World Apart: Extinction War

Part I

The Reunion

1

A young man’s cry,

Of pain and fear,

Brings about the same,

In his overseer.

Keeping his distance, Raiden shadowed his target to a cave near the mountain’s crest. Its entrance lay hidden behind a thick veil of lichen, but his keen eye could spot it, just barely. At the cavern’s rear, a concealed shaft dropped through the holographic image of a stagnant cesspool nestled in the mud. He hesitated, reminding himself the illusion wasn’t real, then stepped through, falling six feet to the ground below.

He landed hard, skin prickling in the subterranean chill. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, a faint glow emerged ahead, a lone bulb casting just enough light to outline the jagged walls of a narrow passage. The cramped corridor was clearly built for a much smaller creature, forcing him to duck and squeeze forward. His chest tightened, breath hitching as claustrophobia clawed at his resolve, urging him to turn back now.

He gasped for air, each breath rasping in his throat, panic rising as the walls pressed in from all sides. Rough stone scraped against his shoulders, rubbing flesh raw, an abrasive bite he couldn’t escape. Each step grew more punishing than the last until, finally, the passage opened into a broader corridor, its reinforced arched ceiling standing in stark contrast to the ragged throat he’d just endured. With room to move, he quickened his pace, determined to close the gap on the smaller, more agile Reticulan. Yet even as he advanced, a whisper gnawed at the back of his mind: was it wise to follow this demon into its underworld?

His unease deepened as he suddenly realized how light his rifle felt in his hands, a chilling reminder of the hollow click that had followed its last burst of fire. His final magazine was spent. Now there was only his sword.

Yet here he was, slipping through the twisting corridors, rafter after rafter passing overhead as the Reticulan general’s frantic footsteps echoed in the distance. The alien’s sprint was outpacing his brisk but cautious walk, each fading step pulling him further from certainty. Faint as it was, that muffled patter was his only guide, and it was dying fast, swallowed by the labyrinth’s many turns. Thinking ahead, Raiden scored the floor at each intersection with his blade, carving a line from where he’d come to where he was headed. Once he killed that Reticulan bastard, he’d still have to find his own way back to the surface.

As he rounded the next bend, a voice thick with malice suddenly swallowed him whole:

“I had mistaken you for a wise and formidable enemy. Now I see you are simply a fool at heart, just like the rest of your kind.”

Raiden passed beneath a carved archway and halted at the center of a vast, circular chamber. Dim lights hung from the lofty ceiling, casting a dull glow over tiered benches of black metal lining the walls. Across the room, an opening appeared to lead into a tunnel beneath the seats. At first, he thought the general had gone that way, but closer inspection revealed it ended in only a small, enclosed cell.

The only exit lay behind him. And now, a voice, unseen, called from some shadowed place.

Raiden let out a slow breath, realizing too late he hadn’t been pursuing his enemy at all. He’d been led here. Baited like a lamb to the slaughter. Foolish, exposed, and fully deserving of whatever awaited him next.

He steadied himself. Though dread knotted his chest, he didn’t flinch as the voice echoed through his mind. He stood firm, eyes forward, scanning the room in slow, measured passes. There was no one, nothing, only the marks of long-ago violence: nicks, gouges, and stains dark as aged wine etched into the concrete floor. At his feet, a rusty smear stretched over a deep gouge in the stone. Only gruesome thoughts came to mind.

“Did you really think you could follow me undetected?” the voice taunted, each syllable unnervingly precise. “I could feel your malintent nipping at my heels.”

Raiden tightened his grip on his weapon, shifting into a guarded stance. He was far from a lamb, but the illusion could yet serve him. Tilting his blade, he tracked the faint reflection of the room behind him. Soon, that reflection would gleam red.

“Where are you?” he shouted.

The echo had barely faded before rapid footsteps broke the silence. A sharp metallic twang split the dark, tangling with the hiss of strained breath and the groan of an incoming strike. The answer to his question came not in words but in a furious sweep of steel, an onslaught so sudden he had only a heartbeat to react.

His muscles coiled. His jaw clenched. And in that instant, Raiden knew—this could truly be the end.

