Chapter 25 – The Splintering
Darkness stretched like a living wound in the void between worlds. A jagged tear in the fabric of reality—this was the Rift, the shattered border between dimensions. And behind it, in a place that was no place, lay the Krevians' war chamber.
Twenty-nine of them stood silent, statues carved from muscle and bone, cloaked in shadows that seemed to bend around their immense forms. Their skin was a deep, rough leather—the color of bruised earth—marked with scars from centuries of endless battle. Thick tusks jutted from their jaws like twin blades, sharp and cruel.
Each was a towering giant. The smallest barely under 2.3 meters tall; the largest a hulking mountain of muscle and fury.
This was Krev—a planet of blood and war, where the weak were torn apart and devoured, where strength was life itself and mercy a forgotten word.
The Krevians were not a social people. They did not gather in celebrations or sing songs of victory. They only hunted. They only fought. They only survived.
For eons, the Rift had swallowed worlds. It had erased civilizations and shattered galaxies. But Krev was different.
Krev had resisted.
While entire armies fell to the Rift's hunger, the Krevians fought back with savage fury. The Rift had spared them—not out of mercy, but respect for raw power.
Now, through this same Rift, the Krevians prepared to spill into Earth—a world of fragile flesh and soft bones.
They waited, muscles coiled like springs, breath slow and deliberate.
They watched the shimmering portal ahead—the gate.
When it finally tore open, they would cross and feast.
The Krevians murmured among themselves, the guttural grunts like echoes of war drums.
They spoke of luck.
Not their luck.
The humans'.
A fragile, delicate race ripe for slaughter.
One of them, a massive figure nearly twice the height of the others, stepped forward.
Zekrav.
His armor gleamed with an unholy light—shining plates forged from a metal unknown to any human craft. It moved with him like liquid stone, etched with runes that pulsed in time with his savage heartbeat.
His eyes burned—a deep, violent red, like molten blood frozen in place.
Standing at 3.5 meters, his presence alone twisted the air around him.
Class: Ravager
Level: 35
He did not smile.
He did not sneer.
He simply looked.
At the fragile blue world before him, and the tiny creatures scrambling to defend it.
This was no hunt.
This was a war.
Zekrav inhaled the biting air of Earth and stepped forward into the portal.Across the Earth, the Gates pulsed like open wounds in the sky—twenty-nine in total. Each one shimmered at the edge of madness, unstable rings of energy hanging like halos of doom above ruined cities, forests, oceans, and mountains.
And then—
They opened.
The air tore apart with a deafening, multidimensional scream. Space folded. Reality convulsed.
And through the Gates, they came.
The Krevians marched into Earth like predators let loose into a petting zoo.
Boots of iron crushed stone and soil. Snow melted beneath their heat. Leaves blackened and withered under the pressure of their auras. The mere presence of these beings distorted the world. Each of them was a calamity wrapped in flesh.
For many watching from afar—through broken cameras, satellites, or glass towers—it was like watching titans descend from myth. They had no words. Only silence. And fear.
And for the Players…
Shock.
A boy in South Korea stood frozen atop a highway, eyes wide. His sword trembled in his grip.
A woman in Brazil staggered backward, mouth dry.
A priest in Italy dropped to his knees, hands shaking over his rosary.
Even the elite—those Level 30 warriors chosen for the Resistance—felt their hearts jolt.
They weren't ready.
They thought they were.
They weren't.
These were not monsters. Not mutants. Not eldritch horrors.
These were killers.
Trained by a world of endless war. Evolved through bloodshed.
For every human, there was at least one Krevian waiting. Some got two.
Some would never leave their battlefield alive.
---
Yaoundé, Cameroon
A man stepped out onto red earth, eyes narrowing.
A Krevian charged him like a war beast, axe raised.
The man raised his blade, grit his teeth—and screamed as the impact shattered his defense and hurled him into a nearby wall.
Bones cracked. Blood sprayed.
The battle had begun.
---
Berlin, Germany
Inside a half-destroyed cathedral, two armored men clashed with a hulking boar-skinned warrior beneath stained glass windows that shattered as they fought.
"Fall back!" one shouted.
"No," the other growled, blood dripping from his mouth. "We hold here!"
---
Tokyo, Japan
A teenage Player flew back through a car windshield, barely alive. He grunted, flames licking off his gloves.
His opponent didn't even blink.
---
And far away, on a windswept hill in the Canadian tundra—
Andrew stood.
Alone.
Watching the Gate pulse.
The snow swirled around him. His shadow curled at his feet, shifting like smoke. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword.
And then he saw it.
A figure emerging.
Taller than any man. Heavier than any beast. Eyes glowing red. Armor like a god's tomb.
Zekrav.
Andrew felt the shift in the air.
Not a presence.
A pressure.
His breath hitched—just slightly.
And then Zekrav stepped through.
