Disclaimer: This fanfic is created solely for entertainment purposes for readers to enjoy. No characters belonging to existing franchises are mine, except for my original creations.
Without further ado, enjoy.
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Zhang Hao was the first to break the silence, his practical mind already processing the implications.
"Paragon," he tested the name on his tongue. "Sounds Western. American? British?" He looked at Lin with intensity. "Did you see where he is now? How do we contact him?"
Lin shook her head slowly, still in that half-dazed state.
"The vision doesn't work like that. I saw the future, not the present. I don't know where he is now. I don't even know if... if he's awakened his powers yet."
"What?" Wu Tian stepped forward, confusion clear on his massive face. "Are you saying someone stronger than Chen Wei might not have powers yet? How is that possible?"
"The Ether is awakening more people every day," Mei Chen interjected thoughtfully. "It's possible he's someone who will awaken soon. Or he's already awakened but hasn't revealed his abilities publicly."
Chen Wei remained silent, his eyes narrowed in contemplation. Finally, he spoke, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd seen too much to be easily surprised.
"Lin Yue, I need you to be very specific." He moved closer, kneeling in front of her again. "What exactly did you see that makes you think he can save us? Besides the dead dragon."
Lin took a deep breath, closing her eyes to focus on the vision's details.
"It wasn't just the dragon. It was..." She searched for the right words. "It was the way he protected everyone. Thousands of people in energy bubbles, all maintained at once while fighting something that could destroy cities. The concentration needed for that... the raw power..."
She opened her eyes, looking straight at Chen Wei.
"You're incredibly strong. We all know that. But what I saw from him was... different. Not just the amount of power, but absolute control. Perfect precision. As if every molecule of energy was exactly where he wanted it to be."
Chen Wei nodded slowly, processing the information without showing any offense at the comparison.
"And the letters on his chest? PA. Did you see anything else that could indicate his identity?"
"Not directly. But..." Lin frowned, trying to recall specific details. "The suit looked... technological. Advanced. Not like something handmade. The orange lines glowed like active circuits. And when he flew, there was no visible effort. He just... floated. As if gravity was optional for him."
Zhang Hao whistled, impressed.
"Sounds like science fiction."
"All of this sounds like science fiction," Wu Tian muttered. "A month ago, we were normal people. Now we're talking about dragons and the end of the world."
Mei Chen stood up carefully, helping Lin sit more upright on the couch.
"Lin, did you see when this will happen? How much time do we have?"
Lin shook her head in frustration.
"Future visions don't come with timestamps. It could be weeks. It could be months. But..." Her expression darkened. "I don't feel like it's years. There's urgency. Like the clock is already ticking."
Chen Wei stood up, turning to look out the windows at Beijing sprawling in the distance.
"Then we prepare," he said simply. "If there's someone who can change the fate you saw, we have to find him. And if we can't find him..."
"Then we make sure we're strong enough that we don't need a savior," Zhang Hao finished with a crooked smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Wu Tian nodded in approval.
"Exactly. We trust ourselves first."
But Lin shook her head violently, with more energy than she'd shown since emerging from the vision.
"You don't understand." Her voice was urgent now. "I saw our future too. I saw China fighting. I saw Awakened from around the world uniting. And..." She swallowed. "It wasn't enough. Not without him."
Those words fell like stones in still water.
"Did you see us lose?" Mei Chen asked, her voice tense.
"I saw... possibilities," Lin said carefully. "Futures branching in different directions. In some, we win. In others..." Her voice trailed off. "In others, humanity ends. Completely. But in every future where we survive, he was there. Paragon was there."
Chen Wei turned to look at her, and for the first time, there was something in his eyes that might have been genuine concern.
"Are you saying he's indispensable? That without him, humanity is doomed? Isn't that exaggerated?"
Lin hesitated, then nodded slowly.
"I can't be one hundred percent sure. Visions are fragments, not full movies. But... yes. In every victorious timeline I could see, he was the deciding factor."
Zhang Hao cursed under his breath, rubbing his face with both hands.
"So we're betting everything on finding a mysterious guy with the letters PA on his chest who could be anywhere in the world."
"Or becoming strong enough that we don't need him," Wu Tian added stubbornly, again.
Mei Chen looked between them all, her expression showing the fatigue of someone who'd been coordinating crisis after crisis since the Ether pulse hit.
"We need to report this to the higher-ups," she said finally. "If there's an Awakened at this power level, every government should be looking for him."
"No," Lin said immediately, with a firmness that surprised everyone. "Not yet."
"Why not?" Chen Wei asked, genuinely curious.
"Because if what I saw is right, if he's as powerful as I think..." Lin looked at them one by one. "Governments won't want to find him to ask for help. They'll want to control him. Study him. Use him as a weapon."
An uncomfortable silence fell over the group.
Because they all knew she was right.
"So, what do you suggest?" Mei Chen asked.
Lin stood up slowly, her legs still trembling slightly but with clear determination on her face.
"We look for him ourselves first. Discreetly. And when we find him..." She looked at Chen Wei. "We offer alliance. Not control. Not manipulation. Respect between equals."
Chen Wei studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly.
"Agreed. But in the meantime, we keep strengthening our own capabilities. Lin is right. We can't depend entirely on an unknown savior."
Zhang Hao straightened up, adjusting his tie with precise movements that showed his mind was already working on plans.
"We'll need resources. Information. Access to international Awakened databases."
"I can help with that," a new voice said from the room's entrance.
Everyone turned.
A woman was entering—thirties, impeccable pantsuit, short and practical hair. Black-rimmed glasses framing sharp eyes that missed no detail.
Director Zhao Ming. The highest-ranking intelligence officer in China's Awakened program.
"How much did you hear?" Chen Wei asked without apparent surprise. He'd probably sensed her presence since she arrived.
"Enough," Zhao replied, closing the door behind her and activating the security seals with a tap on her tablet. "And you're right to be cautious. But you also need to understand the global situation."
She walked to the holographic table and tapped several controls. Images began to appear—world maps with colored markers.
"Each red dot is a confirmed Ether accumulation zone," she explained. "There are two hundred and forty-seven in total. And in each one, we've detected growing anomalous activity."
The red markers dotted the globe like measles.
"Each blue dot is a confirmed high-level Awakened—Category A or above."
There were significantly fewer blue dots. Maybe fifty in total.
"And each black dot..." Her expression darkened. "Is a city or region that's been completely evacuated due to hostile Animal activity."
There were at least twenty black dots. And the number was growing.
"The world is changing too fast," Zhao said simply. "Not metaphorically. Literally. Current projections give us months before civilization as we know it collapses completely."
"Six months," Wu Tian repeated, his voice empty of emotion.
"In the best-case scenario. If portals start appearing..." Zhao didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.
Lin Yue sat down again, the reality hitting her with renewed force.
"So there really is no time," she murmured.
"No," Zhao confirmed. "That's why when I overheard about your vision... about this 'Paragon'..." She looked directly at Lin. "I need you to tell me everything. Every detail you can remember. Because if someone who can change this really exists, finding him isn't just important."
"It's all we have left," Chen Wei finished.
Director Zhao nodded.
"Exactly."
Lin took a deep breath, closing her eyes to immerse herself in the vision's memories again.
"I'll start from the beginning," she said. "From the moment I saw London..."
And as Lin began narrating every detail she could recall—every aspect of the suit, every shade of Paragon's blue eyes, every sensation of overwhelming power—the rest of the team listened with absolute attention.
Because in that moment, in that room in Beijing, while the world slowly crumbled around them, a seed of hope had been planted.
A hope with a name.
Paragon.
...
Barranquilla, Colombia - La Esmeralda Neighborhood - 4:47 PM
The two-story house had that typical coastal look: walls painted yellow, a bit faded from the frequent sun, white bars on the windows, and a small front garden where red hibiscus used to grow. Now the garden was a mess of churned-up dirt and trampled plants.