Fourteen months earlier

The crimson smear on the snow was no longer the glaring oddity it once had been. Two days of fleeting glances had dulled the shock. Now it was simply part of the landscape, stretching like a bleeding gash on pallid skin, marring the pristine white of his frozen lawn. Raiden’s breath rose before his eyes, taking to the wind with the sound of his grunts and the grate of ice beneath his shovel. With determined force, he chipped away at the red, cracking the surface until clean white shone through.

Damn wolves, he thought, hoisting a slab of bloodied ice into the air and heaving it into the metal bin with a thud. The carcass within shrank beneath the weight of the snow, silver fur vanishing under frozen blood that, two days before, had flowed in vessels just beneath. It had been wild blood, savage and feral, the kind that fuels a beast with no remorse—or in this case, a saber wolf with an empty stomach and a full-grown Fraquian in its sights.

Despite his wife’s concerns, Raiden felt fortunate his daughters had been by his side when the wolves had come. At the time, of course, their presence had terrified him, yet it had given him a strength he hadn’t known existed: a force beyond the desperation of a mere cornered animal. He couldn’t afford to die. If he did, his daughters would too, and that fear cut far deeper than any for himself. Amid the chaos, their cries were all he could hear—their whimpers and pleas for Daddy’s protection ringing in his ears like a lifeline. These were what drove his feet through the snow, his eyes through the darkness, his fingers through the coarse fur of wolf after wolf until one had fallen with a knife in its chest, and the others had limped away, whining like beaten pups into the outlying wood.

He’d been hoping nature would make amends by sending fresh snowfall to cover the final remnants of the scuffle, but two days had passed with no such luck, and Victoria had grown tired of looking at it. So, here he was, removing the blood himself, shoveling it into a bin where the wolf formed a frozen mass of flesh and fur at the bottom. Beside him, his tundra truck idled with a low growl, warming up in the subzero chill of early-morning Fraq. With a final scoop, Raiden tossed in the last bit of blood before dragging the trashcan to the edge of the driveway and climbing into his monstrous ride. His daughters’ bedroom window lit up as he backed out, their pink faces peeking through the curtains to wave him off, as they did most mornings. He rolled down his window and extended a hairy hand into the biting cold, waving back as he pulled away.

Leaving his family was the hardest part of his day, a struggle outweighed only by the joy of returning each evening. Rarely did he get the chance to dress his daughters, make them breakfast, brush their hair, or drop them off at school with a goodbye kiss and a cheerful “Have a good day!” That was all Victoria’s domain, and he was grateful for it. No one could do it better than she could. She was an incredible wife and an even more amazing mother, and there was never a doubt in his mind he’d found his soulmate. Of course, he wished he could spend every waking moment with his beloved family, but alas, reality, as it so often did, prevailed. It was an entirely impractical desire, after all; he had responsibilities to fulfill, school to attend.

With a smile, Raiden watched his daughters shrink away in the rearview mirror. When they vanished from sight, he turned his attention to the glistening road and the brightening sky of dawn. The forest’s red pine needles rose like black walls in the gloom, guiding him along a winding path toward the distant snow tram. With his heart still pounding from the morning’s extra activity, he drew a deep, deliberate breath to calm his nerves. He already knew he’d be late to class, and now, as if to mock him, the snowfall he’d hoped for over the past two days had finally begun.

Straining to see through the thickening flurry, he muttered a curse at Mother Nature.

As if in direct reply, a sharp whistle pierced the air, rising above the crunch of snow beneath his vehicle. The familiar sound emanated from the tram station ahead, signaling both the arrival of his ride and its imminent departure. Anxiety jolted him, his foot slamming to the floor as his spine stiffened. The treads of his tundra truck spun at full speed, the engine’s roar rattling the hairs on his face: a welcome distraction as he resisted any further insult to Mother Nature.

Determination surged through him; he would catch that tram. He had to. Others were counting on him.

Raiden’s fingers brushed his belt, tracing the sleek handle of his knife and the cool grip of his trusted pistol. Check. And check.

Without warning, the road dissolved from sight, replaced by the violent image of an exploding skull—a man crumpling behind the red dot of a scope. Raiden flinched, a sharp breath hissing through his teeth. Bodies lay strewn across the snow like discarded scraps, the stench of decay mingling with the acrid bite of gunpowder on the breeze. As if it wasn’t bad enough, a brutal certainty made the gruesome scene infinitely more reprehensible: it was his doing. All of it.

