01-02-2345, Celestial Era – 14:34
Timer Countdown: T-02:00
Revan sat quietly in the interrogation chamber, his dark hair slightly messy, his grey eyes calm yet distant. He took a slow breath, eyes wandering across the cold metallic room. The wall behind him was plain and gray, save for a single door near the glass panel to his left.
With a faint mechanical hiss, the door slid open. Several soldiers entered — their uniforms deep navy, their expressions sharp and unreadable. The air shifted, heavy with quiet authority.
"Can we make this quick?" Revan asked dully, rubbing his eyes. "Did I break some interstellar law or something?"
"Nothing illegal," said the ship's captain, his voice firm. "But we require your cooperation. It's… a matter of humanity itself."
Revan tilted his head, eyebrows lifting slightly. "Let me guess — war with aliens? Contact with another species?"
"No," the captain replied, his tone even colder. "Something far more critical."
Before Revan could respond, another group entered — led by Asterius Norrad, the founding leader of the Astral Foundation. The man's white uniform gleamed under the pale lights, followed by the same officer from earlier.
"Revan Corvis," the officer said, placing a digital tablet on the table. "We need your cooperation to locate a spy — someone threatening humanity's peace."
Revan blinked, pointing at himself. "A spy? You're joking, right? This some kind of prank?"
"No prank," the officer replied. "This situation is extremely serious."
The door closed quietly, sealing the room in silence. The reflection of their faces disappeared behind the glass, leaving only tension. Revan's grey eyes met the cold stares of the adults across from him — hunters watching their prey.
The officer tapped the tablet, his eyes narrowing. "Revan Corvis, age eighteen. Born in Tokyo, December thirty-first. We're aware of the court case that severed your contact with your parents."
Revan leaned back. "I haven't done anything wrong. My immigration taxes are paid, my rent tax, even the food tax to the Clean Sky Youth Bureau."
The officer frowned. "Food tax? Rent tax? What are you talking about?"
"You don't know?" Revan asked flatly. "It's an academy policy for immigrant students — started by some higher-up connected to the military. Lieutenant General Grizzly or something. The guy who demands everyone salute him because he's part of the Sword of Light unit."
The room went still. The officer's brows furrowed. "Sword of Light, you say?"
"Yeah," Revan said with a shrug. "If you're looking for them, they're probably slacking off in Garage #30, Lot 3. Usually scheming for more cash — I doubt they've paid their taxes either."
Asterius's sharp eyes flickered. "Status report," he commanded into his tablet.
A voice crackled through the speaker. "Human detainees located in containment facility. Commencing rescue operation."
"Understood. Proceed." Asterius's tone was crisp, unflinching.
He turned to Revan, expression grave. "So. You've just volunteered yourself, Mr. Corvis."
Revan frowned. "Volunteered… for what, exactly?"
"To act as a covert agent. We'll use your current status and background as cover. You'll infiltrate and report back to us."
Revan chuckled weakly. "Really? The quiet, awkward kid turns out to be a secret agent? Sounds like a cliché out of some B-tier holo-drama."
Asterius didn't smile. "No fiction this time. With your Astral Gear, you've been officially registered as the tenth pilot in the Astral Gear Grand Prix — under my personal recommendation."
Revan blinked. "Wait, Scarecrow? That's just my mechanical engineering thesis project!"
"Too late," Asterius replied coldly. "You've already passed. You'll be promoted to Master-level certification in Astral Gear piloting. Cooperate, and we'll make sure you stay alive."
Revan exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. The silence thickened — until the door burst open.
Six young cadets entered — three men and three women, all blond, all blue-eyed, barely older than Revan. Their pristine white uniforms glowed under the lights.
One of them, tall and broad-shouldered, scowled. "Foreigners like you are such a nuisance. Allow us to teach him a lesson about our laws."
They raised their hands to their chests. "Peace be upon you, Lord Asterius. We represent the International Astral Gear Federation Youth Division. As leaders of the next generation of pilots, we request permission to discipline this disgrace."
Asterius's eyes narrowed. "I've never heard of your organization."
The young man smiled confidently. "Of course not — it's an elite circle, known only to geniuses and the founders of the Federation itself."
"I am one of the three founders of the International Astral Gear Federation," Asterius said, his voice turning to frost. "And you, boy, have no authorization whatsoever."
