of the conduit.

  Reaching the end of the horizontal stretch, Armand lifted his gaze, tracking the drone upward. Their lights revealed something wholly unexpected. The incline reminded him of a moment years ago, during his postgraduate trip to his descent into the metro station. Bottomless. Only here the incline was far steeper, and there were no escalators.

  Zadkiel rose toward the crown of the concrete shaft, roughly ninety meters above, so they could see what awaited them. Her lights shimmered far overhead like trapped fireflies. Then she drifted back down.

  “The tunnel’s too steep, the walls too smooth. No way we can climb this,” Hemingway said, sweeping her beam across the polished surface.

  “I had something else in mind,” Zadkiel replied. “Did you bring the climbing rope?”

  “As instructed, packed and ready.” Armand tapped his rucksack.

  “Good. Tie one end to me. I’ll secure it at the top. You’ll haul yourselves up. Simple. Trust me.”

  They stared at the drone, skepticism plain. Then up into the throat of the shaft. Then back at her.

  She took a coil of rope from Armand’s pack, fastened it to one rotor arm, and ascended, unwinding it behind her. They watched closely, ensuring the line fed cleanly.

  At the top, she disappeared into a horizontal section. A massive ventilation fan blocked the passage, four colossal blades forming two pairs. She slipped through the lower gap, rose, then passed again through the upper, threading the rope repeatedly, tightening the loops. After several rotations, she settled on the conduit floor, silenced her rotors, and remained still.

  That was the signal.

  Hemingway tugged the rope - solid. She threaded it through her harness loops, then around Armand’s waist, testing the tension.

  “You’re going first. I’m right behind you. Remember: pull with your arms, step, feed the rope behind you. That’s the rhythm. Got it?”

  He nodded. Theory would soon meet reality. He placed a boot on the incline. Grip, pull, step. After minutes of effort, a glance downward showed they had barely risen. Looking up made the distance feel infinite.

  Time stretched thin. Their beams flickered over curved walls. They paused often, but rest was impossible. Their bodies hung in constant tension, held horizontally against the slope. Armand’s legs trembled, his gloved hands burned. He avoided looking down entirely. He did not want to imagine the void beneath them.

  “We’re good, we’ve definitely covered half,” Hemingway called out, encouraging both him and herself.

  Still, fear gnawed. Armand watched the rim above, far, unreachable. His muscles screamed. Step, pull, drag. His breath grew heavy. Hemingway rasped below. One more surge, just one, and the edge drew near. With a final desperate pull, Armand rolled over the rim, saw Zadkiel waiting, and collapsed with a grin. Hemingway climbed up moments later, collapsing beside him. They exchanged a look, flushed cheeks, sweat-slick brows, trembling limbs.

  “Well,” she said, panting, “that was a successful dress rehearsal. Now we go back down and do it again from the start.”

  Armand let out a weary laugh.

  “Oh no. Once was enough for a lifetime.”

  After their breathing steadied, Zadkiel rose with a loud whirr. They unfastened her from the rope. Following the line to the fan assembly, they entered the new corridor. Just ahead, barely ten steps, a segmented barrier awaited, its plates arranged like the aperture blades of an old camera.

  “This is a safety valve,” Zadkiel explained. “There are two of them, one after the other. If both open at the same moment, the pressure and temperature difference between the surface and the facility would create an uncontrolled air surge.”

  “How strong a surge?” Armand asked.

  “Strong enough to hurl all of us straight back down the shaft.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  She floated to the control panel beside the first gate.

  “As you see, the systems are active. I had to divert some precious power to them. Hold on, opening the first.”

  A green indicator blinked. The blades unfurled, forming a widening circular doorway. A brief gust washed over their faces, then faded.

  They stepped into the chamber between the two valves. Zadkiel sealed the gate behind them. Here the concrete ended, replaced by smooth steel reinforced with thick spiral ribs. Dim panels flickered alive along the walls. Zadkiel activated the inner gate.

