On Etheria,
The desert sky shimmered with an eerie turquoise glow, an illusion of serenity in a place scorched by relentless heat. On the coarse, sun-baked sand lay a child—still, frail, and battered. A torn jacket clung to its body, frayed shorts stained with mud. Scars marred its pale skin, its hands hardened with callouses from untold labor. The child's emaciated frame was so skeletal that even its gender was indeterminate, the thin leather jacket pressing tightly against the jut of its clavicle.
The temperature began to plummet as the sky darkened. The child felt it first in the shrinking, freezing patches of heat burns on its skin. It mustered what little strength remained—not enough to stand, but just enough to crack open its eyes. Hopeless, lifeless eyes met the horizon.
A strange pressure surged across the air. It pushed the child back with invisible force. On all fours, it clawed into the sand, fighting to remain upright, only to catch sight of two figures in the distance.
At the edge of a towering dune, where the sand seemed to dissolve into the sky, two men stood locked in battle. The child squinted through the stinging bite of sand, straining to see as another wave of pressure rippled toward it. This time, the force hurled the child backward, tumbling down the dune. Pain shot through its frail body, a sickening crack confirming a broken bone—though in its agony, it couldn't tell which one. Darkness enveloped it.
Within its mind, the child floated in an abyss, lost and adrift. Fragments of memories refused to surface, leaving it adrift in confusion. Amid the void, a vision appeared: a serene farmland under a kaleidoscopic sky, animals frolicking in jubilant harmony. For a moment, peace seemed within reach.
But then the sky turned blood-red. The joyous creatures stilled, their heads snapping toward the child in unison. In a guttural, collective voice, they growled:
"G...ET...UP... HUR...T TH...OSE... ASH...OLES."
The child's eyes shot open, tearing against dried, cracked lids. With a grotesque scream, it tore its own eyelids away with trembling, bloodied hands. Crimson tears streamed down its face, thick and vibrant, as though defying its dehydrated, near-dead state. The blood dripped down its chin like liquid resolve, a silent scream against its suffering.
No longer lifeless, the child pushed itself to its knees. Hatred—raw, burning, and unexplainable—flooded its hollow heart. It tried to stand but collapsed, its body too broken to sustain its will. Once again, its consciousness slipped away.
But the child's body began to glow—a blinding, iridescent blue that pulsed like a heartbeat. It lifted from the ground, suspended as if an unseen hand gripped it by the throat. It turned toward the men at the dune's peak, the hatred burning brighter. Yet midway through its struggle to reach them, the light dimmed. The child went limp.
The two men paused their battle, stunned into silence. Their armor—identical save for the opposing colors and emblems—gleamed under the desert sky. Both wore expressions of disbelief as they stared at the glowing, floating child.
"What… is that?" one of them muttered.
The other didn't respond, his gaze fixed on the child. Both thought the same thing:
"Oh no… what have we done?"
Above them, the sky darkened further. A massive ship materialized, its shadow consuming the battlefield. Despite its gargantuan size, the vessel bore the cold, precise lines of practical, human engineering.
From its hull, a booming voice announced:
"Human body detected on the plains of Etheria."
The two men exchanged panicked glances. They knew what this meant.
"ACTIVATING: RODS OF GOD."
A brilliant light erupted from the ship, engulfing everything.
On Earth,
The activation of the "Rods of God" sent shockwaves across humanity's orbital stations and research facilities. Satellites transmitted urgent alerts, their signals echoing across the globe.
In the heart of Washington D.C., outside the White House of Global Elites, protesters roared in defiance of those in power. Their voices barely reached the neo-oval office, where the Secretary of Defense rushed into the room.
"Sir," she said breathlessly. "The Rods of God have been activated."
The president of the global human elite, a man of unpredictable temperament, leaned back in his chair. "After how long?" he asked, his voice unsettlingly calm.
The secretary hesitated. "Sir… the last time they were deployed was to eradicate the Bodhi—"
"I didn't ask for a history lesson," he snapped, the calm vanishing in an instant. "How long?"
"One hundred years," she replied, steadying herself.
The president rose, pacing the room. His face betrayed no emotion, but his movements spoke volumes. "Minimize the panic. Tell the public it was a routine drill. Suspend all outer-space missions and frame it as a 'collaborative initiative.' Meanwhile, contact the Broken Kingdom Alliance. Make them cooperate… or remind them what happens when they don't."
"Understood, sir." The secretary snatched a transcript from a nearby bot and hurried out.
Alone, the president loosened his tie, muttering to himself. His gaze fell on a portrait of a former leader. "Oh, Bodhisattvas… always a thorn in humanity's side. And now? Your fault, as usual."
A robotic crow perched on his shoulder as he poured himself a drink. "Science, politics, and murderous cultists—what a cocktail. And all in my first year." He raised his glass in a mock toast to the heavens.
"Here's to the chaos you've left me."
With a flick of his wrist, he hurled the glass at a map on the wall. Its inscription read:
"Homo Sapiens Sapiens Promethicus
21 AGW (After Great War)
Made by the Last of Human Slaves."
The glass shattered.