prologue:

After the Great Desertification dried the world to its bone, the Old World’s cold politics turned hot. World War III didn’t start with a declaration; it started with a button press. A surprise nuclear blitz aimed at total dominance forced the superpowers into a violent, reactionary spiral. As the giants fought, lesser nations seized the chaos to invade and loot what remained.

For fifteen years, nuclear fire rained down. The few who survived the radioactive blanket did so by burrowing into underground bunkers. But even the deep earth offered little safety from constant raids, despite the desperate anti-missile tech cobbled together by survivors.

The network died. The digital system collapsed. Silence fell between humans for decades.

Then came the Yellow Warrior.

A genius from Iablyn, he was more than a fighter. He ended the nuclear exchange not with diplomacy, but with an invention that neutralized the very radiation choking the world. Yet, this device was not a shield. It was a hammer. Against the might of this new power, nuclear weapons were obsolete toys. It was the force scientists had chased for centuries, the terrifying answer to an ancient riddle: control this, and you control everything.

They called it The Graviton.

It forced nuclear energy into submission and shattered our understanding of quantum mechanics. It allowed for the infinite manipulation of gravity itself.

For a moment, there was a savior. A new leader with a noble message. But human nature is inescapable. Peace crumbled into envy. Rifts formed within the Yellow Warrior’s ranks, turning into betrayal, then open war. The Graviton was unleashed again—this time, on a catastrophic scale never seen before.

it was as if the sky had fallen to the earth, and the earth had been cast into the sky.

The planet’s surface was pulverized. Life was nearly extinguished. Only a handful survived, including the Atherdeen family, who pledged to the Yellow Warrior to safeguard the weapon and rebuild civilization.

The Graviton changed everything. Science was bifurcated into Old World Physics and New World Physics. The weapon itself was cataloged among the most dangerous inventions in history; its science was forbidden, its manuscripts hidden and fiercely protected.

Years later, above the ruins of the Great Atlantic Trench, a new world took shape. The Atherdeen family used the Graviton to rip massive chunks of the earth’s crust from the wasteland, forging them into floating sphere-like lands. Suspended above the toxic remains of the past, these sanctuaries of clean air and new hope were named the Atherdeen Territories…

opening:

On the shores of Epsilon, where our toes sank into the warm embrace of the sand... the breeze was gentle, and the sky belonged to the birds. In that moment, I wished I could have frozen time forever. For the first time in my life, I felt truly free.

I was watching him with all my love... my young son, Selim, his eyes burning with a brilliance that mirrored the horizon. But then he asked a question—a question no child his age should know how to ask. It was then I realized he was destined to be one of the great minds of his era.

He pointed toward the skeletal remains of jagged buildings, his voice filled with wonder. "father, How old are these ruins?"

I looked at him, with a faint smile breaking through my weary features. "No, son," I said. "You should say: How ancient is this world?!..."

He studied my face for a heartbeat, searching for the meaning behind my words. "Is that how geniuses talk, Father?"

I went silent for a moment, then leaned in. "Did you know, Salim, that the Mind-walker on your neck... I invented its first prototype when I was nearly your age. I wanted people to find each other again. I wanted them to speak, to understand one another, to tear down the walls of language. I refined it, piece by piece, until it became the very fabric of our lives and memories. This neural-enhancer was—and still is—a revolutionary breakthrough. It is the phone of the new world."

...

"father... how ancient is this world?

no... how wrathful is my soul?!"

The young man with raven-black hair sat on a swivel chair in the center of a silent room. The space was minimalist, nearly hollow, yet meticulously organized. He wore a black suit, left unbuttoned, his gaze fixed on nothingness with a terrifying stillness—the look of a mind drowning in an enigma. With his fingers interlaced and elbows resting on his knees, he leaned forward, his head bowed in a posture of profound, haunting contemplation...

The interior design, the lighting, and the wide windows suggested an era that was neither past nor present, but... something else. It was a high-tech future masquerading as the 20th century. It seemed as though history had taken a sharp, jagged turn away from everything we once predicted.

"What was that I saw?" the young man whispered to the silence. "That sand... that shore... could it have been a dream? But how?"

As he sat there, a subtle tremor rippled through the floor, a low vibration that shook the foundation. He didn't flinch. He didn't panic. He simply closed his eyes. "These tremors have been escalating for days," he muttered. "No one knows the cause, but it feels like the world is bracing for something. At least the inter territorial towers are still standing. No state of emergency has been declared for the 24 territories... yet."

Suddenly, a faint chime rang—not in the room, but directly against his right ear, as if someone had whispered into his very soul. The frequency of the tone caused a tattoo to materialize out of thin air on his neck, glowing with a ghostly light.

"You have an urgent message from the Director's Office," a voice echoed, integrated directly into the young man's consciousness.

"Let's hear it," he replied.

The voice turned grim: "Tragic news from Region Alpha (α). All special units have been briefed on the incident within the big House just moments ago. It is a catastrophe. No official statement has been released due to the mass hysteria on the ground. It has been..." The messenger hesitated, his voice trembling. "Governor Solomon Atherdeen has been assassinated. He was found in his private quarters, drenched in blood."

