The sky burned.
Not with fire, but with something far heavier—something that pressed down on the world as if existence itself were collapsing. Clouds twisted unnaturally, spiraling around a fractured horizon where light bent and broke. Below them stood a vast stone city, its towers ancient and proud, now cracking apart as the ground trembled.
He stood in the middle of it.
Stone debris lay scattered around his feet, warm beneath his boots, though he could not remember walking there. He did not know where he had come from. He did not know why he was here. Yet something inside him understood that he was meant to witness this moment.
Screams tore through the air.
They did not sound human.
Figures ran past him through collapsing streets—tall, slender beings with pointed ears clutching glowing weapons, massive hulking forms that shook the earth with every step, smaller creatures scrambling desperately through smoke and dust. Magic flared everywhere. Shields rose. Spells screamed into existence, streaks of blue, gold, and crimson tearing through the sky toward a single point above the city.
Something moved within the clouds.
A giant descended.
Its shape was vaguely humanoid, but impossibly vast, its outline blurred by blinding light. Each step it took erased structures that had stood for centuries. Towers shattered like glass beneath its feet. Walls crumbled without resistance, reduced to dust by mere proximity.
The magic struck it again and again.
The giant did not falter.
It did not slow.
It did not even acknowledge the attacks.
It simply walked forward, relentless and absolute.
A crushing pressure settled over his chest, making it difficult to breathe. The air felt thick, heavy, as if the world itself were trying to force him to his knees. He tried to move—to run, to warn someone, anyone—but his body refused to obey. His feet felt fused to the ground.
A sense of dread flooded him.
Not fear of death.
Fear of inevitability.
Then pain exploded through his back.
Cold and sharp, sudden enough to steal his breath. A blade tore through him, bursting from his chest in a spray of warmth. His hands trembled as they rose instinctively, fingers slick with blood as he stared down in disbelief.
He hadn't seen it coming.
Someone was standing behind him.
He tried to turn his head, to see who it was, but his strength was already fading. The world dimmed. The burning sky, the falling city, the advancing giant—all of it blurred as darkness swallowed his vision.
—
He gasped and sat upright.
Air rushed into his lungs as if he had been drowning. His heart hammered violently against his ribs, each beat echoing in his ears. Sweat clung to his skin, his shirt damp and cold against his back.
For a moment, he didn't move.
He simply stared ahead, eyes adjusting to the soft white glow of the room around him. Smooth walls. Clean lines. A faint mechanical hum vibrating through the floor.
Reality.
He ran a hand through his pale yellow hair, fingers shaking slightly, and exhaled slowly. The dream lingered with unsettling clarity—the weight of the sky, the helplessness, the blade.
"…That was strange," he muttered quietly.
The words sounded small in the sterile room.
He stood, rolling his shoulders as if to shake the feeling off. Dreams were just dreams. Still, this one refused to fade easily, clinging to the back of his mind like a half-remembered warning.
A soft chime echoed from the wall-mounted display.
GLOBAL BROADCAST INITIATING — 00:05:00
His expression shifted instantly.
Whatever unease remained was pushed aside, replaced by focus. He straightened, adjusted his uniform, and glanced once more at the screen as the countdown continued.
Across the planet, screens began to light up.
From crowded city centers to quiet rural homes, from military command rooms to university halls, people paused as the emblem of the International Planet Research Authority appeared before them. Conversations died mid-sentence. News anchors fell silent. Billboards shifted from advertisements to a single message:
LIVE GLOBAL ANNOUNCEMENT
In a vast conference hall filled with flashing cameras and murmuring reporters, world leaders and scientists took their places. The atmosphere buzzed with anticipation, a tension so thick it felt electric.
At the center of the stage stood the Minister of Global Science Affairs.
Behind him, a massive holographic projection ignited.
Space unfolded before the audience—stars stretching endlessly until the image bent inward, light warping around a spiraling distortion suspended in the void.
