It began on a night that should have been unremarkable—May 18th, 2198, at precisely 11:49 PM.
The hour was still, yet laden with an indefinable weight, as though the world itself braced for an unspeakable revelation. The stars above gleamed faintly across a velvet sky, but their serenity was betrayed by something hidden, a tension woven into the very fabric of reality.
The sound came first.
A low, resonant growl vibrated beneath the surface of the earth, deep and primal, as if the universe itself exhaled a breath it had been forced to hold for millennia. The vibration rolled through soil, stone, and steel, crawling up the bones of every living creature. Windows shuddered, loose metal rattled, and animals across the land wailed in instinctive dread.
A second later, the skies split—not with thunder, nor with storm, but with something far more unnatural. Across the heavens, fractures appeared, jagged fissures that spread like the cracks of a shattered mirror. They shimmered with an iridescent glow, hues shifting violently between violet, green, and silver. They were not lightning strikes, nor auroras, nor any phenomenon ever documented by the learned minds of science. They were rifts—tears in reality itself, raw wounds across the fabric of the sky.
The first yawning chasm manifested above the desolate Wastelands, its edges writhing like molten glass. Then, with terrifying inevitability, more tore themselves open, encircling each continent at the fringes of their protective walls.
Each rift pulsed with light that was both mesmerizing and horrifying, a terrible beauty that compelled the gaze yet promised destruction.
From these gaping voids emerged the impossible.
They came without warning, grotesque entities whose forms mocked the laws of nature. Some towered above skyscrapers, colossal limbs dragging trenches across the earth as though the ground itself could not bear their weight. Others were malformed abominations—hunched, many-eyed, their bodies crawling with pulsating appendages that dripped with substances unfit to be named.
They resembled the incarnations of nightmares too ancient for memory, beasts that might have slumbered at the dawn of existence, waiting for this singular moment to trespass into mortal reality.
Their very presence warped the air.
The atmosphere thickened, gravity itself seemed to waver, and those who beheld them were seized by primal terror that transcended reason. Humanity, for all its achievements, stood once again as prey before the predators of the unknown.
Then came the rain.
Heavy, unrelenting, and ceaseless. Sheets of water fell from the skies as if the heavens themselves sought to purge the corruption they had unleashed. It poured without reprieve for ten consecutive hours. Rivers swelled past their banks, drowning roads in chaos. Streets vanished beneath currents, cars were dragged into violent torrents, and bridges groaned under the weight of water and fear.
Emergency sirens howled across cities as rescue divisions mobilized with desperate haste. Fire brigades, medical corps, and flood response units scattered into the night, their efforts valiant yet pitiful against the immensity of the storm. The continent walls—colossal structures of reinforced alloys and energy matrices—quivered under the onslaught of rift-born monstrosities. Yet they held, their ancient engineers' foresight shielding humanity from instant annihilation.
But the reprieve was fragile.
As dawn approached, on May 19th, the world changed forever.
A strange phenomenon spread across the continents. A dome, translucent and radiant, materialized with a whisper rather than a roar. It enveloped each continent seamlessly, shimmering faintly, its presence both protective and oppressive. Unlike traditional force-fields, the barrier allowed air, water, and sunlight to pass unhindered, but there was something in its essence that unsettled every soul who gazed upon it. It was not merely a shield—it was a sentence.
And then the sky itself seemed to collapse.
From the firmament above the Mainland Core, where the pulse of civilization was strongest, reality rippled. Descending slowly, majestically, like divine judgment rendered tangible, came a colossal spacecraft.
Its sheer magnitude defied comprehension. Stretching across the horizon, its bulk dwarfed skyscrapers and cities, casting shadows that devoured entire districts. Its metallic hull was smooth yet inscribed with patterns that seemed to writhe and shift under the gaze, ancient glyphs intertwined with circuitry so advanced it bordered on sorcery.
A radiant barrier encompassed the craft, shimmering like liquid glass, extending outward with inexorable force.
Every structure, every vehicle, every being within its expanding radius was displaced effortlessly, pushed to the periphery as though by the hand of a god. In moments, a vast circle of emptiness yawned beneath the ship, carved not by destruction but by precision.
Humanity could only watch, powerless, as their cities were reconfigured without their consent.
Then the beams came.
"Boom."
A single ray of condensed energy lanced downward, blinding in its brilliance, cataclysmic in its effect.
"Boom."
Another followed, then another, then a fourth—each fired with surgical accuracy, each striking the tallest structures of the continent's heart.
