Power buys happiness.
With power comes security. It gives you control over your life, something you wouldn't normally have. In a world where your life is driven by people you will never meet, its evident that power grants you the privilege of choice. Power should be what people focus on, not money.
Johnson waldith has always thought this. That power is more important than money. All money does is leave you puppeted by whoever gave that money to you. Employers, family. Money chains people.
But with power you become the puppeteer. The grandmaster of the circus of life.
And that is why in 3 months, Johnson will be off to college to study politics. For now, however, he's got another dull summer break ahead of him.
Johnson woke up this morning feeling off. He didn't have a reason- no physical pain, no weakness, nothing tangible at all- but he still felt off.
He grappled with the comforter for a minute, untangling his legs.
Eventually he kicked it off entirely and let his feet hit the floor, cold wood against warm skin. The house was already alive—he could hear the distant clatter of dishes in the kitchen, the hum of the dishwasher mid-cycle, someone walking across the upstairs hallway. Probably his dad, already dressed, already moving.
He didn't rush. Johnson never rushed in the morning. That was a rule. He stretched, checked his phone—no new messages, but a headline about a scandal in Europe caught his eye. He'd read it later. For now, the weight of the pillow still pressed against one side of his face, and he liked it.
Downstairs, the kitchen was warm and golden. His mom stood at the counter, slicing strawberries into a bowl of yogurt like she was prepping for a food commercial. She had earbuds in, but pulled one out when she noticed him.
"Morning, baby," she said, with that soft smile she always gave when she saw him before noon.
"Morning," he mumbled, rubbing his face and walking to the fridge.
There was already a plate on the table for him—toast, scrambled eggs, turkey sausage. His dad must've made it. Johnson didn't ask, just sat down and started eating.
His dad walked in a second later, tie already tight around his neck. "I see you've finally emerged."
"Wasn't planning on sleeping forever."
"Could've fooled me." He ruffled Johnson's hair on the way past. Johnson didn't flinch, just kept eating. It was a good breakfast. Perfectly salted. The kind of small, forgettable thing that only stood out when you realized it didn't have to be that good. Most people's breakfasts were frozen waffles. His weren't.
After eating, he helped clean up. Nothing major—just rinsed his plate, stacked it with the others. His mom was talking about some show she was watching, and Johnson nodded along while checking the weather on his phone. Clear skies. High of 82.
"You heading out today?" his mom asked, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
"Probably library. Maybe downtown later. Ryan wanted to hang."
"Tell him I said hi. And be back for dinner. We're grilling."
"I'll be back."
He changed into something easy—cargo shorts, black tee, sneakers he liked because they made him feel taller. Backpack slung over his shoulder, earbuds in. The ride to the library was uneventful, which is to say it was perfect. Sun on his arms, wind in his face. He passed the same retired guy always working on his lawn. They nodded at each other like old men in a Western.
At the library, he went straight to his spot. Back corner, chair by the big window. The book today was The Republic, Plato again, which he'd already read but liked rereading. It made him feel sharp. Like he was prepping for a world that didn't know it needed him yet.
He read for a while. Scribbled in a notebook. Highlighted one sentence three times because it felt like it mattered.
Then he met up with Ryan and Tasha at the park. They were sitting on the swings, eating popsicles like kids. Tasha threw him one without warning. He caught it.
"Cherry," she said, "because that's what tyrants eat."
Johnson grinned. "Better than lime."
They talked. Laughed. Ryan told them a story about getting stuck in the elevator at his uncle's firm, and how the HR manager had to fish him out with a clipboard and a rope. Johnson listened more than he spoke. That was the trick—let others fill the air, and you catch the pieces worth keeping.
They lingered on the sidewalk for a while after that, trading bits of gossip and arguing over the best kind of fries. Tasha swore by curly. Ryan said waffle fries were "the peak of human achievement." Johnson didn't bother picking a side—he just stole from both of them when no one was looking.
