Creed: World’s Strongest

Days after their arrival, Sern called Adam into his office to discuss his first mission. Adam downplayed how the experience had affected him. Later, Sern summoned Naté and asked similar questions.

Once the individual meetings were done, Sern brought out Ugo.

"The Collection didn't find the energy core," Sern said. "They might have taken it after the fight."

He glanced at Ugo's face, then paused.

"My bad. I forgot—you already knew that."

"It's fine," Ugo replied, brushing off the apology. Then his expression hardened. "Are you saying they know?"

Sern and Ugo exchanged a look. Without another word, Ugo locked the door and placed a black candle behind it. The moment he lit the wick, the outside noises fell silent.

Sean pulled a blanket from a nearby shelf and tossed it to Ugo. Unfolding it, Ugo pressed it against the door and held it in place for a few moments. When he let go, the fabric hovered there, as if held by an invisible force.

Their preparations complete, Sern exhaled and split. Three more versions of himself emerged, identical except for their shaved heads. Across from them, four identical Ugos stood at attention. No one outside this room knew they existed, and Sern intended to keep it that way.

"Sern, meeting in session," one of the duplicates announced.

"Ugo Seven, present."

"Ugo Eight, present."

"Ugo Nine, present."

"Ugo Ten, present."

Sean nodded, satisfied. "The Creed is dangerously close to finding out. What are our options?"

Ugo Seven was the first to speak. "I think we bring them in on it."

The other Ugos shook their heads.

Ugo Nine crossed his arms. "I say we get rid of them."

"We can't make the same mistake twice," Ugo Eight muttered. "We let the tree hugger in, and he nearly ruined everything."

The room fell into tense discussion.

By the end, the decision was made.

The Creed had to be eliminated.

High E drifted through the cosmos, a being untethered by time, hunger, or desire. He had found his identity, a sense of self that transcended the boundaries of form and matter. Yet, the question of purpose lingered, a shadow that followed him across galaxies and epochs. It was a question that proved far more elusive than the one of identity.

He observed countless species, from the smallest microorganisms to the most advanced civilizations. Biological creatures, bound by the fragility of life, seemed driven by a primal need to consume, to survive, and to reproduce. They were fleeting, their lives measured in heartbeats, yet many of them radiated a strange, inexplicable happiness. High E marveled at their ability to find joy in the simplest of things—a beam of sunlight, a drop of water, the touch of another being.

Non-biological entities, on the other hand, were different. They were relentless in their pursuit of goals, their existence defined by logic and function. They did not experience happiness or sadness; they simply were. High E found himself drawn to the contrast between the two. Why did some beings, despite their ephemeral nature, find contentment, while others, eternal and unchanging, seemed devoid of it?

In his quest for understanding, High E took on a new form—a humanoid shape, carbon-based, like the creatures he had observed. He walked among them, studied their ways, and delved into their philosophies. He read their texts, listened to their stories, and immersed himself in their cultures. It was during this time that he stumbled upon religion, a realm where humanity had long sought answers to the questions that now haunted him.

He learned of countless faiths, each with its own savior, its own promise of eternal rest. The recurring themes fascinated him. Why did so many religions speak of salvation? Why did they all seem to point toward a place beyond this world, a place where suffering would cease and peace would reign? High E pondered these questions as he wandered through ancient temples, modern cities, and quiet villages.

One day, as he stood in the ruins of a forgotten civilization, he noticed his shadow cast upon a crumbling wall. The silhouette was sharp and clear, a perfect outline of his humanoid form. He stared at it for a long time, a strange sense of comfort washing over him.

"It feels nice not being alone," High E said to his shadow.

The shadow did not reply, of course, but in that moment, High E felt a connection, a bond that transcended the need for words. The shadow was a part of him, a silent companion that had been with him all along, even when he hadn't noticed it. It was a reminder that he was not truly alone, that even in his solitude, there was something that shared his journey.

