The light of dawn reflected off the monument's surface, casting hues of sapphire, jade, and ruby into the morning mist. Earth awoke to mark the ten-year anniversary of the defeat of the Elvenarus, but the day wasn't meant for celebration. It was one of mourning and remembrance. The people who gathered here weren't just commemorating victory—they were remembering the pain of Countdown, the catastrophic event that marked the first alien invasion of Earth. Three billion lives had been lost in an instant as the skies bled red and the world was torn apart.
The memorial, now standing tall in the heart of the city, had been carved from the remnants of those shattered years, a place of solemn tribute to the fallen. For a decade, it had served as a sanctuary for those left behind, a way for people to feel connected to the loved ones who had vanished in that horrific event.
A vast park surrounded the Countdown memorial, providing a refuge for grief-stricken families, veterans, and survivors. Rows of trees lined the walkways leading toward the monument, their leaves casting dappled shadows across the stone paths. It was quiet here, as it always was on this day. People spoke in hushed tones, some kneeling at the foot of the monument, tracing the names of lost family members, friends, and comrades.
There were four memorials in total, scattered across the alliance's home worlds, each of them guarded by the same archangel with bloodied wings. Each angel wept molten ruby tears that stained the walkways of every dedication, tying the alliance together in their shared loss. But the landscapes were different, each reflecting the unique topography of the worlds that had suffered.
On Aquitar, the memorial rose from the surface of the planet's vast oceans. Nearly all water, the planet's geology was characterized by submerged ridges of basalt and ancient volcanic islands. Sapphire mosaics reflected the depth of the oceans, while emerald stones depicted the rare patches of land—small archipelagos formed from the cooled lava of underwater volcanoes. The angel stood on a platform of black basalt, streaked with molten ruby tears, as if the very earth bled. The tears mixed with the water, staining the waves red as they lapped against the memorial.
On Edenoi, a desert world ravaged by centuries of erosion, the memorial was carved from jasper—a gemstone formed from compacted mud and sand, reflective of the planet's arid surface. The sandstone and jasper formations around the memorial glistened under the heat of twin suns, giving the entire monument an orange-red hue that matched Edenoi's barren deserts. Sapphire veins, representing the planet's dwindling water sources, were inlaid into the cracked jasper surface. Ruby tears dripped from the archangel's wings, pooling in the dried riverbeds that snaked through the desert, a tragic reminder of the life that had once flowed through the planet's parched landscape.
KO-35 was more akin to Earth, but its geological beauty came from its abundance of crystal formations and quartz. The planet's advanced, futuristic cities were built into massive quartz geodes, which shimmered with natural brilliance. Their memorial reflected this, with clear crystal quartz pillars rising around the angel, symbolizing the unity of their civilization and its technological mastery. The archangel's blood fell across the smooth crystal walkways, leaving a jagged trail of ruby red against the gleaming quartz, as though the very essence of KO-35's technological marvels had been shattered by war.
The memorial on Triforia was rooted in its planet's ancient geology. Black onyx, a gemstone formed from silica deposits deep within the planet's crust, represented the core of Triforia, a world known for its reverence of history and strength. Pyramids and obelisks, constructed from polished gold-leafed limestone, towered around the angel. These structures reflected the planet's culture, but the onyx beneath them was streaked with ruby, as the angel's blood ran down the steps, a stark reminder that even the mightiest empires could bleed. Gold and black intermingled, the sharp contrast symbolizing the cost of their triumph.
Here on Earth, Joey stood at the fringes of the gathering, half-hidden in the shadows of the trees, his eyes tracing the familiar outline of the monument. He had been here before, back when they had first dedicated it to the victims of Countdown—the first time the skies had turned red and the world had been torn apart. But today's ceremony wasn't just about the first invasion. This was the ten-year anniversary of the defeat of the Elvenarus, a day meant to commemorate the end of the war and the Ceres mission, when they had closed the rift that had threatened to engulf the entire system.
The Countdown Memorial was no longer just a tribute to those who had died in that first invasion—it now bore the weight of a new grief, a new chapter in Earth's history of loss. New names had been etched into the walls, new stories of sacrifice, new accounts of those who had perished in the war against the Elvenarus.
The stone walls surrounding the monument were covered in inscriptions, each one a last memory, a final echo of those who had been lost:
"I remember the sky turning red, and then… nothing. We hid underground for days. When we came out, the city was gone. My brother was somewhere in the rubble, but I didn't have the strength to dig for him."
"They hit us in the morning. One moment my son was getting ready for school, and the next, the entire block was burning. I ran, but the screams still haunt me. They never stopped."
"We thought it was over after Countdown, but then the Elvenarus came. They took our city, and we had to watch as everything we had rebuilt was destroyed again. My wife didn't survive the evacuation."
These inscriptions were etched in raw, unfiltered emotion, a reminder that the victory they were commemorating had come at a price too high to calculate. Every word carved into the stone bore the weight of lives cut short, of futures lost, and of sacrifices too great to be fully understood. The memorial was meant to remind the world of the cost of Countdown, and now, with the ten-year anniversary of the Elvenarus War and the Ceres mission, it carried the weight of even more tragedy.
It was about the present and the future—about honoring those who had fought and fallen, those who had kept the universe safe from the rift that could have swallowed them all. The Ceres mission had been the final blow, the moment when the rift was sealed and the war was declared over. The alliance had emerged victorious, but not without deep, irreparable scars.