The heavy stone door sealed behind the last figure, plunging the hall into a dim, lamp-lit intimacy. The air was cooler here, deeper underground perhaps, carrying the scent of damp earth and the metallic tang of fear and resolution that clung to every human in this dying world. This wasn't the previous meeting, larger and more broadly selected. This time, the hall felt smaller, the faces sharper, etched with the knowledge that had come from Riku's recent solitary journey – a journey none of them knew the details of, but whose weight they could feel settling upon the village.
There were exactly one hundred and seventy-eight people gathered. One hundred and seventy-eight. Chosen. Refined. The absolute core of the scouts, the ones whose loyalty wasn't just to the idea of humanity's survival, but to the impossible man who spearheaded it.
And Riku was not here. Again.
Standing before them, where Hiro had stood before, was Shirline. Unlike Hiro's burdened steadiness, Shirline possessed a fierce, almost burning resilience that seemed to defy the crushing despair of their reality. She was a rock in the storm, known not just for her uncanny ability to survive the most brutal sorties, but for the power of her words, second only to Riku himself in her capacity to ignite a flicker of defiance in the hearts of the weary. Today, though, the usual fire in her eyes was tempered with something else – a profound, almost painful affection for the general whose message she was about to deliver. He was her General, her dearest friend, the man who carried everything.
A scout at the edge of the assembly broke the tense silence. "So, Shirline," he asked, his voice low but clear, "what's the General's message now?" His tone wasn't impatient, but held the weariness of someone braced for yet another impossible demand.
Shirline met his gaze, then scanned the room, her eyes locking onto each face in turn. This wasn't just about delivering words; it was about confirming who was here, who had answered the call to this most exclusive assembly.
"Alright," she said, her voice clear and strong, though a tremor of the gravity of the moment ran beneath it. "But before that, I'm calling each one of your names, one by one. You must leave if your name isn't called."
The atmosphere grew taut. This wasn't just attendance; it was a final, silent screening. A confirmation that they were not only present, but meant to be present.
She began calling the names. Each one was answered by a quiet affirmation, a nod, a slight shift in stance. The ritual was simple, but potent, solidifying the bond between the speaker and the listener, between the name called and the life that responded. It took time, the only sounds the rhythmic calling and answering of names in the otherwise silent hall.
Finally, she reached the end of the list. She paused, her eyes sweeping across the assembly one last time. Alright, everyone present, no more no less, she thought, a complex mix of pride, fear, and grim determination swirling within her. Total 178. The number felt significant, a nucleus of defiance in a world of billions who had fallen.
Without wasting another second, she shifted her focus. Her face hardened, the resilience coming to the forefront, masking the deep well of emotion she felt for the man whose words she held. Her dear General.
She began to speak, her voice gaining strength and cadence as she delivered the message Riku had entrusted to her. She glanced down at the paper occasionally, but the words were seared into her memory, practiced and internalized until they felt like her own desperate truth.
"We're done waiting for the War to end someday—for a future that will never come."
The opening line hit them with the blunt force of reality. Done waiting. It wasn't just a statement; it was a discarding of the passive hope, the quiet desperation that had been their default for so long.
She walked a few steps across the platform, her gaze challenging them. "Are we going to spend our lives scampering to survive in this shit world, praying for the War to end? Praying to whom?" Her voice rose, tinged with a raw, bitter scorn that perfectly mirrored Riku's own contempt for the powers that ruled their world.
She took a sharp breath, the silence amplifying the rhetorical question. ""Those destroyers who call themselves gods?! The asses in the heavens who can't stop them?! Enduring and enduring this shithole of a world—and then?! What do we do then?!"
Her voice was a whip, lashing out at the futility of their current existence. Enduring. It was a word that had defined them, a passive state of suffering. But the question "What do we do then?!" hung heavy, demanding an answer they didn't have, a future they couldn't envision within the confines of just enduring.
She paused, letting the weight of their shared hopelessness settle. Then, as the summary described, she lowered her voice precipitously. The sudden drop in volume was startling, drawing every eye, every ear, closer.
"It's time we admitted it," she announced, her voice devoid of temperature, utterly cold and factual. "In this world…hope exists—not."
A collective, shuddering breath seemed to fill the room. They had sensed it. They lived it every day. Every lost life, every barren landscape, every monstrous shadow was a testament to that truth. But hearing it spoken aloud, in the stark, unyielding language of their General, felt like a physical blow. It was the final, crushing weight on their already burdened hearts. Heads bowed across the room, the ghosts acknowledging the brutal reality of their non-existence, the quiet despair they carried.
"All we can do," Shirline continued, her voice regaining some of its warmth, a different kind of fire igniting within it, "is create it with our own hands."
At Riku's powerful assertion, spoken through her, their gazes lifted. Create hope? The concept felt foreign, impossible, yet the sheer audacity of it, the defiant refusal to accept the void, resonated deep within their weary souls.
