In the heart of Augusta, capital of the Albion Federation—the self-proclaimed "City of Eternal Light"—beneath the gleaming facades of its financial district and regal gardens, lies a clandestine chamber sunk deeper than the city's foundational bedrock, older than any recorded history.
The murky subterranean sanctuary resembles less a consecrated space and more the desolate depths of some long-forgotten manufactory. Within its confines, a strange fusion of cyclopean stonework that spoke of ages past and bizarre, intricate mechanisms of unknown purpose creates an eerie and discordant ambiance. The air hangs thick with the mustiness of damp stone, the acrid smoke of tallow candles guttering low, and a faint, sharp tang of ozone, hinting at arcane machinery operating somewhere unseen. Seven enigmatic figures, like spectral remnants of a bygone era, convene around an immense bronze table. Their faces are obscured by an assortment of masks and hoods, unified only by the silver-embroidered emblem upon their robes: a compass and square entwined with an Ouroboros, the serpent devouring its own tail.
At the center of the round table rests the "All-Seeing Eye" device. Its intricate brass gears and deep blue gems emit a regular ticking, reminiscent of an antique clock. With each tick, the gems flicker, casting the shadows of the seven figures onto the ancient walls. These walls are adorned with a disquieting tapestry of symbols—Egyptian hieroglyphs bleed into Nordic runes, which in turn overlay what appear to be fragmented schematics for arcane logic circuits—their projected shadows engaged in a twisted, almost demonic dance.
"Ahem."
A figure wearing an ornate mask patterned with irises cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the suffocating silence. This was the President, leader of this ancient, secret society. His voice was deep and resonant, strangely filtered, as if speaking through ages. "Brethren," he began, "The celestial conjunction is upon us. The omens are favorable."
He paused, seeming to draw breath against the oppressive humidity. "Betelgeuse in the Hunter, and Regulus—the heart of the Lion—have achieved precise ecliptic conjunction. Verified by calculations derived from the Ptolemaic spheres, and confirmed by the arcane computations of the High Priest's legendary 'Hermes Engine'—a device whose core, it is whispered, still pulses with the logic of a lost age—the temporal aperture is stabilizing. It is… time."
Before the final word finished echoing, a figure surged forward from the deeper shadows. His face was concealed behind a mask depicting fractured flames; all present knew him as Elder Zhu Rong. An influential radical, known for his fervent admiration of some obscure Eastern fire deity and an unwavering devotion to the memory of the President's late uncle, he spoke, his tone laced with impatience and sarcasm: "Is it truly time, Mr. President? Are you certain our grand purpose narrows down to merely… chasing this phantom surnamed 'Shi'? Some young man from the East, who may or may not have even existed three millennia past?"
He rose fully to his feet, his dark robes swirling as if stirred by unseen heat, and his voice gained volume: "According to those incomplete, likely corrupted records pilfered from the East, he is but a cipher in a prophecy! How many chances to truly correct the course of history have we forsaken for this… symbol? Persist in this folly, and we need not fear the coming Doomsday—we shall exhaust our energies merely maintaining this sanctuary!"
A ripple of stifled coughs and uneasy chuckles passed around the table.
The President, his own expression hidden by the iris mask, seemed only to incline his head slightly. He turned slowly towards the Elder, his voice now as frigid as winter wind across a barren moor: "Elder Zhu Rong. Mind your words. And please, sit. You obstruct my view of the energy harmonics displayed upon the All-Seeing Eye."
Elder Zhu Rong subsided into his seat with ill-concealed reluctance, muttering just loud enough to be heard, "Prophecies are ephemeral nonsense… Far more practical to cultivate our own Chosen One. At least then, lineage and loyalty might be… controlled."
"Precision, Elder, is essential to His plan," the President's voice remained devoid of inflection, yet the candle flames nearest him seemed to quiver. "We do not require your preferred method—employing a sledgehammer to crack a nut, as it were. The threads of causality are more delicate than any quantum filament; unnecessary disturbances risk consequences we dare not invite. Our objective is precise: eliminate the anomaly—the individual designated 'Shi' by that widely spread, likely distorted, prophecy. Prevent him from gathering the eight artifacts, the so-called 'Keys' of the Pangu Axe. Avert the awakening of the entity they name the 'Azure Dragon.' So long as the East fails to produce its prophesied Guardian, history will realign to its ordained trajectory towards… Doomsday."
His voice sharpened, his masked gaze fixed on Zhu Rong. "Recall Chi You's disastrous rebellion. Remember Satan's near success with the Great Flood. Was not each setback ultimately traceable to the influence of this 'Shi' lineage, or the unpredictable variables it introduces? We can ill afford another failure. We proceed as decreed."
The radical Elder offered no further protest, lapsing into a brooding silence, though the tight clench of his fists beneath the table was evident. In the shifting shadows, he exchanged brief, cryptic glances with others at the table – those whose masks bore the likeness of scorpions and serpents.
Ignoring this silent dissent, the President shifted his attention to three somber figures standing motionless beside his seat.
One was an alchemist, swathed in a lead-gray robe, hood pulled low. Only a pale, narrow chin was visible beneath the cowl, along with restless fingers constantly adjusting small, colored-glass vials tucked into his belt. An intense aroma of mercury, sulfur, and exotic, unidentifiable herbs clung to him, and the very flagstones beneath his feet seemed to shimmer with a faint, oily metallic sheen.