Eventually they got bored and walked downtown. Hit the thrift store. The place smelled like old records and dust, the kind of cozy clutter that made you feel like time paused when you stepped inside. They split up to explore. Johnson wandered to the back, tried on a few jackets that made him look like an undercover agent from the 70s. Found a pair of sunglasses that made him look like a retired dictator. He struck a pose in the mirror, arms crossed like a man giving orders in five languages.
"God," Tasha said, walking up behind him. "You look like you overthrew a small country and then opened a juice bar."
He grinned. "Five bucks well spent."
Ryan gave him a thumbs-up. "If you disappear and start broadcasting propaganda from a jungle, I'm not surprised."
Johnson bought them anyway. Because why not?
He was home by five. His little sister, Mia, was on the porch drawing with sidewalk chalk—dragons and clouds and one weird shape she claimed was a crown. Johnson dropped his bag just inside the door and walked back out, easing himself down onto the porch step beside her.
"What's all this?" he asked, gesturing at the patchwork of colors that stretched across the concrete.
Mia didn't look up. "This is Flametail," she said, circling a lopsided dragon with bright red wings. "He breathes fire made of lightning. And that's his cloud fortress." She pointed to a fluffy blue mass. "No one can get in unless he lets them."
Johnson nodded seriously. "Makes sense. And this thing?" He pointed to the strange, wobbly shape at the edge of the drawing.
"That's the Crown of Forever," she said, like it was obvious. "Whoever wears it can talk to animals and make the moon do backflips."
He snorted. "Pretty sure the moon's not that flexible."
"You're not wearing the crown," she said, smug.
They stayed there for a while, sunlight softening into gold around them. Mia kept drawing. Johnson picked up a piece of chalk and added a small stick figure beside Flametail.
"Who's that?" she asked.
"That's me," he said. "I'm asking the dragon for directions."
"To where?"
He paused. "I dunno. College, maybe."
Mia looked at him like he'd missed the point of the game. Then she shrugged and added a wizard hat to the stick figure. "Now you'll get there faster."
He laughed. "Thanks, Mia."
"You're welcome."
They sat until the light faded and their mom called them in for dinner.
Then he went inside, helped his dad carry out the food for grilling—steaks, veggies, corn on the cob. His mom made sweet tea. They ate in the backyard as the sun started to dip, the sky all orange and peach and soft around the edges.
His dad took a sip of tea and set the glass down with a quiet clink.
"So," he said, not looking directly at Johnson but aiming his words carefully anyway, "you been thinking about Wexley University?"
Johnson chewed slowly. Swallowed. "Yeah. I'm ready."
His dad nodded. "You're not nervous?"
Johnson shrugged. "I don't think so. Not really. I mean, it's not like I haven't been planning this."
"That's true." His dad leaned back in his chair a little, fork resting on the edge of his plate. "Politics, huh?"
Johnson didn't answer right away. He glanced down at his steak, watching the juices pool at the bottom of the plate. Then he looked back up.
"Yeah. It's the only thing that makes sense."
His dad smiled, small and honest. "You know, most kids your age want to be influencers or CEOs. You're trying to get elected."
"Influencers don't control anything. They just sell it."
His mom chuckled at that. "He's got a point."
His dad looked at him again, more directly this time. "You've always been a planner. You think five, ten years ahead. That's rare. Just make sure you're doing it because it matters to you. Not just because it sounds powerful."
"It matters to me," Johnson said. "It's not just about having a podium. It's about knowing what to say when I get there."
Silence, but the kind that felt full, not awkward.
His dad raised his glass. "Then here's to that. To knowing what to say. And getting there in one piece."
They clinked glasses—his mom's lemonade, his sister's apple juice in a plastic cup, his dad's tea, and Johnson's water. Nothing fancy. Just a toast between four people on a warm summer night.
The kind of thing he'd remember. The kind of night where everything felt lined up, if only for a moment.
And when his dad patted him on the back later, cleared the plates and said, "We're proud of you, kid," Johnson didn't deflect. Didn't play it cool.
He just said, "Thanks," because that was enough.
After dinner, he helped clean up again. Not because he had to—his mom never asked, and Mia had already darted off to watch cartoons—but because it felt right. He dried the plates while his dad washed, their movements easy, practiced.
