The crimson dawn painted the sky above New Valdris in hues that seemed to bleed across the horizon. Twenty-three hours had passed since the universal broadcast from the Remnant Armada, and the countdown had reached zero—yet nothing had happened. Or so it seemed.
Reed stood at the obsidian altar, his scarred hands trembling not from fear, but from the weight of what was about to transpire. The ceremonial grounds stretched before them, a fusion of architectural impossibilities that defied conventional understanding. Crystalline spires twisted upward like frozen screams, while pools of liquid starlight reflected images of distant realities. The gathering crowd represented every faction, every broken kingdom, every survivor who had crawled from the ashes of their former world.
