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Read the First Chapter of Evolutionary Divide - The Rise of Arcadia (Exclusive Preview!)

Chapter 1: The Forbidden Zone

A jagged fence stretched across the dead earth like the spine of some enormous, slumbering beast. Once upon a time, this barrier had surrounded a top-secret military installation. Now, rusted chain links and a battered sign reading RESTRICTED AREA—MILITARY PROPERTY were all that remained of its former might. Torn scraps of paint fluttered in the midnight breeze, rattling softly in the stillness.
Viper crouched next to the fence, running a gloved hand across the corroded steel. Tall and lean, he moved with a contained energy that spoke of experience in Arcadia’s rougher districts. Beneath his hood, small scars marred his sharp features, each a story of a past scrape or brawl.
The air tasted faintly chemical, an acrid memory of the experiments rumored to have taken place here decades ago. Tapping the earpiece lodged in his left ear, Viper spoke in a low murmur.
“Mod, you online?”
Static crackled, followed by a younger voice rife with concern. “Right here, big brother. Be careful in there. I’m picking up odd power fluctuations on my satellite feed—could be leftover tech waking up.”
Viper eyed the array of decrepit structures beyond the fence: bunkers sagging beneath layers of ash, shattered watchtowers, and half-buried Quonset huts. An alien hush enveloped everything, as if the land itself wanted to forget what had happened here.
He slipped out a handheld scanner from his belt—a custom device that Mod had cobbled together using salvaged circuits. The neon-green display flickered, reading minimal radiation levels. “Not too hot,” Viper murmured. “Yet.”
He dropped to his belly and shimmied under the fence, metal scraping his combat vest. Rising to his feet, he brushed off bits of rust and grit. A battered security checkpoint loomed in the near distance, its bulletproof glass smeared with dust. A warm memory tugged at him.
Inside his jacket pocket lay a small, dog-eared photograph. He removed it for just a moment, letting the moonlight reveal the image of two boys standing shoulder-to-shoulder: Viper, around ten, and Mod, maybe seven. The older boy wore a makeshift camouflage vest and a cocky grin. The younger one beamed with the unbridled pride of a child holding up a half-built drone, wires poking out like wild hair. Their father—now gone—had been the first to call Mod “Master of Modifications.” At seven, Mod had disassembled a broken radio and reassembled it into a functional transmitter that reached halfway across their neighborhood. From that day on, the moniker stuck, a badge of fatherly awe and encouragement.
Viper let a bittersweet smile cross his lips. He recalled that he hadn’t always been “Viper.” Back in high school, the local kids started calling him that after they saw how lightning-fast and precise his strikes were during an underground fighting tournament. No one remembered his actual name from that night—only the fact that he moved like a snake, swift and deadly. The nickname had followed him ever since, evolving from a teenage brag into an identity he now wore like armor.
He returned the photo to his pocket, pressing it close to his chest. “I’m still watching out for him, Dad,” Viper thought fleetingly, then refocused on the mission at hand.

He passed the security checkpoint, where battered guard booths and twisted barriers bore silent witness to a violent history. Overhead floodlights, their glass shattered long ago, dangled lifeless. The hush of this forbidden zone pressed in, and every crunch of his boots on the gravel seemed an intrusion.
“Mod,” he whispered, “I’m heading toward the main bunker doors on the north side. Radiation is low, but your readings about energy spikes might be right.”
“Got it,” came Mod’s voice in his ear, clipped with tension. “Don’t stay if it looks dicey.”
Viper slipped between rusted barricades, scanning the gloom with careful sweeps of his flashlight. Peeling paint clung to the walls in strips, revealing dull metal beneath. In places, black scorch marks showed where fires—whether accidental or deliberate—had once raged.
A pair of thick steel doors lay half-buried in a mound of rubble, the faded emblem above them depicting a hawk clutching arrows and a gear. Viper felt a chill. He recognized the insignia from old records—some specialized research wing of the military, rumored to have delved into biotech so extreme that it was deemed unethical even by wartime standards.
He tested the doors, but they were sealed tight. Reaching into a pouch on his vest, he retrieved a micro-charge. A fizz and a muted pop signaled the lock’s defeat. The heavy door groaned open, exhaling a stale, chemical-tinged gust.
“Mod, going in.” Viper’s voice was nearly lost in the sudden static from his comm. Mod tried to respond, but only distorted murmurs reached him. The thick walls must have cut the signal.
Clutching his flashlight, Viper ventured into the corridor. Racks of broken crates lined the walls, stenciled with warnings like “BIO-TECH” and “HAZ-MAT.” Emergency lights sputtered overhead. The metal plating underfoot reverberated with a faint hum—power still active somewhere in this forsaken facility.
He ventured deeper, stepping over toppled instruments and scattered documents whose ink had long since faded. Then came the turn into a high-ceilinged test chamber, the roof collapsed, letting in the wan moonlight and a swirl of dust motes.
