A planet died.
The sky burned red as the ground split apart, swallowing cities of glass.
The screams of millions had already been stolen.
Endless lines of chained natives shuffled down a long, steel hallway.
At the end of the path, a heavy metal door slid open.
A towering creature stepped out, wrapped in pitch-black armor.
It didn’t roar or rush.
It moved with the cold, deadly grace of a machine.
Dark tentacles pulsed from the gaps in its armor, studying the trapped crowd.
When the creature finally stepped back and the doors sealed shut…
not a single heartbeat remained.
Behind a wall of dark glass, a technician watched streams of glowing data.
“Processing complete,” it reported in a flat, robotic voice.
“Extraction failed.
None of them were compatible.” The Overseer stood by the window, watching the world burn below.
“Alternatives?.” The technician tapped a screen.
A hologram of a blue-and-green globe lit up the dark room.
“We found a match.
Sector 4-G.
A primitive planet connected to the Web.
They call it ‘Earth’.” The Overseer turned.
The flames of the dying world reflected across its smooth, faceless mask.
“Send the Hive.
Bring me the vessel.” “And this world?” the technician asked.
The Overseer walked toward the exit without looking back.
“Turn it to dust.” Galaxies away, a world was condemned to burn.
But in the damp, suffocating dark of an Earth basement, the only immediate tragedy was a bowl of soup that had gone cold again.
A boy with a skeletal body and pale skin stared at the bowl in his hand like a general about to lose a war.
Beneath his translucent flesh, a web of black veins spread outward from his chest, branching thin lines down his arms.
The soup was a miserable gray, made of lentils and a watery, flavorless broth in a chipped ceramic bowl.
A faint wisp of steam had risen from the surface minutes ago, then simply stopped.
Lucen ate it anyway.
He tilted his head back and swallowed the cold liquid down in one heavy go.
His face twisted from the bitter aftertaste.
“Old man, you’ve been making this soup for twenty years.
You never put any salt in it.” There was no answer.
Lucen was entirely alone in the basement.
The basement was quiet and suffocating.
It smelled of damp earth and rotting timber.
One corner wall leaked continuously, weeping a steady trail of moisture onto the concrete floors.
The pipes behind it were old, rusted, and exposed where the plaster had crumbled away long ago.
The heavy wooden chair beside his bed had worn a distinct indentation into the floorboards from years of use.
Somewhere above him, through the ceiling, water dripped from a faulty valve with the precise, maddening rhythm of a clock.
Lucen stared at the crack.
It ran diagonally across the high concrete wall, three fingers wide.
Through it, he could see a tiny sliver of sky.
It was a brilliant blue—the kind of color you don’t expect to see when you live at the bottom of a basement.
He leaned forward in his bed, finding the perfect angle.
A slight tilt to the left, his chin raised slightly toward the ceiling.
His thin, bony hand reached out toward the opening as if his fingers could actually touch the blue sky itself.
The sky didn’t move.
It just stayed there, perfect and completely unreachable.
He lowered his hand back to the coarse blanket.
“I’ll see that sky up close someday,” he whispered to the empty room.
“I’ll meet a Sentinel.
At least one.
That’s all I want before I die.” He had a small wooden table pulled up beside his mattress.
An old brass radio and a thick book were left within arm’s reach.
The book’s spine was cracked and split from months of constant overuse.
He reached out and turned the dial on the radio.
Static crackled heavily from the speaker, cutting through the silence.
A formal voice broke through the noise: “Citizens, remember the Memorial Ceremony is a day after tomorrow at noon.
It will be held at the central Pillar of Heroes.
This will be the largest city celebration of the calendar year.” Lucen sat up straighter in his bed.
Something deep in his lower back cracked sharply.
He shut his eyes tight and took two slow, deep breaths, pushing the sudden surge of pain down into his chest without letting out a gasp.
He waited for the dizziness to pass.
The radio announcer continued: “Apex Sentinel Alexander Voss will personally attend tomorrow’s ceremony…” He knew every scrap of information, every record, and every battlefield report about the man.
A genuine grin spread across Lucen’s pale face.
“Alexander Voss,” he murmured.
“Thirty-seven confirmed Catastrophe-Class kills.
Veteran survivor of the Red Rift Campaign.
The only Sentinel in Federation history who killed a catastrophic class beast with his bare hands…
and he is coming to our festival.” His grin lingered for a brief moment, lighting up his hollow cheeks.
Then, the heavy wooden door groaned.
The hinges complained as it opened.
His grandfather stepped into the basement light.
He had a long, stark white beard, a bent back, and a face weathered and rough like tree bark.
He looked down at the empty ceramic bowl in Lucen’s hand, then up at Lucen’s face.
“Did you finish the soup?” “I ate every drop,” Lucen said, patting his flat stomach.
“Grandpa, your cooking is getting better.
It’s almost edible.” Grandpa didn’t smile at the joke.