A wormhole.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
"Today," the minister said, his voice steady but heavy with significance, "marks a turning point in human history."
Silence gripped the room—and the world beyond it.
"Beyond the orbit of Venus, our scientists have identified a naturally occurring, stable wormhole. After years of observation, simulation, and verification, humanity is ready to cross it."
Whispers erupted instantly. Shock. Awe. Fear.
At the central table, a man with wild white hair and thick glasses could barely remain seated. His fingers trembled against the tabletop, eyes wide with manic excitement.
"This is it," he whispered, barely containing himself. "This is finally it."
The minister gestured toward him.
"Professor Alfred Reinhardt," he said, "lead architect of Project Threshold."
Alfred stood abruptly, nearly knocking over his chair.
"Pass through it?" he exclaimed, laughter bursting from his lips. "No, no, no—step beyond it!" His voice echoed through the hall. "For centuries we asked whether we were alone. Now the question is not if something exists beyond our world, but what."
The hologram shifted, displaying data streams, projections, and unknown star charts.
"This," Alfred continued, eyes blazing, "is not exploration. This is transition."
The world watched in stunned silence.
And this was only the beginning.
The hall erupted.
Reporters surged forward, voices overlapping as questions were hurled toward the stage. Security struggled to maintain order as the implications of Alfred's words sank in. This was not a satellite launch. Not a probe. Not even a one-way drone.
This was humanity stepping through a door it had never known existed.
The minister raised a hand, and gradually the noise died down.
"Project Threshold," he continued, "is not the ambition of a single nation. It is a unified human effort, authorized and overseen by the International Planet Research Authority. This mission does not belong to one flag—it belongs to Earth."
Behind the calm words, tension simmered.
In distant capitals, officials watched with expressions far from celebratory. Some faces were tight with forced smiles. Others were cold, calculating. Not every country had been given the same level of access. Not every nation trusted IPRA's promise of neutrality.
In secure rooms far from the cameras, screens flickered with classified overlays.
"This changes everything," one general muttered.
"They're getting there first," another voice snapped. "If they control whatever's on the other side—"
"—then we fall behind," someone finished grimly.
Jealousy was born not from envy alone, but from fear.
Back at the conference, the minister gestured again, and the hologram shifted.
Ten silhouettes appeared, slowly rotating.
"These are the individuals selected for the first manned traversal," he said. "Chosen from thousands. Each vetted physically, mentally, and ethically."
Ethically.
Professor Alfred smiled at the word, as if it amused him.
"They are not soldiers," the minister continued. "They are explorers. Researchers. Pilots. Engineers. Human beings prepared to face the unknown."
Alfred leaned forward, adjusting his glasses, unable to restrain himself any longer.
"Prepared?" he echoed, laughter dancing in his voice. "No one is prepared for this. That's the beauty of it."
The minister shot him a warning glance, but Alfred only spread his hands.
"We are sending humans beyond the limits of our understanding," Alfred said, addressing the cameras directly now. "Do you know what that means? It means discovery. It means failure. It means sacrifice." His grin widened. "And it means progress."
Across the world, reactions splintered.
Some people cried with joy. Some fell to their knees in prayer. Others shut their screens off entirely, unwilling to watch what they believed was humanity's first step toward extinction.
In a modest apartment halfway across the world, a mother clasped her hands together, whispering her child's name.
In another city, a protest began forming within minutes, signs already being painted with words like arrogance and playing god.
And in a silent room filled with humming machinery, the young man who had woken from the dream stood watching the broadcast, his reflection faintly visible in the screen.
The silhouettes rotated.
One of them was his.
He felt it then—a subtle tightening in his chest. Not fear. Not excitement.
A sense of inevitability.
The broadcast concluded with rehearsed words of unity and hope, but when the screen finally went dark, the weight of what had been announced remained heavy in the air.
Inside the IPRA facility, alarms did not sound. There was no dramatic shift. Everything continued with quiet efficiency, as if the world had not just changed.