The memory flared for only a moment, surfacing from the deep recesses of his mind, where he’d buried it long ago. It was too painful to confront directly, too heavy to wear on his sleeve, as some might expect him to. Pride came with its recall, yes, but so did shame, sharp and unrelenting, shadowing it in equal measure. He’d never spoken of this feeling, and he never would, its existence carefully concealed beneath the unshakable smile on his face and the steadfast confidence in his eyes.

He had killed. Many times. The truth haunted him daily, but he had his reasons. That was how he lived with himself.

The vision vanished as suddenly as it had come, leaving the winding road clear once more. Raiden exhaled in relief, realizing he was still driving soundly in his lane. Years ago, he might have swerved with the sudden intrusion, but the flashbacks came like clockwork now. He’d been habituated, however reluctantly.

Raiden refocused as the tram station emerged in the distance, his ride still docked and waiting.

Would he kill today? He never knew.

But he was ready. He always was.

◈

What was it about the past that made him so damn uncertain? That fed and starved him at the same time, satisfying but never enough. The questions kept coming, and he kept chasing the answers, each discovery widening the holes, birthing new mysteries, new reasons to pore over ancient texts written by those so unlike himself: the Earthlings.

In a way, though, he was an Earthling, but there were ten thousand years of branches stretching between him and that ancestral root. He was Fraquian now. There was no Earth, and there were no Earthlings. But why? Such a deceptive question. So short. So quick. So seemingly simple, yet impossibly complex, more so than any other question he could fathom. This was the never-ending itch that plagued him so.

These thoughts roamed silently behind his spoken words, forming a chasm between his pondering mind and the unconscious encoding and orating of his reading. Raiden slammed the textbook shut with a sharp crack, then gazed out at his students. His dark eyes were intense but warm, his chiseled jaw tilting into an amused grin. Half of them were asleep, their faces buried in the ruffled fur of their forearms. He chuckled quietly. Half awake was better than usual.

At the back of the room, a bare branch clawed at the glass pane, clicking violently beneath the hail of snow and the Fraquian northern winds. It was just past noon, but the light was dim, the sky weighed down by storm. Remarkably, despite the howling gusts and the incessant tapping at the window, his students had managed to drift off beneath the cadence of his voice. How flattering.

“Who wants to add anything?” Raiden asked, his gaze sweeping the room. He paused expectantly, waiting for the eager hand that never came. “Come on, guys. You’re all training to be soldiers. You must have opinions on politics, and diplomacy, and the role our military plays in all of this.” His eyes lingered on the students, patient, letting the silence do its work. “Fine. If no one wants to volunteer, I’ll call on someone.”

Raiden paced deliberately around his desk, striding down an aisle flanked by rows of sleeping young men. His dark hair spilled over his shoulders like a midnight cascade, swaying with the steady rhythm of his gait. As he walked, he absently stroked the coarse beard that framed the lower half of his face. Most men of his age let their beards grow long and proud—a physical emblem of the strength and wisdom their years afforded. Raiden preferred his trimmed short, like forest moss: just long enough to shield against Fraq’s biting winds, yet short enough to hide the creeping hints of gray within.

His gaze settled on his chosen target.

“How about you, Mr. Slater?” Raiden called sharply, punctuating his words with a hearty smack on the desk of the slumbering class clown.

Darren Slater jolted awake with a gasp, blinking rapidly as he scrambled to muster a response.

“Uh… I don’t know, sir. Could you repeat the question?”

He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, licked his lips, soaked in the amused gazes of his snickering peers. A cocky smirk spread across his face as he leaned back in his seat.

“I asked for your thoughts on the history lesson I just gave, and on Fraq’s diplomatic stance with Arth and Calri. Even if you weren’t paying attention, chapter two was today’s assigned reading, so you should still be able to weigh in.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Darren began, brushing off the jab. “I know what that one book says, but I don’t get why we stay so neutral. All that history about Earth—countries going to war, conquering each other and taking what they need from the losers. Doesn’t that seem easier? Survival of the fittest, right? And I think we’re definitely the fittest.”

