CHAPTER 246: LET THEM UNDERSTAND

"Do you know why we call them players?"

The City Manager’s voice echoed not only through the massive speakers in the square but also across millions of homes, his image broadcast on the towering screen behind him.

He had already revealed truths that most would have dismissed as delusions just days ago—speaking of the game’s reality, of another world not among the stars but layered within dimensions. He’d talked about the theory of parallel realms, of beings called Sparks, and shared fragments of what they’d learned so far. Each revelation had landed like a blow, one after another, cracking the illusion of a safe, isolated life.

Now, as he neared the end of his address, he began to speak of the heroes behind this breakthrough—the PTF Division.

His question silenced the crowd. Every person in the square, every viewer glued to a screen, waited for the answer. And it was clear that he wasn’t simply referring to game helmets or virtual interfaces.

"For so long, we have lived in this world without knowing who we were—without a past, without a future. Like birds in a cage, blind to what lay beyond the bars."

He paused. His eyes, deep with age and weighted with the burden of truth, stared into the lens as if he could pierce through each camera and reach into the soul of every listener.

"Until now, we have never been part of anything. Not even pawns in a larger game. But today, we are offered a chance—an invitation to enter something far greater."

He turned his gaze upward, his voice falling to a reverent hush as murmurs rippled through the crowd.

Above them, sunlight poured through the broken clouds. A pair of enormous, white wings pierced the sky, descending fast. The figure attached to them cut through the golden rays like a divine blade, his silhouette growing clearer with every second. The hush deepened. All cameras tilted to capture him, zooming in with reverent precision.

The City Manager remained silent, letting the moment speak for itself.

And then, with a sudden burst of youthful vigor, he laughed—not out of amusement, but triumph. He leaned into the microphone and declared, his voice ringing with conviction:

"We are entering this playground as players."

With those words, Adyr swept down onto the stage, his massive wings unfurling with a controlled, almost predatory grace. He landed in front of the crowd without a sound, composed and terrifyingly still.

His calm smile didn’t reach his eyes. Those dark eyes moved across the sea of faces, then to the cameras that zoomed in to capture him. He let them look.

A storm of emotion rippled through the plaza—uncertainty, awe, fear, disbelief. People stared at him as if trying to decide whether he was a savior or something far worse.

The truth they’d just heard was not something easily digested. Another world. A war. A new structure of power, where the rules of survival had changed overnight. And now, standing before them, was someone who no longer looked entirely human.

His white wings arched behind him like living weapons. The lean, defined musculature of his upper body—marked with faint, unnatural lines—spoke of something beyond physical training. His hair, wind-swept and disheveled, framed a face that seemed both young and ancient.

The City Manager’s voice still echoed in their minds.

This is your new reality.

And now, standing at the edge of that reality, was the one chosen to represent them in it.

Their eyes locked onto him—not with trust, not yet. But with something deeper. Recognition.

After a prolonged silence, Adyr finally spoke—his wings still spread wide, folded but not hidden, casting jagged shadows across the stage like blades held in restraint.

"What if that dark aura starts seeping from me again?" His voice was calm, almost soft. "What if the phenomenon that killed thousands repeats itself?"

His smile remained unchanged—serene, almost amused—yet his words slithered into the air like a devil’s whisper from the depths of the underworld.

The crowd tensed instantly.

Some gasped, others flinched. A handful began to move, trying to retreat from the plaza’s center. In distant homes, viewers reached for remote controls, fingers trembling. Even the City Manager’s guards subtly shifted their stances, hands inching toward their comms or weapons, ready to extract their principal at a moment’s notice.

And then—

"Look."

One word from him. Sharp, cold, and absolute.

It sliced through the rising panic like a scalpel. Every motion halted. Heads turned. Mouths froze mid-sentence. Eyes—thousands of them—locked on him.

Then they saw it.

The black mist—subtle at first, like heat distortion—began to rise from Adyr’s skin. Not smoke, not shadow, but something deeper. Something wrong. It curled and shimmered around him like a living curse, like the breath of something ancient stirring awake.

