Noren was not a solitary island but an archipelago, a scattering of fourteen main landmasses, each carved by sea and wind yet bound together beneath one name.
Though the world whispered of two islands—because only two were home to human life—the others held secrets, realms left wild and uninhabited by human feet, save for rare and cautious excursions.
Those twelve islands formed a vigilant shield around the two inhabited hearts, a living barrier against intrusion.
Beyond them stretched the whispered threat of the Vertibes, clan and caste of aura specialists barred from setting foot but capable of striking from shadowed distance.
The twelve islands took the brunt of these unseen assaults like sentinels enduring ceaseless storms, their trees bending beneath latent pressure, while the two human islands at the center lingered protected beneath their canopy of vigilance.
Yet the archipelago was even vaster, speckled with countless smaller islets—some barely holding a hundred souls, others sheltering a thousand at most.
One such islet, apart from the crowded sprawl and chiefly unknown, bore the name YangPass.
YangPass was no sprawling city, no fortress of wealth.
It was a mere cluster of clean, simple dwellings, islands within islands, chosen by Adric — the keeper of order in the shadows — as the place Malric would call home and fortress of design.
The tiny island could sustain only a hundred souls, humans or Sturtles alike.
Among the new arrivals to YangPass was Mr. Jerry, escorted quietly off an economy boat, the salt wind unfamiliar and sharp against skin no longer accustomed to honest labor or poverty.
The island was stark and stripped of lushness—trees stood sparingly, one solitary sentinel splayed outside each house like humble flags of containment.
The houses themselves were merely practical, modern yet small, box-shaped and white, the bare minimum of habitation.
The hospital gleamed whitely, sterile and imposing; a playground waited empty beneath the still sky.
Nothing but ocean circled the island's jagged shores, water stretching open and endless.
On the horizon hovered another island, distant and blurry, visible only to eyes striving hard to perceive beyond certainty.
Along with Mr. Jerry, ninety humans and ten Sturtles arrived together—the latter distinct in form and fate.
Sturtles—creatures of dense, ebony flesh, faces protruding in unnatural lines, hair thick and trailing across every surface of their bodies, jaws jutting forward in sharp biological testament.
They bore the burden of relentless racism in Neron as a whole , though spoiler alert they won't face racism in YangPass atleast due to Malric rules.
This gathering was a congregation of desperation.
Voices, sharp and raw from months spent clinging to hope, rose and fractured the thin afternoon air.
"I came here cause my debts chased me."
"I lost everything to the gambling dens."
"I need money. My children need a future I can't give them."
Among the mass, the population stood roughly measured: fifty grown humans hollowed with worry, thirty infants whose cries barely filled a fleeting year, fifteen Sturtle adults silent beneath their own burdens, and five newborn Sturtle infants, fragile and unknown.
Mr. Jerry, born versed in the comfort of wealth within Commonwealth territories, recoiled inwardly from this chorus of grievances.
How easily annoyed he was, now trapped among these voices of hardship—the loud, desperate clamors of those for whom money was survival.
They assembled before a stage—functional, elemental, and silent, formed from stout wood and steel.
Beyond that stage, hidden from eyes too eager to question, stood Malric and Adric—architect and executor of this strange social experiment.
Malric's eyes studied the crowd, the surge of unknown futures behind each gaze.
He turned to Adric, voice steady. "The rules of this island are set. I will announce them publicly now. None outside these shores may ever learn of them. You should leave before I begin."
Adric shrugged but complied. "Expected from you. For the world's order, as usual. Farewell."
Alone among the muted whispers, Malric ascended to the stage.
"Greetings," his voice rang clear through the suspended air. "I claim ownership of this place. I welcome each of you. Follow the simple rules and remain diligent in your assigned tasks. After sixteen to seventeen years, you will be free to leave, bearing millions of Franz with you. The food is simple. The lifestyle, modest. Survive here well."
Murmurs slithered through the crowd.
Faces bore the mask of acceptance, yet thoughts screamed apart.
Is this all!? What is his aim?
Each infant was assigned—distributed—to one or more adults, told whispered lies to become family.
Strange parents, strangers who built shapes of home.
The children, barely a month old, woven into these roles without memory, without past to tether them.
