The Gate 001

The harvest of future soldiers was celebrated as a spectacle of prestige on the Alpha and Beta planets. There, pride was intrinsically tied to enhanced genetics, the lineage of near-divine beings whose destinies seemed grand from birth. For them, the challenge of the harvest was almost a formality, an inevitable transition toward what was already encoded in their genes. But on the distant, forgotten planets, destiny was something else entirely. There, the future was a dense fog of uncertainty, where young people were cast into the unknown with a staggering mortality rate nearing 98%.

On Helheim 74b, the event marking the selection of soldiers bore no resemblance to a celebration or a glorious rite of passage. Instead, it resembled a funeral procession. The chosen ones knew that, in the vast majority of cases, they wouldn't return. Dreams of a triumphant homecoming were drowned out by the cries of anguish from the few rational souls who still clung to the possibility of survival. The money offered for participation in the harvest was tempting, but no amount of currency could compensate for the near-certainty of death.

"Brother, why do you have to go? Are you going to abandon me too?" Frida's voice cut through the silence, muffled by her pain and doubt. She was huddled in a corner of their small home, her eyes swollen from crying, her voice broken by sobs. It was a scene all too common among families whose children were called for the harvest, but the fact that there was no one else left besides the two of them made the situation even more harrowing. The small girl had no one else, and Tyrin was all she had left.

Tyrin looked at her, his expression a mix of anger and helplessness. He wished things could be different—that he could remain by her side as the brother who had always cared for her, without having to leave for what was essentially a suicide mission. But the weight of reality pressed down on him. He knew there was no choice left.

"Frida, I need you to be strong and listen to me." He took a deep breath, trying to summon the strength to deliver the news in a way that wouldn't break her further. "I'm going to travel to a distant planet, but I promise I'll be back before your birthday. I need you to take care of everything while I'm away. I'll contact you every month I can. That's a promise." He looked at her with a serious expression, doing his best to hide the storm raging inside him.

His posture was firm, but his soul shattered with each word. He didn't want to make this decision. He wanted to be the brother who stayed with her, who protected her. But this opportunity wouldn't come again. The risk was enormous, but the reward even greater. The life he could provide for her, should he survive, was worth more than anything else he could do now.

Frida looked at him, her large eyes brimming with a pain she couldn't fully comprehend but could still feel deeply. She knew he was leaving her, but her trust in him was unshakable. She believed his promises because she knew he always kept them.

"I love you, brother, and I'll be waiting here for you. Until the end." Frida spoke with a firmness that surprised Tyrin. The little girl was growing up quickly—far quicker than he wanted to admit. She saw what he saw and understood far more than any child should be capable of. She knew he was walking into a death trap, but even so, she supported him.

"I'll always be with you, and even if I'm on another planet, I'll do everything to make myself present. I just need you to be strong and hold on." Tyrin said, swallowing the lump in his throat. His own promise felt like a bitter lie. How could he promise something so grand when he knew his chances of returning were so slim?

He crouched beside her and embraced her tightly, feeling his heart constrict with the pain of goodbye. The smell of his sister, the warmth of her hug—it all felt so real and yet so distant. He didn't know if he would survive the mission, if he would return to see her grow, to be by her side in better moments. But he knew that without her, he wouldn't have taken even the first step toward this journey. She was his reason, his only reason for moving forward.

"I love you, Frida." He murmured into her hair, the most sincere words he could speak. "I'll fight. I'll survive. I promise."

Frida only hugged him tighter, as if her strength alone could keep him there, in the present, where everything still felt simple and safe. But she knew, just as he did, that the future was uncertain. They were about to part—perhaps forever—but this moment, this embrace, would be what he carried with him. He had promised to return, and he would do everything to keep that promise.

With a final sigh, Tyrin pulled away and looked at his sister, her eyes still filled with tears but now accompanied by a confident smile. He left her there, sitting in the pink chair he had given her, with the promise that he loved her. And with his heart in pieces, he stepped toward the path he knew to be perilous, but also the only chance to ensure her survival.

Tyrin stepped outside, closing the door behind him. When he emerged from the underground, he felt the icy wind strike his face. The sky above was a vast expanse of gray clouds that seemed to press down on the horizon. Snowflakes fell slowly, painting the frozen landscape of Helheim in white. He rubbed his hands together to warm them, but it wasn't just the cold that bothered him. The goodbye to Frida still weighed on his mind. His promise to return was a vow he couldn't break, yet he wasn't sure he could fulfill it.