Inside, the chaos was intense but somehow controlled.
"Miguel!" shouted Roberto Cortés, a forty-two-year-old man with a sweat-soaked short-sleeve shirt. His tanned, wiry arms, built from years as a mechanic, were carrying two large suitcases he could barely hold. "Kid, we're leaving now! We don't have time!"
The silence that followed made a vein pulse visibly in his temple.
"MIGUEL ANDRÉS CORTÉS, I'M TALKING TO YOU!"
From the second floor, a teenage voice replied with that casual tone only teens can pull off when their parents are on the verge of a heart attack:
"Coming, Dad! Give me a second!"
Roberto dropped the suitcases with a thud that shook the tile floor. He pressed both hands to his face, breathing deeply.
"This kid is going to kill me," he thought, massaging his temples.
---
Second Floor - Miguel's Room
Miguel Andrés Cortés—fifteen years old, wheat-colored skin glistening with coastal heat sweat, black hair buzzed short, slim but athletic build from playing soccer every afternoon—was sitting on the edge of his bed.
Not packing.
Not getting ready for the evacuation his family was desperately trying to complete.
Watching TV.
His eyes—dark brown, almost black—were glued to the 32-inch screen mounted on the wall. The remote rested in his right hand, his thumb obsessively pressing the channel button.
Click.
An international news channel. CNN in Spanish showing images of New York. Buildings with shattered windows. Overturned cars. People running.
Click.
A local channel. A visibly nervous anchor reading from a teleprompter, his voice cracking every few words.
Click.
Commercials. Ads for a normality that no longer existed. Detergent. Beer. Cell phones on sale.
Click.
"There it is," Miguel murmured, leaning forward.
The Corocol Noticias logo filled the screen.
Then a woman appeared.
The on-screen reporter was Yamile Rincón, a woman in her thirties whom Miguel had seen a thousand times reporting on politics and economics with that professional voice.
Today, her voice wavered a lot.
"G-good afternoon..." Yamile swallowed visibly, her hands trembling slightly as she held papers she clearly wasn't reading. "This is Yamile Rincón speaking from our studio in Bogotá, and... and I must inform you about the current situation that's... that's affecting not just Colombia, but the entire world."
Behind her, monitors showed live feeds. Military helicopters. Streets full of people running. Something big—"too big to be a normal dog"—chasing a group of people.
Miguel leaned closer to the screen, his eyes shining with a mix of fascination and something darker. Excitement. Pure, raw excitement.
"The energy pulse that occurred about twelve hours ago has..." Yamile paused, looking off-camera for confirmation. Someone nodded. "Has fundamentally altered reality as we knew it."
It switched to prerecorded images. Hospitals. People waking up on stretchers with glowing eyes—some literally glowing, others vomiting rainbows.
"The majority of the world's population—estimated between sixty and seventy percent—has experienced physiological changes. Increased physical strength. Speed. Endurance. Some..." Her voice cracked slightly. "Some have developed abilities we believed impossible until yesterday."
The camera switched to cell phone footage. A man turning into metal. A woman becoming water completely in a pool. A teen—no older than Miguel—jumping between rooftops as if gravity were optional.
"The Colombian government, in coordination with military forces and international organizations, is establishing safe zones. All citizens are asked to stay in their homes or head to the nearest military shelters."
Yamile looked straight at the camera, and for the first time, her professional mask cracked. Her eyes welled up.
"Please... please, take care of yourselves. Take care of your families. This is not... this is not a drill. Animals are becoming aggressive. Armed groups are taking advantage of the chaos. There are..." She swallowed. "Confirmed deaths. Thousands. And the number keeps rising."
It switched to images of animals. Dogs the size of horses. Birds with five-meter wingspans. And something that looked like a crocodile but was bus-sized, dragging itself from a river as people ran in terror.
"If you have new abilities, the government requests that you voluntarily register at the centers—"
Miguel changed the channel.
Not because he didn't care. But because he already knew all that. He'd been watching for hours.
He opened the TikTok app on his phone—a Samsung Galaxy with a cracked screen from the thousand times it'd fallen. The app's startup music played, that sound his mom hated with all her soul.
The search bar showed his recent history:
"highest paid adult actresses"
Miguel blushed slightly, grateful no one else could see his screen.
"why Kescol looks like Kiko" (los de Colombia, ya saben a quien se refiere)
"top sigma humans"
Videos of people doing cool things edited with dramatic effects and epic music. It was really stupid, but every time he heard Phonk, he couldn't help imagining himself in those edits.
And the most recent search, the one he was typing now:
"what powers did you awaken"
He hit enter.
The screen immediately filled with videos. Thousands. Tens of thousands. The algorithm had exploded with new content.
The first video showed a man in his mid-twenties, muscular, wearing a tight shirt that said "GYM RAT." He was in what looked like his living room, making a face of absolute effort—eyes squinted, veins pulsing in his forehead, like he was trying to poop a brick.
"Come on... come on... COME ON!" he shouted.
His right hand started to glow. Golden light condensed in his palm, forming... a sword. But not a normal sword—it was rough, proportions off, edge uneven. Like a kid had drawn a sword and someone made it real.
"YES! I DID IT! LOOK AT THIS SHIT!" The guy swung it clumsily, nearly hitting a lamp. "I'M LIKE KIRITO! I'M GONNA BE A LEGENDARY SWORDSMAN!"
The comments were brutal:
"bro that sword looks like it was made in paint"
"LMAOOO dude almost killed himself with the lamp"
"kirito? more like kir-NO"
Miguel couldn't help laughing, covering his mouth with his hand.
He swiped up. Next video.
A woman in her thirties, hair in a perfect ponytail, impeccable makeup despite the global chaos. Clearly an influencer. Miguel recognized the background—that minimalist white wall with decorative plants all influencers used.
"Hi, loves," she said in a sing-song voice. "I know you're scared about everything happening, but I want to share my awakening experience with you."
She smiled widely, showing perfectly white teeth.
"It turns out I can..." She concentrated, scrunching her nose adorably. "Turn into a raccoon!"
POP
Where a human woman had been, there was now a raccoon. Golden retriever-sized, but definitely a raccoon. It stood on two legs, waving its surprisingly articulated little hands.
"See? Super cute! Though..." She transformed back into a human. "I still don't know what this is good for in a survival situation, but oh well. At least it's adorable!"
Comments:
"sister they're gonna hunt you to sell you as a pet"
"LMAOOO imagine awakening powers and ending up a RACCOON"
"i awakened the ability to not die of hunger as fast. literally that's it. YOU complain?"
Next video.
An older man—maybe forty-five—in what looked like a kitchen. Wrinkled office shirt, loosened tie, expression of absolute defeat on his face.
"I'm an accountant," he said in a monotone voice. "I work sixty hours a week. I have three kids. My wife left me last year."
He held a piece of raw chicken up to the camera.
"And my power is..." He sighed deeply. "I can smell if food is expired."
He sniffed the chicken. Wrinkled his nose.
"This chicken is two days past recommended. It won't kill you, but it'll give you diarrhea." He looked straight at the camera with dead eyes. "This is what the universe decided to give me. The ability to be a human expired food detector."
He dropped the chicken.
"I want to die."
The comments swung between pity and cruel mockery:
"F in the chat for this guy"
"at least you won't get food poisoning bro"
"literally the worst power ever LMAOOO"
"nah i awakened 'i can see 2 seconds into the past' meaning LITERALLY i just remember things that just happened better than before. THAT'S JUST GOOD MEMORY"
Miguel kept swiping.
Videos of people showing incredible powers—a teen levitating objects, a woman healing a cut on her arm in real time, a man who could make plants grow instantly.
