The storm outside the Citadel Headquarters was already fierce when the emergency summons echoed across
the upper levels. Lightning split the sky like a jagged blade, illuminating the towering structure that housed the Command Council of the Prime National Protectorate—the most secure enforcement body in the entire Federation. Yet even the thunder seemed small compared to the tension brewing inside the fortified chamber where the h
It was the kind of meeting that only occurred when something unimaginable had happened—something capable of shaking the foundation of the nation. The walls themselves seemed to pulse with the faint hum of defense grids, ready to seal the room at the slightest sign of threat. Every advisor present wore the same expression: tight shoulders, stiff postur
At the center of the room stood the Commander-General himself—Vorian Drayke, known across the Protectorate as a man of unwavering resolve, a leader who seldom feared anything. Yet tonight, even he carried an air of gravity that unsettled the council members who had served beside him for years.
He didn’t waste time with ceremonial greetings.
“Thank you for reporting so quickly,” Drayke began, his voice resonant and steady. “We face a situation that demands immediate attention and absolute secrecy.”
A holographic screen flickered to life beside him, showing encrypted feeds, distorted visuals, and aerial scans of a remote region in the northern ranges. No one spoke; no one dared interrupt.
“Three hours ago,” Drayke continued, “we lost communication with Sentinel Unit Theta-9.”
Collective silence swept the room.
Theta-9 was one of the Protectorate’s most elite reconnaissance teams—trained for deep-field infiltration, environmental hazard zones, and emergency rescue operations. Their disappearance was not merely troubling; it was unheard of.
An advisor leaned forward hesitantly. “Did they send any distress signal?”
Drayke nodded once. “A single burst. Black-tier.”
Gasps broke out, though quickly stifled. A black-tier distress code was the rarest classification—triggered only when the threat was beyond containment or comprehension.
One councilor whispered, “If Theta-9 used that code… then whatever they encountered isn’t just dangerous—”
“It’s catastrophic,” another finished.
The Commander-General let the weight of that word sink into the minds of everyone present.
But then came something even more shocking.
Before anyone could gather themselves enough to ask another question, Drayke delivered the announcement none of them were prepared for.
“I am reinstating General Torre to command.”
The room erupted—softly, but unmistakably—with startled murmurs. Several advisors exchanged quick, alarmed glances; others simply froze in disbelief.
General Ariston Torre.
A name that hadn’t been spoken in the Citadel for almost four years.
He had once been Chief of the Prime National Protectorate—feared by enemies, respected by allies, and admired even by some who had never met him. Under his command, the Protectorate had faced threats that defied logic, strategies that pushed the limits of human endurance, and missions that bordered on impossible.
But after an operation gone horribly wrong—one whose full details only a handful of officials knew—Torre resigned, requesting indefinite leave. He vanished from the public sphere, taking refuge in isolation far from the barracks and the political scrutiny that had followed the failed mission.
And now, he was being summoned back.
Drayke lifted a hand, silencing the quietly rising tension.
“I understand your concerns,” he said. “But we need someone with Torre’s expertise. No one else has faced anything close to the phenomenon we are dealing with.”
Advisor Rellin swallowed. “Sir… are we certain he will return?”
Drayke’s gaze darkened, as though he already knew the answer. “He will.”
The hologram beside him shifted, displaying a new image: a pulsing anomaly located deep within the mountains. It seemed almost alive—shimmering, expanding, and folding into itself like an unstable vortex. It radiated strange bursts of energy unlike anything recorded before.
“For months,” Drayke explained, “we monitored unusual signals emerging from this region. At first, we believed it to be geological activity or atmospheric interference. But the spike three days ago changed everything.”
The anomaly pulsed again on the display, casting eerie reflections across the chamber.
Then something else appeared on the table—a physical object.
A thick dossier.
Dark crimson.
Sealed with metallic locks and classified markings.
It was extremely rare to see such a thing in modern operations, where digital encryption replaced nearly all physical documentation. Which meant the information inside was far too dangerous to risk floating within any digital system.
Several advisors leaned away from it instinctively.
Others stared at it long enough for dread to creep into their expressions.
“This,” Drayke said quietly, placing his hand atop the sealed document, “is the second file regarding the operation. One that none of you have clearance to open.”
A chill trickled down the room like a draft of cold air.
No one dared ask why.
But the silence begged the question: What secret could possibly require such extreme containment? What threat demanded both Torre’s return and a physically sealed dossier?
“Sir,” Advisor Mira said cautiously, “does this contain the reason for Theta-9’s disappearance?”
Drayke shook his head. “No. It contains something far beyond that.”
That answer settled uneasily in the advisors’ minds. Everyone stiffened, feeling the edges of something they could not yet define.
Before further explanations could unfold, the chamber doors slid open with a hydraulic hiss.
A figure stepped into the room.
The conversation died instantly.
General Ariston Torre had arrived.
