The city was alive with the rhythm of normalcy. The sun draped golden light across mirrored skyscrapers, its rays glinting off car windshields as a million tiny lives bustled through the streets.
A woman in a business suit clutched a cup of coffee, frowning at her watch.
A jogger adjusted his earbuds.
A teenager leaned against a streetlight, thumbing through social media.
Conversations hummed in and out of life—both casual and formal—in cafés, stock market tickers scrolled across digital billboards, and the world—for all its chaos—felt predictable.
Suddenly, every screen flickered.
At first, it was just a faint buzz, like distant radio interference, barely noticeable against the city's busy ambiance.
Then, a ripple of static crawled like bugs across every screen.
People frowned at their phones, tapping them like the glitch was a tangible stain that had to be physically removed.
Digital billboards sputtered, the neon brilliance fragmenting into jagged, uneven black lines.
A garbled image that was a mess of scrambled pixels appeared for a fleeting moment.
For a moment, it almost resembled a face, but then it twisted into static again. The flickering lasted a few more agonizing seconds before the distortion solidified into a crystal-clear image with an unnatural snap.
The bright advertisements and news feeds stuttered, then changed all at once. Phone screens, tablets, televisions—across restaurants, airports, city squares—every digital display coalesced into a single image.
A man stared out at them.
He was striking in a way that felt imposing and ridiculous at the same time.
Handsome, yes, but heavyset, his body draped in an exquisitely tailored suit that barely concealed his girth.
His hair was a crown of stuck-up white tufts, almost like a porcupine and his bright golden eyes seemed to look every single person in the USA into the eye. And behind the obvious pompous look in his eyes, something else gleamed as well—amusement.
The city—the entire country fell into a hush.
"Good morning," he began. "I am Lawrence White, CEO of Black Titan Defense."
A murmur rippled through the streets. People in office buildings turned to their colleagues. Waiters abandoned their orders to stare at hanging TVs.
"Isn't that the nuclear arms company?"
"Yeah. That private company is the main reason why the USA has the most nuclear arms."
"That's good and all but why is this guy broadcasting himself over every screen imaginable?"
"Probably cause he's fat as fuck! Needs more space to fit in that pot!"
"AHAHA, can't say no no to that bruh."
A man in a subway station pulled off his headphones, frowning at his phone screen.
"In the last four hours, multiple satellites and deep-earth monitoring stations have detected anomalies that defy every scientific model known to man," Lawrence continued. "Seismic activity, gravitational distortions, and quantum readings are so erratic that all of the supposed 'brightest minds' are at a loss."
A rather pretentious look appeared on his face, his lips curling with barely concealed condescension.
A young woman standing outside a Starbucks muttered, "Is this a hack? Is he serious?"
A professor at MIT scoffed in his lecture hall, adjusting his glasses. "Ridiculous. Earth has billions of years left before any sort of catastrophic shift. This is sensationalism at best."
A priest in a small chapel clutched his rosary and whispered, "The trials of Revelation…"
A street vendor shook his head, waving a kebab skewer. "They're always trying to scare us. Just another rich man playing God."
A high-ranking official in the Pentagon stared at the screen with narrowed eyes, already dialing an emergency line.
"The Earth—as you know it—is shifting," Lawrence went on, unbothered. "I am not good with theatrics so I will get to the point. The Earth is about to terraform."
A silence as deep as the chasm between understanding and fear settled across the city. People gripped their phones tighter, eyes darting between one another.
"I do not expect you to believe me," he said, smiling, his golden eyes glinting like a predator's. "But if I were you and had a semblance of survival instinct, I'd start to run."
Gasps erupted. Someone in a boardroom somewhere scoffed. A journalist in a newsroom scrambled for confirmation from government sources.
"Run where?"
As if he heard him, he looked a little down. The look in his eyes was the same as humans carry for ants.
"Go underground," Lawrence advised, tilting his head slightly. "If you have the resources, if you have the means—find shelter in the few containment bunkers that me and my ancestors before me built for this exact moment. It cannot contain everyone, but it will be enough to not let mankind perish. As for those who can't afford it…"
His lips curved into something that might have been pity. "You will soon witness what should never have been real."
