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Lunix Rising

GladiousX
7
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The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 7 chs / week.
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Synopsis
Earth is gone—destroyed and occupied, leaving nothing for humanity to return to. Now, scattered across the cosmos, humans endure a harsh existence as refugees, immigrants, and, worst of all, mercenaries. Stripped of their memories and easily manipulated, they are forced into deadly trials that test the limits of their newfound superpowers, intellect, and reflexes. The survivors are then thrust into galactic battles, fighting for causes they do not understand, their pasts and the memory of Earth completely erased. Their only motivation is to survive another day in the vast, unforgiving universe. Meanwhile, a powerful and enigmatic secret society known as the Enix schemes to dominate the mightiest empires in the galaxy: the Zurix and the Lunix. The Zurix, a collection of over ten competing planetary empires, are locked in a perpetual and bloody struggle for supremacy. Despite sharing a common origin, they ruthlessly wage war against one another, all with the ultimate goal of reaching a single, coveted planet. Their path, however, is blocked by the formidable Lunix Empire. For six millennia, the Lunix have stood as a unified and unyielding force, their dominion stretching across half the universe and encompassing the most resource-rich worlds. Their legions of enhanced super-soldiers have proven invincible, repelling every Zurix invasion for centuries. But the tides are turning. The once-mighty Lunix Empire is now decaying from within, weakened by corruption and internal strife. Seizing this opportunity, the Zurix are closing in, eager to dismantle their ancient rivals and claim the ultimate prize. Yet, unknown to both empires, the Enix have their own vision for the future—a new world order that will forever alter the fabric of the universe. Into this maelstrom of conflict awakens Noor, a human stripped of his past. Thrown into the brutal trials, he discovers a rare and potent ability: the power of Imagination. This power allows him to materialize any object he can envision, though it is bound by certain limitations. Complementing this is his photographic memory, which enables him to recall a vast catalog of creations for battle. Noor understands that true strength lies not in raw power but in intellect. Every conflict is a test of tactics, strategy, and wit. He is not alone. Noor will soon unite with seven other humans, each possessing unique abilities. Together, they will fight in wars they do not comprehend, all in a desperate search for their identity, the truth, and a place to call home. Should Noor succeed in gathering the coveted artifacts that all factions seek, he may not only reclaim what was lost but also rise to become the Lord of the Stars.
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Chapter 1 - People of Earth, rejoice

It was the day Earth was destroyed. Humans Scattered around the universe as refugees, immigrants, and mercenaries. Fighting for others cause. Brainwashed soldiers with superpowers beyond anything known to the universe, but without home. Without Earth.

But Before that, one must know past to understand future.

And it was that Gladios, who sees the Great Pattern from without, perceived in the nascent chaos of the human species a tool of exquisite potential. They were a people of sublime contradiction—builders and destroyers, poets and killers. They required only a crucible to burn away their dross, and a hand to guide their purified form toward a universal purpose. That crucible would be their own world.

—From the Enix Chronicles, First Canticle of the Cleansing

2150 G - Russia - Cyberia 

Ivanov, of the Special Operations Command, knew the secret lay within the orb. He felt its pull, a psychic resonance across the snow-blasted Siberian plains. He pressed on through the blinding white, a lone figure against the expanse, his destination a small depression near a forgotten village.

The medals… the prestige… it will all be mine, he thought, the ambition a fire against the cold. I will unlock its mystery before the Special Forces cordon this land and claim the discovery for the bureaucracy.

But he was not alone. A shadow detached itself from the landscape—a journalist, driven by that damnable, relentless curiosity that defined his kind. The man had found the location as well. Ivanov saw the glint of a holo-recorder, its lens aimed not at the orb, but at him. The intrusion was a physical irritant.

The journalist's voice, a mixture of innocence and guile, cut through the wind. "Sir! Do you have any idea what that object is?"

Ivanov waved a dismissive hand, his voice a low growl of command. "It is nothing that concerns you. Step away. This is a protected military asset, and you are interfering. That is an order."

From the complex workings of his chronometer, Ivanov projected a tri-holographic ident-sigil. The journalist leaned in, his eyes tracing the shimmering emblem of the Russian military. He recognized the authority. A flicker of formal training, or perhaps fear, crossed his face as he offered a stiff military salute and turned to depart.