He shrugged, his voice gaining momentum. “The Arthians are supposedly small, the Calrians even smaller. It’d be an easy fight. We could take Calri’s ocean floor treasures, then Arth’s farmland and food. Or just take their land. Things are getting way too crowded here on Fraq, and a little more room sounds like exactly what we need. We could take it if we wanted.”

Raiden rubbed his chin, turning the boy’s words over in his mind. It wasn’t the answer he’d expected, and for a moment, he was unprepared to counter. Nobody ever questioned the way things were. Not because it was illegal or even taboo. It just didn’t happen.

After a pause, he strode back toward the front of the room.

“Interesting, Mr. Slater. Thought-provoking, indeed. But I suspect you’ll need to dig a little deeper to understand why we maintain our neutrality despite the temptations of war.”

Raiden turned to face the class, leaning casually against his desk as he continued. “I’m guessing the book you’re referring to is The Rebirthing. Am I right?”

Darren nodded.

“Well, we’ll be studying that text in depth soon enough. The authors of The Rebirthing operated on a level far beyond our understanding. Their perception exceeded anything we can fathom. They could interpret the present and predict the future to a degree no human ever could. They made it clear that we should refrain from contacting the other human populations, and our compliance has served us well so far. I can’t claim to know their reasoning behind the directive, but I trust it was given with good cause.”

Darren’s expression hardened, skepticism laced with a hint of frustration. “But don’t we have a right to know why? Why do we just ignore the fact that those two planets in the sky have other humans on them? We act like there’s nothing there for us, but everyone knows there is.”

Again with that damn question, Raiden thought. Why? God knows I wish I knew.

He shifted uneasily on his feet. “We’re starting to drift from your initial response, so let’s refocus. You mentioned going to war—conquering Calri and Arth—because their smaller size would make it easy. But that very size is what allows them to thrive in environments we simply couldn’t endure. Fitness is relative, after all, and the environment itself often determines the victor. Take an androlion, for instance. It wouldn’t stand a chance against a saber shark in the open ocean, but in the shallows? It could hold its own. On land? The androlion would undoubtedly prevail.”

Raiden paused, letting the comparison sink in. “Now, think about this: the thick coat of hair covering your body, mine, everyone’s in this room. It’s a hallmark of Fraq’s climate. How do you think that would feel if you paid a visit to Calri? Does that sound like a hospitable environment to you?”

He gave the class a meaningful look, his tone sharpening slightly. “And as for taking their so-called treasures, have you considered who would actually benefit? How they’d be distributed among our people? What real value they would bring?”

He let the questions linger for a moment before continuing. “You need to think carefully about the answers to these before entertaining the idea of starting a war for such reasons. More importantly, you need to weigh any potential gains against the inevitable loss of human life. Is it worth risking yours for ancient treasures that you yourself will likely never even touch?”

Raiden locked eyes with Darren, his gaze unyielding. When Darren looked away, he shifted his focus to the rest of the class, his thoughts drifting to the wars of Earth. He’d read enough about them to despise the very concept. The founders had established the Fraquian military to maintain order and defend against attacks. Nothing more. It was never meant to spark conflict, and he fully believed, with unwavering conviction, in sticking to that intent.

“Well, Professor Whitmore, I’ll admit I agree with your stance on Calri. I don’t see much benefit in attacking them. But with all due respect, you’ve completely avoided addressing the potential of attacking Arth. To me, that’s the more difficult argument to dismiss. As a debater, I understand why you’d sidestep it, but as a teacher, I think it’s important to address. Unless, of course, you don’t know what to say.”

Raiden turned toward the source of the challenge, surprised to find Joel Munson staring up at him, an eager expression on his face. His inquisitive eyes, magnified by the thick lenses of his dark-rimmed glasses, served as a sharp contrast to his usual tendency to stay unnoticed. Raiden couldn’t suppress a smile at the boy’s newfound boldness.

“Nice observation, Joel. It must’ve slipped my mind… Arth: the piece of Earth that stayed where it was while the others drifted away, a land with conditions similar to, though less extreme than, Fraq and Calri. You’re asking why we don’t attack and take their land for ourselves?”

The students nodded in unison, leaning in, fully engaged.