A street preacher on Fifth Avenue shouted at the sky, "The reckoning is here!"
A scientist in Geneva muttered: "Terraform? What does he mean?" as he flipped frantically through his latest satellite readings, his hands trembling.
A Wall Street executive pulled out his phone and barked, "Get me Homeland Security. Now."
Lawrence leaned forward slightly, as if speaking to each and every person through the glass and wires that carried his image across the world.
"You will wake up to lands that never existed, skies that do not belong to you, and creatures that do not know your place."
A woman on a subway platform whispered, "Creatures?"
Once again, as if he heard her, he nodded.
"Yes," Lawrence purred. "Creatures."
Another flash of that eerie smile, the kind a man gives when he knows a secret too vast for ordinary minds to comprehend.
"Consider this my only act of mercy," he said, adjusting the cuff of his suit. "I am giving you time. Not much, but enough. Prepare, or don't. Fight, or flee. It makes no difference to me."
Then, with a smirk that oozed mirth, his golden eyes narrowing like a cat watching mice in a cage, he finished:
"Try not to be squashed like bees, Foulborns."
And the screens went black.
For a moment, nobody spoke. Nobody moved.
The entire country, as if caught in the stillness before an avalanche, remained frozen.
A man in a diner suddenly shot up from his seat. "What the hell does that mean?! This some kind of sick joke?"
A college student turned to his friend, his voice cracking. "Foulborns? Did he just call us—?"
In a church, a preacher slammed his hand on the pulpit, eyes wild. "The end times are here! The false prophets walk among us!"
At a government agency, a scientist in a lab coat frantically sifted through earthquake data. "Gravitational anomalies aren't possible at this scale—unless…" He stopped; his throat dry. Turning to his subordinates, he screamed. "Get Mr. Ashford on the line, right now!"
News stations scrambled to regain control of their broadcasts.
Officials flooded government buildings.
Televised debates broke out within minutes—was this a hack? A mass hallucination? A political stunt? Panic gripped the streets like a vice as arguments, speculation, and outright fear took hold.
A social media influencer laughed nervously into her phone. "This is some elaborate PR stunt, right? Right?"
Twitter, Reddit, and every global platform ignited within seconds. Hashtags trended worldwide. #Foulborns. #Terraforming. #LawrenceWhite.
Was it a hoax? A warning? A declaration of war?
And then, in the midst of everything, while many people just talked about it, lots of them ran in the search of containment bunkers that Lawrence talked about. And in all the slightly altered normalcy in everyone's lives, things were about to shift.
************************************
Brussels, Belgium
14:00 – December 25
"Fuu…" A tall man let out a deep breath.
The breath fogged and wafted up as he fastened the buttons of his coat and let out another long breath, trying to settle his nerves.
The sound of people outside: some screaming, some protesting, some merely curious, the sound of cameras clicking, droning helicopters overhead and the rapid, disharmonic sound of his own heart beating against its ribcage alleviated his anxiety with every passing moment.
His golden blonde hair was combed right in the middle instead of the usual slick-back as they framed the sides of his angular face and his olive irises were darting from one place to another, in rapid succession.
He was wearing a white buttoned shirt tucked inside his grey pants, a gray-checkered waistcoat and a long ashy overcoat.
"Mr. Olvasen, whenever you are ready." A man peaked from the other side of the set—from where the sounds came—as he looked at him. "We cannot delay any further. We have to get you to safety."
"Yes, yes, I am coming…just a moment." Eric nervously replied, biting his lower lip.
The man nodded, fear visible in his eyes. Not of Eric, but something else. "As you command."
After a few more moments of trotting nervously around, Eric heaved out loudly and slapped his cheeks. "Alright, it's not as hard as fighting those assassins. I can do this…picture yourself in father's image…let's go Eric, you have a big, fat dingaling, don't fear the press! All I gotta do is tell them the world is ending!"
He clutched his head and crouched down. "Fucking hell! How can I tell them that!?"
"Master Eric…things will get ugly real soon."
"I fucking know, Jack! Don't press your stubby Asian fingers into my wounds."
"The more time you take to tell them, the less chance they must flee. Lawrence White has already issued a countrywide alert 2 hours ago." Jack, the martial arts instructor of Olvasens and master of fire-type elemental, spoke as he peeked out from the corner.
