Forgotten Stars

On the bunker’s surveillance screen, Crowe watched the final meteor shower. “The explosion at Aurora Tower last night… no one survived,” he said, his voice hoarse and heavy—as if every word were a stone he had to push out from his chest. His eyes remained fixed on the replayed footage: the twisted steel pillars of Aurora Tower, contorted like snapped spikes; flames licking a night sky choked with radioactive smoke; and dark silhouettes flitting nimbly among the ruins. One tall humanoid figure with skin like frozen lava strode over the debris, its metallic claws rending the lifeless body of a guard still clutching his weapon.

Crowe couldn’t take it any longer. With a brutal kick, he smashed the remote control. Shards of plastic flew, striking the cold steel wall of the bunker. His breaths came in ragged gasps, and his normally resolute face crumpled like wrung paper. The holographic screen on the wall continued to glow, forcing the image of devastation into their retinas. He turned away, yet the vision—flames, smoke, and creatures moving like an unstoppable nightmare—seemed to follow him.

“No. One. Survived,” Crowe growled, each word sounding as though he were chewing on shards of glass. His hand clenched so fiercely that the skin on his fingertips turned white and split, letting drops of blood fall to the floor. He looked at Evelyn and Elijah, his eyes brimming with pent-up despair. “Benedict… he must have already—”

Evelyn quickly interrupted, pulling Elijah into her arms. “Don’t say that,” she whispered, her voice trembling yet filled with determined reassurance. “Benedict once survived the sinking of the Helios Aircraft Carrier in the Pacific. He was trapped in the engine room for three days without water. The rescuers had given up, but he survived.” Her hand caressed Elijah’s back, trying to soothe the unrelenting tremors. “He has nine lives, darling. Nine lives.”

Elijah nodded slowly, the crescent pendant in his hand pressed against his skin like red-hot iron. Its imprint left a crescent-shaped mark on his palm—much like a small burn. Deep inside, he whispered, “Dad, if you’re still out there… please give us a sign. Even if it’s just a falling star, a blinking light… anything.” His eyes searched the bunker’s ceiling, longing for even the tiniest crack through which he might glimpse the sky—but all he saw were iron pipes and dangling cables like mechanical intestines.

Determined, Crowe forcibly powered on the emergency television using a cable he had ripped from the wall. Although the screen was cracked in its upper left corner, the images were still legible.

Channel 7 showed a throng of citizens looting Tech Haven—the upscale electronics store owned by VOSS Industries. A middle-aged woman, cradling her baby, fought to snatch a box of synthetic food from a tattooed man whose face looked like that of a demon. The baby’s cry was barely audible over the distant roar of a fire engine. Suddenly, the camera jolted: a group of young men wielding baseball bats stormed the store, demolishing a cashier robot that had just managed a robotic greeting—its last words cut short when its head was severed.

On Channel 12, a military Falcon Series drone was shown being shot down by a metallic-scaled creature. Its body resembled a grotesque fusion of a giant cockroach and a human—a flat head with blood-red compound eyes and a beak-like mouth oozing acidic green fluid. One creature leapt into the air, its natural steel claws impaling the drone’s wing. A small explosion flared, yet the creature remained intact, its body shrouded in smoke. The footage then switched to another scene: soldiers in black uniforms huddled behind a tank that had been split in two. “Shoot its head! ITS HEAD!” a commander roared before a gaunt, snake-necked creature pounced from the roof, dousing his face with fluid. His final scream was abruptly silenced by the sound of crunching bones.

Channel 23 was nothing more than a radio broadcast. A hoarse, trembling female announcer said, “The shelter at Zenith Stadium has fallen… Repeat, Zenith Stadium—” A loud explosion interrupted her, followed by panicked screams. “They’re coming in through the east corridor! Help, we need—” The broadcast was soon overrun by the clamor of metal scraping against the microphone, then fell silent.

Elijah covered his ears, yet the broadcaster’s final words—“DON’T…”—echoed in his mind like a warning meant for him. Evelyn pulled him close onto the sofa, her hand trembling. “We must remain calm. Benedict has to—”

Inside the bunker, the atmosphere was taut with tension. The portable generator in the corner hummed steadily, and cold neon lights bathed the room, casting their reflections on the steel walls. Crowe sat near the control panel, his eyes fixed on the monitor replaying images of the devastation outside.

Evelyn fetched a glass of water from the dispenser and handed it to Elijah. “Drink, dear. We must stay strong.”