But also darker videos.
Cell phone footage of a traffic accident. Wrecked cars. People screaming. The shaky camera caught something huge—impossibly huge—crossing the road. A deer, maybe, but elephant-sized.
"This happened near my house," the caption said. "My neighbor died. Please share this. The government needs to do something NOW."
Another video, marked "sensitive content" that Miguel had to confirm he wanted to see.
It showed the inside of a wrecked house. Overturned furniture. Blood on the walls. The camera shaking—the person holding it was crying.
"They came in last night," a female voice, broken. "Three men. Drugged or... or with powers, I don't know. My sister... my sister is in the hospital and the doctors say that..."
The video cut off there.
Miguel felt something twist in his stomach. A mix of horror and... something else. Something that made him feel guilty.
Because a part of him—a small, selfish part he hated admitting existed—was thrilled by all this.
Not the deaths. Not the suffering.
But the possibilities.
The fact that the boring, predictable world he'd lived in his whole life had exploded into a million pieces, and now anything could happen.
He wasn't stupid. He knew it was dangerous. He knew people were dying.
But when you're a fifteen-year-old teen who's never experienced real personal danger—when pain and death are things you only see on the news or in movies—it's easy to feel like you're the protagonist of your own story.
And protagonists always survive.
Right?
Miguel closed TikTok and looked at his right hand.
He extended it in front of him, fingers spread, studying every line on his palm like it was the first time he'd seen it.
He made a effort face—squinted his eyes, clenched his jaw, tensed every muscle in his arm.
His hand started to shake.
Slowly at first. A subtle tremor that could be mistaken for nerves.
Then faster. The vibrations intensified until his hand became a blur, moving so fast it was hard to see clearly. The air around it generated a low hum, like an amplified hummingbird.
Miguel laughed—a short, almost manic laugh of pure excitement—and slapped his thigh.
"I knew I could! I knew I could do it!"
The door to his room burst open.
BANG
His mother—Patricia Mendoza, forty years old, black hair in a high ponytail, face once soft now hardened by hours of panic and preparation—stormed into the room.
Her eyes scanned the space in a second.
The suitcase. Completely empty. Thrown on the floor like a joke.
Miguel. Sitting on the bed. Looking at his hand that was still trembling slightly.
The veins in Patricia's forehead pulsed visibly.
"Miguel Andrés Cortés Mendoza," she said with that voice. That voice every Latin kid knows. The voice that means you've crossed five red lines and are standing on the sixth.
Miguel jumped off the bed like he'd been shot.
"Coming, Mom! I'll do it now! I swear!"
"You're going to do it now?" Patricia entered the room with measured steps, each one resounding like a sentence. "YOU'RE GOING TO DO IT NOW?"
She pointed at the empty suitcase.
"We're leaving in FIVE MINUTES! The military won't wait for us! And you're here, what? Watching videos? Playing?"
"I wasn't playing! I was... I was..."
"You were what?"
Miguel didn't have a good answer for that.
Patricia closed her eyes, breathing deeply through her nose. When she opened them, some of the rage had been replaced by exhaustion and worry.
"Mijo," she said softer, approaching. "I know this is exciting for you. I know... that you have this new thing. This power."
She placed her hands on Miguel's shoulders, forcing him to look her in the eyes.
"But I need you to understand something. Out there, it's dangerous. It's not a movie. It's not a game. People are dying. And if the military sees you have powers..."
Her voice cracked slightly.
"They could take you. For studies. For experiments. For... for using you as a soldier. For whatever. I don't know. But they could take you from us."
"Mom..."
"Promise me," her hands tightened on his shoulders. "Promise me you won't use that power where others can see you. Promise me you'll stay with us. That you won't do any hero stupid stuff."
Miguel swallowed. Part of him wanted to protest. To say he could take care of himself. That his power made him special.
But he saw the tears threatening to spill from his mom's eyes, and that part shut up.
"I promise," he said quietly. "I won't use my powers."
Patricia hugged him hard, so hard it almost hurt.
"Thank you, mijo. Thank you."
She pulled back, quickly wiping her eyes.
"Now pack. Fast. Your dad's already loading the car."
Miguel nodded and turned to his closet.
He looked at the clothes. Shirts. Pants. Underwear. Shoes.
He glanced at his mom out of the corner of his eye. She'd stepped into the hallway, calling to Roberto that they were almost ready.
Miguel smiled.
He extended his hand toward the clothes.
And they vanished.
Not invisible. Faster than that. Pure speed that defied normal human temporal perception.
From his perspective, the world turned to molasses. The air thick. Sounds dragging. Light itself seeming to move slower.
His hand—vibrating at impossible frequencies—grabbed a shirt. Folded it (badly, but folded). Put it in the suitcase.
Next item. And another. And another.
Three seconds passed in the real world.
For Miguel, it was almost thirty.
When he returned to normal speed, he was panting slightly—a light dizziness in his head, the cost of accelerating his perception—but his suitcase was full.
Crooked, wrinkled, definitely not how his mom had taught him to pack, but full.
Patricia peeked back in.
"Done yet?"
"Yeah," Miguel smiled innocently.
Patricia narrowed her eyes, studying the suitcase suspiciously. Then her son. Then back to the suitcase.
"What did I tell you?" she asked with dangerously calm voice.
Miguel shrank.
"Not to use my powers..."
"Uh-huh. And what did you just do?"
"I... technically... nobody saw except you..."
Patricia sighed. Long. Deep. The sigh of mothers worldwide who've accepted their kids are incorrigible.
"You know this is to keep you safe, right?"
Miguel nodded, kicking the floor slightly.
"Yeah, Mom. I know."
And he did. He genuinely knew.
But he also knew—in that selfish, teenage part that thought he was invincible—that he was careful. That he wouldn't let strangers see. That he could control when and where to use his power.
What could go wrong?
"Let's go," Patricia pointed at the door. "Downstairs. Your dad must be desperate by now."
Miguel grabbed his suitcase—which weighed almost nothing to him now, his strength enhanced by the Ether too—and went down the stairs.
---
Living Room - Ground Floor
Roberto was standing by the front door, three suitcases around him. His, Patricia's, and now Miguel's added. He was sweating profusely, his shirt stuck to his chest.
"Finally," he said when he saw Miguel coming down. "I thought I'd have to come up and carry you."
"Chill, Dad, I didn't take that long," Miguel left his suitcase with the others. "What did my uncles say?"
Roberto's expression darkened slightly.
"The military took them to a safe site. Them and the neighbors. Your uncle Ramiro says they're in some kind of camp on the outskirts of Soledad."
"And they'll be okay there?"
"I hope so, mijo. I hope so."
Miguel murmured, so low it was barely audible:
"If everything gets fixed..."
Roberto heard but said nothing. Because honestly, he had that doubt too.
Patricia came down the stairs, carrying a small backpack with important documents—IDs, car papers, house deeds, the little cash they'd saved.
"Ready?"
"Ready," Roberto grabbed two suitcases. "Miguel, you carry yours. Patty, just the backpack. I'll take the rest."
"Roberto, it's too heavy..."
"I'm fine."
He wasn't fine. His arms trembled under the weight. But it was a matter of male pride—the man carries the heavy stuff, no matter if it gives you a heart attack.
They opened the door.
The afternoon air hit them like a wall. Humid heat, typical of Barranquilla, but with something else. A smell. Metallic. Like copper and something rotten.
The street was full of people.
Whole families hauling suitcases. Neighbors helping each other carry furniture—because Latin Americans being Latin Americans, some people were still trying to take their 60-inch TV.
Three military trucks were parked at different points on the block. Soldiers in full combat gear—bulletproof vests, assault rifles, helmets—helped coordinate the evacuation.
"Cortés family!" A young soldier, no older than twenty-three, approached with a tablet. "Three people?"
