It was the year 2027. World War III had begun — the peak of human malice and desperation. Cities burned, borders collapsed, and in just two years since the war's announcement, over ten million soldiers were lost. The number of innocent casualties was beyond counting.
In Seoul, South Korea,
A half-Slavic, half-Korean twenty-one-year-old man, Caspian Park, scrolled through the news on his phone while on his way to university. The world sat on a ticking time bomb. The global peace treaty had been rejected again, and tension between nations was boiling over. Nuclear war loomed.
And then—
A tremor.
Not a small one.
It was violent.
It was fast.
It was—
"THE WORLD IS ENDING! THE WORLD IS ENDING!!"
Caspian screamed, as the continent beneath his feet shattered.
Asia collapsed.
Mountains crumbled. Nations vanished beneath the sea. People ran, screamed, prayed—but the earth cracked open like broken porcelain.
And from its core, something crawled out.
"T-The Hollow Earth theory… it's real..." Caspian muttered.
From the depths emerged insect-like monstrosities the size of buses—some as tall as skyscrapers. Creatures that mocked evolution, that defied biology. They tore through entire cities with primal intelligence and unfathomable strength.
Even the oceans revolted.
A strange gas released during the quake awakened ancient terrors buried in the sea. Forgotten leviathans rose, treating coastal cities like plankton, devouring land without hesitation.
All of this—within a single minute.
Thirty minutes later, the rest of the world—North and South America, Antarctica, Australia, Africa, and Europe—fell in succession to the aftershocks.
Humanity fought back. For the first time in history, the world was united.
Enemies turned allies, old borders were meaningless. But it wasn't enough. Blood sprayed the camera lens as news anchors screamed — and the broadcast ended in silence.
STATIC. STATIC.
"Yikes..." Caspian muttered as the TV shut off.
That was six months ago.
Of the ten billion humans that once walked Earth, only about 300 million remained. And the only reason that number wasn't lower — was because of the Equalizers.
Celestial beings, like angels out of myth, appeared in humanity's darkest hour. No one knew where they came from, but they rewrote the genetic code of surviving humans, giving birth to a new form of power.
A system known as the Cordyx System.
With it, humans could now manifest abilities once thought impossible—dreams turned reality. The Equalizers didn't give humans powers directly, but unlocked their compatibility with the system.
Cordyx is built on Threads—invisible lines that run through all living things, allowing humans to interact with the world in supernatural ways. Powers varied wildly depending on the individual's life, personality, and trauma. Some could accelerate crop growth, solving the food crisis. Others could stand toe-to-toe with lesser monsters.
But the most terrifying part?
They could grow stronger.
By injecting the blood of the creatures — a glowing, potent substance called Ichor — into themselves, they could "stain" their Threads and evolve. Different monster species imbued different attributes. This process became known as Staining.
But Staining had its risks.
Too much Ichor, and a human would begin to lose themselves — physically, mentally, spiritually. They'd change. Twist. Mutate.
Some became monsters.
And the world itself changed alongside them. The seven continents fractured into hundreds of scattered landmasses, now known as sub-continents, each ruled by the strongest survivor within them.
The age of nations was over.
This was the era of chaos, threads, and monsters.
Caspian was currently stranded on a small island — a survivor by sheer, dumb luck.
When the university collapsed and monsters began pouring from the cracks, the surrounding land—roughly three miles in radius—split off entirely, forming an isolated fragment of what once was South Korea. By pure chance, that fragment stayed afloat. It became one of the last surviving remnants of the nation.
Escape wasn't an option. The surrounding ocean was infested with colossal, carnivorous fish — monstrous predators that had awakened with the sea's fury.
The only reason anyone survived this long was because of the Threads. Caspian's university had been an international one, full of students from across the world. The working theory was that the Threads people awakened with were shaped by their birthplace or life experiences — and one of Caspian's peers, a Filipino immigrant, had developed a unique ability: he could manipulate threads to fish, even pulling up monsters from the deep.
Unfortunately, he died three months in — ambushed while casting out alone.
Still, his method worked. A few students inherited techniques to freeze or preserve the sea beasts, giving them just enough to live on.
But food was dwindling, and their time was running out.
