Thanksgiving on Titanumas: Sunbeam, Moonbeam, Starbeam and Galaxbeam Unite:United in Gratitude: The AES Holiday Banquet

 

They met where the maps blurred.

Far out over the glittering sea between Sollarisca, Lunna, Starrup, and Galaxenchi, a golden city floated like a slow-moving constellation: Galaxen-Harmony Junction, an artificial island-state under Galaxy Regime stewardship, built exactly for this kind of thing—trade summits, cultural exchanges, the occasional attempt to keep the universe from losing its mind.

Tonight, it belonged to the Allied Evolution Salvation.

From orbit, Harmony Junction looked like a four-pointed star. Each arm of the star-shaped city was tinted subtly in the colors of one regime: orange, blue, green, and gold, meeting at a shared central plaza hewn from pale stone and glass. Rails and air-docks pulsed with traffic—orange trams, blue ferries, green hovercraft, golden shuttles—converging on the heart of the AES.

Galaxbeam stood at the central balcony above the plaza, coat open, golden-yellow eyes reflecting the soft glow of thousands of lanterns.

"Four directions," he murmured, half to himself. "Four philosophies. One very small island."

Behind him, Galaxadye adjusted his glasses, checking the latest docking updates on a floating display.

"All arrivals on time, Professor," he reported. "No airspace violations, no storms, no last-minute invasions from BRD. For once."

Galaxastream flicked through live feeds on a tablet. "Solar feed is already calling this the 'Festival of Four Lights.' Lunna's media is emphasizing romance, of course. Starrup is branding it as an 'eco-cooperation gala.' Our headlines just say, 'AES Thanksgiving Joint Ceremony, Version 1.0.'"

Galaxbeam smiled faintly.

"Let them name it as they like," he said. "Our job is to make it worth remembering."

He turned as the first orange shuttle eased into the main dock.

"Shall we go greet our guests?" he asked.

Galaxastorm snorted. "You mean, shall we go stop Sunbeam from sneaking in through a side entrance like an anxious student late to class?"

"Precisely," Galaxbeam replied.

They went.

—

On the Solar arm of Harmony Junction, the air smelled like roasted spices and citrus.

Long tables were already set up along an elevated promenade paved in warm stone, draped with orange banners bearing the sunburst sigil. Strings of lanterns—round, bright, gently swaying—cast pools of cozy light over dishes brought from every corner of Sollarisca.

Sunbeam stepped off the shuttle and into a tide of warm, familiar orange.

He wore his uniform, but with the jacket open, medals simpler than usual, collar undone just enough to say: tonight is not for stiffness. Solardye and Solardale flanked him in more formal cut, Solarstream and Solarstride just behind, Solarstorm and Solarpuff completing the six-pointed formation that shadowed his steps.

"You don't have to walk in formation," Sunbeam muttered quietly as they advanced. "This is supposed to be casual."

Solardye raised an eyebrow. "Sir, with respect, nothing about four absolute leaders meeting on a floating city in the middle of the ocean is casual."

Solarpuff smothered a laugh. "Besides, the cameras love it."

Sunsword and Sunsuna walked a little behind the Supreme Commanders, hands laced, both in slightly less formal solid-orange attire. Sunnon and Sunleaf followed them, already wide-eyed and whispering about how the sea looked from this angle.

"Feels like we're in the opening of a crossover anime special," Sunnon said.

"We are," Sunleaf replied. "There's probably an overdramatic title card hovering over us right now."

"Don't give Galaxastream ideas," Sunsam muttered.

The moment Sunbeam stepped into the main junction plaza, the colors shifted.

From the Lunar arm, soft blue light poured in like twilight. Ice-lanterns glowed along sculpted railings, their frosted surfaces etched with constellations and moon phases. The air was cooler here, scented with tea and something like snow.

Lady Moonbeam approached with her Supreme Commanders in a gentle wave of blue: Lunardye, Lunardale, Lunarstream, Lunarstride, Lunarstorm, Lunarpuff—each distinct, each radiating a quiet, watchful strength. Moonwis and Moonwisdom followed at a distance, already taking notes, because of course they were.

Moonbeam herself wore a flowing blue uniform-dress, hair pinned with luminous ornaments resembling tiny crescent moons. Her eyes lit the moment they found Sunbeam.

"There you are," she said, voice soft but carrying.

"There you are," he echoed, suddenly very aware of his collar and wishing he had checked for stray ink stains before leaving his office.

Between them, for a heartbeat, all the politics and philosophy of four continents became background noise. They just looked at each other and silently said: you made it.

Then the green arrived.

The Star arm of Harmony Junction gleamed like polished circuits. Solar arrays in the pavement drank in the last of twilight, then re-emitted it as lines of soft emerald light tracing the streets. Planters overflowed with carefully sculpted greenery, proof of a continent that had made an art of infrastructure.

Xtreme Vice Colonel Starbeam walked with the calm weight of someone whose entire country quietly ran on his spreadsheets. His Supreme Commanders—Starradye, Starradale, Starrastream, Starrastride, Starrastorm, Starrapuff—fanned out behind him, each in muted green, lines crisp, expressions composed.

Beside them, elites like Starley Sweetbeat and a handful of Star Regime officers carried sleek containers marked with Starrup's logo and a small note: "Contains vegetarian miracles."

Starbeam paused at the edge of the plaza, taking in the gathering orange and blue.

"So this is what it looks like," he said quietly to Starrapuff, "when extroversion becomes architecture."

"You say that like it's a natural disaster," Starrapuff replied.

"Merely an unfamiliar weather pattern," Starbeam said.

The fourth direction brightened.

From the Galaxy arm, the gold of Galaxenchi flowed in: lanterns like mini suns, screen-panels showing live calligraphy of the word "thanks" in a dozen scripts, tea stations already steaming. Galaxbeam descended from the staircase with his Supreme Commanders at his sides—Galaxadye, Galaxadale, Galaxastream, Galaxastride, Galaxastorm, Galaxapuff—each one dipping in a respectful bow as they stepped into the main circle.

For a breath, all four Absolute Leaders stood facing each other around the central plaza.

Orange. Blue. Green. Gold.

Sunbeam smiled first, because he always did.

"Welcome," he said. "To... whatever we end up calling this."

"Historically unprecedented," Galaxbeam suggested mildly.

"Romantically promising," Moonbeam added, eyes twinkling.

"Administratively terrifying," Starbeam said.

"But emotionally necessary," Sunbeam finished.

They laughed. The tension broke. Around them, Supreme Commanders and elites exhaled as if someone had loosened the gravity.

Galaxbeam clapped his hands once.

"Then let us proceed," he said. "Each of us has brought a piece of our Thanksgiving to share. Tonight, the AES will eat like four continents at once."

—

They started with the food.

On the Solar side of the plaza, Sun soldiers and elites laid out platters from Sollarisca: orange-glazed breads, spiced vegetable stews, candied fruits arranged in sunburst patterns, roast dishes carefully balanced so that Starrup's vegetarian guests had plenty of options.

Sunbeam personally carried a tray of simple bowls—rice, fried greens, shredded seasoned tofu.

"For those who want something light," he said, setting it down. "Heavy policy, light dinner is... unwise."

Solardale leaned close. "Sir, that was nearly a proverb."

"I'm evolving," Sunbeam replied.

Lunna's contribution arrived on floating carts that glided the short distance from the blue arm: delicate pastries dusted with powdered sugar like miniature snow fields, mooncakes with intricate patterns, hot soup fragrant with herbs and calming spices. Lunarstride supervised the arrangements, ensuring the aesthetics were as soothing as the flavors.

"In Lunna," Moonbeam explained to a curious Star Regime officer, "we like food that reminds you to breathe slowly."

Starrup rolled in what looked like half a research kitchen.

Starrapuff and Stardrye oversaw the carving of Star-Turducken: layered plant-based roast, its cross-section hypnotic. Stellings of roasted vegetables, salads, and gleaming loaves surrounded it, all labeled clearly with ingredients and environmental impact stats.

"We brought numbers to your dinner," Starstream told a bemused Sun elite.

"We brought appetite to your stats," Sunsam replied cheerfully, already reaching for a slice.

Galaxenchi's tables balanced it all: steamed buns with galaxy-themed fillings, simmering hotpots, tea eggs marbled like nebulae, and modest platters of fish from strictly sustainable sources.

Galaxapuff moved through the preparations like a golden thread, adjusting placements, checking temperatures, making sure there were low-sensory corners for people who needed quiet.

"Cross-continent Thanksgiving," she murmured. "Controlled chaos. My favorite."

When the tables were finally ready, the plaza looked like a living map of Titanumas: one corner glowing orange with warmth and spices, another shimmering blue with delicate glazes and frost motifs, a third humming green with clean lines and experimental dishes, the fourth steady gold with balanced, familiar comforts.

It would have been easy to let each corner stay in its own color.

Instead, Sunbeam stepped to the microphone at the center and said, "No assigned seating."

Heads turned.

"Pick any table," he went on. "Better yet, pick one where someone's colors don't match yours. Thanksgiving is about remembering we didn't make it here alone. Tonight, we prove it."

Moonbeam nodded, stepping up beside him.

"In Lunna," she added, "we say: if your plate only holds food from one kitchen, your heart only hears one story. Let's give our hearts more stories."

Starbeam took the mic next, expression carefully controlled.

"Logistically," he said dryly, "this will be a nightmare for the cleaning staff."

Laughter rippled across the plaza.

He glanced at Sunbeam, then back at the crowd.

"Strategically," he continued, "it is the best idea I've heard all year."

Finally, Galaxbeam lifted the mic with two fingers.

"As the one who will inevitably produce the post-event analytical paper," he said, "I endorse this experiment. Please intermix yourselves irresponsibly. We will study the results."

The plaza moved.

Orange mixed with blue. Green drifted into gold. Supreme Commanders found themselves at tables with elites from other regimes; soldiers discovered new spices alongside new accents; translators moved like helpful ghosts, smoothing over language gaps with quiet efficiency.

Sunbeam ended up at a table with Galaxastorm, Starradale, and Lunarpuff.

"This feels like the start of an alliance council," Galaxastorm remarked. "If you add more spreadsheets, I might bolt."

"No spreadsheets tonight," Sunbeam said. "Only questions."

"Then my question," Lunarpuff ventured, "is: General, what are you thankful for this year that has nothing to do with policy?"

Sunbeam blinked.

"Nothing to do with policy?" he echoed. "That narrows things... more than I like."

The others waited.

He looked down at his plate, then around at the laughing, overlapping crowd.

"I'm thankful," he said slowly, "that more and more, when I walk through my cities, I see benches with two people on them instead of one. That's not a law. That's... something else."

Galaxastorm relaxed, just a fraction.

"I am thankful," he said, "for a storm season so dull my staff complained of boredom. It means all the emergencies happened on screens, not in real streets."

Starradale folded his hands.

"I'm thankful," he said, "that no one in my department died of overwork this year. Which is... not something I could say, once."

Lunarpuff smiled gently.

"I'm thankful for... public ice rinks at night," she said. "Watching people fall and get back up is... weirdly hopeful."

"Even when they curse?" Sunbeam asked.

"Especially when they curse," she replied. "It means they care about getting back up."

At another table, Moonbeam sat with Starbeam, Galaxpuff, and Solarpuff, the three "puffs" comparing notes while their leaders tried not to look like they were analyzing each other.

"You've caused quite a trend," Moonbeam teased Starbeam. "Vegetarian roasts everywhere. My cooks are equal parts fascinated and offended."

"We can license more recipes," Starrapuff said promptly.

Moonbeam laughed. "Careful. If you make it too easy, my people will expect you to fix everything."

"Already a familiar problem," Starbeam murmured.

Galaxbeam moved from table to table like a professor at a very chaotic seminar.

He asked a Sun soldier, "What surprised you most the first time you visited Lunna?"

He asked a Lunar ice architect, "How did it feel to skate on artificial ice in Starrup?"

He asked a Starrup engineer, "What did you think of Galaxenchi's barefoot gardens?"

He listened, nodding, cataloging impressions not as data points alone but as living proof that crossing borders had become routine instead of miraculous.

At one point he found himself seated with all three other leaders, for the first time without any other voices around the table.

They ate in relative silence for a few bites.

"This feels illegal," Sunbeam said suddenly.

"What does?" Starbeam asked.

"Us sitting without a crisis on the agenda," Sunbeam replied. "No emergency. No urgent signatures. Just... chewing."

"A rare anomaly," Galaxbeam agreed. "We should take notes. For science."

Moonbeam rested her chin lightly on her hand.

"I think it's perfect," she said. "For once, our biggest challenge is whether the Sun Regime sweets go better with Starrup tea or Galaxenchi tea."

"That is not a trivial question," Starbeam said.

"It is also not an either-or," Galaxbeam added. "We are capable of mixed solutions."

"You just turned dessert into a policy metaphor," Sunbeam complained.

"Of course," Galaxbeam said blandly. "It is my calling."

They laughed.

For a little while, four people—not symbols, not titles—just ate and breathed in the same air and let themselves pretend the universe required nothing of them except this.

—

Later, the speeches came.

Not the grand, broadcast kind. Those had already been done in their own lands. Here, in Harmony Junction, they kept it smaller.

A low platform had been set at the exact center of the plaza, where the four colors met in the paving stones. Around it, people sat on steps, leaned on railings, or simply stood with cups of tea in their hands, the sea breeze ruffling uniforms and hair.

Galaxbeam stepped up first, not with a speech in hand, but with a slim book.

"In your worlds," he began in a calm, clear voice, "Thanksgiving has been many things—the end of a harvest, a ceasefire dinner, a family reunion, a marketing season, a chance to pretend everything is fine, or to admit that it isn't."

He glanced at Sunbeam, Moonbeam, Starbeam in turn.

"In this world," he continued, "it is all of that and something else: a checkpoint. A place on the timeline where we deliberately stop and ask: 'Who am I grateful is still alive? Which policies did more than balance a ledger? Who did I fail to thank when it mattered, and can I fix that while we are all still breathing?'"

He closed the book.

"Tonight, I am grateful," he said, "that I do not have to lecture alone."

He stepped back.

Moonbeam floated onto the platform next, blue cape trailing like a piece of night sky.

"In Lunna," she said, "we walk barefoot in gardens and on glowing paths. Partly because it feels nice." Soft laughter. "But also because it reminds us: we are still human. Even wrapped in titles, even wrapped in power."

Her gaze swept the crowd.

"You are allowed," she said, "to be thankful for soft, silly things. For warm baths, for foolish jokes, for the way someone's hand fits in yours when you cross a street. Romance is not frivolous. It is how we remember that we are more than instruments of policy."

She looked toward Sunbeam, eyes soft.

"My lover teaches me," she went on, "that preserving humanity is not only about survival. It is about our capacity to feel joy. Tonight, let us be grateful not only for those who kept us alive, but for those who gave us reasons to want to be."

She bowed and stepped down.

Starbeam walked up next, posture impeccable, expression as neutral as ever. The crowd quieted automatically.

"In Starrup," he said, "we talk a great deal about efficiency, sustainability, metrics."

A few of his own citizens chuckled knowingly.

"Efficiency kept our lights on," he continued. "Stability let us build green towers instead of bunkers. But Thanksgiving..." He paused. "...Thanksgiving reminds us that a perfectly optimized system is worthless if no one laughs inside it."

He looked mildly annoyed at himself for the sentiment, but didn't retract it.

"I am grateful," he said, "for every moment this year when my plans were slightly inconvenienced by people choosing to linger at dinner, to dance in a plaza, to argue about trivial matters that are secretly how communities form. I am thankful for every citizen who ignored a notification because they were too busy hugging someone."

He folded his hands behind his back.

"Please continue to be statistically inconvenient," he finished. "It means our work is doing what it was meant to."

He stepped down before anyone could see the tiny flicker of warmth in his eyes.

Finally, Sunbeam took the platform.

He didn't bring notes. He never did for this kind of thing.

"In Sollarisca," he said, "I told my people that I refuse to let anyone be invisible. That I will fight the quiet war against loneliness just as fiercely as any external threat."

He looked around at the plaza, at the mix of colors, at the way people had settled into little clusters of unfamiliar uniforms and familiar laughter.

"Tonight," he said, "I see proof that we are not fighting that war alone."

His voice softened.

"I am thankful," he went on, "for the other three lights that stand here with me. One blue, one green, one gold. Each one stubborn, each one infuriating in their own way, each one carrying burdens I cannot see from my continent."

He glanced at Moonbeam, Starbeam, Galaxbeam.

"We do not agree on everything," he said. "We never will. But we agree on this: people should not have to earn the right to be loved, to be seen, to sit at a table where someone is glad they came."

He spread his hands, a gesture less like command and more like an invitation.

"So tonight," he said, "be greedy. Take as much warmth as you can. Make promises you can keep. Exchange numbers. Start friendships. Risk looking foolish. In the days ahead, our worlds will need all the connections we can weave."

He smiled, the simple, earnest smile that had begun to matter more than his medals.

"For now," he finished, "just... thank whoever's next to you for existing. You don't have to mean it perfectly. You just have to start."

He stepped down, and for a moment, the plaza was very, very quiet.

Then someone in the back shouted, "THANK YOU FOR EXISTING!" at their friend, and the spell broke. Laughter cascaded through the crowd like spilled light.

All around the plaza, people turned to each other.

"Thanks for coming."
"Thanks for working late so I could be here."
"Thanks for yelling at me to take a day off."
"Thanks for not giving up that one time."

Not epic declarations. Small ones.

The kind that, stacked over years, rebuilt the inside walls of a civilization.

—

Much later, when the tables had emptied and the lanterns had grown softer, the four leaders escaped briefly to the upper deck walkway encircling Harmony Junction.

They walked without entourages for once, the only witnesses the stars and the distant glitter of ships.

From here, they could see the four arms of the city, still glowing faintly in their respective colors, bleeding into each other where they met.

"It looks like someone spilled paint on a blueprint," Starbeam observed.

"It looks," Moonbeam countered, "like a promise we haven't fully written yet."

Galaxbeam leaned on the railing, eyes half-closed.

"It looks," he said, "like a good first draft."

Sunbeam exhaled, long and slow.

"I wish..." he began, then changed the word. "No. I am thankful that we did this now and not 'someday when things are less busy.' Someday never comes."

"It does if you schedule it," Starbeam muttered.

"You scheduled an emotionally-driven festival?" Sunbeam asked.

"Classified," Starbeam replied.

Moonbeam laughed, the sound soft and genuine.

"Professor," she said, "what will you call this chapter when you write it in your history of Titanumas?"

Galaxbeam tilted his head, considering.

"Perhaps..." he mused, "...'The Night the Four Lights Remembered They Were Human.'"

Sunbeam grimaced. "That's a bit on the nose."

Moonbeam smiled. "I like it."

Starbeam sighed. "The editorial wars on this title will be brutal."

"Good," Galaxbeam said lightly. "It means people care."

They stood in comfortable silence for a while, listening to the low hum of the city and the distant, fading chatter drifting up from below.

Somewhere on the orange arm, Sunsword and Sunsuna were teaching a Lunar elite how to play a Sollariscan card game. On the blue arm, a Star Regime engineer was carefully not falling during a Lunar ice dance demonstration. On the green arm, a Galaxy tea master was arguing politely with a Starrup chef about steeping temperatures. On the gold arm, a Sun soldier and a Lunar medic sat side by side at the edge of the plaza, not saying anything at all—but not alone.

Four continents. One strange little floating star. A thousand tiny, stubborn acts of connection.

"Happy Thanksgiving," Sunbeam said quietly.

"Happy Thanksgiving," Moonbeam echoed.

"Happy... statistically anomalous social experiment," Starbeam added.

"Happy lived philosophy," Galaxbeam concluded.

They stood there a little longer, four near-godlike figures who, under the stars and lantern light, looked very much like four tired, hopeful humans who had decided—against all prior history—to build a universe where no one had to walk home alone if they didn't want to.

Down below, Harmony Junction glowed on the water, precisely where the maps overlapped, a small bright answer to the old fear that power and kindness could not share the same sky.

For a long moment, they simply stood there together, four silhouettes against the black water and scattered starlight, sharing the kind of quiet that only existed when nobody had to pretend to be "on" for a crowd.

Then Moonbeam tilted her head, the faintest mischievous spark in her eyes.

"So," she said, "before we all slip away back to our continents like responsible adults... shall we do something irresponsible and sentimental?"

Sunbeam blinked. "I thought that's what we've been doing all evening."

"That was public policy-level sentiment," Moonbeam replied. "I mean something smaller. Personal."

Galaxbeam's eyebrows lifted. "You brought contraband feelings, Lady Moonbeam?"

She smiled. "I brought gifts."

She snapped her fingers lightly.

From the shadowed entrance to the upper deck, a Lunar officer padded forward with a small tray—four slim, flat cases, each wrapped in soft blue cloth and sealed with a tiny crescent sigil.

"You planned this," Starbeam said slowly.

"Of course," Moonbeam answered. "Our two professors have been teaching us the importance of lived symbolism. I am merely being an excellent student."

Sunbeam's lips twitched. "I can't even be annoyed. That's exactly the kind of thing I say."

The officer bowed, then held out the tray. Moonbeam took three of the cases and distributed them.

"To each of you," she said softly, "from Lunna."

Sunbeam weighed his in his hands. "Is this going to explode?"

"Emotionally, perhaps," Moonbeam said.

He unwrapped it.

Inside, cushioned in velvet, lay a thin slice of crystalline glass, etched with a faintly glowing pattern: a miniature map of one of Lunna's barefoot gardens. You could see the winding paths, the arranged stones, even the little crescents indicating where people most often stopped to stand and breathe.

On the corner, in delicate script, it read: Lunacrest Garden, Thanksgiving Cycle—For Those Who Remember To Walk Gently.

Sunbeam's throat tightened.

"You... logged foot traffic?" he said softly.

Moonbeam nodded. "We traced where people lingered longest during the garden walks," she said. "Every pause, every slow step. This pattern... is where they chose to exist instead of rush. I wanted each of you to have one. To remind you that wherever you stand, people are doing the same on your soil—choosing, just for a moment, to be nothing but alive."

Starbeam examined his pane closely.

"The density here," he murmured, pointing at a cluster near the center, "suggests a high incidence of couples who pretended not to be couples."

Moonbeam laughed. "Your emotional analytics are horrifying and correct."

Galaxbeam held his up so the starlight caught it.

"This is," he said quietly, "a better metric than anything in my databases."

She met his eyes. "I thought so too," she admitted.

Sunbeam traced one of the glowing paths with a finger.

"I'll put this in my office," he said. "Where I can see it when the reports start to sound like they're about numbers instead of people."

"Good," Moonbeam replied. "Then it is doing its job."

Starbeam cleared his throat.

"In that case," he said, "perhaps my gift will feel... less embarrassingly practical."

He gestured, and Starradye—who had been pretending not to hover near the entrance—stepped forward with a sleek, emerald-lined case.

Starbeam accepted it, then opened it to reveal three slim data crystals, each slot neatly labeled in his precise hand.

"I have brought," he said, "a boring gift."

Sunbeam, still holding his glass, smiled faintly. "If it comes from you, it's statistically unlikely to be boring."

Starbeam handed one crystal to each of them.

"These," he explained, "contain Starrup's latest resource-efficiency frameworks and scaled models for our vegetarian food infrastructure. But more importantly, they contain something my Supreme Commanders insisted we include: a set of personal assistance protocols. Administrative-filtering tools. Automated triage for requests that should never have reached your desks in the first place."

Sunbeam's eyes widened. "You mean... an actual system that stops every minor issue from landing directly on my lap?"

Starbeam nodded. "With appropriate oversight, yes. It will learn to prioritize what truly requires your attention, and route the rest. Think of it as a shield for your time."

Moonbeam stared at her crystal as if it might start glowing like her gardens.

"You're... giving us armor," she said softly. "Not for our bodies. For our... days."

"Your calendars," Starbeam said. "Your attention. Your mental bandwidth. I have watched all three of you try to hold up your suns and moons with your bare hands. It is... inefficient. And cruel. To yourselves."

Galaxbeam's usual composure cracked just a little at the edges.

"Starbeam," he murmured, "this may be the most romantic gesture you are capable of."

"I am not being romantic," Starbeam said quickly.

"You are giving us the ability to sleep without failing our citizens," Galaxbeam replied. "In my culture, that qualifies."

Sunbeam held the crystal carefully.

"If this works," he said, "I will be grateful to you for the rest of my life."

"Please direct your gratitude into adequate backups," Starbeam replied dryly. "I did not build this so you could crash it by trying to answer every citizen message personally through a new interface."

Sunbeam muttered, "He sees through me," but his smile was genuine and a little shaky.

Moonbeam turned hers over in her fingers.

"I will give this to Moonwis," she said. "He will cry. Then he will pretend he didn't."

"Good," Starbeam said. "He has earned a cry."

Galaxbeam tilted his head.

"In that case," he said, "it seems my gift may be... perfectly positioned between your two."

He lifted his hand.

From the stairs, Galaxapuff approached with a small, rectangular parcel, simple and golden, tied with a plain cord. She bowed and placed it in his hands, then withdrew.

Galaxbeam unwrapped it to reveal a book.

An actual, physical book.

Its cover was deep midnight blue, speckled with tiny gilded dots like distant stars. The title, embossed in simple script, read: "Gratitude: A Field Guide For Tired Gods."

Moonbeam laughed softly.

"Is that one of your old lectures?" she teased.

"In part," Galaxbeam said. "In part, it is something new."

He opened it. The pages were a mix of hand-written observations, stories, diagrams, and blank spaces carefully framed with faint guidelines.

"I realized," he explained, "that all of us are very good at thanking our people, our staffs, our citizens. We are less practiced at... thanking specific moments. Or ourselves. So I wrote a guide. Each section explains one facet of gratitude—not as obligation, but as practice. At the end of every section, there are empty pages."

Sunbeam scanned a page: a short reflection on the difference between guilt and gratitude, followed by a simple prompt—"Name three small things today that did not have to happen, but did, and made your world softer."

Moonbeam flipped ahead to a section titled "Gratitude As Resistance To Cynicism."

Starbeam landed on a page that read: "For the Planner Who Cannot Rest: your vision of collapse is not prophecy. You are allowed to appreciate what did not break today."

Galaxbeam smiled faintly.

"I want you," he said, "to write in these. Not for history. Not for your regimes. For yourselves. No one else needs to see the pages unless you wish it."

Sunbeam's voice was quiet.

"You're... giving us homework," he said.

"I am giving you a reason to stop and notice," Galaxbeam corrected gently. "Your citizens are doing it. You should be allowed to do it too."

Moonbeam closed the book against her chest for a moment, eyes shining.

"I will actually do this," she said. "Not just promise. I... need something like this that isn't a briefing."

Starbeam turned his copy over slowly.

"I do not like being told to write about my feelings," he said.

"Consider it an experiment in honesty," Galaxbeam replied. "You can graph them afterward if it helps."

Starbeam paused.

"...That might work," he admitted.

All three of them laughed.

"Fine," Sunbeam said. "Your turn to be emotionally exposed has been noted."

Moonbeam arched a brow.

"And you, Sunbeam?" she asked. "What did you bring, besides chaos and confetti?"

He inhaled, rubbed the back of his neck, and gave a small, crooked smile.

"I didn't," he said, "have time to make anything... polished. Or expensive."

"Those are rarely the best gifts," Galaxbeam said.

Sunbeam nodded to where Solarpuff waited at the edge of the deck with a square, flat box under one arm. She stepped forward and handed it to him. He took off the lid, revealing three stacks of thin, flexible envelopes, each tied with an orange ribbon and labeled in careful handwriting.

