The Blue Gardens of Ao-Teien, Region 078. Morning of the Same Day
When the shrill, piercing evacuation sirens shattered the silence of the night, no one in the village believed it at first. People stirred in their warm beds, hoping the noise would soon stop. Then the sirens switched to loudspeakers, where a frantic male voice shouted something incoherent. The words blurred into a single long, indistinct phrase, making it nearly impossible to understand what was happening.
It took long minutes before the most anxious and alert finally stepped outside and craned their necks toward the glowing circle of the Potern in the distance. The red signal lights were clearly visible, with a line of smaller lights trailing behind them—the transport ships were already queuing up to leave the region.
Only then did the first wails and lamentations begin. Women rushed to cradles and bags of food prepared for the morning, while men grabbed whatever valuables they could not bear to leave behind. In their frantic haste, they lost precious time. They had grown too comfortable in their sense of safety and were utterly unprepared to drop everything and run to the Potern at the first signal, as safety protocols demanded.
It was too hard to grasp that none of them would ever return home. What they left behind was left behind forever.
The night, meanwhile, was warm and ripe, filled with the scents of damp leaves, the spicy aroma of blooming trees, and a refreshing breeze. Crickets and other insects fell silent as one, and the birds in the fruit-laden branches were still. Only the howling of dogs broke the stillness, sometimes as if in chorus with the sirens, sometimes as if sensing that something was amiss. Yet nothing seemed to happen. The sky and the earth remained unchanged. Only the ominous red lights ahead pierced the night, their eerie silence between wails unsettling.
At last, a restless procession of people began to move toward the gates, pushing and glancing back anxiously. Some wrapped themselves in blankets, and crying children rode on their parents’ shoulders to avoid being trampled in the dark. On the way, a similar trickle of people from a neighboring village joined the crowd, intensifying the collective sense of panic and danger.
On the other side of the open portal lay the station, with stern figures in uniform and the cold glow of floodlights waiting for them. Clinging to one another and jostling, people poured through the gates, emerging from the damp predawn gloom, heavy with the aroma of blooming trees and fear, onto the dusty cobblestones of the station.
Under the tall, rounded arches of the Potern gate, richly adorned with golden sheaves of wheat, branches, and blossoms in the style of early Emperor Nerul III, an awestruck and confused crowd began to gather. Those at the back pressed against those at the front.
The buffer zone of the Confederate Transportation System (CTS) was an open space between two massive arches rooted firmly in the ground and stretching far into the sky. Passenger and cargo platforms were arranged on separate levels. Gigantic cargo vessels floated steadily above, docking at distribution stations before branching off along various routes to avoid congestion. The transport crew, clad in bright mustard-yellow uniforms, worked with calm efficiency.
The Crimson Wolves, the Protectorium’s elite unit, had already surrounded the portal. Tents were being erected, and the Wolves barked sharp orders, herding the dazed crowd like shepherds guiding mindless livestock. Their task was to organize the growing mass of people, sort them into lines for inspections, tend to the wounded in a field hospital, and register everyone so that later, those dispersed to evacuation camps could reunite with their families.
The operation was overseen by Ayzel Volt, falconet of the Crimson Hand and the supreme commander’s right hand. His presence was immediately noticed—a tall and commanding figure that exuded hope and reassurance. If the Protectorium had sent someone so high-ranking and respected, it meant the situation was being taken seriously.
Young, tall, and with sharp yet pleasing features, a broad mouth, and dark eyes, Ayzel gave the impression of being both approachable and reliable. At just 30 years old, he had already solidified his position as the likely successor to the post of supreme commander.
Rumors that Menno Lyuteakh—unsurprisingly—favored him over his own son had persisted for years, fueled by ever-new details. Yet, Ayzel was seen by the public as the embodiment of honor and virtue, the beacon of hope for the Protectorium, in stark contrast to the younger Lyuteakh.
The Blue Gardens of Ao-Teien, famed for their fruit orchards and exceptional wineries, stood as one of the wealthiest agricultural regions, a vital link in the production and trade network of fine alcohol. Thousands of workers from the periphery flocked to this prosperous land.