"There's one chance," she declared, a grim smile touching her lips. "A truly warped-in-the-brain, questionably sane, common-sense-defying fool's venture."
A ripple of murmurs went through the crowd. A fool's venture. Against gods. It sounded exactly like Riku.
"We are ghosts—noted and noticed by no one." She moved her gaze across the assembly, her eyes meeting theirs, acknowledging their invisible existence. "We are ghosts—but unseen, we carry the will of those who came before us."
The weight of their fallen comrades, their lost families, the entirety of human history that had been erased by the war – it settled upon them. They weren't just themselves; they were the inheritors of countless silent screams, countless extinguished lives.
"That is the proof of our existence—that the world still exists."
Because they still existed, the world hadn't been completely annihilated. Their hidden presence was a testament, a silent act of defiance against the forces that sought to scour them from history.
"Let us cast aside our pretense of wisdom. We humans are fools." —And he said it. The line was classic Riku, a self-deprecating acknowledgement of their limitations that somehow served as a foundation for monumental action.
"Therefore—we shall fight."
The two words hung in the air, stark and absolute. Fight. Not survive. Not endure. Fight. Against the unquantifiable power that had driven them to the brink of extinction.
One hundred and seventy-seven gazes locked on Shirline, who had undeniably delivered this assertion with every fiber of her being, even though she herself didn't possess the impossible answer, the intricate plan that Riku held in his brilliant, burdened mind. They would fight. Not run, but fight.
"Our enemy is the gods, those forces that scorch heaven and earth, those manifestations of despair. Our odds are infinitesimal. Since doing everything in secret is one of the conditions for victory, even if we win, there won't be any memories or records, and there won't be any songs about our exploits. We're ghosts, and ghosts don't sing. Still, if by some stroke of luck—"
This impulse to write off an insane world as a "game" and take it on…only Riku can do that— The thought flashed through Shirline's mind, a moment of pure, loving exasperation and awe for the man whose sheer lunacy provided their only hope.
"If somehow we do manage to succeed in this game…if we win—" She repeated the phrase, the weight of it sinking in. A game. Against gods. For the fate of the world. With no recognition, no glory, just the brutal satisfaction of victory.
A slow, genuine smile stretched across Shirline's face, reflecting the impossible light that Riku always seemed to find in the deepest darkness.
"Don't you think we'll be able to brag to ourselves that we led the most awesome lives before we die?"
It wasn't glory. It wasn't salvation. It was a personal, internal victory. The knowledge, held only within themselves, that they had dared to challenge the impossible and won. The most awesome lives. In a world of misery, the promise of that quiet, internal boast was more precious than any monument.
"That's the game. Stay only if you want to play."
She finished the speech. And then, she fell silent, as Riku had instructed. He had ordered her to wait for ten minutes after saying those words. I wonder how many will remain, the thought echoed Shirline's earlier internal query, though now it was loaded with a terrifying significance.
Silence descended upon the hall, thick and heavy. Ten minutes. Ten minutes to decide if they would gamble their futile lives on a fool's venture against gods, for no reward but a silent boast in their dying moments. They looked at each other, faces grim but steady. They thought of the dead. They thought of the endless war. They thought of Riku, the man who had given them a reason to keep enduring, and now, a reason to fight.
The seconds stretched into minutes. The flickering lamps cast long, dancing shadows that seemed to mock their fragile existence. The air crackled with the weight of one hundred and seventy-eight individual decisions, each one a rejection of despair, a defiant embrace of the impossible.
The ten minutes passed.
No one left.
Not a single soul moved towards the door. One hundred and seventy-eight ghosts, bound by loyalty, desperation, and the sheer, twisted appeal of Riku's game, chose to stay.
A choked sound escaped Shirline's throat, a mix of relief, pride, and the terrifying realization of the path they had just committed to. Her smile widened, genuine and radiant, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. They stayed. They chose the game. The confirmation was overwhelming, a surge of defiant human spirit in the face of cosmic despair.
The other scouts, seeing her smile, seeing that no one had broken rank, felt a surge of unity wash over them. The fear was still there, a cold knot in their stomachs, but it was now mixed with a fierce, exhilarating sense of purpose. They were together in this madness. They had chosen to fight. A wave of silent nods, grim smiles, and shared, resolute gazes passed between them. They were the 178. Riku's players in the final game.
Shirline composed herself, the General's final orders taking precedence over her emotion. "One last thing," she said, her voice firm again. "No one must know of this, even the ones who were present in the previous meeting but aren't present right now."
Alright so, she thought, the complexity of the secrecy adding another layer to the plan. This was a conspiracy within a conspiracy, limited to the absolute few.
She looked out at the one hundred and seventy-eight faces, her gaze sweeping over them, acknowledging their commitment, their courage, their sheer, magnificent foolishness. A profound sense of connection, of shared destiny, filled the hall.
Then, her voice ringing with challenge and a terrifying joy, Shirline echoed the words that would define their final days.
"Come. Let the game begin."