The room fell silent again.
Then Asterius turned back to Revan, his tone colder than before. "And as for you — that machine of yours, Scarecrow… you've just stepped into a problem far greater than you understand."
Revan's voice hardened. "So I used a dangerous component or something?"
Asterius stared at him. "You forgot one crucial detail — you used my design notes for the prototype. The original framework I created for Astral Gear itself."
He paused, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
"And it works. Which means… you've just awakened something that was never meant to be rebuilt."
The hum of the ship's engines filled the room, low and steady, like a heartbeat in metal. Revan sat motionless, his eyes fixed on the holographic display before him. Data lines shimmered in blue — schematics, flight logs, and encrypted archives all tied to one term flashing at the top:
"ASTRAL TECHNOLOGY: CLASSIFIED."
Asterius stood behind him, hands clasped behind his back. His reflection on the glass wall looked calm, but the weight in his voice betrayed the tension beneath.
"What you rebuilt," Asterius began, "was not a simple mechanical project. The frame you used — the energy core, the dual-drive system — it's all part of the original Astral Technology."
Revan frowned. "Astral Technology? You mean the same one that powers the Foundation?"
Asterius nodded. "Yes. The first and purest energy system humanity ever created. The core of every Astral Gear, and the seed of every war we've fought since the Celestial Era began."
Revan leaned forward, staring at the floating diagrams. His creation, Scarecrow, was displayed there — its frame glowing faintly, the Astral core pulsing like a living heart.
"So what's the problem? It works, doesn't it?" he asked.
"That's exactly the problem," Asterius said sharply. "Astral cores aren't supposed to work anymore. They were sealed a century ago after the first Astral Collapse — when entire fleets vanished trying to replicate their energy output."
Revan blinked, still processing the words. "You're telling me… I rebuilt something that shouldn't even exist?"
"You didn't just rebuild it," Asterius replied. "You reactivated it. And somehow, it resonated with your neural pattern."
The young engineer stared down at his hands, flexing his fingers as if the answer might be written there. "I didn't mean to. I just followed the old schematics—"
"Schematics that were erased from every network decades ago," Asterius interrupted. "Someone wanted you to find them."
Revan looked up sharply. "You think I'm being used?"
Asterius didn't answer immediately. He turned toward the glass window, watching the void of space drift by. "The Council suspects a hidden faction — remnants of the early Astral War. If they've resurfaced, your creation could become the key to their return."
Revan gave a bitter laugh. "Great. I fix junk and suddenly I'm a walking security breach."
Asterius's lips twitched slightly — not quite a smile. "That's why you're being reassigned. You'll enter the Astral Gear Grand Prix as a pilot. But your true mission is to observe. Find whoever's using the Astral name again… and stop them."
"Let me guess," Revan said flatly. "And if I refuse?"
Asterius finally met his gaze, eyes cold as starlight. "Then Scarecrow will be dismantled. And you'll be tried for reviving restricted technology."
Revan exhaled through his nose, leaning back in the chair. "Figures. You people always know how to make volunteering sound like a death sentence."
He stood, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt. "Fine. I'll play your little tournament. But I want full access to Scarecrow and all maintenance rights."
Asterius gave a curt nod. "Granted. You'll have a technical team assigned to you — and a handler."
"Handler?" Revan echoed.
The door slid open behind him. A girl stepped inside — short silver hair, eyes like cold sapphire, wearing a pilot uniform with gold-trimmed insignia.
"This is Lyra Vance, Lieutenant of the Astral Foundation's Intelligence Division," Asterius said. "She'll ensure your cooperation."
Lyra gave a short bow, her tone flat. "Pleasure to work with you, student mechanic."
Revan blinked. "Wow, friendly already."
She ignored him, turning toward Asterius. "Operation Starlance is ready for deployment. The Grand Prix qualifiers begin in forty-eight hours."
Asterius nodded. "Then it's settled." He faced Revan once more. "Welcome to the Astral Foundation's front line — where genius and danger are the same thing."
Revan smirked faintly. "Yeah, sounds about right."
He didn't say it aloud, but as he glanced once more at the glowing core on the screen — that pulsing light that felt almost alive — he knew one thing for certain:
He hadn't just built a machine.He'd awakened something that was watching him back.