"You hear back from Wexley yet?" his dad asked, not looking up from the suds.
"Still waiting," Johnson said. "Should be soon, though."
His dad gave a slow nod. "They'd be fools not to take you. Hell, I read your essay—you could run for office already."
Johnson smirked, passing him a clean bowl. "One step at a time."
They finished in silence, but a good kind—the kind that wraps around you, says you're home.
Later, the night came in slow. The hum of crickets drifted through the windows. Porch light buzzed faintly. Somewhere distant, a dog barked and fell quiet again. Johnson stepped out for a moment, let the air hit him. There was a kind of peace in it all. Not something he talked about, just something he carried—low and steady, like gravity.
Upstairs, he showered. Sat on his bed with his notebook. Jotted down a few thoughts.
Today was clean. No noise. Everything in its place. I think people underestimate how good life can be when it's steady. No gods. No monsters. Just breakfast. Just books. Just people who love you, and steak on the grill. There's power in that. Quiet power. The kind that builds.
He clicked off the lamp.
Sleep came easy.
-------------------------------------------------
Cold footsteps echoed sharply against the stone floor. A lone figure moved through the dim corridor—silent, precise, draped in a black padded jumpsuit beneath a sweeping hooded cloak. He carried himself with the stillness of authority, like a man used to being obeyed.
Two armed guards stood flanking a steel door. They wore similar uniforms, but without cloaks. Their faces were hidden behind balaclavas and round, pitch-black goggles that reflected nothing.
The figure stopped before them.
"Open it."
His voice cut through the air—low, commanding, the voice of a man used to ruling without question.
And that's what he was.
Scar, Emperor of the Siberian Wastelands. The broken, frozen expanse once called Russia.
Without a word, the guards stepped aside. Scar pulled the heavy door open himself, cast a last glance toward the sentries, and stepped inside. The door shut behind him with a mechanical hiss. A lock clicked.
Inside, the room was sparse—one table, one chair, one lamp casting a narrow pool of yellow light. On the table sat a box of files and a tape recorder.
Scar approached, gloves brushing over the file box before selecting one.
He laid it flat, flipping it open with care. For thirty minutes, he read. Not quickly. Deliberately. His eyes scanning, narrowing, recalibrating.
Finally, he reached for the recorder and pressed the red button.
Click.
"Project Godstride. Entry 1342-A."
A pause. Then:
"It has been four years. Four years since a worthy subject emerged and earned their place among my angels. If we are to challenge the enemy, we must raise our numbers. But this... is proving difficult."
He exhaled—soft, frustrated.
"The Union ruler is careless. He accepts any fool willing to die for his empty cause. There's no selection. No refinement. Just desperation."
A pause.
"I am not so primitive. I choose only the exceptional. The worthy. And that exclusivity... is costing me."
His voice dropped, lower still.
"If we are to win this war against Yuno and his hordes, we must evolve. We must adapt. And yet—I find myself with no clear path forward."
He hesitated.
"Strider-2 believes he may have an answer. He claims he can deliver the perfect subject directly to us, bypassing the search entirely."
A beat.
"He said it like a joke. But I'm beginning to think he was serious."
Another pause. Scar's hand clenched slightly on the recorder.
"We are running out of time. I can only place my faith in him—for now."
Click.
"End log."
Scar set the recorder down, fingers lingering for a moment. The room felt colder now, heavier. He stared at the file, unreadable behind the black lenses of his mask, and then turned toward the door—his mind already ten moves ahead.
-----------------------
The floor was cold.
Johnson's cheek pressed against it, the chill bleeding into his skin. For a second, he stayed still, trying to decide if this was a dream. He was too groggy to care, too disoriented to move. The hard surface beneath him didn't feel like the worn mattress he usually woke up on.
Wait. Why was he on the floor? Did he fall off his bed?
With a soft groan, he rolled slightly and reached around, eyes still closed, hoping to feel the edge of his blanket or the familiar frame of his bed. His hands swept across nothing but smooth tile.
Then a voice broke the silence.
"Holy shit, it worked."
Johnson's eyes snapped open.