Four hours earlier, the computational center’s systems detected a sharp increase in Schism levels and the imminent threat of a rupture in Region 078. Emergency alerts were dispatched to the central residence, production sites, and the house of Marquis Orni, the region’s owner. Similar warnings were sent to the main houses of the Crimson, Yellow, and Copper branches. Thanks to these alerts, experienced specialists arrived in time to oversee the evacuation.
As protocol dictated, entering potentially affected territories was strictly prohibited. The priority was to greet the evacuees, manage resources, and most importantly, seal the Potern once the evacuation was complete or the situation reached a critical point.
It wasn’t until the military and medical teams arrived—forty minutes after the alerts had been issued—that the field tents were erected, and containers of medicine and rations were unloaded. By then, nearly an hour and a half had passed before the monotonous wail of sirens reached the settlements.
For an hour and a half, ordinary workers lay asleep in their beds, unaware that the blight was spreading around them, seeping into their bodies, and slowly dissolving their very humanity—imperceptibly and irreparably. The stronger and younger managed to hold onto their normalcy, while others succumbed more quickly. The weakest likely didn’t even wake amid the commotion and panic.
Eventually, the evacuation transformed into a well-organized mechanism, running with precision. Ayzel surveyed the crowd of workers thoughtfully. Far too few people. Raising his eyes, he counted the cargo liners. The fifteenth vessel was emerging from the gate at a slow, steady pace, its smooth metallic hull catching the pink hues of the rising sun.
Fifteen ships, loaded with expensive alcohol, raw materials, and other valuable goods, were neatly arranged and ready. A few sleek vessels belonging to local nobility stood queued for departure, heading deeper into Teak-An.
The village sirens had clearly started blaring only after the most important cargo had left the region. “Bastards,” Ayzel muttered grimly, a bitter smile playing on his lips.
He had personally stationed his men at the gates, ensuring an orderly process for the evacuees. Those leaving the gates were directed into quarantine, where the Salamanders—members of the Copper branch and a team of medics—carefully inspected them.
The Salamanders peered into their eyes, checked teeth and nails, and measured readings with devices resembling bracelets. Some evacuees were allowed to remain, while others were gently led to hastily erected covered tents. They were searching for signs of distortion, doing their best to avoid causing panic. Unfortunately, those signs were found far more often than anyone would have liked.
Above the crowd, an official herald stood on a platform, monotonously repeating the same announcement:
“His Excellency, the High Chancellor, expresses his care and concern for his subjects from the afflicted provinces. The police and Crimson Brothers are authorized to ensure that you all receive aid. By special decree, all evacuees must undergo mandatory inspections for signs of corruption. The Crimson Brothers will not allow the spread of the blight and will safeguard you from danger. Each of you will be screened, and if no Schism has taken root within you, you will be granted passage on the evacuation convoys to leave the contaminated area. Those afflicted will receive care and be escorted to medical facilities for treatment by the Brothers of the Copper Hand.”
Occasionally, skeptical and unintelligible murmurs rose from the crowd, but most people accepted the decree and the inspections.
“Stay calm!” barked the soldiers, cutting through the noise. “Form a line! Line up for the inspection tents! No inspection, no rations or shelter! Keep order!”
Not far away, heavy cargo units were already humming, prepared to carry the evacuees far from this nightmare.
By Volt’s command, the Salamanders distributed rations—water, food, and blankets—and provided medical care to those in need. Despite this, the young falconet hesitated to give the final order.
Sending the people away, far from the sight of their crumbling homes, into the depths of Teak-An, meant signing his name to their fates. For every evacuee delivered safely, there would be nothing but an ominous void where their homes once stood.
More evacuees continued to arrive, the crowd swelling. Tension mounted. Everyone could feel that something terrible was about to happen but didn’t want to admit it.
“What is he waiting for?” wondered Sir Asgold, an older field medic overseeing the inspections. He saw wounds and bruises, but no sign of blight—nothing that would justify the Crimson falconet’s hesitation to make the obvious, right decision. The mist hadn’t overtaken them yet; they were safe. Why not let these people leave this cursed place?
“My lord?” he addressed the falconet with a respectful bow. They were from different branches, and while the young falconet wasn’t his direct superior, his rank was far higher, demanding utmost deference.
