The sound pierced the theater like a blade through glass. Sharp, shrill, unnatural — it forced thousands to clutch their ears, their screams swallowed by the shriek. Then, silence. A silence so profound it seemed the air itself had been emptied.
The massive screen flickered to life.
Flick. Flick. Shsshh… sshhsshh…
Lines of static hissed and danced like phantoms, the glow painting the grand three-story hall in pale light. For a heartbeat, panic subsided. The crowd, terrified moments ago, now stared in bewilderment, their fear shifting into uneasy awe.
"Is this some kind of horror setting?" someone shouted angrily from the balcony.
"What the hell is this?" another cried, his voice cracking under strain.
Amid the growing uproar, Adrian sat motionless. His lips trembled, his gaze fixed on the flickering screen. Anger burned in his eyes, but beneath it, a deeper terror stirred. His body tensed as though he already knew what was coming.
The static broke.
Across the entire screen, ancient symbols flared into existence — runes, sharp and jagged, glowing with an otherworldly fire. They pulsed once, twice, before stabilizing into words no one in the theater could comprehend.
Except Adrian.
He rose halfway from his seat, his chest tight. "No… no… this can't be…" he whispered, his voice too faint for anyone else to hear. It was as if a ghost from the depths of history had stepped into the present.
On the screen, the runes formed two lines:
ᚦᛖ ᚺᛖᚱᛗᛖᛋ ᚹᚺᛟ ᛖᛋᚲᚨᛈᛖᛞᚦᛖ ᚾᚨᛗᛖ ᛟᚠ ᚦᛟᚹᛋᚨᚾᛞᛋ
Translated, they read:
"The Hermes who escaped.""The name of thousands."
Adrian's knees weakened. Memories from his childhood flooded back — fragments of old journals, whispered tales told by his grandfather, warnings etched in forgotten tongues. He had seen these runes before. He had dreamed them.
And now they were here.
Before he could gather his thoughts, the ground convulsed.
The theater shuddered violently, chandeliers swinging like pendulums before snapping loose and crashing down. Marble split. Glass shattered. The mighty pillars that had stood for decades crumbled in seconds. Screams erupted as the audience scrambled, but there was nowhere to run. The three-story building was folding in on itself, collapsing into dust and ruin.
The marble pillars groaned as if alive, fragments raining down in deadly cascades. The chandeliers had already crashed, and screams echoed through the choking dust.
Adrian's instincts took over. While most fought their way toward the shattered main doors, he turned toward the shadows near the stage. There — half-concealed behind velvet curtains — was the door few in the audience knew existed.
The backdoor passage.
It had been designed decades ago, meant as a discreet exit for presidents, dignitaries, and other VIPs who attended secret galas within the theater. Few remembered it; fewer still had ever walked its path. But Adrian had been shown once, long ago.
"Helena!" he shouted, his voice nearly drowned by the roar of collapsing stone.
Through the smoke and chaos, Helena stumbled toward him. Her once-elegant dress was torn, dust smeared across her face. She clung to his arm desperately, her eyes wide with fear. Behind her, two of Adrian's close collaborators emerged from the panicking crowd — bruised but alive.
"This way!" Adrian barked, shoving aside a fallen beam.
They darted behind the curtain just as part of the balcony above gave way, crushing dozens who had tried for the main doors. The muffled thunder of the collapse followed them as Adrian pushed open the small iron door.
A narrow staircase descended into darkness. The air was damp and musty, the faint smell of stone and rusted iron filling their lungs.
"What is this place?" Helena gasped, her voice trembling.
"A passage for those who were never meant to be seen," Adrian replied grimly. His eyes flicked back toward the collapsing theater. "Tonight, it's the only way we live."
The four of them stumbled downward, the passage lit only by Adrian's phone screen. The walls shook again, loose stones clattering around them. Helena screamed, clutching his sleeve tighter.
"Keep moving!" Adrian urged, his own heart pounding. He knew every second meant the difference between survival and death.
At the bottom of the stair, the path forked. Adrian paused, memory racing. His grandfather's voice returned to him: "Left leads to the river. Right leads to the alleys. Remember, boy — the river drowns, but the alleys betray."
He clenched his jaw. The earth shook again, dust falling from the ceiling.
"Left!" he ordered.
They rushed into the corridor, the faint sound of rushing water growing louder with each step.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a rusted grate gave way to the night air. Adrian pushed it open, and cool wind struck their faces. They emerged onto the banks of the Han River, the city burning and broken before them.
Behind them, the once-grand theater collapsed entirely into rubble.
Adrian stood for a moment, Helena leaning against him, both collaborators catching their breath. His chest rose and fell rapidly, eyes locked on the city skyline — towers broken, fire painting the night red, sirens wailing in a chorus of despair.
The runes still burned in his mind.
"The Hermes who escaped. The name of thousands."
And Adrian knew, as he looked out over Seoul's devastation, that their escape was not survival — only a beginning.
Outside, Seoul was breaking.
The earth roared like a beast awakened. Streets cracked open, swallowing cars and buses. Towers wavered, bent, and fell, crushing everything in their shadow. Fires ignited where gas lines ruptured. Within minutes, the modern, thriving city was transformed into a landscape of devastation.
By dawn, more than 10,000 lives were lost. Among them were ministers, business magnates, artists — names once synonymous with power, now buried in rubble.
The world woke to horror.
The Horror of June 20, 2048
News channels erupted in chaos. Helicopters circled the broken city, their cameras capturing devastation beyond imagination. Reporters stammered as they described scenes of blood, dust, and fire. Seoul, a city that had stood as a symbol of progress, had fallen in a single night.
Governments rushed to respond. Police, soldiers, and paramilitary forces poured into the city, but their efforts were little more than a desperate attempt to contain panic. Hospitals overflowed, communication lines failed, and cries of the wounded echoed through the ruins.
The date carved itself into history: June 20, 2045 — the Horror of Seoul.
But Seoul was not alone.
The Global Quakes
Within weeks, the same nightmare replayed across the globe.
In Tokyo, skyscrapers cracked like brittle glass, neon lights dying in showers of sparks.
In Beijing, entire blocks were consumed as the ground split wide, swallowing buildings whole.
In New York, subways caved in, and Central Park opened into a yawning scar across the city.
In Moscow, the Kremlin shook as if struck by invisible hammers, towers collapsing one by one.
In Paris, the Seine surged over its banks while the Eiffel Tower trembled, its iron frame bending against the fury beneath.
It was no longer an isolated disaster. It was a global cataclysm.
Scientists were helpless. Seismic instruments failed to predict the tremors. These quakes did not follow tectonic logic; they struck at random, in places both active and dormant. It was as if the earth itself was defying natural law, acting with will — with intention.
The question haunted every nation: why now?
The answer may lay in the runes. That's what everyone thought. Some even say it's an apocalypse.