It all began on June 24, 2272.
That day, a gigantic portal opened in France, ripping the European sky like a luminous wound. From that breach poured creatures humanity had never dared dream of: orcs clad in iron, dark elves with bloodshot eyes, and even dragons with blazing wings that toppled armies with a single breath of flame.
On November 29, 2272, war was declared. France was destroyed in a few weeks, wiped off the map by the tide of monsters.
In less than a year, the whole of Europe was lost.
But the portal did not bring war alone. In 2274, it released an unknown energy into the air: mana. Some humans changed. They began to cast spells, to strengthen their bodies, to surpass human limits. They were called the first Awakened, able to level up, obtain upgradable classes, have lineages and wield skills comparable to the creatures of Landomia.
It was also that year that He appeared.
A being who presented himself as a god, born of the mana flow: Azelar, the God of Chains. He offered a pact: his blessing in exchange for veneration. In return for being worshiped, he gave humanity the System — a tool allowing each person to see their levels, stats and skills.
Armed with technology, mana and the System, humans regained the advantage. In 2276, they finally managed to push back the legions of Landomia, their steel tanks competing with dragons, their Awakened facing orcs and demons on equal footing.
And on October 6, 2280, the Great War ended.
A treaty was signed between Earth and Landomia.
But behind that treaty hid erased truths, sacrifices that no one was ever to learn. Because History never tells everything. And sometimes… it is in that silence that the next disaster is born.
~~
New-France, Year 2293:
I slide the key into the port. The LEDs of the server room pulsing blue hurt my eyes, each blink a blow against my skull. The air smells of electronic dust and the chemical cold of machines.
In my earpiece, she breathes — too fast, too low:
— "I'm sorry… they found me. I had to…"
The thread of the sentence snaps. Three high notes in my chest. Then, as if someone had pulled an invisible string, the alarm screams. A blade of sound tears the night.
Fuck.
I stand up, throat dry. My boots hit the damp floor; each step rises like the beat of bad news. The corporation's spotlights turn on in bursts, blades of light trying to cut me in two. The shadows pull back, revealing steel silhouettes: the brigades, all in black and mana plates that gleam like scales. Their helmets have red eyes, little mechanical suns.
"Stop him!" shouts a voice that barely has time to be human.
I have no spell. I have no enhanced speed. But I have that damned screen that follows me everywhere, useless:
[System]
[Name] : Thomas Zeffrey
[Race] : Human of the Earth
[Lineage] : None (None)
[Level] : 0
[Class] : None (None)
[Statistics] :
[Strength] : 9
[Endurance] : 8
[Vitality] : 8
[Speed] : 11
[Intelligence] : 11
[Mental] : 8
[Perception] : 9
[Luck] : 3
[Mana] : 0
[Mana Control] : — (Inactive)
[Allocation Points] : 0
[Elemental Affinity] : None
[Skills] : —
I feel hatred in my throat, hot, stupid, ready to choke me. She sold me out for a fucking insurance. She betrayed me. Her words in my earpiece are heavier than their weapons.
I search for a grate, an air vent, anything. Nothing. The world closes like a jaw: a steel plate slams, a blast door falls and bars my way. Arms appear, grab me, stop me from moving. A hand pins my shoulder, another slaps the back of my neck — the blow rings in my teeth.
— "Get down. Now."
The voice smells of stale tobacco and oil, a trace of cold coffee. It's low, filthy.
I struggle, clumsy panic. A polarized baton digs into my ribs; the impact bends me double, rips a hoarse cry from me. Air is scarce, the world shrinks to the neon that streams, to the sweat running at my temples, to the metallic taste of blood that glues my tongue to the roof of my mouth.
— "Stop moving, you piece of trash." The guy cracks his molars as he speaks, as if savoring every humiliating word.
I grunt, I shout — "Let go of me! Let go, damn it!" — but my voice is lost under heavy steps and the alarm. They laugh in my face.
A boot swings into my ribcage; I feel my lungs compress like a squeezed sponge. The smell of blood rises, acrid and warm, mixed with the smell of leather and the bitter aroma of the coffee they've dragged with them. The world sways.
They pin me to the ground, put handcuffs on me — not simple irons, but conduits engraved that slide along the skin. The loop closes; a bluish tongue of energy runs up my forearms and the cold bite of mana nips my flesh. My muscles no longer obey entirely; every movement requires too much effort.
I scream again and receive an electric shock in response.
The magical electricity crosses my spine; it's as if someone squashed an entire second life between two fingers. Everything contracts: teeth clench, my nails dig into the concrete, a white pain bursts behind my eyes. A guard's helmet reflects me, and in his visor I see my own gaze — crazy, red, full of menace. They take it for noise and laugh.
