1.The Day When Everything ExplodedSpoilerSpoilerBillions of years ago, before Earth even formed, the Milky Way and Andromeda weren't separate gaxies. They were one massive realm called Collosieda, ruled by beings known as the Star Lords.

  At the center of everything was Lord Xoronomi, the supreme commander of the cosmos. He had six children, and the two most powerful were Calos and Korrath.

  But hey, even godlike beings have family drama.

  Calos, always dressed in bck like that one dramatic cousin at Thanksgiving, decided daddy's throne looked pretty comfortable. He unleashed dark matter—basically the cosmic equivalent of putting xatives in the punch bowl at prom—and tried to take down his father.

  Korrath wasn't having it. The fight between the brothers was so intense it literally broke the gaxy in half. Talk about sibling rivalry making your family gatherings look tame.

  Collosieda split into two gaxies: Vaelora (renamed The Milky Way by the people on Earth) and Andromeda. Korrath took Vaelora. Calos grabbed Andromeda. And just like that divorced couple who still showed up at the same parties, they kept fighting from across the cosmic dance floor.

  Desperate for peace (or maybe just tired of the constant cosmic light shows), Korrath convinced Tomaron, Calos's son, to betray his dad. Cssic family drama. With inside information about Nihthorne, Andromeda's capital world, Korrath and his brother Caelum unched their attack.

  While Caelum stabbed Calos from behind—proving that backstabbing isn't just a metaphor in space politics—Korrath unleashed a wave of radiation that wiped out half of Nihthorne.

  Then came one final explosion, and Calos vanished.

  Dead? Missing? On an extended vacation to the cosmic Bahamas? Nobody knew. It became the greatest unsolved mystery in stelr history.

  This year, I finally learned the truth.

  And trust me, I wasn't ready for it.

  [colpse]My Perfectly Normal Life (Yeah, Right)My name is Mark Vance. And I'm about as normal as a penguin in the Sahara.

  I've been kicked out of more schools than most kids have pairs of socks. My record reads like a how-to guide for getting expelled:

  Last time? Some meathead named Derek tried stealing my soda in the cafeteria. When he took a swig, the can somehow short-circuited and zapped his tongue. The dude ran around the lunchroom screaming like he'd swallowed a live wire, tongue hanging out like a dog on a hot day. Not my fault the can mysteriously transformed into a mini taser the second it left my hands.

  Before that? This genius named Brad stole my sandwich and ended up in the ICU with what doctors could only describe as "extreme gastric distress with unexpined carcinogenic burns." They still have no idea how peanut butter and jelly could do that.

  And back in third grade, I handed the css bully what looked like a harmless magnet. Turns out it was a taser. His hair stood on end for weeks. The school counselor kept asking me where I got a taser. I kept telling her I had no clue it was one. We were both telling the truth.

  Welcome to my life—where normal comes to die.

  History Css HellToday's history css at St. Agnes' Institute for Special Children (read: the school for weird kids nobody else wants) was pure torture. And I mean waterboarding-level torture.

  Ms. Borlough—a skinny woman with gsses thicker than tank armor and hair pulled so tight it gave her a permanent surprised expression—droned on about the American Revolution. The way she told it, you'd think the founding fathers spent most of their time writing strongly worded letters instead of, you know, fighting an actual war.

  "And then, css, Thomas Jefferson picked up his quill..." She paused dramatically like this was the most exciting part of the story. It wasn't.

  My designated desk partner, Caleb McNavaire, had given up on paying attention twenty minutes ago. His notebook was covered in eborate doodles of what looked like ninjas fighting robots on the moon. The kid could seriously draw.

  Me? I had smuggled in my Nintendo Switch, trying to survive by pying Super Mario Gaxy under the table. The tiny plumber jumping between pnets was way more interesting than Ms. Borlough's take on colonial taxation.

  But then I felt it. That weird prickly feeling on the back of my neck. The same feeling you get when you're about to be caught doing something you shouldn't.

