No one remembers the exact second the air changed. Some say it happened when the sky split above BTC1, when the first Chain Hero answered Bitzen's call and the planet inhaled light. Others swear it came later—after the Nexarchs burned their marks into the outskirts and the world learned what occupation looked like. For us, it was quieter. Bitzen doesn't only choose champions. It leaks. It hums. It lingers in places where heroes fall, where shields crack, where a body—human or otherwise—stands too close to the impossible and survives. That's how I changed. I was a logistics runner in the low districts, hauling med-kits between shelters. Aiko passed overhead once—just a streak of white heat against the clouds. The blast that followed flattened a block and saved three more. I didn't see her land. I only remember the pressure in my chest and the taste of copper in the air. After that, things stuck to me. Tools obeyed my hands. Broken systems remembered how they used to work. I could feel the direction of Bitzen like a bruise that never healed. Enough to matter. Not enough to be a legend. Others like me surfaced in the weeks that followed. A woman whose shadow moved a fraction late. A child who could calm Bitzen-sick animals with a touch. A mutt pulled from rubble that could track Nexarch signals better than any drone. None of us chosen. All of us altered. The Chain Heroes kept fighting the war in the sky. Someone had to hold the ground. That's when the Foundation formed. No banners at first. No speeches. Just a coalition of the proximate—the irradiated, the adjacent, the almost-forgotten. We patched cities together after battles. We mapped Bitzen fallout zones. We learned how to survive Nexarch scouts without drawing attention. When Chain Heroes moved on to the next front, we stayed. We weren't powerful. We were persistent. The Nexarchs didn't notice us at first. They hunt signatures—clean, loud power. Chain-level energy. What we carried was fractured, irregular. Human. By the time they adapted, supply lines were already failing. Civilians were already evacuating through corridors we'd carved under their sensors. I've seen heroes fall. I've seen Foundation teams pull them back. Bitzen doesn't care how you got its attention. Only what you do after. If you're reading this, listening to this, feeling that low ache behind your eyes—you know what I'm talking about. You stood too close. You survived. That makes you one of us. We are not chosen. We are not legends. We are The Foundation. And when the Nexarchs come again— we will already be there.