Caspian kept to his routine. Before the Collapse, he had been a passionate journalism student. Now, on a new sub-continent called Polaria, a man with Thread abilities could project communication signals — acting like a living satellite. That's how survivors around the world kept in contact.
Caspian didn't have any powers. No strength, no Threads he could activate. But he had a voice.
So he broadcasted the news — for the 361 people left on their island.
The only strange thing about him was the dream.
Ever since the day they got stranded, he'd been having the same recurring nightmare. A vivid, surreal vision of a carnival — twisted and glowing, like something caught between memory and madness. But in every dream, he never entered. He only watched it spin in the distance...
until he woke up.
After Caspian's daily broadcast, the island settled into an uneasy silence.
But beneath that silence, something was simmering — a kind of quiet madness.
"Is he really just gonna be the news boy?"
"Does he even serve a real purpose?"
The whispers were constant. Harsh. Dismissive.
On this island, only the useful survived — and to be the one who "reads the news"? That felt like a role anyone could've filled. He was only useful because he'd been the first to discover the satellite Threads Polaria emitted. Since then… nothing.
He hadn't shown any real power. No unique contribution.
And while he tried to ignore it, a gnawing guilt took root in his chest.
He knew it shouldn't bother him.
But it did.
His peers could fight, craft, heal, forage. They had roles. And he... was just there.
It was lunchtime now.
The same giant fish they'd been eating for weeks. Rubber-tough flesh, bitter aftertaste — but packed with nutrients. No one complained. Not out loud.
Caspian chewed in silence, staring out at the blackened sea.
I still don't get it, he thought. Why haven't the ocean monsters found us yet?
It was a mystery. These were the same creatures that shredded continents with their bare teeth — and yet somehow, this three-mile island had escaped their notice.
Their leader, Haebin, stood at the edge of the camp, organizing rations.
She had once been the student body president, and now, that same sharp mind and steady presence held their fractured society together.
Her Thread ability was simple — but invaluable: Creation.
If she knew the structure or recipe of something, she could materialize it from threads.
Thankfully, she had been a med student. She was able to recreate antibiotics, bandages, saline, stitching kits. And once others began writing recipes and formulas for her, her range grew.
But there was a cost.
Thread overuse strained the body — and Haebin pushed herself constantly. To keep going, she had to inject Ichor. Unlike the others, she took the risk. Caspian had reported time and again how dangerous Staining was. How it warped people. How it turned them into monsters.
But for Haebin, it wasn't a choice.
It was necessary.
As Haebin passed by, Caspian gave her a small, respectful bow.
She stopped, waving it off with a gentle laugh.
"Oh, please. Don't bow your head — we're all in the same boat."
There was no hesitation in her voice. Just calm, grounded confidence — the kind that made people believe things might be okay.
"Ah. Force of habit. Sorry," Caspian replied, monotone as ever.
She smiled, waved, and kept walking.
But something shifted.
The world blurred. His stomach twisted. A cold rush of nausea hit.
"What the hell..." he muttered, clutching his seat as his vision swam. His hands trembled, and the ground seemed to fall out from beneath him.
Then — black.
When he opened his eyes, he was standing before it again.
The Carnival.
This time, it wasn't watching him.
It was pulling him.
His legs began to move on their own.
No—no, not again. He tried to resist, tried to stop, to scream.
But nothing obeyed.
He didn't want to go in.
He couldn't.
The circus tent rose before him, striped red and gold — the same one.
The same tent from that day.
A memory sharpened like a knife.
A freak accident.
A ferris wheel dislodged. Metal shrieked. Screams. Blood.
Sixteen people died.
Two were my parents.
And right before it happened — just minutes before they entered the tent —
He saw it.
That clown.
Grinning.
Loosening the bolts.
No one believed him. The reports called it "a tragic mechanical failure."
But he knew the truth.
That was the moment he stopped being a child.
That was the moment he decided to become a journalist.
To tell the truth, no matter how twisted it was.
"W-wait. Please..." Caspian's voice cracked as the tears welled up.
His foot stepped forward — right to the edge of the tent entrance.
"N-not... yet..." he whispered, shaking. His hands clenched at his sides.
"I'M NOT READY YET! PLEASE! PLEASE!! CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?!?!"
But no one answered.
Only the wind.
Only the tent.
Only the Carnival.
Waiting.