---
Atlantic Island — Clara's Battlefield
The sunlight was almost beautiful. Waves lapped gently against white sand. Palms swayed. Birds circled high above the treetops.
But Clara felt none of it.
The Gate behind her pulsed. The island shook.
And then—
A mountain of flesh stepped through.
Terkins.
Class: Cleaver
Level: 33
Height: 2.6 meters
His tusks dripped with saliva. A massive cleaver hung loosely in one hand, its edge chipped from countless kills.
He looked down at her—then grinned.
"Small."
Clara exhaled slowly. Her body trembled, but she didn't back away.
Her sword flickered into existence—glowing with fire and frost.
But something was wrong.
Her control.
The mana surged, wild and unstable.
She clenched her jaw. Not now.
Terkins charged.
---
Middle East Ruins — Arthur's Battlefield
Kartarus moved like a landslide.
Spear clashed with cleaver. Dust filled the air. Blood sprayed across cracked stones.
Arthur grit his teeth, arms numb from the impact.
His opponent was faster than expected. Smarter. He dodged. He baited. He wasn't just a beast—he was a tactician.
Kartarus licked blood off his blade.
"Die tired, little knight."
...….
The wind was too warm.
The island was far too beautiful.
Sunlight danced on the ocean's surface like it didn't know what was coming. Palm trees swayed gently, oblivious. The white sand under Clara's boots felt soft—wrong. Everything was wrong.
And then the Gate behind her screamed.
She turned.
And saw him.
Terkins.
The Krevian towered over her, thick as a war elephant, with bulging muscle packed beneath that boar-skin hide. Two tusks curled out from a jaw that looked strong enough to crack boulders. His cleaver was a slab of jagged metal, long as a streetlamp and twice as heavy. Scar tissue snaked across his arms like dark lightning.
> [Level: 33] [Class: Cleaver]
He stepped onto the island, each movement sending ripples through the ground.
His eyes met hers.
And he grinned.
"Small."
Clara didn't reply. She couldn't. Her mouth was dry, her heart a war drum behind her ribs.
She summoned her blade. Fire licked the steel. Frost coiled around her free hand.
But even as her magic rose, she felt it—the resistance.
The mana writhed in her veins. Slippery. Chaotic. Unstable.
The Chaos inside her was pulsing again, wild and untamed, not yet ready to be hers.
And Terkins charged.
The world blurred. She leapt to the side, narrowly dodging the swing of his cleaver. The blade tore through the tree behind her like wet paper. Bark exploded. Splinters sliced into her cheek.
She countered—fire surged forward.
It hit his chest—and fizzled.
The Krevian barely grunted. A scorch mark, nothing more.
His cleaver came again. She blocked with her sword—bad idea.
The impact threw her backwards. She crashed into a stone, coughed blood.
She got up.
Again.
And again.
Terkins laughed. "Soft. Weak."
Her magic surged once more—this time ice. She froze the ground, tried to trip him. He stumbled, but only for a second. The next blow shattered the frozen terrain and slammed into her shoulder.
Pain. White-hot. Searing.
Her left arm went numb.
She screamed, but not from pain.
From rage.
From frustration.
From everything.
---
Inside Clara's Mind
She had always wanted to help.
That was the dream, wasn't it? To survive. To protect others. To use her gift to keep people from suffering like she did when the world broke.
But she had been naïve.
She wasn't just here to support Andrew.
She wasn't his shield.
She wasn't a side character.
She was Clara.
Her own soul. Her own path.
And this world—
This ruined, bleeding world—
Was hers.
The one her family had loved.
The one she had laughed in, cried in, grown in.
And now it burned.
And she would burn for it.
Clara gritted her teeth.
"I'm not… backing down."
Even if it meant letting go of her softness.
Even if it meant not being human anymore.
Even if it meant facing death in the eyes with no guarantee she'd survive.
She would protect this place until her last drop of blood hit the dirt.
---
Awakening
She stopped trying to force her chaos.
She let it bleed into her—but not explode.
She didn't need all three elements at once.
She focused.
Fire. Wind.
Her body burned. Her breath steadied.
She refined—not released.
The flames curled tighter. The wind wrapped closer to her skin. Her sword glowed like a comet held in trembling hands.
It was sloppy.
But it was hers.
And it was working.
---
The Battle Continues
She ducked under Terkins' next blow, sliding across sand and driving her blade into his thigh. Not deep—but it made him roar.
A gust of wind enhanced her leap. She spun, slashed again. Fire trailed behind her blade like a comet tail.
He caught her with his fist mid-air.
Her ribs cracked like glass.
Blood spilled from her lips.
But she didn't fall.
She pushed off his arm and landed on one knee.
Her left arm hung useless. Her vision blurred.
Fifteen minutes left, maybe less.
She was already dying.
But her heart—
Her heart was on fire.
---
> "Come on, Clara," she whispered to herself. "Don't die here. Not yet."
She stood once more.
Her blade flared.
The wind screamed.
And she charged back into hell.