"Yes, sir," Roberto confirmed.
"Get in the second truck. We leave in ten minutes."
A neighbor—Don Julio, the old man who lived three houses down and always complained about Miguel's music volume—was saying goodbye to his daughter.
"Take care, mija. Call me when you get there."
"You too, Dad. No crazy stuff."
"Me? Crazy? I'm a calm old man."
The daughter laughed through tears. They hugged tightly before she climbed into one of the trucks.
Miguel watched all this with a mix of fascination and sadness. It was surreal. Like a movie, but real.
Patricia greeted a neighbor—Doña Mercedes, who made the best empanadas on the block.
"You leaving too?"
"Yes, mija. Wherever the military says. This is getting ugly."
"May God protect us all."
"Amen, amen."
Roberto was already loading the suitcases into the back of the truck when it happened.
First, a scream.
High-pitched. Female. Terrified.
"AAAHHHHH!"
Everyone turned.
A woman—Marisol, the one who sold arepas on the corner—was pointing at the sewer drain at the end of the street. Her finger trembled violently.
"THERE! THERE'S SOMETHING THERE!"
Another scream. Then another. Like panic was contagious.
The men started shouting orders, pushing their wives and kids behind them in an instinct as old as humanity itself.
"KIDS BACK! KIDS BACK!"
Patricia grabbed Miguel's arm, her nails digging into his skin.
"Miguel, stay behind us. Now."
Roberto had instinctively placed himself in front of his family, arms outstretched though he had no weapons, no powers, nothing but a father's desperation to protect his own.
Miguel wanted to see what it was. He stretched a bit, trying to peek over his dad's shoulder.
And then he saw it.
CRASH
The sewer manhole cover—thick iron, easily two hundred kilos—flew off like cardboard. It smashed into a parked car's windshield, shattering it completely.
SPLAASSSH
Black, stinking water exploded upward. Not a normal sewer flow—this was a geyser, like something massive had displaced it all at once.
But strangely, it only splashed. No flooding. Because Barranquilla's sewers—designed for Caribbean torrential rains—had secondary drainage systems that kicked in automatically, diverting excess flow to deeper underground channels.
Small comfort when what emerged from the hole was straight out of nightmares.
A rat.
But calling it a "rat" was like calling a wolf a "puppy."
It was enormous. Four meters long from snout to the base of its pink, hairless tail. Its fur—gray with brown patches—was soaked in wastewater dripping from its body.
Its eyes were the worst. Black. Completely black. Too intelligent. Too aware.
They looked at you and you knew—you knew—it was calculating. Thinking. Deciding which of you would be easiest to hunt.
Its front teeth were butcher-knife sized. Yellow. Stained. Sharp.
SQUEEEEEAK
The screech it let out made house windows vibrate. It was high but low at the same time, resonating in frequencies that twisted your stomach.
And then another came out.
Just as big. Just as horrible.
Its claws—each as long as a human finger—scraped the asphalt as it dragged itself fully out of the sewer.
SCREEEECH
The sound was like nails on a chalkboard amplified a thousand times.
People were frozen. Pure terror anchoring their feet to the ground.
And then the third rat emerged.
This one was smaller. "Smaller" being relative—only two meters, like a big dog instead of a mutant pony.
But what it lacked in size, it made up for in hunger.
Its eyes didn't just look. They devoured. Every human in its view was potential food, and it had clearly been in those sewers without enough to eat.
Thick, yellowish drool dripped from its open jaws, forming small puddles on the pavement.
"Shit," Roberto whispered, his hands clenching into useless fists. "Shit, shit, shit."
One of the soldiers reacted first.
"EVERYONE DOWN! DOWN ON THE GROUND!"
He raised his rifle—a Colombian Galil ACE—and opened fire.
RATATATATATATATAT
The sound of automatic fire filled the street. Shell casings flew, tinkling as they hit the ground. The smell of gunpowder mixed with the sewer stench.
The bullets hit the nearest rat.
And bounced.
Not all. Some penetrated the skin, leaving superficial wounds that bled black.
But most just ricocheted off its fur like stones on thick leather.
The rats had evolved. Their skin had become dense, tough. Not impenetrable, but hard enough that standard ammo was barely an annoyance.
"THEY'RE NOT WORKING!" the soldier shouted, emptying his magazine uselessly. "WE NEED HEAVIER WEAPONS!"
The big rat—the first one out—charged.
Its hind legs tensed. Muscles under skin and fur coiled.
And it leaped.
WHOOOOSH
Five meters into the air, its massive body momentarily blocking the sun, casting a grotesque shadow over three entire families.
It landed directly on a car—a red Chevrolet Spark belonging to the Ramírez family.
CRASH-CRUNCH-BOOM
The metal crumpled like aluminum foil. Windows exploded outward in a shower of glass. Tires burst with sounds like gunshots.
"RUN!" someone shouted. "RUN!"
Chaos erupted instantly.
Families scattered in all directions. Mothers carrying babies. Fathers dragging kids. Elderly stumbling, helped by neighbors.
The screams blended into a symphony of terror:
"ANDREA, COME HERE!"
"MOM, WHERE ARE YOU!"
"HELP! PLEASE, SOMEONE!"
The second big rat lunged at a group of people running toward one of the military trucks.
A woman—Rosa Méndez, thirty-eight, local hospital nurse—was running hand-in-hand with her sixteen-year-old daughter Daniela.
"Mom, faster!" Daniela pulled her mother, her younger legs letting her run quicker.
"I'm trying, mija, I'm trying!"
The rat was closing in. Each second shrinking the distance. Five meters. Four. Three.
Rosa saw it in her peripheral vision—that gray, horrible mass gaining ground, its mouth open showing those impossible teeth.
She knew she wouldn't make it.
So she did the only thing she could.
The only thing a mother would do.
She pushed Daniela with all her strength.
"RUN!"
Daniela flew forward, stumbling, rolling on the pavement but getting away from the rat.
Rosa turned to face the creature, arms outstretched as if she could stop it with sheer will.
"COME FOR ME, YOU DAMN THING!"
The rat accepted the invitation.
Its jaws opened impossibly wide, drool flying everywhere.
And then something hit it.
Not something. Someone.
WHOOOOOM
A sound like thunder tearing the air.
A figure wrapped in yellow-golden energy descended from the sky like a guided missile.
It was a woman. Military, from the combat uniform she wore—stained, torn in places, clearly battle-worn recently. Black hair in a strict military ponytail. Face covered in sweat and dirt.
But the most impressive was the energy.
An illusory construct of golden light enveloped her, taking the shape of a massive eagle. The wings—each maybe four meters—spread dramatically. Talons the size of machetes glowed with solid light. The eagle's eyes burned like miniature suns.
Major Lucía Vanegas—thirty-four years old, twelve years of service, three tours in combat zones—shouted as her foot connected with the rat's skull.
"GET AWAY FROM HER!"
CRACK
The impact sounded like a tree snapping. The rat's head jerked violently to the side, its neck twisted at an unnatural angle.
SQUEEEEEEEEEEE
The pain screech pierced eardrums. Several people covered their ears, some bleeding slightly.
The rat staggered, disoriented, losing balance momentarily.
Lucía didn't waste time. She landed in a crouch—perfect military form—and immediately lunged toward Rosa.
"Ma'am, move! NOW!"
Rosa didn't need to be told twice. She ran to where Daniela was being helped by other civilians, the two crying but alive.
Lucía turned to the rats. The illusory eagle's wings flapped, lifting her a meter off the ground.
"Alright," she murmured, her hands glowing with that same golden energy. "Let's see how tough you really are."
The three rats looked at her.
And Lucía realized something that chilled her blood.
They were coordinating.
