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The Movie Star
The car rolled smoothly through the heart of Lagos, the glint of the skylines visible on the horizon, framed by the soft glow of the evening sun. Arman Diallo, sitting in the back of a sleek black SUV, stared out the window, lost in thought. The world outside had changed. The music, the laughter, the hustle, it was all different now. His fame had spread like wildfire.
It had been a long road from a dusty village in Mali to the glimmering red carpets of the world's biggest film festivals. He had come from nothing, but now, Arman was something more than just a man. He was a symbol of hope, a titan of African cinema. He had built his empire on grit, talent, and a refusal to be overlooked. His face now adorned every billboard in Paris, Los Angeles, Singapore, and beyond. Yet, it had never been the fame that drove him. It had always been helping others.
His true calling has always been to help elevate those around him. He was deeply committed to humanitarian efforts. His reputation is shaped by his philanthropy, helping to fund education, infrastructure, and hospitals across the African continent.
The car slowed as it neared the venue, an elegant theater draped in crimson banners, the scene of tonight's gala. The paparazzi were already swarming outside, their cameras flashing like an army of lightning. Arman straightened his suit, a sleek black tuxedo cut to perfection, and glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. He looked every bit the part, the epitome of the star he had become.
The car door opened, and a wave of sound hit him: the flashing of cameras, the shouts of fans, and the low hum of excitement in the crowd. Arman stepped out, his polished shoes hitting the pavement, and for a moment, he took it all in, the grandiosity of it all, the unrelenting attention, the cameras that seemed to capture his every move.
A sharp intake of breath, then a confident smile, a wave, and Arman Diallo was once again the star of the moment, striding down the red carpet with the grace of a man who had been born to walk it. His fans cheered as he passed, but something gnawed at him.
There was something in the air today which unsettled him, he couldn't put his finger on it no matter what he did, but there were dark omens all around.
"Arman, over here!" a reporter shouted, his voice barely audible over the crowd. He turned toward the camera, flashing a smile, ignoring for now the weight on his mind.
His manager approached, "We've got interviews lined up," she said, trying to steer him toward the press area. He blinked, uncertain if he had read it right as there was a blue script: [CANDIDATE IDENTIFIED: Potential – Very High]
Before he could make sense of it, a flash of light enveloped him, the red carpet, the flashing cameras, the screaming fans all of it fading into the void. And then, silence. The world had changed.
-
The School counselor
The Pine Ridge Reservation was a small patch of land in South Dakota where the winds carrying whispers of a thousand stories passed down through generations. Takoda Blackfeather sat on the steps of the schoolhouse, gazing out at the prairie. The sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows over the earth, painting the landscape with hues of amber and violet.
Takoda, a man of quiet strength, wore his years with grace, his dark hair streaked with silver tied back in a braid, and his face, weathered by time and wisdom. His traditional garments, beaded necklaces, fur-lined boots blended seamlessly with the modern attire he wore when meeting with students in the high school. A simple leather vest, a symbol of his heritage, rested atop his broad shoulders.
As a school counselor, Takoda was a figure of solace and understanding. For many of the youth at the school, the world outside the reservation felt distant, sometimes even hostile. They lived in two worlds their Lakota heritage and the ever-encroaching modern world that seemed to offer little understanding of their struggles.
Takoda had grown up in this same conflict. Raised by elders who had long served as spiritual guides, he had learned the sacred ways of his people, the teachings of the Great Spirit, the wisdom of the ancestors, the importance of balance and harmony.
However he had also been taught the ways of the modern world, the science of psychology, the art of communication, and the power of listening without judgment. His dual role as both spiritual leader and counselor gave him a unique perspective.
But on that particular afternoon, as he sat on the steps, everything changed. It started with the air growing unnaturally still. The usual hum of cicadas and the soft rustle of the wind through the tall grasses of the reservation fell into an eerie silence. Takoda felt it before he could even name it, a strange, unsettling pressure in the atmosphere. It was as though the world itself was holding its breath.
His eyes narrowed as he turned his head, scanning the horizon, searching for some sign. He didn't have to wait long. A blue box appeared before his eyes; [WORLD INTEGRATION IN PROGRESS]
He stumbled to his feet, his heart thundering in his chest. This was not how it was supposed to happen. Takoda had heard the stories, whispers of this moment, but he had always assumed it would come in time long from now.