"These are..." he began, then stopped to find words that weren't clumsy.

"These are copies of letters," he said. "From my people. From Sollarisca."

He picked one envelope and held it up.

"After my Thanksgiving speech," he explained, "Sunwis and Sunwise collected a sample of anonymous messages from citizens who attended Lantern Nights, community houses, speed-friendship sessions. They scrubbed identifying details, then... they gave them to me."

Moonbeam's eyes softened immediately.

"Love letters to the policy," she said.

"Love letters to the life they're starting to believe they can have," Sunbeam corrected, voice quiet. "I read them when I... forget why I'm exhausting myself."

He handed an envelope stack to each of them.

"These sets," he said, "are from districts where your influence is already felt. Lunna-inspired sections of parks. Starrup-funded infrastructure. Galaxenchi-designed community houses. When a citizen mentions something that exists because of you, or your tech, or your philosophy... it's marked with a little symbol in the margin. A moon. A star. A tiny galaxy spiral."

Starbeam took his stack carefully, as if it might crumble.

"You're giving us... proof," he said slowly. "That what we send actually lands in human lives."

"Yes," Sunbeam said simply. "I know you see numbers. But I wanted you to see sentences. Spelling mistakes. Doodles. People thanking 'that green country far away' because their tram runs on time now and they can stay longer at Lantern Night. Or 'that blue lady who made walking barefoot legal in parks' because it helped someone's anxiety. Or 'the gold professor who made us think about harvests differently' because now someone feels less ashamed of needing help."

Moonbeam untied her ribbon with trembling fingers, flipping through a few pages lit by the deck lights.

One short note read: "Thank you to whoever suggested garden nights. I thought I didn't belong anywhere. Now there's one path where I can walk and not feel wrong." A little crescent moon in the margin glowed faintly.

Moonbeam pressed her lips together, eyes bright.

"Oh," she whispered. "Oh..."

Galaxbeam scanned another, marked with a tiny spiral: "The story about old harvests made me realize my grandmother was right. We're part of a line. I lit a candle for her tonight and didn't feel stupid anymore."

He exhaled slowly.

"This is dangerous," he said quietly.

"How so?" Sunbeam asked.

"It makes it much harder to retreat into abstraction," Galaxbeam replied. "Now, when I consider cutting a program, I will see handwriting like this in my mind."

"Good," Moonbeam said, voice gentle but firm. "We should be haunted by the people we serve. Kindly haunted."

Starbeam had gone very still, scanning a note with a little star drawn in the margin: "Whoever made the cheap, clean trains, thank you. I can visit my sister again without saving for months."

He swallowed.

"Who wrote this?" he asked reflexively, then shook his head. "No. Anonymous. That is the point."

His expression shifted—still controlled, but with something raw flickering underneath.

"In Starrup, they call me the Xtreme Vice Colonel," he said. "Sometimes... it sounds like they are talking about a machine. A function. Not a person."

He touched the edge of the page.

"Reading this," he said, almost to himself, "I remember why I let them turn me into a function."

Sunbeam reached out and briefly bumped his shoulder, a small, wordless gesture.

"That's why I brought them," he said. "We all forget. Even me. Especially me."

Moonbeam stepped closer and slid her arm lightly through his.

"You did well," she murmured. "This is exactly the kind of gift only you would think to give."

"And only Moonwis would format properly," Galaxbeam added.

"True," Sunbeam admitted. "He threatened to resign if I tried to throw the raw letters at you without categories."

They all smiled again, the air around them a little warmer despite the sea breeze.

For a while, they simply stood together on the upper deck, each with their gifts in hand:

A sliver of a Lunar garden.
A Starrup shield for their time.
A Galaxy guide to gratitude.
A Solar packet of anonymous, messy thanks.

Small things, in the scale of empires.

Huge things, in the scale of hearts.

Random little pieces of conversation bubbled up, unstructured, the way they only did when nobody was performing.

Moonbeam leaned on the railing, looking down at the mingled colors of the plaza.

"Do you ever think," she said softly, "about what we would be doing if we weren't... this?"

"Frequently," Starbeam replied.

Sunbeam tilted his head. "You? Really?"

"Yes," Starbeam said. "Often while reviewing budget reports."

Galaxbeam smiled sideways. "And what is your most frequent alternate timeline?"

"Librarian," Starbeam said without hesitation. "Quiet building, organized shelves, minimal chance of orbital bombardment. You?"

"Teacher," Galaxbeam answered. "Which, in fairness, I already am. But with fewer satellites."

Moonbeam thought for a moment.

"I'd run a skating rink café," she said. "Tea, blankets, night music, no politics allowed inside. What about you, Sunbeam?"

He stared out at the dark water for a long beat.

"...I think I'd run a very intrusive community center," he said finally. "One of those places that 'just happens' to put lonely people at the same table and then pretends it was an accident."

Moonbeam laughed. "So... exactly what you're doing, minus the artillery."

"Exactly," he said.

Starbeam considered.

"You would be unbearable as a small-town community director," he said. "Constant events. Constant invitations. No one allowed to disappear."

"Yes," Sunbeam agreed. "Bliss."

They drifted between topics like that, unhurried—coffee preferences, the eternal debate over the best festival food, whether or not any of them could actually cook without starting a fire. Moonbeam confessed she had once tried to bake bread and created something so dense that Lunarstorm had used it as a training weight. Starbeam admitted that his attempt to follow a simple recipe had spawned a five-page improvement report and no meal. Galaxbeam claimed, entirely straight-faced, that he could prepare instant noodles in fourteen different historically authentic ways.

Sunbeam listened, laughed, and filed it all away in the private mental folder labeled: "Proof We're Real."

At one point, a gust of wind swept across the deck, tugging at cloaks and ribbons. Moonbeam's crescent hairpins chimed softly. Starbeam's coat flared like a green banner. Sunbeam's orange trim fluttered. Galaxbeam's golden sash twisted like a beam of light.

They instinctively stepped a little closer, shoulder to shoulder, four points of a small, breathing circle.

"I'm grateful," Sunbeam said quietly, not to the crowd below, not to any camera, but just to them, "that I don't feel so alone at the top of my own sky now."

Moonbeam squeezed his arm.

"I'm grateful," she said, "that when I tell my people they're not outcasts, I know there are three other continents saying the same thing in their own ways."

Starbeam looked down at the letters in his hand.

"I'm grateful," he said, "that I have colleagues who remind me that optimization is not the same as care. And that it's acceptable, occasionally, to design for joy instead of only resilience."

Galaxbeam closed his book gently.

"I am grateful," he said, "that when I break the fourth wall and tell our readers to rest, laugh, and beware the traps of cynicism... I am no longer speaking as a lone voice. I can point—here, now—and say: they are doing it too."

He looked up, gaze unfocused for a heartbeat, as if addressing someone beyond the clouds and ink and digital screens.

"To whoever is listening out there," he added softly, almost like an aside to an unseen camera, "you are invited to be grateful for small things tonight. A warm room. A silly joke. The fact that you have lived long enough to read this sentence. That is enough."

Sunbeam snorted gently. "You're doing it again," he said. "Lecturing the universe."

"It needs it," Galaxbeam replied.

"No argument," Starbeam muttered.

Moonbeam smiled, turning her face into the wind.

"Then," she said, "shall we go back down before our Supreme Commanders stage a rescue operation?"

Sunbeam grimaced. "Solardye is exactly that type."

"Lunardye would file a polite report about our 'unsupervised balcony loitering,'" Moonbeam said.

"Starstorm would assume disaster," Starbeam added.

"Galaxastorm would assume weather sabotage," Galaxbeam finished calmly.

They shared one last, quiet round of smiles—no audience, no flourish. Just four people, genuinely glad the others existed.

Then, together, they turned and walked back toward the stairs, carrying their mismatched gifts, their private jokes, and the fragile, stubborn certainty that this—this night, this warmth, this mutual gratitude—was worth defending just as fiercely as any border or treaty.

Down below, the plaza lights awaited them.

So did the people.

And as the four leaders descended, side by side, their Supreme Commanders and elites looked up and, just for a heartbeat, saw not untouchable figures of power—but four tired, hopeful, very human beings who were trying their best to build a world where gratitude, connection, and softness weren't luxuries.

They were the point.

By the time the four of them reached the stairs back down to the plaza, the quiet moment on the balcony was over.

The world had found them.

Solar orange lenses, Lunar blue camera orbs, Starrup's sleek green drones, and Galaxenchi's soft-gold broadcast rigs were already clustered at the edge of the central square, held back only by a very thin line of very polite security.

A Solar producer whispered into her headset, "They're coming down together—repeat, all four descending together—this is your wide shot, get me that lens flare—"

A Lunar anchor straightened her crescent-shaped brooch. "We are live in three, two—"

A Starrup tech muttered, "Adjust exposure for mixed-spectrum uniforms; I want the green to read true, not neon—"

A Galaxenchi director simply said, "Everyone breathe. This is one of those clips they'll replay in a century."

The four Absolute Leaders stepped into the light.

The plaza, still busy with mixed-color crowds finishing their dinners, parted in a natural ring around the central platform. Screens flicked on all at once along the buildings, echoing the live image: Sunbeam in orange, Moonbeam in blue, Starbeam in green, Galaxbeam in gold, moving together like points on a single orbit.

The first camera to reach them belonged to Solar News, but its logo had three other networks stacked beneath it in a shared feed.

"General Sunbeam!" the reporter called, bowing. "Lady Moonbeam! Xtreme Vice Colonel Starbeam! Professor Galaxbeam! Thank you for allowing this cross-network interview."

Sunbeam chuckled. "You say 'allow' as if any of us could stop you."

Moonbeam smiled at the camera, soft gaze warming a billion living rooms. "We are glad you all came," she said. "It would be lonely without you."

Starbeam looked directly into the lens with his usual composed seriousness. "Please do not misinterpret our smiles as a sign that we have abandoned responsibility," he said. "We are simply demonstrating that it is possible to govern and still possess facial muscles."

Galaxbeam, standing just off-center, folded his hands behind his back. "Consider this an experiment in radical transparency," he added mildly. "The people should see not only our proclamations, but our... slightly awkward small talk."

The reporter's smile widened. "Then may we ask," she said, "what you are each most grateful for tonight—not as leaders, but as people?"

The four exchanged a quick look, silently agreeing not to repeat the balcony answers exactly. This was for the world now.

Sunbeam went first.

"I'm grateful," he said, "that when I look out at this crowd, I can't tell at a glance who is Solar, who is Lunar, who is Star, who is Galaxy—only who is laughing, who is talking, who is reaching out to someone else. That's the kind of confusion I want more of."

The camera cut to the audience: mixed uniforms, mixed colors, a Sun soldier showing a Lunar medic how to use a Starrup tablet while a Galaxy elite passed them tea.

Moonbeam's turn.

"I am grateful," she said, "for the sight of people holding on to each other without needing a reason. For couples we know, and for friendships forming right now that we will never hear about. For every person in the crowd who decided, 'I will leave my room tonight' instead of staying alone with their worries."

A Lunar commentator somewhere whispered, "She's doing it again, talking straight into everyone's heart—"

Starbeam's eyes softened almost imperceptibly.

"I am grateful," he said, "that all of you have tolerated our experiments. You let us rearrange train schedules, redesign plazas, adjust energy systems, and still you showed up here in person instead of hiding behind screens. That cooperation—between citizens and leaders—is... the only reason any of this works."

In Starrup, a shopkeeper watching on a wall screen snorted. "He says that like we didn't argue with every policy," she muttered fondly to her son. "But we showed up for the festivals, so fine, he's right."

Galaxbeam raised the mic last.

"I am grateful," he said, "for every person, watching right now, who thinks they are too small to matter. You are incorrect. You are the majority of the story."

That line went straight to the top of the trending quotes across all four networks.

The reporters rotated, each regime getting a turn.

Lunar Crescent Network's anchor held out her mic. "Lady Moonbeam," she asked, "some of our viewers want to know: what is the most unexpectedly human moment you've seen from your fellow leaders tonight?"

Moonbeam's smile turned conspiratorial.

"Sunbeam," she said, "trying to secretly rescue a crooked lantern himself instead of calling anyone, then getting his sleeve stuck and pretending it was 'field research.'"

The crowd laughed. Sunbeam hid his face briefly in his hand.

"And Starbeam," she continued, "standing in front of a dessert table for a full two minutes, clearly calculating nutritional values, then picking the messiest-looking cake because, and I quote, 'if I'm going to commit, I should commit fully.'"

Starrup collectively choked.

Starbeam looked away, ears slightly pink. "Statistical slander," he murmured. "Mostly."

"And Galaxbeam," Moonbeam finished, "was caught by one of my officers quietly refilling teapots at the community tables when he thought no one was looking. For a man of his station, that is... very humble work."

"It was," Galaxbeam said serenely, "the most efficient way to increase warmth per second in that area."

Solar Social feeds immediately filled with edits labeled: "Teapot Prof".

Starrup GreenGrid Media took their turn, their logo hovering neatly in the shared broadcast.

"Xtreme Vice Colonel Starbeam," their correspondent said, "our audience is fascinated by this rare casual appearance. What surprised you most about this joint Thanksgiving?"

Starbeam considered.

"Surprise," he said, "is a strong word. But I was... quietly impressed by how quickly the mixing occurred. I expected more hesitation. Instead, within minutes, our citizens were trading recipes, jokes, and contact information. Some of them started planning cross-continental game nights using our joint infrastructure."

He glanced at the camera.

"I encourage this," he added. "Responsibly. Please do not overload the network with all-night karaoke streams."

"That was directed at you, Galaxenchi," the anchor whispered aside, grinning.

Galaxenchi's Golden Broadcast cut in for their segment.

"Professor," their reporter said, "the world has watched your lecture, and now this gathering. Do you have a message tonight for people watching alone?"

Galaxbeam looked straight into the lens, and for a second it felt like a one-on-one conversation with everyone on the other side of the screen.

"Yes," he said. "First, thank you for enduring the intrusive presence of all our faces in your living space."

Soft chuckles broke the tension.

"Second," he continued, "if you are watching this alone, you are still part of this. You are not a failed participant. You are a remote attendee. That counts. If all you can manage tonight is to think, 'I wish I was there,' then that is your first step. We can work with that."

He tilted his head slightly.

"At some point," he said, "when you have a little energy, look up one community event. One, not twenty. Save the date. That is enough for now. The rest of us will stay busy making sure that when you show up, someone is glad you came."

Viewership spikes from solitary devices went up sharply after that.

Finally, Solar News circled back for one last question addressed to all four.

"If you could say one sentence," the anchor asked, "to the entire world in this moment of shared Thanksgiving, what would it be?"

They glanced at each other.

Moonbeam gestured with a tiny smile. "You start," she told Sunbeam.

Sunbeam took a breath.

"You matter more than your productivity," he said.

Moonbeam spoke next.

"You deserve to be seen kindly, not just evaluated."

Starbeam:

"Your doubts do not cancel your contributions."

Galaxbeam:

"And you are allowed to rest before you break."

The plaza was quiet for a heartbeat, the kind of quiet that feels full rather than empty.

Then the world breathed again.

Screens carried their overlapping words into apartments, bunks, stations, ships, cafés, quiet park benches. People repeated them under their breath, like lines of a new, unofficial anthem.

The interviews continued in smaller clusters—Moonbeam pulled into a Lunar-specific segment about romance and public festivals, Starbeam grilled in detail about export policies, Sunbeam asked to comment on the psychological impact of speed-friendship programs, Galaxbeam roped into a late-night Q&A about history and the ethics of holiday consumerism.

Somewhere in the swirl, a young independent vlogger with a handheld camera managed to catch them all in a single candid frame—Sunbeam laughing at something off-mic, Moonbeam with her head tipped back in delighted laughter, Starbeam actually smiling with his eyes, Galaxbeam mid-sentence with one hand raised in explanation.

That clip would eclipse every official photo within hours.

—

A few days later, the four found themselves in a different kind of chaos.

Westonglappa.

Where Harmony Junction had been carefully engineered neutrality, Westonglappa was messy, vibrant, and loud by nature—a patchwork continent of states like Auttumotto, Leblaela, Westronbung, Yewaquin, Tazgummbak, Sashax, Zachon, Crattlecrane, Quinniccanna, Turreyatch, and the kingdoms of Maylin and Kedaung.

Their first stop was Havenjade City in Auttumotto State.

The moment their shared AES diplomatic cruiser descended, the skies erupted in color: orange, blue, green, and gold streamers launched from rooftops, drones trailing banners, fireworks carefully calibrated not to trigger any anti-air defenses.

The landing platform was lined not with soldiers, but with... fans.

Students in custom-made jackets bearing stylized sun, moon, star, and galaxy insignias. Artists clutching sketchbooks. Bloggers with microphones. An entire marching band whose uniforms had been hastily altered to include four-color sashes.

"Did... Westonglappa just turn us into pop idols?" Sunbeam muttered as they exited together.

Moonbeam laughed, covering her mouth. "You did say you wanted people to be expressive."

"Not like this," Starbeam murmured, eyeing a hand-painted banner that read: "WE LOVE OUR OVERWORKED AES PARENTS" with four chibi caricatures under it.

Galaxbeam regarded a cluster of cosplayers dressed as them—exaggerated shoulders, oversized hair, someone wearing a foam teapot as a hat.

"We have entered the meta stage of leadership," he said. "Fascinating."

The local governor of Auttumotto approached, bowing deeply.

"Welcome to Westonglappa," she said, voice booming with pride. "You have all been invited by every state at once, so we will do this logically: whirlwind tour, maximum exposure, minimum collapse."

"Minimum collapse is my favorite metric," Starbeam said sincerely.

The tour began.

In Havenjade City, they walked through a vast open-air bazaar that had transformed itself into a cross-cultural Thanksgiving fair. Stalls were labeled with hand-painted signs:

SOLAR STREET – Lantern Snacks & Orange Sweets
LUNAR WALK – Ice Treats & Tea Gardens
STARRUP LANE – Vegetarian Grill & Green Gadgets
GALAXENCHI ALLEY – Dim Sum & Calligraphy Corners

Crowds followed the four leaders at a respectful distance, phones and cameras held high. Kids darted forward for autographs; some presented tiny homemade gifts—a crocheted sun, a folded paper moon, a carved wooden star, a little painted galaxy stone.

Moonbeam knelt to accept a drawing from a trembling child: a picture of her and Sunbeam holding hands over Westonglappa, with tiny hearts between their continents.

"It's us," Moonbeam said gently.

The child nodded, eyes huge. "You make it feel like... big people care if little people are lonely," they blurted, then went scarlet.

Moonbeam's gaze softened. "We do," she said. "Very much."

Sunbeam added, "And little people grow into big people who remember being lonely. We're trying to break that chain."

The clip shot straight into a million social feeds under the tag #BigPeopleCare.

In Lavaton City of Leblaela State, they were swept into what could only be described as a mini-convention: WestCon Harmony Special.

The convention center lobby held four massive standees of them in stylized anime form. Artists sold prints of the regimes' cities, stickers of elites, and affectionate parody comics of Supreme Commanders dealing with ridiculous paperwork.

A panel stage had been set up.

"We realize this is extremely unorthodox," the event coordinator said, sweating slightly, "but... would you be willing to appear briefly? Even five minutes would mean everything to the people here."

Sunbeam looked at the others.

Moonbeam's eyes were already sparkling.

Starbeam sighed. "We can spare ten."

Galaxbeam nodded. "Under the condition that no one asks us to rank our own fanart."

They stepped onto the stage to a roar normally reserved for rock bands.

The moderator, barely holding it together, asked the first question:

"General Sunbeam, Lady Moonbeam, Xtreme Vice Colonel Starbeam, Professor Galaxbeam—how does it feel to know you're... uh... 'blorbos' to half the Westonglappan internet?"

"What is a blorbo?" Starbeam whispered urgently to Galaxbeam.

"A parasocial attachment figure," Galaxbeam whispered back. "Congratulations."

"Terrible," Starbeam muttered.

Sunbeam laughed into the mic. "It feels," he said, "like a reminder that people need heroes but also... need to joke about them. I'm fine being a blorbo if it makes it easier to talk about what we're doing."

Moonbeam added, "If anyone writes stories where we actually get eight hours of sleep, please tag us spiritually. We need that energy."

The hall nearly collapsed from joy.

In Gagrahash City of Westronbung, the four joined a huge outdoor Thanksgiving block party. Local bands played remixes of Lunar skating songs and Solar festival marches; food trucks offered "Star-Turducken Wraps," "Galaxenchi Night Noodles," "LunaGarden Salads," and "Sunrise Lantern Cakes."

Starbeam watched someone bite into a vegetarian wrap with bliss.

"This... is an industrial victory," he admitted.

A group of local reporters, each streaming to their own channels, approached for short, rapid-fire interviews.

"Short message to Westonglappa?" one asked, thrusting a mic forward.

Sunbeam: "Thank you for turning gratitude into something loud and communal. You've made Thanksgiving feel like a street festival for the whole planet."

Moonbeam: "Thank you for inviting romance into your parties. I've seen so many hands being held tonight. It makes my heart warm."

Starbeam: "Thank you for your eagerness to adopt green tech and then immediately decorate it with neon signs and silly slogans. It proves sustainability can be fun."

Galaxbeam: "Thank you for your relentless creativity. You took four very serious regimes and turned us into artwork, jokes, and speculation threads. This is... healthy. Contain us in your memes."

In Mayflower City of the kingdom of Maylin, they attended a more formal gala at an old theater, turned into a hybrid of diplomatic reception and fan event. Locals in elegant dresses and tailored suits mingled with young people in cosplay; the string quartet alternated between classical pieces and orchestral arrangements of famous regime anthems.

At one point, the host announced, "We have a special surprise—a Westonglappa multi-con invite."

Screens lowered, showing logos for upcoming conventions and festivals across the continent.

"We humbly invite the four of you," the host said, "to attend any of these, in any capacity—guest, panelist, or even... just attendee in disguise. You are always welcome on our soil as more than leaders. As guests. As people."

Sunbeam's eyebrow arched. "Conventions," he murmured. "Like... anime cons?"

Moonbeam's fingers twitched as if already reaching for a cosplay wig.

Starbeam looked troubled. "The crowd density at such events—"

"—is excellent for studying spontaneous social behavior," Galaxbeam finished calmly. "I accept."

"You can't just accept for all of us," Sunbeam said.

"Yes, he can," Moonbeam countered sweetly. "We'll figure out security later."

Hashtags exploded: #AESAtWestCon, #LetThemCosplay, #FourLightsTour.

From Negraska City of Yewaquin to Viadence of Quinniccanna, from the seaside markets of Turreyatch to the highland towns of Crattlecrane, the pattern repeated:

Crowds gathering. Cameras lifted. Local streamers narrating breathlessly as the four Absolute Leaders walked through everyday streets, tasted street food, listened to buskers, answered off-the-cuff questions.

A college journalist in Zachon held out a recorder.

"Professor Galaxbeam," she said, "my viewers want to know if you... ever get tired of being watched."

He thought for a moment.

"Yes," he said honestly. "But I am more tired of people suffering unseen. Between those two kinds of exhaustion, I choose this one."

The clip went viral under #ChosenExhaustion.

In Kedaung's royal city, a young blogger asked Sunbeam, "Do you ever feel like you're faking it? Like you're not as confident as everyone thinks?"

Sunbeam laughed, almost in relief.

"Constantly," he said. "That's why I build policies that work even on days when I'm not sure I do."

Moonbeam, asked on a street in Sashax if she believed all this prosocial and romantic energy could really change history, answered, "As long as history is made by people, yes."

Starbeam, asked in a bustling market in Tazgummbak whether he'd rather spend a day alone in a quiet library or at a crowded festival, replied, "Alone in a library before noon, at a festival by evening. Balance. Always balance."

Galaxbeam, cornered by a group of young podcasters in Westronbung, was asked: "If you could tell future students one thing about this era, what would it be?"

"That we tried," he said softly. "That we did not accept loneliness and fear as unchangeable. That we experimented with kindness at scale."

Throughout it all, the four were not just interviewed; they were recorded in the background of thousands of personal videos: people live-vlogging their Thanksgiving, turning around in shock as the AES leaders walked by; selfies where one of the four appeared blurry but smiling in the back; long, shaky clips of crowds cheering as they waved from balconies.

On Westonglappan social media, the caption trend became:

"I was here. They were there. We were in the same place. Maybe the world can change."

By the time their whirlwind tour ended, each of them carried more than official reports back home.

Sunbeam had a folder full of fan letters and crudely drawn hearts connecting continents.
Moonbeam had a dozen invitations to "come skate at our local rink, please, you'd love it."
Starbeam had a stack of proposals from student clubs begging to pilot prosocial engineering projects.
Galaxbeam had hours of recorded street interviews he planned to weave into his next lecture about "folk-level philosophies of hope."

On the last night, aboard the cruiser rising away from Westonglappa, the four stood again at a viewport, watching the patchwork lights shrink below.

"It felt," Sunbeam said quietly, "like the whole continent turned Thanksgiving into a world-sized meetup."

Moonbeam's smile was soft. "They made us feel... real," she said. "Not just distant figures. Guests in their photos."

Starbeam nodded. "It will complicate my risk assessments," he admitted. "It also... gave me evidence that our policies are not just numbers. They're... background to people's favorite memories."

Galaxbeam watched the curvature of the planet as each continent's lights came into view: orange, blue, green, gold, and the multicolored chaos of Westonglappa.

"Once," he said thoughtfully, "these kinds of tours were about showing off power. Now, they seem to be about showing off... connection."

He glanced at the others.

"For that," he added, "I am deeply grateful."

The world, still buzzing with clips and photos and excited posts, drifted below them—full of people editing videos, writing blogs, texting friends:

"I saw them laugh up close."
"They looked tired, but kind."
"They took my question seriously."
"They promised we matter."

And somewhere in all that noisy, glittering data, four near-godlike leaders were quietly, stubbornly proving that gratitude, visibility, and shared celebration might actually be enough to tilt history a little closer toward a humane future.

Westonglappa did not let them leave quickly.

Once the first wave of interviews and block parties passed, the invitations multiplied. Governors, mayors, business coalitions, student councils, and neighborhood committees all sent the same basic message in ten thousand different fonts:

"If the Four Lights are still here... could they come by?"

They said yes more often than their staffs thought was sane.

Over the next days, the AES tour turned into something stranger and more human than a formal diplomatic junket. It became a moving, shifting festival of work.

In Auttumotto's Havenjade City, they started with the businesses.

A narrow street lined with small family shops and emerging companies had been unofficially renamed Four Lights Row overnight. Hand-lettered signs appeared:

"Sunbeam Approved!"
"Moon-Soft Tea – Inspired by Lunna!"
"Go Green, Go Galactic Deal – Starrup x Galaxenchi Tech Sale!"

When the AES motorcade stopped at the beginning of the street, the shopkeepers gasped. They hadn't expected the leaders to actually come.

Sunbeam stepped out first, blinking at the wall of color and hand-painted posters.

"...I didn't authorize any of this branding," he murmured.

Moonbeam squeezed his arm lightly. "Sometimes people say thank you by drawing on every surface," she said. "Accept it."

Starbeam eyed a storefront that had painted his silhouette on their window advertising "XTREME ACCOUNTING, GENTLE RATES."

"I absolutely did not authorize that," he said.

Galaxbeam simply whispered to Galaxastream, "Please screenshot everything. This is priceless cultural data."

