The universe, still young, spun in brilliant silence.
Ten days had passed since the explosion birthed this new cosmos—a universe reborn from the ashes of the old. Across the endless star fields, new galaxies shimmered like fresh paint on the canvas of reality. Rivers of starlight meandered through the void, and newborn suns cast radiant halos across systems yet unnamed. Nebulas bloomed like cosmic flowers, their gases swirling in hues of violet, crimson, and gold. Black holes formed anew—this time with strange properties, tethered to the flow of mana, absorbing not only matter but whispers of forgotten time.
Within one of these galaxies, nestled under twin suns and accompanied by three silver moons, was a world unlike any other.
The world beneath those twin suns pulsed with life—a steady, primordial rhythm, as though the planet itself had a heartbeat synced to the flow of mana that now saturated its every corner. It was not just a place; it was a living organism, breathing alongside the cosmic winds that carried whispers of creation. The air shimmered with unseen threads of power, strands of mana weaving and unweaving reality like a loom in constant motion.
In just ten days, the planet had transformed from a blank, formless canvas into a breathtaking masterpiece of nature's resilience and magical rebirth. What once was void had become verdant. Seeds of life, borne not of soil but of mana itself, scattered on ethereal breezes, embedding into ground that had not existed before. Some seeds glowed like faint stars, others pulsed softly with warmth, as if remembering the suns that watched over them. They sprouted and grew, roots threading into mana-rich earth, stems unfolding toward twin dawns. The growth was relentless, but harmonious—not chaotic, but purposeful.
Forests expanded like rippling green waves, carpeting entire continents with towering bioluminescent trees. Their leaves radiated hues of soft turquoise and violet, glowing gently beneath the night skies. Mosses blanketed the forest floors, exhaling silvery mists that whispered softly in languages only the mana understood—ancient, primal tongues not heard since before time itself. When winds swept through these groves, the canopies didn't merely rustle; they sang in melodic hums, creating symphonies of sound and light across the landscape.
Rivers emerged next, carving elegant, winding paths through mountains and valleys. Their waters flowed clear but shimmered faintly, each stream carrying strands of raw magic that coursed like veins through the body of the world. Where rivers meet oceans, vast coral reefs bloomed with life, weaving technicolor spirals beneath the waves—gardens of crystal and glow.
In the oceans, life stirred with even greater wonder. Leviathans with glass-like scales drifted through the deep, their massive forms reflecting the stars above and the strange suns below. Bioluminescent jellyfish drifted lazily, their tendrils crackling softly with electricity, like floating thunderclouds in the abyss. Serpentine beasts coiled through underwater canyons, their bodies along as rivers, their flesh composed of swirling storm clouds and mist.
On land, sky-antelope pranced and leapt between floating rock formations, bounding gracefully across midair stepping stones suspended by invisible currents of mana. Their horns glowed like moonlight, leaving trails of soft luminescence in the sky as they danced through dawn. In distant valleys, wolf-like beasts with feathered tails gathered in packs, their songs echoing beneath the twin moons—each note a resonance of life itself.
High above, dragons soared—not the winged reptiles of old Earth mythology, but beings of elegant design and cosmic artistry. Their elongated, serpent-like bodies slithered through the sky like living rivers of light. Their wings unfolded like sheets of starlight, casting shimmering aurora in their wake. They made no sound, yet the air vibrated gently wherever they passed, as if the world itself acknowledged their presence.
Everywhere, life existed in perfect unity with mana. It was in the soil, where roots whispered to the ground. It was in the air, swirling in gentle eddies that danced between leaves. It was in the marrow of beasts and the essence of plants. Nothing struggled. Nothing starved. There were no predators yet, no prey. The creatures of this new world grazed, soared, swam, and multiplied freely, untouched by death or decay.
Hunger was an unknown concept. Fear did not exist. The balance of nature had not yet learned cruelty, nor had the cycle of life tasted conflict. In these first days, the world was a cradle of abundance—pure, radiant, and untainted.
It was a paradise untouched by pain.
But the center of the world held a secret.
There, rising from the very heart of the new planet, stood a godlike mountain—a single peak that pierced the atmosphere and reached into the heavens. Around its summit, cradled above the clouds, floated an entire continent, hovering serenely in the aether.
Its crown did not merely scrape the heavens; it birthed a continent of its own.
Above the clouds, suspended in aetheric stillness, floated a vast land untouched by the chaos or beauty below. This was—later on be called in the future—Celestia Caelorum—the Sky Continent. Unlike the wild, flourishing ecosystems spread across the lower realms, Celestia was a domain of symmetry, silence, and sanctity. It felt less like a place that had naturally formed and more like something carefully designed, as if by cosmic architects or celestial hands long forgotten.
Here, gravity had no dominion.
Floating valleys stretched endlessly in every direction, lush with silver grass that swayed not with wind, but with unseen currents of mana. The blades shimmered beneath the twin suns, refracting pale rainbows through the misty air. Rivers spiraled into the sky like glass ribbons, curling into helix patterns before cascading back down in loops, defying all logic. Water fell upward as easily as it fell downward, forming shimmering arches across the horizon.
Above these floating meadows, entire oceans hovered in suspension—vast bodies of water that reflected not just the twin suns, but the constellations beyond. Even beneath the daylight, the mirrored surfaces of these aerial seas shimmered with starlight, as though the heavens themselves had been stitched into their depths.