Takoda could hear the shouts and footsteps from inside the school as chaos spilled into the hallway. The System had arrived with all the subtlety of a storm, and his students, his children were terrified.
His training as a counselor kicked in this was not the time to panic. The students needed him. They needed someone to keep them grounded, to make sense of what was happening.
Sadly though the system had other goals as another message appeared for him personally; [CANDIDATE IDENTIFIED: Potential – Very High]
The glow of the system filled the yard as Takoda felt his body pulled, like a puppet on a string, drawn into the unnatural force of the System. His knees buckled. His vision blurred as he reached out for the school, but the pull was too strong, too swift. His arms failed to catch anything, and before he could say another word, the world was gone.
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The Lawyer
Tehran, Iran, a city of contrasts, stood under the weight of history. The ancient Persian monuments whispered the stories of emperors and scholars, while the buzz of modern life hummed through the crowded streets. Faiz Sharif stood in front of his office window, gazing out over the sprawling city as the evening sun cast long shadows across the skyline. A quiet, thoughtful man, Faiz rarely showed his emotions, but today, the tension in his jaw was unmistakable.
The weight of the world seemed to rest on his shoulders. As a prominent international lawyer, Faiz's life was defined by the relentless pursuit of justice: for his country, his people, and his legacy. Born into a family with deep political ties, Faiz's lineage traced back to the ancient kings of Persia.
The most prominent of ancient kings he always looked up to Cyrus the Great whose ideals shaped him ever since he was a child. How Cyrus freed peoples, respected their cultures, and built an empire based on peace and mutual respect. It was the belief in those ideals that shaped Faiz's every move in life.
But now the world was far from those ideals, there was only the tyranny of the powerful, the avarice of the cruel. Faiz felt a surge of anger building within him just thinking about it. The West particularly the United States and Israel had been merciless in their treatment of Iran, continuously pushing to undermine his country's sovereignty with sanctions, threats, and economic pressure.
The world watched as Iran's people suffered, and Faiz knew that the fight to protect his nation's rights was no longer just a matter of policy or diplomacy; it was a matter of survival. And everyday now that chance of survival got slimmer and slimmer as the saber rattling continued.
As he leaned back in his chair, a sharp knock on the door broke through his reverie. "Come in," Faiz called out, his voice calm but carrying an edge of fatigue. The door opened, and his assistant, Leila, stepped in quickly. She was young, sharp, and had been with him through the hardest cases. Today, her face was pale, her eyes wide with shock.
"What is it, Leila?" he asked, a quiet tension in his voice.
Leila's lips trembled slightly as she spoke, her voice heavy with disbelief. "The United States… they've made their decision. They've formally declared war on Iran."
Faiz's heart clenched, but his mind remained sharp, focused on the task at hand. He stood up slowly, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the room. He turned toward the window, staring out at the sprawling city beneath him. Tehran, his home, was on the edge of a precipice, the lives of millions were at stake and the stability of the whole region.
Muttering softly to himself, "What was this world without justice?!"
"Faiz…?" Leila's voice cut through his thoughts. He turned back to face her, his expression calm but hardening with resolve.
"Get me the legal documents from the UN Security Council. Now," Faiz said, his voice low but controlled. "We need to prepare for every possibility. If war is coming, we must ensure the world sees who started it. We'll make sure the world knows this is an unjust act, a violation of international law. We won't let them make us a scapegoat."
Leila hesitated for a moment, her hands shaking slightly as she nodded. "Of course. I'll get them right away."
But before she could leave, Faiz got a message; [WORLD INTEGRATION IN PROGRESS]
Faiz's heart skipped a beat as the cryptic message blazed across the screen. Before he could even react, the air in the room seemed to grow thicker, the space around him warping, distorting. He could feel the pull of something beyond his understanding, as if the very fabric of the world was beginning to unravel.