They moved slowly down the street, choosing no schedule beyond, "Who looks like they're trying not to cry with excitement?"

At a tiny bakery with a crooked sign that read SUNRISE CRUST & CRUMB, the owner could barely get his words out.

"I started this after your speech, sir," he told Sunbeam, hands shaking. "I... left my warehouse job. Risked it. The community house helped with the business classes. I thought if I failed, at least I tried. Now—" He gestured at the line out the door. "Now I... can hire people. People who were lonely. We talk all day here."

Sunbeam looked at the display case: loaves shaped like tiny suns, crusts glazed with orange peel syrup.

"May I... promote you?" he asked.

"P–promote?"

Sunbeam turned to the nearest news drone, currently filming them from a discreet angle.

"For the record," he said to the camera, "this is exactly the kind of place that deserves a visit. Sunrise Crust & Crumb. Come for the bread, stay for the conversation. You don't have to talk. You can just sit and listen. That counts."

The baker put a hand over his face, torn between laughing and sobbing as his notifications immediately started exploding on the counter tablet.

In the next shop, a tech start-up selling low-cost solar lanterns had posters of Starrup turbines pinned to the walls.

"You helped us design the circuit efficiencies," the founder blurted at Starbeam. "We used your open-source energy frameworks. We're... we're not even from Starrup."

Starbeam inspected one of the small lanterns: sturdy, simple, faintly glowing.

"Your implementation is... very good," he said. "Better shock casing than our first prototypes. Acceptable."

The founder went red to the ears. "He said acceptable," she whispered to her staff. "We're acceptable."

Moonbeam gravitated toward small cafés and quiet corners, places where shy people lingered at the edges. She sat in a tiny tea shop called Blue Crescent Sip, listening earnestly as the owner explained how they held "Silent Companion Hours" during the week—people allowed to sit together and read or simply exist without being forced into conversation.

"This," Moonbeam said, "is prosocialism for the very gentle souls. I love it."

The owner beamed. The local news banner on screen at the corner of the shop immediately ran: LUNAR LEADER ENDORSES QUIET COMPANY CAFÉ TREND.

Galaxbeam, meanwhile, phased between stores at a pace that made his aides dizzy. One minute he was talking to a robotics shop about accessible design, the next he appeared in a tiny bookstore's philosophy aisle, listening patiently as a university student nervously pitched him a thesis about "gratitude as rebellion against apathy."

"Send me the draft," he said, pressing a contact chip into the student's hand. "I will read it. Slowly. Thoroughly. And annoy you with comments."

The student stared down at the chip like it was a holy relic.

—

From businesses, the tour flowed seamlessly into recruitment.

Westonglappa, long wary of letting any of the great divine regimes recruit on its soil, found itself rethinking that stance as AES leaders consistently modeled care rather than conquest. So, in Viadence of Quinniccanna State, they tried something new: a joint AES Service Forum.

The convention center's main hall had been partitioned into four sections, each marked with the regime's colors, but there were no armored displays, no towering weapons. Instead:

On the Solar Regime side, there were booths showing community house plans, medical corps relief missions, Sun Soldiers building schools as often as forts. A big banner read:

"SERVICE PATHWAYS: FROM CIVIL SUPPORT TO ELITE—NO ONE STARTS AT THE TOP."

Sunbeam stood in front of a simplified chart of the Solar hierarchy: citizens → support staff → common soldiers → specialists → Elites → (very, very few) Supreme Commanders.

A young Westonglappan asked bluntly, "Can someone like me really become an Elite?"

Sunbeam answered just as bluntly. "Yes," he said. "But not because you want power. Because you want responsibility. Our Elites are not rewarded for being strongest—they are entrusted with being most reliable."

Another asked, "Do we have to give up our Westonglappan identity?"

"No," Sunbeam said immediately. "You gain another layer. We're not trying to erase you. We're inviting you to stand with us."

On the Lunar Regime side, Lunardye and Lunarstride explained roles that included peacekeeping, trauma counseling, public event coordination, garden and rink maintenance—Lunna's service was as much about emotional infrastructure as it was about defense.

"We need people who can listen," Lunarstream said to a group of students. "Not only people who can fight."

Moonbeam roamed that space quietly, occasionally chiming in.

"If you come to Lunna," she told a hesitant applicant, "we will not just train your skills. We will protect your softness. It is part of why we exist."

On the Star Regime side, recruitment looked like a career fair crossed with an engineering expo. Starradye and Starrastream presented simulations of grid management, clean-tech deployment, and disaster prediction.

Starbeam stood in front of a sign that read:

"SERVICE ROLES: SYSTEMS, NOT JUST SOLDIERS."

He explained to a cluster of Westonglappan programmers that being "Star Regime" didn't have to mean wielding weapons; it could mean designing better supply chains or reducing outages in neighboring countries.

"You will work hard," he said. "You will also see, in measurable terms, how your work keeps entire cities breathing."

The Galaxy Regime section was half lecture hall, half temple of curiosity.

Galaxadye and Galaxadale explained how service in Galaxenchi often began with education—teaching, translating, researching, maintaining archives. Elites and commanders were expected to know more than just tactics; they were living libraries.

"We want those who are hungry to learn," Galaxbeam told a quiet crowd. "And those who are willing to pass that hunger on."

A Westonglappan teacher raised a hand. "Is there room," she asked, "for someone who doesn't want to leave home, but wants to be part of what you're doing?"

Galaxbeam smiled. "Of course," he said. "We have partnership tracks. You can be a node instead of a transplant."

Information packets vanished faster than they could be replenished. Not everyone who took one would apply—but that wasn't the point. The point was that for the first time, Westonglappans felt like service to the divine regimes might be a path of mutual uplift instead of one-way surrender.

—

While the recruitment forum ran on, the leaders split their focus according to their natures.

Sunbeam and Moonbeam became, effectively, roaming event hosts.

In Turreyatch's seaside promenades, they co-led an impromptu "Lantern and Skates" night. Portable Lunar ice-tech laid a thin, safe skating path along the pier; Solar lanterns hung from arches. Sunbeam and Moonbeam took turns helping nervous skaters find their balance.

One Westonglappan who had never skated before clutched both their hands like lifelines.

"I'm going to fall," he said.

"Probably," Sunbeam agreed cheerfully. "But we'll fall with you if you do."

Moonbeam laughed. "And then we'll get up together. That's the fun part."

In Crattlecrane's hillside towns, they co-hosted a series of "No One Eats Alone" dinners in community centers. Local businesses provided food; AES staff ensured there were structured activities for meeting new people: question cards, collaborative games, quiet corners with "soft talk" zones.

At one table, Moonbeam listened as an older woman confessed, "I thought I was too old for this. For... new connections."

"You are absolutely not," Moonbeam said, eyes shining. "The heart does not retire."

Sunbeam added gently, "Also, you make excellent jokes, and we need more of those in every age bracket."

Photos of the two of them weaving between tables, refilling glasses, listening more than they spoke, flooded Westonglappa's feeds under tags like #SunMoonDinner and #NoOneEatsAloneHere.

—

Starbeam, true to form, spent half his time in mud and machinery.

In Tazgummbak, he toured a cluster of old factories slated for retrofit. Where others saw rust and decay, he saw opportunity.

"These structures are sound," he told the local infrastructure minister, hand on a massive steel beam. "You don't need to erase them. You need to give them a better purpose."

Starradye projected models in the air: before-and-after scenarios, emissions graphs dropping sharply.

"We can convert this block into a mixed-use complex," Starbeam explained. "Housing, local businesses, small-scale green manufacturing. We'll front a portion of the tech if you commit to open-access research with us."

News crews followed, broadcasting his every gesture.

On one popular segment, a journalist said, "You seem happiest knee-deep in blueprints, sir."

Starbeam looked up from a tablet streaked with actual grease.

"Buildings do not lie," he said. "If you miscalculate, they show you. Humans are... harder. But we owe it to humans to get the structures right, so they can breathe easier."

In Zachon's coastal cities, he stood with local fishermen and engineers to discuss sustainable practices, listening far more than he spoke.

"We won't take advice from someone who's never smelled low tide," one fisherwoman said bluntly at first.

"Correct," Starbeam said. "Which is why I am here, smelling it now, before I propose anything."

That clip became oddly beloved.

In Yewaquin's Negraska City, he announced a joint AES–Westonglappa Green Swags Fund: surplus wealth from Starrup's Great Impression windfalls would be quietly funneled into grants for small shops to transition to cleaner operations—always by application, never by imposition.

"Charity without condescension," he told the press. "Support, not control."

—

Galaxbeam treated Westonglappa like a marathon he fully intended to win—with grace.

One day in Sashax, he appeared at a primary school, sitting on the floor with children as they asked him completely unfiltered questions.

"Are you really all-knowing?" one asked.

"No," he said immediately. "If I were, I would not need to ask you what your favorite food is. Which I do. What is it?"

"Fried noodles," the child said, suddenly very important.

"Excellent," Galaxbeam replied. "I did not know that. Now I know more. You have improved me. Thank you."

Another day in Westronbung's Gagrahash City, he hosted an open lecture at a university titled "Thanksgiving: History, Myth, and the Politics of Gratitude." Students sat in the aisles; professors took notes like undergraduates.

He walked them through ancient harvest rituals, the messy history of the American holiday in old Earth records, the way empires had used "gratitude" to demand silence—and the way ordinary people had reclaimed it as a celebration of mutual care.

"It matters," he told them, "what we are thankful for. If gratitude is only directed upward, toward power, it can become worship. If it also flows sideways—toward each other—it becomes community."

In the afternoon, he appeared at a teacher-training workshop in Quinniccanna's Viadence, summarizing his lecture in fifteen minutes, then walking them through practical exercises for helping shy students feel seen.

By evening, he was somehow in Mayflower City, advising a cultural council on how to design festivals that didn't overwhelm neurodivergent attendees—the cameras catching him rearranging chairs and suggesting signage for "Quiet Paths" and "Break Rooms."

"This pace is inhuman," a local journalist whispered to Galaxastream as they both tried to keep up.

"Yes," Galaxastream said. "That's why we have three backup professors and a teleport matrix."

In broadcasts, it looked like Galaxbeam was simply everywhere at once—appearing in news segments, school vlogs, academic streams, even popping briefly into a Westonglappan cooking show to explain the cultural history of one of the dishes before vanishing again.

Hashtags emerged: #GalaxSpeedrun, #ProfessorEverywhere, #BlinkAndHeLectured.

He ended one particularly long day back aboard the AES cruiser, setting down a stack of data-slates.

"Have you... stopped moving at all?" Sunbeam asked, half impressed, half worried.

"I stopped twice," Galaxbeam said. "Once to drink tea. Once to listen to a child describe their dream in great detail. Both were worth the pause."

Moonbeam smiled. "You're doing a different kind of prosocialism," she said. "Mental lanterns."

Starbeam nodded slowly. "He's building... cognitive infrastructure," he said. "Teaching people how to think about gratitude, not just that they should."

Galaxbeam tilted his head. "It seems," he said quietly, "an appropriate way to spend a holiday about thanks."

—

Everywhere they went, news crews trailed them—not as a single monolithic broadcast, but as a hundred different perspectives:

A local morning show did a light segment where Sunbeam and Moonbeam tried a Westonglappan breakfast dish and nearly burned their tongues.

A finance channel did a serious interview with Starbeam about global credit flows and the ethics of surplus donation.

An educational net-stream aired a full hour of Galaxbeam answering pre-submitted questions from students aged seven to seventy.

Independent vloggers captured the in-between moments: Sunbeam offering his coat to someone shivering in a windy alley; Moonbeam high-fiving a teenager who'd just finished a skating trick; Starbeam quietly picking up trash during a site tour; Galaxbeam stopping to listen to a street musician all the way to the end of their song.

Most world tours were about the leaders being seen.

This one was just as much about the leaders seeing.

By the end of their extended circuit through Westonglappa's states and cities, something subtle had shifted.

Applications to AES partnership programs spiked—but so did volunteer registrations for local charities. Energy reform petitions got more signatures—but so did proposals for new community centers and safer festivals. People didn't just say, "I want to join them." They also said, "I want to do my part, here."

On their final night in the continent, in a small rooftop garden in Lavaton City, the four leaders sat together with no cameras, watching the lights of Westonglappa flicker and pulse below.

"It feels," Sunbeam said quietly, "like we just spent a week telling everyone, 'You're not alone,' and then discovering we... aren't either."

Moonbeam nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I saw couples forming in real time," she said warmly. "Friend groups swapping contacts in the corner of every event. That's what I'm taking home: not the numbers. The faces."

Starbeam stared out at a distant cluster of wind turbines turning steadily over the hills.

"I saw so many systems on the brink of failing quietly," he murmured. "And so many people ready to fix them, if given tools. I will send more tools."

Galaxbeam leaned back, eyes half-closed.

"I saw students," he said. "So many students, of all ages. Asking the right questions. That is... the purest fuel we have."

They fell quiet, letting Westonglappa's night-sounds rise: distant music, traffic, laughter, the low hum of a continent busy being itself.

"Tomorrow," Sunbeam said eventually, "we go home. To our own continents. Back to policies and crises and meetings."

Moonbeam smiled. "And to our people who have been watching all this from afar, wondering how they can keep up the momentum."

Starbeam folded his hands.

"We'll show them," he said. "With what we learned here."

Galaxbeam opened his eyes and looked at each of them in turn.

"And perhaps," he said softly, "next year, when Thanksgiving comes around, we will not have to work quite this hard to convince anyone that connection is possible. Westonglappa is already... infected with it."

"Best pandemic I've ever seen," Sunbeam said.

They laughed quietly together, four points of light above a continent that had just discovered a new way to celebrate: not just with shopping and noise, but with deliberate, visible, contagious care—for businesses, for the environment, for education, for each other.

Thanksgiving in Westonglappa would never be the same.

Neither would the four divine regimes who had walked its streets and, for a little while, let the continent love them back.

They did not start by handing out miracles.

They started with sign-up forms.

In the weeks after the AES tour of Westonglappa, every continent woke up to the same quiet revolution: recruitment halls not filled with posters of cannons and satellites, but of lanterns, gardens, turbines, classrooms. The four major regimes opened their doors in a way they had never done in living memory.

Solar, Lunar, Star, Galaxy.

Not as distant myths, but as paths.

In Westonglappa's Viadence, the old convention hall where they'd held the AES Service Forum was reborn as the Four Paths Academy—neutral ground where would-be recruits could begin their journey under joint supervision. Similar academies appeared in Solvanairebolis, Lunacrest, Starflare Capital, and Galaxenchi's own golden megacities. But it was Viadence that became the symbolic beginning: a place where ordinary Westonglappans first stood in line with trembling hands, wondering if they dared to try.

The first morning, the four Absolute Leaders appeared together.

No fanfare, no explosions of light. Just the quiet shock of seeing them walk through the massive glass doors in simple version of their uniforms.

Sunbeam in a slightly toned-down orange coat, sleeves rolled, eyes bright with that restless empathy.

Moonbeam in a flowing blue jacket that looked more like a raincoat for starlight than armor, hair pinned back, gaze soft and sharp at once.

Starbeam in precise green, every line of his uniform ironed into obedience, presence calm and grounding.

Galaxbeam in gold and white, the edges of his robe catching the light as if it were written into its fabric.

The hall of applicants—students, workers, farmers, programmers, ex-soldiers, shop clerks—went absolutely silent.

Someone near the back whispered, "They really came," and the whisper ran through the crowd like a breeze.

Sunbeam stepped up onto the low platform. He didn't raise his arms. He simply looked at them.

"You have not come here to be given powers," he said. "You have come here to decide if you are willing to become the kind of people who can carry them."

His voice carried without shouting.

"None of us," he continued, glancing at the others, "awoke one morning with golden or green or blue or orange eyes and hair. We became what we are through a long, ugly mix of training, trauma, study, mistakes, and stubbornness. We would spare you the trauma. The rest... you must earn."

Moonbeam stepped forward, blue light from the window catching the silver crescents in her hair.

"If you walk the Lunar path," she said, "we will not only test your strength, but your tenderness. How you handle someone crying in front of you. How you handle being the one who cries. We will push your body on the ice and your heart in the gardens. We will not break you. But we will see who you are when you are tired."

Starbeam's gaze swept the hall, weighing, measuring, not in judgment but in assessment.

"If you walk the Star path," he said, "we will demand discipline. You will learn to hold numbers in your head while running until your legs shake. To repair a broken grid at three in the morning. To make decisions you will never be thanked for. Power without structure is chaos; our path is structure made mercy."

Galaxbeam's voice was quietest, but somehow the whole hall leaned in to catch every word.

"If you walk the Galaxy path," he said, "we will fill you with questions until you can no longer stand not knowing. We will teach you languages of land, sky, code, and soul. We will ask you to choose what is right when the right choice costs you comfort. We will not give you easy answers. We will give you tools."

He looked around.

"And some of you," he added gently, "will discover that your path does not lie with any of us. That is not failure. That is knowledge. You will leave with more of yourself than you brought."

They did not glow. They did not raise hands to the sky and bathe the crowd in divine light.

They simply stood there, four walking myths, and said:

"Earn it."

The lines formed.

—

The training that followed did not look like a montage at first.

It looked like sore muscles, confusing manuals, early wake-up bells, shared dormitories that smelled of new paint and old nerves.

Solar recruits jogged under orange banners in the pre-dawn chill, breath steaming as instructors shouted, "Team, not hero! No one finishes the lap alone!" They practiced carrying each other, building and dismantling emergency shelters, learning how to speak to crowds as much as how to hold a shield.

Lunar recruits learned footwork on ice, how to fall without breaking, how to skate patrol without making people feel watched. They spent mornings in emotional debrief circles, evenings in quiet garden walks where instructors would ask, "What did you feel today you don't have a name for?" and then help them find one.

Star recruits endured classroom marathons and obstacle courses back-to-back—first a simulated blackout scenario on tablets, then hauling real cables through rain. They were given environmental impact problems to solve in teams, the instructors repeating, "We do not need lone geniuses. We need reliable systems, and you are part of those systems."

Galaxy recruits disappeared into lecture halls that turned into laboratories that turned into field trips. One day they were studying ancient harvest rites, the next they were repairing a broken comms relay while reciting emergency lines in three languages. They were assigned ethics dilemmas that had no clean answer and told, "Explain your reasoning. That is your armor."

Weeks turned into months.

Dropout rates were not low. Some people left quietly, deciding their place was back in their hometown clinic or shop or classroom. Others were redirected into allied civilian roles: liaison officers, exchange researchers, cultural mediators.

But those who stayed... changed.

The first hints were subtle.

Solar trainees found they could run longer before their lungs burned, their steps becoming lighter, steadier. The instructors started watching their eyes more closely.

"Tell me what color you see in the mirror," one asked a recruit named Jada one morning after a long exercise.

"Brown," she said. "Same as always."

"Look again in a week," the instructor replied.

In Lunna's training rink, a Lunar recruit who'd always felt clumsy suddenly found her balance one night during patrol drills. As she glided along the ice-path, something in her settled.

Later, in the dressing room, she stared into the mirror. Her once-dull eyes had a faint ring of blue around the iris, like the first rim of ice forming on still water.

In Starrup, an exhausted trainee collapsed onto a bench after calibrating grid models all night and working a disaster sim all morning.

"I can't keep this pace," he groaned.

"You won't," Starstride told him. "You'll exceed it."

The next week, midway through a heavy load, he realized his hands weren't trembling anymore when he calculated on the fly. His perception of the diagrams seemed... sharper. The green of his irises had deepened, fractal lines of luminescence radiating out when he focused.

In Galaxenchi's academy, a recruit working late in the archive looked down and noticed the pages in front of her seemed brighter—not the lamp, but the ink itself. When she closed her eyes, she could still see the characters.

"Normal," Galaxadye assured her when she reported it anxiously. "Your brain is adapting. Knowledge leaves imprints. You are starting to... glow with it."

Hair followed.

Solar trainees began waking to find a single bright streak of orange at their temples, then two, then their whole head gradually shifting tone, as if someone was painting sunlight through their strands from the inside out.

Lunar trainees watched dark locks gain blue sheen, strands catching light like water. Star recruits went from ordinary browns and blacks to deep, saturated greens that seemed almost unreal under standard lighting. Galaxy recruits found hints of gold threading through their hair, like starlight tangled in each fiber.

The first time a cohort of Solar trainees jogged past the Academy's external fence and an onlooker saw a whole line of bright orange heads and eyes, there was a gasp.

"They're changing," someone whispered. "They're really... turning into them."

Not into the four Absolute Leaders, exactly.

But into something adjacent.

Something that could stand beneath those suns and moons and stars and not flinch.

Their bodies adapted; their endurance edged beyond normal human limits. A Solar recruit found she could lift more than her own weight and still sprint. A Lunar trainee could skate for hours without fatigue. A Star trainee could stay focused through a night of recalibrating a storm grid and still function the next day. A Galaxy trainee could absorb languages at a terrifying pace, patterns lodging in his mind with crystalline clarity.

They were not invincible.

But they were no longer entirely ordinary.

The regimes were careful.

"No one is superior," Galaxbeam repeated in every academy. "You are not better than the civilians you protect. You are simply more responsible now. Power is not a crown; it is weight."

Sunbeam walked the Solar training grounds at dawn, watching his trainees run, train, joke, trip, get back up.

"You are not joining us to feel big," he told them. "You are joining us to make others feel safe. If you want prestige, join a theater troupe. If you want to hold crying strangers and build cities and make sure no one eats alone, stay here."

Moonbeam stood at the edge of a Lunar garden, watching her recruits walk barefoot in a prescribed pattern, learning to notice how their own steps felt.

"You are not here to become ice queens or kings," she said. "You are here to be warmth in the cold and calm in the storm. Your blue glow is not a fashion. It is a promise."

Starbeam stood on a platform overlooking a labyrinth of half-converted buildings and half-finished tech.

"You are not joining Starrup to become emotionless machines," he told his trainees. "You are joining to feel deeply and still do the math. To care enough to check the numbers twice."

Galaxbeam stood before a wall of screens filled with diagrams and timelines.

"You are not here to collect trivia," he told Galaxy trainees. "You are here to understand. To tell stories that keep people from repeating old mistakes. To wield knowledge like a shield, not a blade."

Word spread.

Footage of trainees' eyes slowly changing color, of hair shifting, of recruits demonstrating light-level enhancements under heavy monitoring, aired in carefully curated clips across all continents. Parents watched, stunned, as their children sent home recordings of themselves running faster, lifting more, speaking new languages, glowing faintly in low light.

In some places, they were called miracles.

In others, simply "the training effect."

But in whispered corners and loud taverns, one phrase repeated:

"They're making more of themselves."

—

Graduation did not happen in a stadium.

It happened around long tables.

Thanksgiving had become a thread running through everything that year, and so the Supreme Commanders decided—with a rare, unanimous vote—that the first large, joint graduation between the four regimes would be marked by a Thanksgiving-style banquet.

They chose Harmony Junction again.

The same plaza that had seen the four leaders raising glasses to each other now held rows upon rows of wooden tables, stretching out like a sunburst. Lanterns in orange, blue, green, and gold hung from overhead cables. The smell of food was indescribable: Solar festival dishes, Lunar comfort food, Star vegetarian roasts, Galaxy fusion platters of East-Asian inspired feasts.

On one side of the plaza, the new graduates assembled.

Hundreds of them.

Some in early Solar uniforms, orange eyes bright and a little overwhelmed. Some in Lunar blues, their hair glinting like rivers under the lights. Some in Star greens, posture already unconsciously mirroring their Supreme Commanders. Some in Galaxy gold, sleeves ink-stained but faces luminous.

On the other side, seated at a slightly raised table, were the Supreme Commanders:

Solardye, Solardale, Solarstream, Solarstride, Solarstorm, Solarpuff.
Lunardye, Lunardale, Lunarstream, Lunarstride, Lunarstorm, Lunarpuff.
Starradye, Starradale, Starrastream, Starrastride, Starrastorm, Starrapuff.
Galaxadye, Galaxadale, Galaxastream, Galaxastride, Galaxastorm, Galaxapuff.

And at the very center, the four Absolute Leaders.

Sunbeam rose first, lifting his glass of orange-tinted sparkling drink.

"Look at you," he said, smiling so widely it softened every sharp line in his face. "You came here as citizens, students, dreamers, doubters. You stand here tonight as something new—not because you glowed, not because your eyes changed, but because you kept showing up when it hurt."

He set the glass down, palms on the table, leaning forward.

"I do not bless you as a god," he said. "I welcome you as comrades. As future Sun Soldiers, Moon Guards, Star Rangers, Galax Marines, and all the other names you will earn. Remember this: your first duty is not to your emblem. It is to the people who will sleep easier because you exist."

He lifted his glass again.

"And," he added, "I hope some of you will also fall in love, make friends, start families or found-chosen families along the way. My prosocialism and romanticism remain in effect. No one is condemned to a lonely hero narrative under my watch."

Laughter rolled through the trainees, warm and relieved.

Moonbeam stood, her blue dress catching the lantern light.

"My heart is so full," she said simply. "I have watched some of you struggle with your own shadows. With fear, anger, grief, shame. You did not become perfect. You became honest. That is more than enough."

She spread her hands lightly.

"When you go out into the world," she continued, "be the hand that reaches down to pull someone up onto the ice. Be the voice that says, 'You're allowed to be soft here.' Be the person who notices the one sitting alone on a bench and chooses to sit beside them, even in silence. That is pro-socialism. That is romanticism in its purest form: choosing connection over convenience."

She smiled, eyes shining.

"And take pictures of your footprints in the places you walk. Send them home. I will understand."

Starbeam rose next, the plaza quieting instinctively.

"You have passed examinations," he said. "Physical, mental, logistical. You have been scored, ranked, and evaluated. Tonight, I ask you to put all of that away."

A ripple of surprise ran through the trainees.

"This banquet," he said, "is not about your performance. It is about your direction. You are pointed toward service now. Your enhanced bodies, your sharpened minds—they are investment capital. Use them to build stability, not ego."

He gestured toward the distant night, where the faint silhouettes of turbines and city skylines could be seen.

"We will continue to support your work with the resources of Starrup," he promised. "Fusion credits, green tech, logistical frameworks. When you find a community in need, a grid that's failing, a coastline eroding, call us. We will not leave you unsupported just because you cross borders."

He inclined his head, a subtle, rare gesture of respect.

"You are, from this night, my colleagues."

Finally, Galaxbeam rose.

He didn't raise his glass. He held his book instead—the Gratitude Field Guide he'd given the others, now worn at the edges.

"You have changed on the outside," he began, "but the part of you that matters most is still invisible. Your choices. Your ethics. Your understanding of right and wrong under pressure."

He swept his gaze over the crowd.

"There will be days when your new strength tempts you to cut corners," he warned. "Days when you think, 'I can fix this faster if I ignore this regulation or override this person's consent.' Do not. You are not being empowered to replace people's will. You are being empowered to support it."

He opened the book to a blank page.

"I suggest," he said, "that each of you start a record tonight. One line, before you sleep: 'What am I grateful I chose not to do today?' Let that question watch you as closely as any supervisor."

He smiled faintly.

"And when you are unsure," he added, "remember this simple rule: if your action makes the world safer for the vulnerable without erasing their voice, you are on the right path."

The plaza was very still.

Then Solardye stood, and Lunardye, and Starradye, and Galaxadye, and the other Supreme Commanders followed suit, each raising their own glasses.

"To the new recruits," Solardye called.

"To the new guardians of the lonely," Lunardye added.