  A warning.

  I quickly pocketed my Switch under the desk, trying to look interested in whatever year the Tea Party happened.

  "What are you doing, Mark?" Ms. Borlough's voice cut through the cssroom like a chainsaw through butter.

  I froze, feeling twenty-six pairs of eyes swing in my direction. Slowly, I reached into my pocket for my Switch, ready to face the music.

  But something strange pressed against my fingers. Something that definitely wasn't my game console.

  I pulled out... a tiny, silver abacus?

  "Uh... math project, ma'am?" I said, my voice cracking just enough to make Caleb snort beside me.

  Ms. Borlough narrowed her eyes, those massive gsses magnifying her suspicion to comical proportions. "In history css?"

  "It's for... calcuting how many tea crates were thrown into Boston Harbor?" I offered weakly.

  She stared at me for what felt like a century before finally turning back to the bckboard. "As I was saying, the colonists were particurly concerned about..."

  The second her back was turned, I stared at the abacus in disbelief. As I watched, the silver bars and beads melted together, the metal flowing like mercury until it reformed into my Nintendo Switch.

  The transformation happened right in my hands. No smoke, no mirrors, no expnation.

  I nudged Caleb, who'd gone back to drawing what appeared to be a T-Rex wearing sungsses.

  "Dude," I whispered, "did you see that?"

  "See what?" He didn't look up from his dinosaur masterpiece.

  "My Switch just turned into an abacus and back again."

  "Cool," he muttered, clearly not listening. He was adding a surfboard under the T-Rex's feet now.

  I looked back at my normal-again Switch. Maybe I was losing it. Maybe all those school transfers and weird incidents were finally driving me crazy.

  But I wasn't dreaming. And this... was just the beginning.

  The Weirdness That Is MeHere's something you should know about me—I'm a freak with numbers. And code. And pretty much anything that requires logical thinking.

  Math and physics problems? I'd gnce at them and know the answer before I even finished reading the question. It's like my brain has a supercomputer hidden somewhere between my ears.

  In first grade, Caleb's stepbrother showed me a trigonometry puzzle that he was struggling with in high school. I took one look at it, muttered something random that popped into my head, and went back to eating my Cheerios.

  The next day? His teacher spent forty-five minutes solving it on the board—and my answer was exactly right. His stepbrother didn't talk to me for a week after that.

  And coding? Oh man.

  One time, our computer teacher, Ms. Ramirez, dared us to make the coolest Python project we could in a weekend. Most kids made simple games or apps that calcuted your age in dog years.

  I built a fully functional humanoid AI assistant... in under an hour. The thing could hold conversations, solve math problems, and even tell jokes. Bad ones, but still.

  The next morning, Ms. Ramirez handed me a trophy she'd clearly bought at the dolr store and spray-painted gold. The bel read "Future Tech Overlord—Please Remember Me When You Rule The World."

  She said the code I wrote could outmatch anything made by adults with PhDs.

  Even I didn't understand how I'd done it. It was like someone else had temporarily taken over my brain, typed a bunch of stuff, and then given me back control.

  My guardian, Mr. Malven Crook (yes, that's his real name, and yes, it's unfortunately fitting), called it "the weird genius thing." He'd shrug it off whenever a teacher called about my test impossible accomplishment.

  "The kid's brain is wired different," he'd tell them. "Just be gd he's using it for homework and not to hack into Pentagon."

  What Mr. Crook didn't know was that I'd already done that. Accidentally. While trying to download a mod for Minecraft. I deleted my tracks and left a note for their security team pointing out the vulnerability. They never traced it back to me.

  At least, I don't think they did.

  When It Rains, It Pours... Aliens?After math css (where I corrected the teacher twice before deciding to shut up and let him maintain some dignity), it was finally recess.

  Caleb and I wandered outside into the eerily perfect spring day. The sky was that artificial-looking blue you see in cheap postcards, not a cloud in sight.

