This is a tale where the fate of the world and the destiny of a single man are bound in blood and fire.
Zyrex Drayke—driven by the hunger to hold up the very sky—would carve his name into the bones of history. Not as a savior, but as a force of nature. The founding father of a new empire: The United Great Expanse.
To call this anything less than a tragedy would be a lie. He was no noble hero, no shining knight. Just a mortal man, reckless enough to grasp at godhood. Fueled not by honor, but by a single, burning desire: freedom. A legacy that would echo through time like thunder—loud, impossible to ignore, and destined to destroy.
Our story begins at his birth.
April 2nd, Year 33 A.C. (After the Cataclysm). Zyrex Drayke was born in the fractured city of Old York—a relic of the fallen American Empire. The world had drowned beneath great waves of dark matter, known to survivors as mana. America lasted thirty-three years after the first wave. But the largest came soon after—and it didn't just drown cities. It reshaped the world.
Three days later, on April 5th, 33 A.C., came the event they call The Breach. The birth of a new Outer God—a towering, unknowable horror—marked the beginning of an era of nightmares. Old York was consumed in chaos. Zyrex and his mother fled, joining thousands of refugees as the Adventurers Guild made its desperate stand.
By June 4th, 34 A.C., Old York was gone.
Panic gripped the Great Expanse. Survivors flooded west, driven by terror, until they reached the San Andreas Strait—a violent chasm of water and mana that now divided the continent. Behind them, waves of mutated beasts surged forth, and all communication with the outside world fell silent. Cities crumbled. Homes were burned. Millions died in the dirt, clinging to whatever hope they had left.
Then came the breaking point.
January 1st, 42 A.C.—The Great Migration. Forty-four million people stood at the edge of the San Andreas Strait. Boats capsized. Bridges failed. Those with nothing tried to swim. Only two million made it across alive. The rest vanished into the churning black waters, and the world gave the strait a new name: The Strait of Styx.
In that storm of death and desperation, Zyrex became an orphan.
His mother denied passage across—sold her body to the warriors who stayed behind, trading dignity for her son's survival. And when the day came, she let him go. Alone. Scarred. Nine years old, with nothing but blood, salt, and silence behind him.
And in that moment, Zyrex made a vow.
No matter the cost.
No matter the gods.
He would survive.
~
Zyrex Drayke stood alone at the ship's bow, hands tucked into his pockets as the coastline came into view. The sea breeze bit at his face, and the sky above was streaked with clouds, heavy with the promise of another hard day. Ahead, Fort Xavier loomed—steel walls, floodlights, and distant towers rising like jagged teeth along the horizon. Behind him, recruits murmured and shifted restlessly, but Drayke said nothing. He just watched, quiet and unreadable, as the future crept closer with every wave.
The ship moored itself against a rusted dock, groaning like you'd expect of an old-war vessel.. New recruits hoisted their bags and disembarked, boots clanging against metal. Without a word, they marched across the cracked pavement toward the center of the base, where a concrete drill pad waited like a stage built for breaking spirits. They fell into formation without needing to be told instilled with the discipline that only war and loss could teach.
Standing at the head of the formation was Specialist Drayke, the Platoon Guide—stone-faced, eyes forward. Beside him stood Specialist Mirelle, the Assistant Guide, her posture just as sharp. Their bags rested at their feet, untouched. Neither flinched as the new recruits filed into place in front of them.
"At ease!"
The recruits snapped down as the Drill Instructor, Staff Sergeant Kaldros, took one step onto the drill pad. He tipped his head just enough to hide the smirk pulling at his lips.
"Trainees," he barked, voice echoing through the crisp air, "you thought you were finally rid of me."
A few nervous glances rippled through the formation.
"Your other instructors said their goodbyes. Wrapped it up with handshakes and farewells. But I haven't had my turn yet."
With a sudden motion, he ripped off his drill hat and flung it aside.
"There's a reason I rode here with you while the others stayed back."
He stepped forward, slipping on a fresh patrol cap, the symbol of a leader no longer barking from the sidelines—but fighting beside them.
"From this moment forward, you're mine. You're no longer just trainees. You're soldiers of Fortune Company—Foxtrot Company, 1st Brigade, 12th Battalion."
The formation responded in unison, voices sharp and loud.
"HUA!"
[Meaning: Heard. Understood. Acknowledged.]
It echoed across the concrete like a war drum. Fortune Company had just been born.
"Company! Atten—tion!"
