First Light of a New Age

One year later…

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The New World, Third Civilization Zone, Austronesia People’s Empire, Imperial Majahapit, In the Middle of a Forest.

3rd Year of God, 20th Day, 4th Week, 8th Month of Solomon.

The dense canopy of the tropical rainforest muted all but the sharp chirping of birds and the sound of diesel generators. The air was filled with humidity, carrying the scent of wet soil and metal and shafts of filtered sunlight pierced through the layers of green above, dancing across the glistening leaves and moss-covered trunks.

In a clearing hidden by both foliage and anti-detection technology was a rebel outpost. Its structure was crude but effective with a small fortress surrounded by walls of roughly-hewn timber, scavenged steel plates, and slabs of concrete likely stolen from half-collapsed imperial outposts. Camouflage netting stretched across the perimeter, blending seamlessly into the jungle.

Inside, men and women in mismatched uniforms, some in faded Austronesian fatigues while others in civilian clothes with armor strapped on, hurried to unload crates from an old cargo truck. The metallic clatter of rifles filled the air as AF-series weapons were stacked and sorted. Labels were scrawled across some of the crates in aggressive red markers.

“Mana-Dampening Rounds – Do Not Jostle”.

A gray-haired man stood near the center of the compound, out of place in his wrinkled formal suit. 

He was Former Senator Hadrian Vos, once a respected figure in the Nationalist Party, now reduced to one of many high-ranking conspirators funding the Sons of Man. His posture was proud, but age and treachery had hollowed his face with sunken eyes, a lined forehead, and a permanent sneer in his face.

He watched the rebels with cold scrutiny with his arms folded behind his back.

“Keep those crates sealed until we’re ready to move,” he ordered sharply. “The AF-3 Magekiller rifles are sensitive. One stray mana pulse, and they’ll cook off like cursed fireworks and blow half of you to hell!”

One of the rebel leaders, Captain Rego, a thick-necked brute with burn scars along his jawline, nodded without flinching. 

“Understood, sir. We’ll have the transport team ready by nightfall.”

Vos turned to a central table under a makeshift canopy with a large map of the Empire spreading across it, dotted with pins and red circles. Photos of Queen Melian were pinned to one side, including recent surveillance shots of her pregnant belly. Nearby, lines of attack routes, supply depots, and assassination targets were marked in aggressive strokes.

“The monarchy has rotted from within,” Vos muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. “That pointy-eared bitch sits on a throne not fit to rule purebloods. She has no idea how many of us, trueborns, she’s betrayed with her half-breed spawn and peace treaties.”

He jabbed a finger onto the map. “But this empire of tolerance ends soon.”

“How many of our cells are operational?” he asked while still staring down at the paper battlefield.

Rego flipped through his clipboard. “Seventeen, sir. Active cells in Imperial Majahapit, Tenah Melayu, and the Maharlika isles. They’ve got weapons, field mana-jammers, and enough bodies to hit military outposts and comms lines simultaneously. One signal from us, and we’ll bring the whole eastern archipelago on fire.”