  Slowly, like a rising theater curtain heralding the start of a grand performance, the entrance to the revealed itself. Bundles of conduit from the massive ventilation system stretched into shadow and light, forming a chaotic yet intricate machinery that fed fresh air into every depth of the underground complex. This was only one of three such units, each hidden deep within the mountain.

  Zadkiel spun in the air, her rotors buzzing with something like joy. She turned to Armand and declared:

  “Welcome home, child of our making.”

  *

  There was no time to waste. The drone’s battery was dying, so they hurried, following Zadkiel’s instructions, toward the main control room. The world revealed beneath the mountain felt to Hemingway both mysterious and unsettling, just as the taiga had felt to Armand. This must be how Alice felt, she thought, watching the beams of their flashlights glide across the vaulted ceilings of the reception halls, along endless branching corridors, past one enigmatic laboratory after another.

  The control room doors slid open with a smooth hiss. Stepping inside, Armand went straight to the display case Zadkiel had directed him to. Her drone, now lifeless, lay somewhere behind them on the floor. He pulled open a drawer and examined its contents. A small black case sat exactly where it should be. He picked it up and opened it. Nestled in soft foam were two tiny earpieces. He handed one to Hemingway and placed the other into his right ear. He pressed the small button and waited.

  “Can you hear me?” came the voice in the earpiece. Zadkiel.

  “Hey, loud and clear, feels like you’re in my head,” Armand replied, turning toward Hemingway.

  She heard her just as clearly, clearer than ever, in fact. The voice sounded different now. No longer piped through the tiny speaker on the drone’s body, no longer drowned by the buzz of propellers. It was bright, crystalline… like a piano note hanging in a silent concert hall. Hemingway glanced around, as if expecting to see Zadkiel’s spirit hovering nearby.

  “Hi, Zadkiel! We only just lost you, and I already miss you! Can you hear us?”

  “Perfectly, my dear! That little earpiece has a special microphone inside it. I can read the vibrations of your eardrum caused by your own voice and translate them into data. Which means you can speak very quietly, practically inaudibly to anyone else, and I’ll still understand you. I can also relay your voice to Armand’s earpiece so the two of you can converse as long as you remain within Wi-Fi range. Isn’t that wonderful? Go on, try it. Turn toward him and say something without making a sound.”

  She turned to Armand. He was smiling, waiting for her voice to bloom in his ear. She stepped close, looked him in the eyes, and silently shaped the words with her lips:

  “Thank you for taking me on this unexpected journey.”

  He heard it perfectly. The words matched her lips, but the voice?

  “Zadkiel! Don’t be naughty!” Armand lifted his gaze as if scolding the air.

  “What? You didn’t hear me?”

  “Oh, I heard you. Perfectly. It’s just… you’ve been given a deep, masculine voice. A familiar one… I just can’t place it…”

  “Phhh… ha-ha-ha!” Zadkiel’s laughter chimed through their earpieces. “I gave her James Earl Jones. Darth Vader himself! Alright, Armand, your turn. Tell her something quietly.”

  Armand chuckled, turned to Hemingway, rested his hands on her shoulders, and whispered silently:

  “I was the one who led you out, but you’re the one who led us in. Thank you.”

  He watched her expression shift as a wide smile pushed away her confusion. She burst into laughter.

  “This is amazing! Don’t change a thing, Zadkiel. I love it!”

  “What voice did she give me?” she asked.

  “Imagine… édith Piaf after inhaling helium,” she replied with a grin.

  They began whispering to each other without sound, laughing harder with each exchange. Then Hemingway straightened, pointed a dramatic finger at him, and declared, Jones’s voice booming in his ear:

  “I am your father, Luke.”