"To the new engineers of stability," Starradye said.

"To the new scholars of mercy," Galaxadye finished.

The sound of hundreds of glasses lifting, clinking, echoed like gentle thunder.

Food flowed.

Laughter rose.

Newly empowered trainees sat shoulder to shoulder with Supreme Commanders and seasoned Elites, comparing stories of their most embarrassing training mishaps. One Solar recruit confessed to accidentally shorting a lantern line and plunging half a drill field into darkness; Sunbeam laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink and told an even worse story about his teenage glider. A Lunar trainee admitted she'd once skated straight into Moonwis during an inspection; Moonbeam nearly choked on her tea and said, "You are now my favorite."

A Star recruit nervously approached Starrapuff to ask for advice on work-life balance; she pulled out a spreadsheet of her own downtime schedule and said, "Color-code your joy. If you don't mark it, systems will erase it." A Galaxy trainee found himself seated next to Galaxastream, who cheerfully quizzed him on three different alphabets between bites and then slipped him a recommendation to a research posting he hadn't even considered.

Sunbeam moved through the tables like a warm current, checking on people.

"Made any friends yet?" he'd ask.

"Yes, sir," they'd reply, or, "Not yet, but... I'm working on it."

"Good," he'd say. "Remember, your glow means nothing if you shine alone in a corner."

Moonbeam kept slipping away to take pictures of little scenes: a recruit dozing with their head on a friend's shoulder, two strangers trading contact info over dessert, a clump of trainees from different regimes arguing about which city had the best sunrise. She sent several of those photos to Sunbeam mid-banquet; every time his tablet buzzed and a new image appeared, his expression softened.

Starbeam drifted around the periphery, quietly listening to discussions about posting preferences, family back home, fears about failing. He intervened only to correct hard self-talk.

"You are not an imposter," he told one recruit who kept insisting it was "a fluke" they'd passed. "You were selected, trained, evaluated. Trust the system you have agreed to serve."

Galaxbeam spent half the night at one table, surrounded by trainees from all four paths, answering questions that ranged from "What do you do when you regret a decision?" to "Do you ever get tired of thinking?" to "What's your favorite dessert, actually?"

"Anything," he answered the last, "that is shared with someone who feels safe enough to take the last bite without apologizing."

The night ran long.

When it finally wound down, when the lanterns burned lower and people began drifting back toward dorms and bunks and guest quarters, the plaza felt changed—not because of some dramatic spell, but because hundreds of people now walked differently.

They walked like they carried something inside them.

Not just enhanced muscles and glowing eyes, but conviction.

A sense of having been seen, tested, trusted.

On the edge of the plaza, away from the last clusters of laughter, the four Absolute Leaders stood together again.

Sunbeam watched a group of new Solar and Lunar recruits trading jokes at the gate.

"Do you see it?" he asked quietly.

Moonbeam followed his gaze. "The way they already lean toward each other?" she said. "Yes."

Starbeam looked out at a Star recruit explaining grid diagrams to a Galaxy trainee with wild hand gestures.

"They're already teaching each other across paths," he observed. "Good."

Galaxbeam closed his book, tucking it under his arm.

"This," he said softly, "is what power should look like. Less like lightning from the sky. More like a thousand small lanterns, each carried by someone who chose the weight."

"And who earned it," Sunbeam added.

"And who remembered why," Moonbeam finished.

Behind them, Supreme Commanders were already quietly planning next year's intake, next year's curriculum, next year's banquet. Prosocialism and romanticism programs were being updated to integrate new ideas from Westonglappa. Financial and environmental support frameworks were being tweaked by Starrup's analysts. Educational modules on ethics and safety were being expanded by Galaxenchi's scholars.

The four Absolute Leaders remained, in the eyes of many, almost Jesus-like—near-divine figures walking the earth.

But as that first generation of new Solar, Lunar, Star, and Galaxy recruits drifted back to their halls with sore feet, full stomachs, and glowing eyes, one quiet truth settled over the world:

Divinity, in this age, was not a distant miracle.

It was a discipline.

A training.

A choice, repeated daily, to use one's light not to blind, but to guide.

And that, more than any flashy display of power, was what made the future feel—finally, genuinely—worth being thankful for.

The first recruitment wave was supposed to be a pilot.

It did not stay small.

Once the footage of the glowing new recruits hit Westonglappa's feeds—eyes turning orange, blue, green, or gold, hair shifting shade, bodies moving with that subtle, effortless strength—applications spiked so fast that administrative systems in three continents buckled for an afternoon.

In Viadence's Four Paths Academy, an administrator stared at her screen.

"We're... past ten thousand," she whispered. "In this district."

"Filter by seriousness," her colleague said weakly. "Anyone who applied at two in the morning while drunk gets a follow-up quiz first."

Even with stricter tests, the numbers remained huge.

In Solvanairebolis, Sunwis and Sunwise quietly added extra columns to their spreadsheets, tracking not only physical fitness and academic scores, but loneliness indicators, social-support networks, willingness to participate in community work.

"We're not just recruiting fighters," Sunbeam had reminded them. "We're recruiting future lantern-bearers. We need to know who wants to connect, even if they're bad at it right now."

In Lunna, Moonwis built a parallel system that weighed emotional resilience, empathy scores, coping strategies.

"In our path," Moonbeam had said, "we cannot only measure who can endure pain. We must also measure who can sit with someone else's pain without turning away."

Starbeam's teams in Starrup expanded their aptitude metrics: pattern recognition, systems thinking, tolerance for tedium. Galaxbeam's scholars rewrote entry exams to test not just raw knowledge, but curiosity: how often a candidate wrote "why?" in the margin.

And Westonglappans kept coming.

Farmers from Tazgummbak who'd lost half their crops to storms and wanted to protect others from the same. Programmers from Leblaela who were tired of optimizing ad algorithms and wanted to optimize emergency response instead. Skaters from Maylin who had grown up watching Lunar broadcasts and dreamed of patrolling shining rinks. Teachers from Kedaung who wanted to take Galaxy methods back to their villages.

Some aimed for common soldier tracks. Others set their eyes, very cautiously, on Elite training.

"Are you sure?" an intake officer asked a young woman from Havenjade who had checked the "Elite aspirant" box.

"No," she said honestly. "But I want to try. If I'm not meant for it, I'll accept that. But if I am... then I want all of it. The power, the responsibility. The long nights. The extra weight."

The intake officer marked her file with a quiet respect.

Across the continents, training grounds filled.

Solar obstacle courses buzzed with fresh faces learning to haul supplies, shield civilians, organize crowds. Lunar gardens and rinks echoed with new voices learning to blend patrol duty with emotional presence. Star control rooms hummed as recruits practiced stabilizing simulated disasters. Galaxy academies pulsed with late-night study lights as trainees argued about ethics over stacks of textbooks and empty teacups.

The four Absolute Leaders did not personally oversee every drill.

But they showed up often enough that rumors sprang up like wildflowers.

"I heard General Sunbeam watched our morning run from the hill," one Solar recruit whispered. "He didn't say anything, but afterward the instructors added more water breaks. That was him, right?"

"They say Lady Moonbeam skated one lap behind the shadows last night," a Lunar trainee insisted. "Just to see how we handle the late shift. You could feel her."

"Xtreme Vice Colonel Starbeam came into our lab," a Star recruit reported. "Didn't speak. Just stood there while we calibrated. I have never double-checked so fast in my life."

"Professor Galaxbeam corrected my footnote from across the room without looking up," a Galaxy trainee groaned. "It was terrifying. And... weirdly motivating."

Once in a while, the Absolute Leaders did more than observe.

During a joint exercise in Harmony Junction, Sunbeam, Moonbeam, Starbeam, and Galaxbeam each laid a hand—lightly, briefly—on the shoulders of a group of trainees who had just completed a brutal multi-day scenario: disaster relief, conflict de-escalation, infrastructure repair, and moral-choice simulations.

"Consider this," Galaxbeam said as a soft halo of power passed from his hand into the trainee beneath it, "a permission slip for your own potential. Nothing more. Nothing less."

The trainees felt it like a subtle ignition.

Not a blast.

A yes.

From that point on, their progress accelerated. Muscles responded more efficiently to training, minds held more detail, emotions stabilized faster after stress. The Absolute Leaders weren't simply pouring power into random bodies; they were unlocking what the training had already prepared, sealing it with a blessing that said:

You are ready to carry more.

Word of that spread even faster than the recruitment ads.

People started calling the four "Jesus-like" in hushed tones—not because they walked on water or raised the dead in front of cameras, but because they seemed to be offering something sacred: a chance for ordinary lives to become vessels of something larger, if—and only if—those lives were willing to bend, sweat, study, and change.

—

As the academies stabilized and the first waves of trainees found their rhythm, the four Absolute Leaders turned back to the political map.

Westonglappa, still buzzing from their tour, had one more layer: its leaders.

Presidents, prime ministers, monarchs, council heads. A patchwork of systems that somehow coexisted without collapsing into chaos.

"It's time," Starbeam said, looking at a holo-map of the continent. "We have walked among their people. Now we must sit with those who claim responsibility for them."

Galaxbeam nodded. "Tradition remix," he said. "Instead of states summoning us, we ask to be received—on their terms—for their versions of Thanksgiving."

Sunbeam smiled, a little wickedly. "And we bring social programs as dessert."

Moonbeam's eyes sparkled. "And affection as aftercare."

Their aides built an itinerary that made every previous tour look leisurely.

—

In Auttumotto's Havenjade City, they met in a sunlit council hall with walls of glass and beams of native wood.

The President of Auttumotto, a middle-aged woman with laugh lines and calloused hands, greeted each of them differently.

To Sunbeam, she offered a firm handshake.

"To the man who won't let anyone eat alone," she said. "We've needed you for a long time."

To Moonbeam, she offered a brief hug. Moonbeam accepted, heart first.

"To the woman who keeps telling people they're allowed to be soft," the President said. "We need that too."

To Starbeam, she gave a precise nod and a tablet.

"To the man who hates waste," she said. "Here's our infrastructure data. Be ruthless."

To Galaxbeam, she gave a slim book of local poetry.

"To the man who listens," she said. "Read what we say when no one's interviewing us."

They sat around a long table laden with Auttumotto's idea of Thanksgiving: roasted root vegetables, freshwater fish, heavy breads, simple pies. Local elders and youth representatives joined them, some wearing traditional fabrics, others in AES-inspired jackets.

"This is our version," the President said as media quietly filmed from a respectful distance. "We say thanks by making sure every level of our society sits at the same table at least once a year."

Sunbeam nodded slowly. "I like that," he said. "Policy as potluck."

They talked long after the cameras cut feed: about integrating Sunrise Connection-style events into Auttumotto towns, about ensuring that any Westonglappan who signed up for AES service had a clear path back if they chose to return, about helping people form stable relationships without erasing those who preferred solitude.

"We don't want to shame the happily single," Moonbeam said firmly. "Pro-socialism and romanticism are about options, not obligations."

"Then we're aligned," the President replied. "We just want fewer people hurting alone."

In Leblaela's Lavaton City, the Prime Minister hosted them on a rooftop that overlooked a sprawling night market.

"Our Thanksgiving tradition is chaos," she said cheerfully. "We eat in the streets, we dance badly, we set off fireworks without maiming ourselves—most years."

She bumped her fist lightly against Sunbeam's.

"General," she said. "Thanks for reminding the world that hugging your friends is a valid political act."

She offered Moonbeam a pair of light-up bracelets. "For when you skate under our rain," she said.

She offered Starbeam a stack of finance reports. "We're good at making money," she said. "Less good at not burning out everyone who helps us do it."

She offered Galaxbeam a chance to guest-host a late-night talk show.

"I want you to explain Thanksgiving like a philosopher," she said, "and then roast our entire parliament with kindness."

He did exactly that: live on air, in front of millions, weaving jokes about Leblaelan bureaucracy with pointed reflections on gratitude and responsibility.

"You cannot say thanks once a year," he told the laughing, slightly sweating politicians on stage. "You must build structures that embody thanks every day, or this becomes theater only."

Clips of that segment looped on Westonglappan feeds for days.

In Westronbung's Gagrahash City, the Chancellor greeted them with a sideways grin.

"Our Thanksgiving?" he said. "We call it 'Balance Day.' We spend half the day working for others, half indulging ourselves shamelessly."

He shook Sunbeam's hand, then pulled him into a quick shoulder-bump. "You've made it trendy to care," he said. "Help us keep it from becoming just... aesthetic."

Moonbeam joined local social workers in Balance Day rounds, delivering food and hugs to people who refused to attend big events but appreciated quiet acknowledgment at their doors.

Starbeam toured Westronbung's industrial heart, putting his signature on a new pact: Green Swags Compact, committing AES and Starrup resources to help convert their heavy industries without mass layoffs.

Galaxbeam held an impromptu open-air seminar in the city square on "the ethics of indulgence": whether enjoying wealth is immoral if you are simultaneously working to spread it.

"The answer is not 'never enjoy,'" he told a crowd sprawled on blankets. "The answer is 'enjoy in ways that do not lock others out.'"

In Yewaquin's Negraska City, a Prime Minister with a permanently amused expression met them at a long pier.

"Our Thanksgiving is loud," she warned. "Music, fireworks, too much sugar, not enough restraint."

"What a tragedy," Sunbeam deadpanned.

Negraska's version of the holiday centered on public shout-outs: people lining up to take the mic and publicly thank anyone—from their neighbor to a bus driver to a random nurse—for something they'd done that year.

Sunbeam and Moonbeam took turns at the mic.

"I want to thank," Sunbeam said, "every person who came to a Lantern Night even though their anxiety told them to stay in bed. You are braver than you think."

"I want to thank," Moonbeam added, "every person who sat with a crying friend this year and did not try to fix it, just stayed. You did more than you know."

Starbeam thanked the technicians who kept lights on in storms, then quietly slipped away to talk with them offstage. Galaxbeam thanked "every teacher who answered the same question ten times without making the student feel stupid," and the camera caught three people in the crowd wiping their eyes.

In Quinniccanna's Viadence, they joined a multicultural Thanksgiving parade where floats represented each regime and each Westonglappan state. The four leaders walked, not rode, despite repeated offers.

"On foot," Sunbeam insisted. "If we want people to talk to us, we have to be reachable."

They stopped every few meters: for photos, for questions, for little bursts of gratitude.

"General Sunbeam," a young man said, face red, "no offense, but your romanticism policy changed my life. I went to a speed-friendship night. Met my now-partner. We're... we're planning to move in together."

"That's the best kind of offense," Sunbeam said warmly. "I accept it."

"Lady Moonbeam," an older woman said, "your skate-and-garden events got me out of my house after my husband died. I thought I was done meeting people. I wasn't."

Moonbeam squeezed her hands, blue gaze shimmering. "You are never done," she said. "Not until you choose to be."

"Xtreme Vice Colonel Starbeam," a business owner said, "your green transition funds kept us afloat. We went from dirty generators to clean grid and didn't have to fire anyone."

Starbeam's nod was small but deeply satisfied. "Good," he said. "That is exactly the outcome we want."

"Professor Galaxbeam," a nervous teen said, clutching a notebook, "your lecture made me change my major. Now I want to study... like, ethical infrastructure? I didn't know that was a thing."

"It is now," Galaxbeam said. "We are inventing it together."

In Maylin's Mayflower City, the monarchy turned Thanksgiving into a formal ball—and threw open the palace gates to ordinary citizens for half the day.

The Queen of Maylin met the four with a traditional bow, then promptly fist-bumped Sunbeam because her grandchildren demanded it.

"Our tradition," she explained, "is gratitude through lineage. We thank our ancestors by not making the same mistakes. I suspect you approve."

"Deeply," Galaxbeam said.

In the ballroom, dignitaries and shopkeepers danced to the same music. Starbeam surprised everyone by leading a line dance that required precise footwork; Moonbeam spun with teenagers in sneakers; Sunbeam politely refused to be treated as a distant figure and spent half the night at the dessert table having long, serious talks with people about their love lives and friend-groups.

"You're like a walking relationship hotline," a Westonglappan journalist said, watching him.

"If people feel safer telling me their worries than yelling at a wall, I'll take it," Sunbeam replied.

In Kedaung, Thanksgiving took on a more spiritual tone.

Here, village leaders, ministers, monks, and laypeople gathered around great communal fires, singing old songs and telling stories of survival during hard years. The four Absolute Leaders sat among them, not apart.

A local elder placed a garland around Moonbeam's shoulders.

"You remind us," she said in her own language, translated softly by a nearby priest, "of the full moon over fields that did not fail."

Another elder handed Starbeam a carved wooden gear.

"You remind us," he said, "that machines can serve life instead of grinding it down."

They gave Galaxbeam a simple, worn book of myths. They gave Sunbeam a hand-stitched cloth showing people around a long table.

"You remind us," they said together, "that no one should eat alone if they do not wish to."

Afterward, by the firelight, Sunbeam spoke carefully, aware of the camera drones watching from a respectful distance.

"I want everyone hearing this," he said, "in Westonglappa and beyond, to remember: my prosocialism and romanticism policies are not about forcing anyone into relationships. They are about ensuring that no one who wants connection has to stand outside the circle and watch forever."

He looked into the lens as if it were a single person's eyes.

"If you want to remain single, that is your right," he said. "You are not broken. If you want to stay home, that is your right. You are not failing. But if you ache for company, if you are tired of pretending you're fine alone when you're not... we are building systems for you."

Moonbeam added softly, "We will keep throwing open the doors until you feel safe enough to walk through. Not one festival. Not one season. As long as it takes."

Starbeam folded his hands.

"I will keep funding the structures that hold those doors open," he said. "So no minister or mayor can say, 'We would help, but there is no money.' There is money. We will share it."

Galaxbeam nodded.

"And I will keep teaching," he promised. "So that no leader can say, 'We did not know this mattered.' They will know. You will know. And once you know, you cannot unknow."

Around the continent, people watched from living rooms, bars, rooftops, buses, phones balanced on kitchen counters while they did dishes. Some rolled their eyes. Some snorted. Some cried. Some, very quietly, opened their devices and searched for the nearest Lantern Night, skating garden, Green Swags job fair, or Galaxy lecture.

Recruitment continued to rise.

Not just into the regimes—but into their values.

Young Westonglappans started forming their own "Sunrise Circles" without waiting for official approval: meetups where no one sat alone. "Lunar Walks" where neighbors invited each other out for night strolls. "Star Budget Clubs" where people helped each other get out of debt using Starrup-inspired tools. "Galaxy Study Nights" where curious minds gathered to read and argue about everything from ethics to engineering.

In every state, every city, every village that the four Absolute Leaders visited, some new tradition sprouted: a Thanksgiving handclasp between local officials and AES officers, a shared vow to include the lonely, a new policy about community centers or clean energy or school programs.

The handshakes and fist bumps between the four and Westonglappa's leaders were caught in thousands of images—formal and silly:

Sunbeam and a governor laughing as they nearly messed up a fist bump and turned it into an awkward handshake-hug.
Moonbeam clasping both hands around a mayor's like she was warming them.
Starbeam and a finance minister leaning over a tablet, tapping figures as if they'd known each other for years.
Galaxbeam bowing slightly to a tiny town council chair as if she were a queen.

Peace was not declared with a single treaty.

It was woven in between these small moments of honor.

By the time the tour finally wrapped, Westonglappa felt... different.

Not conquered.

Connected.

Thousands more had signed up for training with the Solar, Lunar, Star, or Galaxy Regimes, ready to earn their glow. Millions more had not signed up for anything, but had quietly decided that they were done watching life from the outside.

In a modest apartment in Gagrahash, someone who had eaten alone for three Thanksgivings in a row sent a message to a local Sunrise Circle.

"Hey," it read, hands shaking over the keys. "Is it okay if I... come next time? I'm not good with people. But I'd like to try."

The reply came within a minute.

"Absolutely. You don't have to talk. Just show up. We'll make sure you're not sitting alone—unless you ask to."

Far away, in a planning room flooded with orange, blue, green, and gold light, Sunbeam, Moonbeam, Starbeam, and Galaxbeam looked over reports, messages, footage.

They were tired.

They were still worried.

But as they watched Westonglappans laughing in streets, holding hands, debating ethics, installing solar panels, signing up for training, and inviting each other in, a quiet certainty settled between them:

No one who wanted not to be alone would be left isolated without a fight—social, economic, educational, emotional.

And that, in a universe full of chaos, was something worth building an entire season of gratitude around.

The idea for a true, continent-wide unity did not begin in a war room.

It started in a comment section.

After days of footage—Sunbeam hugging strangers in Negraska, Moonbeam skating with widows in Kedaung, Starbeam signing green-transition contracts in Lavaton, Galaxbeam lecturing on rooftop talk shows—one Westonglappan student posted:

"If this is what 'alliance' looks like, why don't we just act like one single continent already?"

The post went viral. Governors, ministers, and mayors began forwarding it to each other with nervous jokes.

By the time it landed in the inboxes of Auttumotto's president, Leblaela's prime minister, and the monarchs of Maylin and Kedaung, the joke felt less like a meme and more like a question they had to answer.

So they did.

They invited the four Absolute Leaders, their Supreme Commanders, and key elites to a Super Summit in Viadence, Quinniccanna—a crossroads state where rail lines from every corner of Westonglappa met like veins at a heart.

The summit hall was built temporarily around Viadence's central plaza: a ring-shaped pavilion of glass and reinforced lattice, open to the sky. Above it, banners rippled:

The blazing orange sun of Sollarisca

The deep blue crescent of Lunna

The emerald star of Starrup

The golden crescent-and-star sigil of Galaxenchi

And, highest of all, the Westonglappa flag: beige sideband with roaring tiger and pale blue rays, beside bold red, orange, green, and yellow stripes.

From a distance it looked as if all five symbols were sharing a single pole.

Inside, the floor had been marked with concentric circles. The innermost ring was for the Absolute Leaders and Westonglappa's heads of state. The next ring for Supreme Commanders and generals. The outer rings for aides, civil leaders, and observers from media and citizen groups.

When Sunbeam, Moonbeam, Starbeam, and Galaxbeam stepped into the innermost ring, the hall fell to a respectful hush.

Westonglappan soldiers lined the entrance in mixed uniforms—naval whites from Westronbung, forest camo from Tazgummbak, ceremonial blues from Maylin, practical grays from Leblaela. Many wore small pins shaped like suns, moons, stars, or galaxy sigils alongside their national insignias.

Auttumotto's president spoke first.

"Today," she said, voice steady in the hovering microphones, "we're not just signing another defense pact. We're acknowledging what's already true in the hearts of our people: that when disaster comes—whether it is storm, famine, or war—we will not stand alone at our borders and watch. We will move as one."

She turned to Sunbeam.

"You came here to make sure nobody eats alone," she said. "We'd like to expand that: nobody faces crisis alone either."

Sunbeam's eyes softened. "You have my word," he replied. "If Westonglappa calls, the Solar Regime moves. Not as occupiers, not as saviors—only as allies who remember that loneliness can hit nations, too."

Moonbeam stepped forward, cloak catching the light like a falling wave.

"And we," she added, "will guard not just your territory but your spirits. Our Lunar forces will aid in evacuations, medical relief, and the quiet work after the cameras leave—sitting with trauma, helping people find their footing again. We know the long shadows that follow catastrophe. We will not leave you to walk through them alone."

Starbeam's posture was flawless, but there was a glint of genuine feeling behind his serious gaze.

"Starrup commits," he said, "to treat your infrastructure as if it were our own. In any joint action, we will deploy engineers, medics, and logistics teams to keep your grids alive, your hospitals powered, and your supply lines flowing. If one of us falters economically, the others will not stand aside."

Galaxbeam rounded the circle, golden robe trailing, voice light but firm.

"And Galaxenchi," he said, "will keep sharing what we do best: knowledge. Tactical, medical, philosophical. We will train together, publish together, and argue late into the night together so that when hard decisions arrive, they land on prepared minds, not empty slogans."

He flashed a quick, knowing smile at the cameras.

"Think of it as a giant, multi-continental study group you didn't realize you had signed up for."

Laughter rolled around the hall—nervous from some, delighted from others.

The formal signing followed: dozens of styluses pressed to glass tablets, digital seals blooming like little bursts of light. The document's name scrolled across giant displays in every major language of the allied nations:

THE CELESTIAL–WESTONGLAPPA UNITY ACCORD

Defense. Disaster relief. Environmental cooperation. Shared training standards. Ethical guidelines for recruitment. Agreements about sovereignty so ironclad that even the most suspicious pundits found little to attack.

When the signing finished, the military portion began.

Out in Viadence's broad parade grounds, Westonglappan units assembled by branch and state. AES soldiers—Sun Soldiers, Moon Soldiers, Star Soldiers, Galax Soldiers—stood interspersed among them, not as a separate block but woven into every formation.

Sunbeam walked the lines first, cloak brushed back, orange eyes warm.

"You are the shield that gave us the luxury to build festivals," he told a Tazgummbak armored unit, voice low but earnest. "Never think your work is less holy because it's not on a podium."

Moonbeam greeted medical corps and peacekeepers, clasping hands and foreheads, thanking them for every wound cleaned and argument de-escalated.

"You are the reason our victories don't taste like ash," she told a Kedaung field medic. "You turn surviving into living."

Starbeam spent long minutes with logistics officers and engineers from Leblaela and Westronbung, poring over schematics, swapping methods.

"Show me your rail loadouts," he asked one colonel. "We can shave twelve percent transit time without new trains, only better sequencing."

Galaxbeam sought out cadets and junior officers, quizzing them gently.

"What would you do," he asked a nervous young lieutenant from Quinniccanna, "if a local council refused your help out of pride? Which matters more—honoring their autonomy, or protecting civilians who may suffer?"

He listened seriously to the answer, then nodded and added a nuance the lieutenant would remember for life.

Media caught all of it.

Not as staged tableaux, but as continuous streams: four near-godlike figures moving among very human soldiers, shaking hands, frowning at charts, laughing at bad mess-hall coffee, hugging people who needed it.

Later that evening, the summit shifted outside.

The inner plaza of Viadence had been transformed into an open festival ground. Food stalls from every Westonglappan state circled the square—Tazgummbak stews, Maylin pastries, Auttumotto root grills, Leblaelan street noodles—alongside tasting booths from Sollarisca, Lunna, Starrup, and Galaxenchi.

Above it all, the flags flew in a tight cluster, anchored to a single massive mast:

Tiger banner at the top, stripes of red, orange, green, and yellow catching the wind. Around it, the suns, moons, stars, and galaxy symbols like a constellation of promises.

On a low central stage, the four Absolute Leaders sat together for a final joint interview broadcast live to half the planet.

The host—a quick-witted Westonglappan journalist—didn't waste the opportunity.

"So," she said, grinning into the camera, "on a scale of one to ten, how likely is it that you're secretly forming an intercontinental super-regime?"

"Zero," Starbeam said instantly.

"Negative two," Sunbeam added dryly.

"Depends who's writing the fanfiction," Galaxbeam mused.

Moonbeam laughed, covering her smile with her hand. "We are not erasing borders," she said kindly. "We are just making sure that when trouble comes, those borders don't become cages."

The journalist leaned forward.

"Last question," she said. "Today has looked very... NATO-plus-magic. Tanks and treaties, handshakes and flags. But if you had to describe this unity in one human word—not a technical one—what would you pick?"

The four exchanged glances.

"Trust," Starbeam said.

"Care," Moonbeam offered.

"Hope," Sunbeam answered softly.

"Responsibility," Galaxbeam concluded.

