The air ripped itself apart. Not like an explosion—not fire and force—but something deeper. The molecules themselves seemed to scream, to unravel, as if the very concept of stability had been abandoned. And from that rupture, they emerged.
Twenty-seven beings—no longer human, not anymore. The experiments had gone too far, their flesh had become something else, their minds had become voids—chasms too deep to comprehend, filled with madness, hatred, and something that no human had ever felt before. Power beyond reason.
They walked. They hovered. Twisted. Shifted. Their bodies no longer obeyed physics, no longer followed biology. Bone spirals jutted from their backs like cathedral spires. Flesh pulsed in places it shouldn't. Eyes opened and closed across their skin, blinking independently, watching everything at once. Their forms constantly broke and reformed, as if reality itself was unsure whether to keep them solid or let them bleed into the void.
Then, the screaming began.
The government had built this underground facility to withstand any attack. A fortress beneath the Earth, deep enough that no nuclear bomb could touch it, reinforced with the strongest metals humanity had ever forged. It didn't matter. It was nothing to them.
The first deaths were instantaneous. A mere thought from one of the beings—just an absent-minded flicker of their new consciousness—and every soldier in the lower floors imploded at once. Not exploded. Imploded. Their bodies collapsed inward as if a black hole had formed inside their chests, ribs snapping inward, flesh compressing into a single point before vanishing. Blood smeared the walls in red spirals, their uniforms left empty on the ground, still holding their weapons.
The scientists tried to run.
One of them made it to an elevator, slamming the emergency button, his breath coming in frantic gasps. The doors slid shut. Safety. Escape.
No.
The walls around him melted. Not with heat. Not with fire. They became flesh. Pulsing, raw, wet, twitching. The numbers on the elevator's panel bled—red droplets dripping down the buttons. Something inside the walls was breathing. He tried to scream, but the walls had already absorbed him.
One by one, every scientist, every guard, every government official met something worse than death.
One woman found herself stuck in a loop, her body resetting every ten seconds—each time she was torn apart by unseen forces, only to be rebuilt again, screaming louder each time.
One man saw his own reflection smile at him before stepping out of the mirror, grabbing his jaw, and peeling his face off.
Another officer found himself floating, staring down at his own corpse, which was still moving. He watched, paralyzed, as his body picked up a knife and carved out its own eyes, laughing the whole time.
It wasn't a massacre. It was art.
The 27 did not simply kill. They played.
They dragged the suffering out for as long as possible, bending reality itself to redefine agony.
And then, finally, when there was no one left to kill—they turned their eyes to the surface.
The first earthquake came like a heartbeat. A single, deep thump that sent ripples through the ground. Buildings shuddered. Windows cracked. Birds froze in midair, trapped between flying and falling.
The second heartbeat sent tsunamis racing toward the shorelines, black water swallowing entire cities before people even had time to react. The ocean boiled—not from heat, but from something deeper. The laws of physics were collapsing.
The third heartbeat silenced the world.
Every volcano on Earth erupted at once.
Not gradually. Not in bursts. They exploded. Mountains of lava shot into the sky, turning the clouds into seething infernos. Ash swallowed the sun. Entire continents split apart as the planet itself began to scream.
People ran, but there was nowhere to go. The air itself turned against them. In some places, it became razor-sharp, cutting flesh like invisible knives. In others, it thickened, drowning people in their own breath.
And then, the sky turned red.
Cities fell. Not crumbled—fell. Entire chunks of Earth lifted into the sky, hanging weightless before being shattered into dust. People floated upward, reaching desperately for anything to hold onto, but there was nothing. Just the cold, suffocating void swallowing them whole.
The moon cracked like an egg. Shards of it rained down, each piece large enough to obliterate nations. The tides went mad, pulling tsunamis hundreds of miles inland, drowning mountains, swallowing civilizations, The gravity ceased to exist.
Some saw gods in the sky—vast, shifting figures with too many eyes and too many mouths, whispering secrets no human mind could handle. They collapsed, brains melting out of their skulls before they could even scream.
Others saw nothing. Not darkness—nothing. They blinked, and the world around them was gone. No sound. No sensation. Just void.
And above it all, floating in the sky, stood the 27.
Or rather—what they had become.
No longer bound by shape or size, they had grown beyond humanity. Beyond gods. Their bodies twisted, shifted, stretched across the sky. Their eyes were galaxies, their limbs towers of flesh and bone, their voices deep enough to shake the fabric of time itself.