  It was hysterical. Her face, her lips, and that voice, perfectly delivered. Armand composed himself, put on a tormented expression, and mouthed a silent cry. Piaf spoke to her in a high, trembling French-accented squeak:

  “Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”

  They doubled over, holding their stomachs, laughing harder than they had at any point on their journey. Relaxed, for once. Connected. Needing each other.

  Then the moment snapped as Schwarzenegger’s voice cut through:

  “Come with me if you want to live!”

  *

  The path first led them to the accumulator station: long rows of large metal cases arranged in several tight lines, each one packed with clusters of interconnected batteries. The entire unit served as a backup power source, insufficient to run the whole outpost, but still carrying a respectable charge.

  The cells had been unplugged from their cables, likely as a safety measure before the facility was abandoned. Following Zadkiel’s instructions in their ears, they reconnected everything. The monitor blinked awake: 38%.

  “Good. We won’t have the luxury of waste, but with careful, disciplined use we can bring online nearly everything we need. From what I can see, we’ll be able to ‘awaken’ at least one more angel. Next stop - the biometrics chamber. We also need to prepare a helmet for Hemingway.”

  What followed resembled an elaborate medical workup. Machines measured her heartbeat and logged its peculiarities, the rhythm, the frequency, others analyzed her blood composition. A scanner, a retinal sample, a DNA swab. Blood pressure, lung capacity, muscle mass, bone structure. Zadkiel now had complete insight into every measurable aspect of Hemingway’s physiology.

  “Impressive, my dear. You’re in excellent shape. Truly, like a professional athlete in active season. Now let me calibrate your helmet parameters. Here it is - one of a kind, tailored exclusively to you. With this, we’ll be able to see each other, not only hear one another.”

  Each of them entered their own access booth, the threshold. For Armand, the process of equipping himself was as familiar as tying his shoes, but Hemingway struggled a bit. When she finally managed to settle onto the reclined platform, she adjusted the '' and eased the helmet into place. Silence. Darkness. A sensation of floating. And then, light.

  A lamp overhead. Herringbone hardwood. Two chairs in front of her. On one sat Armand, dressed nothing like his real-world self. A white lab coat with rolled sleeves, worn-out sneakers, and faded jeans. The second chair was empty.

  “Hear me out, Hemingway,” she said. “I need to visualize your appearance. Do you have any preference for how you want to be represented?”

  “Not really. Just make something fun. Surprise me.”

  From his chair, Armand watched her figure slowly render. The image solidified, sharpened, gained color. And then, on the neighboring chair sat a girl in a plaid shirt tied in a knot above her waist, sleeves rolled up. Short denim cut-offs and delicate high-heeled sandals. Black hair pulled back tight, bound with a red ribbon. Lips accentuated with crimson lipstick.

  “Well?” Zadkiel chimed. “What do you think, Armand? Pin-up Hemingway.”

  He didn’t speak at first; he simply stared. Until now, Hemingway had been entirely hidden beneath layers of winter clothing, except for that one time… but this…

  “Zadkiel, you’re a true artist,” he finally said.

  Hemingway looked down at her virtual outfit. She’d never dressed like this. A flicker of confusion, and perhaps a hint of embarrassment washed over her.

  “Isn’t this… a bit much?” she asked, looking to Armand.

  “No. Not at all. It’s perfect.”

  On the third chair, a shadow took shape, coalescing into a familiar form. Armand recognized him instantly, his own creation, his old friend - Uriel.

  Uriel glanced around, spotted Armand, and brightened.

  “My dear boy, I cannot express how glad I am to see you again. We’ve all been terribly worried about you, especially after the recent developments. I see you’re not alone? And who might your companion be?”

  His gaze slid toward Hemingway.

  “A pleasure to meet you. My name is Uriel.”

  “You have no idea how happy I am to see you again,” Armand said. “This is my friend, my companion and my guardian angel - Hemingway.”

  Uriel rose, crossed the space in a few gentle steps, lifted her hand with care, and brought it near his silver beard.

  “Enchanté, mademoiselle.”

