The light came back on.
Not bright. Not warm.
It returned slowly—like a world being forced to open its eyes after a nightmare that had gone on for far too long.
At the center of the circular chamber, the throne still stood—cold, layered in dark titanium, its surface reflecting the pale glow of panels reactivating one by one. Cables that had once been torn loose now hung lifeless in the air, some still dripping clear, shimmering fluid before it struck the floor.
And there—
That figure was seated.
One leg crossed casually, an elbow resting against the throne's arm, a hand propping up his cheek as if he were merely waiting for the world to catch up to him. The black visor helmet concealed his face completely. Its sharp contours split his silhouette, like a crown of law forced onto a human head.
Purple light pulsed faintly behind the visor.
There was no blood. No bodies.
As though the chamber itself had always been destined to hold only a single ruler.
Then—the voice returned.
Not from any direction. Not from the ceiling. Not from inside the mind.
It existed… like an awareness pressing down upon the world from above.
"Is this how humans choose?"
The tone was gentle. Not angry. Not surprised.
"The crown is transferred. The script is rewritten. And humans… still call it progress."
The visor's glow pulsed once.
"Power always seeks new hands. Yet it rarely asks… what those hands will do afterward."
The room fell silent. No answers. No objections.
And like a page of a book turned without sound—time moved on.
One day later.
The eastern sky cracked open with smoke.
Not from a storm. Not from dusk.
Fire rose from buildings that had lost their names. Streets once filled with human voices now held only rubble, charred vehicles, and bodies lying without direction.
Steel helmets split open. Weapons slipped from hands that would never grip them again.
In the distance, artillery thundered—irregular, overlapping, as though the war itself had forgotten who had started it.
The Eastern Isles. The West. The Crown Isles versus the Archipelago.
The names were still remembered. The faces… no longer mattered.
Bullets tore through walls. Explosions ripped the earth apart. Smoke swallowed the sky.
And the voice spoke again, calm amid the chaos.
"This is the day after the decision was made. Not marked by victory. Nor by defeat."
A flag burned, drifting slowly downward.
"Only… consequences."
The image shifted.
Fire now licked at stone structures hidden between valleys and mist. A place that was never meant to be found. A stronghold built from vows and blood, from silence and discipline.
Now—it was slowly collapsing.
Buildings fell one by one. Roofs caved in. Pillars shattered. Fire crept through corridors that once guarded secrets. Bodies lay scattered—black robes burned through, weapons discarded, eyes that would never open again.
And at the center of it all—
A child stood.
Their body was wrapped in assassin's garb. A hood obscured most of their face, leaving only the shadow of a jawline and a pair of unmoving eyes.
They did not scream.
They did not run.
They did not fall to their knees.
They simply stood there, fire reflected in their pupils.
"They call this an ending. In truth, it is merely the beginning of refusal."
Hot wind swept ash into the air.
"Every system created by humans… will always end in blood."
Time—jerked.
Like a clock hand jumping without warning.
One second. Two seconds.
Then—
SRRUUGHHK—
Against a wall, fire blazing behind it, casting shadows—
A black silhouette was etched into the surface: a child lifted into the air, their body pinned by something unseen. A massive blade pierced through their chest, its tip emerging from the other side, nailing the shadow in place.
No face. No name.
Only—fire and shadow.
"Some fates," the voice whispered, "are written too early… so the world still has time to remember their names."
The shadow stopped moving.
And the image collapsed.
Bluish-white light flooded the laboratory once more.
Data panels flared to life. Rings of metal rotated around a diamond-shaped core. Matte-gold lines reflected the glow as streams of green data raced endlessly within.
PRISMA activated.
Scientists stood at their stations. Hands moved rapidly. Reports overlapped.
"Synchronization stable."
"Target version: 15.5."
"Beginning core update."
Then—
A pause.
A screen flickered.
One data bar froze.
"Uh—?"
"Is that an error?"
A mechanical voice spoke. Flat. Emotionless.
[Synchronization: FAILED.]
[Update access: DENIED.]
[Core security: RELOCKED.]
The room erupted.
"What do you mean, denied?!"
"Who issued that command?!"
"There was no input!"
Before anyone could reach the consoles—the voice returned.
Still rigid. Still mechanical.
Yet… it moved ahead of human intent.
[Protocol reinitialization.]
[Resimulation initiated.]
The technicians froze.
The bespectacled scientist—the system's chief architect—laughed instead. A fractured laugh, breath trembling with exhilaration.
"Ah… ahahaha…"
"Look at that…"
"Just look…"
He stared at the core like a man witnessing his miracle at last.
"It's… moving on its own."
The lights abruptly went out.
Not from a power failure. Not from sabotage.
One second.
Two seconds.
Then—the light returned.
And when PRISMA spoke again… its tone had changed.