And they were still hungry.
.
People had fled to the water, to ships, to floating cities, thinking they could outrun the destruction. They were wrong. The sea was no longer water—it had become something else.
It breathed.
The waves shuddered, rising too high, moving too slow—then too fast. The salt turned to something sour, something rotting. The ocean had changed.
The first ship—an aircraft carrier, the last of a dying navy—sank without a sound. It didn't capsize. It didn't break. It was simply pulled downward. The steel hull melted, turning into something organic—veins, arteries, pulsing muscle—the entire ship became part of the sea.
The earth was dying.
the people were swallowed alive.
Sailors screamed as their skin softened, their bones liquefied, their bodies merged with the tide. Some of them didn't drown. No—they became the water. Their faces drifted across the surface, frozen in agony, mouths wide but unable to make a sound.
The survivors on nearby ships watched in paralyzed horror. Then, one by one, their vessels began to move.
Not with the current. Not with the wind.
Something underneath was pulling them.
They ran to the edges, staring into the depths—and what they saw was not water anymore.
Eyes. Thousands. Millions. Blinking, rolling, watching. A sea of flesh, of teeth, of pale hands reaching upward.
Then, the tentacles came.
Not like an octopus. Not like anything that had ever existed before. They rose from the deep, miles wide, twisting and splitting like wet, throbbing roots. They wrapped around ships, around people, dragging them down—not to the bottom of the sea, but into something deeper. Something that shouldn't have been there.
The screaming lasted for hours.
Then, silence.
The oceans were full now—full of bodies, full of souls, full of consciousness that could not die. The water itself had become a living thing.
And it was hungry.
On land, things were worse.
The mountains moved—not crumbling, not collapsing, but shifting like muscle under the skin of the Earth. Buildings melted into bone, streets twisted into intestines, the very sky itself became red—pulsing, alive.
Millions tried to flee. It didn't matter.
In Tokyo, skyscrapers turned organic. Metal and glass became teeth and tongues, licking the air, screaming with the voices of those who had died inside them. The streets were rivers of maggots, flowing in the cracks of the pavement like blood through veins.
In Paris, the Eiffel Tower walked. The iron twisted, bent, split into a thousand legs, scuttling through the ruins like an insect. It was alive now—and it was hunting.
In New York, Times Square became a mouth. The billboards spoke, the buildings leaned inward, and the ground cracked open like lips. People fell in by the thousands, screaming as the Earth itself chewed them alive.
There was no escape.
Some ran underground, into bunkers, into tunnels, thinking they could hide.
They were wrong.
The walls were no longer steel, no longer concrete. They twitched when touched. They whispered.
A man in a bunker tried to scream, but his voice didn't come out. Not from his mouth. It came from the wall.
A thousand voices screaming, begging, pleading for help—but there was no one left to listen.
Above it all, the gods floated.
The 27 beings—no longer human, no longer bound by flesh—watched the destruction unfold with empty, endless eyes. They did not move. They did not speak.
But they felt.
With every death, every scream, every moment of suffering, they grew stronger.
Their bodies were not stable—constantly shifting, expanding, contracting. Some had wings, but the feathers were made of spines. Some had horns, but they dripped with black, oozing rot. Some had no faces—only endless, spinning voids where heads should have been.
And at the center of them all, the strongest one—the first to transform—opened its mouth.
A sound ripped through the world.
Not a voice. Not a scream. Something worse.
A frequency that shattered glass, burst eardrums, sent blood pouring from the eyes of anyone still alive. A single, endless note of madness.
And with that sound, the final collapse began.
The Earth itself started to change—its core warped, its crust peeled, its very mass expanding outward.
The planet could no longer hold itself together.
They were not finished with this world yet.
The survivors could no longer breathe.
It wasn't smoke. It wasn't gas. It was something.
The sky had changed. The clouds were no longer vapor but veins, stretched thin, pulsing with a deep red glow. Thicker—something that stuck in the lungs, something that clawed down their throats like livi
When the rain fell, it wasn't water.
It was blood.
And it was alive.
The moment it touched skin, it burrowed in—thousands of microscopic tendrils sinking into flesh, pulling people apart from the inside. Some tried to wipe it off, but their hands only melted into whatever they touched. Some tried to run, but the ground beneath them breathed, pulsating with the same infection.
Then came the wind.
It did not howl. It did not roar. It screamed.