The selected individuals were guided through secured corridors, doors sliding open and shut with mechanical precision. Each step brought them closer to the launch platform—and farther from ordinary life.
This was where they were finally brought together.
Ten people stood in a wide briefing chamber, the ceiling high and curved, transparent panels revealing a distant view of the launch structure outside. The massive spacecraft rested within its cradle like a slumbering giant, lights crawling across its surface.
For a moment, no one spoke.
The young pilot stood among them, hands relaxed at his sides, posture straight without effort. At twenty-two, he was one of the youngest present, but there was nothing uncertain about him. Years of training had carved discipline into his movements, precision into his gaze.
A display panel activated above the room, listing names and roles one by one.
When his appeared, it read simply:
Light — Primary Pilot
A few heads turned toward him.
He ignored the attention.
The doors slid open again.
She entered without hesitation.
The shift in the room was immediate—subtle, but undeniable. Conversations died before they could start. Even the hum of the machinery seemed quieter in her presence.
Short hair framed her face neatly, emphasizing sharp features and calm, assessing eyes. The color of her irises was unusual—striking, almost unreal under the facility's lighting. She moved with confidence born not from arrogance, but from certainty.
She belonged here.
Her information appeared next.
Iris — Vice Commander | Lead Research Specialist
Light felt his breath catch, just for a fraction of a second.
He had seen her before—on academic panels, mission briefings, recorded simulations. Even then, she had stood out. But seeing her in person was different. There was an intensity to her presence that no screen could convey.
This was not admiration.
It was gravity.
She took her place near the front, already reviewing data projected from her wrist console, completely unfazed by the attention she drew. Her focus never wavered.
Behind her came another man.
Broad-shouldered, muscular, his movements controlled but edged with tension. His expression was neutral, yet his eyes flicked constantly—especially toward Iris. When someone stepped slightly too close to her, irritation flashed across his face before he masked it.
His name followed.
Marcus — Systems Specialist
He positioned himself near Iris without comment, an unspoken claim. His gaze lingered on her, then drifted briefly to Light.
The look was sharp.
Measuring.
Then it was gone.
At the far end of the room, Professor Alfred leaned against a console, barely able to contain his excitement. His white hair was more unkempt than ever, his eyes alive with manic brilliance.
"Look at you," he murmured, almost reverently. "Ten humans standing at the edge of eternity."
He laughed softly to himself.
"I wish I were younger," he added. "Or stronger. Or sane enough to pass your evaluations."
No one laughed.
The final arrival came moments later.
The doors opened with a smooth hiss, and a tall, powerfully built man stepped inside. His presence was solid, reassuring. Brown hair neatly kept. Broad shoulders filling out his uniform easily. He wore his authority naturally, without force.
His smile was easy.
Warm.
Disarming.
"Captain John," he said as he approached the group, extending a hand. "I'll be leading this mission."
One by one, he greeted them.
Firm handshakes. Friendly words. Eye contact that inspired confidence.
When he reached Light, their hands met.
John's grip was strong.
Steady.
And entirely false.
Light didn't know why the thought crossed his mind—but something about the captain's eyes lingered longer than necessary.
Outside, the spacecraft waited.
Inside, ten lives quietly crossed the point of no return.
The briefing chamber settled into an uneasy calm once everyone had taken their place. The hum of distant machinery filtered through the walls, steady and relentless, like a heartbeat too large to ignore. Outside the transparent panels, technicians moved across platforms in synchronized patterns, their figures dwarfed by the colossal structure of the spacecraft.
Light's gaze drifted briefly toward it.
He had flown countless simulations. Extreme conditions. Emergency scenarios. Zero-visibility runs. Yet standing here, knowing this was no drill, no controlled test, something inside him felt different.
Not fear.
Awareness.
Professor Alfred clapped his hands together sharply, breaking the silence. "All right, all right! Let's not waste time pretending this is an ordinary mission."
A few of the others shifted uncomfortably.