“The destruction began suddenly. There’s a significant amount of blight in the air. We’ve separated the afflicted; the clean ones await transport to the capital. The units are ready—we can send the first group to a nearby settlement.”
“There are hundreds of people here. I can’t risk the distorted ones entering the cities. We’ll wait for Junior Lyuteakh before sending the convoy.”
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“You believe the young lord will find something that a team of qualified medics missed? Am I understanding you correctly?” The medic’s tone held restrained indignation, tinged with bitterness.
“Now is not the time to worry about professional pride, Sir Asgold. There are more important matters.”
“In that case… how much longer must we wait for Lord Lyuteakh’s arrival? The people are tired and agitated—riots may break out.”
“Isolate the distorted ones. The rest is my concern.”
He turned away from the old man and noticed a tiny omnimobile diving sharply from the transport level, hovering roughly 50 meters above the ground. It landed rather inelegantly with a loud “Thud!” as the vehicle, a Bumblebee, spit out its passenger onto the platform.
Morveyn Lyuteakh leaned against the polished side of the omnimobile, catching his breath. The rough landing had shaken him considerably. The young falconet’s body wasn’t built to endure such strain. He had spent two tense hours at the controls, navigating the tangled web of the Confederate Transport System (CTS) from the residence of Countess Ubor in the province of Te-Algeize.
The past week had been a downright disaster—Morveyn had been stuck as a guest of an elderly noblewoman, enduring verbal duels, petty intrigues, and dubious negotiations. Throughout it all, the aging countess had developed the habit of breathily whispering “secrets” into his ear, gripping his arm with her birdlike claws. These "diplomatic missions" that Menno frequently assigned to him were sometimes messy, but to Morveyn’s credit, they were almost always successful.
His appearance, far from the traditional ideal of masculinity, appealed to most women and unsettled an alarming number of men. This trait proved useful in negotiations but was far less effective in fieldwork. Now, instead of standing at the forefront with the Crimson Wolves, he found himself lagging behind, though he could have been just as valuable here as he was in the opulent drawing rooms of the aristocracy.
Still, he had received the same emergency alert as the others earlier that morning. Unfortunately, the countess’s luxurious fleet didn’t include an omnimobile capable of handling off-network travel. Vehicles made for the aristocracy prioritized status and comfort above all else, with little regard for ruggedness or adaptability.
Morveyn had no choice but to travel in his Personal Train Unit, disembark at the first suitable station, and intimidate the locals into compliance. Had he opted for the safer and more comfortable rail route, he wouldn’t have arrived until evening.
The journey was exhausting—he cut across minor stations and made around twenty jumps between regions to save precious hours on CTS bypass routes. A healthy person wouldn’t even feel the first five jumps, as passenger routes typically connected stable, large portals for reliability, albeit with occasional station queues. Traversing minor regions saved time but came at the cost of stability, as the smaller portals lacked proper maintenance.
As a result, his hands still ached from gripping the controls tightly, and nausea churned in his stomach. Even the remnants of his morning pastry threatened to make an unpleasant return. The endless twists and turns of the barely regulated regional networks could unsettle anyone. Morveyn, lacking both an iron constitution and significant piloting experience, was no exception.
Ayzel Volt approached with wide strides, his relief and joy evident. Unlike common gossip, Morveyn didn’t resent his role as the Left Hand—an advisor rather than an heir to the Protectorium’s supreme commander. He genuinely liked Ayzel, and their five years of working side by side had forged a close bond.
He understood Ayzel’s natural charisma and ability to inspire crowds, a talent Morveyn himself lacked. His own charm was far more effective in one-on-one conversations, but in a crowd, he often felt like an outlier. Even now, the wary glances cast his way carried a hint of apprehension rather than hope.
Morveyn waved at his friend but hesitated to step away from his metallic steed, still testing the unsteady feeling in his knees. Ayzel, ignoring all safety protocols he knew well, pulled the young man into a bear hug.
“Mor, my friend, you’re finally here!” he exclaimed warmly, glancing at the battered omnimobile, which looked like it had been through hell in the past few hours. “Did you really make it here in that thing?”