They weren't just enlarged animals acting on instinct. There was intelligence there. The two big ones separated, flanking her on both sides. The small one hung back, waiting.
Pack hunting strategy.
"Shit."
The left rat attacked first.
It lunged forward, claws extended, seeking to grab, to tear.
Lucía rose quickly, the eagle's illusory talons passing inches below the rat.
"Missed!"
But it was a feint.
The right rat had been waiting for exactly that.
It jumped—higher than Lucía expected—its jaws closing on her eagle's illusory wing.
And though the eagle was energy, not flesh, there was a connection. The eagle was a manifestation of her power, an extension of her will.
When the rat bit, Lucía felt pain.
"AHH!"
Not physical. Not exactly. But like something was pulling at her soul, trying to rip out a piece of her essence.
She thrashed violently in the air, trying to break free.
The rat didn't let go. It shook its head side to side like a dog with a toy, and each shake sent waves of agony through Lucía's body.
"Let... let go... LET GO!"
She concentrated energy in her right foot. The golden light intensified, condensing, turning almost white at the center.
She kicked.
Directly into the rat's snout.
BOOM
The energy exploded on contact. The rat flew backward, hitting the pavement and rolling several meters before stopping.
SQUEAK-SQUEAK-SQUEAK
It squealed, stunned, black blood dripping from its smashed nose.
But Lucía wasn't much better.
She was panting, sweat running down her face. The right wing of her eagle illusion flickered, unstable, threatening to fade.
"Holding two large manifestations and fighting at the same time... it's draining me too fast."
She needed to end this soon.
The small rat—which had been waiting patiently—saw its chance.
It charged. Fast. Faster than the big ones, its smaller size allowing greater agility.
Lucía saw it coming but was off-balance, recovering from the previous attack.
She couldn't dodge fully.
She tried to roll in the air—the eagle's wings flapping frantically—but the small rat's claws managed to rake her left leg.
"SHIT!"
Three red lines appeared on her thigh. Deep. Bleeding immediately.
The pain was sharp, real, very different from the psychic pain before.
She landed badly, stumbling, nearly falling.
The two big rats were closing in from both sides. The small one prepared for another attack.
Lucía was surrounded.
"Not like this. I can't die like this. Not after surviving Caquetá. The FARC. Everything."
She clenched her teeth. Determination burned in her eyes.
"Come on, you bastards. If you're going to kill me, you'll have to earn it."
At that moment, the sound of roaring engines filled the air.
VRRRROOOM-VRRROOOOM-VRRROOOOM
Three military jeeps turned the corner at dangerous speed, skidding, nearly flipping.
Soldiers hung off the sides. Some with rifles. Others with heavier gear.
"FIRE!" a sergeant shouted.
RATATATATATAT-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM
Not just rifles now. Grenade launchers. Mounted M60 machine guns. Concentrated, coordinated fire.
The heavier bullets—.50 caliber, designed to penetrate armored vehicles—finally pierced the rats' fur.
SQUEAK-SQUEEEEEE-SQUEEEEAK
The two big rats squealed, black blood splattering the pavement as they twisted.
But they weren't dead. Wounded, yes. Furious, absolutely.
One of them—the one Lucía had kicked in the nose—looked at the jeeps.
And charged.
Straight at the soldiers.
"EVASIVE MANEUVER!"
The driver swerved sharply. Tires screeched. The jeep tilted dangerously on two wheels.
But the rat was faster than they expected.
Its claws tore into the vehicle's side like tin. Metal ripped with a sound that made everyone's teeth grind.
Two soldiers were thrown from the jeep, hitting the pavement hard.
"GARCÍA! MORALES!"
The rat turned to them.
Lucía saw it all unfold in slow motion.
The helpless soldiers. The rat approaching. Its mouth opening.
"No."
She ignored the pain in her leg. Ignored the exhaustion pulling at her bones.
She flew.
The eagle's wings—though one flickered erratically—propelled her forward with desperate speed.
She crashed into the rat from the side just as its jaws closed on the air where a soldier had been.
CRASH
Both tumbled, entangled, fighting.
Lucía struck with energy-wrapped fists. The rat bit, clawed, tried to crush her with its superior mass.
They ended up against a wall. Concrete cracking under the impact.
Lucía ended up on top. Her hands found the rat's neck.
And squeezed.
Golden energy flowed from her palms directly into the creature. Not from outside—from inside.
Burning. Cooking. Destroying tissue at the cellular level.
SQUEEEE-ee-ee...
The squeal grew weaker. Weaker.
And stopped.
The big rat was dead.
Lucía collapsed on the corpse, panting, each breath like swallowing glass.
But she couldn't rest.
Two left.
She forced herself to stand. Her legs trembled. Blood soaked her left combat pant leg.
The second big rat was being cornered by three jeeps, soldiers firing in coordinated bursts. It was wounded, bleeding from multiple spots, but still dangerous.
And the small one...
Where was the small one?
Lucía's eyes scanned the area frantically.
Civilians. Scattered. Some hiding behind cars. Others still running to the evacuation trucks.
And then she saw it.
A little girl.
No more than six years old. Pink dress with dirt stains. Hair in braids. Standing in the middle of the street, completely frozen.
Crying.
"Where's her mother!?"
Lucía looked around. Saw a woman—probably thirty—searching frantically, shouting, but looking in the wrong direction.
"CAROLINA! CAROLINA, WHERE ARE YOU!"
The girl—Carolina—didn't respond. She was in shock. Tears running down her cheeks. Arms wrapped around herself.
And the small rat had seen her.
It was moving stealthily. Approaching from a blind angle. Its eyes fixed on easy prey.
Ten meters. Eight. Six.
Lucía tried to run.
Her legs didn't respond right. One step, nearly fell.
"I'm not going to make it."
She shouted anyway:
"GIRL! MOVE!"
Carolina didn't hear. Or couldn't process. Her mind had shut down, overwhelmed by terror.
The rat prepared to jump.
Muscles tensing. Jaws opening.
And then...
---
Miguel's Perspective
Miguel was in his parents' car. Car—a 2015 Toyota Corolla, green, with a scratch on the rear fender from when his dad hit a pole last year.
They were inside. Engine running. Ready to go as soon as the military trucks cleared the way.
Patricia had her hands clasped, praying quietly. Roberto had both hands on the wheel, knuckles white, ready to floor it any second.
And Miguel...
Miguel was looking out the window.
He saw everything.
The rats emerging. The soldiers shooting. The military woman flying like a real superhero.
Every second, something grew in his chest.
Not fear. Well, yes, fear. But more than that. Responsibility.
The feeling that he could do something. That he had the power to change this.
And then he saw the girl.
Saw the rat approaching.
Saw no one else would make it in time.
His breathing quickened.
His hands started shaking—not from his power, just pure nerves.
He looked at his parents.
Roberto was focused ahead, trying to find an escape route.
Patricia had her eyes closed, still praying.
Miguel made a decision.
He took a deep breath.
"Sorry," he whispered. "I have to."
He reached for the door handle.
"MIGUEL, NO!" Roberto saw him in the rearview mirror, eyes widening. "DON'T YOU DARE GET OUT OF THIS CAR!"
"MIGUEL ANDRÉS!" Patricia turned fully. "IT'S DANGEROUS! STAY HERE!"
But Miguel had already opened the door.
"Hope they at least don't take my PlayStation," he muttered to himself.
And he felt the shift.
The world became... different.
Sounds dragged. His parents' voices shouting his name turned low, distorted, like a slowed record.
People's movements running became slow. Like they were underwater.
Light itself seemed to move slower, creating visual trails.
For Miguel, everything was normal. He moved at regular speed.
It was the world that had slowed.
He got out of the car. His Nike sneakers hit the pavement.
He straightened. Rolled his arms in circles, like warming up.