The ground convulsed as the beams met earth, vibrations tearing through foundations like a wrathful earthquake. Those who dwelled near the skyscrapers stumbled, clutched at trembling walls, and screamed as the world beneath them groaned in agony.
The devastation was absolute.
In moments, the tallest skyscraper of the Mystic Continent—the pride of its architects, a testament to its civilization's ascent—was obliterated, reduced to dust and memory. The skyline, once glittering with towers that pierced the clouds, was razed flat. What had been homes, offices, and sanctuaries of human endeavor were nothing but settling ash. Cash, clothing, photographs, heirlooms—all tokens of existence—were scattered into oblivion.
The people wept. Some fell to their knees in despair, others wailed in helpless fury. Their sweat, their toil, their dreams—all erased in an instant, sacrificed to the incomprehensible will of the invaders.
Yet the beams were not chaotic. They did not ravage blindly. Each strike was deliberate, calculated, clearing land with merciless precision. The realization struck like ice in the heart: this was not conquest born of rage, but of intent. They were making space.
When the last of the dust settled, silence stretched across the ruined heart of the continent. And into that silence descended a stairway—broad, gleaming, extending from the spacecraft's undercarriage to the ground below.
What followed was a procession that would sear itself into the memory of humanity.
A hundred figures emerged, each clad in exosuits that gleamed with technological majesty.
Their armor was seamless, devoid of imperfection, its metallic sheen flowing like liquid silver. Every helm bore a single insignia—an emblem of lightning, etched in radiant silver across the forehead. They moved with mechanical synchrony, their formation perfect, their discipline terrifying.
These were not men, nor beasts. They were soldiers sculpted by a civilization far beyond Earth's comprehension.
And then he arrived.
Their leader descended the stairway alone, every step reverberating with an authority that seemed to bend the very air around him. His armor was darker than the rest—obsidian plating etched with veins of molten circuitry that pulsed like living fire. His presence eclipsed all others, a shadow crowned with power.
The soldiers saluted in unison, their fists striking across their chests, the sound sharp and absolute in the silence.
The leader raised his hand, activating a holographic interface projected from his gauntlet. His fingers moved swiftly, weaving commands across the glowing screen. In an instant, every device across the Mystic Continent flickered—phones, terminals, broadcast towers, holo-screens. The skies themselves shimmered with projection, and a colossal visage of the armored leader appeared above every major city.
When he spoke, his voice was steady, deep, and absolute.
"Greetings, inhabitants of this planet. I am General Pedro Silvergut of the Silver Galaxy, bearer of command under the decree of the Cosmic Deity. Hear me well, for your era has ended, and another begins. This world, which you call Earth, has been evaluated. Its level is determined: Minuscule Planet.
This is neither insult nor honor—it is designation. Your civilization, though young and fragile, shall be given a chance to ascend, to join the cosmic hierarchy that spans beyond the limits of your stars. A barrier now encloses your continents. For twenty of your years, none shall enter and none shall leave.
Within this span, your survival will be tested. The rifts you see tearing across your skies shall persist. They are gateways through which creatures of other realms flow. They will not cease. They will not relent. Against them you must stand, or be consumed.
But you shall not be left defenseless.
Each child of your kind, upon the age of fifteen, shall awaken a bloodline—an inheritance bestowed by the Cosmic System.
This bloodline shall define you, strengthen you, and mark your worth among your kin. Through cultivation of cosmic force, you may grow beyond your current fragility. Your system of governance will shift. All efforts must now be bent toward cultivation. Food, shelter, knowledge, weapons—all shall serve this singular purpose.
At the conclusion of twenty years, the Cosmic Academy will open its gates. From your surviving population, those who prove themselves shall be permitted to step forth and join the greater expanse. The weak will remain bound to the soil. The strong will earn their passage into eternity.
Do not mistake this as mercy. This is decree. Resist, and you perish. Submit, and you may endure. Rise, and you may transcend.
I, General Pedro Silvergut, have delivered the will of the Silver Galaxy under the eye of the Cosmic Deity. May its light guide or burn you as is deserved. Signing off."
The moment his image vanished; silence lingered for the span of a heartbeat. And then, chaos.
Panic swept the cities like wildfire. Crowds surged through streets, storming shops, looting whatever could be seized. Fists flew, blades flashed, and gunfire crackled across alleys. Families screamed for lost children. Sirens wailed, overwhelmed and useless. Entire districts collapsed into riot, each man and woman consumed by fear of the unknown future.
The world had not ended that night.
But it had been rewritten.