Part-1
Year 2030, New World.
Hi, my name is Hunter. I'm just a normal boy—10 years old, ordinary in every way. My world isn't like the old one from the history books. After the great collapse in 2024, everything changed. Borders faded. Governments were rewritten. The chaos of the old world gave birth to something new—something more unified, or so they told us. Now, I live in a village called Ankara, part of a peaceful nation known as Angora. Our country is governed by the New World Republican Government, a system said to be built for the people, by the people.
I was still young, but I could feel the weight of history behind those words.
Today marked a big step for me. I was starting school—a new school, far from my old neighborhood. I stood in front of the tall, pale building with its shining glass doors and green banners fluttering in the wind. The school emblem—two doves crossing paths over a globe—gleamed proudly on the wall. A symbol of peace. Unity. A future with no wars.
I clutched my bag tightly and walked through the gates.
As I stepped into the classroom, rows of eyes turned toward me. I felt the heat of their gazes—curious, judging, quiet. The teacher nodded to me and gestured for me to introduce myself.
I swallowed my nerves and spoke.
"Hi, my name is Hunter. I'm 10 years old. A normal person, I guess. I just moved here from East Veli Town. I hope you all will help me and we'll become friends."
There was a silence. Then the teacher smiled. "Welcome, Hunter. I'm sure you'll make many friends here."
I bowed slightly, then looked around the room. My heart was pounding. I scanned for an empty seat, but all the tables were full—groups of two, four, even some five-person clusters. Every pair already seemed tightly knit, laughing, whispering, or nodding at each other. I felt like a lost piece of a puzzle that didn't quite fit.
Then, from the back, a soft but clear voice called out.
"Hey! You can sit here."
I turned quickly. A girl sat alone at a small table near the window. The sunlight touched her shoulder-length chestnut hair, making it shimmer. Her uniform looked slightly oversized, sleeves hanging just past her wrists. She had a calm, gentle face and eyes that were unusually sharp for a 9-year-old—like they saw more than most her age.
I walked toward her cautiously.
She smiled and patted the seat beside her. "Don't be shy. I don't bite."
I smiled awkwardly and sat down. For a few seconds, we didn't speak.
Then she extended her hand. "I'm Lisa. Nice to meet you, friend."
Her voice was clear, her handshake firm. It didn't feel like a child's introduction—it felt like a pact.
"Hunter," I said. "Friends."
She grinned and leaned back in her seat. "You looked like a lost puppy out there. Lucky for you, I like puppies."
We both laughed.
That day, nothing seemed out of place. The sky was clear. The school smelled of fresh books and cafeteria bread. The loudspeakers played the usual morning national hymn about peace and unity. Everything felt... safe.
Lisa and I quickly became inseparable. During lunch, she shared her chocolate bar with me. At recess, we played tag and made jokes about the teachers. By the end of the day, I knew that Lisa wasn't just smart—she was quick-witted, always reading ahead in class, and never afraid to speak her mind. But she also had a strange seriousness at times, like she was carrying a secret.
On the way home, she asked, "Do you believe the world will always stay this peaceful?"
I blinked. "I don't know. I hope so. I mean… it's better now than what our parents had."
She nodded, then looked ahead. "My father says peace is a mask. It covers the face of conflict, but it never truly changes the face beneath."
I didn't know what to say. I was just a 10-year-old boy. Big dreams, sure, but not big thoughts. Not like hers.
Still, I replied, "Then let's change that face. Together."
She turned to me with a smile—not a child's smile, but a proud one. "Yeah. Let's."
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. Lisa and I grew closer. We studied together, played together, and talked about everything—what kind of future we wanted, the kind of people we hoped to be. I told her about my dream: to become someone who helped the world stay peaceful. Maybe a leader, maybe an inventor, maybe even a teacher.
Lisa was quiet about her dream. She said it was too early. That some dreams had to stay hidden until the right time.
But whenever we spoke of the world, she always asked questions no one else did:
"What if the peace is built on lies?"
"What would you do if the people in power were corrupt?"
"What if one day, we had to fight for real justice?"
At first, I laughed. "Don't be dramatic. The government's good. They keep things fair."
She didn't argue. She just smiled.
"I guess time will tell."
And time did tell.
But back then, we were just two kids in a village called Ankara. The Empire of Angora was calm, proud, and strong. No wars, no rebellions, no chaos. Just quiet mornings and warm sunsets.
No one could've guessed that the girl I sat next to that day—Lisa—would one day lead the bloodiest rebellion in modern history.
And no one, not even me, could've imagined that I would stand on the opposite side.
That we, once best friends, would be enemies.
But even enemies can become something more. When the world is burning and the lines blur between right and wrong... even enemies may find themselves side by side again.