“As you can see—with a little help from above,” Morveyn quipped, nodding toward the dashboard lined with icons of saints, occupying almost every free space. The sight had amused him earlier, but reflecting on the nerve-wracking journey, he began to suspect divine intervention might have played a role.
Running a gloved hand over his face, as if to brush away his exhaustion, Morveyn glanced around. “So, the Blue Gardens of Ao-Teien are gone. I was planning to visit Marquis Orni’s vineyards in a couple of weeks. What a bloody mess…”
“The Salamanders have inspected nearly everyone who arrived, but I’ve delayed sending the convoy. I want you to take a look,” Ayzel said without preamble, gripping Morveyn’s shoulder and steering him toward the Salamanders’ medical tents.
“I’ve got a feeling we shouldn’t rely on them too much,” Morveyn sighed, catching a glare of indignation from Sir Asgold.
He tugged at the cord securing his glove, undoing its intricate knot. His hands, tired and damp from being encased in leather all day, felt uncomfortably warm. Stretching his fingers, he noted a comforting sense of camaraderie as Ayzel showed no signs of withdrawing, as if nothing had changed between them.
“The old man’s glaring again. He’ll start yelling that my decisions are pulled out of thin air,” Morveyn muttered, feeling Sir Asgold’s prickly gaze on his back—a familiar sensation from past confrontations.
“Don’t pay him any mind. We can’t allow the distorted into Te-Aroed’s walls. His Excellency wouldn’t stand for it.”
“The Salamanders can see the flowers of the blight but can’t recognize its seeds. It’s better to call for Sir Saags—he’s respected among them. Let him confirm the list I provide, and there shouldn’t be any problems.”
“Bloody politics,” Ayzel growled. “We should be saving people, not collecting signatures.”
Further down the camp, grim-faced evacuees stood in lines for inspection. Beyond that lay the quarantine zone for those suspected of corruption. Nearby, several large transport units stood ready to carry evacuees to resettlement areas.
Further still, angular, dark vans with sealed windows awaited more volatile distorted individuals. Each van was guarded by two soldiers, faint red containment seals glowing on the doors and ground. In case of emergencies, every means necessary would be used to prevent the infected from harming others.
At Ayzel’s command, those who had passed inspection and were cleared for resettlement were lined up. The line began moving toward the transport units, and the evacuees sighed with relief, whispering quietly to one another. The process moved quickly, but at a subtle signal from Morveyn, around twenty people were pulled from the line and redirected to the quarantine zone.
“That’s too many,” Ayzel muttered darkly, frowning at the bewildered evacuees being led away.
“There, in the crowd by the gates—that’s where the real problem is,” Morveyn replied tensely, narrowing his eyes at something beyond the Potern. “I don’t think these vans will be enough. It’s radiating badly over there.”
He froze for a moment, his eyes slightly widening as he stared at the scene. Then, without warning, he dashed into the crowd.
“Send the convoy!” was all he shouted before disappearing.
Ayzel shrugged and began issuing orders to dispatch the loaded transport units. The next batch of vehicles needed to be brought in quickly to clear the platform.
In the quarantine zone, Sir Asgold was furiously gesturing, outraged by what he considered Lyuteakh’s incompetence in placing twenty seemingly healthy individuals among the quarantined. It took some explaining to reassure him that Sir Saags, a paramedic from the Protectorium, would soon arrive to professionally evaluate these disputed cases.
Just as Ayzel managed to calm the agitated medic, panicked screams erupted from the direction of the gates. Without hesitation, Ayzel rushed toward the commotion. Sir Asgold, despite his own duties, decided to follow, though it took the older, heavier man some time to catch up.
The void within the oval gates of the active Potern, through which the swaying, blue-tinged branches of trees were still visible, began to close. It was as if the massive ring had suddenly turned icy, and the invisible membrane of the passage within it became the surface of water. At first, faint frost patterns appeared at the edges, delicate and lacy, resembling the designs of frost-covered winter windows. These crystalline patterns quickly spread, their shimmering branches growing outward and upward, weaving into an ephemeral design that covered the portal's membrane. The icy layer gradually thickened, and the silvery filigree seemed to come alive, spiraling toward the center.