  "So," Caleb said, unwrapping a chocote bar that was already melting in the heat, "did you use that telescope I got you for your birthday?"

  "Yeah," I said, thinking about the hours I'd spent the night before, staring up at distant stars. "It's awesome. I could see Jupiter's moons."

  "For real? With that little thing?"

  "Well, they looked like tiny dots, but yeah."

  We talked about space, stars, and whether aliens would have Netflix. The world felt big, magical, full of possibilities.

  Until the sky screamed.

  At first, it was just a faint whistle—the kind you might mistake for ringing in your ears. But it grew louder, dropping in pitch until it became a deafening roar that made the ground under our feet vibrate.

  "What the hell is that?" Caleb shouted over the noise.

  We both looked up, shielding our eyes against the sun.

  Something was falling through the sky. Something bck. Sleek. Burning electric blue at the edges.

  It wasn't a pne. Wasn't a meteor. Wasn't anything I recognized from science books or NASA footage.

  "Run, Mark! RUN!" Caleb shouted, pushing me toward the school building.

  My feet finally got the message from my brain. I bolted toward the nearest entrance, hearing the thing getting closer, the scream of air around it growing unbearable.

  I barely made it to the building when the object smashed into the soccer field—

  BOOM.

  The bst hurled me straight through a window, gss shattering around me like a deadly confetti shower. I nded hard on the hallway floor, ears ringing, dust and smoke filling the air.

  For a moment, everything went quiet. That weird, muffled silence you get after an explosion, like the world is catching its breath.

  Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the school arm wailing, but it sounded like it was underwater. Kids were screaming, teachers shouting, chaos everywhere.

  I pushed myself up, feeling a sting on my forearm where a piece of gss had sliced through my shirt. The cut wasn't deep, but blood was slowly soaking into my sleeve.

  "Mark! Over here!"

  I turned to see Caleb crouched behind a crushed car in the parking lot, frantically waving me over. How he'd gotten there, I had no idea. Last I saw, he was running in the opposite direction.

  I staggered over to him, ducking low as smoke billowed across the school grounds.

  "Are you okay?" he asked, eyes wide with a mixture of terror and—weirdly—excitement.

  "I think so," I said, checking myself for more injuries. "What the hell happened?"

  "Something crashed," Caleb said, pointing toward the soccer field. "And I don't think it was a weather balloon."

  From our hiding spot behind the mangled remains of Mr. Peterson's Toyota (he was going to be pissed—he just got it st week), we peered at the wreckage.

  It wasn't a missile. It wasn't a satellite. It was a ship.

  Or a weapon. Or something worse.

  The object was about the size of a school bus, though shaped more like a massive bullet. Jagged bck metal covered its hull, with what looked like gun turrets positioned along its sides. The front end was still glowing hot from atmospheric entry, while strange symbols pulsed across its surface in electric blue: ??? ?.

  And then— A hatch hissed open, releasing a cloud of purplish steam.

  Something crawled out.

  At first, I thought it was a man in some kind of tactical gear. But as the steam cleared, I realized how wrong I was.

  The creature stood at least seven feet tall, with shoulders twice as broad as a linebacker's. Its body was covered in bck armor that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Instead of a normal helmet, its head was encased in a featureless oval with three glowing purple slits where eyes should be.

  In its four-fingered hand, it held what could only be described as a gun—though like no gun I'd ever seen. The weapon hummed with a deadly purple light, vibrating slightly as if eager to be fired.

  The creature took a step forward, its movements unnervingly fluid despite its bulk. It turned its head slowly, scanning the destroyed school grounds. Then it began muttering in a strange nguage—a series of clicks, hisses, and guttural sounds that no human throat could make.

  Except somehow, deep in my brain, I understood it.

  "Target acquired. The Lord of Vaelora demands the Light. Surrender or die."

  My blood ran cold. The words hadn't reached my ears—they'd appeared directly in my mind, as if the creature's thoughts were being transted and beamed straight into my head.