As he walked down the empty street, his boots crunched through the snow beneath him. The air carried an unsettling silence, broken only by the distant hum of industrial machinery. His eyes instinctively rose to the tallest building in the area, where Dante stood on the edge, gazing at the horizon. The man was motionless, his heavy coat swaying slightly in the wind.

Tyrin paused for a moment, watching him. Dante seemed lost in thought, a solitary figure against the overcast sky. With a sigh, Tyrin decided to approach him. He knew this was the next step before boarding the ship that was already descending toward the colony.

Tyrin climbed the stairs of the building, the air growing colder as he neared the top. When he reached the last step, he saw Dante with his back turned, staring fixedly at the horizon. The crunch of Tyrin's boots in the snow caught the man's attention, but he didn't turn immediately. Instead, he spoke, as if he already knew who was there.

"They've arrived earlier this year," Dante remarked, his voice calm but weighted with meaning.

Tyrin stepped beside him, following his gaze. In the distance, a colossal ship was cutting through the gray sky, its pulsing lights stark against the bleak surroundings. Despite the distance, the ship seemed enormous, a metal shadow announcing its presence with a low, constant roar.

"It wasn't supposed to be this early," Tyrin replied, trying to keep his voice steady. He wanted to sound confident, but his nervousness was impossible to hide completely.

Dante finally turned to him, his sharp eyes scanning the boy. It was as though he were evaluating every detail—Tyrin's stance, his expression, his resolve.

"Unfortunately, I only had three week to train you," Dante said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his coat. "But I have to say, you're the most capable person I've seen, Tyrin. You have something others don't—a strength that comes from within. I understand now why Karin insisted on you."

Tyrin didn't know how to respond. He wanted to believe Dante's words, but the idea of being "capable" felt absurd. He was just a boy from a forgotten planet, now about to embark on a journey few survived.

"Stick to your promise," Dante continued, his voice growing more serious. "I've done everything I could, and now I hope you'll do the same. Your sister needs you. I need you. Don't leave that behind."

The mention of his promise made Tyrin's chest tighten. He knew that vow was all that kept him grounded. Without it, he had no reason to move forward.

"I'll come back," Tyrin said, his voice low but resolute. He wasn't trying to convince Dante—he was trying to convince himself.

Dante simply smiled.

"I'm starting to believe you will."

The sound of the ship grew louder as it approached, a roar that seemed to reverberate in the air around them. Tyrin looked at the horizon and saw the colossal vessel descending slowly, its engines spewing clouds of vapor that mingled with the snow below.

It was an imposing sight. Every detail of the ship seemed to radiate power and strength, but it also carried a silent warning: those who boarded rarely returned. Tyrin swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the moment.

"Let's join the others. Whatever you need to do, do it quickly. There won't be another chance once we're aboard," Dante said, placing a firm hand on Tyrin's shoulder.

"I've done everything I needed. I'm ready." Tyrin replied, though he knew he would never truly feel ready.

The two began descending together, the sound of their boots crunching through the snow filling the silence between them. The wind picked up, as if the planet itself were trying to hold them back for just one more moment. But there was no turning back. The future was calling, and they had to answer.

"This is the last planet, Baron."

The trembling voice of the servant echoed through the luxurious but slightly worn interior of the ship.

"Damn it, this is the fifth time you've said that, you useless servant. Do you know how long it's been since I've had any fun? I'm going to lose my mind if I spend one more day on this piece-of-crap ship."

The Baron, a corpulent and disheveled man, huffed as he adjusted his extravagant, crooked wig perched atop his sweaty head.

"I understand, Baron. The Emperor gave us express orders to visit every planet this year."

"Blah-blah-blah… I know that, damn it. What garbage planet is this we're on now?"

"Of course, Baron. The planet is called Helheim 74b. It's located in—"

"Shut up. So this is the twin planet that survived the destruction? I thought we lost both of them."

"No, sir. This planet wasn't attacked by the Tyranos. We believe the terrain is too challenging for them."

"Interesting. Anything else I should know?"

