The next morning, District 12 moved like a machine.
People filed out on schedule. Lines formed on schedule. Faces turned toward the dome’s projection on schedule.
Rhine stood among them, head lowered, blending into the white-uniform sea.
The broadcast flickered on.
The same anchor. The same sterile desk.
“Today’s special report,” she announced. “The Awakened—New Star’s spear and shield.”
Footage filled the sky.
Men and women in combat gear. Some wore exosuits. Some wore cloaks threaded with luminous circuitry. A few stood barehanded, palms raised—light bending around them like it was alive.
“Twenty years ago,” the anchor said, “our ancestors faced the first catastrophe. The sun went out.”
Rhine’s eyes narrowed.
So the rumors were true. New Star had already lived through a dead sun.
“We survived,” the anchor continued, “because the Awakened stood at the front. Faith and science. Mystery and engineering. Two paths, one goal.”
The projection shifted: enormous pylons rising from a city’s outskirts, blazing with contained radiance. Heat shields unfolded like metallic petals. A ring of light stabilized above the dome, mimicking a miniature sun.
“Cities One through Five,” the anchor said, “are holding the line—maintaining the local suns and suppressing the anomaly’s fallout.”
Next: shipyards. Vast frames of steel. Cranes crawling like insects across half-built hulls. Workers swarming over ribs the size of skyscrapers.
“Cities Six through Eight,” she went on, “are constructing the ark ships.”
District 12 again. Fields under artificial lamps. Conveyor belts. Factories stamping parts. People hauling crates until their shoulders sagged.
“Districts Nine through Twelve provide the lifeblood—food, materials, fuel.”
Rhine listened, and a familiar disgust settled in his stomach.
A system that separated “saviors” from “suppliers.” Warriors at the top. Labor at the bottom. A promise that everyone would be saved, repeated until it became a prayer.
And yet…
If there really were only two months left, there was no way those ships held everyone.
Unless the population was smaller than it looked.
Or unless someone had already decided who counted as “everyone.”
The broadcast ended with a slogan, bright and blunt:
“Honor the Awakened. Support the Defense Line. Obey the United Government.”
The projection faded.
The crowd dispersed, orderly as ever.
Rhine turned to leave—then the air in front of his eyes flashed blue.
A cold, familiar presence unfolded across his vision.
[SYSTEM]
Player Cycle 12 complete.
Faction Selection begins.
Time limit: 12 hours.
Cross-world travel disabled during faction selection.
After selection, Player Cycle 13 will begin.
[/SYSTEM]
Rhine’s breath stalled.
He’d barely set foot in this world, and the System was already forcing his hand.
Twelve hours.
No jumping out.
No running to another world line.
Whatever New Star was, he was trapped in it—at least until he chose a side.