It never had, and it never would.
One life could burn brighter than a thousand stars, could change the course of people and history. Yet when that light vanished, the machinery of existence continued its relentless motion.
Threats did not pause out of respect. Calamities did not wait for mourning to end.
Within the Atlantis Organization, reports continued to arrive.
The empty spaces left behind by the fallen were acknowledged, remembered… and then filled with responsibility. Because that was the cruel discipline of survival; to keep moving even when the heart begged for a pinch of rest.
This afternoon was a bit special for Cagaro.
The entrance did not look like anything important. Just a cracked concrete slope descending into the earth, half-swallowed by weeds and forgotten by time.
Above it stretched a ruined forest. Charred trunks, broken branches, soil that looked tired of holding life. The place had the appearance of abandonment. Like it was something terrible had happened long ago and was forgotten...?
Cagaro stepped down the narrow underground path for the first time.
The air grew cooler the deeper he went. Dim utility lights lined the ceiling. Flickering occasionally, casting uneven shadows that crawled along the rough walls.
His boots resounded softly against the concrete floor. The sound repeated like a quiet companion.
He carried a thin file in one hand. Held loosely against his side. Inside were documents about himself.
It felt strange, walking with a summary of his life tucked under his arm like an assignment sheet.
Then he paused slightly, nose wrinkling.
He muttered under his breath. "First day entering the legendary base and the welcome scent is… ahhh, dead rat perfume."
He sniffed once more, grimacing.
"At least they are not some spooky ahhh monster with a giant banana. Nothing says professionalism like biological warfare in the ventilation."
Adjusting his grip on the file, he continued forward. Deeper into the passage.
The tunnel stretched longer than he expected.
Eventually, the narrow path widened into a proper corridor. The flickering lights from earlier were gone. Here, the lighting was steady, clinical, almost sterile.
Cagaro rolled his shoulders once and let out a quiet breath.
Then, out of habit or maybe to kill the tension, he began humming to himself. A slow, familiar rhythm, careless and slightly off-key.
Something close to the tune of Take Me Home, Country Roads, though he twisted the melody just enough to make it his own.
"Country roads…" he muttered smirking to himself. "Yeah, except this one smells worse and leads to hell instead of home."
The corridor ended at a heavy steel door guarded by a single officer standing motionless beside a wall-mounted console.
The guard's eyes flicked toward the file in Cagaro's hand then back to his face.
Cagaro stepped forward and cleared his throat.
He recited the access code calmly,
"7–Grand Order–19–Alpha… uhh... Oh yeah! Kyrie–42–Limbus–Genesis."
The guard typed quickly. A mechanical click followed. The steel door slid open with a dull sound.
Beyond it lay a short, concrete-white pathway.
Cagaro adjusted the file under his arm and stepped forward. Taking the route without hesitation.
The white passage did not last long. A few more steps and another reinforced door waited ahead.
Taller than the previous one. Cagaro pushed it open after the lock disengaged, expecting another narrow hallway.
Instead, he walked straight into noise.
A wide junction stretched out before him. Far larger than anything he had imagined underground.
The ceiling arched high above. Lined with layered lighting that cast a bright, polished glow across the area. The walls were finished with smooth composite panels. Spotless and expensive-looking, nothing like the damp tunnels he had passed earlier.
People moved in different directions. Some in uniforms, others in lab coats, a few carrying sealed containers or digital slates, some companions chattering in the corner. It looked less like a bunker and more like a city intersection built beneath the earth.
Cagaro slowed his steps, quietly taking it all in.
"Well… damn.Didn't expect an underground mall."
Ahead stood a long counter, built from dark polished material. Behind it sat a man wearing a fitted uniform with a distinctive badge pinned neatly to his chest. The badge caught the light just enough for the name to be visible.
Sako Murasaki.
Cagaro walked up and rested his file lightly on the counter.
"Uhh... hey." he began casually. "Looking for somewhere called Spectral Hall. Any idea where that is?"
Sako didn't immediately respond. His posture was straight like someone trained to remain precise even during small conversations. Without a word, he lifted one finger and pointed upward.
Cagaro frowned slightly and looked at the direction.
Mounted high above were four large signboards, each pointing toward different corridors branching from the junction,
Higher Junction
Laboratory
General Office
Editorial Hall
"Editorial Hall." Sako finally spoke in a cold yet ignorant voice. "Go there first. You'll find directions to Spectral Hall inside."
Cagaro nodded once. "Got it."
