The world was quieter now.
No drones hummed in the skies. No feeds blinked on LED billboards. No sponsors whispered behind polished glass. Only the sound of wind brushing across broken nations—and in that wind, a new force stirred.
Not Jian.
Not Kael.
Something… older. Forgotten.
---
Caucasus Mountains – 12,000 ft above sea level
The Citadel of the Forgotten
Kael adjusted his breathing mask as he climbed the final ridge, boots crunching ice. Astra followed close behind, her datapad flickering with a fading trail left by Rael's encrypted coordinates.
The Citadel was carved into stone—no comm towers, no signal feeds. Just fortress walls as ancient as the mountains themselves. And guarding its gates…
Tariq Vasin, former Player of Morocco. A phantom.
He had disappeared in Year One.
Now he stood tall in frost-covered armor, flanked by other ghosts—unrecognized faces, forgotten warriors.
Kael raised a hand in greeting. "Kael Vasil. Ukraine."
Tariq nodded once. "We know."
---
Inside the Citadel, a fire roared in a central chamber. Around it sat nine figures. Some wore partial HALIX gear. Others had torn it off entirely. Their eyes held no allegiance to sponsors, factions, or scripts.
They were the Children of Silence.
> "Welcome to the edge of the world," Tariq said, taking his seat. "Where the war never found us, and the lies couldn't reach."
Kael took it all in. "Why haven't you acted?"
An older woman—Evelyn Cai, once the feared Player of Chile—leaned forward.
> "Because until Jian silenced the world, no one cared what we said. But now… now your fire has broken the ceiling. And Jian fears what still burns beneath it."
Kael turned to Astra, who gave a slow, almost reverent nod.
> "They're not just survivors," she whispered. "They're sovereigns."
---
Over the next hours, stories unfolded.
Tariq, who faked his death in an avalanche after discovering sponsors manipulating battle outcomes.
Evelyn, who used weather disruption tech to vanish her base off all satellite maps.
A silent trio from Kazakhstan, known only by their masks, who swore off technology and survived purely on analog systems.
And at the center of it all:
Zarif Noori, the founder of the Citadel. Former Player of Afghanistan. The man Jian couldn't break—or find.
He entered last, with a limp, supported by a polished oak cane.
His eyes locked onto Kael's. No words at first. Just understanding.
Then:
> "Jian started a blackout," Zarif said softly. "But you… you started a storm."
> "We've waited for one of you to light the match."
---
Kael stood now, surrounded by ghosts made real.
> "Then fight with me."
> "Jian holds the keys to the future. We tear his empire out by the roots. No sponsors. No scripts. We make the world ours again."
Zarif smiled.
> "You don't ask for help. You call for a revolution."
He turned to the others.
> "And I say we answer."
---
End of Chapter Nine
Next up: Chapter Ten — "The Warborn Accord"