The young man's posture shattered. He shifted abruptly, bringing his hands beneath his chin, his face a mask of hollow shock.

"The Ruling Family has ordered the most elite investigators to the scene," the messenger continued. "Adam Ryan has been assigned, but he is unresponsive. As usual, he is attempting to bury himself in isolation, shunning the world and its technology. You are to deliver the order personally. You will bring him to the High House and serve as his shadow—his bodyguard—at all times. The streets are volatile. And remember..." The voice grew cold, threatening. "You should know, K.P.R., that your repeated insubordination will carry a heavy price. Look at your hand. The number has become 98. Continue this recklessness, and you will end up in a place you will loathe."

The young man—known as K.P.R.—lifted his hand. The number 98 flickered onto his skin in a digital glow before vanishing into the pores. He knew the cost. He knew that every breach of protocol with Management would pull the noose tighter.

A deep breath, followed by a soft, sharp exhale. That was all.

K.P.R. stood up, moved toward the door, and stepped out into the shadows of the city to hunt for a detective who no longer wanted to be found.

the Administration had already transmitted the coordinates. To K.P.R.’s concern, the destination was set in territory Epsilon —a volatile sector teetering on the edge of secession. It was a hotbed of dissent, crawling with those who despised AI legislation and the Ministry’s iron-fisted labor laws. For an emissary of the Big House like K.P.R. to set foot there was an open invitation for chaos.

"But they’ve already made up their minds," K.P.R. thought, letting out a heavy sigh. He understood the peril of the situation; this wasn’t just a mission, it was a walk through a powder keg.

Outside, after packing his meager belongings into a small satchel, K.P.R. approached a vehicle that resembled a high-performance motorcycle. With a swift snap of his fingers, the tattoo on his neck flared with a sudden, rhythmic glow before vanishing again. The bike’s lights hummed to life instantly—a seamless synchronization, as if the tattoo acted as a bridge, commanding the machine through some technology embedded in his skin.

As he mounted the bike, an old man leaning against a nearby soot-stained wall stopped him. Releasing a heavy stream of cigarette smoke, the man croaked, "Don't you think it’s a bad day to be out? The sky is starting to turn."

K.P.R. offered a faint, sardonic smile. "It's just a light drizzle. I’ve cross-referenced the weather patterns several times. A rider doesn't start his journey without being prepared."

The old man continued to puff, his eyes narrowing as he looked up. "I wasn't talking about the weather."

High above, a swarm of armored soldiers patrolled the murky skies. They gripped heavy shields, kept aloft by X-shaped jetpacks that roared with a low-frequency hum. K.P.R. looked up toward the armored units, watching them with a mixture of wonder and dread.

"So, it’s exactly as I feared," he whispered. "The Ministerial intervention forces are already here. Their numbers have swelled since last week. Ever since the lockdown of certain regions, the state was tightening its grip, desperate to suffocate any spark of civil war. I just hope this doesn't complicate the operation."

"Those bastards," the old man spat. "Still banning family gatherings. I haven't seen my daughter in months. I don't even know if she’s breathing."

"But... Solomon Atherdeen promised change, didn't he?" K.P.R. asked, his voice wavering with a rare touch of hesitation.

"What change? Solomon hasn't been seen since his last broadcast. People are starting to think the Atherdeen name is nothing more than a polished lie."

"Don't forget," K.P.R. countered, "it’s the Atherdeen family that guards the Graviton legacy—the machine that saved humanity from extinction."

"Or was it the very weapon that shattered the world in the first place?"

"But they used it to rebuild. They kept the peace for decades. What happens if that power falls into the wrong hands?"

The old man looked at K.P.R.’s bike, then at his own tattered rags. "Don't act so righteous while you’re riding a machine worth more than my foreclosed home. I have nothing left but these clothes. They took everything."

K.P.R. looked down, his voice dropping to a somber tone. "You know... I’ve been a friend to the Atherdeen family for years. I’m only trying to show you a side of him.. ahh... of them—that you might not know. And this bike? It isn’t mine. It’s Ministry property, issued to facilitate transport for staff. Nothing more."

"Heh. So you’re a Ministry lapdog. No wonder they give you the luxury class." The old man’s expression shifted to a bitter nostalgia. "I served in the Ministerial security apparatus for decades. I regret every single year I wasted. After I retired, they didn't even give me a decent 'thank you.' The funny thing is, you never realize how hollow the job is until your part in the play is over."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"No," the old man said, his tone turning eerily sharp.

K.P.R. paused, his helmet tucked under his arm, struck by the sudden intensity in the man's voice. "What did you say?"

"Don’t be sorry," the man replied, taking one last drag of his cigarette and looking K.P.R. straight in the eyes. "you might be next. The real question is... will you wait until your part is over to realize it?"

It was one of the rare moments where words actually stung him. K.P.R. stood frozen, paralyzed by the old man’s words as if a rusted bullet had just pierced his soul.