“Do you remember our discussion about Earth and its path of self-destruction? It was a road paved by war, where weapons and violence didn’t just devastate the environment—they corrupted the very core of humanity. All morality and honor that once existed were torn apart, leaving a void that would inevitably collapse in on itself. The chaos clouded their vision, blinding them to what truly mattered and preventing them from discovering how to transcend their three-dimensional reality.

“War, gentlemen, is never the answer. It may seem like the simplest or most immediate way to settle conflicts or satisfy selfish desires, but it only breeds death and hatred. It nurtures a darkness that consumes us, obscuring the truth in the midst of turmoil. This is precisely why the Bowltren sought to eliminate the human race. They knew war isn’t the real solution. And given that their wisdom far surpasses ours, I think we should embrace their judgment. Instead of reverting to the same old patterns, we should seek the true answers to our problems.

“This time, mankind may not get a second chance. As educated individuals, it’s our responsibility to confront the mistakes of our history and ensure they’re not repeated. We have to prove to the Bowltren that we’re worthy inhabitants of this universe. Not the weakest. Not the most ignorant. That we can learn from our past and evolve as a species to help support the advancement of knowledge across all life. Does anyone disagree with this?”

The weight of his words hung heavily in the room, the silence broken only by the hiss of the storm and the trees creaking and groaning just beyond the walls. The students kept their gazes downcast, deliberately avoiding eye contact, as though it might challenge their professor’s assertions.

Raiden smiled. “I’m glad to see I’ve managed to open your eyes a little wider. If I can do this more often, maybe we’ll all ascend to the fourth density of consciousness by the end of the semester.” He chuckled lightly, a sound that brought smiles to his students’ faces. “That’s all for today, gentlemen. For tomorrow, I’d like each of you to prepare a two-page essay on the merits and drawbacks of our intentional isolation from Arth and Calri. Think about any changes you’d make, and be sure to consider the gravity of your propositions, backing them up thoroughly. If you truly believe war is the answer, I want you to convince me.”

Raiden glanced at the clock. “All right, gentlemen, it looks like it’s time for specialized weapons training. Those headed to the SWUN facility, I’ll see you in fifteen minutes. The rest of you, report to your usual training locations. You’re dismissed.”

The cadets rose in unison, saluting with practiced precision. Their ironed pants were sharp, their bodies rigid, their decorated white jackets molding to their broad chests like the snow-covered hills beyond. The pristine fabric caught the light, skillfully concealing the thick hair that blanketed each of them from head to toe. Raiden returned the salute, and the students relaxed, forming a disorganized line as they shuffled toward the door.

Once the final cadet departed, Raiden drew a deep breath, relief settling in his solitude, brief as it would be. Class had grown quite heated, at least for him. Whether that was good or bad, he didn’t much care. He had never shied away from a spirited debate. If someone challenged a topic he felt strongly about, he would argue his position until they came around. Some called him stubborn, and he supposed they weren’t entirely wrong.

After securing the classroom, Raiden made his way down the grand marble corridor of High Rank Hall, one of the many illustrious buildings dotting the prestigious campus of the Fraquian Military Academy. Portraits lined the walls—a gallery of solemn faces belonging to former presidents and esteemed military leaders, his own among them. The others wore expressions of stern authority, their countenances exuding importance and demanding respect. Raiden, however, hadn’t received the memo; his portrait stood out sharply, his striking smile a quiet rebellion against the austere, unspoken tradition.

He reached out to touch the photograph, his fingers grazing the spot where his tie hung perpetually askew. He’d rubbed that spot so many times it had left a faint smudge of oil at the center. Still, the damn tie never budged. It never would. He’d come to terms with that. The gesture had become more of a habit now, seamlessly woven into the fabric of his daily routine.

At the end of the hallway, Raiden pushed through the double doors and into a blast of arctic wind. He flinched, hunching against the pins-and-needles sting of airborne ice crystals pelting his body. A shiver rippled through him as icy tendrils snaked down his neck, weaving through his thick body hair with unsettling ease. A snowflake struck his eye; he blinked hard as it melted away. “Damn,” he muttered, wiping at the irritation with the furred back of his hand before flipping up his hood and cinching the drawstrings tight.

