In 1953, archaeologists unearthed a mysterious book frozen deep within Antarctica. At first glance, it appeared to be nothing more than a relic of imagination—its pages filled with accounts of lands, powers, and beings that had no place in the known world.
The book was called Layer of the Paradise.
When one archaeologist dared to release its contents to the public, the world took notice. The book spread quickly, reprinted in bookstores and whispered through underground circles. Many dismissed it as the fever dream of some forgotten author, but not everyone. A few clung to the words with unshakable belief. They insisted the book described a real place, one layered above reality itself, brimming with untold treasures and divine power.
Among the faithful were those who bore zeal—a power that marked them as more than human. They formed an organization with a single mission: to climb the fabled Layers of Paradise. Their plan was bold. Begin at the 1st Layer. Reach the 2nd. And ascend, step by step, until they conquered the 7th.
But before they could cross into the 2nd Layer, something descended.
A radiant figure with burning wings and a blazing sword stood before them. With a single strike, the being annihilated the expedition.
The book had warned of such a creature—a Warden, marked with ten stars. To some, the tragedy proved the book was a lie. To the believers, it was confirmation beyond doubt.
Soon after, world leaders declared Layer of the Paradise forbidden. Owning a copy was a crime. Yet the book endured, whispered and hidden, passed secretly through generations. And with it endured the dream—to climb the layers, no matter the cost.
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March 11, 2005 – Mukali Province
In a quiet province of Mukali, the extraordinary began.
Fleur sat at her desk, studying by lamplight, when a strange tightness coiled in her stomach. At first, she thought it was nothing more than hunger. But the sensation spread quickly, swelling into pain that made her grip the table. Her breath hitched. Her skin flushed.
Then her belly swelled.
In moments, she looked as though she had carried life for months, and her body glowed with a light so fierce it painted the walls gold. A cry of pain tore from her lips as she collapsed, her chair clattering loudly across the floor.
The noise brought her mother, Marcella, rushing up the stairs. She pushed open the door—and froze.
Her daughter lay on the floor, writhing, her stomach round and luminous. For a moment, Marcella could not move. She could only stare, wide-eyed, her mind unable to accept what she saw.
Behind her, the grandmother, Mitso, entered and gasped. "Marcella!" she barked, her voice sharp. "Help your child!"
That command jolted Marcella awake. Together, she and Mitso lifted Fleur, though the light burned their skin as if they carried fire itself. Fleur's cries echoed through the house.
Mando, Fleur's father, rushed in from the lower floor. His eyes widened at the sight of his daughter's glowing body. He staggered back, whispering, "What… what's happening to her?"
Marcella's lips trembled. "She's… she's giving birth."
"That's impossible!" Mando's voice cracked. "She's not—she was never—" His words broke off, drowned in the blinding light that now filled the room.
The grandmother's face hardened. "This child was not conceived as others are," she said grimly. "This birth was chosen."
The light grew unbearable. Mando shielded his eyes, but it was too late. His hand began to dissolve, flesh melting into dust where the radiance touched him. His body crumbled, piece by piece, as if the light itself rejected him. His last sound was a strangled gasp before his form turned to ash.
The baby's cry split the silence.
It was not the cry of an ordinary child—each wail rippled through the air, shaking the wooden beams of the house and rattling the very marrow of those who heard it. Zeal burst outward from the newborn like a storm.
Marcella clung to her daughter, shielding her as best she could, while Fleur's grandmother raised a trembling hand, forming a barrier of zeal around them. Yet even that divine shield cracked, flickering under the sheer pressure of the infant's power.
Mando staggered back, his skin blistering, his hand dissolving into ash before his eyes. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound escaped—time itself had begun to stutter, each second stretching, collapsing, halting.
And then, silence.
A radiance descended, brighter than the sun yet soft as a candle flame. It walked where no ground remained, each step dissolving the world beneath and then restoring it whole again.
Marcella could only weep. The air around her refused to move, the house suspended between seconds, but she saw the figure approach the child. Wings of fire spread from its back, and yet no smoke rose. In its hand was no weapon, only a glow that pulsed with peace.
It knelt by the crib. The newborn's cries quieted, the raging zeal folding back into the child's tiny frame as though commanded by something greater.
The figure's hand touched the child's brow. Light poured forth, drowning the room, erasing destruction, reviving what had been lost. Mando's form, moments ago scattered into ash, reassembled as though time itself denied what had happened. The home was whole again.
Only the memory of terror remained.
And as quickly as it had come, the radiant being was gone. No name. No voice. No proof it had ever been there. Only the newborn, breathing softly, no longer glowing.
Marcella whispered in awe, her voice trembling:
"This child… is not meant for this world."