He wasn't in his room. He wasn't even in a bedroom. He was in what looked like an office—spacious, sterile, and dimly lit. Rows of desks lined the walls, each one equipped with sleek, modern computers. The faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Everything looked too advanced, too clinical to be anything he'd ever seen.
Sitting at the desk nearest the door was a figure turned toward him, lounging back in a swivel chair like they owned the place. Johnson stared, momentarily stunned.
He couldn't tell if the person was a man or a woman. They had sharp features—too sharp, like a painting brought to life with a few too many perfect brush strokes. Their eyes, slightly amused, scanned him like a puzzle they'd half-solved. And somehow, despite everything, they were beautiful. Disarmingly so.
A second voice chimed in from the door.
"Thought you were joking about this…"
Johnson turned again. Another figure, this one clearly male, leaned casually against the doorway. He had short brown hair and kind eyes—something warm and familiar in the way he carried himself. When their eyes met, the man offered a soft, almost apologetic smile.
Behind him stood a third person, less welcoming. He had jet-black hair pulled into a short ponytail and unshaven stubble across his jaw. His arms were crossed, one shoulder pressed to the doorframe like he didn't intend to move anytime soon. His eyes were dark and unreadable. He said nothing, just watched.
All three of them wore matching black jumpsuits—sleek, padded, and form-fitting. Combat gear, maybe. Johnson had never seen anything like it. The man in the back was the only one who stood out: hanging from his belt was a matte black mask with no eye holes and a sharp yellow V-shape where the mouth would be. It looked like something out of a sci-fi horror flick.
"I didn't think it would work either," the androgynous one said, standing now. Their voice was smooth, effortless. "I wasn't too specific with the request. Honestly figured we'd get another cabbage or a dead raccoon."
They approached with casual confidence, hands loose at their sides.
"I'm Barry," they said. "You got a name?"
Johnson forced himself to stand, brushing off his sleep-rumpled pajamas and trying to remember how to breathe. Every part of him was tense, uncertain. But panic wouldn't help, and whoever these people were, they weren't hurting him—yet.
He extended a hand. "My name is Johnson Waldith. Can you tell me where I am?"
Barry smiled, pleased, and took the hand. Their grip was strong—too strong. Pain shot through Johnson's fingers as they squeezed, but he didn't let it show. He'd shaken his uncle's hand enough times to know how to fake a poker face.
Barry released him and gestured around the room. "Well, Johnson. That depends on where you came from, I guess. But as of right now, you're in the main headquarters of the Siberian Wastes."
Johnson blinked. "The what?"
"The Siberian Wastes," Barry repeated, as if the name should ring a bell. "Formerly Russia. Now? Let's just say things have... shifted. New management. Different rules."
Johnson's heart thudded. None of this made sense. He'd gone to bed in his room, in California. Now he was in some unknown facility with three strangers talking about geopolitical rebrands like they were office renovations.
Barry saw the confusion settle in and raised a hand. "Yeah. I know. You've got questions. Way too many, probably. But I'm not cleared to answer them."
He pointed a thumb toward the man by the door. "That's James. He's your babysitter until Scar shows up. Once he signs off, you'll get the full rundown."
James stepped forward, extending a hand far more gently than Barry had. His smile was genuine.
"Nice to meet you, kid," he said. "I know this is a lot, but you're not in danger. You're just... early."
Johnson shook his hand, grateful for the lack of bone-crushing pressure.
Then James tilted his head, studying him a little more closely.
"I've got a question for you," he said. "Semi-important one."
Johnson braced himself.
"Do you believe in God?"
--------------------
Scar was secretive.
He said nothing when he met Johnson—only offered a handshake, firm and unyielding. Then he turned and walked. No words. Just the click of boots on metal flooring and the mechanical sighs of old ventilation systems. Johnson followed. The corridors were dim, armored. Surveillance eyes blinked overhead. Whatever this place was, it had been carved from the bones of something older. Something hidden.
Scar led him down into the depths of the facility. No directions. No explanation. After what felt like miles of descending hallways and magnetic locks, they reached a door: unmarked, black, thick with shielding. Scar opened it, pointed to a seat, and followed him in. The lights dimmed. Windows blacked out. The room fell to silence.