Towering citadels of radiant stone stood amidst the clouds, each carved from materials unknown to mortal worlds. Their walls gleamed like gold dust forged into seamless architecture, their windows glowing faintly with runic patterns that pulsed in time with the world's mana. Spires reached toward infinity, disappearing into twilight veils above, where no eye could follow.
Bridges of translucent crystal connected the floating isles, forming ethereal walkways that stretched between mountains suspended midair. The bridges themselves whispered—soft, haunting sounds like distant choirs resonating with each step that should have been taken, though none ever were. Monumental towers rose like ivory needles piercing through a canvas of permanent dawn and dusk, their peaks lost to the mists of the upper aether.
And yet, no one lived there.
For ten days, Celestia Caelorum remained untouched by breath or being—a divine architecture without architects, a paradise without people. The streets paved in radiant stone bore no footprints. The sanctuaries carved into crystal cliffs held no prayers. The amphitheaters stood hollow, their grand marble seats waiting for audiences that never came.
Gardens bloomed in stillness, their blossoms opening and closing as if inhaling mana, but no hands tended them. Colossal statues of winged figures lined the boulevards, gazing eternally into the empty horizon, their eyes carved with unsettling precision—as though they awaited someone, or something, to return.
The air held no laughter. No music. No voices. There was only the eternal hum—a resonant hymn of mana, vibrating softly through the bones of the continent like the breath of a slumbering god.
It was as if the Sky Continent existed in pause, like a grand celestial play set upon its stage, but with no actors to perform.
An untouched utopia.
A forgotten cradle.
A paradise waiting for its first dreamers to awaken.
Until the eleventh day.
At the precise moment when twin suns kissed the horizon and the three moons aligned in the sky, life stirred in the Sky Continent.
Without sound, without warning, humans appeared—one by one, like falling feathers from a celestial storm.
They materialized in the Grand Amphitheater of Aurelia Sanctum, the glowing capital of the sky. Twenty-four thousand souls in total: twelve thousand men, twelve thousand women, balanced perfectly as if chosen by a cosmic design. They lay upon marble-like platforms surrounded by floating blossoms of light, their eyes closed, their bodies motionless.
And then, as if by signal, they awoke.
Gasps echoed across the amphitheater, followed by panicked breaths and confused murmurs.
Eyes blinked open, revealing not just human pupils—but irises shimmering faintly with divine light. Each person wore robes of radiant fabric that shifted between colors, like cloth woven from starlight. And from every back, a pair of wings unfurled—some white as snow, others tinted with silver, gold, or soft hues of dawn. Feathers fluttered into the air as the wings stretched for the first time.
Cries broke out.
"What—what is this?!"
"I was just… I was at home—!"
"I was driving to work—and then…"
"I saw the stars fall…"
A woman clasped her mouth, tears streaking down her cheeks as she touched the feathers on her shoulders. "Am I dreaming? Am I dead?"
A man staggered to his feet, wings trembling behind him. "The Earth… it was destroyed. I remember the fire—the sky collapsing."
Another voice rang out—a boy no older than eighteen. "We died. We all died. So why—why are we here?"
Around them, the amphitheater glowed softly, as if listening.
Some fell to their knees, overwhelmed by awe.
Others shouted in panic, staring at their new forms.
"I have wings! This isn't possible!"
"Is this Heaven? Did we go to Heaven?"
"No… no! I remember the pain—I remember the ground splitting apart beneath me. The screams."
A woman clutched her chest, her voice trembling. "My daughter—she was with me! Where is she? Where is she?"
"I was in surgery," whispered an elderly doctor, staring at his hands. "I was saving a life when the sky tore apart. How am I here now?"
A silence passed between them—a collective breath of disbelief.
And then someone whispered the unspoken thought aloud.
"…Are we the only ones?"
Their gazes turned upward, then downward, into the swirling clouds below the floating continent. The world beneath was vast, unknowable, untouched. But here, in Celestia Caelorum, only twenty-four thousand souls had returned.
Why?
Why them?
Moments passed before the sky shimmered.
Above the amphitheater, an ethereal glyph appeared—the Mark of the First Ascendants. Its patterns spun like galaxies, and a voice, soft yet resonant, filled the minds of every person present.
"You are the first. The chosen. The ones fated to witness and protect the new dawn of creation."
The humans—now Skyfolk—looked at each other, breathless.
The voice continued, echoing from the clouds themselves.
"Your memories remain. Your lives on Earth are not forgotten. But your bodies have changed, shaped by mana's will. You have transcended mortality."
A new term, whispered on the aetheric winds, imprinted itself into their minds:
TheFirst Ascendants.
The amphitheater vibrated softly, lifting the souls higher, as if the continent itself accepted them into its fold.
And so began the era of the Skyfolk.
They were no longer humans of Earth.
They were no longer citizens of nations, divided by flags or borders.
They were immortal witnesses, watchers of the world's new history—tasked with overseeing balance, protecting the sanctity of creation, and recording all that was to come.
But as the first stars of night blinked into existence over Celestia Caelorum, one unshakable truth remained in their hearts:
They had not chosen this.
And the cost of eternity had yet to be revealed.