Re-Awakened: I Ascend as an SSS-Ranked Dragon Summoner

Dawn broke over the crystalline landscape of Sirius Prime, and Noah stood at the edge of the civilian camp watching three hundred people who should have been traumatized refugees organizing breakfast distribution like they were running a corporate cafeteria.

Something was wrong with the picture. These people had supposedly been hiding in fear for days, but they were coordinating sanitation schedules and work rotations with the kind of efficiency that made Noah's analytical mind start cataloging inconsistencies.

"Sir," Maya Melendez approached with her usual professional bearing, but Noah could see the tension in her shoulders. "We've got a situation."

'Of course we do. Because nothing about this mission has been straightforward so far,'

"What kind of situation?" Noah asked, pulling on his gear harness and checking the Ravager rifle's power indicator out of habit.

"Communications Specialist Biden is missing from his post. Last confirmed location was the northern perimeter around 0300 hours, when he reported trying to boost signal range for better frequency penetration."

Noah felt his stomach tighten. Missing personnel in hostile territory, with communication blackouts and civilians who were acting too organized for their own good. This kept getting better.

"Any signs of struggle? Equipment missing?"

"Negative. His primary comm array is still at his duty station, but his portable equipment is gone. Could be he found a better position for signal boost and got caught up in the work."

Could be. Or could be something else entirely. In Noah's experience, when things felt wrong and people started disappearing, it usually wasn't because they got distracted by their hobbies.

"Double the perimeter watch," Noah ordered. "And I want hourly check-ins from all personnel. If someone needs to move beyond standard patrol routes, they clear it through you first."

"Understood, sir."

As Melendez walked away to implement the new security protocols, Noah found himself studying the civilian camp again. The community leader—the well-dressed man who'd spoken for everyone yesterday—was moving between groups with clipboard in hand, organizing something that looked suspiciously like work assignments.

Work assignments. For refugees who'd been hiding in fear for three days. That wasn't normal psychological recovery patterns.

"Excuse me," Noah called out, approaching the leader. "I'm hoping to discuss something with you."

The man looked up with that same blend of relief and exhaustion from yesterday, but Noah was starting to notice how quickly he shifted between emotional states. Almost like he was performing them rather than feeling them.

"Of course! Anything you need."

"You and your people have been living in temporary shelters for days, but from what I understand, many of you have homes in the settlements scattered across this continent. Real homes, with better facilities and resources."

The leader nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, that's true. But we've been afraid to return—not knowing if the areas are secure."

"What if we could help with that? I'm thinking of sending a mixed team—some of my soldiers and some of your people who know the local area—to check the residential districts. Make sure they're safe for return, assess any damage, see what resources might be available."

'And see if the residential areas shows the same strange lack of battle damage as everything else we have encountered,'

The leader's response was almost too quick. "That sounds like an excellent plan. Very practical. I can identify several volunteers who know the areas well."

'Too quick. Too eager. Real people in crisis situations asked more questions about risk assessment, about what happened if the scouting teams ran into trouble,' Noah thought.

"Good. We'll organize the teams after breakfast. In the meantime, I want everyone to stay close to the main camp until we know more about the situation."

As Noah walked away, he caught fragments of conversation from the civilian groups—people discussing supply rotation schedules and maintenance protocols with the kind of detailed knowledge that came from long-term planning, not emergency improvisation.

Either these people were the most organized refugees in human history, or there was something fundamentally wrong with this entire situation.

=====

Several hundred kilometers away, Kelvin Pithon stared at his array of diagnostic equipment and felt his left eye start twitching. That particular rhythm meant he was about to either achieve a breakthrough or have a complete mental breakdown.

"Still no luck?" asked Pearl Adams, approaching with two cups of something that claimed to be coffee but tasted like recycled boot water.

"Oh, I'm having all kinds of luck," Kelvin replied, accepting the not-coffee with gratitude. "The bad kind. The kind where every time I think I've found a crack in their jamming pattern, it adapts faster than I can exploit it. It's like trying to have a chess match with someone who keeps changing the rules mid-game."

His workstation displayed data streams that looked like electronic waterfalls, each one representing a different approach to breaking through the communication blackout. And each one being systematically countered by whatever was generating the interference.

"Any theories on what we're dealing with?" Adams asked, settling into a nearby chair with the weary posture of someone who'd been awake too long.

"Oh, I've got theories," Kelvin said, his fingers moving across holographic interfaces with manic energy. "Theory one: we're facing some kind of adaptive AI system that's learning from every attempt we make to break through. Theory two: there's a technopath on the other side who's really, really good at their job. Theory three: the Harbingers have developed technology that makes our best equipment look like stone tools."

None of those theories made him feel particularly optimistic about their chances of getting home alive.

