Chapter 1
The world was never whole.
Tears in space, called distortions, rip open without warning. From them spill monsters that ordinary weapons cannot harm. Entire cities have burned in hours, their walls shredded, their people devoured.
Against this chaos stand the rare few born with a Divine Core. One in ten thousand awaken it — power that bends fire, steel, space, or even time. They are called Celestials. To nations, they are soldiers, treasures, and weapons all at once.
Celestials are ranked, from the weakest F-Rank who can barely protect a street, to S+, whose names echo like legends. Above them stands only the War Rank — the single strongest Celestial of each nation. War Ranks do not just defend borders. They wage sanctioned battles against one another, deciding land and resources with televised duels, modern wars fought by gods in human skin.
For nations rich in Celestials, distortions are an opportunity. Monsters mean energy, materials, and power.
For nations without them… they are ruined.
Bangladesh was one such nation. Poor in resources, scarred by history, surrounded by giants like India and China, it clung to survival with too few Celestials of its own. To the world, it was weak. To its people, it was fragile.
And in the slums of Sylhet, where tin roofs rattled in monsoon winds and children went to sleep hungry, a boy named Zash Rahman dreamed of becoming more than fragile.
What he did not know was that the world itself would soon bend around him.
Mornings in Sylhet were always restless. Vendors shouted prices of fish, rickshaw bells rang in sharp bursts, and the call to prayer rolled softly through the haze. For most, the city's noise meant opportunity. For Zash Rahman, it was a reminder of survival.
At dawn, he carried buckets of water from the public pump with his father, Haidar. The line stretched long, with women in faded saris and barefoot children waiting, tin cans clattering together. Sometimes the pump broke, and fights erupted over every drop.
"Keep your shoulders straight," Haidar muttered, adjusting the bamboo pole across his son's back. "Don't spill."
"I know, Baba," Zash said, his voice tight. The rope cut into his shoulders, the buckets swaying with each step.
After water came errands. Zash worked for a bakery stall, delivering bread across the city. The pay was only a few taka coins and, on good days, a leftover roll. Still, every coin mattered.
By afternoon, his shirt clung to him with sweat, his stomach hollow. His mother's cough was getting worse, and medicine cost more than a week's earnings.
Sometimes, when exhaustion threatened to break him, Zash thought of his little brother Farhan and his sister Nadia waiting at home. Their eyes lit up even at the sight of stale bread, and that kept him moving.
But the worst part wasn't hunger. It was a reminder that others lived in a different world entirely.
On his routes, he passed the North Sylhet Academy, a private school fenced with steel gates and banners boasting of excellence. Students poured out in crisp uniforms, shoes polished, tablets in hand.
Zash slowed down when he passed, though he hated himself for it.
Inside the gates, boys his age joked about football tournaments and vacations abroad. Girls walked in groups, comparing perfume or talking about private tutors. Their futures looked already purchased, guaranteed.
And then came the Range Rover.
It purred to a stop at the academy's gates, its black paint gleaming in the sunlight. Whispers rippled among the students as a man stepped out.
He wasn't just rich — he was a B-Rank Celestial, a Hunter. His presence radiated confidence, and the insignia on his jacket gleamed like a badge of power. Celestials like him fought distortions and monsters. They earned money, fame, and safety.
Two boys rushed to him, laughing as he embraced them. "Ready for training tonight?" he asked warmly.
They climbed into the car, their polished shoes never touching the mud outside. The Range Rover rolled away, leaving behind silence and envy.
Zash stood frozen, a bag of bread digging into his shoulder, his fists clenched.
That's the life I want. A life where Nadia doesn't starve. Where Ma doesn't cough blood. Where Baba doesn't bleed his hands raw. A life where Farhan never has to know what it means to be poor.
But the dream vanished the moment he turned back toward the slums. He was just Zash Rahman — another boy with nothing.
That night, the family gathered in their shack. Haidar mended nets by lantern light. Ma lay coughing on her mat, Nadia humming softly beside her. Farhan kicked his cracked ball across the dirt floor, laughing as if nothing else mattered.
"Someday I'll play football on a real field," Farhan grinned. "With grass, not mud."
Zash laughed and ruffled his hair. "I'll make it happen. You'll see."
The words sounded bold, but in his chest they burned hollow.
Then the night changed.
A dry wind rattled the tin roof. Zash froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. The air carried something strange — a low hum, almost too soft to notice.
"Do you hear that?" he whispered.
Haidar looked up, frowning, listening.
The children kept playing, but Zash felt it — pressure, subtle at first, then heavier, like the sky leaning down.
Dogs barked frantically in the distance. A crash echoed, followed by screams.
Ma sat up, pale. "Haidar…"
And then came the sirens.
Low and mournful at first, then rising into a shrill scream that tore through the night.
Every muscle in Zash's body went cold. He knew that sound. Everyone did.
"Distortion break," Haidar said grimly, rising to his feet. His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed fear.
The hum grew into a vibration that rattled the walls.
The city was no longer safe. Sylhet was about to become a battlefield.