The FMA campus lay nestled within a scarlet forest, surrounded by an endless sea of Andromedan firepines. At twilight, as the sun dipped behind the trees, its rays filtered through the crimson needles, transforming the snow into a canvas painted with brilliant reds. Cherry hues pirouetted with the slowly shifting shadows, spiraling like draining waters until the dark of night prevailed. It was breathtaking to witness, but at the moment, the sun hung high in the sky. Its light sifted through a thin veil of storm clouds, casting a gentle warmth on Raiden’s face. Across the courtyard, the digital temperature gauge flashed its latest reading: -20°F.

Hmm. It’s warming up, he thought. How pleasant.

Setting his suitcase down on the snow, he popped it open to reveal the sleek, silver gleam of his Snow Rockets, new gadgets his wife had gifted him for his birthday. The first pair had to be returned because she’d underestimated his foot size. At size twenty-five, his feet were admittedly large, even for someone who stood seven foot four, but her purchase of a size twenty had been perplexing; it wouldn’t have fit an average teenager. Still, the gesture meant everything to him, and he cherished the thought behind the gift.

His daily trek across campus was always a chore, especially in areas where the powder piled several feet above the permafrost. Clearly, Victoria had tuned in to his nightly vents and work-related ramblings, even when her eyes were absorbed in her book, tucked in bed beneath the soft glow of her reading lamp.

Her thoughtfulness had always been one of her best traits, enticing him as far back as their high school days. He smiled as a vibrant memory resurfaced: the day she’d so thoughtfully decided that sneaking into the girls’ restroom would make for an exhilarating adventure. She practically had to drag him through the door, but once it swung shut and her skirt dropped to the floor with a tantalizing thwack—a sound so vivid he could still hear it clear as day—every hair on his body stood on end, along with another very particular part of him. Needless to say, he wasn’t going anywhere after that, and even now, the thought sent a thrilling shiver racing down his spine.

After securing his feet into the devices, Raiden activated the remote, setting the tiny engines in motion. The soft hum of their initial idle gradually built into a sharp, high-pitched buzz as he accelerated, skiing toward the SWUN training facility, half a mile across campus. Teaching SWUN combat was always the highlight of his day, and frankly, he was damn good at it. Over the course of a decade, he’d become deeply familiar with the M4SG2, better known as the SWUN by its users. The name captured its lineage perfectly, tracing its roots back to its simpler predecessors: the sword and the gun.

As a cadet, he had worked with a forward-thinking professor to develop the groundbreaking weapon, both of them envisioning it as the next evolution in combat technology. It assumed the standing form of a compact automatic assault rifle, but with the mere flick of a switch, it conjured, seemingly from thin air, a lustrous metallic blade capable of emitting searing, white-hot heat.

If nothing else, the SWUN was versatile: fully automatic for close work, precise at range with a 5–50x red-dot scope. The true marvel, however, lay within the weapon’s frame: a hidden sword that unfurled at the press of a button. This blade could channel intense heat from a specialized cell, which absorbed, pressurized, and stored the energy generated by firing the gun. In seconds, a brilliant white glow would surge along its length, empowering the user to ignite fires, slice through metal, and scorch enemies. The weapon could also serve a vital defensive role, capable of cauterizing wounds and halting bleeding when immediate medical assistance was unavailable.

Raiden took immense pride in his creation, certain it would introduce an unprecedented versatility to the Fraquian military—a unique edge should they ever face an adversary. Yet he hoped such a trial would never arise, especially in the form of war. Fortunately, Fraq had thrived under the stability of a unified global government, effectively dispelling the specter of internal conflict that had once destroyed Earth.

The nearest echo of war lived in the clash between law enforcement and criminals, though the latter rarely posed a meaningful threat. After all, their access to weaponry remained woefully confined to shoddy knock-offs peddled from the garages of local crackheads, and their proficiency in wielding them was laughable at best.

Narrowing his eyes against the swirling snowfall, Raiden glided forward, his thoughts drifting to another time as he neared the obsidian hedges that guided him into the Passage of Past. The corridor’s walls rose in solemn reverence, lined with statues of Earth’s most iconic figures, heroes and villains alike, standing as silent sentinels to history’s triumphs and failures.

