Year: 1576 A.W.
Location: D.S.O. Headquarters, Sector 9B, New Tokyo
Subject: D.S.O. VoidGuard No.10029
Age: Unknown
âThere is beauty in death, not fear.â
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During the Last War, most of Gaiaâs cities were erased from the map, withered into the darkest depths of history and forgotten by time. Through the final defiance of humanity, Gaiaâs greatest enemies were cast into exile, and with their banishment came a fragile mercy: time. Humanity rebuilt, repopulated, and clung to hope once more. Cities rose on the bones of the old world, scarred yet standing. Among them was Sector 9B, a district raised upon the ashes of Tokyo, held together by the cold pulse of the D.S.O. Here, beneath steel and silence, survivors prepared, because what had once come for them would come again.
Inside the East Asia headquarters, soldiers moved in silent synchrony. Their steps were sharp, their breaths controlled, and the steel-lit corridors opened at their approach. Doors did not respond to sensors but to presence. Hands rested near hilts, for the D.S.O. did not wield guns. To kill from afar was considered cowardice, unworthy of their order. Intent itself was the blade, and blades never left their reach. Among them walked VoidGuard No.10029. He had no name, only a number and a weapon. His footfalls matched their rhythm, yet his reason for being here was different. The others marched to obey, but he watched. Eyes, shoulders, shifts of breath, he studied them all. Trust had no meaning to him. His order was clear. Protect the Directors. That was all. Even if it meant cutting down those who marched beside him. Still, the thought gnawed at him. Why would the most powerful figures in the D.S.O. entrust their safety to low-ranked, disposable soldiers? In the D.S.O., when something did not add up, it usually meant someone was lying.
They approached the final checkpoint, a massive door of black and gold, unmarked and oppressive in its stillness. Like all doors in this place, it had no handle. It opened only to presence. The soldiers formed their wall of black armour, their collective intent towering over the corridor. Even the lowest-ranked VoidGuard carried five times the Vâ of a trained voidwalker. They were the absolute peak of humanity before the breaking point.
No.10029 fixed his gaze on the space beyond the door and froze. Shapes stood behind the iron, somehow visible through its mass. Eyes pierced outward, burning with a light that felt dark, heavy with unholy weight. His body trembled. Protocol demanded stillness, but instinct clawed at his vision. He forced himself to look aside, only then noticing the collapse around him. The others had already fallen. They had bent beneath fear and pressure. He alone remained upright. His body screamed to kneel, to retreat, but something smaller and quieter held him steady. A thread of purpose, thin and fraying, but unbroken. Resolve struck clean through him. These were no enemies. They were his leaders. Whatever power they bore, whatever they truly were, they were the ones he was born to defend. His hand lifted to his chest. Fist to heart. He did not yield.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The golden door shifted and opened. No lock. No command. It parted for presence alone. From the light beyond, six figures stepped forward. The Six Directors. They crossed the threshold one by one until all stood inside. Ahead of them, only meters away, a single VoidGuard held his salute. Their stride did not falter. They crossed the carpet of black trimmed with gold, passing silently over the collapsed bodies of lesser men. Their feet made no sound, yet each step carried inevitability. They did not acknowledge him, did not pause, until one voice fell into the corridor. It did not rise, nor turn.
âOne is enough.â
He did not question. He did not need to. His mission was clear. Protect the Directors. Whatever they truly were, human or not, the world bent beneath them. And he was the blade that followed.
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(Part 2)
South of headquarters, a football rolled lazily across pavement, chased by laughter. The streets of Sector 9B were alive with heat and movement. People brushed past in endless streams beneath a high summer sun. Then the air changed. Cameras snapped. One, then many. Soon, dozens of shutters echoed along the boulevard. Outside the Fifth Branch of the D.S.O.âs Eastern District, reporters pressed shoulder to shoulder, wires and microphones thrust forward like spears. The rumour had spread. The Six were gathering today. Their meeting would decide this yearâs national event, the Voidwalk Ceremony.
The exam came every year, a test of strength, obedience, and control. The Ceremony was rarer. Once every five years, it served not to filter but to prove. It was a reminder to the nation and to the world that Void Walkers were not relics, but the last wall between humanity and extinction.
âMr. Reiji Sagawa, is it true that The Six are attending a meeting here today?â
The question tore across the crowd. That was the true reason they had gathered. Not the Ceremony, but The Six. Eyes turned toward the marble steps where a man stood. Hands in his pockets. Still. Composed. His black suit was immaculate. Glasses hung from his collar, arms folded neatly into the shirt. At first, silence ruled. Then his gaze cut toward the reporter. Sharp. Surgical. His head tilted, a fraction only, yet heavy with judgment. One word followed.
âWhy?â
Heat drained from the crowd. The nation hungered for answers, but the rule here was older than any press badge. Some questions were not meant to be asked.
âWhy do you wish to know?â His voice was low, steady. Reiji touched his chest with one hand, then turned to the nearest camera. His tone never shifted, but his words carried finality.
âRemember this. Those who pose a threat to The Six, direct or indirect, civilian or enemy, will die.â
Back inside headquarters, The Six walked deeper, through corridors of iron and steel, as gate after gate closed in their wake. At last, they reached Directive Room Zero, a chamber wide and dark, lit only by a single oval table at its centre. Black glass on first glance, its edges glowed faintly white, like a heartbeat. Here, the weight of nations was decided. They sat. Three to a side. Each hand rested on the glass. On their fingers, black rings banded in gold, each etched with a sigil. Their voices did not echo. What passed between them was heavier than sound. Silent truths. Words too heavy for air. Then their attention turned to the corner of the chamber. A figure stood in shadow. His hair was tied back in a neat knot. His uniform was tailored, black, flawless, untouched by dust. He stepped forward. His movements left no sound, as though the void itself carried him across the floor. He stopped at the tableâs edge, still covered in shadow.
âUnderstood.â