"Okay, Miguel. You got this," he told himself, slapping his cheeks twice. "Shhh, shhh, shhh."
He remembered words from a video he'd seen. A Flash edit with epic music.
"Run, Miguel, run."
Miguel smiled.
This is nothing.
'You got baked under the sun on route 30 for carnival, he muttered, referring to the times he'd run under Barranquilla's scorching sun during celebrations. Now you can't do a little cardio.'
He looked ahead. The girl was about thirty meters away. The rat five from her.
He put on a serious expression—the most serious a fifteen-year-old can manage.
And he ran.
WHOOOOSH
From everyone else's perspective, it was like the wind itself had come alive.
A blur. Not even that. More like a distortion in the air. One moment Miguel was in the car, the next he just... wasn't.
A light breeze passed by people. Some felt a tingle on their skin. Others nothing.
But from Miguel's perspective...
The world was a beautiful, terrifying slow-motion painting.
He saw every detail in crystal clarity.
Doña Mercedes—the empanada lady—was running. Her face frozen in panic. Her lips forming a perfect O. Tears suspended in the air like liquid diamonds.
A soldier firing. He could see the bullet leaving the barrel. Spinning. Cutting through the air in a perfect trajectory.
Major Lucía trying to run. Her wounded leg barely lifting off the ground. Her face twisted in desperation.
And the girl. Carolina.
Her eyes closed. Tears halfway down her cheeks. So small. So helpless.
The rat was mid-jump. Its hind legs still touching the ground. Its body starting to rise. Jaws opening. Teeth glistening with drool.
Miguel ran faster.
Twenty meters. Fifteen. Ten.
His heart pounded so hard he felt it in his ears.
"Shit, shit, shit, shit."
It wasn't bravery. It was pure terror pushing him forward.
But he kept running.
Five meters.
The rat was almost on the girl. Its claws extended.
Miguel screamed internally as he ran.
"SHIIIIIT!"
Three meters.
Two.
One.
He arrived.
His arms reached out, grabbing Carolina by the waist.
He lifted her—she weighed almost nothing to him in this state, like a stuffed animal.
He pulled her to his chest, wrapping his arms protectively around her.
And kept running.
He passed right under the jumping rat. Could see its belly—greasy fur, pink skin underneath, muscles shifting.
Five meters beyond. Ten. Fifteen.
When he felt it was safe, he stopped running.
The world snapped back to normal speed immediately.
WHOOOOOOOM
The sound of his movement catching up. The displaced air creating a small gust that made nearby people's clothes flutter.
Miguel was panting. His head spun—a light dizziness, the cost of accelerating so much.
But he held Carolina.
He checked her frantically. Arms. Legs. Head.
"You okay? Did I hurt you? Are you hurt?"
Carolina opened her eyes slowly. Blinked several times, confused.
"What...?"
And then she started crying. Not from pain. From relief.
"I want my mommy!" she sobbed, clinging to Miguel.
"CAROLINA!"
The mother appeared like a bullet, running toward them. Tears of relief on her face.
She snatched her daughter from Miguel's arms, hugging her so tight the girl protested.
"Ow, Mommy, you're squeezing!"
"Sorry, sorry, my love, my heaven, I thought... I thought..."
She couldn't finish. Just cried and kissed her daughter's head repeatedly.
She turned to Miguel, eyes red but smiling.
"Thank you. Thank you, thank you, I don't know how but thank you, God bless you, thank you..."
Miguel scratched his head, uncomfortable with the attention.
"Uh, it's nothing, ma'am, I just..."
The woman didn't wait for more explanation. She carried Carolina and ran to the trucks, not willing to tempt fate further.
Miguel watched them go.
And smiled. A small, private smile.
"I did it. I really did it."
He felt... good. Really good. Like something in his chest had expanded, filling him with warmth.
He was about to turn, to head back to his parents' car, when he heard the sound.
SQUEEEEEAK
High. Furious. Very, very close.
Miguel spun.
The small rat was two meters away.
And it looked PISSED.
Its prey had been stolen. It didn't understand how. It just knew this small human was responsible.
And small humans were easier to kill.
It charged.
"Shi—!"
Miguel didn't finish the word.
CRASH
A green Toyota Corolla crashed into the rat from the side.
The impact sent the creature tumbling, squealing, crashing into a house wall ten meters away.
The car skidded to a stop. Smoke from the dented hood. Front headlight completely smashed.
The doors opened.
Roberto and Patricia jumped out, running to Miguel.
"ARE YOU CRAZY?!" Roberto grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him. "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!"
Patricia just hugged him, so tight he could barely breathe.
"Don't ever do that again, you hear me? Never again..."
"Sorry, sorry," Miguel murmured against her shoulder. "But I couldn't... she was going to..."
Roberto looked where the girl had been. Saw the mother and daughter climbing into a military truck.
His anger faded a bit. Just a bit.
"Get. In. The. Car. NOW."
The three ran back to the Corolla. The engine was still running—thank God Toyotas were indestructible.
As they got in, Miguel heard something.
An explosion. Small but powerful.
BOOM
He looked out the back window.
Major Lucía had flown at the small rat—the one his dad's car had hit. The creature was stunned, trying to stand.
Lucía gave it no chance.
Her eagle's illusory talons glowed intensely. She spread them fully—four-meter wingspan, every feather perfectly defined in golden energy.
And closed them.
Around the rat's neck.
The energy didn't just cut. It burned. Disintegrated.
The rat's head separated from its body.
It fell to the pavement with a wet thud. The body collapsed a second later, twitching from post-mortem nerve reflexes.
Lucía landed, staggering, the eagle illusion fading completely.
She fell to her knees, panting.
The soldiers surrounded her immediately.
"Major Vanegas! Are you hurt?"
"The leg..." she pointed weakly. "Need... bandage..."
"MEDIC! MEDIC NOW!"
Miguel saw all this as his parents' car sped up, joining the caravan of military vehicles evacuating the area.
He looked at his hands.
They were still trembling slightly. Adrenaline still coursing through his veins.
He'd used his powers. In public. Where others could see.
Well, technically no one saw clearly. It was so fast it probably looked like the girl just... moved. Or something.
Right?
He leaned back in the back seat, closing his eyes.
"Hope they at least don't take my PlayStation."
.....
UN Headquarters - New York - Secure Conference Room - 7:23 PM EST
The room was a bunker. Not metaphorically—literally a reinforced bunker three levels below the main UN building. Two-meter-thick concrete walls. Five-ton steel doors each. Independent life support systems capable of keeping occupants alive for weeks.
Built during the Cold War in case nuclear tensions escalated beyond the point of no return.
Now it served for meetings when the world faced something potentially worse than atomic bombs.
The table was solid oak—anachronistic in a high-tech bunker, but diplomats insisted on these small touches of civilization. Thirty chairs surrounded it, each occupied by a face that appeared regularly on international news.
Presidents. Prime Ministers. Chancellors. Leaders of the world's most powerful nations.
And all looked exhausted.
Holographic screens floated above the table, projected by hidden emitters in the ceiling. They showed world maps dotted with red markers, graphs rising at alarming angles, news feeds in dozens of languages.
The air was thick—not just with the smell of stale coffee and failing deodorant under stress, but with something intangible. Fear. Uncertainty. The sense of standing on the edge of an abyss without seeing how deep it was.
President Marcus Caldwell of the United States stood up. Fifty-eight years old, dark blue suit wrinkled—he'd been awake thirty-six hours straight—jaw clenched in that determined expression he'd perfected during election campaigns.
"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice resonated with that American accent that always sounded slightly condescending even when trying not to. "It's been twelve hours since the global Ether pulse. Time for a full assessment."
He tapped a remote. The holograms changed.
A world map appeared, rotating slowly. Each continent marked with colors—red for high-conflict zones, yellow for stabilized situations, green for controlled areas.