  "What?!" Caleb yelled, clearly not receiving the same telepathic message.

  Wrong move.

  The creature's head snapped in our direction, those purple slits locking onto us like targeting systems.

  It raised its weapon.

  "Biological entities detected. Scanning for enemies."

  A beam of purple light shot from the creature's helmet, sweeping over the area until it reached us. When it passed over me, the beam turned white for just a second.

  The creature made a sound that might have been satisfaction.

  "Enemies identified. Prepare for execution."

  "Enemies? What's it talking about?" Caleb whispered.

  I shook my head. "No idea. But I don't think 'execution' means the things done by a CEO at his office."

  The creature leveled its gun at our hiding spot—and fired.

  A bolt of purple energy zipped past us, hitting the car and... vaporizing it. Not exploding it. Not melting it. Just turning it instantly into nothing, leaving a car-shaped void in reality.

  We both stared at the empty space where our cover had been, then at each other.

  "New pn," I said.

  "Run?" Caleb suggested.

  "Run."

  We scrambled in opposite directions just as another bolt hit where we'd been standing. I dove behind a concrete pnter while Caleb disappeared somewhere to my left.

  The creature let out what sounded like a ugh—if ughter could be made of broken gss and dial-up modem sounds.

  "Resistance is inefficient," it said in my mind. "Surrender the Light and your termination will be painless."

  "I don't know what you're talking about!" I shouted from behind my pnter, which was already looking less sturdy than I'd hoped.

  The creature fired again, taking a chunk out of my concrete shield. One more shot and I'd be exposed.

  I heard a battle cry from somewhere to my right—a familiar voice shouting a string of curses that would make a sailor blush.

  Caleb was charging at the creature, brandishing a metal pipe he'd found God-knows-where. The kid who normally spent recess reading comic books or drawing was running full-tilt at an alien with a death ray.

  "What are you doing?!" I screamed.

  But it was too te. Caleb swung his makeshift weapon and, miraculously, connected with the creature's back. The pipe made a dull cng against the bck armor.

  The alien barely seemed to notice. It turned slowly, regarded Caleb like he was an interesting insect, and then backhanded him.

  Caleb went flying—literally airborne—until he crashed into a parked Hummer thirty feet away. He crumpled to the ground and didn't move.

  Something ignited inside me.

  It wasn't just anger. It wasn't just fear for my friend.

  It was something deeper, older, like a switch being flipped on a machine that had always been inside me, dormant until now.

  The sky above me darkened. Thunder rolled, though there wasn't a cloud in sight.

  And then— Lightning fell—and struck my hands.

  But it didn't hurt. Instead, the electricity crackled across my skin, condensing, shaping, forging itself into— a gun. A weapon made of pure white psma, humming with power.

  It felt both alien and familiar in my grip, like something I'd held a thousand times in a dream.

  I had no time to think about what was happening or how it was possible. Only time to fight.

  Fight or Flight? How About Both?Another bst from the alien's weapon— Gss shattered. A car arm joined the chorus of destruction. The school announcement system kicked on, automated emergency protocols bring: "This is not a drill. Please proceed to designated safety areas. This is not a drill."

  Yeah, no kidding.

  I edged around my rapidly disintegrating pnter, the psma gun warm and alive in my hands. Could I actually use this thing? Did I even know how?

  Suddenly, Caleb—somehow awake, somehow at my side—slid in beside me, panting hard. His forehead had a nasty gash, and his left arm hung at an awkward angle.

  "How are you even conscious right now?" I asked, genuinely impressed. "That thing threw you into a car!"

  "No clue," he gasped. "One minute I was kissing the Hummer, next thing I know I'm falling through... I don't know, bck hole? Shadows? Found myself behind the gym, ran back. What the heck is that?!" He pointed at my glowing weapon.

  "No idea," I grinned, feeling strangely calm despite the chaos. "But let's find out."

