Time passed.
Thirty days drifted silently through the breath of the new world, each day a pulse of mana, each night a blanket of strange new stars. Celestia Caelorum hovered above the clouds, still radiant, still sacred. The Skyfolk trained their wings, explored the floating sanctums, and began to etch their purpose into eternity under Caerthalos, the Oath-Bound Imperator. Above, balance held.
But below, the Earth-bound world awaited its own reckoning.
Beneath the floating continent, the vast lands of the western quadrant—what would one day be called the CentralContinent—lay silent. It was the largest of the seven continents, its shape carved by oceans and colossal ridges that formed the FourfoldSpine, a cross-shaped mountain range splitting the land into quarters. Snow-capped peaks glinted in the sunlight, rivers coiled through green valleys, and plains stretched so far they touched the horizons. Rainforests shimmered with bioluminescent flora, while deserts whispered under twin suns. Mana thickened the air, saturating the soil, weaving through every blade of grass, every breath of wind.
For thirty days, no human soul disturbed this untouched paradise.
And then—on the dawn of the thirty-first day—they came.
It began as a ripple in the fabric of space. Not like the quiet, chosen descent of the Skyfolk, but a violent shudder, as if reality convulsed and spat out remnants from another world. Across the Central Continent, humans materialized—not in harmony, but in fragments, scattered like cosmic debris.
Millions of bodies emerged across the land. Fields became seas of tangled forms. Forests rustled as bodies appeared between roots. Cliffsides and shores trembled beneath sudden weight. Some humans fell into rivers, gasping; others blinked awake beneath alien stars, their eyes wide with terror. Towns didn't form. No sacred amphitheater awaited them. They were alone in the wilderness, scattered and broken.
Cries echoed.
Some stood up immediately, disoriented, clutching at their chests as memories of Earth's destruction returned with brutal clarity—the burning sky, the collapsing ground, the final screams before death. Others curled into fetal positions, shivering under the alien light, unsure if they were dreaming or trapped in some cruel purgatory.
And then came the greater horror.
They saw their bodies.
Some remained human—at least in appearance. Their skin, hands, and faces looked familiar, though their veins pulsed faintly with mana now, and their senses felt sharper, more attuned to the strange world around them.
But many had changed.
A man stared at his reflection in a crystal-clear stream and saw not his human face, but furred ears twitching atop his head, golden eyes slit like a predator's, and sharp canines glinting when he gasped. Behind him, others noticed their own transformations.
A woman touched her hands—shorter fingers, broader palms, the skin tougher, thicker. Her legs were stubbier, her reflection showing a dwarven visage, stout and solid, eyes reflecting the colors of gemstones.
In other places, beings with feathered wings and pointed ears blinked in confusion, their features elongated, ethereal, elf-like, though they carried no memory of ever being anything but human on Earth.
Then came the Draconids—humanoids covered in iridescent scales, some with small horns curling from their skulls, others with slit pupils and sharp claws. Their bodies radiated latent power, terrifying even to themselves.
And perhaps most unsettling of all were the Demonoids—people who awoke to find horns jutting from their brows, eyes glowing red or violet, and skin in shades of midnight blue, pale ivory, or obsidian black. Some had tails, others fangs, and though their minds remained human, their forms betrayed them.
Panic spread like wildfire.
A man screamed, clawing at his own reflection. "This isn't me! This isn't my face! Where—where is my face!?"
A mother held her child close, only to recoil when she realized her son had grown black scales down his back and his hands ended in claws. "No… no, please—this isn't real!"
Another voice cried from the treeline, his words trembling. "I was a doctor—I was human—I remember being human!"
A woman with furred arms tried to steady herself. "This is a nightmare," she whispered, her tail flicking behind her. "Please wake me up…"
But there was no waking.
There was only the Fractured Return.
The EarlyHumans, once the dominant race of Earth, had come back to life not as a single species, but as many. What had once been called "humanity" was now splintered into six distinct races, all birthed by the unknown forces that had remade reality:
1. The Humans – Those who retained most of their original form, though they now carried dormant mana in their blood. Their minds were sharp, their bodies slightly enhanced, but they were still recognizable as human.
2. The Beastkin – People merged with animalistic traits: wolves, foxes, tigers, birds. Claws, tails, ears, and primal instincts they had never known now guided their senses.
3. The Elves – Tall and graceful, with ears that curved elegantly and eyes that saw the flow of mana like threads in the air. Their connection to nature was immediate, unsettling, and profound.
4. The Dwarves – Shorter, denser, stronger. Their hands instinctively knew the language of stone and metal, though they could not yet explain why.
5. The Draconids – Half-dragon, half-human, bearing scales, horns, and voices that sometimes rumble with hidden echoes of something ancient. They were feared even by themselves.
6. The Demonoids – The most alien of all. Horned, sharp-eyed, sometimes monstrous in appearance, sometimes beautiful in an unsettling way. Their very presence stirred unease in others.
Across the land, the reactions were the same: shock, fear, grief.
Cries echoed across hills and valleys, forests and rivers. People stumbled to their knees, clutching their heads, gazing at trembling hands that no longer looked familiar. Some screamed into the vast, alien sky. Others whispered prayers to gods that no longer answered.
In an instant, the remnants of humanity—those who had once shared the same species, the same roots—fractured.
Not out of malice.
Not out of hatred.
But out of survival.