Even after years of absence, his presence commanded silent respect. He wore a dark coat, heavy from travel, and his hair had grown slightly longer, streaked with silver. But his posture remained solid, his gaze piercing, and every step he took radiated the calm strength of a seasoned leader.
“General Torre,” Drayke greeted, not with formality but with an unmistakable tone of relief.
“Commander,” Torre answered, voice deep and steady as stone. “Your message was… urgent.”
“More than urgent,” Drayke corrected.
Torre surveyed the room—the advisors, the hologram, the sealed dossier. His expression tightened just slightly, hinting at recognition.
“So it’s finally happened,” Torre said quietly.
Drayke nodded.
The advisors exchanged startled glances. Torre’s statement carried weight, suggesting he already suspected something long before the summons reached him.
“General,” one advisor asked, “you know what this is about?”
Torre didn’t answer directly. Instead, he approached the table, stopping beside the crimson dossier.
His hand hovered above it.
And for a moment, even the security grids seemed to hum more softly, as if the room itself held its breath.
“Before I open this,” Torre said, “you must know something.”
Every pair of eyes in the chamber fixed on him.
“What lies in this file is not a report. Not even a warning. It is a revelation—one that alters our understanding of what exists beyond our borders, our knowledge of our own world, and the forces we believed were only myths.”
The room went still.
Completely still.
Torre broke the seal.
The magnetic locks disengaged with a heavy metallic snap—an unsettling sound that felt almost too loud in the quiet hall.
The advisors leaned in.
Torre began to read.
Page by page.
The change in his expression was subtle at first—a tightening of the jaw, a slight narrowing of the eyes. But with each page, the weight on his shoulders seemed to grow heavier, as if the words carried the gravity of truths too large for any single person to bear.
When he reached the final page, he closed the dossier slowly.
Deliberately.
Drayke’s voice cut through the silence. “General… what does it say?”
Torre looked up.
His eyes—so unwavering, so disciplined—now glimmered with a depth of concern that none of them had ever witnessed.
“It says,” Torre began slowly, “that Theta-9 did not simply disappear.”
The hologram pulsed behind him.
“They were absorbed.”
A murmur of disbelief swept the room.
“Absorbed?” Advisor Rellin asked. “By what?”
Torre exhaled. “Not by what. By whom.”
The silence was suffocating.
Drayke stepped forward. “Explain.”
Torre tapped the hologram controls. The anomaly expanded on the visual display, revealing structures—faint outlines at first, then clearer as the resolution sharpened.
“What you thought was an energy phenomenon,” Torre said, “is actually a containment field.”
The room shook—not physically, but emotionally—as understanding dawned.
“A containment field… made by who?” Mira whispered.
Torre paused.
“The file names the creators only as The Architects.”
The advisors froze.
“There is evidence,” Torre continued, “that this containment system has existed for centuries—long before the Federation, long before the Protectorate, long before any of us understood the world as it is today.”
Advisor Rellin trembled. “If they designed this field… then the anomaly—”
“—is not expanding,” Torre finished. “It’s weakening.”
A dreadful realization rippled through the room.
The anomaly wasn’t growing.
It was failing.
And whatever it was built to contain… was no longer fully contained.
Drayke steadied himself. “General, is there any indication of what’s inside?”
Torre closed the dossier.
His voice was calm. Too calm.
“It is described only as an entity capable of restructuring its environment. Adaptive. Intelligent. Restless.”
The hologram pulsed again—brighter, almost reacting to his words.
Advisor Mira stepped back, horror in her face. “Are you saying this… this force can influence matter itself?”
Torre nodded once.
“And if the containment continues to fail,” Drayke said quietly, “it will reach populated territories.”
“Yes,” Torre replied. “And once it does, we cannot predict how it might reshape the world around it—or us.”
The room fell into a chilling silence.
Finally, Torre lifted his gaze, meeting every advisor’s eyes.
“That,” he said, “is the secret of the second file.”
The air in the chamber felt heavier than ever.
Drayke straightened, his expression transforming from dread to determination. “General Torre will take command of Operation Sentinel Requiem. Our goal: reinforce the containment field before total collapse.”
He turned to Torre. “How long do we have?”
Torre answered without hesitation.
“Less than ten days.”
A wave of shock hit the room.
“But,” Torre added, “the sooner we move, the better our chances.”
Drayke nodded. “Then we begin immediately.”
Torre closed the dossier and tucked it under his arm.
As the storm outside intensified, lightning flashing through the chamber’s reinforced windows, he turned toward the exit.
“Prepare the strike team. At dawn, we enter the northern range.”
His voice carried the weight of fate itself.
“And what we find there,” he added, “may not only determine our survival—”
He glanced back at the anomaly pulsing on the display.
“—but the survival of everything we believe we understand.”
And with that, the sealed dossier—the secret no longer secret—left the chamber under Torre’s arm.
The storm roared louder.
And the real battle had only just begun.