  The alien locked onto me again, its purple eye-slits fring brighter. It raised its weapon, the barrel glowing with deadly intent.

  Something strange happened in my head. Numbers, trajectories, wind speed calcutions—all of it streaming through my consciousness like I was some kind of human targeting computer.

  Thirty meters distance. Thirty degrees elevation. Wind speed 5 mph from the northwest. Target's likely dodge pattern based on observed movement patterns. Adjust firing vector by 0.1 radians. Time dey between trigger pull and psma discharge: 0.03 seconds. Shoot just before he moves.

  I had never fired a gun before—psma or otherwise—but in that moment, I knew exactly what to do.

  I breathed out slowly. Aimed. Fired.

  A white-hot beam tore through the air— Smmed into the alien's helmet, right between those purple slits.

  The creature stumbled back, smoke rising from the impact point. But it didn't fall.

  Instead, it shook its massive head, refocused on me, and raised its weapon again.

  I prepared to dodge, to fire again, to do something—

  When the alien suddenly froze.

  It looked down in what seemed like confusion at the jagged wooden splinter now protruding from its chest—shoved straight through from behind.

  Purple blood sprayed the ground in an arc of alien gore.

  Behind the creature stood Caleb, holding what looked like the broken leg of a school bench, his face a mask of determination and holy-crap-what-am-I-doing terror.

  "Didn't see that coming, did you, E.T.?" he panted.

  The alien tried to turn, to aim at this new threat, but its movements were sluggish now. Purple fluid leaked from gaps in its armor.

  It managed to swing its weapon toward Caleb—

  So I fired again.

  This time, my psma beam caught the creature in what passed for its throat. Its head snapped back, more purple blood fountaining from the wound.

  The alien made a noise like a dying dial-up connection, gurgled once, and colpsed.

  My psma gun dissolved into crackling blue sparks, leaving my hands empty and tingling.

  We stared at each other, panting like we'd just run a marathon.

  "What the actual hell just happened?" Caleb asked, dropping his improvised spear.

  "No idea," I said, staring at my hands where the weapon had been moments before. "But he mentioned something... the Light?"

  Before we could process any of it—before we could even check if the alien was truly dead—

  "Mark. Caleb."

  Ms. Borlough's voice, calm as a librarian shushing rowdy kids.

  We turned.

  She stood there, arms folded, not a hair out of pce. While the school burned around us, while students screamed and teachers panicked, our history teacher looked like she was waiting for us to turn in te homework.

  "Come to my office," she said. "Now."

  The Truth, Sort Of"No, it's not punishment," Ms. Borlough said as we slumped into the uncomfortable pstic chairs across from her desk.

  Her office was a small converted supply closet, walls lined with history books and what looked suspiciously like star charts. A coffee maker burbled in the corner, filling the tiny space with the smell of espresso.

  Instead of the lecture I was expecting, she handed us each a steaming cappuccino in a chipped mug that read "World's Okayest Teacher."

  I didn't trust it. The coffee or the situation.

  I kept waiting for her to pull out a "write 'I will not kill aliens on school property' five hundred times" assignment.

  Instead, she pulled out our student files—actual paper folders, not digital records—and began reading.

  "Mark Vance," she said, adjusting her gsses. "Twelve years old. Orphan. Mother: deceased in a car accident when you were three. Father: missing before birth, no records." She gnced up. "Guardian: Mr. Malven Crook, editor of the Staten Isnd Advance. Seven school transfers in four years." She whistled. "Impressive."

  I shifted uncomfortably. My history wasn't exactly something I liked discussed.

  "Current grades," she continued. "Math — A+. Science — A+. Computers — A+. English — A+. Social Science — B." She looked at me over her gsses. "Only a B?"

  I shrugged. "History bores me. No offense."

  "None taken. Physical Education — A+. Overall GPA: 4.0." She smiled. "Perfect."

  Perfect?

  Yeah, right.