Only then did Scar speak.
"What year is it?"
Johnson blinked. "2025. Why?"
Scar gave a single nod. "As I thought. You're wrong. It's 2236."
The words hit like a hammer. Johnson tensed, tried to process, failed.
"Your Earth and this Earth aren't the same," Scar continued. "You weren't pulled forward in time. You were pulled sideways."
He stepped toward the table, gloved fingers brushing the surface.
"This world diverged from yours sometime early in the 21st century. No one noticed it then. But the world changed. The old balance died. Not because of ideology or technology—but because of two artifacts."
He paused.
"We call them fragments. Stones, unearthed in different corners of the Earth. Their origins are unknown. Their nature? Still debated. But we do know this: they grant power—immortality, strength, perception far beyond human limits. And the ability to forge others like ourselves. I found the first, in Siberia. Yuno found the second."
Johnson leaned forward. "Who's Yuno?"
Scar's voice sharpened. "My adversary. The second bearer. He leads the Coalition of Astra—an empire spanning the southern half of Asia and Australia. Together, we are locked in a quiet war. A slow, grinding, century-long chess match. One fragment cannot coexist with the other. When both bearers live, the fragments strain—against each other, against the world."
"And the rest of the world?" Johnson asked.
Scar folded his arms.
"The rest are pawns. Most don't know we exist. The Allied Continental Sovereignty—ACS—controls the Americas, Central Africa, and parts of the Middle East. Led by Chancellor Ward, a man with no divine link. Just power, politics, and old-world alliances. The public believes the world is divided by economics, climate collapse, and post-national conflicts. Our existence is classified above their highest security levels."
Johnson's face darkened. "Why not just fight each other directly? You're gods, right?"
Scar paused. His reply was measured, cautious.
"We are powerful. But we are not free. Every time we act directly—every time one of us engages in a true celestial battle—it creates pressure. Distortions. Echoes."
Johnson frowned. "Echoes?"
Scar didn't answer immediately. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped in tone.
"We don't fully understand what lies outside our comprehension. But something... watches. Not constantly. Not clearly. But if we fight too openly, if our powers clash without restraint, something stirs. And we don't want it stirred again."
Johnson let that sit.
"So the war is fought by nations?"
"Yes," Scar said. "Through proxies. Armies. Intelligence. Technology. Nations under our influence are led by men and women who don't know we exist. Sometimes we guide them. Sometimes we let events unfold. Yuno has his network. I have mine. It's better this way."
Johnson was silent.
Scar stepped closer.
"You've been brought into this because you're outside the system. A variable. You don't belong to any timeline. That makes you useful."
"What do you want from me?"
"To make you into one of my angels."
Johnson raised an eyebrow.
"You'd be given enhanced strength, regenerative capability, and one unique ability drawn from you—an expression of your inner nature, your instincts. It will define you. It cannot be copied. Every angel is different."
Johnson tried to speak, then paused.
"And if I say no?"
"You'll be given shelter. Protection. And isolation. Because once you've seen this world, there's no returning to ignorance."
Scar stared at him.
"The war is accelerating. Yuno's been quiet too long. That means something is coming. We need new weapons. I think you might be one."
----------------------
"Entry 1342-B
It worked. Strider-2 succeeded beyond expectation.
Johnson Waldith shows undeniable promise. Despite the chaos surrounding him, he remained calm, measured, composed—an extraordinary level of self-control for someone thrust into the fire. That steadiness speaks volumes.
I placed him in a room, isolated, until he delivers his answer. One day. Twenty-four hours to decide."
Scar moves to stop the recording, then hesitates before continuing.
"The title I have sought for so long... it draws nearer. I can feel its weight pressing through the veil of time and circumstance. Johnson's choice has already been cast, whether he realizes it or not. His name echoes now—whispered in the dark corridors of history, entwined with fate.
The moment approaches. The game we call war is no longer a shadow lurking on the horizon. It is here. And soon, the true battle will begin."