The Oval Office was quiet.

  Too quiet for a world that had just been saved.

  Outside, chants echoed from the White House wn—faint but persistent. Ancient, Ancient, Ancient.They called his name like a prayer. The first guardian of Earth. The first being to wield Tamashkii in the open. The first to rewrite the rules.

  President Sato Fujimori stood at the window, hands folded behind his back, watching the silhouettes of celebration. Somewhere out there, Ancient was smiling for the cameras, answering questions with that calm, otherworldly voice, pretending he wasn’t exhausted from catching a celestial body mid-descent.

  Sato didn’t smile.

  Behind him, a gentle cough broke the stillness.

  “Mr. President,” said Samberg, stepping forward with a thick folder tucked under one arm. “We’ve received the first readings from the residual Tamashkii left at the impact site. The Japanese team was right—it’s nothing like we’ve seen before.”

  Of course it isn’t, Sato thought. Because we’ve never seen the soul given form. He turned, motioning for Samberg to continue.

  Samberg id the folder down. “There’s more. Multiple individuals worldwide are reporting strange phenomena. Increased strength, enhanced senses, emotional surges. It’s spreading.”

  “To be expected,” came another voice from the corner.

  Kuroda stood by the firepce, dressed like a man who hadn’t slept in days. He hadn’t. His eyes were sunken, his coat stained with the dust of emergency bs and fallout shelters. But his voice remained crisp, even amused.

  “It’s the w of proximity. When something divine enters a closed system, the system adapts. Tamashkii isn’t just power. It’s contagion.”

  Sato’s gaze sharpened. “You’re saying Ancient infected the world.”

  “I’m saying,” Kuroda said, stepping forward, “he awakened it.”

  Samberg shifted uncomfortably. “With all due respect, this isn’t a philosophical debate. We have governments panicking, militaries on edge. They want containment protocols. Defense strategies.”

  Sato didn’t respond right away. He walked to his desk, pced both hands on the wood, and leaned forward.

  “Tell them this,” he said quietly. “Tell them the age of secrets is over.”

  Samberg blinked, caught off-guard. “You’re serious?”

  “I’m tired of pretending,” Sato muttered. “The people saw it with their own eyes. That wasn’t some weapon test, or a miracle we can spin. It was a man—no, a being—with the power to part the sky.”

  Outside, the chants surged again.

  Ancient! Ancient!

  Kuroda chuckled. “You sound almost reverent.”

  “I sound real,” Sato replied, sitting down at the desk. “And if we don’t stop lying to ourselves, the world will spin out of control before we can brace for it.”

  A silence settled in the room. The kind that meant something irreversible had just been said.

  Then, quietly, Samberg added, “What do we do next?”

  Sato didn’t answer. Not yet. He looked down at a photo on his desk—him shaking hands with the Prime Minister of Japan. A gift from years ago, before any of this began. Before the word Tamashkii had ever left someone’s lips. Back when he still believed power was political, not spiritual.

  His eyes lingered.

  This wasn’t what I signed up for.

  ?

  Three Years Earlier

  The campaign stage was humid and electric.

  Younger Sato, bzer off, sleeves rolled, gripped the podium as a sea of fgs waved beneath him. His voice carried through the crowd like a bde—sharp, clear, commanding.

  “Leadership means accountability,” he said. “It all comes down to making the right choice. Not just when it’s easy, but when it hurts. When it’s messy. When it scares you.”

  He pointed a finger toward the press box. “The st administration hid a biological threat for six months. Six months! And now we’re expected to trust their judgment on defense reform?”

  The crowd roared.

  In the wings, Samberg stood with arms crossed, nodding slowly. Kuroda, less impressed, flipped through data projections on a tablet.

  “His charisma’s dangerous,” he muttered.

  Samberg raised a brow. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

  “It is,” Kuroda said, eyes narrowing. “Because people follow charisma. But charisma burns out.”

  ?

  Back to Present – Oval Office, Night

  A light knock broke the tension.

  A man in a bck coat stepped in—his insignia bore no fg, no name. Just a white button-up with suspenders under the coat.

  He bowed. “Mr. President. I’ve been sent to escort you to Japan.”

  Sato’s brows furrowed. “Escort?”

