Ciel Evans sat paralyzed on the edge of his father's mattress.

  In his hand, the classified protocol document was already crushed within a fist slick with cold sweat. Before him, the flat-screen television mounted on the bedroom wall blazed, broadcasting live international news feeds directly from the border.

  The image on the screen was razor-sharp, a high-definition feed displaying the apocalypse in 4K resolution.

  Ciel beheld the figure of that man—Ramsay. Supreme Commander of the Republic of Salomos coalition forces. The man stood imposingly upon the balcony of a steel command tower, his back to a setting sun that bled red like a gaping, ragged wound.

  The news anchor's voice thundered, dripping with manufactured patriotism:

  "...Operation Carta Liberation is imminent. Commander Ramsay has confirmed the coalition stands ready to topple King Lavin's regime, deemed deranged and an absolute peril to global stability..."

  Ciel stared at the monitor, his eyes burning and stinging. He saw thousands of tanks arrayed like the scales of an iron dragon. He saw the muzzles of heavy artillery fixed squarely eastward—toward his home, toward his city.

  Then, the camera executed a severe zoom-in on Ramsay’s face as he delivered his press statement.

  "He isolates himself," Ramsay’s voice cut cold and sharp from the TV speakers, mocking with an arrogant tone of pure rationality. "Setting off fireworks while his citizenry scurries like rats from a sinking galleon."

  Ciel flinched as if physically struck.

  "No..." Ciel whispered, his voice hoarse as gravel.

  On the screen, Ramsay continued, "The world is no longer sending diplomats, Lavin. We are sending a sledgehammer. And there exists no ancient magic or phantoms capable of withstanding the single megaton of explosive yield we are about to drop upon your crown."

  The breath choked in Ciel’s throat.

  One megaton.

  Ciel’s brilliant mind, having just digested the horrific contents of the Dark Star Protocol, instantly executed the catastrophic calculations.

  Ramsay and the outside world did not know.

  They believed King Lavin was a mad tyrant throwing a fireworks gala in the midst of a global crisis. They believed those lights in the sky were mere symbols of imperial hubris.

  They did not know those "fireworks" were the Ignis Magna Beacons.

  They did not know it was the singular shield holding the Thousand Constellation Chessboard Array from collapsing entirely.

  Ciel stared at the massed tanks on the screen with a horror that eclipsed the mere fear of death.

  If Ramsay unleashed that megaton payload...

  If that "sledgehammer" struck Carta's sky...

  It would not liberate the people. It would shatter the very "glass jar" protecting them.

  That celestial barrier was currently pulsing weakly, straining to hold back the Shade Walkers from another dimension. If Ramsay bombarded it with heavy artillery, the barrier would be utterly annihilated. And when that occurred, it would not be Salomos soldiers marching in.

  It would be them. The dark gale from Mirror Canyon.

  "You fools..." Ciel let the TV remote slip from his trembling fingers.

  He bore witness to the most lethal irony in human history. The outside world was uniting, mobilizing bleeding-edge technology, supersonic jets, and genius military stratagems... solely to destroy the one thing keeping them alive.

  Ramsay believed himself a hero bearing the torch of rationality. In truth, he was a blind man marching a lit torch into a powder magazine.

  Ciel stared down at the crumpled paper in his hand once more.

  The Hunt Protocol.

  Weapon C-001.

  His father, Hannes Evans, and the Carta military were not waging war against Salomos. They were desperately busy holding the sky itself from falling. And now, they were about to be violently stabbed in the back by their fellow man.

  "We are finished," Ciel muttered, tears of sheer frustration pooling in the corners of his eyes. "We are absolutely finished."

  On the TV screen, the border sun finally bled out. The crimson slash on the horizon vanished.

  And Ciel witnessed the first muzzle flash erupt from a Salomos tank.

  The war had begun.

  And the true apocalypse had just been invited in with a red carpet.

  The late afternoon sun looked like an open laceration on the western horizon, spilling thick, coppery red light across the desert badlands separating the Republic of Salomos from the Kingdom of Carta.

  Ciel Evans remained rooted before his father's bedroom television. His eyes, swollen and exhausted from sleep deprivation, were now forced wide open by raw adrenaline.

  On the screen, the international feed continued to broadcast Ramsay's figure. The coalition commander stood on the balcony of a mobile command tower—a steel leviathan vibrating softly from the thrum of internal generators.

  The feed was stark, high-definition. Ciel watched Ramsay raise his tactical binoculars.