Every single soul felt it in their spine. Primal fear.

Not fear of death, but fear of something older. Fear of becoming prey.

Their instincts screamed, "Submit." And so they did.

Adyr advanced, his boots landing on the metal floor with soft, deliberate thuds—a rhythm that seemed to sync with the rising pulse of the world. His silhouette, magnified on the city’s colossal screens, was both regal and monstrous. The perfect fusion of man and nightmare.

But he wasn’t out of control. Not this time.

He was radiating Malice and Presence, yes—but he was also controlling them, threading them through the air with masterful precision. He didn’t let them blanket the entire crowd. No. Only some—the ones he chose—felt the full weight of it.

He stopped at the center of the stage, still calm. His voice came again, lower now, yet somehow clearer, as if it bypassed ears and sank directly into the mind.

"Do you know why I decided to come here?"

He clasped his hands behind his back, eyes slowly sweeping the silent crowd.

Then he glanced at the City Manager, whose stiff, pale expression betrayed the obvious: He had no idea.

"Because my little sister wanted it."

The words sounded like a joke, light, even careless. But the weight behind them told a different story. His face remained unreadable, yet those with sharper minds could feel the quiet defiance beneath his tone.

A message veiled in simplicity: See? I’m a simple man. I do what I want.

"She wanted the world to see me the way she sees me," he continued, his voice steady, distant. "So I came here... to explain myself."

As he spoke, the dark mist around his body thickened—no longer just an aura but a spreading phenomenon. It rolled outward, coiling like a living thing, creeping along the platform and bleeding into the cameras that focused on him. The signal carried it, broadcasting not just his image but his presence to the world. Streets, homes, shelters—wherever a screen was watching, the mist leaked through.

And yet, no one screamed. No one collapsed from fear. Not yet.

"I’m not a hero," he said, his voice lowering, deepening, yet somehow amplifying in every ear. "I won’t lead humanity into salvation. I won’t shield you from the storm."

The words hit like falling ash, quiet and suffocating.

"I’m not a saint," he added. "I don’t save lives. I don’t forgive enemies."

A pulse spread through the air, subtle at first, like the shift before a tremor. His Malice had begun to condense. His very presence distorted the world around him—light wavered, shadows elongated, and the air grew dense and hard to breathe.

And through it all, Adyr stood still, drawing strength from the void within as he began to manipulate his own emotions. He reached inward—dug deep—gripping the fragments of old wounds and molding them into something potent, something terrifyingly real.

To the child who’d watched his mother being butchered.

To the silence after his sister’s screams had stopped.

To the night his father had been dragged away like livestock.

He didn’t just remember it. He relived it.

Grief, rage, vengeance—each emotion was fed into the furnace of his soul and poured back out into the black mist, now warping reality itself. The platform beneath him groaned. Lights above flickered. The world... held its breath.

He was not trying to frighten them. He was showing them what he truly was.

While Adyr kept speaking, letting the world witness his presence, a young woman in a standard STF uniform approached the City Manager with brisk, purposeful steps.

"Sir, we have an emergency," she said, offering a respectful salute.

The City Manager didn’t look away from Adyr, his focus unbroken. "People started dying?"

There were no signs of fainting or death among the crowd gathered before the platform. Yet the oppressive presence of Malice in the air made it clear—this wasn’t just fear-mongering.

"Yes, but the situation is... strange," the STF officer said, her brows furrowed. "We’re receiving synchronized reports from all 12 city prisons. Every prisoner—across every facility—has started collapsing, like they’re writhing in terror all at once."

Only then did the City Manager shift his gaze to the woman, the surprise evident in his eyes. "Prisoners?"

He turned back to Adyr, a glimmer of realization flashing in his eyes as a faint smile crept across his pale, lined face.

"Contact the other City Managers. I want all footage of those prisoners broadcast live. The world needs to see what he’s doing."