"Countrywide? Not nation-wide?" Eric looked at Jack in surprise.
"The Whites are biased towards the US. They couldn't care less about the other countries. If I remember correctly from the late young lord Arthur's silent mumblings, it is the Whites' crown jewel."
"Pretty lardy crown jewel, I would say. It's full of mentally unstable, brainwashed, uneducated monkeys and…"
Eric paused as he saw Jack deadpanning at him. "…right, sorry. I got ahead of myself. Anyways." He stood up and reached out for the cigarette in his pocket but drew his hand out. The more time I take, the less of a chance they will get to safety. Eric reminded himself.
Finally, gathering his nerves, Eric stepped out. The flash of hundreds of cameras and rising uproar of panic made a static white stick to his vision and his ears ring heavily as he walked out and made his way towards the podium.
"And now, the one who could best break the news of whether the worldwide news are correct or not will address everyone. Mister Eric, everyone. Please maintain silence."
As Eric walked and reached for the podium, the crowd surged like a wave of locusts, a writhing mess of voices, accusations, and mass fear. Camera flashes cut through the thickening dusk, making his shadow stretch long against white screen behind the podium.
He leaned into the microphone, voice steady. A sudden cold look appeared in his eyes.
"My name is Eric Olvasen. As of a week ago, I have assumed the position as CEO of Borealis Power, the largest power provider in Europe."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Olvasen.
It was a well-known name amongst one of the biggest businessmen in Europe. A name well circulated even in political backrooms.
He saw recognition dawn, but no relief. Only rising wariness.
Eric inhaled sharply, his breath fogging against the microphone. He swallowed. Forced himself to keep going. "I won't waste your time with corporate formalities. None of that matters anymore. I'm here to tell you something that does."
His fingers curled against the podium, gripping it like a lifeline.
The rustling of coats and shifting feet—Eric could hear them breathing, the way their uncertainty thickened the air like storm clouds.
He straightened his back.
"Brussels has always been the heart of European power. A lot of decisions and important meetings are held here concerning the European Union. As for that matter, I would like to thank—"
He barely had time to process his own words before a voice cut through the air: "Fuck off!"
Eric's head snapped toward the source.
A man—mid-forties, thick jacket, a face weathered by years of hard living—pushed forward through the crowd. "We don't need a rich daddy's boy telling us bedtime stories! We need real leadership!"
The crowd roared in agreement. The tension turned ugly.
Eric's jaw tightened.
He didn't want to do this. He hated doing this. Hated being a part of this family.
After all, for his own psyche, he used to tell himself he was a passive human. Someone devoid of the psychotic anger and emotions that were the trademark of his twisted family.
But right now, he didn't matter. People—millions of them did. And they wouldn't listen if he didn't adopt the same iron vice as his father.
He raised his hand.
The man's body jerked violently into the air.
Gasps shot through the crowd as he hovered, feet dangling, an invisible force wrapped around his body like unseen chains. His breath hitched. He clawed at nothing, eyes wild with panic.
Eric could feel it. The way the man's body resisted, the way his pulse spiked in terror. The way the crowd stilled.
Fear had a way of silencing noise.
And then he fell down, gasping for air.
Eric's voice came low, like a whisper beneath the layer of compressed ice.
"Listen to me."
Eric let the silence stretch before speaking again.
"What I am about to say will help you survive."
He scanned the crowd, making sure they understood. Making sure the fear did the work for him.
"…Your concerns are real," he continued. "What you've heard from Lawrence White, Blake Andersen, Rafael Miranda, Hiroshi Watanabe, and Ismael Khan—it's all true. The world is terraforming."
The words were an executioner's blade. Cutting through the last shreds of doubt.
Someone sobbed. Another whispered a prayer. Someone scoffed.
Eric adjusted his coat.
"If you have a European passport, you may be granted access to the Arcanum-enhanced underground bunkers."
The crowd erupted again.
Bunkers. Arcanum. Access.
These three words were spoken quite a lot of times over the course of the past few 2 hours, all over the world.
Eric slammed his palm against the podium, and the microphones screeched, cutting through the uproar like a blade. The feedback left behind a ringing silence.