"This vessel," Alfred continued, gesturing toward the ship outside, "is the culmination of twenty-three years of research. Reinforced hulls, adaptive shielding, multi-layered fail-safes—designed to withstand forces we barely understand."
He grinned, eyes shining.
"And yet, none of that matters once you cross."
Iris looked up from her console. "Professor," she said calmly, "we've reviewed the data. The wormhole is stable."
"For now," Alfred replied immediately. "Everything is stable—until it isn't."
Marcus frowned. "That's not reassuring."
Alfred laughed. "Exploration never is."
Light listened quietly, absorbing every word. He noticed how Iris spoke—precise, measured, never wasting breath. How Marcus leaned slightly toward her whenever she addressed the group, protective even when unnecessary.
And how Captain John stood apart, arms crossed loosely, observing everyone with relaxed confidence.
"Roles," John said smoothly, stepping forward. "Once we launch, there's no room for confusion."
The room's display shifted, listing assignments.
"Light," John continued, nodding toward him, "primary pilot. You'll handle traversal and atmospheric entry if required."
Light inclined his head. "Understood."
"Iris," John went on, "vice commander. Research oversight and decision authority in my absence."
She met his gaze evenly. "Acknowledged."
"Marcus, systems and internal diagnostics. Alfred—remote mission control and advisory."
Alfred scoffed lightly. "Remote," he muttered. "Such a dull word."
John smiled thinly and continued assigning roles until everyone's place was clear.
"This mission," he concluded, "depends on trust. Whatever happens beyond that wormhole, we face it together."
A few nodded.
Light didn't.
He wasn't sure why.
As the briefing wrapped up, the group began dispersing toward preparation areas. Some spoke quietly among themselves. Others remained silent, lost in thought.
Light turned toward the observation window again, hands resting at his sides. His reflection stared back faintly, overlapping with the image of the ship beyond. For a brief moment, the memory of the dream surfaced—the burning sky, the collapsing towers, the blade in his back.
He clenched his fist slowly.
"Pilot."
He turned.
Iris stood a short distance away, her expression neutral, eyes sharp.
"You handled the simulations well," she said. "Your control during instability phases is impressive."
The words caught him off guard.
"Thank you," he replied, keeping his voice steady.
She nodded once. "We'll be relying on you."
Then she turned away, already returning to her work.
The exchange lasted only seconds.
Yet it left a deeper impression than Light expected.
Marcus watched the interaction from across the room, jaw tightening. He said nothing, but his eyes lingered on Light with thinly veiled irritation.
Professor Alfred noticed—and smiled.
"Ah," he murmured to himself, "even before we leave Earth, human variables remain delightfully unpredictable."
Hours passed in controlled chaos.
Medical checks. Equipment fitting. Final psychological assessments. The weight of the mission pressed down heavier with every completed checklist.
In a secured corridor, Captain John walked alone, his expression calm, his steps unhurried. When he reached a restricted access door, he paused, glanced around once, and slipped inside.
The door sealed behind him.
The room beyond was dim, illuminated only by a single console. John activated it, his earlier warmth vanishing completely.
A distorted communication signal flickered to life.
"They're ready," he said quietly.
Static crackled in response, followed by a low, unfamiliar voice. "Ensure failure."
John's jaw tightened. "And the pilot?"
A pause.
"Eliminate him if necessary."
John's eyes hardened. "Understood."
The signal cut.
He stood still for a moment longer, then straightened, the familiar smile returning as he exited the room.
Elsewhere, Light felt a sudden chill crawl up his spine.
He paused mid-step, glancing around the corridor.
Nothing.
No sound. No movement.
Still, the unease remained.
Outside, the launch countdown began its final cycle.
The world watched.
And beneath the cheers, beneath the hope, betrayal quietly took its place.
The final countdown echoed through the launch facility, each number reverberating through steel and glass.
Technicians moved with sharpened urgency now, voices clipped, movements precise. Red and green indicators flashed across control panels as the spacecraft's systems cycled through their last diagnostics. Fuel lines disengaged. Stabilizers locked into place.
