"Thema, magic, war, what future awaits us? Van! Why can't you understand?"
Rain. Heavy rain. Yet everything was silent, save for a few whispers carried by the wind.
Capital city of Honariz, Revelant, May 26th, 2062.
A tall man in his early sixties muttered something under his breath as he walked down the silent corridor of the Parliament building. His gray hair, brushed back neatly, was perfectly dry; his dark vest seemed tailored not just for his body, but for the gravity of this very moment. He looked out into the distance. Beyond the glass wall that lined the hallway, the capital blurred beneath a quiet rain. He stopped, tilting his head slightly toward the square below. Dirty droplets splattered against the glass roof, cold as if God Himself were weeping—not for humanity, but for His own sorrow. The dampness that lingered here this season was not merely weather. It was born to remind of heavier things: the past, failure, or something nameless still haunting the air.
He sighed. The melancholy hanging over the city today did not come solely from the storm, nor from the meaningless fall of those raindrops. It came from the narrow margin between two opposing factions in the recent session—a margin so thin it felt like fate was flipping a coin, and he already knew the outcome, no matter how many times it landed.
"Humans are so damn hard to understand," he muttered, pressing a hand to the window, watching as the raindrops slid down the darkened sky like the tears he refused to shed. But he had to keep walking. He knew someone waited beyond that hall—someone with the power to change everything, if he dared… or didn't.
He climbed the granite stairs slowly, the echo of each step heavy and metallic, like chains dragging behind him. Every sound reverberated through the empty stairwell, mirroring the weight buried deep in his chest. He was tired—not merely from age, but from decades of service to a nation that seemed as exhausted as he was. It felt like his entire life had been reduced to these lifeless steps beneath his feet.
But regret? None. He kept walking anyway, even if these stairs led into chaos—even if his path meant the ruin of a nation or a species. Because faith, to him, was worth any risk. It was the one thing strong enough to push him forward into a future either bright with promise… or swallowed whole by the abyss. No one knew. No one cared.
He had walked with his country for only a few decades, but that short span carried the weight of a history. From the day the global peacekeepers passed the Anti-Magic Act—to standing helpless as citizens were executed simply for being sorcerers. He remembered the crowds cheering, believing they were doing what was right, blind to the fact they were strangling their own kind. Then came the birth of the Thema particle—a form of artificial magic crafted from the last fragments of his own knowledge and will.
All of that… now just history to him. Not history written in books, but the kind carved into his soul through witness and suffering. He had been there. He had carried it, like a pawn forced across a board of endless chaos. And somehow, he had been chosen—or condemned—to change its ending. But history, no matter how many times it repeats, has never been a map for the future. Today's session was proof of that.
He laughed, bitterly. Not out of joy, but the cruel kind of acceptance that only comes when you stop lying to yourself. History only matters when you look back at it… when it's already over.
Nothing left, Van. The Union of Nations has fallen. Nanmar's coup succeeded. Pyongya is lost. Jajun turned its back. Sinpuratre chose its side. The Federation has dissolved. And our neighbor—the one you trusted most—now points a gun at your head. Why are you still so stubborn? Times have changed! Wake up, Van!
He stopped in front of the Parliament chamber. The massive limwood door loomed ahead, the final barrier between him and the man inside. His gaze shifted to the line of trees beside the walls. They were lush, vibrant—like the nation itself, at first glance. Anyone could see the trees were meticulously maintained by diligent gardeners who watered them, trimmed the leaves, and hung bright ornaments among the branches.
But beneath, the roots were rotting. The soil, recently replaced before the session, was only a thin disguise covering the dying structure underneath. He touched a leaf lightly. It trembled as if a breeze had found its way in—but the building was sealed tight. So where did that wind come from?
He simply thought for a moment, then flicked the tip of the branch. What was bound to happen, happened. As expected, the frail tree toppled. Not just one—an entire row collapsed in succession, the chain reaction echoing through the hall. The bright pearls that had decorated them scattered across the floor with sharp, ringing cracks, each shatter sounding like a verdict handed down by fate itself. Yet one pearl rolled clear, unbroken, stopping near his shoe. The last remnant of fragile hope. He knelt, picked it up, and smiled faintly. Perhaps… perhaps this one was still worth believing in.
He slipped the pearl into his pocket and drew a long, steady breath before pressing against the heavy door. It groaned in protest as it opened, revealing a vast circular hall awash in gold light. The ceiling's LED panels blazed overhead, consuming unbearable amounts of power, yet still nothing compared to the weight shouldered by those who sat beneath it. He walked forward, step by step, past the rows of golden chairs against the deep crimson floor—a symbolic fusion of the nation's flag colors embedded into every tiny detail.
Each seat bore a nameplate and title. And at the head of the hall stood the statue of their beloved president, eyes kind yet commanding. The national flag rippled gently beside it under the artificial breeze of an air conditioning vent. The sight drew a faint shimmer to his eyes, memories flashing through his mind. Then his attention caught the massive digital screens flanking the room—red background, white letters flashing one word: "Rejected." The vote count beneath told the story: no abstentions, just a narrow victory of those opposed.