In this frozen tableau, a poignant standoff unfolded, embodying the very essence of human history. Jesus, Gandhi, Lincoln, and even the infamous Hitler stood side by side, their likenesses carved from smooth, black stone. Preserved after The Rebirth by a select group of survivors who recognized the profound significance of their shared heritage, these enduring icons—and the gripping tales they embodied—had defied the relentless march of time. Ten millennia later, the monument’s steadfast presence remained undiminished, and every time Raiden ventured through its hallowed interior, he felt the inescapable power of each soul immortalized within.

Among them, Einstein was one of his favorite heroes of old. His true heroism had been misunderstood for centuries, overlooked by those of his time and even millennia after his death. Only through The Rebirthing did humanity grasp how narrowly Earth had avoided self-annihilation, the cherished texts revealing that Hitler himself had been nothing more than a pawn in the hands of the Zeta Reticulans.

It was a story Raiden never tired of, one of his favorites from humanity’s vast annals: a tale that began at the mysterious Untersberg Mountain, standing watch at the border of Germany and Austria. The peak’s history overflowed with legend and folklore: ancient kings slumbering in cavernous depths, sightings of dwarfish beings, inexplicable disappearances, and ominous portents that hinted at the world’s impending doom.

Hitler’s initial fascination with Untersberg soon spiraled into full-blown obsession, compelling him to construct his infamous retreat, the Berghof. From there, he spent much of the Second World War in seclusion, his telescope perpetually trained on the mountain’s fog-enshrouded slopes. It was on those very slopes that he first encountered the legendary small beings, now recognized as the Grays. Their whispered promises of power and insidious manipulation of his mind became a driving force behind the atrocities he unleashed, all part of their calculated scheme to lead humanity toward self-destruction.

Had it not been for Einstein’s extraordinary foresight and unparalleled bravery in stealing the Reticulan blueprints for harnessing atomic energy and escaping Nazi Germany just in time, the Zeta Reticulans’ bid to annihilate humanity might have succeeded far sooner. Of course, the technology still ended up in the hands of others under the Zetas’ influence, but at least the Americans were somewhat less unhinged, less inclined to set the world ablaze in their pursuit of power.

Raiden sighed as he contemplated the destructive power of the atomic bomb. He couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude that such dangerous technology had not survived The Rebirth nor been reintroduced by their Andromedan saviors: a restraint he considered wise. Though the absence of alien aid had kept many of Earth’s former luxuries from returning, Raiden considered it a fair trade to avoid the dangers that such knowledge might have posed in unworthy hands. Untouched by extraterrestrial influence, human ingenuity had, in any case, proven itself more than satisfactory, at least by his standards. With that thought, he pressed the “boost” button on his remote, lurching forward with a satisfying surge of acceleration.

As he drifted ahead, the stone faces flashed by in his peripheral vision, their silent gazes broken only by the rhythmic hum of his Snow Rockets reverberating off each chiseled visage. Each figure held a story Raiden longed to understand but knew he never would. So much knowledge lost. So much wisdom forgotten.

While his mind wandered through the past, a sudden, shrill cry split the distance, snapping him back to the present. Birds erupted from their unseen perches above, scattering in a storm of feathers.

Further down the path, the SWUN building stood alone, its hollow interior echoing with the gut-wrenching wail of a young man’s agony. Raiden’s heart quickened at his students’ frantic voices, unmistakable in the panic. Despite the cold, a surge of heat rose within him, instinct flaring through his veins like fire. He tugged at his collar, releasing the brewing steam beneath. It was his duty to care for these boys—to be their second father, or, in some cases, their first—and, just as the cries of his own daughters had triggered his instincts in the face of danger, the screams of his sons now propelled him into a heightened state of readiness.

Adrenaline flooded his system, drowning out the trivial sounds around him, sharpening his focus on the shrill cries of his students. Ten feet from the entrance, he kicked off his Snow Rockets and sent them crashing into the bushes at the front of the building. As he burst through the doors, the heavy scent of blood slammed into him, a reflexive dread ripping through his body with a sickening quickness. Terror seized his muscles and gripped his heart, dredging up his darkest fears. But it only drove him forward faster, each step more purposeful than the last.

As he advanced, he reached beneath his jacket and drew his sidearm, flicking off the safety and chambering a round. The smell was growing stronger, and the screams had ceased. Silence. Deep, suffocating silence. This struck him more than anything. This worried him the most.