Hundreds of CPG carrier aircraft roared across the pale morning sky, their massive shadows sweeping over the turbulent sea surrounding Varkath Isle—a jagged, storm-wracked landmass off the coast of Heca Province. Once a prison island used during the Old Wars, Varkath now pulsed with new life, reborn as a so-called federal sanctuary—a gilded cage for the unwanted.
The moment the carriers touched down in formation across the fortified landing fields, the rear hatches opened, and the first waves of mutants from every corner of Edenia disembarked—tired, wary, silent. Young and old. Some clutching their few belongings. Others with hands still cuffed in power-dampening restraints. They were met by an armed CPG welcome, drones circling above, watching.
But at the center of the arrival grounds stood a figure unlike any other—one both revered and feared. His name was Dren Havoc.
Appointed by the Edenian Council as the Provisional Chancellor of Varkath Isle, Dren was a mutant of terrifying legend and undeniable presence. Standing nearly seven feet tall, his body was a twisted canvas of flesh and metal—scorched scars ran like lightning over coal-black skin, and veins of molten orange shimmered beneath the surface like lava trapped in stone. One of his arms was entirely biomechanical, forged from some hybrid mutant-tech alloy, humming with restrained force. His eyes, mismatched—one a glowing red, the other a pale frost-blue—burned with equal parts pain and pride.
Despite his appearance, Dren wore a high-collared military-style coat, trimmed in crimson, with a sash marked with the seal of Varkath—a phoenix rising from a shackle. His deep, commanding voice rolled over the crowd like distant thunder. "Brothers. Sisters. We were cast out, branded as threats. But here, on Varkath, we are more than fugitives. We are the storm they tried to silence. The future they fear. And now, we rise—together."
Some in the crowd bowed their heads. Others raised fists, holding back tears or rage. But all watched him. All felt him.
Behind him, the new city of New Bastion stretched into view—walls still under construction, towers powered by mutant-forged cores, and banners of the phoenix fluttering defiantly in the sea wind.
Dren Havoc, the monster who once leveled an entire battalion to protect a village of orphaned mutants, now stood as the leader of a new nation.
The sky remained overcast, streaked with ash-hued clouds as Dren Havoc led the newly arrived mutants down the tiered roads of New Bastion, the capital settlement of Varkath Isle. Flanked by Sentinel drones and towering mutant-constructed walls, the city pulsed with life and a strange, synthetic energy.
Groups were divided by registration classification—those with active Sentinel Core bracelets guided to the inner districts, while higher-threat level mutants were escorted by CPG liaisons and assigned more fortified housing on the outer ring of the city.
Dren's mechanical arm extended, pointing proudly to landmarks as he spoke with an unnatural charisma that echoed from loudspeakers sewn into his coat collar. "Here, you'll find the Nexus-Grid Hospital—fully autonomous with bio-scan healing tech. There—our Education Hall, embedded with Arkane AI archives. That dome ahead is the Varkath Assembly—a space where mutants will govern mutants."
He paused often to let the awestruck gaze of his people sweep across the towering spires, neon-lit walkways, and self-sustaining power grids. Advanced tech hummed in the walls—gifted from Nexus, the technocratic guild of Edenia, whose cutting-edge innovations had, quite literally, reshaped Varkath in less than a fortnight.
"We must give credit where it's due," Dren added, stopping beside a kinetic monorail gliding past silently. "Edenia's funding, their engineers, and the minds of Nexus have turned a wasteland into hope. Whether you trust them or not... this—" he gestured to the glowing city skyline, "—is real."
Some nodded, eyes wide, filled with cautious wonder. But not all were convinced. Among the crowd, the murmurs began to grow. Low, bitter voices behind hoods and beneath their breath:
"He talks like a politician."
"Hope? Or another cage with cleaner walls?"
"Dren was a warrior. Now he's quoting council speeches."
"Another dog dressed in armor."
Dren heard it. He always did. But he didn't turn. Didn't scold. Instead, he let the silence carry the weight of his response. He had seen worse. Heard worse. Been worse.
Dren kept walking, his heavy steps echoing against the polished blackstone roads of New Bastion, never once faltering even as the murmurs gnawed at the back of his mind. He had heard it all before—government dog, sellout, leashed beast—but he didn't care.
Like Professor M, Dren believed in coexistence—a future where mutants could live, thrive, and contribute without fear or chains. He wasn't just building walls. He was building roots.
They soon reached the northern terrace, where the terrain shifted from steel to soil. Towering fences opened to reveal vast tiered farmlands, carved into the hillsides with precision. Artificial sunlight panels hovered above, adjusting to the cloudy Varkath skies. The scent of earth and growing things clung to the air—a rare fragrance on a land once scorched by war.
Dren turned to face the group, a rare softness creeping into his expression. "This isn't just land," he said. "This is legacy."
He gestured toward rows of Silaris grain, Redbane tubers, and Elysian Bloomfruits—mutant-modified crops adapted to Varkath's rocky soil. Then he stepped aside as a massive holo-panel unfolded from the ground, displaying charts, prices, and trade networks across Edenia.
"Silaris grain goes for 1200 Lyd per kilo," he explained. "Redbane tubers? Up to 1800 Lyd per kilo on the Velhendor market. And Elysian Bloomfruits…" he gave a faint smile, "can reach 250 Lyd each when sold fresh in Edenia Prime."
