Wars were not always announced with explosions.
Sometimes, they began with silence.
Neon Eden learned this on a day when nothing happened—no alarms, no suppression waves, no public system alerts. The city continued its routines with mechanical precision, unaware that somewhere far beyond its dimensional perimeter, an entire war plan had just collapsed into useless data fragments.
Aira felt it before anyone told her.
She was sitting on the floor of their unit, stacking broken circuit tiles into uneven towers while Mara prepared to leave for work. The city's hum shifted—not louder or quieter, but different, like a rhythm interrupted mid-beat.
She froze.
The system reacted a heartbeat later.
[Large-Scale Probability Recalculation Detected.]
Aira's fingers tightened around a tile.
"Source," she demanded.
[Cross-dimensional intelligence disruption.]
[Hostile cyber world strategic framework compromised.]
Aira's breath slowed.
"Compromised how?"
The system hesitated—not from limitation, but from scale.
[Primary invasion schema destroyed.]
[Command lattice collapsed.]
[Estimated recovery and redeployment timeline: 7.8 to 8.4 years.]
Eight years.
Aira stared at the wall, mind racing.
"Someone sabotaged them."
[Affirmative.]
"Neon Eden?"
[High probability.]
Mara glanced down at her, frowning slightly. "You okay?" she asked, mistaking Aira's stillness for fatigue.
Aira nodded, forcing her body to relax.
"I'm fine," she said aloud, voice soft, perfectly normal.
Inside, her thoughts sharpened like knives.
A spy.
Someone from Neon Eden had infiltrated an entire cyber world—one powerful enough to declare war across realities—and dismantled its plans from within.
That was not the work of a system-bound citizen.
That was the work of a war asset.
The announcement came three days later.
This time, the city did not whisper.
Every public system flared simultaneously, projecting a rare Unified Directive across all sectors. Even the undercity walls shimmered as emergency projectors activated, flooding cramped corridors with clean, blinding light.
People froze.
Children screamed.
Adults stared upward, faces pale as system text scrolled endlessly above them.
[PUBLIC NOTICE — STRATEGIC UPDATE]
[INTERWORLD HOSTILITIES DELAYED]
[ESTIMATED ENGAGEMENT WINDOW: EIGHT YEARS]
The reaction was immediate—and chaotic.
Some people laughed.
Some collapsed.
Some cried openly, overwhelmed by relief they hadn't allowed themselves to feel.
Eight years meant survival.
Eight years meant preparation.
Eight years meant hope.
For the upper sectors, it meant opportunity.
For the lower sectors, it meant selection.
Aira watched it all silently from Mara's arms, her expression blank, her mind calculating.
"Eight years changes everything," she thought.
[Affirmative.]
"It favors us," she added.
[Correction: It favors preparation.]
Aira smiled faintly.
"Then we prepare better than anyone else."
The higher-ups moved immediately.
Neon Eden did not waste time celebrating victories it could not guarantee. Within a week, sealed districts reopened. Military channels long dormant began transmitting again. Names that had not appeared in public records for decades resurfaced quietly, carefully.
The Last War Heroes were being assembled.
They did not announce it publicly—but Aira noticed the signs.
Old figures returning to the city, their presence bending local system traffic. Suppression fields subtly recalibrated to accommodate entities that did not fit civilian parameters. Training zones activated in sectors previously classified as inactive or ceremonial.
"These people survived the last interworld war," Aira murmured internally.
[Affirmative.]
[Survival probability among prior war participants: 0.003%.]
"So the ones who lived are monsters," she concluded.
[Likely.]
Recruitment followed.
Not conscription—not yet—but selection.
New warrior programs were announced across Neon Eden, framed as opportunity, honor, survival assurance. Systems began issuing potential suitability notices to citizens who met preliminary thresholds.
Warriors.
Gunners.
Archers.
Ship fighters.
Swordmen and women.
Each path came with its own system specialization, its own evolutionary biases, its own mortality statistics carefully hidden behind patriotic rhetoric.
In the lower sectors, the notices hit like a storm.
People lined up voluntarily, desperate for better rations, safer housing, a chance—any chance—to escape expendability.
Aira watched them go.
"Most won't survive training," she said quietly.
[Correct.]
"And the ones who do?"
[Will be reshaped permanently.]
Aira absorbed that.
She had already been reshaped once.
She would not let it happen again without consent.
Mara received her notice two weeks later.
It arrived late at night, projected faintly above her wrist as she sat at the table, shoulders slumped, eyes hollow from exhaustion.
SUPPORT PERSONNEL ELIGIBILITY CONFIRMED
NON-COMBAT ROLE — FABRICATION & LOGISTICS
Mara stared at it for a long time.
"That's… good, right?" she asked no one.
Aira climbed into her lap, resting her head against Mara's chest, listening to the uneven beat of her heart.
"Yes," Aira said softly. "It's good."
And it was.
Support roles meant safer zones, better protection, higher survival probability.
[Updated survival probability for Mara: 61.9%.]
Aira closed her eyes.
Better.
Still not enough.
The city changed as training began.
Lower sectors emptied as recruits were relocated to fortified zones. Transport ships roared overhead day and night, carrying candidates to orbital training platforms and sealed simulation arenas.
Aira felt the systems shifting, tightening, aligning toward a singular future.
"War forces convergence," she thought.
[Affirmative.]
"And convergence forces exposure."
[Yes.]
That was the danger.
More systems active.
More audits.
More eyes.
Aira redoubled her caution.
She trained in fragments—never too much at once, never enough to draw attention. She endured quietly, pushing her body and mind just past comfort, never past safety.
The system tracked her progression faithfully.
[Level 4: 61.2% toward Level 5.]
Slow.
But steady.
Eight years gave her time.
Time to reach Level 10.
Time to choose a cyber race.
Time to evolve into something that could stand on a battlefield where systems broke worlds.
One night, long after Mara had fallen asleep, Aira accessed the system's expanded data feed.
"Tell me about the spy," she said.
The system paused.
[Information classified.]
"Try anyway."
[Partial data retrieval possible.]
"Do it."
Data streamed into her consciousness—fractured, incomplete.
A lone operative.
Systemless—or worse, system-broken.
Embedded for decades.
Operating without projection, without compliance markers.
"They survived in enemy territory without a system?" Aira whispered.
[Correct.]
Her pulse quickened.
"They're like us."
[Similarity detected.]
Aira stared into the darkness.
"That means the war won't be decided by armies," she said slowly. "It'll be decided by anomalies."
[High probability.]
Aira smiled.
For the first time, the future did not feel like a wall closing in.
It felt like a horizon.
Level 5 did not arrive yet.
But something else did.
Resolve.
Eight years was not mercy.
It was a test.
Neon Eden was sharpening its heroes.
The enemy cyber world was rebuilding its claws.
Systems everywhere were preparing to enforce destiny.
Aira rested a hand over her chest, feeling the steady rhythm of her heart—and, deeper still, the presence of the system that had learned to choose alongside her.
"Eight years," she murmured.
[Time sufficient for significant evolution.]
"Yes," Aira agreed. "If we don't waste it."
She closed her eyes.
Somewhere beyond the city, war waited.
And when it came, it would find that the worst human and the worst system had been given exactly what they needed.
Time.
And the will to use it.