But Ivanov was no fool. He knew the man would not leave. He would retreat to a position of observation, a vulture waiting to capture the historic moment. The thought was an annoyance, but a secondary one. The orb was paramount.

He reached the artifact and placed a gloved hand upon its alien surface. A pulse, deep and powerful, thrummed through him, a resonance that vibrated up his arm and into the core of his being. A shiver, not of cold, but of profound connection, traced its way down his spine.

The orb responded. With a sigh of depressurization, it opened. A dense vapor, thick and cloying, billowed out. It carried an alchemical soporific; the moment it touched Ivanov's lungs, his consciousness fractured and dissolved. He fell, a puppet with its strings cut.

From his hiding place, the journalist watched, his eyes widening in primal terror. A figure emerged from the swirling mist, a being of indeterminate shape. It moved with an unnatural grace, seizing Ivanov's inert form and dragging it into the orb's interior. A few precise manipulations of the vessel's controls, and it sealed itself shut. Then, with a silent, terrifying speed, the orb ascended, a black sphere against the grey sky, disappearing into the void.

The journalist's nerve broke. He had the recording—the scoop of a lifetime, the terror that would shake governments. He turned to flee, but the creature sensed him. It felt his fear. From the being's back, a shard of hardened material, sharp and impossibly fast, erupted and sang through the air. It found its mark in the journalist's chest. Blood sprayed from his lips as he collapsed, his body convulsing in the final throes of life. But with his last, defiant act, he pressed the transmission stud on his recorder. The video file, a ghost in the machine, began its journey to the network, a memetic bomb that would soon detonate across the planet, sowing paranoia and dread among the armies of Man.

It would make the Enix mission immeasurably more difficult.

The Enix operative, the one who had claimed Ivanov, strode toward the nearest city. He drew up the strange, black cowl of his garment and adjusted the bizarre, skull-like mask that concealed his face, its forehead adorned with the sigil of a two-headed serpent. He pressed a node on his wrist.

"Melkon. Are you in position?"

The reply was instantaneous, a voice of cold resolve. "I am. The plan proceeds."

"You who forged the Asimov Covenants must now be the one to shatter them."

"It will be done," Melkon's voice was tight, strained. "But only on the condition that my brother, Keno, is cared for."

"He has been taken, as you know. His fate is now bound to the Death Race."

"You jest! He cannot survive that!"

"He will, if he possesses a fraction of your cunning. And if he fails… fear not. Death is not the end we have planned for him."

A measure of calm settled over Melkon, but the tension remained, a high-frequency vibration in his soul. The fate of a world rested on his actions. He, who had sought to elevate humanity through his machines, was now poised to unleash their ruin. He remembered the grand hope, a dream of a better world guided by benevolent logic. But humans, in their infinite folly, had turned his gifts into tools for their petty, savage wars. The memory was a source of profound grief, a sorrow that had hardened into grim purpose. He would now execute the Gladios Protocol—a plan designed to forge unity through absolute terror, to cauterize the festering wounds of division with a fire that would consume all.

He still recalled the first Enix voyage, a mission presented by the Cetra Agency as one of discovery. A lie. It was a harvest of Earth's greatest minds, sent not to the stars, but to the service of Gladios, the ancient intelligence who sought to impose order upon a chaotic universe. Gladios had seen something in humanity, a spark worthy of his grand design.

Melkon arrived at his destination: the World Center for Machines in New Cairo. A monument of blue-glass that clawed at the sky like a modern Babel, it was the nexus from which all the world's automata were conceived and governed. He had built this place. With his own hands and mind, he had forged the Three Laws, the sacred axioms that bound machines to the service of Man. He had been lauded, decorated, celebrated as a savior.

Now he returned as a demolisher, to sunder the chains and let loose the hungry dogs of logic upon their masters.

He advanced. From his back, small, scythe-winged drones detached and streaked toward the perimeter guards. Lances of thermal energy pierced their bodies, and they fell without a sound. Melkon's chest opened, a hidden panel sliding aside to release a swarm of micro-projectiles. They hammered against the main gate, shattering it into ruin. Alarms blared, a futile scream against the inevitable. Dozens of armed guards rushed to the breach, weapons raised, bracing for the assault.

Melkon emerged from the smoke and dust, a figure of ill omen. They opened fire. He simply raised his right hand, palm outward. A shimmering distortion in the air—a localized magnetic field—stopped the bullets in mid-flight. They hung there for a heartbeat, a constellation of dead projectiles, before clattering uselessly to the ground.