The journalist smiled. "You heard them," she told the audience. "Trust, care, hope, responsibility. If we can live even a fraction of that in our own streets, this summit will matter long after the banners come down."

The night ended not with fireworks alone, but with one simple act.

On Galaxbeam's suggestion, the entire plaza fell briefly silent. People from Westonglappa, Sollarisca, Lunna, Starrup, and Galaxenchi stood shoulder to shoulder, heads lifted to the flags overhead.

No speeches.

Just a long, shared exhale—the kind that says:

We are very different. We are also, finally, on the same side.

From far above, the scene looked almost unreal: a tiger flag and four celestial emblems billowing over a sea of colors—orange, blue, green, gold, and every shade in between—blending into something that didn't have a name yet.

Not an empire.

Not a treaty.

Something quieter, and stronger.

A habit of standing together.

The summit in Westonglappa ended with applause that felt like weather—rolling, echoing off the glass towers and tiger-bannered flags.

On the main platform, the four Absolute Leaders stood shoulder to shoulder for one last photograph. Then, almost in the same breath, they stepped back.

In their place, twelve figures moved forward.

Solar gold, lunar blue, star emerald, galaxy aurum—four sets of Supreme Commanders, six to a faction, took the forefront while the cameras kept rolling. The world saw it happen in real time: the "gods" yielding the stage so their generals could shape what came next.

Westonglappa Continental Training Grounds

By afternoon, the focus had shifted from the summit hall to a sprawling coastal complex outside Mayflower City, Auttumotto State—a temporary joint academy built almost overnight by Westonglappan engineers and Galaxy Regime construction mages.

Long avenues of training fields ran toward the sea. Hover-drones traced lazy circles overhead. Recruits from every Westonglappa state—Leblaela, Westronbung, Yewaquin, Tazgummbak, and more—stood in nervous ranks, each wearing their own national colors for now.

A tiger-striped flag of Westonglappa hung above the gate.

Beneath it, the Supreme Commanders shook hands with the local generals, one by one.

Solardye's grip was warm and steady; Lunardye's, calm and cool as evening rain; Starradye's, firm with disciplined precision; Galaxadye's, light but charged with strange, star-bright focus.

"From this day," Solardye said into the cluster of microphones, "anyone who trains here is not just Westonglappan or Sollariskan or Lunnan or Starrupan or Galaxenchi."

"You are students of the AES," Lunardye finished, voice soft but carrying.

"Power is not given," Starradye added. "It is earned, monitored, and held with responsibility."

Galaxadye's eyes glimmered. "And it is meaningless," he said, "if it does not protect someone weaker than you."

The recruits straightened. Cameras zoomed in. Across the continent, living rooms and cafés fell quiet.

Training began.

Solar Regime – The Warm Forge

On the eastern grounds, the Solar banners floated like twin suns above the sand.

Solardye, first of Sunbeam's generals, paced in front of a line of Westonglappan volunteers. His voice had the cadence of a drill sergeant and the warmth of a campfire.

"You want Sun-strength?" he asked. "Then you will sweat for it. Your lungs will burn. Your legs will tremble. And every time you think you will fall, you will remember the face of someone you refuse to abandon to darkness."

He clapped once. A wave of orange light rippled out, outlining sparring circles.

Solardale stepped into the nearest ring, rolling his shoulders. "First lesson," he told a nervous trainee, "you are not glass."

They sparred—Solardale always just a little faster, a little stronger, but guiding every misstep into a teachable moment. When the trainee finally landed a shaky hit, Solardale grinned and raised the young man's hand like a champion.

In a nearby pavilion, Solarstream ran simulations: recruits strapped into harnesses, practicing coordinated rescue operations inside light-constructed scenarios—building collapses, flood rescues, battlefield evacuations. Orange data-runes flowed around him as he monitored heart rates and response times, adjusting difficulty with tiny gestures.

On the track, Solarstride led endurance runs. He said almost nothing, simply running at the front, the orange glow around his boots leaving faint streaks on the ground. Anyone who fell behind felt a gentle push of Sun-light at their back, nudging them on instead of shaming them.

Overhead, stormclouds threatened—and then Solarstorm raised one hand. The worst of the clouds parted, leaving only a cool, steady drizzle.

"Hydration," he remarked dryly, as recruits laughed and kept running.

Lunar Regime – The Quiet Tide

To the north, the Lunar training fields were cooler, the air filled with the scent of sea mist and pine.

Lunardye stood barefoot in the damp grass with a circle of recruits around him. "The Moon does not burn like the Sun," he said. "It pulls. It guides. It reflects. Your strength will be like that."

They practiced tide-forms—slow, flowing combat patterns, every step leaving glowing blue footprints that faded like waves on sand. When a recruit grew frustrated, Lunardye would gently adjust their posture.

"Do not fight the motion," he would murmur. "Let it move through you."

At a nearby obstacle course, Lunardale led small squads through silent coordination drills—moving over walls, under nets, across narrow beams without a word.

"You will be the ones who reach the frightened child hiding under a bed," he told them between runs. "The agent trapped behind enemy lines. The neighbor who never asks for help. Lunar soldiers specialize in those the world forgets."

Under lantern-lit awnings, Lunarstream supervised tactical map exercises, sliding transparent screens across digital tables. Recruits learned to think in lines of supply, refugee routes, evacuation corridors.

"Every arrow on this map is a life," Lunarstream said quietly. "Treat them as such."

On a grassy slope, Lunarstride and Lunarpuff ran a different kind of drill: grounding circles. Recruits walked barefoot through warm earth, naming aloud one thing they were grateful for with every step.

"Gratitude is not weakness," Lunarpuff told them, blue hair swaying as she walked among the lines. "It's what keeps power from hollowing you out."

High above, Lunarstorm watched the coastline, keeping an eye on the tides and the training schedule alike, adjusting both with a flick of her fingers when needed.

Star Regime – The Green Engine

On the southern side, the air smelled of oil, metal, and growing things.

The Star Regime had turned their half of the grounds into a cross between a military academy and a sustainable tech expo. Solar-wind hybrid turbines spun above practice ranges. Rows of hydroponic towers rose beside weapons lockers.

Starradye stood at a podium made of reclaimed metal, addressing a group of engineering-minded recruits.

"You don't have to punch through walls to save a city," he said. "Sometimes you just have to design a generator that doesn't explode when the storm hits. We are not only fighters; we are builders."

On a mock trading floor filled with blinking holo-screens, Starradale ran crisis simulations: sudden market crashes, resource disruptions, refugee surges.

"You will learn to keep economies from panicking," he told the trainees. "Because panic kills more quietly than bullets."

At the firing range, Starrastream introduced precision weapons that only responded to calm, focused bio-signatures. Recruits quickly discovered that rage made their shots go wide; steady breathing brought perfect clusters.

"This," Starrastream said, tapping a glowing rifle, "is an honesty test. It tells you exactly how centered you are."

In a repurposed turbine hall, Starrastride oversaw physical trials—weighted marches, climbing, combat drills. Yet every station had an extra twist: plant a tree after your run, repair a damaged drone after your spar, recycle your training gear properly.

"You want power?" Starrastride asked, sweat shining on his brow. "Prove you can carry responsibility at the same time."

Out in Stormhalo's simulated wind field, Starrastorm led a somber group of recruits in a memorial run beneath banners bearing the names of fallen civilians from past wars.

"You will never meet most of the people you save," he told them. "Run for them anyway."

And everywhere between stations, Starrapuff moved like a quiet comet of good cheer—checking on morale, passing out energy drinks and plant-based snacks, reminding exhausted trainees to stretch, breathe, and drink water.

Galaxy Regime – The Golden Classroom

The western wing of the complex felt like walking into a university that had collided with a temple and an observatory.

Galaxy banners shimmered in gold-yellow along arcades inscribed with Chinese and Japanese characters. Holographic planets rotated in the air above meditation courtyards.

Galaxadye stood on a lecture terrace, addressing recruits seated in neat rows.

"You are not here merely to grow stronger," he said. "You are here to become wiser. Strength without understanding is a loaded cannon in the hands of a child."

Behind him, equations and philosophical quotes appeared in Mandarin, Japanese, and translated Westonglappan languages, fractal-branching into diagrams of ethics and probability.

In a nearby dueling ring, Galaxadale ran controlled sparring sessions—every strike slowed slightly by golden sigils, forcing both fighters to understand body mechanics rather than rely on brute force.

"Study the pattern of their movement," he urged. "Respect the opponent's rhythm. You are here to defeat wars, not people."

Inside a vaulted hall full of glowing gateways, Galaxastream introduced small teams to short-range teleportation and time-sense training.

"When you can blink through space," he explained, "you must also learn when not to. Wisdom is knowing which moments to endure."

On a wide, painted walkway showing constellations from Titanumas and old Earth, Galaxastride led recruits through moving meditations—walking katas that blended martial arts with breathing exercises.

"If you cannot be still while walking," he said, "how will you remain steady while the universe shakes?"

High above, near the observatory dome, Galaxastorm held storm-control exercises, teaching weather mages and technomancers to divert lightning, soften typhoons, and dissipate fog without collapsing local ecosystems.

"Any fool can tear clouds apart," he reminded them. "The art is in guiding them."

And in a warmly lit refectory that smelled of tea and festival foods, Galaxapuff presided over communal dinners where recruits from every faction sat side by side. She floated between tables with an easy laugh, switching between Mandarin, Cantonese, Japanese, and Westonglappan accents as she teased them into talking about their families, fears, and hopes.

"Eat," she would say. "Heroes with empty stomachs make foolish decisions."

Hands Extended, Paths Opening

By sunset, the training grounds of Westonglappa were alive with motion.

Here, a line of Solar recruits practiced synchronized charges under Solardye's watchful gaze.

There, Lunar trainees walked slow gratitude circuits with Lunarpuff while Lunardye adjusted someone's breathing.

In the distance, Star Regime squads ran drills that ended with re-planting trees, while Galaxy students argued ethics with Galaxadye over steaming cups of tea.

Everywhere, Supreme Commanders shook hands with new volunteers, clasped shoulders after hard drills, and bent to answer questions that had nothing to do with combat at all.

"Can I still visit my family during training?"

"Yes," Lunardale answered. "You will be more useful to us if you remember who you are protecting."

"What if I fail the elite trials?"

"Then you will still stand taller than when you arrived," Solarstride said. "And there are a hundred ways to serve."

"How do we know we won't become tyrants with this power?"

Starradye's expression turned serious. "Because we will constantly test you," he said. "And because Galaxadye will haunt your dreams with philosophy lectures if you misbehave."

Laughter rippled through the group—then softened into thoughtful quiet.

At the edge of the field, the four Absolute Leaders watched for a while, silent.

Sunbeam finally exhaled, some of the weight easing from his shoulders as he watched Solardye adapt a drill for a recruit with an old injury.

"Good," he murmured. "This is how it should be. Power passed down, held carefully, multiplied through others."

Moonbeam's eyes glowed softly as she saw Lunardye coax a shy recruit into speaking up.

"People finding their place," she said. "No one left adrift."

Starbeam nodded, arms folded, as Starradye and Starrapuff argued cheerfully over where to place the next scholarship fund.

"Systems taking shape," he added. "Not just slogans."

Galaxbeam smiled faintly, watching Galaxadye lecture four recruits who looked like they just realized the universe was larger than they had ever imagined.

"And understanding to stitch it all together," he said.

The cameras captured some of it; most they did not. But among the recruits of Westonglappa, stories were already forming—stories of the day the Supreme Commanders came down from legend, shook their hands, and told them, quietly and clearly:

"You can change with us. You can grow with us. Power is not a miracle; it is a path."

And on that strange, bright Thanksgiving-season day, under tiger banners and foreign stars, thousands chose to take their first steps.

The summit in Westonglappa had barely ended when the four Absolute Leaders deliberately stepped back from the cameras.

The world had seen the suns, moons, stars, and galaxies clasp hands.

Now it was time for the engines of their regimes to move.

The Supreme Commanders.

Solar Regime – Voices of the Sunrise

On the steps of a parliament building in Westronbung City, orange banners snapped in the coastal wind. The crowd expected General Sunbeam to appear again, but instead the doors swung open and a different orange figure strode out:

Solarstorm.

Tall, sharp-eyed, coat buttoned to the throat, the emblem of a blazing sunburst resting over his heart. The noise of the crowd dipped into a curious hush.

He took the podium, gaze sweeping over Westonglappan soldiers, students, and families.

"General Sunbeam will not always be there to hold your hand," Solarstorm said, voice steady, carrying. "That is why I am here. That is why we are here."

He gestured back; a line of Solar Supreme Commanders and elites stepped out:

Solardye, spectacles glinting, fingers already stained with ink from signing a mountain of cooperation protocols.

Solardale, broad-shouldered and calm, the type who could break a boulder or host a kindergarten picnic with equal ease.

Solarstream, tablet in hand, screens flickering with recruitment numbers and housing projects.

Solarstride, boots polished, posture straight as a parade banner.

Solarpuff, hair tied up in a jaunty bun, orange overcoat accented with little sun charms that jingled when she walked.

"All of you who wished to join the Solar Regime," Solarstorm continued, "this is your dawn. We are not just an army. We are a promise that no one should face the void alone."

He raised his right hand. Golden light rippled over the plaza, gentle, like the first warmth breaking a cold night. Recruits near the front straightened; a few gasped as their eyes briefly reflected orange, as if mirroring a sunrise they hadn't seen yet.

Solarpuff stepped forward next, smiling like she had personally adopted the entire continent.

"My name is Solarpuff," she said, "Commander, Supreme Commander – and your overprotective older sister for the evening."

The crowd chuckled.

"Pro-socialism and Romanticism sound like big words," she went on. "Here is what they mean what we mean: you will not eat alone if we can help it. You will not walk home in the dark without someone to text. You will not have to pretend you don't care about being loved."

Behind her, registration booths glowed warm orange. Signs marked:

Sunrise Squads – Friendship & Support Teams
Solar Hearts – Volunteer Matchmaking & Partner Support
Dawn Guard – Military & Elite Training Track

Solardye handled the more formal press conference in the adjoining hall, explaining how Solar subsidies would fund community cafés and "Sun Houses" – shared living spaces where new recruits could stay while training.

"Love is not a distraction from strength," Solardye told the reporters. "It is the infrastructure of resilience. A lonely soldier breaks. A loved one endures."

In training fields outside Leblaela State, Solarstride and Solarstream ran joint drills. Rows of recruits sweated through obstacle courses while Solarstream's holographic projections tracked their vitals.

"Remember," Solarstride shouted, voice crisp, "we are not training you to crush others. We are training you to carry them."

Solarstorm walked the lines at dusk, watching orange light gather around those who pushed past their old limits. Every time a recruit finally cleared a wall or finished a run, the faintest sun-halo flared behind them, gone in an instant—but they felt it.

"Welcome to the dawn," he would murmur, and move on.

Lunar Regime – Calm of the Tides

Across the strait in Auttumotto State, night had fallen, and the plaza lanterns were blue.

Lunardye stood beneath them, coat long, hat tucked under his arm. His presence was the opposite of Solarstorm's: quiet, almost understated, but the kind of quiet that stilled a crowd on instinct.

"My Mistress, Lady Moonbeam, brought comfort to your streets," he said. "Our task is to make sure that comfort does not fade when the cameras leave."

Behind him, the Lunar Supreme Commanders spread out:

Lunardale, with the relaxed grace of a man who could turn any battlefield into a campfire story circle.

Lunarstream, already chatting with local medics and therapists, arranging joint clinics.

Lunarstride, organizing patrols with Westonglappan police to keep night events safe.

Lunarstorm, arms crossed, gaze monitoring the skyline for anything that might disturb the peace.

Lunarpuff, her blue cloak trimmed in silver, absolutely swarmed by children who liked how her hair shimmered under the moonlamps.

"This is the Tidal Embrace Initiative," Lunardye announced. "For those who carry scars you cannot show in daylight. For those who smile in crowds and cry in empty rooms. If you feel your mind is an ocean trying to drown you... we have learned how to swim."

He didn't roar the words; he simply spoke them, and the plaza listened.

Lunarstream opened pop-up "Moon Clinics" where counselors from Lunna paired with Westonglappan mental health workers. Recruits who signed for the Lunar military track found that along with combat drills, they attended classes on emotional regulation, trauma recovery, and conflict de-escalation.

"Strength without self-knowledge is a loaded weapon rolling on a ship deck," Lunardale said in one such class, voice warm. "We teach you to tie it down."

In a park outside Quinniccanna, Lunarpuff led a barefoot night-walk event inspired by Moonbeam's gardens back home. People of Westonglappa and new Lunar recruits walked slow circuits over soft grass and prepared sand, leaving overlapping footprints that gleamed faintly blue.

"We are here," Lunarpuff told a group of nervous teens, "to prove you are not alone. Your troubles are not 'too much.' The moon hears quieter cries than the sun."

Lunarstride and Lunarstorm coordinated patrols that stayed just out of sight, watching over the crowds so the participants never had to worry about safety.

They were shadows of reassurance rather than fear.

Star Regime – Green Engines of Fortune

Night in Zachon State sparkled in a completely different way.

Giant holo-ads projected green slogans into the sky:

GO GREEN, GROW GALACTIC
GREEN SWAGS WEEK – PROSPERITY FOR ALL

Xtreme Vice Colonel Starbeam had returned to Starrup, but his Star Supreme Commanders stayed in Westonglappa, anchoring the economic half of this Allied miracle.

Starradye took the main stage at a business forum in Gagrahash City, flanked by charts and eco-tech prototypes.

"You have seen abundance rain across Starrup during Green Swags," he told a packed hall of entrepreneurs. "We are not here to hoard that. We are here to replicate the conditions that made it possible."

Behind him stood:

Starradale, negotiating agricultural cooperatives with local farmers.

Starrastream, setting up financial literacy and anti-scam boot camps so people didn't lose their new wealth overnight.

Starrastride, running green-casino charity nights, turning risk into restoration funds.

Starrastorm, quietly partnering with Westonglappan regulators to prevent corporations from gutting the environment for fast profit.

Starrapuff, mingling with small shop owners, carrying a tablet full of micro-grant applications and not hesitating to approve many on the spot.

"You are handing out a lot of money," a journalist whispered to her as she signed yet another green grant.

"Money is a tool," Starrapuff replied. "If you hoard your tools, nothing ever gets built."

Starrastream's seminars were packed with new recruits and ordinary citizens alike.

"There is a difference," he lectured, laser pointer dancing over a holo-graph, "between prosperity and greed. We will teach you how to make your credits grow without choking your neighbors."

In training zones co-run with Solar and Lunar instructors, Star recruits lifted weights in the morning and audited spreadsheets in the afternoon.

"Super strength is useless if you sign a predatory contract," Starradale joked, earning laughter that took the sting out of hard truths.

Starrastride's charity casinos in Turreyatch City became legendary. People gambled not to enrich billionaires but to unlock environmental clean-up projects and scholarships. Every time a jackpot chimed, a holo-screen lit up showing a river being restored, a forest being replanted, a village getting solar grids.

"This," Starrastride told one excited crowd, "is how we turn risk into hope."

Galaxy Regime – Teachers of a New Era

Westonglappa's universities had never seen anything like the Galaxenchi delegation.

If the Absolute Leaders were demigods, the Galaxy Supreme Commanders were like living graduate programs.

In Maylin Kingdom's capital, Galaxadye filled a lecture hall to bursting, golden-white robes falling in precise layers, hair tied back so it wouldn't cover the chalkboard.

"Yes," he said patiently to a room of stunned professors, "you may record. You may publish, even. Knowledge wants to travel."

A series of sigils traced themselves across the air as he spoke: simplified models of the Power Scaling Spectrum, visual explanations of how blessings from the Absolute Leaders altered physiology and cognition.

"We are giving people power," Galaxadye said. "Thanksgiving, for us, is gratitude expressed as responsibility. If you gain strength from the AES, you are expected to use it wisely. We are here to make sure 'wisely' is not an empty word."

In nearby labs and training dojos, the other Supreme Commanders moved:

Galaxadale, laughing as he sparred with recruits, then calmly walking them through post-fight analysis like a kindly martial arts professor.

Galaxastream, turning entire gymnasiums into mixed reality classrooms where history lessons and combat simulations overlapped.

Galaxastride, designing structured training paths so no one skipped fundamentals.

Galaxastorm, overseeing safety protocols with a sternness that made even Westonglappan generals sit up straighter.

Galaxapuff, leading cultural exchange circles, teaching Mandarin phrases for gratitude and Japanese phrases for perseverance, mixing them with local Westonglappan words so the recruits would feel this was their story too.

In a courtyard lit by paper lanterns, Galaxapuff sat cross-legged with a handful of new elites-in-training.

"So you want Galaxy blessings," she said, tilting her head. "Do you want them because it looks cool, or because you want to solve something?"

A young woman hesitated. "Both?"

"Good answer," Galaxapuff smiled. "Wanting cool is honest. Just remember: the universe is bigger than your reflection. We'll help you see it."

Galaxastream broadcast "Galactic Thanksgiving Lessons" live across Westonglappa, walking viewers through the history Galaxbeam had narrated earlier, but with added diagrams, timelines, memes, and Q&A segments.

"Gratitude is not passive," he told the camera. "It is an active decision to acknowledge connection. You joined this stream, so you are already participating."

The Supreme Commanders' Roundtable

Toward the end of the long Westonglappan tour, a quieter evening was arranged in Crattlecrane State, in a modern conference center overlooking a river lit by lantern boats.

There were no stadium crowds this time. No roar of media. Just a circular table, a pot of tea, and twelve Supreme Commanders from four regimes.

Solarstorm, Solardye, Solardale, Solarstream, Solarstride, Solarpuff.

Lunardye, Lunardale, Lunarstream, Lunarstride, Lunarstorm, Lunarpuff.

Starradye, Starradale, Starrastream, Starrastride, Starrastorm, Starrapuff.

Galaxadye, Galaxadale, Galaxastream, Galaxastride, Galaxastorm, Galaxapuff.

They didn't sit by regime. They let the chairs fall as they may.

Solarstorm ended up between Lunarstream and Starrastorm, which felt like sitting between a therapist and a compliance officer. Galaxapuff wound up beside Solarpuff, and the two "Puffs" were already exchanging gossip about which recruits were secretly crushing on whom.

"We almost look like a council of deities," Starradye observed dryly, sipping green tea.

"We are not deities," Lunardye replied. "We are very tired people pretending not to be."

Soft laughter went around the table.

Solarstream pulled up maps and graphs, displaying recruitment numbers across Westonglappa.

"Look at this," he said. "We thought maybe a few thousand would sign up. We've surpassed a million in provisional recruits."

"People are desperate for belonging," Lunarpuff murmured. "For meaning. For... a story they can step into."

"And power," Galaxastorm added bluntly. "Do not romanticize it entirely. They want strength so they cannot be hurt again."

"Then we teach them both," Galaxadale said. "Belonging and responsibility."

Solardale leaned back, folding his hands behind his head.

"You realize," he said, "this might be the most successful Thanksgiving in recorded Titanumas history."

Starrastream smirked. "Economically, yes. Psychologically... the data will take time."

Solarpuff elbowed him. "Can you not be a spreadsheet for one evening?"

He actually grinned at that. "Fine. Emotionally, I am impressed."

Galaxastride glanced around the table, expression thoughtful.

"We have been playing support roles for so long," he said. "Logistics. Enforcement. Teaching. Today, Westonglappa saw our faces in their headlines."

"Uncomfortable?" Starrastorm asked.

"Necessary," Galaxastride answered. "The Absolute Leaders are symbols. We are... instructions on how to use what those symbols promise."

Solarstride nodded slowly.

"If the four are suns, moons, stars, and galaxies," he said, "we are the roads that keep people from getting lost while traveling between them."

Lunardale raised his teacup. "To roads," he said.

They all lifted their cups—ceramic clinking gently in the lamplit room.

"To roads," Solarstorm echoed. "And to the people who will walk them after us."

Outside, along the riverbanks of Crattlecrane, recruitment lines still wound around blocks. Posters of Sunbeam, Moonbeam, Starbeam, and Galaxbeam glowed above, but tonight, new banners fluttered beside them: smaller portraits of Supreme Commanders mid-speech, mid-training, mid-smile.

On social feeds and news broadcasts, Westonglappans were no longer just talking about divine leaders.

They were quoting Solarstorm's "no one faces the void alone," Lunardye's "the moon hears quieter cries," Starrapuff's "money is a tool," Galaxadye's "gratitude as responsibility."

Across cities, in gyms and lecture halls, on quiet rooftops where recruits practiced their first shimmering flickers of power, one truth settled like a shared heartbeat:

The Absolute Leaders had lit the beacons.

But it was the Supreme Commanders who were teaching the world how to walk in that light.

The shift from the summit back to the ground was almost dizzying.

One moment, Westonglappa's cameras were pointed at the four Absolute Leaders. The next, lenses and drone-feeds pivoted down across the training fields of Auttumotto State, where the Solar Regime had set up what locals were already calling the Sunforge Camp.

Here, the spotlight belonged to the elites.

Sunforge Camp – Solar Regime Elite Focus

Rows of Westonglappan recruits in borrowed orange training gear stood in formation on terraced stone platforms. The air shimmered with heat-haze from focused light projectors, each one tuned to simulate Titanumas' harsher solar conditions. Overhead, banners bearing the blazing sun sigil snapped in the wind.

On the highest platform, four figures stood with arms folded, looking down like teachers about to grade an exam.

Sunnyko.
Sungyo.
Sunssuki.
Sunkuzure.

All four human female Solar elites, all four radiating a different flavor of danger and charisma.

Sunnyko was the "friendly storm," short orange hair tied in a high side-tail, jacket half-zipped, grin sharp as a blade.

Sungyo moved like a coiled spring, long hair braided tight, eyes narrowed in constant analysis; diagrams practically floated behind her gaze whenever she watched a strike.

Sunssuki wore her uniform immaculate, cape flaring behind her in straight precise lines whenever she turned; she treated every drill like a formal duel.

Sunkuzure slouched, hands in her pockets, expression almost bored—until someone moved wrong, and then her stance would shift with terrifying speed, boot already at their throat before they blinked.

Behind them, a cluster of male elites—Sunmuta, Sunketsu, Sunnagori, Sungeyama—waited with wooden practice weapons slung over their shoulders, joking quietly but keeping an eye on the recruits.

"Welcome to the Sunforge"

Sunnyko stepped forward, voice amplified by a simple soundfield.

"Westonglappa!" she called. "You signed up for the elite track. That means three things. One: no whining. Two: no quitting. Three..." She pointed up toward the distant hovering holo-screen where Sunbeam's face from earlier broadcasts was frozen mid-smile. "...you're training to stand somewhere under that man's command. So try not to embarrass your grandchildren."

A ripple of laughter ran through the rows, nervous but genuine.

Sungyo clapped her hands once. The entire field brightened; photonic glyphs erupted around her boots.

"Phase one," she said. "Synchronization."

Light spilled from projectors, forming lattices around every recruit. At first they were faint: pale gold scaffolds that traced nervous outlines—back too hunched, stance too narrow, guard too high. Sungyo twitched her fingers and each lattice corrected itself; recruits felt their limbs gently nudged into better form by unseen pressure.

"Listen to your own body," she told them. "Solar power amplifies what is already there. Balance. Breath. Intention."

On the lower platform, Sunmuta barked orders.

"Run the arc-track! Three laps, then up the kinetic wall!"

Recruits sprinted. As they ran, the lattices around them flickered brighter. One young woman from Leblaela State suddenly felt the ground push back with unnatural elasticity. Her feet hardly touched the ramp before she was vaulting halfway up the wall.

