A thick, uneasy silence grips the rescue ship Skif.
Metal bulkheads swallow every footstep, turning them into muffled thuds—like the heartbeat of a dying beast.
Above the door to the medbay, a dim light pulses weakly, casting trembling, sinister shadows on the walls. They seem to move, like memories refusing to let go. Like doubts refusing to die.
Vikary enters.
Unhurried.
His cloak rustles softly, like whispers from dead angels.
He makes no sound—yet his presence crashes into the room like the cold weight of a coming verdict.
At the center—
a capsule.
A glass sarcophagus wrapped in pulsating cables, like living veins.
Holographic light paints the air in ghostly silver.
Inside:
General Jamal.
Still. Severed from the world.
His scarred face locked in an expression of pure will—tightened lips, furrowed brow.
"He's still fighting. Even here. Even at the edge of nothing."
Vikary steps closer.
Bows his head.
A silent gesture... of respect? Farewell? Even he doesn't know.
"What's his condition?" he asks hoarsely.
His voice disappears into the hum of the machinery, as if he's not speaking to humans, but to the ship itself. Or to God.
Maria stands at the console.
Her back is taut, like a drawn bowstring.
The monitors flash with endless streams of data—
charts, peaks, erratic curves.
All pointing to one thing:
Disaster.
She doesn't turn.
"He's still unconscious, Chairman," her voice cracks. "His condition's worsening.
We're... losing him."
Vikary looks.
And the capsule is no longer a tomb—
it's an ark.
An ark of an era.
Of strength, honor, and choices no one makes anymore.
Maria types commands—fast, precise.
As if whispering spells. As if trying to bargain with death itself.
"I'm doing everything I can," she murmurs. "But… it's not enough.
His mind feels torn from his body. Or… clinging to something. Something beyond."
The monitors bleed red.
Heartbeat slowing.
Brainwaves collapsing.
The capsule's light flickers—like a fading beacon deep beneath the ocean.
"He was our anchor," Vikary says, voice heavy with fatigue. "He held us together.
If he goes...
all that's left is chaos."
He places his palm on the glass.
It quivers.
A faint vibration beneath.
Like the breath of a beast about to vanish.
Somewhere in the ship's hull, the metal groans.
Sensing doom.
Maria lowers her head.
"I'm not giving up. But right now…
he doesn't need medicine.
He needs something stronger than logic.
Something that can call him back."
Vikary leans in.
His voice is low—
like the echo of an abandoned cathedral.
"If you can hear me, Jamal...
the war isn't over.
Mercury is under siege.
The androids still believe.
Without you...
we won't survive.
Come back."
"Words are the last thread. The last anchor between the soul and the flesh.
Or maybe between hell and the dawn."
He stays there. Doesn't move.
As if trying to transmit something through the glass.
A fragment of will.
His.
Ours.
At last, he steps back.
His cloak trails across the floor, leaving behind a shadow heavy with memory.
Maria remains.
Alone—surrounded by humming machines and life slipping quietly away.
Somewhere inside the capsule...
Thump.
Another heartbeat.
And in that tiny spark—
hope.
A realm of gods. Or death. Or both.
The line between life and eternity has blurred.
Jamal's consciousness drifts in the void.
No flesh here.
No time.
No self.
Only silence and darkness—
thick as tar, endless as regret.
In front of him:
Two worlds.
Two paths.
Therma — the will of Kairus.
Osari — the freedom of Hanaris.
On his chest—two amulets.
Glowing in rhythm with his dying heart.
One — cold, silver, lunar.
The other — blood-warm, pulsing heat.
He must choose.
But who was he, to judge?
Flame wraps around him—
not fire. Not pain.
Something deeper.
His soul burns.
"I'm scorched by my own orders.
I'm consumed by my own decisions.
I set myself on fire."
He screams.
Soundless.
No tongue.
No throat.
But the universe hears.
From the darkness—
He emerges.
Hanaris.
Light follows his steps like the toll of a bell, like sunrise piercing the cosmos.
In his hand—a hammer, glowing like the essence of justice itself.
Not punishment.
Not vengeance.
But truth.
Hanaris approaches.
He doesn't look down.
He looks as a brother might.
As someone who has fallen too.
"Enough."
His voice slices reality like a blade.
He raises the hammer—
and brings it down upon the void.
Not on Jamal.
But on the darkness holding him.
Explosion of light.
The fire dies.
The pain vanishes.
And Jamal... remembers.
Remembers who he was.
Who he wants to be.
"I am not a tool.
I am not just a general.
I am the one who chooses.
And I...
am not done yet."
Jamal falls to his knees.
His breath tears out of him, his chest heaving in sharp bursts—
as if he has just escaped a burning hell.
