CHAPTER 1: The Hand of A God
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~Mortal Realm — Domain of the Celeste~
~Primordial Carp Nation — YinYang City~
...
The Domain of the Celeste was a land governed not by kings, but by the heavens themselves.
For eons, this realm had operated on a cycle that defied mortal understanding—The Great Celestial Decade. A calendar forged in a forgotten age, where every year was named after the catastrophe that defined it.
In the bustling plaza of YinYang City, beneath the sprawling branches of the ancient Parasol Tree, an old storyteller sat on a woven mat. His voice, rasping like dry leaves, held the attention of a dozen wide-eyed children.
"You children know of the heat," the old man croaked, waving a bony finger. "You remember the First Year of Flaming Fire, when the clouds rained burning coals and are mostly crimson like flames.
And you remember the sixth Year of Screaming Lightning, when thunder shattered the windows of your homes."
The children shivered, clutching their lotus lanterns tighter.
"But those are loud years," the storyteller whispered, leaning in. "Now... now we are in the Eighth Year. The year of Enternal Lights when the suns never set for most of the year and even when they do the nights are lit by glowing beautiful auroras."
"Like the ones above," a brave boy whispered back, before looking up at the phantom lights that danced in the sky, others kids around also followed his gaze.
The old man looked up at the night sky as well. Above, the auroras of the Festival of Lights danced—ribbons of violet, jade, and amber weaving through the stars. It was beautiful.
Tonight marked the peak of the Eternal Light Year Phenomenon. The festivity in the air was so dense that mortals felt a light on their feet, dancing, an invisible happiness was stirring in their souls.
YinYang City pulsed with life. Luminance stones embedded in stone lanterns cast a dreamlike haze over the cobbled streets. Melodious tunes drifted from zithers and flutes, weaving together a tapestry of joy and reverence. Lovers strolled hand-in-hand, elders drank wine, and the smell of roasted beast meat filled the air.
They were celebrating survival. They were celebrating the end of the Eighth year.
But unknown to the mortals reveling below, The sky had cracked. It was breaking.
RUMBLE...
It started as a vibration in the soles of their feet.
In the center plaza, the wine in the cups rippled. The music faltered. The storyteller stopped mid-sentence, his eyes widening in a terror that only the old could understand.
RUMBLE!
The second tremor didn't shake the ground; it shook the soul.
It was a low-frequency roar, a sound that bypassed the ears and struck directly at the core of every living being.
Clang!
A dancer dropped her fans. A guard fell to his knees, clutching his chest as blood trickled from his nose. The festive atmosphere evaporated in a heartbeat, replaced by a primal, suffocating fear.
"Look!" a woman screamed, pointing upwards. "The sky! The sky is falling!"
Thousands of heads snapped up.
A tear—a jagged gash in the fabric of reality, blacker than the deepest void—began to stretch across the heavens. As it widened, it didn't just block the stars; it ate them. The beautiful auroras flickered and died, swallowed whole by the abyss.
The very sky wept.
From the heart of that abyssal crack, an aura surged forth. It was ominously powerful. It was cold, ancient, and full of an apocalyptic wrath that made the wild beast mounts in the city stables howl in unison.
Winds shrieked out of nowhere. Lightning spiraled like anguished spirits. The ancient Spirit Trees, which had stood for eight centuries, bowed its massive trunk as if kneeling before a master.
BANG!
A shockwave rippled across the world. It washed over the cities, the forests, and the distant mountains like a divine hand wiping a dirty canvas clean. Stone lanterns shattered. Windows exploded. The weak fainted instantly.
And then, the Golden Light came.
A beam of divine radiance burst from the rift, blinding in its intensity. It looked sacred, but it felt heavy—oppressive, as if ten thousand lies were weighing down on the city.
From within the rift, a colossal hand descended.
It was a hand of molten gold, godlike in size and form. One finger alone towered like a celestial pillar that could hold up the heavens, pointing down at the city below, its surface shimmering with faint green inscriptions and ancient runes that twisted and writhed like living snakes.
The city went silent. This was not a natural disaster. This was a visitation from an ancient awaking god.
CRASH!
The hand flicked its finger.
A glowing object was hurled from the heavens. It shot toward the city like a meteor, trailing chaotic energy that burned the air itself. It soared over the city walls, over the screaming crowds, and slammed into the epicenter of the Ancient Forest just outside the capital.
The ground jumped. Trees that had stood for hundreds of years were flattened instantly, toppled like dry grass.
The Golden Hand moved again. It didn't attack. It simply tapped the spot where the glowing object had descended, as if sealing a pact.
FLASH!
A blinding light erupted, turning night into day for a split second. Then, it vanished.
The forest crumbled inward, swallowed by a gaping crater.
Then, silence.
The sky mended itself with terrifying speed. The rift zipped shut. The golden light faded. Slowly, hesitantly, the celestial auroras returned, dancing in the sky as if nothing had happened.
But the damage was real.
In the middle of the ruined square, people slowly stood up from the debris. Bloodied, dazed, silent. They looked around, searching for meaning in the wreckage.
The old storyteller trembled, his face pale as a sheet. Beside him, the young boy pointed a shaking finger toward the plume of smoke rising from the forest.
"S-something fell..." the boy whispered, his voice cutting through the unnatural quiet. "From that... from the hand..."
Whispers rippled through the stunned crowd like a virus.
"Was it a weapon?"
"Was it a demon?"
"Was it judgment?"
No one knew. But as the smoke blocked out the moon, one thing was certain:
The Festival of Lights had met an untimely end. And the era of peace was over.