"Well, this planet was the last to establish contact with Alpheim. The records are incomplete, but we suspect something unusual occurred during the last cycle."

"Fabulous. Let's descend. I want to meet these harvests. It is our noble duty to mingle with the scum of the universe. How does my wig look?"

As the massive ship descended, its shadow engulfing the small colony, Tyrin stood among the other young candidates. He could feel the tension in the air, a weight that seemed to press down on everyone's shoulders. Some held their breath out of nervousness, others out of pure fear. Tyrin, however, remained focused. He needed to prove his worth—at any cost.

"So this is the nobility of the Alpha planets?" he wondered, watching the spectacle unfold.

A ramp extended from the ship, and down it came the Baron—a grotesquely overweight man with a visibly disheveled wig, clumsily adjusting himself in a makeshift chair carried by emaciated servants. The scene was almost comical, but no one dared to laugh.

"What the hell is this chair? Where's the regent of this dump?" the Baron bellowed, unaware that his microphone was on.

"Sir, the microphone…" the servant tried to warn him, but was silenced with a brusque gesture.

"Citizens of this magnificent colony, we've brought gifts for the regents and have come to collect the harvest. I hope this pleases you."

Behind the Baron, a caravan of servants descended, carrying chests of gold, silver, prime meat, and spices. It was the barter system the Federation used to appease the less prosperous planets and justify sending their youth to a near-certain death.

"Well, boys and girls. I see many interesting faces. I want to meet and appreciate your… 'gifts.' You will be tested to your limits and face unimaginable challenges, but if you survive, you'll have conquered the world."

The Baron concluded his speech with a dramatic gesture, abruptly rising from the chair, which nearly collapsed under his weight. He quickly re-entered the ship, followed by other members of the delegation. Left behind was a tall, thin, and silent man whose presence had been overshadowed until then.

"The Baron isn't a man of many words. Consider yourselves honored to hear his motivational phrase. Gather your belongings; we leave in a few minutes."

The platform began to rise slowly, floating gently toward the colossal ship that hovered above Helheim. The cold, biting wind caused the snow around them to swirl in the air, while the low, constant hum of the ship's engines echoed as a prelude to the chosen ones' fate.

On the platform stood about ten youths, each holding something precious in their arms: wolf pups. These animals were a tradition for the chosen ones of Helheim, symbolizing the bond between the planet and its warriors. Every year, the candidates received the pups as a representation of their promise of strength and protection and, in return, vowed to care for them as part of their journey. Each had formed a life bond with their pup.

All except one.

Tyrin stood at the center of the platform, holding something entirely different: an egg. It was large, encased in an opaque black shell that seemed to shimmer faintly under the diffused light of the cloudy day. The egg was unique, enigmatic, and it made him stand out. He could feel the eyes on him—some curious, others disdainful.

"So, where's your wolf?" a blonde-haired girl asked with a smirk, pressing her pup against her chest to show superiority.

"I have something better," he replied calmly, never taking his eyes off the egg in his hands. He didn't feel the need to justify his choice; the egg held something special, something he didn't fully understand yet but knew was important.

"Better? That thing doesn't even move. I bet it'll break before we even get to the ship," another boy mocked, laughing as he stroked the sleeping pup in his arms.

Tyrin ignored the comments, tightening his grip on the egg as if to shield it from their words. He knew the egg was more than it seemed. Dante had said it was special, and Tyrin believed him, even if he didn't completely understand why.

After a few minutes, the floating platform they stood on ascended, dozens of meters off the ground. The view of the planet below began to change. The white snow that blanketed everything now looked like an endless expanse, and the cloudy sky merged with the metallic structure of the ship.

Tyrin looked toward where his home would be and managed to spot his sister, Frida, on the frozen ground, watching the platform drift away. Even from afar, he could see her red, tear-streaked eyes, the droplets falling freely down her face. He felt the same lump in his throat he'd felt when saying goodbye to her before leaving their home.

"Goodbye, sister. I hope I live long enough to give you the life you deserve," he whispered, like a silent prayer.

The other youths were occupied with their pups—some trying to calm them, others playing with them to ease the tension. Only Tyrin seemed truly focused, his mind fixed on the egg in his hands. He knew his journey would be different from everyone else's. His egg wasn't just a symbol; it was a mystery, a burden, and, perhaps, an opportunity.