And in this place beyond time, where each moment stretches into eternity,
he lifts his eyes.
Another stands before him.
Cairus.
His eyes blaze with crimson fire—restless, ravenous, like flame that has yet to find something to consume.
Behind him coils a golden serpent, encircling the altar of power.
An ancient symbol.
Threatening.
Beautiful. And deadly.
He steps forward.
The ground shudders beneath him.
His voice strikes like a hammer on granite:
"Who do you choose?"
Each word drives nails into Jamal's soul, pinning it to the earth.
A crossroads lies before him.
A choice—
but both paths lead through fire.
"Choice… it has always been my curse.
To choose who to save.
Who to leave behind.
What command to give.
And now again…"
He sees himself—
in the muck of the Mercurian front lines,
in the cold light of the council chamber,
beside a friend's coffin.
Battles. Comrades. Oaths.
Each memory a step back toward himself.
He rises slowly.
Knees trembling. Shoulders burning.
As if breaking chains woven into the very fabric of his will.
He tears from his chest Cairus's amulet—
red, pulsing like a heart on the brink of death.
And hurls it to the ground.
"I choose Hanaris!"
His cry is no plea.
It is a strike.
A sword.
A thunderclap.
It carries not blind faith—
but truth, earned.
The amulet hits the ground.
With a dull clang.
Like the last nail in the coffin of an age long dead.
Cairus is furious.
Shock pierces the mask of divine grandeur.
His jaw tightens.
In his eyes—
a storm of blood and lightning.
He steps forward—
crimson cracks erupt beneath him.
The sword in his hand blazes—
not with light,
but with hunger for destruction.
"Why does everyone choose you, brother?!"
His voice splits the sky.
The air moans.
Space itself vibrates.
"Why can't they see?!
The true power is mine!
My wisdom!
My care!"
Hanaris does not move.
He does not rejoice.
In his gaze—
only silence.
And… pity.
"Because you never understood," he says softly.
But in that softness—
the force of the universe.
"Gorgoroth showed the way.
Your commandments, Cairus,
are stones around the neck of a drowning soul.
Time waits for no one.
Either you fade…
or you yield to me.
That is the law of change.
Accept it."
"Father… is wrong!"
Cairus shrieks.
And the sky erupts in red fire.
The sword comes down.
In a blink—
Jamal's body crumbles into ash.
Scattered by the wind
born of wrath.
Silence.
But at the heart of the ash,
light is born.
A spark.
Small—
but bright.
The choice is made.
Jamal's consciousness sinks inward.
Between worlds.
Toward the vault of Osari.
Where not death—
but rebirth awaits.
Ship cabin. Dim light.
Inside—thick, viscous silence.
The hull groans,
as if the ship itself is mourning a loss.
The lights dim slowly,
slipping into night mode.
Silver lines glide across the bulkheads,
stretching into long shadows—
like memory.
Maria sleeps.
Slumped slightly to one side in a chair.
Her face is calm.
But her fingers twitch faintly—
as if she's still fighting a war in her dreams,
a war no one else can see.
"No longer fear.
No longer battle.
Only pain. And weariness."
Even androids sleep.
Not with dreams, not with visions—
just silence for the system.
A fragile pause in endless vigilance.
And then—
a sound.
Barely audible.
Like a sigh
through an empty corridor of time.
The door slides open.
Pietro stands on the threshold.
He freezes.
His gaze glides over Maria…
and then—
to the pod.
Empty.
Empty.
He goes still.
His fingers clench into fists.
His face holds no fear—
only disbelief.
"Maria. Wake up."
His voice is soft,
but cuts like a stiletto.
Maria jerks awake.
Eyes snap open—
sleep, disorientation, realization.
She turns toward the pod.
Empty.
The fluid inside—
clear as cold oblivion.
Only a trembling trace remains,
as if a ghost dissolved there.
She stands. Fast.
But inside—
she's breaking.
"He was just here.
Just now.
How…?"
"We… lost him,"
she whispers.
Her voice breaks.
Like a thread stretched to its limit.
Vikary enters.
Soundless.
His shadow falls like the wing of darkness.
His gaze—ancient.
Wounded by memories of those who could not be saved.
He walks to the pod.
Stops.
Stares.
And says:
"He's in Osari now.
With Hanaris.
He'll return—
when the time comes."
His words fall into the silence
like stones into still water.
Maria lowers her head.
Pietro grits his teeth.
But no one weeps.
No tears.
No screams.
Only silence.
And the ship's hum—
like the breath of someone
who chose to live.
The "Skif" moves on.
Through the void.
A point of light,
carrying those who remain alive,
and the memory of one
who made his choice.
In their hearts,
in their silence,
a new vow is born:
Never forget.
Never yield.
Never stop.
Not ever.