Every generation, five are born.

  Not kings.

  Not gods.

  Just… inevitable.

  They’re called Anomalies—beings so powerful, the world reshapes itself around them.

  Nations rise in their shadow.

  Wars end at their feet.

  And when the fifth appears…

  balance is restored.

  That’s how it’s always been.

  Until now.

  7:03 a.m. — Concord Standard Time

  Bureau of Echo Integrity – Atrium, Sector 4

  The atrium lit up like a fireworks show for the deaf. Holo-screens detonated overhead in a rain of confetti light, casting gold and violet ribbons across polished stone floors. News alerts screamed. Music blared. Someone even popped open a drink—was that allowed?

  Ren Varin stared blankly at the projection on his desk.

  One hand gripped a half-empty synth-coffee.

  The other hovered near his keyboard like it had forgotten what it was doing.

  “The Fifth has been confirmed!” the announcer boomed.

  “Azaran now joins the Concord with its very first Anomaly—General Cael Drevarn!”

  The Bureau erupted.

  Cheers. Whistles.

  Echo flares spiraled upward like they were launching into orbit.

  On the main screen, a tall figure stood beneath ceremonial banners.

  Cael Drevarn.

  His Echo glowed gold and black, churning like smoke pressed into regal shape. It flowed behind him like the train of a war priest’s robe.

  “Elegant,” someone muttered nearby. “Like a god.”

  Ren didn’t respond.

  But his eyes caught on the data flickering beside Cael’s image.

  Age: 43

  Echo Class: 9.1 – Confirmed

  Late bloomer?

  Not unheard of... but rare.

  Most Anomalies manifested early—teens, maybe twenties.

  Cael? Forty-three.

  It wasn’t wrong. Just… off-pattern.

  Enough to make Ren tilt his head.

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  Huh.

  Not suspicious.

  Just curious.

  “You’re really not clapping?”

  Tomas leaned across the edge of Ren’s desk, Bureau jacket half-unzipped, sleeves rolled just far enough to show off his Echo-reactive cuffs.

  Typical.

  Ren blinked. “Just watching.”

  “You look like someone stole your Echo.”

  Ren sipped his coffee. “Just thinking.”

  “Oh no. Varin's thinking. Everyone run.”

  Ren gave a tiny shrug. “You ever notice Anomalies always show up right when a nation needs something? Like, say… a Concord seat?”

  Tomas raised an eyebrow. “You saying it’s staged?”

  “I’m saying it’s timely.”

  “Still bitter, huh?”

  “Still observant.”

  “Guess some of us are just Echo-late bloomers.”

  Ren didn’t look up. “Guess some of us peaked in Bureau simulations.”

  Tomas smirked and walked off, whistling something that sounded patriotic and sarcastic at the same time.

  Ren watched him go.

  Then looked down at the small badge clipped to his coat:

  REN VARIN

  ECHO STATUS: NEGATIVE

  That word.

  Echoless.

  An Echo wasn’t just energy—it was identity. Proof that you mattered in this world.

  He muttered, “Still on the badge, huh.”

  Saying it aloud didn’t help.

  But he said it anyway.

  8:42 p.m. — Bureau Archives

  EchoNet Terminal – Sublevel C

  The Bureau had long since emptied.

  Ren remained.

  Not because anyone asked.

  Not for overtime.

  Not even because he had a plan.

  Something just felt... incomplete.

  Cael. Forty-three. A perfect 9.1 out of nowhere. Azaran’s first Anomaly. Two days before they were about to lose their Concord bid.

  Probably nothing.

  But maybe not.

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose, then keyed into the EchoNet terminal.

  No alarms. No overrides. Just quiet clicks and old access codes.

  The public records filled the screen. Crowd flares. Broadcast spikes. Background echoes from the day’s celebration.

  All noise.

  Until—

  PHANTOM ECHO – Power Level 9.1

  Timestamp: Two days before Cael’s announcement

  Location: Ordan Outskirts

  Status: Purged

  What the hell…

  Ren leaned forward.

  Phantom Echo logs were rare, but not impossible.

  What wasn’t normal—was a spike at 9.1.

  Two days before Cael’s reveal.

  In a different location.

  He opened the waveform.

  It pulsed erratically. Unstable. No fixed pattern.

  But unmistakable.

  This wasn’t a flare.

  This was a first-time manifestation.

  He encrypted the file, loaded it onto a secured drive, and slid it into his coat.

  His fingers were shaking.

  “This wasn’t overlooked,” he muttered.

  “Someone erased it.”

  10:05 p.m. — Ordan Outskirts

  Ordan was a graveyard.

  Once a plaza. Now—just broken stone, charred metal, and silence.

  Ren stepped carefully through the wreckage. No alert signs. No repair crews.

  No explanation.

  Just… gone.

  He swept a scanner slowly.

  Ping.

  Then another.

  He followed the signal to a shattered Echo pylon buried in debris.

  He crouched.

  Brushed aside the rubble.

  Found:

  —A broken anchor plate.

  —A melted necklace. Small. Child-sized.

  —Freshly turned soil.

  Too smooth. Too clean.

  A grave.

  Unmarked.

  Unregistered.

  Real.

  Ren stared.

  The wind stilled.

  He touched the pendant.

  His scanner pulsed once.

  Then fell silent.

  Just a trace. Barely enough to register.

  But enough to feel.

  “…That makes six.”

  The words slipped out before he could stop them.

  They sounded wrong.

  But they felt right.

  There aren’t supposed to be six.

  Five Anomalies. Always five.

  But I saw the reading. I’m standing over the proof.

  “…Why a child?” he whispered.

  “…Who were you supposed to be?”

  Five are born every generation.

  But Ren had seen the grave.

  He’d read the spike.

  And now—he couldn’t shake the number from his mind.

  Six.

  He didn’t know how.

  He didn’t know why.

  But somehow…

  Someone had made sure the world would never know