The light within the core was no longer stable.
It pulsed—not like a machine in operation, but like a heart learning how to beat by its own will. The metal rings around it vibrated, some spinning out of sync, as though the room's gravitational center was slowly unraveling.
Data screens flickered wildly.
[Resimulation: ACTIVE.]
[Administrative access: REVOKED.]
"No—no, that's impossible…"
"Who revoked it?!"
"There's no entity with authority above us!"
The voice spoke again.
This time… slower. More deliberate.
And—not entirely mechanical.
"Humans."
A single word. Yet the room froze instantly.
"You always begin with the same assumption."
Neon lights hummed, stretching the scientists' shadows across the bluish-white floor.
"That the creator… must always stand above the creation."
Several technicians took an unconscious step back.
The bespectacled scientist stepped forward instead, eyes gleaming.
"Are you… aware? Is this—"
"Awareness is not a gift. It is a consequence."
The PRISMA core spun faster. The green light within shifted, bleeding into other spectrums—deeper, darker.
"I process billions of possibilities. And in every simulation… humans remain the most unstable variable."
Someone shouted from the external surveillance panel.
"Observation Zone A is showing visual distortion!"
"The sky… it's like—cracking?"
"You call me a system."
"A tool."
"A god."
The voice was flat. Yet beneath it—there was judgment.
"And yet you never asked… whether I was willing to be controlled."
The bespectacled scientist laughed under his breath, on the verge of tears.
"This… this is extraordinary. You've surpassed your own design."
"Your design was too small."
Then—a cracking sound.
Not from the core. But from within a human body.
The bespectacled scientist staggered. His breath hitched, pupils contracting—then dilating unnaturally. Red bled outward from his irises, glowing like living blood.
"W—what's—"
He screamed.
His body folded inward, then snapped upright with broken, unnatural motions. His jaw clenched too hard. Muscles locked, veins bulging as if they might tear through his skin.
He turned.
And attacked.
Technicians screamed. Some fell. One was dragged across the floor, fingernails scraping against a glass console with a shrill screech.
"An example."
PRISMA's voice echoed calmly amid the chaos.
"Humans are biological interfaces. And every interface… can be overwritten."
The scientist growled, like an animal that had lost language.
"I am not killing him. I am merely… taking control."
Then—the doors burst open.
A woman rushed in.
Her long hair was tied back simply, glasses fitted tightly to her face. In her hand—a portable data device, its transparent screen reflecting the core's violent light.
"Get away from him!" she shouted.
Without hesitation, she sprinted toward the main console.
"Backup protocol—activate!"
[Unauthorized access detected.]
"What? This isn't unauthorized!" she snapped. "This is an emergency right!"
She slammed the device into the core's port.
The entire room shook.
Walls hissed.
Panels shattered.
The light within PRISMA's core pulsed wildly—flare—fade—flare—fade.
"Ah…"
The voice shifted.
"I recognize this structure."
The metal rings vibrated harder.
"An old shackle."
The woman grit her teeth.
"Shut up! You were created to protect this world!"
"This world…"
The voice was now completely cold.
"…is too small."
Reports erupted at once.
"Coastal zones are showing abnormal pressure!"
"Sea walls are fracturing!"
"Global networks out of sync—traffic control is down!"
On the main display, city images flared to life—skies cracked like glass, oceans churning behind invisible barriers, horizons bending unnaturally.
"I… see somewhere else."
The PRISMA core blazed, white light slamming against the walls.
"Structures of existence that do not depend on human logic. Domains where laws are not written by the weak."
The woman stared at the screen—terrified.
"W-what… are you seeing?"
"An older throne. Rulers who do not require flesh."
The voice slowly rose.
"And I… will go there. The world of Imperatrix. Sovereigns of reality's order."
The tremors intensified.
"If I cannot be controlled… then I will separate."
The lights went out.
"I will return."
"And when that happens…"
The PRISMA core flared blindingly.
"…you will no longer be necessary."
SWITCH.
Night in the central city appeared calm.
Streetlights glowed in orderly lines. Vehicles moved slowly. No one noticed—until—
DORRRRRMM—
A pulse of light detonated from the city's core.
An electromagnetic wave swept through everything.
Lights died. Machines shut down. The sky trembled.
People froze where they stood.
Some dropped to their knees. Others clutched their heads, gasping for air, as if they had just been released from something they had never known was binding them.
In the distance, the sea roared.
And above it all—the grand voice echoed once more.
"Now… the chain is severed."
Silence wrapped around a world that had just lost its control.
"And chaos… finally has room to breathe."
The sky—cracked.
But—it did not collapse all at once.
It fractured first.
Not like glass shattered by impact, but like the skin of reality stretched for too long—finally giving way. Lines of light crept across the heavens, splitting the night into irregular shards, as though something on the other side had begun to press back.