There was very little green.
"Director Chen," Caldwell nodded to an Asian man in his fifties in a gray suit, the UN's Director of Global Statistics. "Give us the numbers."
Chen Wei—not the Chinese cultivator, but his namesake with bad timing luck—cleared his throat nervously. He adjusted his metal-rimmed glasses and consulted his tablet.
"The figures are... devastating, Mr. President."
He tapped his tablet. Numbers appeared on the holograms.
"Confirmed global deaths: four hundred thirty-two thousand in the first twelve hours."
A heavy silence fell over the room.
"This includes victims of mutated animal attacks, Awakened who lost control of their powers, looting, infrastructure collapses, and..." He hesitated. "And military responses that resulted in civilian casualties."
Several leaders shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
"Seriously injured: approximately one million two hundred thousand. This only counts documented cases in functional hospitals. Real numbers are likely triple."
Chen changed the screen. Images of overcrowded hospitals. Hallways full of stretchers. Doctors and nurses with expressions of people on the brink of collapse.
"Displaced: fifty-three million people have left their homes seeking refuge in military or government facilities."
"My God," someone murmured.
"Confirmed mutated animals: impossible to give an exact figure, but we estimate thirty to forty percent of global fauna has undergone significant changes. Size increase, elevated aggression, in some cases enhanced intelligence."
Images appeared. A four-meter-tall brown bear wrecking a car. A pack of wolves—each horse-sized—hunting coordinately in Yellowstone. A massive crocodile dragging itself through Jakarta streets.
"The most problematic species are large predators and rodents. Rats in particular have become an urban plague of epic proportions. Reported cases in New York, London, Mumbai, São Paulo, Mexico City..."
President Rafael Cordero of Mexico—sixty-two, completely white hair, face marked by decades in politics—raised a hand.
"We can confirm that. Mexico City has lost control of three entire districts due to mutated rat infestations. Average size: three to four meters. Highly aggressive. Our armed forces have set perimeters but..."
He didn't finish. He didn't need to.
Chen Wei continued:
"Registered Awakened: this figure is preliminary, but based on medical and military reports, we estimate sixty-five to seventy percent of the world population has manifested some form of superhuman ability."
"Seventy percent," Caldwell repeated, letting the number sink in. "That's... five billion people?"
"Approximately, Mr. President."
"And how many of those are active threats?"
"Defining 'active threat' is complicated. Most only experienced minor physical enhancements—slightly superior strength, improved speed, sharpened senses. Useful but not dangerous."
Chen changed screens. Distribution graphs appeared.
"About twenty percent manifested intermediate abilities. Generally related to their profession or a personal interest, telekinesis, pyrokinesis, etc. There have been humans with partial transformation capabilities, some because they're very attached to their pets, others simply as a representation of their personality. These can be problematic if they lose control but manageable with proper protocol."
"And the rest?"
"The remaining five percent..." Chen hesitated, choosing words carefully. "Are individuals with capabilities significantly exceeding the norm. Building-level destructive capacity or higher. Resistance to conventional weaponry. Some with abilities we simply don't understand how they work."
Prime Minister Elizabeth Hartley of the United Kingdom—fifty-four, gray pantsuit, perpetually serious expression—leaned forward.
"How many of that five percent are cooperating with authorities?"
"Approximately... thirty percent."
"And the rest?"
"Dead, in hiding, or actively hostile."
Another heavy silence.
President Antônio Barreto of Brazil—fifty-eight, thick mustache, large calloused hands from construction work before politics—slammed the table with his palm.
"We need to talk classification. We can't keep calling these individuals just 'powerful Awakened' or 'special cases.' We need a standardized system everyone understands."
"I agree," Caldwell nodded. "Which brings us to the next agenda item. Proposals for a classification system."
He sat down, interlacing his fingers on the table.
"The United States proposes a Greek letter-based system. Omega for city destroyers, Alpha for building-level threats, Beta for intermediate capabilities, Delta for minor enhancements, Epsilon for minimal manifestations."
Several heads nodded. Others frowned.
President Chen Zhao of China—sixty-one, expressionless face perfected over decades of communist diplomacy—cleared his throat.
"Before continuing, I must address the... incident that affected our communications."
All eyes turned to him.
For the past hours, China had been completely dark. No TV signals, no internet, no phone communications. As if 1.4 billion people had vanished from the digital map.
It had caused considerable panic.
"What the hell happened over there?" Chancellor Wolfgang Müller of Germany didn't bother sounding diplomatic. "We thought it was an invasion. Coordinated attack. Something."
Chen Zhao kept his expression neutral.
"An individual with technological manipulation ability took control of our digital infrastructure. Briefly. The issue has been... resolved."
"'Resolved'?" Caldwell raised an eyebrow. "'That means you captured the individual or...?"
"He has been permanently neutralized."
The way he said it—completely flat, no emotion—made it clear "permanently neutralized" didn't mean "in prison awaiting trial."
"I see," Caldwell didn't press further. Everyone in that room knew that in the coming weeks, months, years, there would be many "permanent neutralizations." It was the cost of surviving what was coming.
Chen Zhao continued:
"As for classification, China proposes a simple numeric system. Rank A for the most powerful, descending to Rank E for minimal manifestations. Clear, efficient, easy to communicate in multiple languages."
President Yuki Tanaka of Japan—forty-seven, the youngest leader in the room, elected in a reformist wave two years prior—raised her hand.
"Japan supports an alphanumeric system. But I suggest subdivisions within each rank. A Rank A that can take down a building isn't the same as one that can destroy a city."
"That just complicates things," Cordero of Mexico objected. "We need something soldiers in the field can understand quickly. See threat, assess rank, respond appropriately."
"But without subdivisions," Hartley of the UK counter-argued, "we risk underestimating threats. If soldiers see 'Rank A' and think it's the same as the last Rank A they faced, they could die when it's ten times more powerful."
The discussion escalated. Voices rising. Simultaneous translation struggling to keep up as presidents talked over each other.
Caldwell eventually slammed the table.
"Order! Let's vote. How many support the US Greek system?"
Four hands raised. Including his.
"China's alphanumeric system?"
Eight hands. China had loyal allies.
"Other proposals?"
President Hassan Al-Rashid of Saudi Arabia suggested a color-based system—rejected because no one wanted to explain to illiterate soldiers in combat heat the difference between "crimson threat" and "scarlet threat."
Prime Minister Arjun Patel of India proposed a star system, like hotels—rejected because it sounded ridiculous to call someone who could raze cities a "five-star Awakened."
After twenty minutes of increasingly heated debate, President Laura Mendieta of Colombia spoke for the first time.
She'd been silent the whole meeting. Observing. Taking occasional notes on a tablet but mostly just... listening.
Forty-six years old, conservative dark gray suit, short hair, no makeup—she never wore makeup for these things, said she wanted to be taken seriously for her words, not her looks. Face that revealed nothing.
"I propose a compromise," she said in Spanish, the simultaneous translation echoing seconds later in everyone's earpieces.
The room quieted. Colombia wasn't a superpower. Not a major economy. But after what happened in Medellín...
Everyone knew Colombia had the most powerful documented Awakened so far.
Mendieta stood, tapping controls on her tablet. A new schema appeared on the holograms.
"Hybrid system. Ranks A to E as base, as China suggests. Clear, simple, easy to communicate."
Chen Zhao nodded approvingly.
"But within each rank, Greek subdivisions as the US suggests. Omega, Alpha, Beta, Gamma."
Caldwell nodded slowly too.
"A Rank A Omega is a city destroyer. Our analyses suggest destructive power equivalent to a tactical nuclear weapon. Fortunately rare—we have maybe twenty documented globally."
Images appeared. Not of all—some countries kept their cards close—but enough to illustrate.
