The morning alarm in the Grand Palace of Aurelia was not a rude chime, but a live harpist performing softly from behind a silk screen.

Prince Kael opened his eyes beneath a grand canopy woven from pure silver thread. Within seconds of his eyelids fluttering, a choreographed army of attendants glided into the chamber. One offered a warm linen towel infused with rare orchid essence; another held a tray bearing an espresso dusted with edible 24-karat gold; a third knelt quietly, presenting a velvet tray of five custom diamond cufflinks.

The targeting reticle flickered across my primary display, locked onto a tiny, high-density radar signature tumbling through the dark.

We had first logged the object three years ago—an absolute anomaly drifting through the void. At first, astrometrics assumed it was just a stray metallic meteorite. But nature doesn’t forge perfectly circular, hyper-dense iron plates with uniform thickness. Someone had built this. It was our first tangible proof of an intelligent civilization beyond our world.

The air in the bedroom smelled like warm ozone and plastic. It was the autumn of 1993, and glowing on the desk was a heavy, beige CRT monitor—a window into something the older kids at school spoke about in hushed, reverent tones: The Information Superhighway.

Leo took a deep breath and clicked the icon for the terminal software.

Then came the ritual.

The external 14.4k modem on the desk sprang to life with a loud relay click. First came the familiar, hollow dial tone, echoing through the small speaker. Then, the rhythmic, frantic tone-dialing—beep-boop-beep-boop. A long pause.

At 04:12 AM, a blinding flash of violet light shattered the darkness over Tokyo, followed immediately by a deep, rolling shudder that shook the foundation of the Prime Minister’s official residence.

He bolted upright in bed, threw on a jacket, and rushed straight for the emergency transport. The response was immediate and practiced—a standard, high-priority protocol for a major Kantō earthquake.

The Anomalies

By 04:45 AM, the Prime Minister was standing in the underground Crisis Management Center surrounded by frantic cabinet members. However, as emergency assessment reports flooded the monitors, the crisis took a surreal turn.

The air in the brig was thick with the stench of bilge, damp oak, and my own sweat. Heavy iron shackles bit into my wrists as the Portuguese caravel pitched gently on the swell. Above, the muffled thud of sailors’ boots rattled the ceiling beams, but inside my dark timber cell, I had only my fury—and Senhor Silva’s insufferable smirk—to keep me company.

“They are savages, I tell you!” I spat, hurling my chains against the oak floorboards. “The creatures we met on that secluded beach yesterday were barely men! Clad in straw mats, clutching primitive bamboo sticks, cowering in dirt huts on a desolate strip of rock! You boasted of a grand eastern empire ruled by powerful shōguns, yet you dragged me across the globe in chains just to barter with wretched rustics!”

Julian’s Thursday lunch at Le Chalet Central was supposed to be completely unremarkable: a plate of veal cutlet, a glass of Pinot Noir, and forty-five minutes of staring blankly at his phone.

Then he went to wash his hands.

Sitting on the pristine white marble sink, directly between the lavender hand soap and a stack of folded linen towels, was an unzipped leather duffel bag. Peeking out from the top were thick, immaculate bricks of purple paper.