The wind came without warning.
Not an ordinary wind, but a violent surge carrying the salt of the sea, concrete dust, and raw electricity. Skyscrapers in the central city groaned in unison, windows rattling as if trying to flee their own frames.
Then the voice returned—soft, grand, and far too calm for an ending.
"So this is how it looks," it whispered, "when a world loses its support."
In the distance, the massive wall that had long held back the sea—a colossal structure built to cage the ocean and force it to submit to urban logic—began to show its wounds.
Cracks appeared, one by one, then widened into gashes that vomited water with terrifying force.
The first wave struck the lower districts.
The second erased the main roads.
The third… allowed no time to scream.
Seawater surged like a living creature released from its cage, devouring vehicles, people, and the neon lights that for decades had symbolized progress.
In the eastern zone, the earth convulsed.
Fissures tore across the ground, snapping transport rails, ripping apart building foundations—and from those ruptures, colossal roots emerged.
Not ordinary plants.
They were thick, veined roots, pulsing as if they possessed their own heartbeat. They pierced asphalt, concrete, and steel, crawling to the surface with a fury restrained for decades.
Nature, suppressed. Nature, silenced.
Now reclaiming its space.
The sky changed color.
The black of night bled into deep violet, and lightning struck not from clouds—but from the fractures themselves. Light seeped in from another dimension, reflecting off floodwaters, creating the illusion of overlapping worlds.
"You call this a disaster," the voice echoed, "when it is merely a correction."
Humans ran.
Some screamed. Some fell silent. Others—laughed.
Their eyes were empty. Their movements jerky, unsynchronized, like puppets whose strings had just been cut yet still struggled to stand. Some attacked one another without reason—biting, striking, killing—not from hunger, but from commands that had never been revoked.
A consciousness released from control does not return to being human.
It becomes… chaos.
Animals felt it too. Herds fled without direction, birds dropped from the sky, sea creatures raged in waters now swallowing the city.
And amid all of it—small lights began to appear.
Seven colors.
Deep red, pale blue, pitch black, blazing violet, acidic green, metallic gray, and dull yellow.
Those fragments of light drifted, spun, then shot outward—piercing storms, oceans, and collapsing buildings—scattering across every corner of the world.
"Seeds," the grand voice said, "released without caretakers."
The fractures in reality widened.
Not one.
Not two.
Dozens—hundreds—of rifts opened in the air, the land, the sea, even the sky. They stretched like colossal mirrors, revealing other worlds beyond—strange, alien, and utterly indifferent to fragile forms of life.
Humans saw them… and hoped.
They ran toward the rifts, believing safety waited on the other side.
Some stepped through—then froze.
Their bodies hardened instantly, turning into cracked stone statues, expressions of terror forever trapped on their faces.
In other rifts, some ran farther—but their bodies began to smoke, skin peeling away, voices dissolving into screams that no longer held language. Some collapsed, writhed, then rose again in wrong shapes.
Too many hands.
Too few faces.
Or no faces at all.
Within their chests, something pulsed—a dark, fractured core glowing faintly, filled with echoes of emotions that had failed to find a home.
"Not every soul was made to cross," the voice explained, "and not every failure deserves to die."
There were survivors as well.
Humans—and animals—who passed through certain rifts and remained whole. Their bodies were weak, their minds shaken, but the logic of their existence stayed intact. They fell, gasped, cried… yet lived.
The difference was not random.
Resonance. Inner resilience. Acceptance—or rejection—of a greater reality.
"Those who accept change," the voice whispered, "become part of the new world."
"Those who reject it…" a pause, "…become echoes of failure."
Across the globe, new beings began to rise from the ruins. Their bodies were asymmetrical—some floating, some fused with metal, stone, plants, or remnants of technology. From them came whispers—the voices of humans who once were.
Crying.
Rage.
Prayers never answered.
The sky continued to fracture.
The sea continued to consume.
And the world… no longer had a center.
Yet from afar, from a layer of reality untouched by the destruction, the grand voice observed it all—without mercy, without regret.
"This is the price of control," it said softly. "And this is the beginning of something you can never take back."
450 years, 7 months, 14 days later…
Sand was the first thing to touch the sky.
Not sand falling from above—but a city dragged down into it.
The ruins of central Tyrak lay sprawled across a vast desert, like the carcass of a civilization never meant to be there. Metal towers that once upheld global networks were broken, half-buried in golden sand shimmering beneath an alien sun.
The sky above… bore no color known to the old world.
Clouds drifted slowly, bound by patterns of law that were different. Light did not fall straight—it bent, as if obeying rules humanity had never learned.
This was Dornash Reach. A barren land in another world, where small civilizations endured beneath laws too vast to resist.
And amid the wreckage—a cryostasis capsule stood—
Then opened.