Instead, he gave Lucen a long, hard look before crossing the small room to the bed and sitting heavily in the worn chair.
He began his daily examination.
He checked Lucen’s frail hands, counting the dark lines under the skin, and ran a calloused thumb over his thinned, useless legs.
Finally, he gently lifted Lucen’s eyelids, peering directly into his dull pupils.
“You are getting better.
It seems like the medicine is working,” Grandpa muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.
“I know, Gramps.” Grandpa studied him for a long moment, searching his face for something he couldn’t find.
Then he stood up, his joints popping, and walked back toward the exit.
Just before his hand touched the iron handle, Lucen spoke.
“Gramps?
Can I go to the city hall?
To the festival?” There was no answer.
Only the heavy silence of the basement.
Grandpa didn’t turn around.
His hand remained fixed on the door handle.
The pause stretched between them, long and heavy.
“You could put me on the back of the flower wagon,” Lucen pressed, his voice dropping an octave.
“I don’t need to go too near the front.
I just want to see the—” “Enough.” The basement went instantly cold.
Lucen swallowed his remaining words, the air tightening in his throat.
His grandfather slowly turned around.
His weathered face gave nothing away; it was an unreadable mask of lines and scars.
He walked back across the concrete floor, returned to the wooden chair, and sat directly beside Lucen once more.
“Why?” “Alexander Voss is coming.” Grandpa rested his heavy, scarred hands on his knees.
“And?” “I just want to see him.” Lucen didn’t meet his eyes this time.
He stared down at his thin, black-veined hands instead.
Grandpa’s intense gaze remained fixed on the top of the boy’s head.
He leaned back in the creaking chair.
“You and I both know that’s not the true reason.” A profound silence settled between them, broken only by the steady drip of the pipe behind the plaster.
Lucen rubbed his thumb hard against his palm, tracing the dark lines beneath his skin.
“I heard you,” Lucen said softly.
Grandpa’s brow tightened, his eyes narrowing.
“You and your doctor friend,” Lucen continued, keeping his voice steady.
“Last night.
When he said the medicine wasn’t working anymore.” grandpaa looked away, his gaze shifting toward the damp corner of the room.
“You don’t have to worry about that.” “I’m not worrying about anything.” A fragile smile spread across Lucen’s face.
“You’ll find a way, Gramps.
You always do.” Grandpa opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
His rough fingers tightened around the wooden edge of the chair until his knuckles turned white.
After a long, agonizing moment, he nodded once.
Lucen took a slow, deliberate breath.
“So…
I don’t know how much time I have left.
I just…
want to see the open sky, the forest, and the world I live in before it’s too late.” Grandpaa said absolutely nothing.
His gaze returned to Lucen, completely unmoving, filled with a weight the boy couldn’t decipher.
Lucen let out an awkward, breathy laugh and scratched the back of his head to break the tension.
“Anyway…
when’s Kai coming back?” He didn’t answer immediately.
He was still looking at Lucen, his thoughts clearly locked somewhere far away from this basement.
“Gramps?” Grandpa blinked, clearing the fog from his eyes.
“…Hm?” “When’s Kai coming back?” “Oh.” He cleared his throat, shifting his posture.
“I don’t know.
It was supposed to be a routine escort mission for the Linux guild.” His eyes drifted back toward the heavy wooden door.
“It’s been three months now.
He should be home soon.” Grandpa pushed himself to his feet, his knees groaning under his weight.
“I should start making breakfast for Raina.” He brushed a heavy, warm hand over Lucen’s frail shoulder before turning away.
At the door, he stopped for a brief, silent moment, his back to the room.
“Get some rest.” The door clicked shut behind him, the lock falling into place.
The basement fell quiet once more.
For a long while, the only sound was the old radio humming softly from the corner table.
“—and a frontline team led by Sentinel Lucy Berncof caught a live Riftborn for the very first time ever—” Click.
He turned off the power dial.
The basement fell into absolute silence as he lay back down on the mattress.
He reached his thin hand up once more, aligning his fingers with the diagonal crack in the concrete wall.
And then— A heavy floorboard creaked directly overhead.
Then came the sound of hurried, sprinting footsteps crossing the floor above.
“Big brother!” A young voice echoed brightly through the floorboards, carrying down into the dark basement.
Lucen’s ears perked up.
A wide, genuine smile found its way onto his pale face.
“Kai…” He pushed himself upright against the pillows, ignoring the sharp ache in his spine, listening intently as laughter and excited, deep voices drifted down from the upper house.
After three long, silent months, his older brother was finally home.
Outside the tiny crack in the concrete, the sun slowly rose from the roots of the valley, and upstairs, the flower shop came to life.
I’m pretty new to writing and still gaining experience, so I’m learning as I go.
Constructive feedback is always welcome.
Just a quick heads-up: I am also cross-posting this story on Royal Road under the same name GeckoMe!
Thank you.