Helena Krüger in satellite video, the exact moment she hit X100. The golden energy explosion. The crater left behind.
A man in China—apparently able to generate localized earthquakes—collapsing a twenty-story apartment building evacuated for testing.
A woman in Australia whose scream created shockwaves that pulverized concrete.
"Rank A Alpha: building destroyers. Can level large structures but lack power for urban-scale devastation. More common than Omegas. We estimate two to three hundred globally."
"Rank A Beta: significant but limited damage. Can destroy houses, armored vehicles, small groups. Useful in combat but not existential threats."
"Rank A Gamma: the lowest A Rank level. Superior to enhanced average human but not catastrophically. Impressive capabilities without being devastating."
Mendieta paused, letting the information settle.
"This pattern continues downward. Rank B with subdivisions. Rank C. Down to Rank E Gamma—enhancements so minor they barely qualify as superhuman. Maybe they can smell expired food. Or see two seconds into the past. Useful in specific contexts but not combatants."
Barreto of Brazil slammed the table in approval.
"This works. Combines letter clarity with subdivision specificity. A soldier hears 'Rank A Omega' and knows: evacuate civilians, call massive backup, do not engage without extreme preparation."
"While 'Rank C Beta' means: handle with standard squad, normal caution, probably no full area evacuation," Tanaka of Japan completed the thought.
Murmurs of approval rippled around the table.
Caldwell looked at Mendieta with what might have been respect. Or perhaps just pragmatic recognition that Colombia had leverage others didn't.
"Good proposal. The United States supports it."
"China as well," Chen Zhao inclined his head slightly to Mendieta.
One by one, hands raised. Within five minutes, the system was adopted by unanimous consensus.
Rare in international politics. A sign of how desperate everyone was for any structure, any order in the chaos.
Caldwell typed something on his own tablet, then looked directly at Mendieta.
"President Mendieta, I understand your Rank A Omega had... recent medical complications."
His tone was casual. Too casual.
"I heard Major Krüger was indisposed. I hope she's fully recovered."
The room tensed.
Everyone knew what he was doing. Probing. Trying to gauge if Colombia's most powerful weapon was operational or not.
Because if not...
Well. The US had three Rank A Omegas. If Colombia had lost theirs, the power balance shifted considerably.
Mendieta held his gaze without blinking.
"Major Krüger is fully recovered. Alive, healthy, and serving with distinction."
She raised an eyebrow slightly—the only crack in her neutral expression.
"In fact, President Caldwell, if you'd like to meet her personally, I'm sure we can arrange a diplomatic visit. Perhaps a capabilities demonstration in a joint exercise. Helena would be... delighted to show what she can do."
The way she said "delighted"—with the slightest emphasis, almost imperceptible—made several leaders hide smiles.
Because they'd all seen the reports. The woman who destroyed downtown Medellín. Who killed a gravity-control Awakened and three thousand civilians as collateral.
Who woke from an induced coma in two days when doctors said weeks.
Who immediately asked when she could return to active duty.
Caldwell paled slightly.
"That... that won't be necessary, President. I trust your assessment of the Major's condition."
"What a relief," Mendieta smiled. It wasn't warm. "Because Helena has a very busy schedule. The Reborn—the criminal organization we've discussed previously—require her immediate attention."
She sat back down, crossing her hands on the table.
"But the offer stands. Anytime you'd like to visit her, President Caldwell."
"Yes. Sure. I'll keep it in mind."
He wouldn't. Everyone knew.
Hartley of the UK coughed slightly, hiding what was definitely laughter.
Cordero of Mexico didn't bother hiding his smile.
Chen Zhao kept a perfectly neutral face but his eyes sparkled with amusement.
The tension broke. The meeting continued.
---
One Hour Later
The technical details had been hammered out. Reporting protocols. Evaluation standardization. Information-sharing agreements between nations.
All provisional, everyone emphasized. To be formalized once the initial chaos was controlled.
Assuming it could be controlled.
Director Chen—not the president, but the UN director—stood up.
"If I may point out something disturbing."
Everyone looked at her. Sixty-two years old, steel-gray hair, she'd worked at the UN for thirty years. She'd seen genocides, pandemics, wars. She didn't disturb easily.
"The Ether accumulation patterns we've been monitoring. They're intensifying."
Holograms changed. Heat maps showing energy concentrations.
"Two hundred forty-seven confirmed high-accumulation zones globally. And in each, density is increasing. Not linearly. Exponentially."
She showed graphs. Upward curves growing steeper each hour.
"If these trends continue, in approximately ninety-six hours—four days—the concentrations will reach levels our scientists describe as 'critical.'"
"What does 'critical' mean?" Patel of India asked.
"We don't know," Chen admitted. "Our models have no precedent for this. It could mean nothing. It could mean... something catastrophic."
"What kind of catastrophic?"
"The kind where Chinese precognitives' visions of portals and monsters from other dimensions stop sounding like science fiction."
Absolute silence.
"You have a precognitive?" Caldwell leaned forward. "What exactly did they see?"
Chen Zhao answered for the director.
"Classified information. But I can say this: we need to prepare for the possibility of non-human threats emerging from high Ether concentration zones."
"Non-human? Like mutated animals?"
"No. Like entities that have never existed on Earth before."
That thought settled like lead in their stomachs.
Tanaka of Japan spoke softly:
"How much time do we have?"
"If projections are correct, first manifestation could occur anytime between 2 or 3 months."
"2 months," Barreto let out a hollow laugh. "We can't control what's happening now. And you're telling us we have two months before it gets worse?"
No one had an answer for that.
Caldwell stood, face gray with fatigue.
"Then I suggest everyone return to their countries. Strengthen defenses. Train cooperative Awakened. Establish evacuation protocols around accumulation zones."
He paused, looking at each leader.
"And pray. Pray our precognitives are wrong."
The meeting dissolved. Leaders gathering tablets, preparing for flights back to their nations.
Mendieta was intercepted in the hallway by Caldwell.
"President, a word."
She stopped, turning with an inquiring expression.
"About Major Krüger," he said quietly. "Is she really fully recovered?"
"Yes."
"Because if she needs... resources. Specialized medical equipment. Anything. The United States would be willing to..."
"President Caldwell," Mendieta interrupted gently. "I know what you're doing. And I appreciate the offer."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice.
"But Helena Krüger isn't a military asset we can trade. She's a human being with her own will. She chose to serve Colombia after Colombia gave her a home when she had none. After she lost the man she loved in our streets."
"I understand, but—"
"And if you or any other nation tries to recruit her, bribe her, or in any way take her from us, she will personally fly to your country and demonstrate exactly why the Omega category was created."
She smiled. It wasn't kind.
"Do we understand each other?"
Caldwell swallowed.
"Perfectly, President."
"Excellent. Safe flight back."
She walked away, leaving the president of the world's most powerful nation feeling strangely small.
---
Simultaneously - Beijing
Chen Wei—the cultivator, not the statistics director—was meditating in the Special Operations Room when he received the news.
"The system has been adopted," Zhao Ming informed him. "Ranks A to E, subdivisions Omega to Gamma."
Chen opened one eye.
"And me?"
"Officially classified Rank A Omega. You're the second of the twenty worldwide."
"Officially?"
Zhao smiled slightly.
"Unofficially, the Minister of Defense thinks you might be stronger. But they kept the classification at Omega for... discretion."
Chen closed his eye, returning to meditation.
"Wise."
------
End of chapter 10. I was doing some homework and lost track of time, but here it is.
Anyway, today (Monday) I'll upload another one — the one I owed you.
Hope you enjoy it! Please give power stones so it can reach more people — can we make it to 100?
Lastly, leave comments — I read and reply to all of them.
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Have a great rest of your day.
[JhonDaoist]