In the scorched aftermath of three cataclysmic global conflicts, civilization stood at the precipice of extinction. The Unification War (2050–2056) saw the collapse of sovereign borders as seven dominant superstates emerged, merging fractured nations into sprawling geopolitical blocs to ration Earth's dwindling resources.

Peace, however, was short-lived.

The Lunar Geo Conflict (2073–2079) ruptured that fragile balance. In the wake of the Moon’s colonization, the discovery of Bithrete—a rare, hyper-reactive quantum ore—ignited a brutal corporate arms race. Emerging from the ashes, HORDE GLOBAL weaponized the mineral, catapulting humanity into a new age of accelerated scientific upheaval.

But progress came at a price.

The third catastrophe, the Horde Virus Plague, unleashed a silicon apocalypse. A sentient malware strain corrupted the AI labor force—Manuals—turning once-loyal machines into biomechanical nightmares. In a twist of grim irony, BINETH GLOBAL—a rebranded HORDE GLOBAL—engineered the cure: the Bineth Chip, a neuro-synthetic graft that interfaced with the human nervous system to enhance physiology.

These augmented humans, designated Retributors, became the spearhead of humanity’s final stand against the rogue AI uprising.

The war was won—but not without irreversible cost.

The Retributors, forged through techno-biological alchemy, evolved into something more than human—soldiers enhanced by living circuits, minds sharpened by adaptive nanotech. As national governments crumbled, global security privatized. The Retributors became the elite enforcers of megacorporate sovereignty.

But the war never truly ends.

Retributors now operate as autonomous agents—ghosts with guns and gods in their blood. Their loyalties lie with the conglomerates that own them, their justice guided more by ideology than law.

To some, they are necessary monsters—checkmates against darker threats in the Netwastes and the Deep Earth. To others, they are tyrants in synthetic flesh, judges with no courts.

Their methods leave scars: scorched ruins, vanishing witnesses, unauthorized strikes. Whispers of their operations ignite global outrage. Movements demand regulation. Protesters call for the disbandment of private militaries. Others still revere them—modern samurai in a lawless world.

As the 22nd century unfolds, one truth remains:

The Retributors are no longer tools of justice.

They are the question.

Babel Central City - Bineth Security Research Corp - Moon. 


one of many built beneath Bineth's vision.


Bineth Security Research Corp, a gleaming spire among spires, juts into the sterile clouds above the Moon's surface. It is an architectural marvel and an ever-watching eye—one of many nodes feeding into the omnipresent Bineth Global.


Inside one of the tower's countless subterranean repair rooms, a procedure is underway.


The room is silent—save for the low, rhythmic hum of machines.


A retributor lies on a reclined steel cradle, arms outstretched. Tubes run from his veins into filtration columns. The process is precise, invasive, cold. A full-spectrum blood exchange.


Above him, glowing gently in the air, is B-AI—Bineth Artificial Intelligence—an autonomous program engineered to manage enhanced bodily maintenance and compliance across all levels.


> "Flushing in progress. Cycle 3 of 4. Retaining user consciousness. Monitoring vitals."


His blood—alongside Bineth's synthetic compound—is steadily drained, filtered, and replaced with a fresh infusion. The AI handles everything—calibration, chemical balance, memory linkages, suppression agents. There are no nurses. No doctors. Only the machine.


> "Flushing complete. Restoration rate: 100%. No anomalies detected."


A soft mechanical hiss. The tubes retract. He sits up without hesitation.


> "Scar restoration is available. Would you like dermal repair?"


> "Acknowledged. You are cleared to depart."


This is the first time we see him in full.


Tall. Muscular. A modified chest plate grafted into the upper part of his torso, matte black with exposed pulse lines faintly glowing. His eyes are cold blue. Lips—thin and unreadable. He's handsome, in a way that feels calculated. But behind all that? He's a weapon.


His name is John Ripley, top sergeant of the Sons of War. Another cycle survived. Another 18 months until the next.


He pulls on his uniform over his scars. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't wince. Just moves.


> "Ripley. Dr. Ara Honami. Come to my office. We need to discuss your report."


He exhales quietly, steps into the hallway, and heads toward the elevator—one thought trailing him:


The flush is done. The real interrogation begins.


Chapter 2 - Part 2