  “By request of the elders,” the man said simply. “Your term ends in three weeks. But the Setai believes your service is not yet over.”

  “Setai,” Sato repeated, the word strange on his tongue. “What does your military want with me?”

  The man’s expression didn’t change. “We’re not exactly military sir. We answer to an authority beyond nations.”

  Kuroda stepped forward. “You’ll forgive us if that sounds like cult behavior.”

  The man’s smile was polite—and unbothered. “We only serve bance.”

  Sato stood. “Why me?”

  “Because you’ve seen what others haven’t,” the man said. “You didn’t flinch when the sky cracked open. And our protector believes you’re the only one who won’t look away when it happens again.”

  “Our protector?”

  The man stepped aside.

  And Ancient walked in.

  No cape. No suit. Just a calm gaze, a faint glow in his iris, and the weight of knowing too much for too long.

  Sato, Ancient said—not aloud, but within the soul. The fmes of your life are not yet meant to fade. There is more work to do.

  ?

  Tokyo – The Hidden Summit

  The elevator moved without sound. There were no buttons, no panels. Just Ancient, Sato, and an old fme in the air that refused to die.

  When the doors opened, the world changed.

  Sato stepped into the strange headquarters for the first time—

  High vaulted ceilings. Steel and paper interwoven. Tamashkii-infused nterns casting soft light across polished floors. Dozens of people in dark coats moved with silent purpose. No one saluted. No one bowed. But they all gnced his way, just once, with eyes that knew.

  “This is where your world ends,” Ancient said, walking beside him. “And where ours begins.”

  Sato scanned the room. “You said this isn’t government. But this sure feels like one.”

  “It isn’t,” Ancient replied. “It’s an instrument. And it answers to the Chūkan—ten elders who maintain the spiritual barrier between life and death. You’ve never heard of them. You were never meant to.”

  “And you?” Sato asked.

  “I was one of theirs. A more complicated one.” Ancient smiled without warmth. “But still loyal.”

  They passed a room where a young agent was sparring with a glowing staff. Another where researchers traced Tamashkii patterns across parchment that changed as they breathed.

  “This is the Ju Setai,” Ancient said. “The world doesn’t know what it is. They think this is a branch of military. But they only follow orders when it protects the veil.”

  Sato stopped walking. “Why me?”

  “Because the veil is weakening. And your fme… still burns.”

  ?

  Later – Shrine Gardens

  The two men walked beneath cherry blossoms that bloomed out of season. A light mist hung in the air, but neither of them seemed to breathe it.

  “You’re asking me to leave behind everything,” Sato said.

  “I’m asking you to do what you’ve always done,” Ancient replied. “Lead. But not as a politician. As a fme that chooses where to burn.”

  Sato chuckled softly. “That’s poetic. But you don’t know me like that.”

  “I know your soul,” Ancient said simply. “I knew it the moment I nded.”

  A pause.

  “Besides,” Ancient added, “you’re dying.”

  Sato stopped walking. “What?”

  “Not tomorrow. Not next month. But your Tamashkii is… brittle. It’s not age. It’s erosion. You’ve spent more of yourself than you realize.”

  The cough came, right on cue.

  Sato wiped his mouth. “So what? You’re giving me a second chance?”

  “No,” Ancient said. “I’m giving you a st one.”

  ?

  Washington D.C. – Two Weeks Later

  Sato was back in the Oval Office. The world was quieter now. The crowds gone. The glow of Ancient’s miracle dimmed by bureaucracy and red tape.

  It was te. Too te for briefings.

  Sato sat at the edge of his desk, sleeves rolled, tie loosened. Kuroda entered with a folder, but didn’t sit.

  “You’ve been busy,” Kuroda said.

  “You’ve been watching,” Sato replied.

  “You were gone long enough,” Kuroda said. “I assume Japan offered more than tea.

  Sato sat quietly.

  Kuroda pced the folder down. “You signed off on new surveilnce protocols. Tamashkii-user registries. Hero licenses.”

  “They need structure.”

  “They need privacy.”

  Sato looked up. “They need protection. If we don’t organize this now, there’s going to be chaos.”

  Kuroda raised an eyebrow. “So you’re pnning to herd gods like sheep?”

  Sato stood. “I’m pnning to help people. That’s what this is supposed to be.”