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The Author
Li Wei sat cross-legged on the worn wooden floor of his apartment, his laptop glowing in front of him. The soft hum of the air conditioner and the distant noise of the busy Beijing streets were the only sounds that filled the small, cluttered room. He'd been here for hours, fingers tapping rhythmically on the keys as he wrote the latest chapter of his popular webnovel. The words seemed to flow effortlessly, each sentence crafted with care as if they held the weight of generations of wisdom. His readers, thousands of them, hung on his every word.
Li Wei was an unlikely figure in the modern world of online literature. In an age of flashy trends and short attention spans, his work was deeply philosophical, deeply rooted in the principles of
Confucius. His webnovels, though filled with fantasy and adventure, always carried undertones of virtue, ethics, family, and the delicate balance between personal ambition and the greater good.
With the pen name "Shengli" (胜利, meaning "Victory"), Li Wei had amassed a devoted following, young readers who were searching for more than just mindless entertainment. They found something in his stories that resonated with them a deeper purpose, a sense of moral clarity in a world that often seemed lost.
"A gentleman strives for self-cultivation, in both knowledge and virtue," he'd written.
As Li Wei's fingers paused above the keys, he stared out the window. The skyline of Beijing, a mix of ancient architecture and modern skyscrapers, was a perfect metaphor for his life. The old and the new, the wisdom of the past and the demands of the present, coexisted in harmony.
Suddenly, the most strangest of pop up appeared; [WORLD INTEGRATION IN PROGRESS]
Trying to shoo it away, Li Wei thought he was too exhausted after being up so late and drinking way too much caffeine. Then his phone buzzed. Li Wei glanced at the screen. It was a message from his assistant, Zhang, a young, enthusiastic editor who had been working with him for years.
Zhang: Li Wei, you need to look at this. There's something urgent happening. The system just activated.
Li Wei raised an eyebrow. System? The word was familiar to any online web dwelling novel enthusiasts, but what on earth was it doing in real life. Before he could start panicking as any sane person would be since this entitled a lot of on coming death another prompt appeared.
[CANDIDATE IDENTIFIED: Potential – Very High]
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The Banker
The night sky above the North Atlantic stretched endless and black, flecked with faint starlight. Inside a sleek private jet cutting through the clouds, Klaus Reinhardt sat in his leather seat, a glass of brandy untouched beside him. The soft hum of the engines had always been a comfort, a sound that meant control, stability, wealth.
But tonight, that hum began to falter. A subtle tremor ran through the cabin. The lights flickered once, then steadied. Klaus glanced up from his laptop, irritation creasing his brow. He was in the middle of reviewing a deal, another acquisition, another billion-dollar merger that would further cement his position as one of Europe's most powerful financiers.
To the world, Klaus Reinhardt was the king of modern banking, a titan who had built an empire across continents. From Frankfurt to Zurich, London to Dubai, his signature was carved into the foundations of global markets. His influence stretched further than most governments dared to admit.
He did come from old money as his family could trace itself back to the times of the old European kings and queens, but his father squandered most of their family wealth and he alone had to rebuild it and he made it into something much greater and grander than ever before.
But for all his power, he was alone. The pilot's voice crackled through the intercom, tense and uncertain. "Sir… we're experiencing some engine malfunction. We're attempting to reroute, but—"
The words were cut off by a sudden, violent jolt. The plane shuddered, dipping sharply. The brandy glass toppled, spilling amber liquid across the pristine carpet. Klaus's heart slammed against his ribs as he gripped the armrest, the sound of engines sputtering growing louder.
"What's happening?" he barked toward the cockpit. The only other person was the flight attendant who was panicking and weeping. "Women," he thought with a shake of his head.
No answer came only static and the rising whine of alarms. Outside the windows, the serene clouds had turned into a dizzying blur of darkness and rain. The plane was losing altitude fast. For a moment, panic clawed at him. But then, a strange calm began to settle in a numb, hollow quiet that came not from courage, but from the sudden, painful realization of truth.
"So this is how it ends."
He exhaled slowly, eyes drifting to the city lights faintly visible far below. His mind flickered through decades of success, the boardrooms, the applause, the headlines praising his financial genius. The yachts. The parties. The hollow laughter of men who worshiped him by day and cursed his name by night.
He had conquered the world of numbers, forged empires out of money, but what legacy did that leave? His name would live in business journals, perhaps on a skyscraper or two but would anyone remember the man? Would anyone care?