— "Shut up, you fucking thief." — he spits that in my ear, clammy tongue, horrible breath. Then the boot continues, the foot driving into my ribs, blow after blow, until I have no more screams, only gurgles.
A final blow folds me in two and the last discharge goes off. I feel a shock that starts from my lower back and climbs, tearing me in waves. My muscles loosen like cut ropes. The pavement bites my cheek; the world becomes heavy, suffocating, saturated with smells — blood, tobacco, cold coffee — and then there's nothing but a black dot growing.
I think of her who sold me. I no longer have the strength to hate her. I lose consciousness on a bed of damp concrete, and the guards' voices rise like a distant echo: "Lock him up."
A slap pulls me out of the black. It lashes the left side of my jaw, and the acrid smell of tobacco returns in my face, like a greeting.
— "Wake up, little shit."
The voice is that of the same guard who took pleasure earlier; he laughs, his nicotine sticking to his words.
I clear the drool from my split lip. Everything tilts — the truck, the fine rain that falls, my wrists still burning in their cuffs. They open the door. The air hits me: cold, metallic, and in the distance that nightmare that cracks the sky.
In front of me, the portal. Not the little propaganda screen or a video: a gigantic maw, a gaping mouth of light that swallows the sky. Fucking shit. So this is my destiny? Digging mana veins for assholes who already exploited me here? End up with blackened palms, swallowed in tunnels where night no longer exists? Fucking shit.
I straighten as best I can. My legs tremble; each step is a burn. They throw me off the truck like a sack. My knees hit the ground, I almost topple, my handcuffed hands instinctively search for a grip that isn't there.
— "fuck..." that word escaped my mouth without me realizing, by instinct.
— "Who told you to talk, you mangy dog?" The same guy bends over, his smile a rictus splashed with cold coffee.
He doesn't let me answer. A forearm pins my nape; he leans in closer, his white teeth under the mustache. — "Shut your mouth, son of a bitch."
A fist comes. My head snaps forward — first — I can't catch myself, hands cuffed. The world explodes in buzzing: the taste of blood, the dry crack of a nose, the rain slapping my forehead.
An excess of rage rises in me, but immediately I feel stupid and calm down. What for? More blows? No thanks.
— "Line up!" yells another. I comply without flinching. What's the point of resisting? I've seen too many guys collapse and come back in pieces.
The guard shouts, his voice a saw:
— "ALRIGHT, BUNCH OF SHIT! WE'RE LEAVING FOR LANDOMIA! LISTEN UP! " He brandishes a small black box between his fingers, and everyone holds their breath. "WHAT I HAVE IN MY HAND IS A TRANSMITTER. IT OPERATES WITHIN FIFTEEN METERS. IF ANY OF YOU MOVE MORE THAN FIFTEEN METERS AWAY, YOUR CUFFS WILL EXPLODE IN AN ELECTRIC DISCHARGE. YOU DIE, AND EVERYTHING AROUND YOU TOO. SO DON'T PLAY FOOL, YOU SONS OF BITCHES!"
He spits on the ground, saliva mixing with the mud.
The instruction falls and quickly turns into a mechanism. They shove us into a single file, squeezed like wet laundry.
The trucks open their rears; metal ramps clang, lower with a groan. Control gates, large as chests, block the way — plates, scanners, corporate sigils that gleam with a cold light.
Technicians in black cloaks manipulate consoles; drones hover above our heads, their red eyes scanning us in a split second.
We move one step, two steps. At the entrance to the quay, a guard brandishes the transmitter: a small black box that sparkles. He throws it like a verdict. At fifteen meters he raises his voice and repeats the same sentence as before: "MOVE MORE THAN FIFTEEN METERS AND YOU DIE." The box vibrates, a blue halo spreads and a fine vibration runs along our cuffs. The team leaders stamp our files with a sharp blow; our names become numbers on glass tablets.
The ramp creaks under our feet.
In front of me, silhouettes pour in; I see the light — first distant, then closer, a giant eye suspended in the air. The portal's mouth is not a door but a ring, a breach that swallows the horizon. Thick cables hang like veins around the opening; security spotlights form a roaring crown.
At the edge, guardrails tremble under the influx of the condemned. Officers push with a buttstroke; we fall down the slope.
Then, without warning, the maw opened. A wind of light sucked us in, a white hole that swallowed everything. My stomach lifted, my limbs pulled as if by invisible chains.
Colors shattered into blue and violet shards, sounds twisted until they were nothing but a whistle. The metallic taste flooded my mouth.
And suddenly — contact. Not a road, but another world.
Around me, cyclopean stone towers, flying ships, armored creatures. To the right, a column of miners with dead eyes. In the distance, dragons gliding under a sun unlike anything I had known.
I raise my eyes. It was no longer New-France. It was…
— "Landomia..."
The portal behind us, and already we marched in line toward the entrails of this new world.