The Digital Realm was a sacred place. A world where Cyber Devices lived in harmony, connected through flawless code within the endless flow of data. Until he came... Xaruma... the Malware. Who emerged from the shadows of the system...Bringing with him a virus that could not be stopped. Likewise, he corrupted our code, tainted the foundation of our world... He conquered our continents, turning us into slaves to his will... wiping out of life Now, we are no longer a nation... only fragments of data surviving in the dark. We hide beneath the ruins of data, in a world that once gleamed... now just fading shards of memory. We wait... waiting for the one spoken of in legend... The Protector Device.

The entire classroom fell into complete silence. Some students blinked slowly. Some looked emotionally damaged. One kid looked like he was rethinking his life.

The teacher let out a long, exhausted sigh.

Micro reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tiny circular device — no bigger than a coin.

He chuckles nervously, clearly panicking a bit.

The entire classroom freezes.

Students stare at him with blank, confused faces. One kid pauses mid-chew on a pencil. Another just slowly turns his head like a broken robot.

No one blinks. No one moves.

They are all waiting—painfully—for Micro’s next sentence.

Even the air feels like it’s holding its breath.

The teacher looks at him with the kind of expression that says "Please… please don’t make this worse."

The small disc vibrates with a soft hum, its surface lighting up with neon-blue circuits. In an instant, it expands — unfolding like living metal — until it wraps around Micro’s right hand.

Panels click into place, forming a sleek, high-tech glove that looks both lightweight and powerful.

The classroom goes dead silent. Eyes widen. Mouths gape. Pens freeze midair.

Student 1: "…Is that… real?" Student 2: "Whoa… it’s like something out of a sci-fi movie!”

Even the teacher leans forward, frowning but clearly impressed.

Micro lifts his hand slowly, the glove catching the light and reflecting a faint glow. The hum of the nanites resonates softly, filling the room with tension and awe.

Micro lifts his hand. The metal chair beside him trembles, then slowly rises off the ground, hovering as if held by an invisible force.

For a brief moment, the classroom is frozen in awe.

Eyes widen, jaws drop.

One girls whispers “No way…”

Another slowly puts a hand over their mouth, staring like they’re witnessing a miracle.

Even the usually stern teacher leans back in his chair, blinking twice in disbelief.

The hum of the Complex fills the room, low but growing steadily. Micro’s heart pounds — he knows it’s incredible, but there’s a nagging feeling that the system isn’t fully under his control yet.

The students hold their collective breath, watching Micro’s every movement, completely mesmerized by the floating chair.

For one shining second… everything seems perfect.

Then, without warning, the glove twitches. Sparks flicker along its metallic surface. The air feels heavier, like the gravity itself is shifting.

WHOOOOM—

A sudden surge of energy erupts outward. Papers swirl like leaves in a storm. Desks slide across the floor. A backpack rockets toward the ceiling fan with a panicked scream from its owner trailing behind it.

The Complex begins to overload. Tiny explosions pop from the glove, each one louder than the last. Smoke curls into the air, sparks crackle, and for a split second, the room is a chaotic mix of awe and terror.

Then… silence.

Micro stands there, glove still glowing faintly, hair slightly frazzled, surrounded by toppled chairs and scattered papers. He scratches the back of his head, trying to look casual.

The class stares at him. Some are frozen, some are wide-eyed, and one kid slowly mutters

The teacher lets out a long, weary sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he surveys the wreckage of his classroom.

[PRIVATE ROOM – DIM LIGHTS – MICRO SITS ALONE]

Micro sits on a metal chair, tapping his fingers, clearly annoyed and tired from earlier. The room is quiet—too quiet.

The door slides open with a soft hiss.

Zenith steps inside, taking his time before sitting across from Micro.

He lets out a small chuckle.

Zenith leans forward, eyes narrowing with curiosity.

Micro goes still.

Zenith smirks slightly.

Micro narrows his eyes.

Micro leans forward, irritated.

Zenith’s smirk fades. His voice sharpens.

He leans forward, frustration building.

Micro exhales slowly, his expression calm but heavy.

Zenith looks away, jaw tightening.

He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head

His voice rising, frustration spilling over.

He points sharply at Micro.

Micro falls silent. His hands tremble slightly, fingers tightening against the edge of the table.

Zenith’s breathing grows heavy, his emotions finally spilling over.

Zenith’s eyes flare.

Zenith slams his fist down.

CRACK—

The table fractures under the impact.

Glitch-like particles burst from his hand, flickering violently before fading into the air.

The room goes dead silent.

Micro exhales slowly, trying to steady his trembling hands. His voice is soft, almost pleading.

Zenith shakes his head, jaw tight, eyes flickering with a mix of anger and exhaustion.

He pauses, staring at the cracked table. His voice lowers, haunted.

The room feels heavy, the air thick with tension.

Dust drifts from the cracked table, catching faint light.

Even Micro can feel the weight of Zenith’s words pressing down on him.

Like the digital world itself is echoing their hopelessness.

Micro looks away, swallowing hard, knowing words alone cannot lift the shadow over them.

Micro’s pixelated eyes flicker, a small spark of determination breaking through the shadow of doubt. Even if it seems impossible…

Even if the odds are stacked against them.

Zenith laughs bitterly, shaking his head, disbelief and frustration burning in his eyes.

The room feels colder, heavier.The cracked table between them seems to hum faintly.

Glitch particles still lingering in the air like echoes of Zenith’s anger.

Micro clenches his fists, the faint glow from his gloves reflecting off the walls, a silent promise that he will not back down.

For a moment, time feels suspended—two opposing forces, despair and hope, are locked in the same room.

Zenith’s voice echoed through the dim bunker, his glitching hand trembling with frustration.

He stood up, slowly, deliberately.

Turning away, his cold digital eyes met Micro’s one last time.

The metal doors creaked open, a faint red light spilling into the hallway.

Xero walked away, leaving Micro standing alone in the dark, the silence pressing in around him.