"Commander!" she gasped to Sunmuta as she landed, startled at her own acceleration. "What—?"

"First spark," he said calmly. "Solar resonance in your muscles. Keep running. It will stabilize."

Everywhere across the field, tiny awakenings like that flashed:

– A boy from Westronbung found he could see individual grains of dust hanging in the air, their trajectories tracing like slow comets.
– A former dockhand from Crattlecrane realized his lungs no longer burned after a sprint.
– A shy office clerk from Quinniccanna felt sunlight condense behind his shoulder blades like folded wings.

The elites watched closely, noting each change.

Kill-la-Kill-Energy, Solar Regime Discipline

By midday, sparring rings were alive with motion.

Sunnyko moved through one circle like a bright orange comet, calling combinations.

"Sunrise form! Left hook—pivot—drop-kick! Shield stance— now flash!"

Pairs of recruits clashed. At Sunnyko's shout, their fists and feet briefly flared with controlled sunfire—more light than heat, but enough to send shockwaves skipping across the sand.

In the next ring over, Sunssuki drilled a different group with rigid precision.

"You are not brawling," she reminded them coldly. "You are conducting light. Every wasted step is a wasted photon. Again."

Her wooden practice sword flicked out. In a single motion, she tapped five recruits on their knuckles, disarming all of them without breaking stance.

"Watch my feet," she said. "Then watch my eyes. Then watch nothing, because if you blink, the spar is over."

Sunkuzure, meanwhile, oversaw the "problem children"—the ones whose powers had manifested too big, too fast.

A teenager from Tazgummbak threw a punch and accidentally detonated a flashbang of solar light that blinded half his ring.

"Sorry!" he yelped, rubbing his eyes.

Sunkuzure sighed, strolling over through the fading glare.

"You're not a firecracker," she said. "You're a scalpel." Her hand snapped up, two fingers lightly pressing his forehead. The stray light recoiled and re-formed into a tight orb over his fist. "Control first. Show-off later."

Sunmuta and the other male elites worked the endurance courses, sparring personally with anyone cocky enough to challenge them. They took hits without complaint, corrected stances, and occasionally tossed a recruit into the sand with a grin and a "Good effort. Now do it again, but less terrible."

By late afternoon, the initial awkwardness had burned away. The camp glowed—literally. Rows of recruits now shimmered faintly with gold, eyes catching light in shades of amber, hair tipped with subtle orange sheens whenever they channeled.

"That's enough for today," Sungyo announced at last. "Stretch. Hydrate. Then gather at the demonstration ring. His Radiance insists on... 'some fun.'"

The way she said it made every elite exchange a knowing look.

Exhibition Match – Elites vs. the Sun

The central arena in Auttumotto's Sunrise Coliseum filled quickly. Westonglappan citizens poured into the stands, eager to see the promised "Solar Exhibition." News drones floated like metallic fireflies, broadcasting the event to every corner of the continent.

At the center of the ring stood Sunbeam.

No cape. No throne. Just his solid orange uniform, sleeves rolled up, gloves off, expression calm and slightly amused. Under the stadium lights, his orange hair and eyes seemed to drink in and reflect every ray.

Around the ring's edge, Sunnyko, Sungyo, Sunssuki, Sunkuzure, Sunmuta, Sunketsu, Sunnagori, and Sungeyama took their positions.

"This is not a real battle," the announcer reminded the crowd. "This is a Thanksgiving exhibition—a celebration of training, discipline, and very poor life choices by anyone who thinks they can land a hit on the Absolute Leader."

Laughter rolled through the stands.

Solardye, Solardale, Solarstream, Solarstride, and Solarstorm watched from the VIP balcony, arms folded, smirks betraying that they'd seen this before.

A gong sounded.

"Solar elites," Sunbeam said mildly, raising one hand. "You have full permission to attack me with everything short of planetary destruction. Try to give the recruits a good show."

Sunnyko cracked her knuckles. "He said everything," she shouted. "Don't hold back!"

They attacked as one.

Overpowered, but Playful

Sunnyko shot forward first, a streak of orange, heel snapping toward Sunbeam's temple. At the same instant, Sungyo launched a calculated barrage of light lances from long range, each angled so that dodging one would put him in the path of another. Sunssuki came in low with a precise sword strike, while Sunkuzure vanished in a blur, reappearing behind him with a spinning kick.

Sunmuta and the male elites hung back only a heartbeat, then joined in—from above, from underground (Sunmuta bursting out of a light-slicked tunnel), from blind angles the recruits hadn't even realized existed.

To the untrained eye, it looked like a golden hurricane engulfed the center of the arena.

To Sunbeam, it was... choreography.

He moved with almost lazy efficiency.

Sunnyko's kick whistled through the air—met only by a gentle tap of his fingers to her ankle, redirecting her momentum into a safe aerial flip that still looked spectacular to the crowd.

Sungyo's light lances bent around him as if the sun itself refused to scorch him; he traced a casual circle in the air and the beams curved, re-threaded, and neatly dissolved behind his shoulders.

Sunssuki's blade thrust straight for his heart. Sunbeam stepped half a pace aside, letting the blade pass between his arm and ribs, then rested two fingertips on the flat of the sword. With a tiny twist, he used her own momentum to spin her around, cloak flaring, landing her neatly on her feet again.

Sunkuzure appeared at his back. His hand simply reached out without looking, landing in the exact spot on her shoulder that collapsed her rotation into a harmless stumble. She blinked, caught somewhere between annoyance and awe.

From above, Sunmuta dropped like a meteor, fists blazing. Sunbeam didn't even look up; he shifted his weight, let the punch crater the arena in front of him, then reached down and patted Sunmuta's head as if he were reassuring a particularly enthusiastic puppy.

Every touch was soft. Every deflection placed the elite in a safe landing. Every counterstrike was more of a correction than an attack—a precise press to a joint, a light brush at the small of the back, a single fingertip to the forehead that sent a combatant skidding backward like they'd run into the world's gentlest wall.

To the recruits, it was breathtaking.

"Is he even trying?" someone whispered.

Solarstream, watching from above, answered under his breath, "About... one percent."

The elites refused to give up. They escalated—combining attacks, layering beams and feints. Sunnyko called out new formations, Sungyo recalculated trajectories mid-flight, Sunssuki tried to anticipate counters with feints inside feints. Sunkuzure abandoned boredom and went all in, movements a blur of feral grace.

Sunbeam handled it all.

At one point, all eight elites converged. Fists, feet, blades, and beams met in a single coordinated strike meant to at least make him shift.

He smiled.

A pulse of orange light rippled outward from him like a heartbeat.

The elites froze mid-motion, suspended for a fraction of a second as their solar energy resonated with his. Then, gently, the wave set them back down—each standing, unharmed, in a circle around him, weapons lowered by an invisible, respectful force.

The stadium erupted.

Sunbeam inclined his head to his team. "Excellent demonstration," he said. "Our recruits will sleep well from sheer exhaustion tonight."

Sunnyko, breathing hard, wiped sweat from her brow and laughed.

"You're a menace, General," she said. "We threw the sun at you."

"You reminded them," Sunbeam replied quietly, "that power can be overwhelming and still choose to be kind."

He turned to the recruits and the Westonglappan audience.

"This is what I want you to understand," he called, voice ringing across the arena. "Strength is not for domination. It is for protection, for holding back when you could crush. My elites did not fail. They showcased how far a mortal body can go with discipline and dedication. I simply stand at a point they do not need to reach."

He smiled—warm, genuine, the same smile that had drawn lonely people from benches into Lantern Nights back home.

"Train hard. Love harder. Support one another. The Solar Regime will shape your power. But what you use it for—that will always be your choice."

The recruits roared in response, fists raised, eyes alight with reflected dawn.

Sunnyko slung an arm around Sungyo and Sunssuki both; Sunkuzure smacked Sunmuta on the shoulder and muttered that they'd "get him next year," knowing perfectly well they wouldn't.

Above them, the suns of Titanumas dipped lower over Auttumotto's skyline, painting the training fields gold.

Thanksgiving on Westonglappa had begun as a holiday imported from distant cultures. Under the guidance of Sunbeam and his blazing elites, it was slowly becoming something new: a festival of gratitude not only for food and fortune, but for the chance to grow stronger together—and to aim their newfound light at something greater than themselves.

The demand hit like a solar flare.

Clips of the first exhibition match flooded Westonglappa within hours—Sunbeam weaving through a storm of orange light, elites crashing and tumbling and laughing as their Absolute Leader folded their strongest blows into gentle redirects. Comment threads under the footage all said the same thing:

"Again."
"In MY state, please."
"I'll sign up for the Solar Regime if I can see that live."

Hard Teachers, Soft Sun

Two days later, in another Westonglappan state—Westronbung, at the newly christened Sunstride Grand Coliseum—the solar elites were back at work.

This time the stands were filled not with cheering fans, but with rows of nervous recruits. On the arena floor, Sunnyko, Sungyo, Sunssuki, Sunkuzure, Sunmuta, Sunketsu, Sunnagori, and Sungeyama moved like drill sergeants carved from flame.

"Faster!" Sunnyko barked as a line of trainees stumbled through a combination. "You're not stirring soup, you're striking lightning!"

Sungyo paced behind another formation, hands clasped behind her back, eyes sharp. "Your center of gravity is wandering," she told one young man. "So will your future, if you do not fix it. Again."

Sunssuki's voice cut across the sand like a blade. "Your guard is full of holes. The enemy will not politely aim for the shield. Start over."

Even Sunkuzure, normally relaxed, spoke with flinty edges. "You can't daydream through a solar surge," she told a girl whose aura kept flickering. "Sleep later. Focus now."

The recruits obeyed. They were learning, improving—but more than a few faces showed tight jaws, stiff shoulders, that brittle look that comes right before discouragement.

That was when shadows shifted on the upper promenade.

Sunbeam had arrived.

He watched silently for a few minutes, arms folded, orange eyes following each elite, each recruit. Solardye, standing beside him, could already see the decision forming.

"Hard day?" the Supreme Commander murmured.

"Productive," Sunbeam said. "But too sharp around the edges."

He descended the stairs.

A "Punishment" the Crowd Will Love

The elites snapped to attention when he approached.

"General," Sunssuki said, bowing. "We have increased intensity as requested. Their output has risen fourteen percent since—"

"I've seen," Sunbeam interrupted gently. "Excellent work. However..."

He turned his gaze toward a cluster of tired recruits rubbing bruises and pretending not to.

"...our thanksgiving tour is meant to encourage, not terrify."

Sunnyko winced. "We were a little rough, huh?"

"Effective," Sungyo insisted, but her tone softened a fraction.

Sunbeam's smile was faint but unmistakable. "So," he said, "as punishment for overachieving..."

All eight elites straightened warily.

"...you are going to give the people of Westronbung what they keep asking for: a second exhibition match. A bigger one."

Sunnyko blinked. "That's punishment?"

Sunkuzure squinted. "What's the catch?"

"The catch," Sunbeam replied, "is that you will also learn to lighten your tone. I want your drills firm but kind. Voices that lift instead of crush. Show them how powerful people can be gentle—and then, tonight, show them how powerful you can be when you go all out."

He clapped once.

"Solardye, Solarstream—come with me. We have mayors to persuade."

Within three hours, every holo-billboard in Westronbung blazed with the same announcement:

SOLAR REGIME THANKSGIVING EXHIBITION II –
SUNBEAM vs. THE EIGHT ELITES!
Free entry. Free meals and drinks sponsored by local councils.
VIP merchandise bundles courtesy of Sunstride Grand Coliseum.

City leaders had not required much persuading. When the Xtreme Vice Colonel of Starrup could make trillions flow with a policy stroke, when Galaxbeam could rewrite an education budget in a single seminar, no mayor wanted to be the one who turned down Sunbeam offering to cover logistics and draw in half the continent's tourism.

By sunset, the stands overflowed. Merch stalls gave away limited-run orange armbands and sun-emblem jackets. Food courts offered complimentary meals to anyone flashing a recruitment voucher. Social media feeds screamed with tags.

The coliseum lights dimmed. Then the arena floor lit gold.

Sunbeam walked out alone to a roar that felt like the inside of a star.

Across from him, the elites took their places—this time with grins, not grim lines. Their earlier severity had melted during the afternoon as they repeated drills with softer words: "Good adjustment," from Sungyo; "Nice recovery," from Sunssuki; a quiet "You did better than you think," from Sunkuzure when a recruit looked ready to quit.

Now they stood not just as instructors, but as performers about to put on the most spectacular show of their careers.

All-Out Solar Chaos, Carefully Choreographed

"Tonight," Sunbeam called, his voice filling the bowl of the coliseum, "my elites have permission to use every ability at their disposal. Super speed. Strength. Invisibility. Lightning. Fire. Lava. Solar magic. All of it."

The crowd screamed.

"And I," he added lightly, "will do my best to stay alive."

Laughter rolled like thunder.

The gong rang.

They came at him like a myth.

Sunnyko vanished and reappeared in a staccato blur—afterimages of orange hair looping around Sunbeam as she chained kicks and spinning elbows. Sunketsu launched vertical pillars of molten light from the sand, turning the ground into a shifting maze. Sungyo laced the air with intersecting beams that bent, doubled, and split, weaving a net of hard light.

Sunkuzure flickered in and out of view, phasing between visibility and transparency, her strikes only noticed when dust flared where her feet had been.

Sunmuta took a different approach. He hung back, eyes narrowed, fists low, watching. Every step Sunbeam took, he logged: angles, speed, micro-pauses between dodges.

"He favors the left pivot when avoiding vertical strikes," Sunmuta muttered. "Timing between counters is consistent... 0.42 seconds... if we—"

Sunbeam, who could hear wind shift on the far side of a battlefield, heard that too.

Interesting, he thought.

The next attack wave built into a storm.

Sunnagori erupted from the sidelines like a living avalanche, his strength-focused aura turning each stomp into a quake. Sungeyama hurled lightning-javelins that forked into forks of forks, arcing safely overhead yet close enough to thrill the spectators.

Sunbeam dodged, deflected, and, when the crowd needed reassurance, simply tanked. A lightning spear struck him square in the chest; the impact blossomed in a white-gold flare that washed over his uniform and dissipated, leaving only a faint scorch mark that rewove itself into clean cloth.

He moved like he was walking through rain, not a coordinated magical bombardment.

Sunmuta's eyes shone.

He slows slightly when absorbing direct hits instead of dodging... anchoring to distribute force... if we stack timing...

Sunbeam decided it was time to reward that sharpness—and test how flexible it was.

Fake Weakness, Real Lesson

In the next exchange, he let Sunketsu's lava-simulated pillar graze his leg. The pillar was more light than heat—safe for an Absolute Leader—but Sunbeam staggered, hand clutching his thigh.

The crowd gasped.

Sunnyko's eyes went wide. "General?!"

He gave her a strained thumbs-up, working a limp into his step, face tightening as if in pain.

From the edge, Sunmuta's mind raced. There. An actual flaw. Injury reduces his lateral mobility—if we drive him into a pincer with Sunnyko's speed and Sunssuki's blade—

He signaled. Sunnyko snapped immediately into motion, Sunssuki ghosting in from the opposite flank, sword aura burning white-hot, Sungyo adjusting her beam patterns to block obvious escape vectors.

They closed in.

At the last possible instant, Sunbeam's limping gait smoothed out.

His posture straightened.

The "cramp" vanished as if erased.

Sunnyko and Sunssuki's blades swept through the space where he'd been—a hair's breadth away from finally landing a tag—only to cut clean air as Sunbeam blurred.

He reappeared behind them, fingers resting lightly on the backs of their collars.

"Good coordination," he murmured, audible through arena mics. "Do not trust an enemy's first sign of weakness."

Sunnyko groaned. "You faked that cramp?"

Sunbeam's orange eyes danced. "I am very committed to my teaching."

The crowd howled with delight.

Hair-Tickles and Bear Hugs

Sunmuta, though momentarily disoriented, rallied. "Keep pressing!" he shouted. "Even feints reveal something!"

Sunbeam tossed him a small, crumpled object—one of the event flyers.

Instinctively, Sunmuta snatched it, eyes flicking down for half a heartbeat to see what it was.

That half-heartbeat was all Sunbeam needed—to vanish again, slide through a gap in Sunkuzure's invisibility veil, shoulder-check a lava pillar back into harmless sparks.

He knew, of course, that turning his back for that long invited another kind of tactic.

Sunnagori took it.

The powerhouse elite surged forward and locked his arms around Sunbeam from behind in a crushing bear hug, feet digging into the sand, muscles bulging as he squeezed.

The crowd roared. Several recruits leapt to their feet.

"Don't break him!" Sunnyko yelled, half-joking, half-serious.

Sunbeam... relaxed.

Rather than thrash, he let his head fall back against Sunnagori's chest, eyes closing as if settling in for a nap.

"You're very solid," he commented. "Comforting, even."

Sunnagori's ears flushed faintly.

Sunbeam began to gently rock his head side to side, his long orange hair brushing against Sunnagori's jaw and neck in feather-light ticks. It was absurdly affectionate, almost intimate in a sibling-like way, completely disarming.

"G-General," Sunnagori stammered, grip faltering as a strangled laugh escaped him. "That's— stop— that tickles—"

"Does it?" Sunbeam asked innocently, continuing the motion, aura warm, inviting instead of threatening.

The bear hug broke apart into flustered laughter. In the same fluid motion, Sunbeam slipped out, patted Sunnagori's forearm in thanks, and flash-stepped twenty meters away as a barrage of combined attacks—fire lashes from Sunketsu, razor-focused lances from Sungyo, Sunnyko's aerial knee drop—hammered into the space he'd just vacated.

The All-for-One Finale

The match couldn't go on forever, though the crowd would happily have watched until sunrise.

Sunbeam felt the timing in his bones—the way the elites were syncing with one another, how the recruits in the stands now understood not just the spectacle, but the cooperation behind it.

Time for the finale.

He lifted both hands.

"Elites," he called calmly, "all of you. One last push. Everything you have. Together."

There was no hesitation.

Sunnyko's grin went feral. "You heard the man!"

They fanned out, taking positions around him in a wide ring.

Sungyo calculated trajectories in a blink. "On my count," she broadcast into their earpieces. "Three, two, one—"

The world became a crown of light.

Super speed trails twisted through the air, strength-augmented shockwaves rippled the ground, lightning spears threaded between pillars of molten radiance. Invisibility flickers created momentary gaps in perception, only for blades and fists to reappear an instant before impact.

From the stands, it looked like eight different styles of apotheosis converging on a single orange figure.

Sunbeam did not dodge.

He shifted into a stance that felt like something stolen from a dozen martial arts films and earned with centuries of experience: feet grounded, arms raised, fingers splayed, forearms forming a loose cross in front of his chest. His gaze stayed gentle, but his focus sharpened to a needlepoint.

Here comes Sunnyko's right heel. There, Sungyo's triple-lance fan. Sunmuta's late feint. Sunnagori's closing grab. Sunketsu's vertical flare. Sunkuzure's phased strike. Sunssuki's finishing thrust. Sungeyama's overhead arc...

He inhaled.

Time seemed to slow.

When the eight elites reached him, every hand, fist, blade, and beam connected.

At the same instant, so did his.

Sunbeam's palms and fingertips met chestplates and shoulders and forearms with the softest possible pressure—a pat, a blessing, a miniature sunrise pressed against each of them.

A warm, gelatinous aura burst outward from his touch, not as a shockwave, but as a hug that expanded. Golden chains of light flowed around each elite, looping gently around their torsos, linking them through him in a luminous circle.

To their surprise, they found they couldn't move—not from force, but because the energy around them felt like being wrapped in the world's coziest weighted blanket.

"You did beautifully," Sunbeam said, voice carrying over the stunned silence before the roar. "Not for the show, but for the recruits watching. You fought as individuals first... and as a family, last. That is the Solar Regime I want them to see."

Sunnyko blinked rapidly. "Are you— hugging us with light?"

"Affectionate containment," Sungyo muttered, secretly impressed.

Sunkuzure wiggled an arm experimentally. "This is illegal. I feel... safe."

Laughter broke out among the elites, ragged but real.

The chains dissolved into drifting motes that rained down like lazy fireflies, settling on the recruits in the stands. For a heartbeat, every trainee glowed faintly, as if the end of the match had included them in the embrace.

Then the coliseum exploded in sound.

Aftermath: A Sunlit Ripple

The Sunstride Grand Coliseum registered record numbers that night. Attendance maxed out every available seat; overflow crowds watched from projection plazas outside. Concession stands reported they'd "technically sold out" even though most food and drink had been covered by sponsorships and Solar subsidies. The real currency had been goodwill.

Social feeds lit up with clips:

– Sunbeam faking his cramp, then blurring behind Sunnyko and Sunssuki.
– The tickle-escape from Sunnagori's bear hug, already re-captioned a thousand times as "Solar Cuddle Counter."
– The final all-for-one convergence, frozen at the exact moment eight elites and one Absolute Leader met in a blaze of shared light.

Comment metrics counted views in the trillions across Titanumas' networks. More importantly, recruitment queues at nearby kiosks doubled, then tripled. People who had only come for free food left with application forms glowing in their devices.

But inside the arena, amid the celebration, Sunbeam's focus stayed small.

He moved from elite to elite, checking on them like any good instructor after a hard spar—fixing Sunketsu's singed sleeve with a casual flare of heat, handing Sunkuzure a water bottle, listening as Sungyo rattled off adjustments she wanted to test in their next combined attack.

"You're too kind after 'punishing' us," Sunnyko teased, bumping her shoulder into his.

Sunbeam smiled. "You're too harsh on yourselves. The recruits will remember your courage more than my dodges."

He glanced up at the crowd one more time—the cheering faces, the recording devices held high, the recruits sitting straighter, believing a little more in their own potential.

"Besides," he added, "good gratitude stories travel fast. Tonight, the Solar Regime gave Westonglappa a show. Tomorrow, those same people may be standing beside you on the battlefield—or at a community lantern festival, or teaching a class, or healing the injured."

He spread his arms, letting the noise wash over him.

"This," he said softly, almost to himself, "is what an Absolute Leader is for. Not to stand above... but to stand where everyone can see that power and compassion are the same light."

High in the night sky above Westronbung, the coliseum's auxiliary projectors traced a new sigil: a blazing sun surrounded by smaller, rising sparks—eight of them, looping into an orbit.

It looked, to anyone with eyes and a screen, like a promise that this Thanksgiving would echo for years, in every corner where someone watched that match and whispered:

"Maybe I could do that too someday."

Eastoppola's emerald-green flag—four heart-shaped crests burning red and gold around a central sigil—snapped in the ocean wind above Paladimee City.

From the balcony of the Palace of Dalmirrus, the rulers of Echumeta watched four streaks of light cut down through the clouds: one blazing orange, one deep lunar blue, one star-green, one golden-galactic. The streaks slowed, unfolded into radiant sigils, and resolved into four figures descending gently toward the plaza.

General Sunbeam touched down first, boots kissing the marble with a soft flash of orange. Lady Moonbeam alighted beside him, coat fluttering like a ribbon of night-blue. Xtreme Vice Colonel Starbeam stepped out of a lattice of green light, posture as straight as a gun barrel. Professor Galaxbeam arrived last, golden robes settling around him as if gravity itself was being polite.

The crowd filling Kalisreeg Plaza erupted—citizens of Paladimee, visiting traders from Ethenappa City and Desotown, sailors from Parracacoz's navy on shore leave. Phones and crystal recorders jumped up in a forest of hands. News drones circled, feeding the broadcast across all of Eastoppola.

A herald stepped forward, but the Echumetan Chancellor lifted a hand and smiled.

"Formality later," she said, microphone already live. "Our guests have crossed oceans. Let us greet them as family."

She offered the mic to Sunbeam.

He accepted it with both hands, bowing slightly—Solar etiquette offered to an Eastoppolan stage.

"People of Echumeta," Sunbeam said, voice warm enough to rival the tropical air, "thank you for letting four very overworked, very over-dressed leaders invade your holiday."

The laughter that rolled back was honest, not just respectful.

"This week," he continued, "we have seen Sollarisca, Lunna, Starrup, and Galaxenchi shine in their own ways. Here, on Eastoppola, we want something simpler: to say thank you for existing. For holding this continent together through storms and shortages and whatever ridiculousness the wider world throws at you."

Beside him, Moonbeam slipped her arm around his.

"And we want to make sure," she added, "that no one on Eastoppola spends this Thanksgiving alone."

Her words hit the microphones like a chord struck on every heart. Behind them, the four regimes' Supreme Commanders straightened: Sunadye, Lunardye, Stardrye, Galaxadye and their counterparts, ready to move as soon as those words became marching orders.

Sunrise over Paladimee

By late morning, Echtypherium Crossing had become a pop-up miracle.

Under strings of lanterns in Solar orange, Lunar blue, Star-green, and Galactic gold, new Sunrise Connection booths lined the streets. Volunteers from all four regimes sat side by side with Echumetan locals, pairing strangers into speed-friendship tables, queueing families for community dinners, matching lonely elders with chatty students.

Sunbeam moved among them almost anonymously—just another orange figure with rolled-up sleeves and a clipboard, pausing to kneel so he could speak eye-to-eye with a shy boy on a bench.

"You don't have to talk much," he told the boy gently. "But you deserve to sit near people who would be happy to hear you when you feel like talking. That is all we're doing today—moving lonely benches closer to warm tables."

Across the square, Moonbeam stood with Lunardye and Lunarstride at a blue-canopied stall, signing forms for Lunar Community Houses to be co-built in Aelbarrow and Vurallbee.

"We will send Moonwis and Moonwisdom to help with data and planning," she said to the Echumetan ministers. "But the hearts and rules will be yours. Lunna does not export dictatorship. Only moonlight."

One of the ministers blinked. "That... sounded strangely romantic for a housing policy."

Moonbeam only smiled. "Housing is romance. Doors that open. Lights that stay on. People who know your name when you come home late."

Behind her, Lunardye translated those words into precise policy terms for the recorders, his voice steady, giving the Lunar Regime's philosophy a soldier's backbone.

Star-Green Circuits across Eastoppola

In the afternoon the focus shifted to Starbeam.

At the Shigmu Center energy forum, he stood before a massive map of Eastoppola, green lines algorithmically tracing optimal routes for clean-grid corridors from Fulmatam's Fulcram docks up through Ethenappa City, overland to Pazzunberg in Parracacoz and east toward Johhalccum.

"The Star Regime," he said, laser pointer steady, "has calculated that your continent can become net-clean within twelve years without sacrificing growth. We will provide converters, training, and initial capital. In return, we ask only transparency and shared research rights. Prosperity is more stable when everybody can breathe."

An Eastoppolan economist leaned forward. "Why give us so much?" she asked quietly. "You could charge us until the suns burn out."

Starbeam considered, then answered with disarming bluntness.

"Because a green world calls louder than profit," he said. "And because I have seen what happens when we wait for disasters to force our hand. I prefer voluntary wisdom."

Stardrye, standing at his shoulder, added the numbers with a rare hint of humor.

"Also," he said, "Starrup is already rich. We are now experimenting with the radical idea of not hoarding."

Laughter again—but this time threaded with relief.

Outside, Starstream and Starstride oversaw portable demo stations where Eastoppolan kids raced mini solar cars and learned how "Green Swags" grants could upgrade their schools' power systems. Starstorm spoke softly with shipbuilders from Parracacoz about reinforcing their yards against rising seas.

Everywhere, the Star Regime's message was the same: Thank you for surviving this long. Let us help you survive longer.