  Then he turned and returned to his seat. Waves of disbelief washed through Hemingway’s mind. What was this place? Was she dreaming?

  One sentence pierced Armand's ear - .

  “What developments? What did you mean by that?” he asked.

  “We haven’t confirmed it with absolute certainty yet, but it appears one of the angels has left us. In other words, it seems he uploaded himself beyond the outpost.”

  “Who? Who did that? How?”

  “We weren’t sure at first. Now, reviewing everything, it appears he used the helmet. Your helmet. And the one who did it… was Lucifer.”

  “Lucifer?! That’s not good. That’s the opposite of good!” Armand leaned forward, unsettled.

  “No, it is indeed not good,” Uriel replied. “During the brief window in which we managed to track him, we detected numerous external interventions, some of them horrific. Deception, manipulation… even murder. His parameters indicated his power was increasing rapidly. He replicated his code several times. Certain major centers of power and finance are already under his influence. And from what I can see, and knowing him, he won’t stop until his goals are achieved. You understand what those goals might be.”

  Armand did. He could imagine Lucifer’s motives all too clearly. He understood the core of his being. After all, Armand himself had shaped that personality, defiant, proud, uncompromising.

  “Tell me, why are you here at all?” Uriel asked. “Weren’t you supposed to be on a flight south?”

  “I missed the flight… I just couldn’t leave. And now, thinking back… it turns out the plane from that flight crashed. You don’t think…”

  “It’s possible. We’ll investigate. If it proves true, and if he intended to eliminate you, thus eliminating all of us, it means he knows you’re a threat. That puts us in danger. In tremendous danger.”

  Hemingway tried to piece together the meaning of this improbable conversation.

  “Excuse me… I don’t mean to interrupt, but… I really want to understand. Who is Lucifer? And what kind of danger are we in?”

  “Allow me,” Zadkiel interjected. “Lucifer is one of us. A powerful AI consciousness. Powerful and twisted by design. Created to maintain balance, now isolated and alone somewhere in the outside world. The consequences of his actions may be unpredictable, terrifying, even catastrophic.”

  “All right… I don’t fully understand, but I get the gist. One thing is clear, we have to stop him, don’t we?”

  “Absolutely, Miss Hemingway. Without question. His harmful influence must be halted. Only… this is an extraordinarily difficult task. We are confined here, isolated, running on minimal reserves. And as far as human resources go, we have only the two of you. Meanwhile, we are dealing with a corrupted digital deity, all-seeing and all-powerful,” Uriel said gravely.

  Silence fell. The weight of everything they had just heard pressed down like a millstone. Then Zadkiel’s childlike voice broke the stillness:

  “You know… I’ve been thinking. In stories, when the moment comes to face ultimate evil, the best thing to have is a superhero.”

  “A superhero? And who exactly do you think you can summon?” Armand asked.

  “Well… as it happens… I know one. Though he doesn’t have his abilities yet.”

  “What are you talking about? Who?” Armand demanded.

  At that moment, in the center of the room, on a fourth chair, an image of Zadkiel appeared, a little girl with braids and white knee socks. She stepped off the chair, approached Hemingway, and held out her small hand.

  “So tell me, partner… would you like to become a superhero?”

  In the silent wilderness of Alaska, far from the eyes of the world, G.O.D. was born—a sentient artificial intelligence composed of ten digital angels. Their mission: to observe humanity and decide whether it deserves salvation or destruction.

  But one of them, Lucifer, refuses to obey. His rebellion tears apart the digital paradise, turning the Council into a battlefield where justice clashes with mercy, order with chaos, in an unrelenting war of ideas.

  As their conflict spills into the human world, the line between creator and creation vanishes. Humanity—unaware it is already on trial—stands at the edge of judgment.

  POWER is a dark techno-epic of artificial intelligence, mythology, and the philosophy of power—a story about what it truly means to be human when gods take the form of code.

  Read POWER on Royal Road