"We don't have time for debates."
He exhaled, jaw tight. "You—normal folks don't know much about Arcanum yet. But what you do know is not enough to help you survive."
"And you do?" Someone raised their voice.
"A lot more than you."
Silence stretched once again.
"How many?" someone asked, their voice barely above a whisper.
Eric's lips were parted, but he hesitated. There was no good way to say it.
"…Each major European city has around 500 bunkers. Each bunker can hold 1,000 people."
The weight of that number crushed them. He could see it. The realization sinking into their bones.
Not enough.
Not nearly enough.
He let them process before continuing, "No status will be considered. No power. No wealth. No family names. Whoever gets there first, gets in. If you're late, you stay outside."
However, there was one more thing that needed to be addressed.
The one he didn't care about sugarcoating.
"As for the immigrants…"
The atmosphere suddenly tensed.
Eric tilted his head, voice cold. "I'm sorry." He let that linger before his lips curled into something colder. "But not really."
An extended hush.
He stared ahead, unblinking. "I couldn't care less about you."
He heard a woman scream. Another burst into angry curses. Someone threw something, but it clattered harmlessly against the stage.
Eric stood there. Silent.
The world was ending—no, being reborn. In a way, it has been dead until now.
"All I could suggest would be to pray to whatever Gods you believe in, and hope for the best." Eric spoke as he turned around, the outrage of a million people directed at him.
His heart sank. He wasn't xenophobic, but this was the arrangement made by the real head of the family—Sif Olvasen. And he had no way to oppose her and her racist tendencies.
As he turned, a hundred different objects—bottles, cans, shoes, even some phones—rained down at him, but a simple arc of red flames instantly combusted them.
John looked over at the scared people as they ducked low and scattered to dodge the flaming debris as Eric looked at the prime minister of Brussels. "I was made aware of the King's wish to be granted a place in one of the bunkers."
"Yes…"
Eric placed a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, the king…" he paused and then smiled a little. A forced smile. "…and your own family have already been escorted to the nearest Bunker. Try not to be late yourself."
"Thank you…"
"My lord…" Jack pleaded.
Shaking the minister's hand, Eric walked towards Jack who had a small device in his hand. Placing it on the ground, the device projected a 22x22 square metered hologram before shrinking to accommodate Jack and Eric.
"Alright, first time into the Hollow Sanctum…what can go wrong." Eric muttered to himself silently.
"A lot."
"Fuck you, Jack."
"However, I must say, I assumed you had once visited the Hollow Sanctum. To assume your position as the new head, if I remember correctly."
Eric's eyes darkened as he turned towards Jack and whispered. "Do not talk about it…ever again."
—----------------------------------------------
EDEN:
A man clad in a high-collared robe of deep crimson-black, layered with silver-lined stitching stepped down the three stairs that led to his throne and walked slowly towards a window on the left.
The courtroom was empty today, and no sounds came into focus. At least not from his castle, but the entirety of his Kingdom felt to be in an uproar, screams and prayers filling the quiet, mechanical, peaceful air of Gehenna.
As he walked, his clothes moved in tandem, but unnaturally slow.
As the figure reached the window, he looked outside, cracks lining the ever crimson night sky over his kingdom.
His reflective, almost colourless eyes — like glass fogged with ash — took in everything before he closed them. Jet black, shoulder-length hair that was tied at the base with a silver band flowed in slow motion, like he was under water.
Placing his hand at the thin glass window, he took a step closer, his own reflection staring back at him. His skin was pale grey with a burnt-ceramic texture. His skin glowed as veins occasionally showed faint traces of deep red, like flames pulsing beneath his skin.
He flicked his fingers, and in an instant, he was standing atop the tallest building of his kingdom. The bright red, fractured sky made the three pairs of horns on his head—the ones jutting out of his forehead thick and curled forward like a ram's, the one sticking out from his temples going straight upward, sharpened like polished onyx, and the long, antler-like pair curving backward, with dull red veins glowing faintly that protruded from the side of his head— shine.
As he stared at the Horizon's Edge, the faint sight of the shimmer breaking thousands of miles away and bleeding into another world came into focus.
"So, it finally began."