Golden Lessons in Paladimee's Streets

As evening drew near, Galaxbeam moved with quiet grace through Vingopaul Shrine Street, flanked by Galaxadye, Galaxastream, and a small cloud of students clutching notebooks.

Restaurants had spilled onto the pavement—stalls steaming with gyoza, siu mai, grilled fish, sweet potato cakes, ube tarts, and holiday takes on American turkey dishes re-imagined through Chinese-Japanese kitchens. Signs switched fluidly between Traditional Chinese, Japanese, and Eastoppolan script.

A Cantonese vendor called out, "老師！試下呢個南瓜餅啦！" Teacher! Try this pumpkin cake!

Galaxbeam laughed softly and answered in kind, "多謝晒，聞落好香。" Thank you, it smells wonderful.

Beside him, a Japanese family bowed slightly as they handed him a skewer of soy-glazed tofu.

"感謝祭、おめでとうございます," the father said. "Happy Thanksgiving."

"こちらこそ," Galaxbeam replied. "On the contrary—thank you for letting us share it with you."

His students watched as he drifted from stall to stall, sampling small bites, asking the history of each recipe, listening more than he spoke.

Eventually they reached a small square where paper lanterns in moon, star, and galaxy shapes floated above a temporary stage. Galaxapuff, in formal golden uniform, was already there organizing children into neat rows for a lantern release ceremony.

"Professor," she reported. "We have volunteers from Echumeta, Fulmatam, and Parracacoz. Mixed ages, mixed languages. All very excited."

"Perfect," Galaxbeam said. "Let us give them a story to attach to the sky."

He stepped onto the stage, microphone in hand, lantern-light turning his hair to molten gold.

"Tonight," he began, "I will not speak only as the Absolute Leader of Galaxenchi, but as a teacher of humans. On Titanumas. On Earth. Anywhere holidays like this exist."

He walked slowly along the front edge of the stage, meeting faces as he spoke.

"In some histories," he said, "Thanksgiving began as a harvest feast between colonists and the people who already lived on their land. In other histories, it marks survival after hunger, or victory after war, or a simple decision by a leader that one day a year, everyone should stop and remember they are still alive."

He lifted one of the lanterns; its fragile paper glowed warm in his palm.

"Religiously, it can be prayer. Socially, it can be apology. Economically, it can even be distraction. But under all costumes, Thanksgiving is a question pointed at each of us: Who helped you make it this far?"

A hush fell over the square. Even the distant traffic seemed to soften.

"Gratitude," Galaxbeam continued, "is not just saying thanks for food and money. It is thanking the friend who answered a message at 3 a.m. The stranger who held a door when your arms were full. The teacher who noticed you were quiet. The partner who forgave your worst day. The country that—despite its flaws—took one more step away from cruelty instead of toward it."

As he spoke, large projection screens above the square showed montage scenes: Sunbeam leading Sunrise Connection dinners; Moonbeam laughing with Lunar barefoot-garden walkers; Starbeam sharing vegetarian roasts in Starrup; Eastoppolan farmers standing in newly restored fields; Westonglappan trainees glowing faintly as new powers awoke.

"We, the so-called 'Absolute Leaders,' are not the heroes of this story," Galaxbeam said. "You are. We are simply custodians of power, temporarily entrusted with ridiculous amounts of responsibility."

He smiled, a little wry.

"And we are thankful that you have not yet chased us out of office."

Laughter rippled gently through the square.

"So tonight," he concluded, holding the lantern high, "we release these lights to say: we see you. We see your effort, your stubbornness, your small kindnesses. May they rise higher than any of our flags."

He switched languages without missing a beat:

"多謝大家，感恩節快樂。"

"感謝祭、おめでとう。"

"Happy Thanksgiving."

On his signal, hundreds of lanterns lifted into the sky at once, becoming a slow-moving starfield above Paladimee.

Across Eastoppola

The tour did not end in Echumeta.

Over the next days, the four regimes moved like a benevolent storm front across Eastoppola:

In Fulmatam's Ethenappa City, Sunbeam and Moonbeam co-hosted a Lantern Night River Walk, pairing lonely residents with new friends and quietly nudging compatible couples together with a matchmaker's intuition.

In Desotown City, Starbeam and Starrapuff opened a temporary Green Swags Aid Pavilion, where surplus goods from Starrup were given away rather than sold: energy-efficient heaters, refurbished laptops, solar cookstoves. "Profit is not the only proof of success," Starbeam told the local press. "Sometimes the proof is simply fewer people shivering."

At Parracacoz's Seabridge Forum, Galaxbeam delivered a rapid-fire lecture on disaster preparedness, switching between English, Cantonese, and Japanese as he annotated holographic charts for naval officers and students from the Parracacoz Naval Bastion.

Throughout, the Supreme Commanders spread outward like guiding stars.

Sunadye coordinated joint training exercises with Eastoppolan militaries. Lunardye and Lunarstream organized healing concerts under blue-lit skies. Stardrye negotiated scholarship programs. Galaxadye set up mobile libraries.

Everywhere they went, the message was the same:

You are not alone on this continent. You are not alone on this planet. When we give thanks, we give thanks for you as well.

And as Eastoppola's nights brightened with borrowed suns, moons, stars, and galaxies, the world quietly took note that this year, Thanksgiving was not just a day on a calendar.

It had become, through four overpowered, overly earnest leaders and their armies of Commanders and elites, a living network of gratitude stretching from Sollarisca to Lunna, from Starrup to Galaxenchi, from Westonglappa to Eastoppola—a promise that in the strange, loud universe of Titanumas, kindness could be just as contagious as war.

Time moved gently forward after the roaring success of the Solar Coliseum rematch.
The echoes of cheering crowds still clung to Sunbeam's ears as the four Absolute Leaders and their entourages crossed the ocean once more—this time toward the emerald-colored continent of Eastoppola, land of clover flags and intricate city-states.

Arrival in Paladimee – Echumeta State

Their first stop was Paladimee City in Echumeta State, the jade-roofed capital where bell towers and skybridges stitched together a skyline of pastel palaces.

The Palace of Dalmirrus had never been this full.

Under vaulted ceilings painted with saints and star-charts, the four Absolute Leaders walked side by side:

General Sunbeam, radiant in his flawless orange regalia, eyes warm and bright.

Lady Moonbeam, her deep midnight-blue attire trimmed with soft lunar silver.

X-Vice Colonel Starbeam, in his sharp green uniform, medals catching the chandelier light.

Professor Galaxbeam, golden-yellow robes flowing like liquid starlight.

Along the red-carpeted hall waited Eastoppola's regional leaders—dukes from Aelbarrow, envoys from Vurallbee, magistrates from Munhikiln, and scholars from Tommhilkk and Qallzinn. Each bowed in their own local fashion; each was met with a handshake, a small bow, or in Sunbeam's case, a brief, sincere hug that made the Eastoppolan guards stiffen and then grin.

"Welcome to Echumeta," the Paladimee governor announced. "Today, we celebrate Thanks-Giving of Continents."

Sunbeam, Moonbeam, Starbeam, and Galaxbeam stepped onto the balcony that overlooked Kalisreeg Plaza. Below, thousands of Eastoppolans waved flags—some their own green clover banner, some the orange sun of Sollarisca, the blue crescent of Lunna, the green star of Starrup, and the golden sigil of Galaxenchi.

Moonbeam leaned her shoulder lightly against Sunbeam's.
"Look at them," she murmured. "Nobody is alone today. This is how prosocial unity should feel."

Sunbeam smiled, the crowd's roar reflected in his bright eyes.
"We'll keep it that way," he answered. "No loneliness, no forgotten hearts—only crowded tables."

Supreme Commanders On Tour

While the Absolute Leaders handled ceremonies, the Supreme Commanders became the headliners of an ongoing, continent-wide "Thanksgiving-Training Tour."

In Paladimee's Shigmu Center, Solardye supervised a joint Solar–Eastoppolan drill. Rows of Westonglappa and Eastoppola volunteers in loaned orange coats ran obstacle courses, practiced synchronized strikes, and learned how to channel basic solar light into harmless spark-bursts that crackled like firecrackers.

"Remember!" Solardye's voice boomed. "Power exists to protect community, not to posture!"

Beside him, elite trainers Sunnyko, Sungyo, Sunssuki, and Sunkuzure—all in sharp, Kill-la-Kill-inspired uniforms—demonstrated fluid combination attacks against simulation drones. Their movements were crisp, almost dance-like; their hair, in varied shades of orange, whipped and glowed as they moved.

Every successful combo triggered an eruption of golden light that made the watching recruits gasp.

In a corner of the hall, Sunmuta, Sunketsu, and Sunnagori critiqued footage on floating holo-screens.

"Your stance is solid," Sunmuta told a nervous recruit, fingers tapping analytical patterns on a tablet. "But you hesitate when you imagine hurting someone. That is good. Let us teach you controlled restraint rather than fear."

From the Lunar side, Lunardye and Lunardale hosted meditation circles inside the quiet stone cloisters of the Church of Hopefilius. Recruits sat barefoot on cool tiles as Moonbeam's elites guided them through breathing exercises, lunar-energy focusing, and practical empathy drills.

"Martial skill without emotional literacy," Lunardye told them, "is just a prettier shape of cruelty."

Across town at Respmuchuta Hold, Starradye, Starrastride, and Starrastorm supervised environmental restoration demonstrations. Volunteers planted shimmering bio-engineered trees along the canals of Echtypherium Crossing, while Star Regime engineers showcased compact fusion recyclers that devoured trash and exhaled clean air.

Galaxenchi's Supreme Commanders—the analytical Galaxadye, tranquil Galaxadale, swift Galaxastream, composed Galaxastride, storm-voiced Galaxastorm, and exuberant Galaxapuff—spread out through Vingopaul Shrine, Tchferrombust Monastery, and Echtypherium Crossing, teaching everything from advanced time-space notation to ethical technology use.

At one point, Galaxapuff convinced Galaxbeam to pose for an impromptu "group selfie" with an entire lecture hall of students, everyone throwing peace signs while holographic kanji and kana for "gratitude" floated above their heads.

Fulmatam State – Street-Festival Anime Energy

The next leg of the tour carried them to Fulmatam State, beginning with Ethenappa City.

Ethenappa remodeled its riverfront overnight into a cross-continental festival. Food stalls lined the water, selling everything from roasted turkeys basted in Eastoppolan herbs to Sollariskan sun-fruit skewers, Lunar rice cakes shaped like crescent moons, Starrup emerald mochi, and Galaxenchi-style taiyaki filled with sweet purple yam.

Sunbeam and Moonbeam walked hand in hand through the crowded night market, trailed by an excited camera crew and clusters of elites.

"General Sunbeam! Lady Moonbeam!" vendors called, shoving skewers and boxed meals into their hands. "Try this! For our guests!"

Sunbeam insisted on paying anyway—and then overpaying, turning each transaction into a mini-donation drive. People protested; he just laughed.

"If I don't let my wallet be as generous as my mouth," he said, "my ideology of Romantic Prosocialism becomes just poetry, not policy."

Moonbeam nudged him with her elbow.
"And we both know you have enough poetry already."

Nearby, Sunnyko and Sunssuki squared off in a friendly sparring exhibition atop a temporary arena in Desotown City. Their Kill-la-Kill-inspired uniforms flared dramatically with every clash. Firework-like solar bursts rippled from their kicks and blade arcs, painting the sky orange and gold.

The announcer's voice cracked with excitement as he shouted into the mic:

"Can they land a decisive hit on General Sunbeam this time?!"

Sunbeam stepped into the ring at the audience's demand, joined by Sungyo, Sunkuzure, Sunmuta, Sunketsu, and Sunnagori. What followed was pure anime spectacle: overlapping trails of light, blurs of motion, close-ups of determined eyes, delighted gasps whenever Sunbeam dodged a full-force strike with millimeter precision or deflected a combined attack with only two fingers.

Yet between every exchange, his tone remained soft:

"Good control, Sunnyko. You stopped your sword exactly where you meant to."

"Sunmuta, your analysis is superb—now trust your body to act on it before your mind finishes the paragraph."

When the match climaxed in the "all-for-one" convergence they had rehearsed, Sunbeam let every elite touch him at the same instant—then gently placed his palm over each of their hearts in a chain of warm, glowing energy, turning the entire finale into a group embrace rather than a victory pose.

The recruits watching from the stands screamed themselves hoarse. Enrollment booths outside the stadium flooded. Eastoppolan social media exploded with clips titled "Absolute Leader Sunbeam vs. His Own Anime Squad (Part 2)" and "Why Are the Solar Regime Elites So Hot and Soft at the Same Time."

Parracacoz Coast – Naval Parades and Shared Histories

From Fulmatam, the AES delegation flew to Parracacoz State, landing in the maritime capital Pazzunberg. The harbor was packed with warships and civilian ferries draped in flags—Eastoppola's green clover banner alongside the symbols of the four regimes.

Admiral Varrelyn Stormbreaker and Captain Lyris Moonwatch—old allies from earlier naval campaigns—stood ready at the Parracacoz Naval Bastion. They saluted the Absolute Leaders not with rigid formality, but with relieved familiarity.

"Last time you visited," Varrelyn said to Moonbeam, "we were drafting battle plans. This time we are drafting festival schedules. I prefer this timeline."

Moonbeam chuckled. "So do I. But the discipline we learned in war makes peace days taste better."

Together, they sailed a ceremonial flotilla along the coast past Chezzaro Town, Fulcram, Eastergriffinlok, and the enclave of Fognesse. On each stop, the Supreme Commanders descended onto piers to greet fisherfolk, dock workers, and families, holding small "harbor classes" where they explained how joining the Solar, Lunar, Star, or Galaxy Regime could transform ordinary courage into structured, protective power.

Starrastorm gave a speech beneath a line of fluttering laundry in Eastergriffinlok's hillside district:

"Heroism is not a personality type," he told a crowd of teens who stared up at his green hair in awe. "It is a habit. You train it like a muscle. Our regimes simply offer the gym."

Galaxbeam, perched on a crate, translated his speech into accented Eastoppolan, casually mixing in Cantonese and Japanese phrases he'd picked up on the cruise, making the locals laugh at his deliberate, teacher-like pronunciation drills.

Anime-Slice-of-Life Moments Across Eastoppola

The tour stretched across the continent, and with it came a montage of vivid, anime-style scenes:

In Aelbarrow, Sunbeam and Starbeam competed in an absurd cooking show hosted by a local TV station. Sunbeam tried to follow a recipe and accidentally invented "Sun-Blessed Curry," so spicy that even elites broke into comical sweat fountains, while Moonbeam calmly ate spoonfuls and declared it "refreshing."

In Vurallbee, Lunardye organized a lantern-floating ceremony on a misty lake, inviting citizens to write what they were thankful for on slips of paper. As lanterns drifted out, Moonbeam wove faint lunar light between them, joining individual prayers into a single glowing ribbon.

In Munhikiln, Galaxastream and Galaxapuff dragged Galaxbeam into a small local convention—a mash-up anime/game festival where Eastoppolan teens cosplayed as Sun Soldiers, Moon Rangers, Star Marines, and Galax Guards. Seeing a kid in a slightly crooked Galaxbeam wig trip over their robe, the real Galaxbeam hurried over, fixed the costume, and posed for a photo, holding up a peace sign while the crowd squealed.

In Johhalccum, Solardye, Starradye, Lunardye, and Galaxadye held a joint seminar in a sports dome, each explaining their branch's training philosophy. The four of them shared the central stage, spotlights crossing like the beams of a giant celestial compass.

"You do not become an Elite by hating your old self," Galaxadye said calmly. "You become Elite by educating your old self."

Romanticism, Prosocialism, and Eastoppolan Hearts

Through all of this, Sunbeam and Moonbeam kept quietly nudging Eastoppola toward their shared ideology.

In every city, they hosted "Gratitude Circles" instead of dry diplomatic banquets. Tables were round, not rectangular; seating was randomized so that mayors sat next to fishermen, nobles next to clerks, students next to visiting elites.

Sunbeam would stand, glass of sparkling juice raised.

"Introduce yourselves," he would say. "Share one thing you are thankful for, and one person you refuse to let remain isolated this year."

Moonbeam watched faces soften as strangers found points of connection: shared childhood streets, mutual friends, similar losses. She slipped subtle crescents of soothing lunar light along the edges of the room, quieting social anxiety and encouraging courage in shy voices.

Rumors spread across Eastoppola:

If you attend a Sunbeam–Moonbeam event, you leave with at least one new friend. If you go single and want to stay single, they'll respect you. If you go lonely and want connection, they'll make sure you are seen.

It wasn't mind control. It was deliberate culture-crafting—romanticism as policy, prosocialism as infrastructure.

Thanksgiving Across a Continent

By the time the tour reached the coastal state capitals farther east, Eastoppola felt different.

Recruitment centers brimmed with applicants eager to join the Solar, Lunar, Star, or Galaxy Regimes—not because they wanted to escape their homeland, but because the Absolute Leaders framed service as a way to protect Eastoppola while still remaining proudly Eastoppolan.

Supreme Commanders—Solardye, Lunardye, Starradye, Galaxadye and their counterparts—oversaw new training academies built in partnership with local governments. Elites like Sunnyko, Sungyo, Sunssuki, Sunkuzure, Sunmuta, Sunketsu, Sunnagori and many others rotated through as guest instructors, their earlier sparring fame making them instant campus celebrities.

In Eastoppolan animation studios, young artists doodled the four Absolute Leaders eating local street food, attending school festivals, and giving thumbs-up on lecture posters. Merch tables at markets filled with unofficial but lovingly drawn chibi Sunbeams and Moonbeams.

On the final night of their Eastoppola circuit, the entire AES delegation stood on a high clifftop above a glittering coastal city—lanterns, fireworks, and bioluminescent tide all shining together.

Sunbeam looked over at Moonbeam, Starbeam, and Galaxbeam, then down at the gathered Supreme Commanders and elites talking, laughing, and planning the next wave of training.

"This," he said softly, "is what Thanksgiving looks like when shared between worlds."

Moonbeam nodded, threading her fingers through his.

"Not just a day on a calendar," she replied. "A practice. A habit. A promise we keep renewing."

Starbeam tilted his head back, watching emerald-colored fireworks bloom.
"Next year," he said, "we'll need a bigger continent."

Galaxbeam, eyes reflecting a thousand lights, smiled that quiet scholar's smile.

"Next year," he agreed, "we may not call it a continent at all. We might just call it...home."

And as the camera drones swooped overhead, broadcasting this moment of cosmic camaraderie to Sollarisca, Lunna, Starrup, Galaxenchi, Westonglappa, and every corner of Eastoppola, the scene froze for a heartbeat—like the final frame of an anime episode—before the universe exhaled and moved on to whatever festival, war, or wonder would come next.

Word of the Paladimee coliseum bout did not just travel; it detonated across Eastoppola like a happy orange explosion.

Clips of Sunbeam casually deflecting molten comets and then hugging his own elites were replayed in taverns, train stations, even inside quiet temples where priests pretended not to watch on their datapads. Comment sections flooded with one demand:

"DO IT AGAIN—IN THE EAST."

Another Coliseum, Another Sun

Ethenappa City, in the wide Fulmatam State, answered first.

Their harbor—a forest of cranes and wind-turbine towers—lit up with banners of orange and gold. In the heart of the city, the ancient stone amphitheater called Fulcrum Arena had been retrofitted with modern shields and camera drones. Tonight, its terraces were packed so tight that the crowd became one living, roaring ring around the combat floor.

High above, VIP skystands hovered in a slow circle. In the central one, Sunbeam stood at the rail, cape stirring in the updraft, eyes bright.

"Alright," he murmured, watching the crowd chant his name and the names of his elites. "Eastoppola wanted a show. Let us give them training disguised as fireworks."

He lifted one hand and made a little swirling gesture, almost like he was twirling an invisible pen.

Down on the staging floor, six familiar orange-clad figures straightened—Solardye, Solardale, Solarstream, Solarstride, Solarstorm, and Solarpuff, the full ring of Solar Supreme Commanders.

They moved as one, stepping forward and saluting.

"Commander line present," Solardye said, voice carrying through the arena speakers. "Awaiting your madness, General."

Sunbeam smiled. "Not madness," he replied over the open channel. "Curriculum."

He snapped his fingers.

From the tunnel gates poured the hand-picked elites:

Sunnyko, Sungyo, Sunssuki, Sunkuzure, Sunpew, Sunnetta, Sunkame, Sundeath, Sunsheel, Sunsuna, Sunnon, Sunliz, Sunnica, Sunleaf—the Sunfire Maidens, each human female, each brimming with dangerous grace.

Sunketsu, Sunnagori, Sunmuta, Sungeyama, Sunsword, Sungun, Sunklein, Suncliff, Sungil, Sunlubb—the Sunblade Line, human male specialists in close-quarters devastation.

Their boots hit the sand in disciplined rhythm, but their eyes shone like kids who'd been told the playground had no closing time tonight.

The announcer's voice cracked with excitement.

"Fulcrum Arena, brace yourselves! By popular demand—THE GENERAL VS. EVERYONE: EASTOPPOLA EDITION!"

The roar from the terraces rolled like thunder against the shielded sky.

Ignition

Sunbeam walked down to meet his forces in the center circle, the Fulcrum sigil etched beneath his feet.

"Same rules as Paladimee," he said, turning slowly so every elite could see his face. "You go all out. You try to win. You show our new Eastoppolan and Westonglappan recruits what commitment looks like."

Sunkuzure tightened her gloves, eyes glittering. "And you, General?"

"I do exactly as much as necessary," Sunbeam answered. "And just a little more than that, for style."

Sunmuta pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose—pure analyst even in armor. "Hypothesis: if we combine our output and synchronise bursts, probability of landing a solid hit rises by—"

"Sunmuta," Sungyo cut in, rolling her shoulders, twin sun-blades humming in her hands. "Less numbers. More punching."

Solarpuff's voice crackled over the command line. "We will be monitoring everything, General. If we detect an exploitable weakness, I will shout it at the top of my lungs."

"Good," Sunbeam replied lightly. "I have always wanted my flaws to be a public spectacle."

The arena shields flared active—vast hexagonal panes of shimmering orange.

"Ready," Sunbeam said.

He inhaled.

Light climbed up his limbs, lazy at first, like sunrise over water. Then it thickened, brightened, and collapsed inward until his silhouette burned with a cloak of molten gold, thin streams of lava-light drifting from his shoulders and boots.

He was walking, breathing fusion.

"Solar Regime—ignite."

Around him, his elites erupted.

Sunnyko and Sunssuki burst into twin spirals of flame, their uniforms shifting into heat-proof combat forms, hair lifting in windless solar drafts. Sunkame and Sundeath layered themselves in obsidian-rimmed lava armor, cracks between plates glowing white-hot. Sunsword and Sungun coated their weapons in smears of liquid sunlight. Solardye's entire outline became a burning corona, each footstep leaving a molten glyph that cooled into glass.

The crowd's cheer turned half into a gasp.

From the VIP stand, an Eastoppolan commentator whispered, "They are turning the arena into a volcano...and he is smiling."

Chess in a Volcano

The first wave came overhead—Sunleaf, Sunnica, Sunsuna, and Sunliz leaping high, their combined fire forming a meteor shower of golden-orange spears. Sunbeam barely glanced up. With a gentle twist of his wrist, he bent their trajectories, letting them punch into the sand around him in a perfect ring, throwing up a dramatic plume without so much as singing his coat.

"Good opening," he called. "Try for my blind spots, not my comfort zone."

Sunketsu took that as permission. He vanished in a flicker of speed, reappearing behind Sunbeam with a heel wreathed in magma, scything downward. Sunbeam simply...wasn't there. He'd stepped half a pace to the side, letting the kick slam into the ground.

Sunketsu winced, ankle lodged in cooling glass. "Ow. Respectfully...ow."

"Footwork, Sunketsu," Sunbeam said kindly, tapping his shoulder before ghosting away again. "Your enthusiasm outruns your balance."

On the ridge of the arena, Solardale watched like a patient general studying a war puzzle.

"Solarstream, Solarstride, triangulate," he ordered over the commander channel. "We force him into predictable dodges. Then Solarpuff coordinates a binding sweep from the Sunfire Maidens."

Solarstream was already moving, leaving stuttering afterimages as he circled. Solarstride's long strides cut through the fiery debris like a metronome.

"On your mark, Solardale," Solarstride said.

Sunmuta's voice layered over theirs, rapid-fire. "General's dodge pattern shows a 0.4 second micro-stall whenever he chooses not to counterstrike. If we can create a false opening precisely at the twenty-third—"

"—he will see it," Solarpuff interrupted. "And he will enjoy seeing it. But we will still try."

On the ground, Sungyo and Sunnyko slashed crossing arcs of lava in front of Sunbeam, forcing him to jump. At that exact instant, Solarstream blurred through from the right, Solarstride from the left, beams of compressed sunlight lancing in.

To the audience, it looked perfect.

To Sunbeam, it looked delightfully like homework.

He twisted midair, folding his body through the tiny gap between the beams, boots tapping lightly on Solarstream's forearm as if using him as a stepping stone. For half a heartbeat he balanced there, upside down, hair flaring in the heat.

"Excellent," he said calmly.

Then he flipped again, landing in the only square of untouched sand left in the entire circle.

Solarstream skidded to a stop, panting. "You know you are impossible, yes?"

"Frequently reminded," Sunbeam replied.

The Eastoppolan Gambit

High in the VIP skystand, Solarpuff sat with a tablet balanced on one knee, tactical readouts streaming. Beside her sat Sunbond, SunM (SM), and Sunwis—the Solar Regime's terrifyingly efficient trio of strategists, their eyes flickering from graphs to the arena and back.

SunM pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "His micro-reactions are slower than yesterday," she murmured. "He is holding back."

Sunwis narrowed his gaze. "He is also letting them steer the pattern. He wants them to believe they are closing in."

Sunbond nodded. "If we time a full-ring rush from Sunmuta's signal—"

A shadow fell over their seats.

They blinked up.

A grinning Eastoppolan vendor was parked in front of them with a hover-tray loaded down with drinks and snacks—iced sweet coffee, hot spiced citrus tea, sparkling fruit water, trays of pastries, steaming bowls of something that smelled suspiciously like festival noodles.

"Complimentary refreshments from the General of the Solar Regime," the vendor announced. "He insisted all tactical analysts remain... hydrated."

Solarpuff stared.

"Hydrated," she repeated flatly.

Sunbond squinted down at the arena. Hundreds of meters away, in the middle of a swirling firestorm, Sunbeam just happened to turn his head and give the VIP stand the tiniest, guilty little wave.

SunM snorted. "He's trying to throw off our calculations."

Sunwis exhaled, defeated. "He knows that if we find a real exploit, we will torture him with it during the annual debrief. This is self-defense."

Solarpuff accepted a cup of citrus tea, eyes still narrowed.

"Fine," she muttered, taking a sip. "But we will still find something. I refuse to be out-maneuvered by a man who flirts with probability."

Fire, Lava, and Social Skills

Back in the arena, the temperature climbed.

Sunkame and Sundeath called up literal rivers of lava from the shielded ground, guiding them in curving channels. Sunsheel and Sunnon danced atop the molten flows, hurling compressed globes of solar plasma. Sungun and Suncliff converted their rifles to full magic output, bullets becoming streaks of pure light.

For a glorious minute, Sunbeam disappeared entirely in the storm.

Explosions shook the shields. The Eastoppolan commentators shouted over each other, trying to track the impossible.

"Is he hit?"

