Chapter 23
The 7 heroes (2)
"Yes," Raj nodded.
IAM focused, his entire attention locked onto the story.
"After being blessed with their newfound knowledge, humans quickly prospered and adapted. They began to forge new paths, using what they had learned in unique and innovative ways."
And so, the world was launched into an era of discovery and pioneering... but alas, all good things must come to an end.
"After gifting us with the understanding of paths, the 7 divine beings lived among us for a time. They watched over major events and ensured the safety of the world."
Raj's voice darkened.
"Then, one day, they vanished. For several months, there was no sign of them. And in their absence, catastrophe struck this world—it was swift, merciless, and unforgiving. Roughly 4.2 billion lives were lost."
IAM's eyes widened in shock. Back then, the population had been far smaller than now. To lose 4.2 billion people... that was catastrophic. Especially compared to Earth, which barely had 10 billion in total.
"It came without warning. A disaster so immense that nothing could prepare us. Then, six of the heroes returned to fight it. My ancestor, the Sorcerer—one of the most mysterious among them—only appeared toward the end. He helped guide and protect the survivors."
Raj's voice dropped to a more solemn tone.
"They saved the world… and after that, all seven vanished. Never to be seen again. What followed was a global blackout. Historical records disappeared. First-hand accounts were lost. Clues that might've helped us understand were either destroyed or erased. History… became muddled."
He leaned slightly against the counter, the weight of his words hanging in the air.
"For example, no one knows when or how the Deadline creatures came into existence. No one knows how the Great Walls were built. We don't know why the heroes disappeared after the tragedy—or even what the tragedy truly was."
Raj shook his head slowly.
"No one knows. Everyone knows this story, sure. It's the most told, most shared myth in our world. But the real answers? If they ever existed… they've been buried deep in the annals of history."
IAM sat in stunned silence. His thoughts spun, chasing every strange detail. There was so much buried in the shadows of this world. So much that had been hidden, forgotten, erased.
Mysteries layered upon mysteries.
And despite the initial disappointment about being a so-called "descendant of the Giant," IAM felt something else stirring in him—a strange, almost magnetic pull toward these riddles. A hunger to understand them.
How were they all connected?
Were they even connected at all?
Shaking his head and pushing the weight of the unanswered mysteries to the back of his mind, IAM turned to Raj with another question—one that had been quietly haunting him.
"So... um... given the current situation, and... you being a two-star and sooo great and experienced..." he trailed off, his voice uncertain. "Do you... have any advice on what... someone like me could do?"
Raj raised an eyebrow, holding his chin and nodding mockingly, as if IAM were about to present a grand thesis.
"No, no, keep going... there's more... I can feel it," he teased, his grey eyes glinting with amusement.
IAM cracked a small grin despite himself.
"Well," Raj said, shifting into a more genuine tone, "to be honest, things would be ten times easier if you had an Avien. But since you don't, I'd advise you to make use of the library here in the Hub."
He folded his arms and leaned back slightly.
"Learn more about the Deadline creatures. Get out there, make friends, be social. And while you're at it, start revisiting everything you already know about your path. Be patient. The more you understand it, the more prepared you'll be when the time comes."
The two spoke for another ten minutes—Raj offering advice, IAM absorbing every word. Not just about powers or battles, but how to spend his time more wisely, instead of sulking around in a pit of frustration and uncertainty.
When IAM finally left the workshop, he did so feeling a little more grounded—more confident. Assured.
He spent the next twenty minutes asking around, trying to navigate the ever-confusing maze of the Hub's complex hallways. The flashing lights of strange technology didn't help, and neither did the growing flood of new recruits—or canon fodder, as most people here called them. They all looked just as lost and overwhelmed as he felt.
Eventually, he arrived at a large glowing symbol shaped like a book, helpfully displayed at the entrance—probably for the idiots who couldn't find it otherwise.
IAM let out a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped through the entrance.
....
Some distant time in the future...
A man trudged through the battlefield—a graveyard of flesh and metal. His boots squelched against torn limbs and ruptured organs, the soaked earth beneath him slick with blood and viscera. Around him, his companions moved silently, searching the carnage for what now felt like a fantasy: a single breathing body.
Smoke curled from collapsed buildings, their skeletal remains clawing at the ash-choked sky. Overturned tanks bled oil like black blood, and mangled vehicles lay in twisted heaps. Bodies—charred, broken, impaled—dangled from rebar like grotesque ornaments. Eyeless faces stared up in frozen horror. Guts spilled like ribbons from open torsos. Someone's jawbone cracked beneath his step, a sickening crunch lost under the hum of fire and ruin.
The air stank of metal and rot. Thick with death. The scent of fresh and old blood mixed, clinging to his tongue like something alive.
Then, his eyes caught it.
A tattered flag. Once pristine, now filthy and shredded, its pole snapped in half. It was impaled into the side of a collapsed dome wall, a last reminder of what had once been impenetrable.
The red flag.
The H insignia, once a proud satin black, now stained with dried blood.
His gaze hardened.
Suddenly, a shrill ringing tore through the silence. He reached into his pocket and answered.
A voice on the other end asked, quietly:
"How is the situation?"
He answered, voice low and gravelled:
"Bad... no, worse. Worse than we could've imagined."
A sharp inhale from the other end.
"How many survivors?" the voice asked.
Silence.
Only the groans of metal, the crackle of distant flame.
"...How many?"
He closed his eyes.
"...None."
Then, more resolutely:
"The Hold—one of the greatest symbol of Hope's military strength... is gone. There are no survivors."
Indeed.
Everyone was dead.
Men. Women. Commanders.
Burned. Crushed. Torn apart.
Ripped limb from limb by something none of them had words for.
No survivors.
...
In the present.
A week had passed.
The flood of new recruits and volunteers had finally reached the Hub. The air was thick with energy and fresh nerves, voices echoing through the winding halls of the facility like a tide of uncertain hope.
IAM had recovered.
The strange buzz in his chest—the one he hadn't noticed before—was back. Stronger. Hungrier.
And now… it was time.
Time to form his Avien.