  The news anchor spoke with a breathless urgency: "The doomsday clock is ticking. Coalition forces report a mass exodus at the border crossings."

  The camera panned, revealing a sight that would haunt the pages of any history book. The terrestrial border route was no longer a highway; it was a ruptured artery, bleeding an unstoppable hemorrhage of humanity. The usually gleaming black asphalt was now drowned beneath an ocean of slow-moving, densely packed heads consumed by absolute despair.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Ciel’s nose could almost smell the choking scent of dry dust through the glass screen. He saw people dragging scuffed Rimowa suitcases, trembling hands clutching toddlers whose faces were flushed crimson from exhaustion. They crushed against each other, surging toward the barbed-wire barricades on the Salomos side.

  "They call it the Liberation of Carta," Ramsay’s voice echoed again, this time from a pre-recorded interview, his tone grating like two rusted blades scraping together. "But we all know, this is total annihilation for a petulant child who dared spit in the face of the world."

  Ciel swallowed hard. "Liberation..." he whispered. The word tasted sickeningly sweet on his bitter tongue.

  The feed switched again. This time, showcasing the Salomos war machine.

  RRRRUUUUMMBBBLE...

  The guttural roar of diesel engines from thousands of Main Battle Tanks bled clearly from the TV speakers, vibrating the very marrow in Ciel’s chest. Down there, tens of thousands of armored infantry transports were arrayed in immaculate lines, like the endless scales of a steel leviathan. The muzzles of their 120mm cannons elevated in terrifying unison, locking coordinates eastward, aiming directly at the heart of Carta.

  BOOM!

  Sonic booms from supersonic fighter jets tore the sky on the screen, leaving aggressive white vapor trails in their wake.

  Ramsay reappeared, now stationed within a bleeding-edge control center. Behind him, the visage of King George was blown up massively on the primary monitor—a portrait from his coronation, where the iron crown looked like a parasite draining the life from his youthful face.

  "The Butcher King," read the text crawling across the bottom of the screen.

  Ciel felt a cold fury begin to incinerate his gut. The reports of nobles mercilessly slaughtered continued to cycle through his mind. He imagined the coppery stench of blood soaking the marble floors of Ironseat.

  To Ciel in this moment, King George was no ruler; he was an anomaly, a malignant tumor that had to be excised.

  "The world is no longer sending diplomats, Lavin," Ramsay’s voice resonated, glacial and devoid of hesitation. "We are sending a sledgehammer. And there exists no ancient magic or phantoms capable of withstanding the single megaton of explosive yield we are about to drop upon your crown."

  The sun on the TV screen had almost entirely sunk. The crimson slash on the horizon vanished.

  "All units," Ramsay’s voice commanded anew, "Lock targets. We fire when the final light dies."

  Ciel killed the power to the TV with a violently shaking hand.

  Gant City had never felt this alien.

  Usually, this city was the serene, beating heart of modernity within the Kingdom of Carta. But today, Gant seemed to hold its breath beneath a wounded sky. The heavens above were no longer a pristine blue; they were violently scribbled with hundreds of white contrails from passenger jets crisscrossing frantically—the absolute proof that the world was fleeing.

  Yet to Ciel Evans, those lines looked like the finish line for a regime he considered archaic and rotten.

  News of the United Nations Forces invasion detonated like a ruptured dam. Internet filters and government "fireworks" propaganda were no longer sufficient. The Salomos version of the truth bled through every crack.

  Ping! Ping! Ping!

  The phone in Ciel’s pocket vibrated frantically. Its screen glowed red, saturated with trending tags: #CartaInvasion, #MadKing, #DemocracyForCartaCitizens.

  Ciel stared at the screen, his eyes gleaming. The Salomos narrative sounded like a promise of salvation. The heroes of democracy were preparing to kick down the doors and liberate them all.

  Adrenaline red-lined Ciel’s heart. He had just arrived home, still clad in his rumpled high school gym uniform. He sprinted directly toward his father's empty study, suddenly remembering that Hannes Evans was surely entrenched at the Ministry of Defense.

  Ciel snatched up his phone. His hands trembled with a naive, sickening euphoria. He punched in his father's private number.

  Ring... ring... ring...

  The dial tone felt like the ticking of a doomsday clock. Ciel paced the living room, staring at a portrait of his father in full military regalia. Soon, Dad, that uniform will be traded for the suit of democracy, he thought feverishly.

  "Hello, Ciel?"

  Hannes Evans’ voice sounded leaden, underscored by the chaotic background noise of rushing boots and the thrum of heavy machinery.

