The boy awoke with a gasp—
drenched in sweat, heart pounding like a war drum.
The dream still clung to him like smoke.
No… not a dream.
A memory. A shadow from a time before he could even walk.
He sat there, trembling in the dark, breaths ragged and sharp.
The same nightmare. Again.
The same voice…
His father's.
"Santiago Jaskulski… I'm sorry I won't see you grow up."
Tears welled in his eyes, but he didn't let them fall.
Not this time.
He threw off the blanket, feet hitting the cold floor.
And without hesitation—he ran.
Down the corridor of the shelter, past sleeping survivors and flickering lights,
until he reached it:
The Totem of Kils
—God of Light, Guardian of Humanity, and Protector of All Life.
It stood tall and silent, carved from crystalized stone that shimmered with a soft, golden glow.
Even in the deepest dark, it shone.
Santiago dropped to his knees before it, chest heaving.
His hand pressed to the stone.
His voice a whisper.
"Kils… protect them. Protect us all.
And then… silence.
But this time, it felt different.
Not empty—
but listening.
The silence was deep.
Heavy.
Alive.
And then—
the sirens wailed.
A sharp, rising howl tore through the shelter, echoing off the steel walls.
Emergency lights flared to life—red. Flashing. Warning.
Santiago's eyes snapped open, wide with dread.
Then—
A scream.
One. Then another.
Cut short.
And then—nothing.
Silence again.
But not the same silence as before.
This one was wrong.
This one was afraid.
The boy staggered back from the totem, breath caught in his throat.
And then—
the ground trembled.
A low, rumbling growl, like something massive had awoken beneath them.
Dust fell from the ceiling. Lights flickered.
Somewhere far above, something cracked.
The earth shook again—harder.
And Santiago knew:
The Void had returned.
The tremors slowed… but didn't stop.
Santiago turned and ran down the corridor, dodging panicked survivors and flickering lights until he reached the observation room.
He pushed the heavy door open and rushed to the window.
And there it was—
The Wall.
One of the great Legendary Walls, forged in the early days of the Resistance.
Tall as a mountain, wide as a city, etched with the runes of old.
Said to be unbreakable.
And yet—
there, on the north side… a bend.
A deep, gnarled dent in the iron and stone.
As if something had struck it with impossible force.
Not enough to break it…
But enough to mark it.
Santiago stared in awe and horror.
"…It stood," he whispered.
And despite everything—he sighed.
The Wall held.
That… was good.
For now.
Santiago leaned closer to the glass, eyes locked on the bent section of the Legendary Wall.
The air still shimmered with heat from the impact.
And then—the doors in the wall opened.
Massive steel gates slid apart with a low, grinding roar.
And from within, they emerged.
AOLAL.
The Army of Light and Life.
Not a myth.
Not angels.
But real—the Republic's elite force.
Their white robes billowed behind them, armor gleaming beneath.
Helmets off, revealing their signature white hair—
each strand a symbol of their rank, their gene-line, their vow.
Disciplined. Unshaken.
They moved like one.
Weapons in hand—some glowing with light-tech, others mechanical and brutal.
Their presence alone calmed the trembling ground.
Santiago exhaled.
They weren't here to save the people inside the Wall.
They were going to war outside of it.
He watched in silence as the first wave formed ranks,
marching through the gate into the darkness beyond.
Where the Void waited.
As the last squad of AOLAL passed through the gate,
Santiago's eyes lingered on one of them.
A tall figure near the rear of the formation—moving just a little slower than the rest.
At first, everything looked normal.
White robe. White hair. Mask half-raised over the mouth.
But then…
He turned his head. Just slightly.
The light hit his face—
and Santiago saw it.
A smear of red.
Right at the corner of his lips.
Not paint.
Not warpaint.
Blood.
Santiago blinked.
Stared.
The figure turned away—back in line, perfect posture, marching forward.
He rubbed his eyes. Looked again.
Gone.
"…Bad light," he muttered.
"Just the light. Or… a trick from the nightmare."
But the feeling wouldn't leave.
That cold, twisting feeling in his gut.
Something about that soldier had felt… wrong.
Santiago was still staring at the gate, mind spinning,
when—
a hand touched his shoulder.
He jumped back, heart nearly leaping out of his chest.
He spun around—ready to run or swing.
But then he saw them.
John Gold and Johnna Colbry.
His best friends since the early days of the shelter.
Bruised, tired, dusty—but alive.
And smiling, barely.
John leaned on the doorframe, trying to catch his breath.
Johnna, her braid half undone and uniform jacket crooked, spoke first.
Her voice was weak—but urgent.
"Santi… what are you doing here?"
He didn't answer.
"We have to go."
She looked behind her, then back to him.
"Metal Master needs us. I heard he found something."
That name hit hard.
Metal Master—the shelter's tech genius.
Tinkerer of lost relics. Finder of secrets.
Santiago nodded, pushing the image of the bloody soldier to the back of his mind.