  Kuroda took a long breath. “You always say that. But people like us… we don’t help. We control. That’s how we survive.”

  Sato’s jaw tightened. “You think this is about survival?”

  “I think,” Kuroda said, stepping closer, “you’re still pretending the world didn’t change. Ancient gave us the spark. Now we decide what burns.”

  Sato stared at him for a moment.

  Then, quietly, “And if the fire spreads too far?”

  Kuroda smiled—something cold behind it. “Then we rebuild. From the ashes.”

  A beat of silence.

  “Is that why you’re so eager to poke and prod him?” Sato asked. “Ancient. You call it research, but your past experiment was pure dissection.”

  “They agreed to it.”

  “We should have morals Kuroda.”

  “You should have morals,” Kuroda corrected. “I’m just the man holding the scalpel.”

  Sato didn’t respond.

  Kuroda picked up the folder and walked toward the door.

  “Tell yourself whatever you need to sleep, Fujimori,” he said. “But if you want to lead this new world—you’re going to have to get your hands dirty.”

  Sato didn’t respond immediately.

  Instead, he opened a drawer, pulled out a file, and threw it to Kuroda.

  Kuroda raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

  “Authorization,” Sato said. “To begin full spectrum scans on Ancient. Physical, neurological, spiritual—if you think it’ll help us understand Tamashkii, do it.”

  A pause.

  “But,” Sato added, voice harder now, “I want oversight. No dissection. No more of your bck site research. We lost good people st time. The fact that you still have a job surprises me.”

  Kuroda’s eye twitched. “That was different.”

  “It always is,” Sato snapped. “Until someone ends up in a bag.”

  Kuroda looked at the file again. Then slowly reached out and took it.

  “Fine,” he said. “No more bags.”

  And with that he left the room.

  ?

  The Rise of the Hero Society

  There wasn’t a single moment when the world shifted.

  It happened quietly. Then all at once.

  A child in Rio stopped a bus with his bare hands. A college student in Mani survived a fall from a six-story building and walked away without a scratch. A mother in Johannesburg healed a dying bird just by touching it.

  At first, they were outliers. “Miracles.” But the pattern grew. Global. Predictable.

  Tamashkii had entered the bloodstream of the human race.

  And Ancient? Ancient had become its symbol.

  He never asked to be.

  But there he was—on posters, broadcast screens, t-shirts. Saving lives, giving speeches in seven nguages, and smiling the kind of smile that only looked natural when he was exhausted.

  Sato watched it all unfold from a stage of his own. His final weeks as President were buried beneath new legistion: the Tamashkii Safety Reform Act, the Hero Activity Oversight Bill, the foundations of something the public began calling—

  The Hero Society.

  He hated the name.

  “I didn’t want to turn people into brands,” he said to Samberg one evening, staring out at a skyline littered with new logos and academy announcements.

  “But you didn’t,” Samberg replied. “They turned themselves into symbols. You just gave them a pce to stand.”

  One of the new icons was already making waves: a teen from Japan with razor-sharp reflexes, impeccable strength, and sometimes you’d hear a drum beat near him.

  They called him the Sound Hero.

  Akira Aozora.

  In the months that followed, the Hero Society flourished.

  Tamashkii academies were built. Registration centers set up. The Setai worked in shadows, keeping bance. But on the surface, the world sparkled.

  There were Tamashkii duels on rooftops. Rescue ops in disaster zones. Kids wore masks not to hide their faces—but to match the ones they saw saving lives.

  For the first time in decades, Sato felt… hope.

  Even if his chest ached more now. Even if the coughs came harder, and longer.

  One night, he met Ancient on a private rooftop above Tokyo. No press. No cameras.

  “You shouldn’t keep pushing yourself,” Ancient said, folding his arms.

  “I’ve been pushing since before you fell out of the sky.”

  “Maybe. But back then, things were simpler.”

  Sato ughed. “And now?”

  “Now,” Ancient said, his voice quieter, “it’s all weird. But not the bad kind of weird you know? It’s weirdly comforting.” He ended with a small chuckle.

  They stood in silence for a while.

  Then Sato asked the question he’d been avoiding for months.

  “Do you ever regret coming here? Stopping that asteroid saved the pnet….. but it also changed it. Probably forever.”

