M.A.R.S. is gone.
Not erased, not forgiven — severed.Cut loose from the body he believed was his destiny.
The world does not celebrate.
Instead, it shifts.
Systems reawaken. Signals reroute. Old watchers turn their attention inward, then outward, searching for the hand that dared to pull the plug. The silence he left behind is not peace — it is a vacuum.
And vacuums are never left empty for long.
The Fox runs.
From the White Swarm, patient and innumerable.From The Church, whose protection was conditional, temporary, and already fraying.From the quiet realization that gods do not like being denied.
She carries no throne. No divinity. No promise of ascension.
Only a rifle.Only the memory of a choice made and paid for.Only a body that refused to kneel. And still refuses, even now.
This is not a story about victory.
It is about what comes after, when survival itself becomes an act of defiance, and every step forward risks being seen by something vast, ancient, and very much awake.
The hunt has begun.