At the center of the debris stood a single tree, its trunk glowing with veins of turquoise light—a bizarre, organic-and-digital fusion. Viper’s breath caught in his throat. The trunk’s bark seemed etched with patterns reminiscent of circuit boards. The bark seemingly embroidered with hieroglyphic symbols of ancient times. Leaves, or something akin to them, trembled with luminous pulses, as though following an unseen rhythm.
Before he could move closer, a screech erupted from overhead speakers, crackling out fragments of some ancient recording. Viper tensed, scanning the corners of the chamber. His flashlight beam caught a glimpse of movement in the rubble.
The scanner in his vest beeped frantically, and his Geiger counter spiked. A hulking silhouette detached itself from shadow—a monstrous figure, half-flesh, half-exoskeleton. Cables and tubes crisscrossed its limbs, metal plating glinted in the eerie glow, and a metallic faceplate stared back at him with cold detachment.
“Damn,” Viper hissed. He raised his sidearm, firing two quick shots. Sparks flew off the thing’s shoulder plate, doing little more than drawing a guttural snarl.
In a burst of unnatural speed, the abomination lunged. Viper dove behind a chunk of broken concrete, the claws of the creature raking the space he’d just occupied. “Mod, if you can hear me, I need an exit!” he shouted, but his comm only spat static.
The creature’s heavy footsteps pounded closer, each impact jarring Viper’s bones. He ejected the spent magazine, slammed in a fresh one, and fired again. A couple of rounds found fleshy gaps, eliciting a dark spatter of blood—yet it barely seemed to slow.
Metal claws raked across Viper’s shoulder, sending him reeling. He stumbled, pain flooding his senses. He swung a twisted length of rebar, desperate to keep distance, but the monster swatted him aside with a single blow.
Despite all of his injuries, Viper tried one more time to scramble free, but the creature tore into him, claws slicing flesh. The turquoise glow of the tree flared, illuminating the abomination’s faceplate as it struck again. Viper gasped, choking on his own blood.
“Mo—” was all he managed, the word dying in his throat.
Darkness claimed him…
Miles away, in a cramped basement command station, Mod stared at a bank of flickering monitors. On one of the screens, a grainy feed from Viper’s wrist-cam dissolved into static. His heart-rate monitor read flatline. A piercing tone filled the air.
“No—no, no, no!” Mod tore off his headset, voice breaking. Trembling hands fumbled across the console, attempting to restore the link or hack the bunker’s systems, but nothing responded. The feed was gone.
“Viper! Come on!” he shouted, as if sheer volume could bridge the miles between them.
When the final frame blinked away, showing a blurred shape looming over Viper’s fallen form, Mod stood there in stunned silence. His tears blurred his vision, but rage and grief burned hot in his chest. He thought of their father’s proud voice crowning him “Mod” years ago, because he could fix anything. Yet in this moment, he could fix nothing.
Slowly, he powered down the monitors, each flicker reminding him how alone he was. He whispered into the emptiness, “I’ll find out who did this to you, big brother. I swear.”
Years Later…
Arcadia had evolved into an urban colossus, its skyline bristling with neon walkways, towering megastructures, and shimmering holographic displays. To the uninitiated, it looked like humanity’s greatest achievement—a futuristic cityscape of polished steel and endless invention. But Mod, now older and hardened by loss, knew the truth behind the glossy surfaces.
He stood on a suspended walkway in Highscale—Arcadia’s elite district—where buildings soared into the haze. Transparent skybridges spanned gaps between spires of mirrored glass. Mag-lev trams glided overhead, their hum a near-constant backdrop as they whisked corporate executives to exclusive penthouses. Holographic advertisements flickered in midair, promising “A Brighter Tomorrow, Today!” courtesy of Flora Industries, or touting advanced terraforming from Chronos Corp.
Mod stared down at the chaotic brilliance of the mid-tier blocks below. Through drifting layers of smog, he could make out narrower walkways and compact apartments stacked like puzzle pieces. Despite the futuristic veneer, the crowds there struggled with spiking food prices, meager job prospects, and corporate surveillance drones that hovered day and night.
Reminding himself of his mission, Mod descended via a sleek, tube-like elevator to the city’s lower levels. Old Arcadia was a tangled mix of cracked streets and acid rain-stained buildings. Protective masks were the norm. Here, a mother fitted her coughing child with a grimy respirator, trying to stretch precious filter cartridges. Nearby, neon graffiti warned: “Beware the Forgotten Zones—We Are the Guinea Pigs!” Yet, even in the gloom, street vendors hawked salvaged tech or sold black-market oxygen canisters to anyone with a few credits.
Countless smaller walkways and cramped housing blocks tangled together. The daily grind happened there—factories, offices, market stalls—and corporate surveillance drones that hovered like watchful hawks.
Yet Mod wasn’t here just to lament the city’s stratification. He had an errand to run—one that would serve both his personal crusade and the people scraping by in Arcadia’s lower levels. Slipping on a pair of tinted tactical glasses (of his own design), he keyed in a set of commands on a worn wrist-slate. The device hummed softly, establishing an encrypted channel.