  Ancient looked out over the city. “No. Something the warriors of the Chūkan Yūrei instill in us at a young age is, ‘to never have regrets’.”

  “Warriors?”, Sato ughed. “You’re a hero in my books. That’s good answer but is it truthful? Even with everything it’s turned into?”

  Ancient smiled faintly. “Especially because of that.” He clenched his fists. “I have the power to leave here, go to Aska, come back, and for you it’d seem like I just went for a quick walk around the block. I have the power needed to protect people, so protecting people is what I must do. Everything else is irrelevant to that.”

  Sato looked up at him with a smirk. Then he pced a hand on his shoulder. “Like I said earlier…. You’ll always be a hero to me.”

  Ancient let those words settle then looked back at Sato with a grin. “Oh, I almost forgot. When I went in for my monthly testing, Kuroda wanted me to rey a message to you. He said it was urgent and he needed to see you right away.”

  ?

  The White House – Private Lab Access

  Sato entered without knocking. An old habit from being former President, Kuroda assumed.

  Kuroda didn’t look up from the vial he was holding—iridescent, slow-moving, faintly glowing green like liquid grass. “You made it.”

  “You didn’t say I had a choice. ”

  Kuroda smiled faintly. “Everyone has a choice. Some of us just live with worse outcomes than others.”

  Sato looked around. No guards. No advisors. Just cold steel and the soft hum of machines. “What is all this nonsense?”

  Kuroda gently set the vial into its stand and tapped a datapad. A panel lit up, projecting two holograms.

  One: a spiking, chaotic Tamashkii signature.

  Two: a muted, stable line, calm and consistent.

  “This,” Kuroda said pointing at the first, “is what you look like now. And this… is what you could look like tomorrow.”

  Sato’s cough came without warning. He turned, covering his mouth. It rattled deeper than before. More stubborn. When it finally subsided, he wiped his palm against his coat and said nothing.

  Kuroda walked over to the vial.

  “I call it a simple health potion. A purification catalyst. Refines Tamashkii. Strengthens the soul’s vessel. It won’t cure you… but it will buy you time.”

  Sato stared at the glow. “Time? I don’t need more time. I’m ready to go.”

  “Hmm are you really?,” Kuroda said smoothly. “Time is a strange thing. We all get lost in it, but for some of us…. It drives us. Motivates us to the fullest. When you were president I thought you were that type of man.” He sighed. “But maybe my judgement was wrong. Or maybe?”

  He tapped a second panel. Another projection—this time of a glowing orb-shaped object suspended in a containment field.

  “I call this the Tamashkii Core. Stabilizes resonance. Prevents colpse in users with high emotional variance. In the wrong hands? Dangerous. But in yours, Commander…”

  “You want me to push this,” Sato said coldly.

  “I want you to share my ambition. Ancient has told me of this ‘Chūkan’. Seeing as your Commander of their little charity project….. Help them see what you already know: that the floodgates are opening. That they cannot stop what is coming alone. And soon, too many will awaken to contain. The core offers safety. Control. Order.”

  Sato shook his head. “We can’t control souls. You’re a pretty twisted scientist, but even you must know that’s impossible.”

  Kuroda stepped closer.

  “Impossible for the rest of the world, yes. But I will accomplish it. No. I have accomplished it. The only reason there’s a chain on the door right now is because you’re standing in front of it.”

  Sato narrowed his eyes. “Are you threatening me?”

  “It’s a truth.” Kuroda’s voice sharpened, just for a moment. “If you vanish tomorrow, who steps in to question men like me? Who stops the next ‘dissection procedure’? Who holds the line?”

  Sato’s fingers clenched. The cough returned—stronger this time. He sat down, chest heaving slightly.

  “You’re saying if I don’t accept your little potion… people get hurt.”

  “I’m saying,” Kuroda said quietly, “if you’re gone, the ones who believe in restraint die first. How sad that would be.”

  Silence.

  “It’s not about you wanting to live, Sato,” Kuroda finished. “It’s about what dies if you don’t.”

  Sato didn’t speak for a long time.

  Then—very softly—“Give me the damn vial.”

  ?

  Hokkaido Horror– Months Later

  The sky should have been quiet.

