After the Collapse, the remnants of civilization retreated into isolation. Nine mega-cities sealed themselves off from the broken world below, each promising salvation through code and steel. Eight failed, devoured by entropy, internal dissent, or corrupted systems turned inward.
Only one endured: Aeralis.
Suspended above the scarred surface, veiled in cloud and electromagnetic haze, Aeralis seemed to thrives. Its crown: the Spire, a monolithic tower of living alloy and light, accompanied by a spiraling, serpentine framework that is neither entirely machine nor entirely organic. This helix is more than support: it is a breathing system taking its roots from the planet’s ground, a conduit for thought, memory, and matter.
At the core of the Spire pulses a column of green-blue energy; a vertical river of intelligence, known as the Liftstream. Some say it’s a transmission bridge to the city-like platform above. Others believe it to be the last unfused AI, still clean, still lucid. Theories abound but no one has reached its summit in generations.
No one has touched the core in generations. Access has been locked. Protocols sealed. The system has remained dormant, self-contained, impenetrable.
Until now.
From the edge of a forgotten cliff, above the clouds and long-abandoned infrastructure, a lone figure stands draped in red. He’s not an intruder. He’s not a pilgrim. He’s the Architect. Once human. Once exiled. Thought dead. But he did not. He disappeared to protect what he built.
He did not come to reclaim power. He came to unlock what was hidden, and decide if the world is ready to remember.