  "Dad! Have you seen the news?!" Ciel screamed into the receiver, his breath hunting. "It’s over, Dad! It’s finished!"

  A heavy silence stretched across the line.

  "What are you talking about, Ciel?" Hannes asked, his tone dropping to absolute zero.

  "The King! King George! It’s all been exposed, Dad!" Ciel let out a small, breathless laugh, his tone reeking of premature victory. "Look at the TV! The UN Forces are already at the border! Their tanks are incredibly advanced, Dad! You don’t need to defend that madman anymore!"

  Ciel spoke with frantic velocity. "We’ve been lied to this whole time! Lavin is a psychopath! He murdered Lord Ravash! The world is coming to save us! We’re going to be a democratic nation, Dad! Free! The Salomos President said he cares about the Carta people!"

  Ciel paused to catch his ragged breath, desperately waiting for his father’s agreement.

  Instead, Hannes’ voice emitted a sharp hiss of air, transmuting instantly into the undeniable bark of a commanding officer.

  "Ciel," Hannes’ voice was low, a vibration that rattled the bones in Ciel’s fingers. "Listen to me very carefully."

  "Dad, don't be stubborn! Tomorrow morning the palace will be rubble! Don’t stay stuck in the past! We’re going to be liberated!"

  "SILENCE!"

  The roar cleaved the air in Ciel’s living room. Ciel flinched violently, stumbling backward a step.

  "Dad... what’s wrong with you?" Ciel’s voice fractured with rising panic. "We need to get out of here, Dad. You need to leave that ministry!"

  "STAND AT ATTENTION, CIEL EVANS!"

  Hannes’ voice blazed with lethal authority. "I want you to look at the portrait on the wall of my study. The portrait of King Lavin the 134th."

  Ciel slowly turned his head toward the official royal portrait dominating the living room wall. A flat, utterly expressionless visage.

  "Yeah, that one," Ciel sneered, though his voice wavered. "The mad King about to be dethroned. Let him taste—"

  "LOOK AT THE BANNER BEHIND HIM!" Hannes cut him off brutally. "The Grand Banner of Heshawara..."

  Hannes drew a long, ragged breath. "Do you know what it means, Ciel? You attend the most prestigious academy in Gant. Do you truly comprehend what Heshawara is?"

  Ciel was dazed. His brain was violently forced to rewind to history lectures he had dismissed as absolute garbage.

  "B... but Dad... that’s just theory... that’s archaic lore..."

  "IT IS THE BLOOD OATH OF EVERY CITIZEN OF CARTA!" Hannes decreed. "The spirit of Heshawara is not about politics. It is about our very existence."

  "The banner of two crossed swords," Hannes hissed. "One sword to spill the blood of our enemies upon Carta soil. A blood offering to the Motherland so this earth remains crimson and brave! Do you remember the next stanza, Ciel?"

  Ciel trembled. Tears of absolute terror began to pool.

  Ciel’s lips moved, stuttering uncontrollably.

  "...One sword... For our own necks... An offering for the Land of Carta..."

  His voice fractured into a suppressed sob.

  "...Blood becoming the fertilizer that enriches the soil... in the fertile future of the Kingdom of Carta."

  A crushing, suffocating silence fell.

  The true gravity of those words slammed into Ciel like a physical blow. Heshawara did not recognize the concept of evacuation. There were only two absolute choices: butcher the enemy, or die upon your own blade.

  "We do not run, Ciel," Hannes whispered, his tone terrifyingly calm and sharp as honed steel. "If those UN Forces dare cross our border by a single inch... they will not find citizens greeting them with bouquets. They will find one sword at their throats, and one sword at our own."

  "Dad..."

  "Do not run, Ciel. When the hour arrives, ensure you hold fast to your honor. Your father will not return home a coward, and you will not live as a traitor."

  The line went dead. Beep.

  Ciel Evans stood paralyzed in the center of the vast, freezing living room. The phone in his hand vibrated anew—Ping!—alerting him that the Salomos naval armada was closing in. But this time, Ciel did not view it with euphoria.

  He stared up at the portrait of King Lavin once more. That face no longer looked archaic. That face looked like a tombstone. Ciel slowly collapsed to his knees upon the marble floor, burying his face in his hands.

  Outside, the sky grew increasingly dark and bruised, and for the very first time, Ciel Evans realized he had just forfeited his entire future for the sake of an oath he had believed was merely a fairy tale.

  He was no longer waiting for democracy. He was waiting for the sword to fall.