He thought of his ancestors, proud, noble men from Bavaria who once served kings. Somewhere in that ancient line was a story, a legend his grandfather had once told him by the fireside when he was a child.
Charlemagne. The great unifier. The emperor who turned chaos into order. A man who built more than wealth, he built civilization.
"And me?" Klaus thought bitterly. "I built nothing but accounts and debts."
The plane jolted again, throwing him from his thoughts. The alarms screamed, the cabin lights flickered wildly. The stewardess was shouting something, but her words were lost in the chaos. Papers, champagne bottles, and devices went flying as the nose of the jet began to drop.
Klaus closed his eyes. The strange calm returned — this time, total. Maybe this was what he deserved. Maybe this was what all kings of gold and greed eventually faced: the collapse of their own empire.
And then the world seemed to slow. [WORLD INTEGRATION IN PROGRESS]
He blinked, stunned, heart pounding. The blue letters hovered in front of him, shimmering like divine script. "W-what is this?" he whispered.
The air shifted, and a presence filled the cabin vast, immense, impossible. At the far end of the jet, reality itself seemed to ripple open. A figure of starlight and shadow emerged, its form both blinding and indistinct. The System Admin. "Come," it whispered as he was whisked away.
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The Hacker
The rain came in sheets, turning Bangalore's neon into rivers of color that ran down glass and concrete. On the twenty-seventh floor of a lavish apartment, a single window at the penthouse glowed blue in the storm inside was Arjun Desai's private war room. Monitors stacked like a small skyline, consoles muttering with lines of code. Empty tea cups steamed in the corner. Outside, the city never slept; here, neither did he.
Arjun was brilliant and restless. In classrooms he had been called arrogant; in server rooms they called him a magician. Governments sought his talent. Corporations offered fortunes. Hacktivists called him a liberator. He had a reputation for bleeding edge work and a conscience that flinched at collateral damage. Like the warrior he'd been named for in stories, he stood before his own battlefield not of steel and blood, but of code, policy, and human lives.
The room smelled faintly of incense. A brass bell sat beside his keyboard. On the apartment's small altar a framed photo of his grandmother, a temple priestess from a coastal village leaned into a candle's steady flame. She'd raised him when his parents left for work and sadly passed away in an accident.
Arjun's fingers moved like the strings of a veena, precise, practiced, almost musical. He had slipped past municipal firewalls, danced around corporate IDS traps, and now his cursor hovered at the threshold of the most secure databases in the subcontinent: government black archives, encrypted financial ledgers, private AI cores.
For months he'd bled through layers of cryptography and human error, a ghost in networks that bristled with defenses. Tonight was meant to be the crown of his work; the proof that his intelligence could touch the core of systems no one else could.
He had already ghosted past biometric locks and behavioral heuristics; his fingers moved like the practiced hands of an archer, each keystroke a taut string. This was it, he breathed in, tasted the rain on the glass and thought of the repercussions of the strike he was about to perform.
This wasn't a petty leak or a one‑off expose. This was an act of structural surgery, a strike aimed at the rot beneath a continent's institutions. This would have massive reverberations, but he thought of the village clinic his grandmother had tended, of the nights she braided his hair and advised him, "Power without heart is only noise."
The countdown on his terminal ticked. He'd crafted fallback routines: if law enforcement traced him, the initial dump would be firewalled through a rotating swarm of bots and satellite relays; if the AI's handlers tried to scrub evidence, multiple third‑party archival nodes would hard‑pin the Ledger to an intercontinental web of immutable storage. He'd left contingency keys with trusted journalists inside hardware wallets hidden across three countries.
He paused, fingers above the keyboard, feeling the familiar hush that came before a pull. The map of networks, the annotated timelines, the handshakes with sources — all of it was ready. In a softer voice, like a prayer, he touched the photograph on his altar. "For you, Amma," he whispered.
Lines of code unspooled like an arrow's flight, probes, encryptions, forks. The attack vector launched, then braided into the network: a silent ghost unraveling a pattern of corruption. With his work done, he started packing up, he needed to ditch this place if anyone was able to trace him back here.