As he turned away and began walking toward the corridor marked Editorial Hall, something lingered in his thoughts. He couldn't name it exactly.
But something about Sako Murasaki felt… different.
Cagaro didn't look back. He simply walked forward, file in hand, carrying that strange, unspoken feeling with him.
Cagaro followed the directions posted at intervals until he finally reached a polished metal plate fixed beside a tall door.
Spectral Hall.
He paused there for a second, adjusting the file under his arm. The hallway outside was unusually quiet compared to the busy junction earlier. A row of metal chairs rested along the wall, meant for waiting visitors.
So he waited.
Minutes passed slowly. He tapped his fingers lightly against the file.
Then, a soft buzz came from the panel beside the door. A voice followed through the intercom.
"Enter."
Cagaro exhaled once and pushed the door open. Inside, the room surprised him.
It didn't look like a testing chamber or military office. Instead, it was furnished like a formal workplace. Polished wooden desk, neat stacks of documents, framed certificates along the walls.
A chandelier hung from the ceiling. Its soft light spread across the room with quiet elegance. It felt… official, but oddly comfortable.
Cagaro stepped in fully and shut the door behind him with a controlled click.
Behind the desk sat a middle-aged man.
Yellow hair, neatly combed. Thin-framed glasses resting on his nose.
His appearance was plain. So average that he might easily disappear in a crowd. No intimidating posture or dramatic act.
Yet his gaze was fresh and steady.
The man looked up from the documents in front of him and offered a small, polite smile.
"So," he began calmly, folding his hands together on the desk, "you must be Cagaro."
His tone remained even, professional.
"We will now begin your viva. Sit."
Cagaro nodded and pulled the chair back.
The legs scraped softly against the polished floor before he lowered himself into it. He placed the file he had been carrying onto the desk with care, aligning it neatly toward the man.
Before he could speak, the man leaned forward slightly, glanced at the file… then pushed it back toward Cagaro without opening it.
That small action made Cagaro blink.
"My name is, Allen Iverson."
He paused briefly, lips curling with faint amusement. "Yes, same name as Allen Iverson. No, I do not play basketball and unfortunately, I cannot dunk either."
Cagaro let out a faint breath through his nose.
Allen leaned back in his chair.
"Let's begin. No need to look terrified. This isn't an execution chamber."
He tapped a pen lightly against the desk.
"Let me ask you. When facing hostile opposition in confined environments, what matters more... speed or awareness?"
Cagaro answered steadily. "Awareness. Speed helps but awareness prevents mistakes."
Allen nodded once.
"Good. Next. What do you consider the most dangerous enemy?"
Cagaro thought for a second. "Overconfidence. Either theirs… or mine."
Another nod. "Acceptable answer."
More questions followed. None of them sounded impossible, but each required careful thought. Allen listened without interruption. Only occasionally tapping the pen or adjusting his glasses.
Then suddenly,
"You know," Allen muttered casually, "most recruits sweat like they're sitting inside a pressure cooker. You, at least, look like someone waiting for exam results he already failed."
Cagaro raised an eyebrow slightly.
Allen smirked faintly.
"Relatable, isn't it? That moment when you think— well, if I fail, at least it's finally over.
In Atlantis history, you are the eighth person to be promoted immediately after their first mission."
Cagaro's posture stiffened slightly.
"The seventh… was someone named Roland Ashford."
The name lingered in the air like a quiet note. Allen exhaled softly, half amused, half nostalgic.
"That man had a strange habit. Used to insist the world around him was fiction. Claimed we were all characters written by some unseen author."
He shook his head once. "Imagine that. Reading too many books does dangerous things to the brain."
A faint chuckle escaped him.
"What a fool… yet strangely confident in that belief. Anyway. As of today, Cagaro Kunero… you are officially a 4-Star Agent."
"Congratulations."
Cagaro stared for a second before finally speaking.
"That's… it?"
His voice carried genuine confusion.
"You didn't even check the file. Didn't ask half of what I expected."
Allen smiled resting his elbows on the desk.
"The things you did back there have already been reviewed. Thoroughly. What you accomplished during your first mission was… above average. Significantly so."
Cagaro felt something loosen inside his chest. He lowered his head slightly.
"Thank you." he said sincerely.
Allen waved his hand casually, dismissing the formality.
"Don't thank me yet." he added dryly. "Promotion means more paperwork, more responsibility… and less sleep."
He smirked.
"Welcome to the suffering tier."