Beside him stood a warrior, encased head-to-toe in dark, burnished silver armor. Ancient runes, glowing faintly with internal light, seemed to flow like quicksilver across the massive shoulder guards. He bore an enormous, two-headed battle-axe strapped to his back, its polished edges hinting at latent frost. With every slow, deliberate breath, a plume of white vapor ghosted from beneath his visor.
The third figure was a true anomaly. Most of its form was a bewildering assembly of intricate brass gears, whining pistons, coiled copper tubing, and glass vacuum bulbs that sizzled with contained electrical arcs. Only skeletal joints and the skull retained biological outlines, and even these were heavily augmented with riveted metal plates and crystalline lenses. A regular, disconcerting click… whirr… click… emanated from its chest cavity. Its multi-faceted optical lenses scanned the sanctuary's ambient energy field, occasionally projecting flickering diagrams and complex formulae into the air before it. This was a mechanic, one who had dedicated himself utterly to the sacred mysteries of the machine.
"Three Guardians," the President's voice regained its composed, almost tranquil tone. "Your mission: journey back three millennia. To the Azia continent, in the age of nascent myths, when Chaos still held sway. Your objective: find and eliminate the target designated 'Shi.' Retrieve or neutralize the artifacts known as the 'Keys.' Remember," he stressed, his voice hardening slightly, "the ambient energy field of that era—call it 'Qi,' or the residual Will of Pangu—is intensely hostile to external forces. Your equipment has been… calibrated… for adaptation, but be judicious. Do not deploy high-yield weaponry far exceeding the era's baseline—I refer specifically to your… enhanced 'plasma alembics' and 'rune-charged kinetic launchers.' Deploying such power risks rendering them inert scrap, or worse, causing catastrophic feedback. We require no repeat of the… regrettable 'cultural incident' at the Stonehenge node last annum."
The three Guardians—each embodying one of the Society's three pillars of power: Alchemy, Rune-lore, Mechanics—bowed their heads in silent assent.
"Understood, President," the Alchemist rasped, his voice like grinding millstones. "Should circumstance provide a viable blood trace from the target, my experimental transmutative matrix—my 'Philosopher's Stone'—can facilitate location."
"For the… cough… the Singular Order!" the Rune Warrior rumbled, his voice resonating deep within his armor. He tapped a mailed fist against his breastplate, a slight grimace perhaps crossing his unseen features as suppressed runes pulsed uncomfortably within the sanctuary's dampening field. "However, President, our research into the ancient Nordic eddas suggests the suppressive effect intensifies dramatically near loci of primal power—the World Tree Ignis, for example. Our runic matrices may falter near such places."
"Energy field calculations confirm variable suppression gradients," the Mechanic stated, voice synthesized and flat. "Probability of catastrophic equipment failure increases exponentially near loci of high Qi concentration. Tactical adjustments will be… necessary."
The President acknowledged their reports with a slight nod. He then raised his scepter, capped with a large, pulsating deep-blue gem, pointing it towards the All-Seeing Eye at the table's center. The gem flared, bathing the chamber in blinding sapphire light. The Eye device responded, projecting a shimmering portal into the air before them. The portal twisted, unstable, its surface rippling with chaotic colors and distorted, fleeting glimpses of primeval landscapes. Dangerous energy fluctuations pulsed from its threshold. At the portal's edge, faint yet majestic, twelve colossal, indistinct figures flickered in and out of view—guardians, perhaps, aligned with the Zodiacal constellations, their immense power barely containing the turbulent rift leading to the distant past.
"Embark, Guardians, for the Singular Order! Operation Codename: 'Assassinate Mr. Shi!'" The President's voice boomed, heavy with irrevocable command.
The Alchemist moved first, melting into the portal's warped light, leaving only a faint, sharp chemical tang hanging in the air.
The Rune Warrior followed, his armor flaring brilliantly as he crossed the threshold, the clash of runic energy against the rift's instability producing a sharp, sizzling retort.
Finally, the Mechanic activated some internal hover mechanism, gliding silently into the dangerous, alluring vortex, the soft hiss of escaping steam his only farewell.
As the rift slowly constricted, then snapped shut, the sanctuary plunged back into profound darkness and silence. The light within the All-Seeing Eye dimmed to a barely perceptible pulse, leaving only the President and the remaining Elders veiled in shadow.
"President," a cool, detached voice spoke from the gloom. The Owl-masked member, previously silent, had leaned forward slightly. "The High Priest's final scrying indicates… a perturbation in the spatio-temporal coordinates. An unknown influence, perhaps? The Guardians' arrival point may be… significantly earlier than projected."
The President's grip on his scepter tightened almost imperceptibly.
The Owl continued, her voice unchanging, "Furthermore, at the precise instant the aperture stabilized, our 'World Tree Monitoring Station' registered… a faint, yet highly anomalous, soul signature. It originated from beyond known parameters, breaching the temporal barrier concurrently with the rift, destination… the Azia continent."
Silence stretched, thick and heavy. The President remained motionless, his face unreadable behind the iris mask.
"…Variables?" he finally murmured, his voice low, almost contemplative. "It signifies nothing. The wheels of history turn along the path He ordained. Any pebble daring to impede them… shall be ground to dust."
Yet, beneath the table, hidden in the shadows, his free hand trembled, just slightly—a fleeting betrayal of an inner disquietude carefully concealed.