He sighed again and made his way toward the dais, where one man still sat. The nameplate before him read "Comrade Trac Van." His voting button still glowed green beside a screen filled with hastily scribbled notes. Van, a man about his age, wore a formal black vest adorned with a silver badge marked "ARMS." His dark hair, slightly disheveled, framed a tired face behind thick glasses masking the shadows of sleepless nights.
The man who entered lifted a hand to the earpiece on his left ear. Wisps of red particles dissolved around him, revealing his true form—white hair, crimson eyes, clad in a deep blue vest embroidered with the national insignia. Like Van, he too was a high-ranking official. But unlike his friend, he had abstained from the vote. He wanted to see whether the man he once fought beside still had the courage to follow his ideals into the dark.
"Van…" he spoke softly.
Van turned his gaze up, black eyes dull but steady.
"What are you doing here, Theres?"
"So you couldn't convince them after all? I thought the professor still had his fire." Theres smirked, glancing up at the glowing red screen.
"As an officer, I advise you not to interfere, Theres. The vote has been cast. The decision stands before your eyes. We will not go to war—for any reason. That is the will of the people seated in this hall." Van's tone was firm but weary.
"Peace-loving. Diplomatic. Cautious about conflict. You've changed, my friend," Theres said, stepping leisurely toward the front dais, hand brushing the bronze national seal. "From a soldier once known as the protector of mages—our kind—to a man who traded ethics for invention, creating a serum to let ordinary humans wield magic. And now? A politician preaching peace. Politics has really tamed you."
"They're not the same thing!" Van slammed the table, rising to his feet. His brow furrowed, fire flickering behind the lenses.
"They are the same!" Theres roared. "Trac Van! Do you even remember how many missions we fought together? How many lives we saved? You did it all to prove that your people—our people—should never have to live in fear of those so-called peacekeepers. That was your conviction! And you know damned well, if we hadn't fought back that day, neither of us would be standing here now!"
He paused, breathing heavily, then spoke again more softly.
Van said nothing, taking a long breath as his eyes drifted to the still-blazing screen.
"The vote is final," he said. "We will not join the war. Not for anything."
"But not everyone agrees," Theres muttered, glancing at Van's glowing green button. "You haven't changed… just lost your nerve."
"This nation will not spill blood for politics. No words of yours can change that."
"Then your people are cowards?"
Time stopped. Truly stopped. Even history seemed to hold its breath. A strange wind swept the chamber. The flag behind them, unmoving for hours, suddenly snapped—hard and thunderous, like the synchronized stomp of an army on parade. The air did not stir, yet the flag moved. As if something within it… had awakened.
The overhead LEDs, unprompted, flared to blinding white, casting a divine glare over the president's statue. Its eyes came alive with light, the stone face shifting as shadow and luminance painted the story of a nation's pain, its wars, its ghosts.
Neither man spoke. Neither dared move.
Somewhere, deep within the stillness, the world itself whispered:
"It isn't only the living who pass judgment. History, the present, and blood—speak too."
"Theres Rethres! Watch your words!" Van shouted, voice cracking under the weight of fury and grief. "This nation has endured enough! We've survived countless wars! The scars are still here! We know the price of peace, and we will keep it—no matter who points a gun at us, or what a vagabond like you says!"
"Diplomacy is the only way forward," Van continued, his voice steadier. "Our soldiers still guard the borders. They are protecting this land. And here, we use words and policy to secure what they risk their lives for. That's how we've survived for decades."
"This isn't decades ago anymore, Van! Times have changed!"
A deafening strike split the air. Lightning slammed into the Parliament's lightning rod. The safety grid failed. Every light went dead. Darkness swallowed the hall whole—leaving only two silhouettes, unmoving.
And in that void, Theres saw something. Something that shouldn't exist outside theory. His eyes widened; breath frozen, heart pounding. Sweat trickled down his temple as the glow returned. Thirty seconds later, emergency power flickered on. The LEDs reignited, washing the scene in sterile white as if nothing had happened.
"One of my oldest friends once dreamed of a nation where magic was part of everyday life," Theres whispered. "He died on the battlefield saving me. Maybe he was right all along."
He turned to the door. "You were right about one thing, Van. A nation that has lost so much to war must be the one that knows peace best. I'm sorry for disturbing you."
He tapped his earpiece. The red aura shimmered again, blanketing him like mist, morphing his features back into that of a citizen—yellow skin, black hair, dark eyes. He sighed, then placed the pearl on the desk before Van's nameplate. With a final nod, he turned, walked slowly to the great wooden doors, and forced them open. He didn't look back.
Van watched him leave, breath heavy. He glanced down at the small pearl. For a long moment, he just stared—lost. Then he picked it up, gripping it tight. The little sphere was small but unwaveringly firm, the flag of their homeland gleaming within. A red field, gold emblems, waving proudly in an invisible wind. He smiled faintly and tucked it into his vest before leaving the empty room.
When the door closed behind him with a dry click, the LED screens at the front flickered. Lines of code blinked erratically, colors shifting from red to blue—the color of affirmation.
Across its surface, a single line appeared:
"Voting result: 100%."