The newly placed platoon sergeant's voice cut through the air like a blade.
An officer appeared as if from thin air—two black bars on their chest gleaming beneath the floodlights. A Captain. He stepped onto the drill floor, emerging from around the corner of one of the thin-sheeted buildings flanking the pad.
Beside him walked a broad-shouldered man, grim and stone-faced. The chevrons and rockers on his chest made every recruit's spine stiffen a little straighter. First Sergeant.
For a moment, time froze. The formation stood locked in place as the commander and first sergeant stepped into view.
"My name is Jeffery Strade," the officer began, his voice sharp, composed. "To you, I'm sir—or commander. I've been placed in charge of this new unit, and this man at my side is my right hand."
He motioned to the grizzled veteran beside him.
The First Sergeant stepped forward, voice rasping like he'd spent decades smoking through warzones. "Name's Lewis Norran. You can call me Tops, First Sergeant, Norran—I don't give a damn. Just don't get sloppy when addressing the rest of your chain of command, and we'll be square. Clear?"
"HUA!" the formation responded in unison.
The commander stepped forward again, his voice cutting through the stillness.
"We stand before you already knowing your names, your histories, your families, and your scores. We've been waiting for you since last year. And as I look at you now, I see the proof that not everyone made it. Some of your brothers and sisters dropped out, too weak to carry the weight of this world's future.
I'm sure your platoon sergeant has already drilled it into you, but let me make it perfectly clear—this isn't just another company. Here in Fortune Company, you'll find yourself wishing you stayed home, wishing someone else fought your battles.
I didn't choose the name Fortune at random. As the next frontline battalion, we'll be sent on the most brutal, unforgiving missions this war has to offer. You'll want to quit. You'll want to scream. You'll beg for it to end.
But those of you who make it out... the ones who live beyond the war?
You'll be the fortunate."
He let the silence hang for a moment, letting his presence settle over the formation before speaking again.
"Follow your platoon sergeant. He'll escort you to your assigned housing. By now, you should already understand the rules from the academy. Monthly inspections are mandatory—keep your areas squared away." He turned to the man beside him. "First Sergeant, anything to add?"
The First Sergeant stepped forward, voice rough like gravel.
"First hit time is 0600 tomorrow. Be in uniform and ready for accountability. We'll conduct an official check-in and get everyone processed." He paused, scanning the recruits. "Don't be late. You're dismissed."
With that, the Commander and First Sergeant turned on their heels and walked off, already trading inside jokes and low chuckles as they disappeared around the corner.
Drayke hefted his bags—two worn, overstuffed green duffels—and slung them over his shoulders with practiced ease. Without a word, he followed Sergeant Kaldros toward the men's quarters: Building 25-1. It was a massive hangar-like structure, hollowed out and lined with sheet metal dividers slapped together to form makeshift rooms. Fifty of them, packed snugly into a space meant for a hundred. There were 17 units, and each held three bunk beds. If you were lucky—like Drayke—you got one to yourself.
Everyone else had already claimed their corners, flocking to familiar faces, forming cliques like they were back in high school. Drayke didn't bother. He never did. That was the curse of being the "perfect soldier." No one wanted to get close. And he never made an effort. Friends didn't win battles. Training did. Discipline did. Results did.
To him, it didn't matter who stood beside him in the fight. What mattered was the outcome of the battle.
Drayke began unpacking, folding each piece of clothing with precision and stacking it neatly inside the wall locker. Once the first duffel was empty, he unzipped the second—and there it was, resting atop his gear like a relic: his sword. Mana-reinforced, built to resonate with his unique affinity—light.
The moment he touched it, he felt the familiar pull. It was drawn to him, as he was to it. His fingers traced the flat of the blade, feeling the hum of energy beneath the metal. It was sharp enough to cut at a thought, a silent promise of power. For a moment, he let himself marvel at it. Then discipline took over.
He slid it carefully back into its hilt, strapping it securely inside the locker. As the locker door clicked shut, a wave of exhaustion crashed over him. He checked the time on his wrist monitor—a tactical watch tracking vitals and mana flow.
11:57 PM.
The ship ride must've taken longer than expected.
He locked the wall locker and turned toward the bunk. Sleep had already claimed him by the time his head hit the pillow.
[Author's note: Next chapter will be longer, I just needed to get this chapter out today. It wasn't the wrong place to end a chapter; I am on a strict schedule of at least one chapter a day, no matter what.]