The creatures that slipped through during the second crack didn't roar, rampage, or maim.
They whispered.
Unlike the beasts that tore through the veil in waves of fire and fury, these new arrivals came cloaked in serenity.
They looked human—too human—radiating an otherworldly calm. With glowing eyes and featherless wings of luminous energy, they walked among the ruins of a battered world and spoke in voices that made even the wind pause to listen.
They called themselves protectors.
Messengers of peace.
Guardians of light.
They offered safety in exchange for faith, and humanity—fragile and desperate—clung to their promises like drowning men to driftwood.
People called them angels.
Altars rose overnight, carved from stone and metal, raised in the shadows of collapsed churches. Millions knelt before them, whispering prayers, tears in their eyes. And the angels listened. They healed the sick with a touch. Banished lesser creatures with a glance.
The miracles were real. The power undeniable.
But not everyone bowed.
Some looked into those radiant eyes and saw something beneath the glow—something ancient. Hungry. Manipulative.
They remembered the first invasion.
They remembered the lies.
These few—scattered across the continents—formed a silent resistance.
They called themselves the Awakened.
To them, the angels weren't saviors. They were serpents with silver tongues and perfect smiles.
And the world split in two:
—The Faithful, who worshiped the angels as divine emissaries.
—The Awakened, who prepared for the day masks would fall.
Then… he stirred.
When the white being took control of Angelo's body, the sky itself seemed to recoil.
A shiver rolled across existence—quiet, invisible, inescapable.
Birds dropped mid-flight. Wolves whimpered and fled into shadows. Oceans calmed.
And the angels… froze.
For the first time, they showed fear.
The Watchers—those silent figures who once only observed—moved.
They became executioners.
The shift was subtle at first. Dissenters disappeared. Whispers turned to warnings.
Then came the command—delivered in soft, velvety tones:
"Find the source."
When the Faithful asked how they would recognize it, the angels smiled.
"You'll feel it. When you are close, your soul will tremble."
And so the hunt began.
Not with armies.
But with sermons.
With zealots.
And with shadows.
In a quiet city nestled against a vast mountain range, the first massacre occurred.
It started at dusk.
Lights flickered, then went out.
Phones died.
Dogs howled, then went silent.
By the time the military arrived, the sun had vanished completely, but the streetlamps did not flicker back on.
The soldiers stepped from their vehicles, boots crunching over gravel and glass.
The city was… intact.
Not a single collapsed building.
No craters. No smoke. No fire.
But the smell—
A thick, sweet rot lingered in the air.
Then they saw them.
Bodies.
Hundreds of them.
Lying in the streets, across sidewalks, slumped in cars, hanging from stairwells.
Eyes wide. Mouths open.
Flesh turned an unnatural shade of gray. No wounds. No blood.
Just… death.
Still. Silent. Cold.
One soldier gagged and turned away.
"God… what the hell happened here?" he whispered, bile burning the back of his throat.
"Eyes forward," barked the commander, voice tense. "There might be survivors."
The unit advanced with weapons raised, their breaths shallow, forming small clouds in the unnatural chill.
Then—
"I see someone!" came a hushed voice over the radio.
A young soldier, barely twenty, pointed toward a rusted car. A girl—maybe twelve—cowered behind it, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes wide with terror.
He broke from formation, creeping toward her.
"Hey," he whispered gently, lowering his rifle. "It's okay. You're safe. I'm here to help you."
The girl whimpered, shaking violently.
But then… something moved.
Beyond the car, in the gathering shadows, a tall figure stood—still as a tombstone.
It wore a cloak of darkness, threadless and weightless, fluttering in a breeze that didn't exist.
A Watcher.
Its faceless head tilted slightly, as if curious.
The soldier's breath caught in his throat.
He raised his rifle. "Stay back!"
The Watcher stepped forward, gliding more than walking, its limbs unnaturally long, joints bending wrong.
He pulled the trigger.
Once. Twice. A burst.
The bullets passed through the creature like mist. No resistance. No reaction.
Then, slowly, the holes closed—sealing shut as if the flesh had never been torn.
The girl screamed.
She bolted from behind the car, but the Watcher moved with a speed that defied logic. One elongated arm snapped forward like a whip, snatching her into the air.
"No!" the soldier shouted, firing again uselessly.
The Watcher lifted her with delicate cruelty.
Then pulled back its hood.
Its face was horror.
No eyes—only deep, yawning sockets that pulsed with darkness. No nose. No ears. Just a mouth—a vertical chasm of shifting, serrated teeth that writhed and rearranged with every breath.
It opened its jaws wide.
The girl shrieked and thrashed, kicking wildly—but she couldn't escape.
A faint light—her soul—began to leak from her chest, pulled toward the Watcher like smoke to a vacuum. Her body spasmed. Her skin paled to ash. Her limbs twisted as if drained from within.
Then, with one final shudder, her light vanished into the monster's maw.
She collapsed in its hands—lightless. Lifeless. A paper doll in the wind.
The soldier stood frozen, trembling.
His rifle slipped from his hands and clattered to the asphalt.
The Watcher turned.
Its empty sockets locked onto him.
And then—it walked.
One step. Then another. Each slow, deliberate stride echoed like a ticking clock.
The soldier couldn't move. His muscles refused. His heart slammed against his ribs.
Run.
RUN.
But his legs stayed rooted.
The Watcher drew closer. Ten meters. Eight.
His breath became ragged. Tears welled in his eyes.
Five meters.
He fell to his knees.
Three.
The air around the creature hummed—a low, resonant vibration that made his bones ache.
Two.
He closed his eyes.
And then—