Outside the facility, crowds stretched as far as the eye could see. Giant screens displayed the ten chosen faces, their names scrolling beneath them. Cheers rolled like thunder, waves of sound crashing against the launch complex.
This was the moment history would remember.
Inside the ship, the air felt different—denser, heavier, as if the universe itself were holding its breath.
Light settled into the pilot's seat, fingers brushing across familiar controls. The cockpit responded instantly, systems lighting up in response to his touch. Every movement grounded him, centered him.
This was where he belonged.
"Pilot systems green," he reported calmly.
"Navigation stable," another voice followed.
"Research modules secured," Iris said from her station, her tone unwavering.
Marcus stood nearby, double-checking internal systems, his jaw tight with focus. He spared Iris a glance, then returned to his work without a word.
Captain John moved through the cabin, offering reassuring nods, his presence steady and commanding. "We're almost there," he said. "Everyone stay sharp."
The hatch sealed with a heavy metallic thud.
There was no turning back now.
Light's gaze flicked briefly to the transparent panel ahead, where space stretched endlessly beyond the launch rails. Somewhere out there—past Venus, past everything humanity knew—a wormhole waited.
A doorway.
The memory of the dream stirred again, faint but insistent. Burning skies. A giant's shadow. The cold betrayal of a blade.
He pushed the thought aside.
"Launch sequence engaged," mission control announced over comms. "T-minus sixty seconds."
The ship vibrated as power surged through its frame.
Fifty.
Forty.
Thirty.
Light's breathing remained steady, his hands firm on the controls. Training took over, instinct guiding every micro-adjustment.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
The clamps released.
The spacecraft roared to life.
Acceleration crushed them into their seats as the vessel surged upward, tearing free from Earth's gravity. Flames and smoke vanished beneath them, replaced by open sky, then darkness, then stars.
Cheers erupted across the world.
The ship pierced the upper atmosphere, systems compensating smoothly as the planet curved away below them, blue and fragile.
Light guided the vessel with practiced ease, aligning trajectory toward the rendezvous point.
"There it is," someone whispered.
Ahead, space twisted.
Light bent inward, stars stretching and warping around a spiraling void that pulsed softly, like a living thing. The wormhole shimmered with impossible colors, beautiful and terrifying all at once.
Iris leaned forward, eyes reflecting the phenomenon. "Data readings are consistent," she said. "Stability holding."
Marcus swallowed. "This is insane."
Professor Alfred's voice crackled through the comms from Earth, laughter barely contained. "Magnificent," he breathed. "Absolutely magnificent."
Captain John stepped closer to the cockpit, placing a steady hand on the console. "Pilot," he said warmly, "take us in."
Light nodded. "Beginning approach."
The ship glided forward, systems humming as they crossed the final distance. The wormhole filled the viewport, its pull unmistakable now—a pressure that tugged at the ship, at reality itself.
Then something moved behind him.
A shift of air. A presence too close.
Instinct flared.
Light turned—
Pain exploded through his side.
A sharp impact sent him crashing against the console, alarms blaring as red warnings flooded the cockpit. He gasped, shock stealing his breath.
"Light!" Iris shouted.
Marcus spun around. "What the hell—?!"
Captain John stood behind him.
The warmth was gone from his eyes.
In his hand was a blade, dark and unfamiliar, humming faintly with energy.
"I'm sorry," John said quietly. "This mission can't succeed."
Light struggled to stay conscious, blood soaking into his uniform as the ship shuddered violently.
"Traitor!" Marcus lunged forward.
John moved faster.
The ship lurched sharply as Light's grip slipped from the controls. The wormhole loomed ahead, its pull growing stronger by the second.
"Emergency override!" Iris shouted, racing toward the cockpit.
Too late.
The ship was already crossing the threshold.
Space folded.
Reality screamed.
And everything went black.
End of Chapter -1-