  Instead, screams rose from rooftops. Lights flickered. A crowd had gathered below the edge of a school building, where a girl stood alone at the edge.

  Sato stood frozen in the Setai command center, watching the feed. Samberg stood beside him.

  “She was one of the first,” Samberg whispered. “Ancient helped her years ago. She’s been unstable ever since.”

  “He was just here wasn’t he? Where’d he go?” Samberg asked.

  Sato turned.

  And in that moment, the screen flickered—

  And Ancient arrived.

  He didn’t appear with glory this time. Just a blink of white light, a soft nding, and a sorrowful gaze.

  The girl stepped back.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  Ancient’s hand paused in midair.

  Behind the crowd, someone moved in the shadows.

  A whisper. A hum. A detonation.

  BURST

  There was no time for grace.

  Ancient exploded in front of everyone.

  Searing light. Tamashkii pressure. Pieces. Smoke.

  The crowd screamed.

  The girl still jumped.

  In the middle of that chaos, one boy raged at the crowd. Ancient’s death had left him in a state of shock. Anger was the only thing he could muster, but no one in the crowd would respond.

  They just stared. He went on yelling them. Trying to find out if someone had pyed a part in that gruesome scene he just witnessed. Until—

  The girl’s body hit the pavement.

  And something inside him snapped.

  The air rippled. Lights burst. The sidewalk cracked.

  His Tamashkii erupted like a storm of shattered gss and moonlight. Silver threads of emotion pulled from his soul and shed out, blinding everyone nearby.

  It was as if the moon had awakened.

  But no one would know. The footage would vanish. The files would be locked. The boys’ name wouldn’t appear on any registry until many years ter.

  That was the day the Hero Society died and Tamashkii became somewhat of a myth.

  ?

  Setai Rooftop – 5 Months Later

  It rained again.

  Sato stood on the rooftop, Samberg beside him.

  No words at first. Just the sound of water and breath.

  Then Samberg said, “They’re gone.”

  Sato didn’t ask who. He already knew.

  “The Sound Hero. The Ice Hero. The boy from Mani. The Healing Heroine. All wiped. No names. No records.”

  Sato’s voice was quiet. “What about the boy at the school?”

  Samberg hesitated.

  “We didn’t ID him. Too much interference. But… the data spike was off the charts.”

  Silence again.

  “I thought I was saving something,” Sato muttered. “I thought… if I just bought more time…”

  Samberg looked at him. “You did sir.”

  “No,” Sato said, shaking his head. “I just let a good man die.” He thought back to the b. To Ancient. To Kuroda’s grin.

  He gritted his teeth. “And if I’m not around… many more will die.”

  Then, quieter—like something he didn’t want to admit: “Some days, I wish it would just end. That I’d burn out already.”

  Samberg stepped in front of him, sharper than before.

  “Commander. Don’t say that.”

  Sato looked at him.

  Samberg’s voice cracked just slightly. “Ancient’s light was never meant to dim. He may be gone… but I still believe his light will shine. I see it in you. I know I’ll see it in others, too. As long as we’re still here.”

  Sato didn’t answer. But he stood a little taller.

  “If you ever become Commander one day, Samberg… or if you end up leading something that matters…”

  He paused. “Don’t be like me.”

  And with that, he turned toward the stairs.

  ?

  Pale Fme

  The b was colpsing.

  Gss. Fire. Core residue. Screams in the distance.

  Sato staggered forward, coughing blood, his coat torn.

  Kuroda stood across from him—calm, clinical, monstrous.

  Sato’s hand pressed against the wall, barely upright. Then he stumbled toward the boy.

  Faint screams filled the colpsing b—panic, rage, betrayal. They blurred together as Sato looked at him. Really looked.

  Not a weapon. Not a child. Just a soul that hadn’t been broken yet. No matter how much the world threw at him.

  He mouthed the words:

  “The strongest door is not the one that cannot be broken… but the one that will never open for you.”

  A faint smile curled at his lips.

  “Maybe I got everything wrong… but I finally made one right choice.”

  Then the light swallowed him whole.

  And in that final moment, the pale fme he’d carried, the one Ancient had spoke about—dim, weary, but never extinguished—burned bright enough for someone else to see.

  And his own fme, after years of flickering, finally burned out clean.

  ?

  End of Pale Fme