"Okay," he said. "Lead the way."
And together, they ran.
They followed the winding corridors, deeper into the shelter, where the lights flickered more and the hum of machines grew louder.
Finally, they reached a large chamber filled with wires, old tech, and glowing fragments of things no one really understood anymore.
The Workshop.
The domain of Metal Master.
He was hunched over a table, surrounded by screens, sparks, and tools.
His mechanical arm clicked as he scribbled notes with a stylus and adjusted some strange, pulsing artifact.
Before him lay a book—old, brittle, humming with a faint inner light.
Then he looked up.
"Hey there, Santiago… John. Johnna."
His voice was warm, but quick—focused.
He pushed his goggles up and grinned.
His eyes had the wild look of someone who hadn't slept in far too long.
"I need you."
He tapped the open book gently.
"I found this in the lower library. It's written in the lost language of the First Republic. I'm close to breaking it, but I'm missing one piece…"
He pointed toward the far hallway.
"There should be a translator hidden in the library vault. It's a thin glass slate—marked with the old Republic seal.
Looks like nothing… but it'll light up if you say the word:
'Solis.'"
He gave a tired, hopeful smile.
**"Go. Fast.
This book?
It doesn't just talk about the past…"
He lowered his voice.
"It might know what's coming."
They didn't waste a second.
Santiago, John, and Johnna took off running, their boots pounding against the steel floor as the sirens behind them faded into the distance.
The path to the vault was dark and half-collapsed in places—
older than the rest of the shelter.
Built before most of them were even born.
"You really think it's still there?" John huffed as he dodged a sparking cable.
"It better be," Santiago said. "Or Metal Master's gonna lose what's left of his mind."
"He already has," Johnna added with a smirk.
"Did you see his coffee? It was glowing."
They laughed—just a little.
Even here, racing toward the unknown, they found space to breathe.
They reached the old library wing, where the air was thick with dust and age.
Collapsed shelves. Broken screens. Vines curling through cracks in the wall.
And there—at the far end—stood a sealed door, etched with the faded emblem of the First Republic.
The Vault.
Santiago stepped forward.
Took a breath.
Then whispered the word:
"Solis."
The emblem lit up.
The door clicked.
And then—it opened.
The vault hissed open.
Santiago stepped in first—then stopped cold.
Ash.
Nothing else.
Just piles of soft, grey ash… drifting in the air like it had been burned only moments ago.
The three of them looked around, stunned.
"Where's the translator?" John whispered.
Santiago knelt, sifting through the powder. Nothing.
"It's gone," Johnna said, voice tight.
"No…" Santiago stood, fists clenched. "We were so close."
But something about the room felt wrong.
Like the ash had once been… alive.
John turned to the others.
"We should go. Now."
They didn't argue.
They ran.
Back through the tunnels, retracing their steps.
The halls were darker now—quieter.
Too quiet.
When they reached the workshop—
They froze.
Metal Master was slumped over the table.
At first, it looked like he was asleep.
Then they saw the blood.
Everywhere.
Dripping from the table.
Pooled beneath him.
His mechanical arm twitched, sparks sputtering.
His eyes—wide open, frozen in horror.
His body was pale.
Drained.
"Oh no… no no no—" Johnna choked.
Santiago took a shaky step forward, his voice barely a whisper:
"Something's wrong.
It wasn't the translator they wanted…
It was him."
Santiago's heart pounded as he knelt beside Metal Master, the scene sinking into his bones like ice.
He reached out, brushing the bloodstained jacket.
His fingers brushed something soft.
White hair.
He froze.
It was a single strand, caught in the fabric.
White.
Not Metal Master's—his hair was graying, but it wasn't this pale.
This strand shone like moonlight.
John's breath caught.
"What is that?"
He reached forward, but Santiago shook his head.
"We need to get out of here."
But Santiago couldn't move.
He picked up the strand carefully, turning it in his fingers.
It felt too alive. Too strange.
Suddenly, a realization hit him like a bolt to the chest.
Santiago held the strand of white hair in his hand, staring at it in disbelief.
It wasn't just any hair. It was AOLAL hair.
Pure white, like the soldiers.
The same as the one he had seen on the battlefield earlier.
Johnna looked over his shoulder.
"What… what are you thinking, Santi?"
His mind raced.
This wasn't right.
He turned, staring at the walls around them—
the walls that had been built with promises of protection.
But now… they felt like traps.
The AOLAL had always been here.
Ever since the war began.
They didn't just appear.
They'd been embedded, waiting.
How much did they control?
How much had they manipulated?
Suddenly, Santiago realized.
The war with the Void wasn't just an external threat.
The real battle was inside—against the very forces they had trusted.
"They were here the whole time."
Santiago's voice cracked, the weight of it settling like stone in his chest.
"They've been here from the start, playing us."
Johnna's eyes widened.
"No way… you think they…"
She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.
"They're working both sides."