Among these chosen, Reinhard HayGram and Elizabeth found their places under the custody of Mr. Jerry.
Elizabeth, the eldest of the children, was no more than two years of counting suns.
One day passed.
Time, relentless and blind, swept forward in silent tides.
Three years later—Reinhard was alone in a room devoid of toys, for none existed here nor indeed any concept of play.
His world was small and still.
He rolled over the thin mattress, exploring textures thrown by his fingers—his thick white curls, curling and recurling like the pale smoke of distant fires, his clothes stretched loosely, folds becoming shapes under his whims.
These fragile moments were his sole joy.
Then his mother returned home, a shimmer of warmth in her voice.
"Welcome back, Mother," he smiled through lips made shy by habit.
"Hello, son," she replied "What would you like for your dinner?"
"Hodipe ton," came the reply—words learned by compulsion, echoed without full meaning.
After hours, while the fire of cooking kindled slow in the small kitchen, Reinhard's curiosity loosened its chains.
He came forth, questions quiet yet insistent.
"Why is the sky blue? And where does the sun travel at night?"
She answered, voice low and uncertain, "I do not know."
His next query edged hesitantly forward.
"Where do babies come from?"
Again, "I do not know."
A third: "Where am I when I dream?"
Her face hardened momentarily, eyes casting cold shadows. "You are not allowed to ask 'Why'."
He said softly, "Why?"
"No," her fierce gaze commanded. "Not allowed."
Time pressed again.
But once more, Reinhard's thought found purchase, "Can I touch the rainbow?"
Her hand struck him sharply, the sting sharp enough to rend his young skin and shatter the quiet.
"No child may ask questions," she cried. "Questions breed chaos."
For the first time, Reinhard tasted pain's full gravity.
He sank, tears streaming without sound onto the floor's cold certainty.
For her part, his mother thought in whispers of dread.
His mind absorbs doubt from whispered words spoken too close—those between me and Jerry. We must erase this before it seeds.
Days folded into weeks, rhythms dull and harsh.
Reinhard learned to cage his questions, imprison the nagging urges beneath routine and silence.
He ceased to ask—questions growing into a forgotten hunger, aimed neither at others nor at himself.
Seasons slipped by, each indistinguishable from the last.
Until one morning, she approached with stern grace.
"Reinhard," she said softly, "you will do something each day. We shall call it 'prayer.' Each morning, you shall say, 'I, Reinhard, will unite all species in 15 years and 8 months.' With each passing month, reduce the count. The years, too."
Reinhard after a long time said "For what!?".Her mom shouted with anger and said "You are not allowed to question*
Reinhard never questioned about this question again .
He repeated after her, voice small and obedient, "I, Reinhard, will unite all species in 15 years and 8 months."
Years blurred, days swallowed, and the count marched onward.
One afternoon, he woke late, slipped into the dim garden, and climbed the branches of a tree whose leaves whispered secrets to the wind.
He spoke aloud, his voice carrying into the open air, "I, Reinhard, will unite all species in 15 years and 6 months."
From his perch, he saw shadows moving—small humans like him, he was not introduce to the word children .
He longed to touch and speak to them—to move with them in some unknowable harmony.
In his mind lay the thirst for a word not yet told to him: "play"—the dance of childhood's innocence denied him since cradle.
Evening descended cold.
Jerry returned home, weary and worn.
Reinhard greeted him with a brightness that seemed to outshine years of shadow.
"Father, welcome home," he said, voice warm with expectation.
Jerry smiled back. "How are you, son?"
"Father, those small humans—might I be close to them? Might I join their kin?"
"Oh, one day soon," Jerry promised, voice rich with deferred hopes.
Reinhard's grin stretched wide, eyes glittering as the night folded around their shared shadows.
Jerry continued, "When you turn six, you will join many children of your kind inside a place called 'School.'"
The promise blossomed, filling the boy with bright longing.
Time flowed on.
Reinhard's small joys—his hair, his clothes, the soft bed he rolled across—gave way to dreams larger than his years.
Each day, the rhythms repeated like the slow beat of some ancient drum, vibrating beneath his bones, shaping the future he dared to imagine.
Time passed, indifferent—passed and passed.