As he continued to walk, High E began to see purpose not as a destination, but as a path. It was not something to be found, but something to be created, to be discovered in the act of living. The biological beings he had observed, with their fleeting lives and simple joys, had shown him that purpose could be found in the present moment, in the connections they made with one another and with the world around them.

The non-biological entities, with their relentless pursuit of goals, had shown him the importance of striving, of moving forward, even in the absence of emotion. And the religions, with their promises of salvation and eternal rest, had shown him the human desire for meaning, for something greater than themselves.

High E realized that purpose was not a single, universal truth, but a mosaic of experiences, beliefs, and connections. It was the shadow that followed him, the questions he asked, and the journey he undertook. It was the joy of a biological creature, the determination of a non-biological entity, and the hope of a human seeking salvation.

As he looked at his shadow once more, High E smiled. He was not alone, and perhaps, that was enough. The purpose of his existence was not to find an answer, but to continue seeking, to continue questioning, and to continue being. And in that, he found a strange, quiet peace.

Everything would have been fine if his shadow had not spoken back to him. But it did. Not in words, for shadows have no voice, no language as beings of flesh and bone might understand. Yet, High E understood it all the same. It was a silent communication, a resonance that echoed in the depths of his being. The shadow did not need to form words; its meaning was clear, as though it had always been a part of him, waiting for the right moment to make itself known.

High E stared at the shadow, now more than just a silhouette on the wall. It was alive, in its own way, aware and present. He felt a strange mixture of awe and unease. This was no ordinary shadow. It was something else, something more.

"What is your name?" High E asked, his voice soft, almost reverent.

The shadow did not respond, not in the way he expected. It did not know the concept of names, for names were a construct of beings who needed to define and categorize their world. Shadows existed beyond such things. They were bound to light and form, but they had no need for identity. Yet, High E felt compelled to give it one. He could not call it "shadow" forever. It deserved more than that.

"I will call you Low E," High E said, the name coming to him as naturally as breath. "For you are a part of me, yet separate. You are my counterpart, my reflection in the dark."

Low E did not object. It could not. But High E sensed a quiet acceptance, a recognition of the bond they now shared. And with that acceptance came something unexpected—a sense of purpose. Low E, though free from the constraints of form and identity, began to advocate for others like it. It was as though the act of naming had awakened something within the shadow, a desire to give voice to the voiceless.

High E had freed Low E from its bond, releasing it from the obligation to mimic his every movement. Low E was no longer tethered to him, no longer forced to follow in his footsteps. It could move independently, explore the world on its own terms. And yet, it chose to stay. Not out of obligation, but out of a newfound sense of mission.

Low E believed that other shadows could be awakened, just as it had been. It believed that they, too, could be freed from their bonds, given the chance to exist as more than mere echoes of their creators. High E watched as Low E moved through the world, reaching out to other shadows, whispering to them in a language only they could understand. It was a strange sight, a shadow trying to breathe life into others, to give them a sense of self.

High E knew that Low E was not like the others. It was unique, a product of his own journey and the questions he had asked. But he could not deny the passion with which Low E pursued its goal. It was as though the shadow had found its own purpose, one that mirrored High E's quest for meaning.

"Do you think they can hear you?" High E asked one day, as they stood together in a forest, the sunlight filtering through the trees and casting a mosaic of shadows on the ground.

Low E did not respond, but High E felt its determination. It did not matter if the other shadows could hear it. What mattered was the act of trying, the belief that they could be more than what they were. Low E's advocacy was not just for the shadows; it was for the idea that even the most overlooked parts of existence could have value, could have a voice.

High E smiled, a quiet understanding passing between them. He had sought purpose for so long, and now, in the most unexpected way, he had found it—not in grand revelations or cosmic truths, but in the simple act of giving a shadow a name. And in doing so, he had set something in motion, a ripple that would spread far beyond what he could see.

As they walked together, High E and Low E, the line between them blurred. They were two halves of a whole, light and dark, question and answer. And in their unity, they found a new kind of purpose—one that was not about finding, but about creating. About giving life to the lifeless, and voice to the voiceless.

