ASTREYA
Astreya leaned forward, her elbows resting on the edge of the observation disc. The image of the man still flickered across the hovering screen, dust and heat shimmering around him as the last echoes of the battle faded.
A thread of golden light had sunk into his chest.
It hadn't been subtle.
"What was that?" she asked aloud, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity rather than alarm. "That light."
The orb beside her stirred. A soft glow pulsed outward, rippling through its surface like breath on still water.
"Contract transmission, a Constellation has claimed a mortal."
Astreya narrowed her eyes. "Claimed?"
The word made it sound like property.
The orb rotated slowly in the air beside her, its glow deepening.
"A contract is consent, not ownership. A mortal accepts the gaze of a Constellation—and in turn, receives a fragment of power."
Astreya's gaze lingered on the screen.
The man—bloodied, panting—was still on his feet. That in itself was remarkable. But it was the way the golden thread shimmered behind his eyes that held her attention.
"And what does the Constellation receive in return?"
The orb pulsed.
"A foothold. Influence. The mortal becomes a vessel—an anchor between realms. Through them, a Constellation may act, may grow. Reputation is earned not just through presence, but impact."
"So it's not charity." Her voice was dry.
She tapped a finger against the disc. "That one—what was he called? The one who offered the contract."
"He Who Carries the Final Trumpet."
The title echoed faintly, like a hymn half-remembered.
Astreya tilted her head. "Why a title?" she asked. "Why not a name?"
The orb dimmed, as if in contemplation. Then:
"Because names have power."
Its voice was even, almost reverent.
"A name is an anchor. A thread to identity. In some realms, to speak a name is to summon. In others, to bind. A title, by contrast, is a mask—flexible, symbolic, safe."
Astreya frowned slightly. "So they hide behind them."
"Some do. Others have no names left. Or gave them up willingly. A title can carry weight without vulnerability."
Her eyes drifted back to the mortal on the screen—the one now marked by a golden thread.
"Do mortals know that?" she asked. "That they pledge to a mask?"
The orb pulsed with something that felt like amusement.
"They rarely understand what they've accepted. But they always believe they've made a choice."
Astreya was quiet for a moment, watching the man stumble forward, still alive, still glowing faintly.
Then, softly:
"...Would my name have power too?"
The orb didn't answer immediately. Then:
"It already does."
-
EARTH
[System Notification]
[Contract Accepted.]
› You have formed a Binding Pact with: He Who Carries the Final Trumpet.
› Authority Granted: 1st Movement – Reversal Echo
[You may now issue: Divine Resonance | Charges Remaining: 1]
The moment James pressed [YES], the world didn't explode in light. It rang.
A single, resonant note unfurled behind his eyes—deep, metallic, ancient. Like a brass choir singing from behind a cathedral door.
His body jerked upright. He wasn't in pain. Not exactly. But something had changed.
The gun in his hand was glowing. Not with fire, but gold. A soft, sacred pulse that beat with his heart.
The troll let out another roar and charged. Behind it, flames roared. Metal buckled. Glass shattered.
James didn't remember raising the gun. He didn't remember aiming.
He just pulled the trigger.
BANG.
The bullet left the chamber trailing sound.
Not flame. Not smoke. But music.
A trumpet blast—not loud, but pure. A single, reversed crescendo in reverse, like the breath of God being pulled inward. It struck the troll in the chest—
And everything stopped.
Wind reversed.
Smoke collapsed inward.
The flames around the ruined sedan sucked backward like a film played in rewind.
The troll, still mid-charge, buckled—its body crumpling as the sound hit it, not like force, but like a verdict.
A trumpet blast of reversal.
It staggered back—screamed—and then the shockwave hit.
BOOM.
A second explosion. This time real.
The blast sent the troll flying—straight through a road barrier like a ragdoll shot from a cannon.
It bounced off a concrete divider, flailed mid-air like it was trying to swim, then crashed into a "SLOW DOWN – CONSTRUCTION AHEAD" sign that promptly snapped in half.
The troll hit the grassy slope shoulder-first, rolled twice, lost what looked like a molar mid-spin, and finally came to a stop in a drainage ditch with its legs sticking out like a broken lawn ornament.
It groaned.
Then sneezed.
And passed out facedown in a puddle.
A moment of stunned silence followed.
Smoke curled. Sirens howled in the distance. Somewhere, a car alarm bleated uselessly into the chaos.
James stood frozen, arm still extended, barrel still warm. His heart was hammering like it wanted out of his chest.
"…Did I just—?"
He didn't finish. Didn't need to.
The others were staring. One officer's mouth hung open. Another looked between James and the still-smoking crater the troll had left behind.
Then someone muttered, "What the hell kind of bullet was that?"
James lowered his arm slowly. His gun looked normal again—no glow, no song, no divine aftershock. Just black polymer and steel, slightly scratched near the muzzle. Ordinary.
But he didn't feel ordinary.
The hum was still there, faint now. Like a choir rehearsing in a far-off cathedral. Just beneath hearing. Just beneath thought.
[System Notification]
[Divine Resonance Expended. Remaining Charges: 0]
His vision blurred for half a second. The price, maybe.
"James," his partner said, stepping cautiously toward him. "Are you—are you okay? What was that?"
He didn't answer immediately. His eyes were still fixed on the ditch where the troll had landed, half-submerged in muddy water and the splinters of what used to be public signage.
It wasn't moving.
"...It worked," James said finally, breath catching up. "Whatever that was... it worked."
"Yeah," she breathed. "No kidding."
In the distance, more cracks were forming.
Thin slivers of impossible light—like fractures in the sky—spreading open like fresh wounds above the city skyline.
Whatever just started… wasn't over.
Not even close.