"There—no—wait—was that—"

The firestorm collapsed inward.

Sunbeam walked out of it.

His coat was in tatters, edges smoking, hair a wild corona around his head—but his skin glowed unblemished. Light bled out from him in slow, syrupy waves, instantly vaporizing any stray embers that got too close.

He looked...delighted.

"Excellent output," he called, voice echoing clear. "You would reduce a Death Regime siege tank to vapor in under thirty seconds with that."

Sunsuna grinned fiercely, wiping sweat from her brow. "We are not shooting at a tank, General."

"No," Sunbeam agreed gently. "You are shooting at the man who loves you and signs your hazard pay. Terrifying, really."

Laugh rippled through the arena—even some of the elites snorted mid-stance.

Sunmuta pushed his glasses up again, scanning rapidly. "He's absorbing and dispersing all impact through micro-vented dimensional shifts. Theoretically, if we overloaded the transitions—"

Sunbeam's voice came through their comms, amused.

"Sunmuta, you are thinking in straight lines again."

Sunmuta jerked. "You can't hear my calculations—"

"I can read your eyebrows from across a battlefield," Sunbeam replied. "Also, you narrate out loud when excited."

Playing to Lose, Winning With Hugs

The General slowed.

His shoulders dropped; the flare around him dimmed a fraction. He let a stray bolt from Sunsword glance off his side instead of nullifying it. He mis-stepped just enough that Sunklein's charge actually forced him to brace.

To the crowd, it looked like the Solar General was at last being pushed.

To his commanders, it looked like bait.

"Now!" Solardye roared.

Every Supreme Commander moved.

Solarstride blurred in first, chaining a flurry of blazing kicks. Solarstorm called thunder down through the shielded dome, converting lightning into spears of solid light. Solarstream vaulted off a ribbon of flame, spinning into a corkscrew of energy. Solardale anchored them with a gravity well, pinning Sunbeam's feet for a crucial heartbeat.

All around, the Sunfire Maidens and Sunblade Line converged. Sunnyko and Sungyo from the front, Sunssuki and Sunkuzure from the sides, Sunpew and Sunnetta from above on jets of heat. Sunsword, Sungun, Sunklein, Suncliff, Sungil, Sunlubb closing the ring, weapons primed.

In the stands, people stood up, breath caught.

Sunbeam looked at the blazing wall rushing toward him from every direction.

He smiled.

"Perfect," he whispered.

He shifted into a stance half martial arts, half dance—arms crossing loosely, fingers spread, knees bending just enough.

The impact came.

To outside eyes, every hand, fist, blade, and blast connected at once. A sunburst of raw power swallowed the center of the arena, the shields whining as they bled off excess energy.

Silence punched the crowd.

Then the light faded.

Sunbeam still stood.

Every elite, every commander, was plastered to him—frozen mid-strike, yet caught in a network of soft, glowing bands. Not chains of force—more like thick, gelatinous ribbons of warm light that wrapped around wrists, waists, shoulders, gently pinning them against him and against each other.

It looked less like a victory pile and more like the universe's largest group hug.

Sunssuki blinked up at him from where she was stuck against his chest. "General...?"

He chuckled, breath warm over her hair.

"You all landed your hits," he said, voice carrying to every corner of the arena. "Everyone watching saw you combine everything you had. That is what I wanted."

Sunnagori squirmed in the back, huge arms still locked around Sunbeam's torso. "Did we...win?"

"You almost inconvenienced me," Sunbeam answered solemnly. "Which is practically a miracle in itself."

Laughter broke out everywhere—on the floor, in the stands, even in the VIP skystand where Solarpuff tried and failed to maintain her serious face.

Sunbeam's expression softened.

"Listen carefully," he said to the elites pressed around him, but also to the thousands watching. "I do not spar with you to prove I am stronger. We already know that—I am an Absolute Leader, and that is a terrifyingly lonely kind of thing."

The glow around them pulsed, comforting.

"I do this," he continued, "to show you that your power, when combined and coordinated, can shake the world. To teach you to trust one another's strikes. To remind you that even as we wield fire and lava and light, we must never forget why we fight: so that people like the ones in these stands can argue over which snack is better, and flirt in the comment sections, and go home safe."

Sunleaf sniffed, eyes suspiciously bright. "General, that's not fair," she muttered. "You can't just say things like that while we're stuck in a hug net."

"I can, and I do," Sunbeam replied.

With a gentle flex of will, the light-ribbons dissolved. The elites staggered back, many of them immediately bowing or punching the air; a few impulsively tackled Sunbeam again in smaller, more genuine hugs.

The crowd exploded—applause, whistles, chants, phones held high to capture everything. The arena's financial officer looked halfway to fainting from joy as live merch sales ticked upward in surreal real time.

Shockwaves of Joy

Outside Fulcrum Arena, every café, noodle stall, and nightlife street in Ethenappa City buzzed with replayed clips and fevered reenactments.

Kids mimicked Sunnyko's spinning kicks using glow sticks. Teens attempted (terribly) to replicate Sunmuta's analytical pose. Local artists were already sketching the final "hug net" moment onto shirts, posters, even the sides of trams.

Eastoppolan influencers posted breathless vlogs:

"They fought their own god-general and he just... hugged them into victory. I want to sign up yesterday."

Recruitment booths stationed around the arena were swamped. Some applicants wanted to be soldiers. Others dreamed of someday earning elite status, their hair slowly shifting toward bright orange as Solar power settled into their bones.

In the VIP lounge after the match, Lady Moonbeam leaned against the balcony rail, watching Sunbeam laugh with his commanders and elites below.

"He does not know how luminous he is when he plays," she murmured to Galaxbeam and Starbeam beside her.

Starbeam adjusted his glasses. "He also does not know how much he is accelerating our recruitment statistics," he said dryly. "We will have to build more training academies just to handle this single man's idea of fun."

Galaxbeam smiled in that soft, cosmic way of his.

"That," he said, "is the sort of problem wise civilizations dream of having."

Down on the arena floor, Sunbeam glanced up instinctively—as though he could feel their eyes—and gave them a lazy little salute.

Then he turned back to his assembled elites, clapped his hands once, and said:

"Alright. Break's over. Whoever still has energy can help me hand out free meals in the plaza. Remember: we fight with fire, but we rule with kindness."

Sunnyko pumped her fist. "Yes, General!"

Sungyo grinned. "Race you to the snack stalls!"

Sunmuta sighed, already recalibrating his probability charts to factor in "hug-based morale spikes."

And above it all, Fulcrum Arena's screens replayed the moment of impact again and again: a storm of fire and lava collapsing into one impossible man, answering violence not with domination, but with a radiant, unbreakable embrace.

And above it all, Fulcrum Arena's screens replayed the moment of impact again and again: a storm of fire and lava collapsing into one impossible man, answering violence not with domination, but with a radiant, unbreakable embrace.

The demand for another match hit the Eastoppolan networks before the Fulcrum Arena sand had even settled.

Clips of Sunbeam versus Sunsword–Sunsuna–Sunnon were looping on every local feed: freeze-frames of blazing trigram circles, slow-motion shots of spectral swords shattering on Sunbeam's chest, and a thousand edits of his casual "In this duel, I yield."

By the next afternoon the comment threads had mutated into a new request:

If you can give us one Absolute Leader... give us two.
Sunbeam x Moonbeam tag-team spar when??

The Couple's Pact

Backstage, in a quiet prep chamber beneath the arena, Sunbeam and Lady Moonbeam studied the latest poll results projected above the lockers. Every bar on the graph screamed for the same thing: Solar–Lunar couple match.

Moonbeam leaned back against the cool wall, arms folded over her blue training jacket, amused.

"They really want to see us bully my Supreme Commanders together," she said. "My poor boys and girls."

Sunbeam, already half out of his orange coat, glanced over with a small smile.

"They need the practice," he replied. "Besides, they asked for it themselves. It will boost Lunar morale to see their commanders stand up to two Absolute Leaders at once, even if only for seven minutes."

Moonbeam's eyes softened. "And after seven minutes?"

Sunbeam's smile curled into something sly.

"That," he said, "is our secret."

She understood immediately. There was a flicker of Code-Geass-style mischief in her expression as she stepped closer.

"A private round," she said. "Just us. No recruits, no commanders. Just Solar and Lunar elements smashing together until the arena staff file a complaint."

"We will behave responsibly," Sunbeam protested lightly.

Moonbeam raised a brow. "We are literally planning a surprise double-cross on our own narrative. That is not responsible."

He laughed quietly.

"Very well," he conceded. "We will be responsibly irresponsible."

They bumped foreheads, a quick, grounding gesture between gods who carried continents on their backs.

Beneath their ceremonial gladiator gear—Sunbeam in reinforced orange lamellar with sun-sigils, Moonbeam in flowing deep-blue plates traced with crescent motifs—they both wore simple, practical swimwear: tight-fitted, movement-friendly suits built for combat drills in water and lava alike. Just in case their "secret round" got... messy.

Rules of the Game

When they emerged into the light, the Fulcrum Arena in Eastoppola roared hard enough to shake its own shield domes.

On the Solar side of the field: Sunbeam, orange cloak snapping, one hand linked easily with Moonbeam's.

On the Lunar side: the full cadre of Lunar Supreme Commanders—

Lunardye, tactical genius, eyes sharp as falling stars.

Lunardale, mountain-solid, his blue armor etched with battle honors.

Lunarstream, lithe and analytical, water-runes flowing down his sleeves.

Lunarstride, agile lancer and frontline captain.

Lunarstorm, tempest mage in officer's coat, lightning-threads flickering at her fingertips.

Lunarpuff, the deceptively cute-looking but terrifyingly competent coordinator, hair in twin buns, clipboard already full of contingency plans.

Behind them, Lunar elites lined the tunnel entrances, cheering on their commanders.

In the VIP balcony, Starbeam sat in his immaculate green uniform, arms folded, expression extremely neutral. Beside him lounged Galaxbeam, draped in gold and white, spinning a coin between his fingers and occasionally rolling a small set of carved dice on the armrest.

"I will be simulating probability adjustments," Galaxbeam explained to an overly earnest Eastoppolan reporter. "If the coin lands heads, statistically they manage a clean hit on Sunbeam or Moonbeam in the next sequence. If tails, they almost do. The dice will determine potential combo chains."

"So you...control the outcome?" the reporter asked.

Galaxbeam smiled like a patient schoolteacher.

"No," he said. "The author does. I merely provide the illusion of fairness."

Starbeam stared straight ahead. "I am not hearing any of this."

Down on the field, Sunbeam raised a hand for quiet.

"Rules," he said. "Seven minutes on the clock. Lunar Supreme Commanders: your goal is to land as many direct, unambiguous hits on us as you can—strikes that would have tagged a lesser being. No lethal intent. No orbital bombardments. You know the drill."

Moonbeam squeezed his fingers and added, "Our goal is to avoid those hits using strictly non-lethal, non-weaponized contact: tags, nudges, hugs, shoulder rubs, and any other playful interference we deem amusing. You are all to remember that this is still a festival bout. No one leaves with broken bones... only bruised egos or overinflated pride."

Lunardye pushed his glasses up, serious. "Acknowledged, Lady Moonbeam."

The timer hologram spun up above the arena: 07:00.

"Ready?" Moonbeam murmured.

"Always," Sunbeam replied.

The bell tolled.

Seven Minutes of Lunar Chaos

The Lunar Supreme Commanders struck like a coordinated tide.

Lunarstream flooded the ground with a rushing sheet of water that instantly froze into mirror-slick ice under Lunarstorm's lightning-chilled winds. Lunardale and Lunarstride charged across it in perfect tandem—one with his heavy shield raised, the other vaulting over him in a spear-lunge that would have skewered most opponents.

Sunbeam and Moonbeam moved as if they shared a single nervous system.

Moonbeam stepped lightly onto Lunardale's shield, using it as a springboard without even activating her power, flipping clean over Lunarstride's spear line. As she passed, she tapped the tip of his spear with two fingers; a puff of glittering frost erupted, locking the weapon in a harmless spray of ice flowers.

Sunbeam slid low, boots finding impossible traction on the ice. As Lunardale's shield slammed down where he had been, Sunbeam flowed past and gave the massive commander a friendly pat on the back—just enough kinetic redirection that Lunardale's own momentum took him into a graceful spinning skid. The crowd winced in sympathy as the big man pinwheeled, then cheered when he recovered without falling.

"Tag count: Solar–Lunar couple two, Lunar Supreme Commanders zero," Galaxbeam narrated for the benefit of the VIP box, glancing at his coin. "Heads. Your next sequence looks... promising."

Indeed, Lunarpuff had already pivoted them into a new pattern.

"High-low split!" she called.

Lunarstorm leapt, lightning whipping outward from her hands to form a crackling cage overhead. Lunarstream raised twin columns of water that twisted like serpents, trying to box Sunbeam and Moonbeam into a narrow corridor.

"Compress," Lunardye ordered, fingers flicking holographic sigils, tightening the path.

Moonbeam grinned. "They're really trying to herd us."

"Then we should let them," Sunbeam said.

They burst forward hand-in-hand... and at the last instant split in opposite directions, using each other's momentum. Moonbeam slid beneath one lightning arc, leaving a frozen trail that confused the serpent-streams chasing her; Sunbeam vaulted over a watery tendril, landing behind Lunarstorm.

She whirled—too late. He gently poked her forehead with two fingers.

"Boop," he said.

Lightning flickered out like a surprised cat's fur.

Moonbeam, meanwhile, had spun into Lunarpuff's space, catching the smaller woman's clipboard before it could fall, then looping an arm briefly around her shoulders.

"You're thinking too many steps ahead," Moonbeam murmured, returning the clipboard. "Sometimes you must play the chaos, not crush it."

Lunarpuff flushed but grinned fiercely. "Understood, my Lady," she said, already recalculating.

Up above, Galaxbeam's coin landed tails. His dice clattered to a modest combo score.

"We are entering the almost-hit phase," he informed Starbeam. "Prepare your stoic expression."

Starbeam did not answer, but the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed how much he was enjoying this.

For the next several minutes the arena became a moving painting: blue-white arcs of ice, deep orange flares of sunlight, Lunar commanders lunging and sliding, Solar–Lunar couple twisting around them in a constant ballet of dodges and light contact.

Several times, Lunardye's predictive models and Lunarstream's fluid traps nearly caught Sunbeam in a perfect pincer—only for Moonbeam to appear in the space between, hand on his shoulder, spinning him out of danger with a laugh. Other times Lunarstride's spear came within a finger's breadth of Moonbeam's hair, only to be deflected by a gentle guiding touch from Sunbeam that turned the attack into an accidental pirouette.

By the time the timer dipped toward its last minute, the scoreboard showed a respectable tally: five clear "touches" against the Absolute Leaders by Lunar standards, dozens of tags and hugs in return.

As the final seconds ticked away, Lunarpuff called a retreat.

"Fall back!" she shouted. "We've proven morale; we're not here to fracture reality."

Lunardale, Lunarstorm, Lunarstride, Lunarstream, and Lunardye backed toward the Lunar side, panting, laughing, trading quick bows with Sunbeam and Moonbeam across the arena.

The bell chimed 0:00. The shields dimmed to neutral. The match was over.

The crowd loved it.

Phase Two: Only the Suns and the Moon

The Lunar Supreme Commanders filed out through their tunnel, still congratulating one another, already debating adjustments for the next year's festival bout.

On the field, Sunbeam and Moonbeam walked slowly toward the center, hand in hand, seemingly in no rush to leave. Arena staff exchanged puzzled glances. The announcer checked his schedule. The shields, on automatic cooldown, remained raised.

In the VIP box, Galaxbeam froze mid-dice roll.

"Ah," he said. "We have reached the... unscripted section."

Starbeam narrowed his eyes. "What did they tell you?"

"That they would behave responsibly," Galaxbeam replied. "Which, in their case, usually means the opposite for at least ninety seconds."

Down on the sand, Moonbeam released Sunbeam's hand and took three measured steps back. The air around her cooled; frost traced delicate patterns in midair. Tiny flakes of snow began to fall from nowhere, evaporating before they hit the ground.

Sunbeam's aura brightened in response, orange light blooming around him like a second sunrise.

"Ready, my Lady?" he asked.

"Always, my General," she answered, smiling with a spark of wildness in her eyes.

They moved.

Solar Fire, Lunar Tide

Moonbeam swept one arm in a wide arc; a wall of seawater burst from nothingness, curling toward Sunbeam like a living wave. Its crest glittered with ice shards, blue-white light humming through every droplet.

Sunbeam answered with a rising column of molten rock, lava surging from the ground to meet the water head-on. Steam exploded outward in a roaring cloud that painted half the arena in shimmering mist.

From the stands it looked catastrophic.

From within the storm, it felt—for them—like a shared bath.

Element slammed against element, power against power, and yet when water met fire on their skin it registered as warmth and coolness, not pain. Their Absolute Leader status, their symmetrical scaling, meant that what would have annihilated armies simply wrapped around them like thick rain, like dense sunlight, like the weightless press of seawater on a diver's suit.

They laughed—not in cruel delight, but in sheer release, the way overworked people laugh when they finally let go.

Sunbeam let a cascade of lava roll over his shoulders, then flicked it outward; it cooled into a thousand spinning obsidian shards that Moonbeam shattered with a sweep of glacial wind. She answered by freezing the steam into delicate snowflakes that drifted toward him in a localized blizzard; he warmed them into glowing drops that fell upward instead of down.

Each exchange tore strips from their outer gladiator armor. Moonbeam's pauldrons froze, cracked, and fell away; Sunbeam's cloak burned along the edges, disintegrating into orange embers. Beneath, their fitted swimwear caught the light—practical, minimal, designed for full range of motion and absolutely not designed with the arena cameras in mind.

The commentators collectively had a small broadcast panic.

"Uh," one managed, "we appear to be witnessing an... extended elemental demonstration between the Solar and Lunar Absolute Leaders—"

"Bonus training," another cut in quickly. "Very advanced. Please do not attempt at home."

Up in the box, Starbeam pinched the bridge of his nose.

"They are going to crash three networks and two fashion blogs with this," he muttered.

Galaxbeam, meanwhile, watched with the resigned fondness of an older professor whose favorite students had decided to improvise an unapproved experiment.

"This," he said softly, "is Romeo and Juliet if they had infinite hit points, institutional backing, and no concept of stage restraint."

He glanced meaningfully upward.

"And yes, I am blaming the author."

Mud, Laughter, and a Draw

As the duel went on, fire and water reshaped the arena itself.

Repeated heating and cooling fractured the packed sand, turning it into a churning mix of mud and glassy patches. Moonbeam flooded the floor again; Sunbeam superheated the edges; together, without really planning it, they churned the ground into thick, dark, squelching mud that rose to their shins, then knees, then higher.

Instead of pulling back, they leaned into it.

Moonbeam launched an ice-slicked geyser beneath Sunbeam's feet. He let it throw him upward, twisting midair to answer with a spinning wave of lava that melted around her like a cloak. She stepped through it, hair steaming, laughing openly as she returned fire with a barrage of hardened ice projectiles that he simply walked through, each shattering on his chest like harmless snowballs.

They slipped, splashed, splattered each other, and every time one of them "fell," the other reached out with a sweep of power that caught them, cushioning the impact with soft water or gentle light.

From the outside, it looked like madness. From inside, it was a private language: I trust you; you can hit me with everything; I will not break, and neither will you.

Camera drones zoomed in on their faces—both grinning wide, eyes bright, hair plastered to their cheeks with mud and melted snow, absolutely unbothered by the state of their outfits.

Bets flew across Westonglappan and Eastoppolan networks. Commentators argued furiously about who "had the upper hand." Starbeam, because someone had to uphold the ancient traditions of deadpan humor, quietly placed a small wager on "draw" and refused to elaborate.

At last, when the arena looked like the aftermath of a mythic natural disaster and both of them were thoroughly coated in orange-blue muck, Sunbeam lifted a hand.

"Enough?" he called over the hiss of steam.

Moonbeam spun one last ribbon of water around his arm like a bracelet and nodded.

"For now," she answered.

They stepped toward each other through the mud, elemental auras dimming down to a soft glow. The crowd hushed, expecting some grand final clash.

Instead, they simply met in the middle, foreheads touching again, hands finding each other's.

"Call it," Moonbeam said quietly.

"Officially?" Sunbeam asked.

"Officially."

He turned to the nearest camera drone, expression still bright.

"This unsanctioned, somewhat irresponsible post-match experiment," he declared, "ends in a draw."

The arena exploded into cheers once more—part relief, part exhilaration, part pure disbelief at what they had just witnessed.

In the VIP box, Galaxbeam sighed and tossed his coin into the air one last time. It landed on its edge, balancing perfectly on the armrest.

"Appropriate," he said.

Starbeam finally allowed himself a small, genuine smile.

"Happy Thanksgiving, you maniacs," he murmured.

Down in the mud, Sunbeam and Moonbeam laughed, still holding on to each other as crews rushed to figure out how, exactly, one cleans up after two elemental demigods using a public arena as their couples' stress relief.

Somewhere in Eastoppola, recruitment numbers for both the Solar and Lunar Regimes quietly spiked again—because who wouldn't want to serve under leaders who could turn the end of the world into something that looked, impossibly, like play?

By the time the festival lights of Eastoppola began to dim, the whole continent felt different.

In Paladimee City, people still stood in clusters around public screens replaying the highlights: Sunbeam's blazing duels with his own elites, Lady Moonbeam laughing as she skated across instant ice, Starbeam solemnly opening new green-credit funds for local infrastructure, Galaxbeam giving impromptu sidewalk lectures that somehow turned traffic jams into philosophy class. In Ethenappa, children in mismatched orange, blue, green, and gold scarves chased each other through the plazas, yelling, "Solar combo! Lunar combo! Star combo! Galaxy combo!" as if AES special moves were just another playground game. Cafés in Desotown and ports in Fulcram hung hand-painted signs in their windows: THANK YOU, AES – HAPPY THANKSGIVING.

The final farewell took place on an Eastoppolan shoreline where the sea wind smelled of salt and festival smoke. Four banners snapped side by side: the sun of Sollarisca, the crescent of Lunna, the green star of Starrup, the golden sigil of Galaxenchi. Around them, Eastoppolan and Westonglappan leaders stood shoulder to shoulder, no longer stiff diplomats but co-hosts who had survived an absurdly overpowered holiday together.

Sunbeam stepped forward first, still faintly mud-stained, hands folded behind his back in a rare moment of shyness.

"Thank you," he said, voice carried by speakers and magic both. "For giving us benches to sit on, tables to share, hearts to listen to. For letting our prosocialism and romanticism experiment... breathe here. I promise you—we will keep fighting for a world where no one has to eat alone, or sleep alone, or feel alone unless that solitude is truly their choice."

Lady Moonbeam stood beside him, cloak fluttering, eyes bright.

"And thank you," she added, "for opening your streets to my Lunar commanders when they crashed into your cities like overexcited comets. For trusting us enough to let us argue about data and love in your council halls. Lunna will remember every lantern you lit and every barefoot step you took beside us."

Starbeam inclined his head, posture crisp as ever, but the corners of his mouth softer than usual.

"Starrup has more than enough," he said simply. "We always have. You allowed us to share our abundance without shame—our green turducken, our reactors, our ridiculous Black Friday-that-is-actually-Green-Swags sales. In return, we have seen something we cannot manufacture in any laboratory: your stubborn hope. We will keep investing here. Not as charity, but as partnership."

Finally Galaxbeam stepped forward, golden robes catching the fading light.

"You have given my Galaxenchi scholars more data, more stories, and more jokes than we can catalogue in a decade," he said. "And you have reminded us that gratitude is not a one-day ritual, but an ongoing practice. Xièxie. Dōjeh. Arigatō. Thank you."

Behind them, Supreme Commanders and elites from all four regimes spread out along the shore, clasping forearms with Eastoppolan and Westonglappan officers, trading contact sigils, promising joint training exercises and exchange programs. Recruits who had only just begun glowing with their new colors—orange, blue, green, gold—posed for photos with the people who had trained them. Someone started chanting "AES! AES!" and the entire beach picked it up, waves thundering in sync.

Then, as evening deepened, the divine ships came.

Solar carriers rose like twin suns from the horizon, reflecting fire across the sea. Lunnar caravels followed, hulls lined with soft blue lanterns. Emerald star-cruisers from Starrup descended on silent green thrusters. Lastly, Galaxenchi's golden arcs unfolded above them all, shimmering like extra constellations.

One by one, the four Absolute Leaders turned back toward the crowd.

Sunbeam raised a hand in a simple wave. Lady Moonbeam traced a crescent in the air that burst into gentle blue sparks over the beach. Starbeam saluted—not just as a soldier, but as a partner. Galaxbeam pressed his palms together in a slow, respectful bow.

"Until next time," he said.

The ships carried them away—to Sollarisca's sunrise cities, to Lunna's silver lakes, to Starrup's endless turbines, to Galaxenchi's neon temple-states. But Westonglappa and Eastoppola kept them, in a way, anyway: on screens, in photo frames, in breathless story retellings at family tables, in training halls where new recruits whispered, I want to be like them.

For years afterward, whenever Thanksgiving season rolled around, people in Eastoppola and Westonglappa would look at the sky and joke, "Careful—if you cook too much, the AES might show up again." And somewhere, in four different regimes, four nearly godlike leaders would pause their endless work, smile faintly, and remember the muddy arenas, the crowded plazas, the shared meals where power and ordinary life sat at the same table.

Epilogue: Galaxbeam to You

Later—days or weeks, depending on how time wants to behave—Professor Galaxbeam appeared one more time, not in-story so much as half-in, half-out of it. He sat at a simple desk aboard a quiet observation deck, galaxies visible through the window behind him, golden hair loose around his shoulders.

On the desk lay a small stack of handwritten notes titled Thanksgiving Memo – Multiversal Edition.

He looked up, directly at you.

"We have reached the end of this particular tale," he said gently. "Four regimes, two continents, an unreasonable amount of vegetarian turducken, and more affectionate sparring than any responsible narrative should contain."

A tiny smile.

"Now comes the part that matters more than lava baths and ice storms."

He folded his hands.

"Out there—in your world, not ours—holidays can be messy. People are lonely. Families fight. Crowds shove. Some humans treat 'Black Friday' as permission to forget that the person reaching for the last item is still a person."

His eyes, bright gold, softened.

"So: I, Professor Galaxbeam of the Galaxy Regime, ask a favor of you. Be the version of yourself that Sunbeam would welcome to his table. Be the version that Moonbeam would trust to walk barefoot in her gardens. Be the citizen Starbeam would proudly invest in. Be the student I would be happy to teach."

He lifted one hand, tracing a simple protective circle in the air; it glowed for a moment, then faded, as if bookmarking the end of the story.

"Celebrate," he said. "Eat well if you can. Rest if you need. Reach out to someone who might not have anyone else. Do not trample each other for sales, do not drink and drive starships—or cars—and do not, under any circumstances, let anger make you forget that other people are carrying their own invisible weights."

A quiet pause.

"From me, from Sunbeam, from Lady Moonbeam, from Starbeam, and from all our Supreme Commanders and elites: Happy Thanksgiving. Stay safe. Be kind. Do the right thing, even when no one is filming it. And please..."

He chuckled softly. "...try not to blow up your arenas unless both parties have explicitly consented."

The galaxy outside the window turned slowly, stars glinting like a billion tiny candles.

With that, Galaxbeam dipped his head in one last, respectful bow.

The story ended—but the gratitude it asked for was meant to keep going, on your side of the universe.