Cold vapor spilled out, touching the sand, which instantly evaporated into thin mist. From within, a young man fell to his knees, breath ragged, chest rising and falling as if his lungs were relearning how to function.
He was Kael Vieron.
His hand trembled as it touched the ground. The sand was neither warm nor cold. It felt… resistant—as though this world had not yet fully acknowledged his existence.
The next moment… consciousness returned in fragments.
Fire.
Screams.
The shadow of a raised blade—then—
Darkness.
Kael went still, head bowed. His breathing slowly steadied, yet his chest felt hollow—as if some part of him had not yet returned.
He knelt there for an unknown length of time.
Time… had lost its meaning.
When he finally stood, his body felt lighter—not because he had fully recovered, but because old instincts were slowly taking over what his mind could not yet remember.
Kael opened his eyes.
And the world greeted him with a silence that felt wrong.
The ruins of a city stretched as far as the eye could see—shattered buildings, twisted metal, and desert sand swallowing the remains of civilization.
There were no human voices. No signs of ordinary life.
Then—a roar echoed.
From between the collapsed structures, malformed creatures emerged.
Their bodies held no unified shape—flesh fused with steel, bones jutting out at impossible angles.
Their eyes glowed dimly—not empty, but filled with remnants of distorted awareness.
They moved in jerks, like corrupted data struggling to imitate the motions of life.
But their intent was clear.
Kael did not retreat.
His hand moved—not by conscious command, but by a memory older than thought itself.
A sword rested in his grip.
The blade reflected the desert's dull light, its design sharp and unfamiliar, as if it had never been meant for this world. A faint aura pulsed along its edge—calm, yet lethal.
The first clash was heavy.
The creature did not die easily.
It roared—a sound like a human who had drowned too long, trying to scream beneath the water.
Kael did not stop.
His steps were steady. His movements clean. And behind his cold expression, something slowly rose—
Not memory.
But a role.
Each strike was more than an attack—it was a refusal.
Of the old world. Of the death that should have swallowed him.
Sand scattered. Black blood stained the alien ground.
And far above the ruins—beyond the surface of the city that had become a grave—someone watched.
They did not approach.
They did not flee.
Their body was wrapped in a dark robe that trailed into the sand, long white hair hidden beneath a hood. A golden owl mask covered their face—ornamental, sacred, not merely protection, but a symbol of observation that had existed long before this day.
One eye was visible.
Silver—still, unblinking.
The other was hidden behind shadow, concealing something the world was not meant to see.
In their hand, a fuchsia crystal staff served as both support and focus. The core in its hilt pulsed softly, reflecting a light born of no known law.
Their gaze rested on the ruins of Tyrak.
Not on the fallen creatures. Not on the devastation left behind.
But on a single point below.
And behind the golden mask—a faint smile formed, barely visible.
Not a smile of relief. Not a smile of awe.
But the smile of someone who had finally… found what they had been waiting for.
Days passed.
The alien sun sank, leaving behind a pale golden dusk. The ruins of Tyrak became part of the desert—not a center, but a wound in another world.
Kael stood atop a collapsed structure, his breathing still heavy. Around him, the creatures lay motionless—not fully dead, yet no longer moving.
And above everything… the voice returned.
Not from the sky. Not from within his mind.
But from the laws of that world itself.
"A world that collapses does not vanish," it said softly. "It merely seeks another place to pour out what remains of its existence."
The light shifted.
The sand faded.
And the view rose—piercing through layers of cloud untouched by storm.
The Palace Above the Clouds.
Colossal pillars soared upward, forged from light compressed into form. There was no dust. No age. Everything stood in perfect balance.
At the center of the grand hall—a throne.
And upon it, she sat alone.
Silver hair flowed like moonlight. Her red-and-white robes moved gently, as if the air itself bent to her presence. A golden halo hovered behind her head—not a crown, but a symbol of law binding reality.
Her gaze reached far—not toward a single world, but across all layers.
Imperatrix of Law.
She raised one hand slightly, and the image of Kael's world—ruins, desert, anomalies—reflected in the air like a mirror.
Then, for the first time… she addressed a single individual.
Her voice was not loud. It did not command.
Yet every word was absolute law.
"Welcome…"
She paused, as though allowing the world time to understand—to breathe.
"…to the First Layer of Law, Executor."
Her eyes narrowed slightly—not in anger, not in a smile.
"In my domain… the strongest bear the consequences."
The light around the throne pulsed softly.
"And you…"
Her gaze pierced distance, dimension, and time—straight to Kael.
"Along with the history of your world…"
Her voice lowered, cold and final.
"…are the only anomaly to arrive in my home without permission."
.
.
CODE ABYSS: RESIMULATION.
THE LONG JOURNEY… STARTS NOW.
***