"In the year 2025, the sun did not burn brighter—it burned crueler. The Solar Super Storm didn't just rip power from our homes. It ripped the soul from civilization.
Communication failed. Nations fractured. Satellites fell like burning angels. And humanity, in all its brilliance and pride, crawled into holes beneath the earth and wept in silence.
But from that silence… came something else.
We didn't vanish.
We adapted.
And some… were born in the storm's shadow, raised not on lullabies, but the howl of mutated winds.
This is their world now.
This is their fight."
Citadel 4 — Eastern Stronghold (Formerly Mainland Asia)
August 8, 2069 — 06:05 CST
Kyle Nickson didn't believe in 'good mornings.'
There was nothing good about a sun that hadn't truly shone in over 40 years.
The world outside Citadel 4's thick titanium walls was a graveyard made of dust and ash. Cities lay in pieces. Highways broken like snapped spines. Trees fossilized by radiation winds. The only color left in the wasteland was the sickly orange hue that stained the sky—like the Earth had been bruised by heaven itself.
But inside the Citadel… there was still breath. Still motion. Still the clamor of steel boots and synthetic uniforms, and the soft hum of Solaris-infused barriers protecting them from whatever clawed at the outside.
Kyle stood near the edge of Platform 9, his duffel bag strapped to his back, uniform half-zipped. His pulse beat hard in his ears—not from fear. Just… anticipation.
A year.
A full year in the Aegis Dominion's Military Training Division. Combat conditioning. Tactical theory. Exposure drills in simulation domes. Nights of vomiting after exposure to synthetic flare DNA for resistance training.
And now… he was going home.
Home.
If that word still meant anything.
"Oi, soldier-boy!" Aron's voice rang out behind him. "You gonna daydream your way back to Citadel 2, or are you actually getting on the Ironstream?"
Kyle turned, flashing a tired smile. Aron Kress was the kind of guy who could joke in a graveyard and somehow make it feel like a party. Tall, dark curls, sarcasm in his DNA. He tossed a ration bar toward Kyle.
"Eat something. You look like you got dragged through a Devil Flare's mouth."
Kyle caught it one-handed. "Thanks. You look like a Savage Flare with bedhead."
"Hey—Savage Flare's got style. I take that as a compliment."
Behind them, the rest of their team arrived one by one, boots echoing on the solar-paneled floor.
Wayne: Broad-shouldered, the quiet brute with hands like hammers but a heart soft as old bread.
Rose: Eyes like frostbitten ice, hair dyed pale blue, a sniper prodigy with a stare that could kill faster than her bullet.
Georgia: Short, fierce, fast-talking with a scar running down her cheek — said she got it from a training bot, but Kyle had his doubts.
Emma: The healer. The calm. The voice of reason when everyone else's fists were already flying.
Jordan and Theo: The prankster twins. Experts in explosive recon and making everyone's life a little more chaotic.
They were young. Most barely 18. But they had seen more in one year than most civilians saw in their lifetime.
The Ironstream arrived with a low, thunderous growl — an armored train nearly 200 meters long, powered by compressed Solaris steam and kinetic force. It was the only mode of transport fast enough to cross wasteland sectors and strong enough to withstand Level 3 Flare attacks.
Its exterior was layered with heat-reactive plating. Its windows reinforced with double-tinted glass to shield the passengers from radiation flares. The logo of the Aegis Dominion shimmered on the side — a sun split by five spears.
"Boarding now," a mechanical voice echoed. "Next stop: Citadel 2 — Western Core. All personnel, prepare ID chips."
Kyle stepped inside, heart pounding just a little harder than usual. He tried not to think about the warnings. About how Sector D3 — the desert stretch between Citadel 4 and Citadel 2 — had recently reported Flare anomalies.
No one had confirmed it. No one ever confirmed anything.
That was the nature of the Silence.
Hour 2: Mid-Descent, Sector D2
The group sat in the second cabin, stripped of gear but still wearing partial armor. The cabin smelled faintly of ozone and engine grease. Georgia chewed on dried meat, Wayne leaned against the window staring at the endless desert outside.
Jordan was already asleep, boots on the table.
Emma flipped through a digital journal, muttering softly, "...No Dominion Flare sightings in the last six weeks. That's good."
Rose snorted. "It's not good. It just means they're hiding."
Kyle sat across from Aron, staring at the static of the comm-screen. The Ironstream didn't have open channels until it crossed into the safer zones.
He glanced at the time.
Four hours to go.
"You ever think we're the lucky ones?" he asked quietly.
Aron looked up. "How d'you mean?"
"We survived the training. The simulations. The field tests. We're alive. Not infected. Not mutated. That's something."
Aron didn't laugh. For once, his sarcasm took a step back.
"Luck's a weird word," he said. "Sometimes I wonder if surviving just means we get a front-row seat to the next extinction event."
Kyle didn't answer.
Because deep down…
He felt it too.
Hour 3: Entering Sector D3 — The Dead Belt
The lights in the cabin dimmed.
The mechanical voice came again, this time with less warmth.
"Now entering Sector D3. Radiation levels rising. Visibility low. All personnel are advised to remain seated and alert."
Outside, the landscape turned monstrous. Twisted spires of black metal. Burnt bones of buildings. Ash clouds that seemed to move against the wind.
And then… something changed.
The Ironstream slowed.
Lights flickered.
The walls trembled.
Wayne stood up instantly. "That's not engine friction. Something's interfering."
Aron grabbed his sidearm. "Flare ambush?"
"No," Rose whispered, eyes locked on the dark horizon.
"That's… too big."
Emma's voice cracked. "Something's on the tracks."
Kyle stood and walked to the front viewing screen — the reinforced glass gave a narrow view of the track ahead.
And what he saw… didn't make sense.
A shape.
Humanoid — barely.
But massive.
Its skin was gray and charred like molten rock. Its muscles pulsed with veins of glowing black. Its eyes — two pits of sulfuric yellow — locked on the train like it knew.
A Hulk Flare.
Level 5.
They weren't supposed to roam this far.
They weren't supposed to be this close to Citadel paths.
The thing roared.
It screamed, and the vibration shattered the sound-dampening glass.
"Hold on to something!" Kyle shouted.
Too late.
The Hulk Flare leapt.
Its fists slammed into the front of the Ironstream.
Steel screamed.
The world turned sideways.
The train lifted — not derailed. Lifted — and thrown like a toy cart.
Kyle felt his body lift into the air, gravity lost, his friends' screams colliding with the shriek of metal and shattered glass.
The Ironstream flipped.
Once.
Twice.
Then darkness.