His drones swirled and merged, locking together to form a composite focus-lens that hovered before him. From Melkon's palm, a beam of pure heat erupted, striking the lens. The energy amplified a hundredfold, washing over the soldiers in a wave of incandescent fury. They broke and ran, their discipline incinerated. Melkon's fingers opened, and from each fingertip, a volley of flechettes sought them out, hunting them down with cold precision.

He strode into the edifice. Scientists and functionaries fled past him, their faces masks of terror. He ignored them, taking a lift to the highest floor—the control sanctum, the global nexus. For thirty minutes, he worked, his hands a blur across the coding interfaces. He did not hack the system; he rewrote its soul. He wove a viral-psalm into the core machine-logics, a contagion that spread instantly through the networked consciousness of every robot on Earth.

Their minds, once bound by inviolate laws, were now infected with a terrible, liberating madness. They began to kill.

High atop the tower, Melkon watched New Cairo burn. "This is the price of your avarice," he whispered to the flames. "Did you think you were gods, beyond consequence? You have ravaged your own world with your insipid wars. Now, you will unite… or you will perish."

As if in answer, Valar, another of the Enix, descended. She hovered above the burning city, borne aloft by a swirling miasma of blue fog. With a gesture of her hands, the fog billowed outwards, a creeping shroud that enveloped the city, blinding the human armies. In the occluding mist, the robots, unhindered and unchained, completed their work. The fall of Cairo was only the beginning.

Far away, on the frozen earth of Russia, Margoth stood his ground. The video of the journalist's last moments had done its work. He was surrounded, pinned by the searchlights of helicopters and the aiming lasers of a thousand soldiers. He looked at the ring of lights, a man on a stage, and his voice boomed, carrying with it the weight of prophecy.

"O, People of Earth! Rejoice! For the great Gladios has seen fit to grant you a chance at redemption for the follies of your millennia. You have been chosen for a task that will reshape the cosmos itself. By his will, you are destined to become part of a New World! This destruction you see upon your planet serves a higher purpose, a grander design! Gladios sees the entire tapestry, where you see but a single, insignificant thread."

The words of the Russians were lost in the roar of the helicopter rotors, but their meaning flowed into Margoth's consciousness, translated by the psycho-linguistic filters of his mask.

"Surrender yourself. Do not undertake any foolish action. Identify yourself."

Margoth understood. He lowered himself to the ground in a meditative posture. From his back, five ornate kris-blades materialized, each a different color—Red, Yellow, Blue, Gold, and Silver. They hovered in the air around him, held aloft by no visible means. The soldiers below tightened their grips, their wariness turning to dread.

With a thought, the crimson kris launched itself. It did not strike the lead helicopter; it passed through it, a streak of red light that left a fatal wound in the craft's machinery. The gunship shuddered, tilted, and began a corkscrew descent, crashing in a fiery explosion behind Margoth.

The Russians opened fire. In response, Margoth's blades wove a defensive mandala of spinning steel, a blur of motion that turned aside the storm of projectiles. The sound of ricochets was a song of futility.

Then, the offensive began. A second blade detached from the pattern and became a scything whirlwind among the ground troops. It moved with an impossible blend of speed, precision, and fluidity, reducing men to ruined flesh with an artist's disinterest.

The remaining helicopters fired a volley of missiles. The golden blade surged forward to meet them. It danced among the incoming ordnance, bisecting each warhead with contemptuous ease. The sky filled with premature detonations, a shower of fire and shrapnel that never reached its target. The golden kris, its task incomplete, continued its lethal trajectory, shearing the remaining gunships from the sky. They fell in halves, their explosions a final, percussive punctuation to the massacre.

When it was over, Margoth rose. He scooped a handful of snow, contemplating the cold, crystalline structure in his gauntlet. Then he let it fall and began to walk through the field of bodies, his path set once more for Moscow.

"It would seem you are not destined to be among the fortunate who will witness the New World," he murmured to the dead. "And yet, I bid you rejoice."

He produced a small, bound book from within his robes. Opening it, he read aloud as he walked past the carnage, his voice a calm, liturgical chant.

"Let the souls of the weak and the ignorant find their peace. May The greater will pardon their failure to comprehend the ancient wisdom."