Elijah accepted the glass, his hand still shaking. He sipped slowly, striving to calm his racing heart. The crescent pendant at his neck glowed faintly—a blue-green light reminiscent of a dying firefly.

Crowe sighed and switched off the television. “We need to focus on what we can do now. This bunker is safe, and we have enough supplies for several weeks.”

Evelyn nodded, managing a tentative smile. “Right. We must hope for the best and prepare for the worst.”

Elijah stared at his pendant, feeling a peculiar warmth vibrate through it. Deep down, he wished that Benedict was still out there, scheming as he always did. But for now, they had to endure inside this bunker, waiting for any sign or news from a world now turned to hell.

Unable to contain his frustration any longer, Elijah rose. His body trembled with an anger that gnawed at his very bones. The air in the bunker felt suffocating—like breathing in metal lungs that refused to exhale. “I need some air,” he muttered.

From a corner of the room, Crowe watched him. His right hand methodically wiped down his plasma weapon with an oily cloth. His gaze was weary yet vigilant—like that of an old wolf who knew all too well the scent of impending danger. “Bored? I’ve got a deck of cards,” he said wearily, tossing a stack of holographic cards onto the table. The images on them danced, showing knights clashing with mechanical dragons.

“No, thanks,” Elijah replied, shaking his head, and drifted toward the Archive Zone. Here, the walls were adorned with ancient paintings in golden frames—as if Benedict had deliberately constructed a miniature museum in the heart of this war bunker.

The bunker, about the size of a basketball court, was divided into three zones—each reflecting a different facet of Benedict Voss.

Main Zone: A pristine white synthetic leather sofa too perfect to be sat upon, a mini kitchen with a dispenser labeled “Roast Chicken Flavor – Complete Nutrition,” and neatly stacked bottled water. On a glass table, a slowly rotating holographic family portrait of the Voss clan showed a ten‑year‑old Elijah giving an awkward smile beside Benedict, whose face still softened for the camera.

Technical Zone: A tangle of cables hung from a coffin‑sized black portable generator. A holographic monitor projected a map of the city’s devastation—with red dots spreading like a plague. The hum of machinery and sensor beeps filled the air, mixed with the sharp scent of hot metal.

Archive Zone: A sanctuary of memories enshrined in gold. The paintings here were not mere decoration—they were silent witnesses. There was an image of the Voss family in a holographic garden, young Elijah laughing in Benedict’s arms before his features hardened into that CEO mask; and a portrait of Elijah’s grandfather, the founder of VOSS Industries, set against the backdrop of the first aircraft carrier he built—a steel monument that might now serve as a tomb.

Yet what captivated Elijah most was a painting in the darkest corner—a magnificent medieval castle with a crescent banner fluttering atop its highest tower. The red emergency lights accentuated every detail: stone dragons guarding the castle gates, knights in cracked armor, and huddled figures peering through windows too narrow to see clearly.

“Have you seen this before?” Elijah asked, turning to Crowe, who now stood at the doorway.

Crowe frowned, his eyes narrowing. “Benedict always hides something. But this… is new.”

Elijah stepped closer. Something was peculiar—the frame of this painting was thicker than the others, like a concealed treasure chest. Small cracks in its bottom right corner formed a deliberate spiral pattern. His finger brushed against the crack and…

The entire wall trembled. The painting slid aside smoothly, revealing a narrow spiral staircase descending into darkness. The scent of machine oil and rusty iron burst forth, like the exhalation of a dragon slumbering for millennia.

“How do you know—” Crowe began, his voice trailing off as his face paled and his plasma weapon aimed at the opening.

“I don’t know! It feels like it has to be done,” Elijah stammered, his voice trembling. The crescent pendant at his neck glowed brighter, as if reacting to something below.

Evelyn emerged from the Main Zone, her face still bruised but her eyes sharp once more. “What’s happening?”

“Benedict has taken up a new hobby—building secret doors in the bunker,” Crowe grumbled, his holographic flashlight illuminating the winding staircase. “We need to check it out.”

Elijah didn’t wait for permission. His feet carried him onto the first step—the cold metal seeping through his shoes. “Elijah, wait!” Evelyn cried, but he pressed on. Cursing, Crowe and Evelyn followed. Crowe’s light revealed a wall covered in strange symbols—concentric circles, crescents, and ancient script resembling machine language.