Instinct became law before any city was built, before any government rose. It wasn't declared; it simply happened—a primal reflex to cling to sameness, to seek comfort in the familiar amidst terror.
Those who retained their human shapes huddled together first. They formed tight circles, clutching each other's hands, avoiding those whose bodies had changed too drastically. Their eyes darted to the beastkin—men and women with fur-lined skin, sharp teeth, and animal eyes. Some bore claws; others had tails. The beastkin, too, gathered in packs, drawn by an unspoken bond, their senses sharper than before. They sniffed the wind, ears twitching at sounds no human could hear.
In the shadows of ancient forests, the elves retreated. Their ears tapered into points; their eyes reflected moonlight. An unknown pull dragged them toward the trees, their feet moving before thought caught up. They whispered in hushed tones, their voices tinged with sorrow. They no longer knew why, but the rustle of leaves, the song of rivers—it felt like home. It was not logic; it was instinct.
At the feet of mountains, the dwarves found solace. They traced stone with new, calloused fingers, running their hands over granite and iron-rich soil as if greeting old friends they had forgotten. Shorter now, broader of the shoulder, sturdier of limb—they dug into the earth not for survival alone, but because it felt right. Hammers, chisels, forges—they would come later. For now, it was enough to feel the heartbeat of the mountain.
And then there were the Draconids.
They hid.
Not because they wanted to, but because the world feared them.
Their scales shimmered in sunlight—emerald, obsidian, sapphire. Eyes slit like a serpent. Wings, not of feathers, but of leathery membrane, folded tightly against their backs. Some bore claws, some had tails tipped with bone. Others could breathe faint wisps of flame without knowing why.
When they tried to approach the others, people fled.
Even those who shared kinship on Earth recoiled now.
"Stay back!" someone screamed, eyes wide with terror. "They're dragons! They'll burn us alive!"
And the Draconids, heartbroken, withdrew into caves and mountaintops. Alone.
But no group carried the weight of rejection heavier than the Demonoids.
They were the most changed.
Some still bore human faces, but their skin shimmered with unnatural hues—blue, crimson, obsidian black. Horns curled from temples, small or grand, bone twisting through flesh. Their eyes glowed—violet, gold, or red. Some had tails. Others fangs. A few sprouted claws or talons, and some simply looked… wrong.
To the others, they became the other.
Whispers followed them like curses.
"They're cursed."
"They're demons."
"Why would the universe bring us back like… like this?"
A Demonoid boy sat alone by a riverbank, his knees drawn to his chest, horns pressing into his palms. His reflection stared back—no longer brown-eyed and soft, but violet-eyed, slitted pupils gleaming beneath the ripples.
"I'm a monster," he whispered, tears falling like raindrops into the water. "We're monsters now."
His words rippled outward, carried by the wind, echoed silently in countless hearts.
Yet, not all surrendered to despair.
From the quiet, voices rose—trembling at first, then stronger.
An elder elf stepped forward, his silver hair fluttering in the breeze, eyes reflecting centuries he hadn't lived but somehow remembered.
"We survived the end of the world," he spoke, his tone cutting through the hush like a blade of light. "We can survive this."
A dwarven woman stood beside him, her hands already tracing patterns in the soil, sketching the beginnings of a home no one else could yet imagine.
"We need tools. Fire. Shelter," she said. "We need to rebuild."
A beastkin chieftain, fur bristling beneath his robe, growled low—not from anger, but determination. His eyes, golden and sharp, swept across the crowd.
"We need each other," he declared. "Alone, we die. Together, we survive."
But his words, however true, could not erase the fear lingering beneath the surface.
Distrust rooted itself in the soil of this newborn world.
People grouped not by loyalty, but by similarity. By skin. By shape. By bloodlines they did not ask for.
The first invisible borders were drawn long before any walls were built.
Species became tribes.
Tribes became factions.
Far above, in the sky-continent of Celestia Caelorum, the Empyrean Imperator watched.
Caerthalos stood at the spires of the Empyrean Throne, wings folded tightly behind him, his gaze locked upon the lands below. His celestial eyes pierced through clouds and distance, witnessing the rise of fear, the fracturing of what once was whole.
He saw them—the beastkin huddling in the forests.
The elves whispered to the trees.
The dwarves carve shelters into stone.
The Draconids hiding in caves, weeping flames into the dark.
And the Demonoids, shunned and alone, clutching their new forms like chains they never asked to wear.
Caerthalos felt the weight of it, the ache of balance slipping through his fingers.
The Skyfolk stood behind him, silent witnesses to the same division.
"They are already breaking," whispered one of the Oracles.
"They fear what they don't understand," said another.
Caerthalos said nothing for a long moment, his eyes reflecting twin suns and three moons. His heart, once human, now beat the rhythm of eternity—but it still ached.
"This is only the beginning," he whispered to himself, his voice carried by the winds of the aether.
In the Central Continent below, flames were kindled—not for war yet, but for survival.
The first tools were forged. The first shelters built. And beneath it all, beneath every hopeful act, suspicion remained—a quiet poison.
The people whispered:
"Why did this happen?"
"Who chose this fate?"
"Are we human anymore?"
No answers came.
The gods—or whatever had replaced them—remained silent.
And so began the Fractured Return—a new era where humanity, reborn as something other, would rise not as one people, but as many.
A world of wonders had been given to them.
And a world of division had already begun.