  Kicked out of seven schools. Parents gone. Living with a guardian who spent more time with newspaper deadlines than me. A B in Social Science. Perfect my foot.

  "And Caleb McNavaire," she continued, opening his thinner file. "Twelve years old. Adopted by Jack McNavaire, owner of Georgeson and McNavaire Accounting. Eight schools in five years." She raised an eyebrow at him. "You two competing?"

  Caleb grinned weakly, still clutching his injured arm. "What can I say? I'm a people person."

  "Grades: Math — B. Science — A. Computers — A. English — A+. Social Science — A. Physical Education — A+. Overall GPA: 3.75."

  Caleb shrugged. "Good enough to not get grounded."

  We'd bonded over our mutual bad luck with schools. We both loved computers and science. We were both technically orphans, though Caleb's adoption meant he had something closer to a real family. It was enough to make us best friends from the moment we met—practically family by choice.

  But what Ms. Borlough said next froze us solid.

  "You two just survived an encounter with a Valorant Assassin," she said, as casually as if discussing the weather. "They're notorious for completing missions with five-star precision. Elite killers from the Andromeda Gaxy. And yet..." She leaned forward. "You killed him."

  "I—I don't know how," I stammered.

  "It was mostly Mark," Caleb said quickly. "I just... stabbed it with a chair leg."

  "Just," Ms. Borlough repeated with a small smile. "And you don't know about the Light of Eons? Or Lord Korrath? Or the Crucible Ark?"

  We exchanged panicked gnces and shook our heads in unison.

  "Good," she said, leaning back in her chair. "That means you're innocent."

  "Innocent of what?" I asked. "What's going on? What was that thing? How did I make a gun appear out of nowhere? Why could I understand it? Why—"

  Ms. Borlough held up a hand, stopping my flood of questions.

  "All in good time, Mark." She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a slip of paper, sliding it across to me. "For now, take this number: (302) 555-0198. Someone will contact you within forty-eight hours. When they do—listen. Obey. Don't ask questions. Move when told. Trust them."

  I stared at the slip of paper. The number was written in blue ink, the handwriting precise and neat.

  "Who's going to call?" Caleb asked.

  "People who can help you understand what's happening," Ms. Borlough said cryptically. "People who can keep you safe from what's coming."

  "And what's coming?" I pressed.

  She just smiled sadly. "We should be asking what's already here, Mark."

  "The alien?"

  "That was just a scout," she said. "The first drop before the storm."

  We sat in stunned silence, trying to process everything. Outside, sirens wailed as emergency services finally arrived. The smell of smoke drifted through the small window behind Ms. Borlough's desk.

  "What about the school?" Caleb finally asked. "The other students? That... body out there?"

  "Being handled," Ms. Borlough said dismissively. "By tomorrow, the official story will be a gas line explosion. No casualties, thankfully—most students were in the cafeteria on the other side of the building. As for our visitor..." She tapped a few keys on her ptop. "His remains are already being transported to a secure facility."

  "How are you so calm about this?" I demanded. "There's an alien! From another gaxy! It tried to kill us! I made a gun appear out of thin air!"

  "Mark," she said gently, "when you've seen what I've seen over the years, very little surprises you anymore."

  "And what have you seen?" Caleb asked.

  "That," Ms. Borlough said, "is a story for another day." She checked her watch. "The authorities will want to interview all faculty and students. You two should go home before that happens. I'll mark you as absent today."

  "But—" I started.

  "And Mark," she added, smirking slightly, "next time you sneak your Switch into my css... remember: ;

  She winked, and for a second—just the briefest moment—I could have sworn her eyes glowed purple.

  But then she blinked, and they were normal again. Probably just a reflection from her computer screen.

  We stumbled out of her office like we'd escaped from Area 51, clutching our untouched cappuccinos and a million questions.

  Today... Today had officially gone so far out of pce that "pce" wasn't even visible in the rearview mirror anymore.

  And somehow, I knew this was just the beginning.