Just as he was about to step out of the door he was hit with a strange message; [WORLD INTEGRATION IN PROGRESS]
Pausing he did a double take, he was pretty sure he wasn't tripping on mushrooms or other drugs as he liked to keep clean when he was working, so what on earth was this. He thought of his favorite movie, the Matrix and wondered if there was a glitch in the system.
Shrugging his shoulder and locking the door behind him, he figured would find out soon if some white bunny showed up. To which it did in some strange other way; [CANDIDATE IDENTIFIED: Potential – Very High]
With that he was gone from the hallway leaving it quiet and empty.
-
Above the endless expanse of Earth, in the shimmering and ethereal space between dimensions, three figures stood; figures not of flesh, but of pure energy and thought. A great crystalline window stretched before them, an endless vista of the world below, the blue and green planet slowly turning in the vastness of space.
The system administrators and moderators resided in the heart of the Nexus, a place that was neither a physical realm nor a space for time and gravity, but a confluence of streams where the System, in all its omniscient complexity, flowed. Here, the invisible threads of reality were woven and monitored by the highest-ranking entities that managed the flow of worlds and the grand interdimensional web.
The System Administrator, the highest authority among them, stood at the center. It was the one in charge of the integration of the System in this part of the new Universe found.
It being whose presence was unfathomable, its form constantly shifting between an unknowable set of symbols and spectral patterns. It was a construct of pure will, intelligence, and cosmic energy, having existed far before the birth of many other universes. And it was the same being who had been sending off special candidates noted by the system into other universes.
Beside the Admin stood two young Moderators, one was a being of sharp angles and geometric patterns, as though their body were crafted from crystalline data itself. Their eyes glowed a cool, unblinking blue as they stared down at Earth.
The second moderator appeared as a radiant, flowing being, like light refracted through a thousand colors. Their voice was like music, soft but full of a gravity that made even the most mundane words feel sacred.
None were to have a name, but these two children still came up with ones which he knew them as Akrel and Zithan.
Image: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/7107311906916691/
Akrel spoke first, their voice cutting through the stillness. "The reports… they're not just from the usual factions. The volume of requests is unlike anything we've seen before. And it's not just the typical invaders. There's a surge, a great influx. Multiple empires, entities, and beings that have never even acknowledged by the System before are now pushing in. Why?"
Zithan tone sharpened. "And it's not just the number, it's the timing. The System is only just now integrating Earth and the wider Universe but we are already being bombarded with invasion request this early on. What's happening out there? Why now?"
System Admin: "There are forces in this multiverse that even I do not fully comprehend. Ancient forces. Powers older than the System itself."
Akrel's crystalline form flickered, its eyes flashing with disbelief. "Older than the System? But... the System is Eternal. It is omnipresent, omniscient, omnipotent. How can anything exist outside its reach?"
Zithan's light pulsed with confusion. "Yes, the System governs all. It binds reality together. It is the force that maintains order. There is nothing outside of it. Everything must fall under its control. How could there be something... older?"
The Admin's presence became even more profound, a deep, resonant echo that seemed to vibrate through the very fabric of the Nexus. "The System is not the beginning of all things. It was created to ensure the balance of Reality. But the System is a solution, not the source. The forces that are rising, the ones vying for control of Earth... They are remnants of conflicts that began long before. Their feuds are older than time itself, older than the very concept of existence as we know it."
Akrel and Zithan fell silent, processing the implications of the Admin's words. It was a truth that was almost impossible to grasp something that undermined the foundation of their very being. Akrel seemed to tremble, the sheer enormity of this revelation hitting them. "So... what does this mean for Earth? For the System?"
The Admin's presence darkened, its voice almost a whisper. "It means the System may not be enough to keep order. The sheer magnitude of these ancient rivalries could shatter the order we've worked to establish. If they truly decide to wage war... they could tear through the fabric of Reality itself."
Zithan's voice was full of disbelief, yet tinged with a sense of impending dread. "And the invasion… this isn't just a simple conflict. It's the resurgence of an ancient war. A war that was never truly resolved?"
The Admin's form pulsed again, a final confirmation. And as silence filled the Nexus, the vast crystal window shimmered once again, showing the planet below, the world of Earth unaware of the cosmic storm that was about to unfold.