“These markings… they’re like the ancient security protocols of VOSS Industries,” whispered Evelyn as her fingers traced the metallic carvings.

At the bottom of the stairs, a small room opened before them. A two‑meter‑thick steel door with a facial scanning panel barred the way. But before they could react, an AI voice announced, “Facial scan initiated.” Green beams swept over their faces, casting patterns like a spider’s web in the humid air. Evelyn sighed as the red emergency lights blinked three times, as if verifying something deep within the system.
“Identification: Evelyn Voss. Elijah Voss. Crowe Mantell. Access granted.”

The massive door swung open with a rumble that shook the floor. Golden light flooded the room, illuminating dancing dust particles like microscopic dancers. The scent of cold metal and synthetic oil stung their nostrils, followed by the hiss of high-pressure air escaping from hidden crevices.

Three sets of armor stood erect on a rust‑proof steel podium, bathed in spotlight so that they glowed like living jewels. Their sizes were perfectly suited for an adult human—neither too large nor too small, yet radiating an intimidating aura that left Elijah momentarily speechless.

First Armor: Deep black with glowing crack patterns like frozen lava flows. Its design was sleek yet muscular, with interlocking metal plates resembling dragon scales. Two crescent‑shaped energy blades curved along its back, and the lower arms featured slots for modular weapons that could transform. A faint crescent emblem glowed on its chest in a pale blue light.

Second Armor: Metallic silver layered with transparent fibers that pulsed like veins. Its aerodynamic form featured a helmet with no eye slits—only a smooth, reflective surface. Across its body, electric blue energy lines formed fractal patterns, while its shoe soles exuded a cold mist that froze the dust on the floor.

Third Armor: Maroon with golden ornaments patterned like mythological ribcages. Its design was the most organic—flexible spikes at the joints, hidden foldable wings on the back, and a pulsating energy core in the center of the chest that beat like a mechanical heart. On its right shoulder, a crescent symbol identical to Elijah’s pendant was intricately engraved, as if merging with living metal.

“What is this thing…?” Crowe stepped back, his face a mix of awe and wariness. Instinctively, his hand brought his plasma pistol to bear. “I’ve never seen this in the inventory reports. Benedict is really hiding a treasure.”

Evelyn approached the podium, her finger nearly touching the silver armor before she hesitated. “This… is technology beyond military standards. Look at its energy patterns—like living matter that can adapt.”

But Elijah paid them no heed. His eyes were fixed on the red armor. Without any whispered command or mystical urge, his curiosity blazed. The pendant at his neck felt warm—but this time, it wasn’t his imagination; the crescent glow on his pendant and the red armor pulsed in unison.

“Don’t touch it, Elijah!” Evelyn shouted as he stepped closer.

Yet, Elijah already reached out. His finger made contact with the red armor’s surface—its metal warm and throbbing like the skin of a living creature.

“DNA scan detected,” the AI suddenly echoed, nearly causing Crowe to fire his weapon skyward. “Match: 100%, Elijah Voss. Activating Fusion Protocol.”

The red armor’s helmet hissed open, revealing an interior lined with blue crystals. Before anyone could react, hundreds of metal components detached from the podium—each plate, screw, and cable moving on its own like a swarm of mechanical bees.

“ELIJAH, GET BACK!” Crowe shouted, grabbing at him, but Elijah slipped.

The components surged over his body—first a chest plate, then covering his arms, legs, and finally, a helmet snapped perfectly over his face. The process was swift and smooth—accompanied only by the hiss of escaping air and flashes of blue light at the joints.

Evelyn dropped her holographic flashlight. “No… it can’t be…”

Before their eyes, Elijah now stood encased in glowing red armor. Up close, its design was astonishing: the spikes on the elbows moved like sensors; thin, ethereal wings had formed on his back from plasma energy; and the core in his chest pulsed in sync with his very breath.

“Symbiosis system active,” the AI’s female voice declared through the helmet, clear and resonant. “Welcome, Primary Operator. Combat mode is now ready.”

Elijah raised his hand in wonder as the armored fingers moved in perfect harmony with his own. A metal panel slid open on his palm, revealing a mini plasma weapon whirring into readiness.

“Are you okay?! What do you feel?!” Evelyn cried, her face ashen.

“It’s… it’s like this is a part of me,” Elijah replied, his voice now distorted by the helmet. On his visor, the HUD displayed real‑time data—his heartbeat, the armor’s energy level, even a thermal map of the bunker.