A few eyes widened. "To put that in perspective," Dren continued, "a family in Varkath needs around 120000 Lyd a month to live decently. That covers shelter, utilities, food, and education. One acre of productive farmland here, properly worked, can yield up to 500000 Lyd in crop sales each month."
A hush fell over the group. For the first time, they saw something not wrapped in orders or shackles—potential. "This land is yours," Dren said simply. "You're not slaves. Not prisoners. You're citizens of a new order. You want freedom? Earn it."
Some stood straighter. Others exchanged hopeful glances. For the first time, the walls of Varkath felt less like a cage, and more like a shield. And as Dren walked onward, hands clasped behind his back, he spoke only to himself. "They can hate me now. But someday, they'll understand—I didn't come here to kneel. I came to plant a kingdom."
The group descended toward the southern edge of New Bastion, where the land sloped downward into salt-washed stone and steel piers. The scent of brine mixed with engine oil, and the wind carried the distant caw of seabirds circling above mastheads. The wide view opened into the Azure Maw, the sprawling coast of Varkath known for its deep, nutrient-rich waters and unpredictable tides.
Dren Havoc stopped at the ridge, his cloak flaring in the sea breeze. Below them, the Port of Azure Maw buzzed with movement—automated cranes lifted cargo, long fishing vessels bobbed gently against the docks, and mutant workers unloaded crates filled with silvery Ternfish, Koral Crabs, and Thornscale Eels, all native to the island's southern reefs. "This is the Azure Maw," Dren announced. "She's wild. Untamed. But generous to those who know her moods."
He pointed to a series of sturdy fishing vessels docked along the lower piers, each equipped with hybrid solar engines and net drones. "Fishing licenses are distributed freely to registered mutants. The ocean's bounty is yours. One Ternfish can sell for 300 to 500 Lyd in local markets. A kilo of Koral Crab claws? That's 3000 Lyd minimum in Elysian Vale. And Thornscale Eels, if processed right, can reach 6000 Lyd per strand in Velhendor's high-end cuisine sector."
He turned toward a group of younger mutants, their eyes locked on the sea with quiet longing. "You want to build something real?" Dren asked. "You fish. You trade. You carve out a life the world told you you'd never deserve."
Behind him, the CPG carriers lifted off from the far end of the island, leaving the horizon clear—just water, wind, and opportunity. "This coast isn't just a border," Dren said, his voice low. "It's a gateway. And we're done being locked behind walls. It's time we sail forward."
He let the silence sink in, let the wind speak for the dreams still too fragile to say aloud. Then, without another word, he turned—guiding them back toward the heart of the city they would soon call their own.
Meanwhile… Inside the Hall of M. Rain whispered against the glass dome that crowned the upper observatory, a steady rhythm that filled the quiet tension between them. Barry stood with his arms crossed, gaze fixed on the swirling projection of Varkath Isle above the conference table—a live feed beamed from orbit showing long lines of mutants being processed.
Professor M stood on the other side, hands clasped behind his back, face unreadable behind his silver-rimmed spectacles.
"So that's it?" Barry's voice broke the silence. "We're just letting them round up every mutant and dump them on an island like we're toxins?"
The projection flickered, now showing Dren Havoc addressing a group of arrivals. Calm. Charismatic. Almost rehearsed. "Even he went along with it?" Barry scoffed. "I thought Dren was one of us."
Professor M exhaled slowly, choosing his words. "He still is," he said. "But Dren made a choice. One that I… don't fully agree with. But I understand it."
Barry's brows furrowed. "Understand what? That he's now the poster boy for a gilded cage?"
The professor walked toward the window, hands now folded in front of him, watching the rain dance across the glass. "Dren believes in structure. In stability. He thinks Varkath offers mutants a chance to rebuild without persecution. A sanctuary… albeit one wrapped in political compromise."
"Compromise?" Barry snapped. "They're labeling us. Tagging us with those Sentinel Core bracelets, dampening our abilities. You know what that is, Professor? That's not peace. That's domestication."
The professor turned then, meeting Barry's fierce stare. His tone was calm but firm. "And the alternative? Open rebellion? Another Havenford?" His voice lowered. "How many more must die to prove a point that Edenia refuses to hear?"
Barry looked away, jaw clenched. "So we bow our heads, shuffle onto ships like cattle, and smile for the cameras?" he muttered. "That's your solution?"
Professor M approached the table, fingers gliding across the control console. Images of past mutant massacres, destroyed sanctuaries, and news clips filled the air—gritty memories of resistance that ended in blood.
"It's not a solution," he said, softer now. "It's a pause. A breath. Long enough to figure out what comes next. We don't have the numbers. Not yet. And Edenia… it's afraid. Fear drives cruelty faster than hate ever could."
Barry's fists relaxed just slightly. "And Dren?" he asked. "He really believes they'll let us live in peace?"
The professor nodded, albeit slowly. "He does. And maybe… he's right. Maybe if we prove we can build, not destroy, Edenia might see us differently."
"And if they don't?" Barry asked.
A beat passed. "Then Varkath becomes more than a prison," Professor M said, his voice steeled. "It becomes a nation. And we won't ask for freedom next time. We'll declare it."
Barry didn't respond immediately. His eyes drifted back to the projection, to Dren's face, to the ships lining the port of Azure Maw. He still didn't like it. He still didn't trust it. But he understood it. "We better hope Dren's ready for what that place might become," he said quietly. "Because one spark is all it takes… and Varkath could burn brighter than Havenford ever did."