The year 2030 was remembered as the day the sky split open.
At first, the portals were no bigger than doorways — rifts of searing light, scattered across fields, deserts, and oceans. People thought they were a miracle. Governments built walls around them, scientists rushed in to study, and dreamers spoke of "gateways to another world."
But dreams burned to ash when the first creatures crawled out.
Demons.
Not the horned caricatures of religion, but living nightmares: beasts of shadow and fire, creatures with fangs like swords, eyes like suns. The first military forces sent against them were torn apart in hours. By 2031, the world was at war.
And by 2033… the war was lost.
That was the year the First Great Portal opened, in the heart of Europe — in a small country called Czechia. The rift was not a doorway, but a wound in the sky. From it, the Demon Lords descended. Seven of them, each embodying a sin that men had once whispered in sermons: Pride, Greed, Wrath, Envy, Lust, Gluttony, Sloth.
Europe fell in less than two years. Cities that had stood for centuries — Prague, Vienna, Berlin, Paris — became black fortresses, their streets drowned in ash and blood. By 2036, the Seven Lords ruled from their corrupted thrones, and the Demon King himself claimed the ruins of the East.
The rest of the world fought, desperate. In America, Asia, and Africa, armies rose and fell, governments shattered, and new alliances were forged. Yet still, humanity burned.
Then came 2040.
The portals stopped opening. Nobody knew why — whether by chance, exhaustion, or design. By then, it was too late: half the world was already lost.
But with the end of the portals came something new. Something strange.
Humanity began to awaken.
Ordinary men and women, touched by the same otherworldly power that had brought the demons, found themselves wielding gifts: fire and ice, steel and lightning, the power to heal, to destroy, to defy. They called them "awakenings." Some believed it was evolution, others divine mercy. It didn't matter. For the first time in ten years, humans had hope.
And among them, one boy stood at the edge of destiny.
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2040.
Seventeen years old.
The boy sat alone, clutching his chest as pain seared through his body. His breath came ragged, his vision blurred. He thought he was dying. But then—
White fire bloomed from his skin.
It didn't burn him. It healed him. Every wound, every ache, every scar was consumed by the gentle, searing flame. His eyes widened as the blaze coiled around his hand, pure and alive.
The others around him froze. Soldiers in training armor, instructors, and recruits all stared, their faces pale in the glow. No flame had ever looked like this. No flame had ever healed.
The boy gasped, falling to his knees. The fire licked at the dirt, leaving no scorch marks. It wrapped around him like a cloak, almost protective. His chest, once heavy with pain, now felt light, as if he had been reborn.
He raised his hand. The flame followed, curling like a living thing. It pulsed, once, as though answering his heartbeat.
He whispered to himself, voice trembling.
"…White fire."
No one else dared speak.
The world had taken everything from humanity.
But in that moment, a new flame was born. One that could heal. One that could burn. One that would change everything.
The training yard was silent.
The white flames danced across his skin, flickering with a strange rhythm, as if they were alive. They didn't burn, but they hummed, low and steady, like the beat of a second heart.
Around him, the recruits stepped back. Some shielded their eyes. One boy dropped his practice sword and muttered, "He's… he's on fire."
"No," an instructor whispered, his voice uncertain. "That's not fire."
The boy—seventeen, trembling, breath shallow—couldn't answer. He could feel the heat, but it didn't hurt. It was warm, comforting, wrapping around him like sunlight. Every ache in his muscles, every scrape from training, was gone. His body felt whole for the first time in years.
He raised a hand. The fire followed, curling around his fingers, burning brighter with his pulse.
"Stop!" one soldier barked, aiming his weapon. "Put it out, whatever it is!"
The boy flinched, startled—and the flame leapt. A spark shot from his hand, striking the wooden target post at the far end of the yard.
It didn't explode. It didn't char. The wood simply… dissolved. White light ate through it like acid through paper, leaving nothing but drifting ash.
The yard erupted in shouts.
"Demon fire!"
"No—he's awakened!"
"Get the commander!"
The boy stumbled back, clutching his chest. The flame pulsed faster, as though feeding on his fear. For a moment, he thought it would consume him after all. He dropped to his knees, panting.
Then it changed.
The fire sank into his skin, glowing faintly through his veins before fading. His burns from training—gone. The cuts on his knuckles—healed. His lungs, which had ached for days—clear.
The yard grew quiet again. Soldiers stared at him with a mixture of awe and suspicion.
One man, older, scarred across the jaw, stepped forward. His voice was low, but carried across the silence.
"…White fire. I've seen red flames. Blue. Black. But never white."
The boy looked up at him, still shaking. "What… what does it mean?"
The scarred man didn't answer right away. His eyes narrowed, like he was staring at a weapon, not a boy.
Finally, he said:
"It means the world just changed again."