"All Crimson Wolves, return to your positions!" Ayzel commanded loudly, ensuring everyone heard him. On the shoulder of each soldier was a brooch-like device that allowed them to hear the commander’s orders regardless of distance, and the Wolves responded quickly and efficiently.
"What the hell is going on with the console? Get a technician here now!" he barked at a thin young man who had rushed over, clad in a mustard-colored uniform with a golden bird emblem on his chest. (The golden bird, clutching an arrow in its beak, was the symbol of the Golden Branch of the Tree, responsible for communications.)
Panic erupted suddenly, as if triggered by the snap of a finger. The people gathered on the far side of the gates seemed to lose their minds. In confusion, they surged forward, pushing and trampling over one another, toppling those who couldn’t move quickly enough. The crush grew stronger, and isolated screams turned into a cacophony of hysterical cries.
Men and women tried to squeeze through the rapidly narrowing passage, climbing upward and over one another in a desperate attempt to overcome the barrier. Those who were quicker and stronger used others as steps, crushing underfoot those who were less capable. Those who fell were mercilessly trampled by the crowd. The air filled with sounds—hysterical screams, hoarse cries for help, and the dull thuds of bodies slamming against the icy barrier.
The opening of the Potern, which had been like a window into another part of the world, began to dim. The icy sheen refracted the sunlight. Within moments, the frost from the edges extended toward the center, transforming into an impenetrable ice barrier. The frosty design finally closed in the middle of the portal, completely obscuring the last glimmers of the pre-dawn landscape behind an unyielding icy wall.
The people were cut off, left stranded on the other side, pressing and trampling one another in a futile attempt to break through the barrier. The screams grew inaudible. Faces twisted in fear, their mouths opening soundlessly. The path to the Blue Gardens of Ao-Teien had been sealed. Panic spread to this side of the gates as well—the crowd recoiled from the Potern, organized lines disintegrated, and chaos threatened to engulf the entire camp.
“What’s going on?” Ayzel demanded impatiently, addressing the control hub through his communication device.
Something crackled in his earpiece, and Ayzel’s expression shifted abruptly. Sir Asgold, watching closely, could tell something deeply unpleasant had happened. Though he only caught fragments of the transmission, it was enough to leave him utterly confused.
“Falconet personally sealed…” Asgold muttered, repeating the words without realizing their significance.
Ayzel’s breath hitched, and the next moment, he bolted toward the control room, shoving people out of his path. The words Asgold had absentmindedly repeated—intended for no one else’s ears—spread through the crowd like wildfire.
“Falconet Lyuteakh sealed the gates himself!”
Ayzel nearly reached the control room when an unexpected and powerful tremor shook the ground. The crowd froze in terror. Some fell to the ground, and children began wailing again, their cries sharp and piercing.
With a deep, thunderous roar, the landscape visible through the portal fractured in two, sending clouds of dust billowing into the air. Through the haze, a suffocating, impenetrable greenish fog became visible, spreading thickly from the depths of the rupture, consuming everything and everyone in its path.
For a few moments, the shocked faces of those on the far side remained visible. Then, with a hollow click, the gates became entirely transparent, like an empty picture frame. It was now no more than a massive ring sunk into the ground, through which the unbroken continuation of the landscape could be seen.
The Blue Gardens of Ao-Teien had vanished, devoured by the Schism.
The control room door swung open, and Morveyn appeared in the doorway. He was trembling violently, his pale face now almost gray. Without hesitation, Ayzel ordered a Laska to be prepared with a driver and a security escort to ensure that the young Lyuteakh reached the capital safely.
The arrangements took only minutes. Meanwhile, rumors spread through the crowd at an astonishing speed. By the time Morveyn collapsed heavily into the passenger seat of the sleek Laska, the Wolves were already struggling to contain the mob.
“Murderer! Bastard!” someone screamed hysterically from the crowd.
Ayzel understood perfectly well that if the potern had remained open, the Schism’s flow would have engulfed everyone on this side as well. Yet he also knew that a tragedy of this magnitude demanded someone to blame. Blaming nature itself was futile—nature could not be judged or held accountable.