They called it Luminara—the last utopia of mankind, a sanctuary carved from the ashes of a broken world, where chaos pressed in like a storm beyond the gleaming, impregnable walls.
From afar, it looked like a mirage: spires of translucent gold, streets etched in silver-white marble, and gardens suspended in the air, trailing ivy and blooms in perpetual spring.
It wasn't just a city. It was the embodiment of a promise—a second chance, sculpted with smiles and sculpted by something sacred.
The kindness Order.
That was the heart of it all. Not a government, not a council, not a faceless system. It was a philosophy, a quiet force that moved every gear and breathed through every street. The citizens of Luminara didn't speak of laws. They spoke of compassion, respect, and gratitude as if they were currencies more valuable than gold. And in many ways, they were.
To live in Luminara was to be chosen. Or perhaps, to be curated. Only the worthy were permitted past the threshold gates. Those whose records showed consistency in empathy, community service, and social harmony.
Children born inside were nurtured with lullabies of courtesy and songs of kindness. By the time they could walk, they knew the unspoken rules: help before you're asked, smile before you speak, and never, ever let anger bloom.
The streets glistened that morning like polished bone under the soft stroke of the rising sun. Marble pathways reflected the sky, dotted with floating orbs that cast warm light, adjusting hue based on the emotions detected nearby.
Citizens walked in carefully measured paces, their arms cradling baskets of pastel-hued fruits with names like "dewberry," "mellowmelon," and "sunplum." Their voices chimed lightly in the air, like glass wind chimes stirred by the gentlest breeze.
Every wrist bore the sleek curve of the Virtue Band—a bracelet of brushed silver, embedded with a single vein of luminous blue. It wasn't a tracker, they were told. It was a companion. A reminder.
But make no mistake—it watched. Not with eyes, but with data: tone of voice, posture, choice of words, proximity to others, the sincerity behind a compliment. All fed back into the system. All judged.
Kindness Points.
An elderly woman received a boost in score for helping a blind man feel the colors of a flower garden. A young boy was gently deducted for shouting at a pigeon that startled him. Every action had weight. And weight shaped your world.
The higher your kindness score, the closer you lived to the Sun Heights—the radiant district where windows opened to symphonies, where meals tasted richer and your dreams were recorded for artistic analysis.
Fall below the curve, however, and you risked reassignment to the Lower Depths: a subterranean level illuminated by synthetic suns, where smiles stretched tight and laughter echoed a beat too late.
Alwen stood at the threshold of the East Gate, his silhouette framed by the towering arch of engineered quartz and ivy. His long coat billowed faintly in the morning gust, the hem stitched with the sigils of peace. He didn't knock.
The gate sensed him and opened with a warm exhale of scented air—lavender and lemon balm. From the overhead speakers, a familiar chime rang out—soft, welcoming, reverent:
"Peacekeeper Alwen has returned."
A murmur spread through the nearby plaza. Heads turned. Eyes sparkled.
"Alwen's back!"
"Praise be to the Order… he made it back from the Wastes."
"Did you hear? He subdued a whole rebel camp with a smile and a bandage."
Alwen, tall and composed, walked with the grace of someone who bore the weight of the city's faith. Children clutched their parents' hands just to glimpse him. Elders placed palms over their hearts as he passed. He did not wave. He did not boast. He simply nodded, his face gentle but unreadable, like a serene lake hiding the stories beneath.
Beside him walked an outsider. A woman draped in a utilitarian coat, dust still clinging to the edges of her boots. Her face was half-shadowed by tangled hair, bruises blooming across her cheek like warpaint. Her eyes flicked left and right, absorbing the surreal order of Luminara. The Virtue Band on her wrist glowed faintly—the starting score: 5,000. A neutral number. A seed.
Alwen glanced at her with the faintest smile. "This is Luminara," he said, voice like polished oak. "Thirty years ago, after the Collapse burned through the continents and drowned the coasts, the Kindness Order was born from the ashes. It wasn't founded. It was chosen, by those who remembered what it meant to be human."
The outsider said nothing. Her jaw was tight, her expression unreadable. Trust was not something easily rekindled.
He pointed upward. "That obelisk—" his finger rose toward the towering monument at the heart of the city, a crystalline spire encircled by floating runes in liquid gold, "—is called the Heart. It watches. Not to punish, but to guide. When we stray, it reminds. When we give, it rejoices."
Above the city square, a massive circular screen shimmered to life, its edges ringed with light. An image slowly came into view—a woman of ethereal grace, her a mist of pale rose-gold—caught in a gentle braid that shimmered like woven starlight. Her eyes the soft quiet lavender laced with silver. She wore a dress of gossamer silk, the color of forget-me-nots in bloom.
[Ranking: 1 | Kindness Scorw: 999, 950]
"Elthira," Alwen said, his voice suddenly reverent, as though uttering a prayer. "She is not just a citizen. She is the pulse of Luminara."
The outsider's breath caught.
"She's… beautiful."
"She is kind," Alwen corrected gently. "She remembers every birthday. She brings soup to the sick with her own hands. She writes letters to orphans and speaks to the angry until they weep with relief. She's what we all hope to be."
And Luminara—
Luminara believed in her.
Because to doubt Elthira, to doubt the Order, was to question the dream itself.
And no one dared question the only dream left in a world that had already burned once.
Not yet.