"What's your gut telling you?" Adams asked.

Kelvin paused his typing and looked at her with the kind of serious expression that meant he was about to say something that would ruin everyone's day.

"My gut says this whole operation is screwed from the ground up. The jamming started before the supposed crisis. The interference patterns are too sophisticated for random tech. And every time I get close to a breakthrough, it's like someone's watching me work and adjusting their defenses in real time."

From across the room, Dr. Rodriguez looked up from her geological surveys with obvious concern. "Are you saying someone's monitoring our communications attempts?"

"I'm saying someone's doing more than monitoring. They're anticipating. Every frequency I try, every encryption protocol I attempt, every backdoor approach I can think of—it's like they know what I'm going to do before I do it."

The implications of that possibility settled over the room. If someone was reading their tactical communications, predicting their responses, staying one step ahead of their every move...

They weren't dealing with a rescue mission. They were dealing with something that was planned specifically to counter their capabilities.

===

Meanwhile, on the rocky plateau overlooking the industrial complex, Lucas Grey watched the morning sun illuminate the mining facility and felt the familiar weight of command responsibility settling on his shoulders.

His squad had maintained surveillance through the night, rotating watch schedules and documenting activity patterns, but the tactical picture remained stubbornly unchanged. The facility showed all signs of normal operation with absolutely no signs of emergency, evacuation, or hostile activity.

"Sir," Elena Vasquez approached with the kind of eager professionalism that reminded Lucas how much he missed his real team. "Overnight surveillance confirms previous observations. Human personnel moving in standard work patterns, no defensive preparations, no signs of distress or coercion."

"Any luck with communications?" Lucas asked, though he already knew the answer from Torres' frustrated expression.

"Negative. Same adaptive jamming pattern. Every approach I try gets countered within minutes."

'Kelvin would have broken through this by now. Or at least he'd be making jokes about how impossible it was while somehow making progress anyway,' Lucas found himself thinking about this for a second but realized how insensitive it was to even think of.

'I am becoming complacent. A real soldier makes do with what he has!'

"What's your assessment, sir?" asked Rodriguez, the demolitions expert who'd proven to have a solid tactical mind despite her specialty in making things explode.

"My assessment is that we're looking at a situation that violates everything we know about standard operational procedures," Lucas replied honestly. "Military facilities don't maintain normal operations during crisis situations. Personnel don't ignore communication attempts from rescue forces. And industrial complexes don't run smoothly when the entire system is supposedly under siege."

Which meant either their intelligence was completely wrong, or something else was happening here that they didn't understand.

"Do we maintain surveillance or take direct action?" Vasquez asked.

Lucas considered the options, weighing tactical necessity against the growing certainty that something was fundamentally wrong with their entire mission.

"We maintain surveillance. Until we can establish communication with the other teams or get a clearer picture of what's actually happening, direct engagement is too risky."

The decision felt like both the right tactical choice and a betrayal of his instincts, which were screaming that time was running out for something he couldn't identify.

____

A much similar scene to the one Lucas, kelvin and Noah were facing was also playing out on the other planet. Only slightly different.

"Sir," Sophie said, forcing her voice to remain professionally respectful, "with respect, there's nothing standard about this situation. Engaging without understanding what we're dealing with could result in casualties among the personnel we're supposed to be rescuing."

And could get them all killed if those humans were under some form of Harbinger influence they didn't understand.

Pierce was still ranting this morning after their overnight surveillance about direct approach.

"What are you suggesting?" Pierce demanded.

"Small reconnaissance team. Five personnel, minimal equipment, infiltrate the facility perimeter and establish direct contact with the human personnel. Find out what's actually happening before we commit to any direct action."

Pierce's expression suggested he found the idea of patience almost physically painful. "How small?"

"Me, Diana, Lyra, and two volunteers from the squadron. Light weapons, communication equipment, extraction protocols if things go sideways."

And hopefully enough firepower to fight their way out if the Harbingers down there weren't as friendly as they appeared.

____

Far from the scattered confusion of the human forces, something was happening in a chamber carved from rock and reinforced with alien technology.

The facility stretched across the landscape like a metallic growth, its surfaces reflecting the harsh light with utilitarian efficiency. Fallen structures dotted the perimeter—collapsed buildings and twisted metal that showed signs of directed energy weapons and kinetic strikes. Bodies lay scattered among the debris, EDF soldiers in tactical gear, their forms still in positions that suggested they'd died fighting something they couldn't see.

Chunks of concrete and steel hung suspended in the air above the carnage, rotating slowly in patterns that ignored gravity completely.

The entrance to the facility was a series of blast doors, each one larger and more heavily reinforced than the last.