Scanning the nearby crowd, he spotted a few corporate drones perched on a floating platform, scanning ID chips of wealthy passersby. Mod gave them a wide berth, ducking into a quieter alcove near an upscale café. The sweet scents of synthe-brew coffee and pastries drifted out, far beyond the budget of most Old Arcadians.
“Let’s see how deep their pockets are,” Mod muttered, initiating a hidden script on his wrist-slate.
He’d spent weeks preparing this infiltration—identifying a small but lucrative corporate account used by Flora Industries’ upper management for personal luxuries. They likely wouldn’t notice a sudden withdrawal, especially if the amount was spread out in micro-transactions. He tapped a final confirm key, and the script executed.
A slow grin tugged at his lips. Even if it was only a few thousand credits, it would buy respirators, water filters, and nutritional supplements for dozens of families in Old Arcadia. It wasn’t enough to topple the system, but it was a start.
“Transaction complete,” chimed a synthesized voice in his ear. “Credits redistributed to designated accounts.”
Mod let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. A sense of satisfaction washed over him, not quite triumph—just a small victory in a much larger war. We couldn’t save Viper that night, but we can save someone else today.
Yet tonight, he had a secondary goal—a personal indulgence. He slipped down a narrow alley plastered with flickering holo-ads and arrived at a reinforced metal door. A neon-painted symbol above it resembled a stylized rose entwined with circuit boards.
A small security camera whirred overhead. After a beep, a mechanical voice asked, “Identity?”
“Client,” Mod replied, using a passphrase previously arranged.
The door slid open with a hydraulic hiss. He stepped into a dim, neon-lit workshop crowded with half-finished gadgets and tangles of wire. Standing behind a cluttered metal counter was Aphrodite—a figure known in Old Arcadia for her knack at acquiring specialized tech, no questions asked. Tall and confident, she wore a childish pink double ponytail bob and had vibrant tattoos peeking from the edges of her sleeves. A faint smirk curved her lips when she spotted Mod.
“You’re late,” she said, wiping solder from her fingertips. Her eyes glinted with a mix of curiosity and wariness. “Thought you’d chickened out.”
Mod shrugged, pulling down the hood of his jacket. “Had some errands in Highscale. Busy night.”
Aphrodite tapped a half-finished circuit board with a small tool. “So… you still want that neural-linked bypass kit? Because I’ve got a waiting list for it.”
He exhaled, nodding. “Yes. I need it for some… infiltration gigs. I’m done relying on external hack tools alone. This will give me real-time access—no lag.”
She stepped around the counter, motioning for him to follow. “It’s not for amateurs. The neural interface can backfire if you screw up the calibration. That means migraines at best, meltdown at worst.”
Mod’s lips thinned. “No risk, no reward.” In his mind, he recalled Viper’s final moments—his brother outmatched by something monstrous. “I’ve lost more than I can afford already.”
Aphrodite studied him quietly for a moment, perhaps reading the resolve etched in his face. At length, she popped open a heavy steel case on a nearby workbench. Inside, cushioned by foam, was a sleek headband wired to a compact processor—exactly what he’d imagined. His heart thudded.
“The best infiltration suite money can buy,” she said, smirking as she lifted the device. “Direct neural feedback, minimal latency. Cracks security gates, drones, data vaults—you name it.”
Mod examined it with reverence. “How much?”
She named a figure that made his gut tighten. It was steep—enough credits to feed entire families for a month. But he’d planned for this. He retrieved a small pouch of credit chips from his jacket and slid them across the workbench.
Aphrodite’s eyes flicked to the credits, then back to him. “Working a Robin Hood routine tonight? Or are you draining your own rainy-day fund?”
“A bit of both.” He met her gaze. “I’ve already funneled a chunk into local relief. This is for the next step.”
She counted the chips, then snapped the steel case shut with a nod. “Fair enough. Consider it yours.”
Mod carefully lifted the case. A thrill surged through him, mingled with guilt. He told himself the potential payoff—exposing whatever abominations Arcadia’s corporations kept buried—was worth the high price.
“You’ll want to check the calibration settings on a safe system first,” Aphrodite warned. “Unless you enjoy neural fry.”
He managed a grim smile. “Got it. I’ll be careful.”
She folded her arms, watching him. “You know, you could’ve just stuck with siphoning corporate funds to help people. Why go deeper into the hornets nest with infiltration gear?”
His jaw tensed. “There are… secrets out there. Secrets that cost me someone I cared about. I won’t rest until I get answers.”
A spark of sympathy lit her gaze. “I get it. The city’s full of ghosts. Just don’t become one of them.”
They held each other’s stare, a silent acknowledgment of the hidden war they both waged. A beep from Aphrodite’s wrist console broke the moment; she glanced down, scanning a new message. “Looks like I’m booked for another meet soon. You should probably go.”
Mod slipped the case into his duffel, then gave her a curt nod. “Thanks, Aphrodite.”
“Anytime,” she said, flicking a small LED lamp off. “Stay alive. I like return customers.”

“Want more? Add The Rise of Arcadia to your Goodreads shelf and stay tuned!”