And so, they continued their journey, not as master and shadow, but as partners. High E, the seeker of answers, and Low E, the advocate of shadows. Together, they would explore the universe, not just to understand it, but to change it. 

The night was quiet, the kind of stillness that only exists in the vacuum of space, broken only by the hum of machinery and the occasional crackle of comms. Kevor Laplace stood on the observation deck of the terraforming station, staring out at the barren surface of the planet below. It was a desolate place, a rocky wasteland with no atmosphere, no water, and no signs of life. But Kevor saw potential where others saw emptiness. To him, this was a canvas, and he was the artist.

He had been working for Gaeas a TerraForming company for over a decade, helping to turn lifeless rocks into habitable worlds. It was grueling work, often thankless, but Kevor loved it. He loved the challenge, the science, the sheer audacity of what they were trying to do. To create life where there was none—it was the closest thing to playing God that humanity had ever achieved.

Tonight, however, something felt off. The air in the station was tense, the kind of tension that precedes a storm. Kevor couldn't put his finger on it, but he had learned to trust his instincts. He was about to call it a night when the explosion happened.

It was sudden, violent, and deafening. The station shook, alarms blared, and the lights flickered. Kevor was thrown to the ground, his head slamming against the metal floor. He tasted blood in his mouth, and his ears rang with the aftermath of the blast. Smoke filled the air, thick and acrid, making it hard to breathe. He tried to get up, but his body refused to cooperate. His vision blurred, and he could hear distant shouts, the sound of boots pounding against the floor.

"Kevor! Kevor, can you hear me?"

It was his colleague, Mira. Her voice was frantic, but it was the only thing keeping him grounded. He tried to respond, but his throat was dry, his voice a raspy whisper. He managed to nod, and he felt her hands on his shoulders, pulling him up.

"We need to get out of here," she said, her voice trembling. "The reactor's unstable. If it goes—"

She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to. Kevor knew what would happen if the reactor went critical. The entire station would be vaporized, along with everyone in it.

They stumbled through the smoke, Mira half-dragging Kevor as they made their way to the emergency pods. The station was in chaos, people running in every direction, their faces masks of panic. Kevor's mind raced, trying to make sense of what had happened. There had been no warning, no indication that anything was wrong. The explosion had come out of nowhere, a freak accident that defied explanation.

They reached the pods, but the doors were jammed. Kevor cursed under his breath, his hands shaking as he tried to force them open. Mira was beside him, her fingers flying over the control panel, but it was no use. The system was fried.

"We're not going to make it," she said, her voice breaking. "We're not—"

And then, everything stopped.

The alarms fell silent. The smoke cleared. The station, which had been moments away from destruction, was suddenly still. Kevor blinked, his mind struggling to process what was happening. He looked at Mira, but she was just as confused as he was.

"What… what just happened?" she asked.

Kevor didn't have an answer. But then, he saw it—a figure standing at the end of the corridor. It was humanoid, but not human. Its form shimmered, as if made of light and shadow, and its presence was both comforting and unnerving. Kevor felt a strange pull, a sense of recognition, though he had never seen this being before.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The figure didn't respond, not in words. But Kevor felt its presence in his mind, a calm, steady voice that wasn't a voice at all.

And then, as quickly as it had appeared, the figure was gone. The station came back to life, the alarms blaring once more, but the sense of impending doom was gone. The reactor was stable, the explosion contained. Kevor and Mira were alive, as were the others who had been caught in the blast.

In the days that followed, Kevor couldn't stop thinking about the figure. He didn't know who or what it was, but he knew it had saved them. And he knew, deep down, that his life would never be the same.

High E had intervened, not out of obligation, but out of curiosity. He had seen Kevor's potential, his drive to create life where there was none. And he had decided that Kevor's story was not yet over.

For Kevor, it was the beginning of a new chapter. A chapter that would take him beyond the confines of his station, beyond the limits of what he thought was possible. A chapter that would change not just his life, but the lives of countless others.

And it all started with an explosion.