And at every threshold—at every damned door—lay the corpses of monstrous beings: the Harbingers. Towering humanoids, twice the size of any man, with thick, corded muscle and they all had a single horn jutting from their skulls like a weapon of divine judgment.

Strangely, they always appeared in pairs. But they hadn't been killed in battle. Not by the EDF soldiers piled outside at least.

Each pair had annihilated themselves.

Fists were buried deep in their own chests, arms shattered from the force of the blows. Faces crushed—bone shattered and sunk inward—as if one had driven their knuckles into the other's skull with fatal precision. Blood caked the walls and floors around them, dark and thick like old oil. Their poses weren't panicked. They were deliberate. Controlled. As if something had commanded them to tear each other—and themselves—apart.

Past the first door, a corridor lined with surfaces that gleamed like black glass. Past the second door, a chamber where the walls pulsed with patterns of light that might have been decorative or functional displays of information no human could understand.

The third door opened onto a space that stretched upward into darkness, its dimensions suggesting something carved from the heart of a mountain.

In the center of the chamber hung a man who should've been dead three injuries ago. His body was suspended in a rig of metal braces and cables, but nothing about it was fused with his flesh—it just clamped down hard, forcing his limbs out wide like a puppet mid-dissection. What was left of his military uniform clung to his frame in bloody strips, scorched and shredded, exposing torn skin and meat beneath.

Wounds covered him, angry and wet, arranged with surgical precision to keep bleeding without killing—maintenance wounds. His hands were mangled, missing fingers on both sides, the stumps cauterized roughly, surgical staples biting into raw flesh. His chest rose in shallow, ragged heaves around a thick spike driven straight through his sternum, just missing his heart by millimeters. A small screen hung just inside his field of view, its display a cold, clinical diagram showing the spike's proximity to his heart, updated in real time. It pulsed red with every beat—just one twitch away from ending him.

His eyes were unblinking and feral, pupils blown wide, the whites laced with red veins like cracked porcelain. Wrapped around his skull was a crown of wires and neural clamps, each connection digging into skin and bone, feeding signals into the black above. It wasn't just restraint—it was interface. Control.

Around him, dozens of objects spun in tight, impossible orbits. Not random. Not malfunction. Tools, broken weapons, shattered helmets, bits of armor and trinkets—all caught in a slow, precise swirl of motion. It was his doing. Even now, whatever was left of his mind was forced to command them, to keep them moving, shaping some pattern only his captors understood.

He wasn't just bound. He was being used—conscious, bleeding, and made to watch himself work.

But it was the screens that revealed the true scope of what was happening. Thousands of displays arranged in circles around the chamber, each one showing a different feed, a different perspective, a different human life reduced to surveillance data. The images changed constantly—faces, locations, conversations, moments of privacy that were no longer private.

Sirius Prime. Sirius Beta. Sirius Gamma. Every human on every world in the system, catalogued and monitored through eyes that were not their own.

The bound figure convulsed, blood flowing from his mouth as the neural interface sparked with energy. Objects accelerated in their orbital patterns, the air itself growing thick with power that human science had no words to describe.

A shadow fell across the tortured man's form.

"Amazing," came a voice that rumbled deep, each word carrying harmonics that suggested something larger than any throat evolution had produced on Earth. "The power that flows through this vessel. For decades we have remained the apex predators, unchallenged in our dominion over lesser species."

The shadow shifted slightly.

"But that supremacy finds itself tested by these creatures. These humans who dare to learn, adapt and channel energies that should be beyond their comprehension." The voice carried a mixture of grudging respect and predatory anticipation. "Not all are remarkable, of course. Most are barely worth the effort required to extinguish them. But these Alpha class specimens present complications we had not anticipated. The few that exist pose challenges that require innovative solutions."

A pause, during which the only sounds were the tortured breathing of the suspended figure and the subtle hum of alien technology.

"How remarkable that you, a single "SS-ranked telepath" as your war brothers who now lay outside, constituting a small hill of meat bags called you, could prove so powerful and so useful."

The shadow moved closer, and the outline of something vast and reptilian became visible in the chamber's dim lighting. Hide like armor scaled to proportions that belonged in nightmares, three massive horns crowning a skull that spoke of intelligence wrapped in predatory hunger.

A Three Crown Ravager, but one that had evolved beyond standard classifications, one that spoke with the authority of leadership and absolute confidence.

The creature brought its head close enough to the suspended human that its breath fogged the neural interface displays. When it spoke again, its voice carried the satisfaction of a predator that had found the perfect tool.

"This vessel will serve the Harbingers well indeed."

The screens continued their endless surveillance, two hundred thousand human lives reduced to data streams, and somewhere among those feeds were the scattered members of Pathfinder Seven, still unaware that their every move was being watched by eyes that had learned to see through the vision of their own kind.