Not like air rushing through trees—not like a hurricane, not like a storm—but like voices.
Millions of voices.
The wind carried the echoes of the dead—those who had already been consumed, their souls ripped apart, their last moments repeating endlessly in the air.
A man in London covered his ears, trying to block out the sound—but when he did, he felt something slithering inside his head.
He pulled his hands away—and found his fingers had fused to his skull. His own skin was crawling, his own bones twisting—he tried to scream, but his voice joined the storm.
He was gone.
This was no longer a world where people could breathe. The very air was a weapon now.
And there was no escaping it.
The survivors who ran underground found no safety.
The tunnels and bunkers had already changed.
Walls were no longer concrete. They were ribcages. Pulsing. Expanding. Contracting.
And the deeper they went, the hotter it became.
Not just heat. Hunger.
The Earth itself was alive.
A shelter in Russia collapsed overnight. The people inside never screamed. They never even had the chance.
Because when the walls closed in, they didn't just crush them. They absorbed them.
Bones stretched, veins latched onto the walls, and within minutes, the shelter was not a shelter anymore.
It was a womb.
And something inside it was growing.
Above ground, things were even worse.
The cities that had survived the first destruction were now twisting. Buildings that had once stood tall were now melting together, flesh and steel merging into grotesque towers of organic metal.
Some of them moved.
Like animals.
Like predators.
A survivor in Beijing watched in horror as an entire skyscraper took a step. Its windows were eyes, its shattered floors were teeth, and the people still trapped inside were screaming as they were absorbed into its shifting mass.
She tried to run.
But the ground beneath her opened up.
Not a sinkhole. Not an earthquake.
A mouth.
And she was gone.
For the first time, the 27 beings moved.
Until now, they had simply watched. Floating. Waiting.
But now—now they descended.
Not to rule. Not to command.
To feed.
Their bodies stretched, arms splitting into hundreds of tendrils, wings unfolding into spines.
One landed in what was once New Delhi. Its footsteps alone crushed buildings, its mere presence sent shockwaves through the ground.
But it did not destroy.
It touched.
And everything beneath it changed.
The people, the ruins, the very earth itself—all of it broke apart, dissolving into raw matter, reshaping into something else.
Something incomprehensible.
Something holy.
To them, this was not destruction.
This was creation.
The first step to remaking the world in their image.
And they were just getting started.
There was no sun anymore.
Not because it had gone out.
Because the sky was thick—a suffocating mass of writhing flesh, pulsing with veins of molten gold.
It wasn't blocking the sun.
It was feeding on it.
The 27 descended fully now—not as rulers, not as executioners, but as beings of hunger.
They did not consume like animals.
They did not burn like gods.
They absorbed.
Their forms were unstable, shifting between humanoid nightmares and towering masses of pure energy—their bodies unfolding, expanding, piercing the ground with tendrils that burrowed to the core.
The Earth screamed.
A real, tangible sound. A deep, guttural cry, like an animal being torn apart while still alive.
People heard it.
The few who still remained—they heard their planet begging.
But there was no one left to save it.
The oceans drained first.
Not evaporating.
Not boiling.
Simply ripped away, sucked upward in streams of twisting liquid, spiraling into the sky, disappearing into the bodies of the 27.
Where once there were waves, now there was only dust.
The cities that had still stood among the ruins—they withered.
Metal turned to rust.
Glass became sand.
People started floating in the sky and buildings crumbled.
Concrete crumbled into bone-white powder, carried away on winds that no longer howled but sighed, whispering the last words of the dead.
And then came the earthquakes.
Not slow. Not building up.
Instantaneous.
Everything cracked. Everything split.
Entire continents tilted like ships about to capsize, mountains rose and fell in seconds, the planet's crust ripping apart as the core itself began to dim.
For the first time, Earth was hollow.
The core—the burning heart of the planet—was rising.
Dragged upwards.
Dragged out.
One of the 27—the one who had once been Amara—held it in her hands.
Or what had once been hands.
Her form was stretched, fingers thinning into impossibly long tendrils, eyes blackened voids, her mouth locked in an eternal grin of inhuman ecstasy.
She crushed the core.
And the planet shuddered.
Without its heart, Earth had only seconds left.
And the 27 looked to the next meal.
Earth was dying.
But they did not stop.
They were still hungry.
Their bodies expanded, eclipsing the horizon, their forms blending with the space above, until they were no longer just on Earth—they were among the stars.