The sky above Earth trembled as though reality itself was tearing apart. At first it was just a ripple—subtle, distant, almost unnoticeable. But soon, the ripple grew, warping the heavens like shattered glass stretched thin.
Then it split.
A jagged wound ripped open across the clouds, a scar of absolute blackness that bled no light. Staring into it was like staring into the abyss itself—endless, hungry, and alive.
The world froze.
Crowds flooded the streets, their voices trembling with panic. Governments deployed soldiers, scientists, priests—everyone searching for an explanation, a solution, a prayer that would hold back the terror. But nothing worked. Because the people could feel it.
Deep in their bones.
In the hollow of their chests.
That crawling certainty—this was not just a tear in the sky.
It was a door.
And something on the other side was waiting.
Days turned into weeks. The wound did not close. It widened. The air grew heavier each morning, pressing on lungs like invisible chains. Breathing became labor. Sleeping became impossible. Fear seeped into every corner of humanity.
Then—on a night thick with storm clouds—the scar writhed.
A hand emerged.
Skeletal, black as ash, with claws that glistened like obsidian blades. Each finger scraped the edge of the tear, peeling reality wider, and a sound followed—a screech, metallic and raw, like the world itself screaming in protest.
And then, the face.
No words could describe the monstrosity that leaned through. Its head was enormous, crowned with four curved horns that jutted forward like the broken gates of hell. Six eyes—three on each side—snapped open at once, burning with a sickly yellow glow. Its jaw hung grotesquely unhinged, filled with rows of teeth like shards of shattered bone.
The air reeked of rot. The wind howled. Children fainted in their mothers' arms.
When it unfurled its wings—massive, black, feathered things that blotted out the stars—humanity understood.
This was no creature.
No animal.
No god.
It was a king.
A Demon King.
And the world had already lost.
The great beast's wings unfurled across the heavens, drowning the world in shadow.
And then—silence.
A gentle thud echoed through a quiet chamber as a book snapped shut.
"All right, children," a soft, melodic voice broke the air. "That's enough for tonight. Time to sleep. We'll continue the story another time."
The woman leaned back in her chair, a vision of grace even in the dim glow of candlelight. Her hair, silken and white as fresh snow, cascaded over her shoulders. Her eyes—crystal blue, sharp yet kind—caught the flicker of the flame like gemstones in water. Unmatched beauty wrapped her every feature, yet there was an undeniable weight to her presence, as though she carried centuries in her gaze.
On the enormous king-sized bed across from her, two children stirred.
They were mirrors of one another, both with the same pale hair and crimson eyes that glowed faintly in the low light. 12 years old, yet already carrying an aura that set them apart from ordinary children. One sat upright, restless energy crackling in his small frame, eyes wide with excitement. The other reclined languidly, expression distant, as if watching the world through a veil no one else could see.
"But mother!" the lively one burst out, bouncing on the mattress. "That's not fair! We have to know what happens next!"
His twin said nothing, only letting out a quiet sigh, gaze drifting toward the window where moonlight spilled across the floor.
The woman smiled faintly, though there was something unreadable in her expression as she placed the book aside.
The energetic child puffed his cheeks, red eyes glowing faintly in the candlelight. "But mother, what if the monster really comes? What if it's not just a story?"
Her smile didn't falter, but her gaze softened in a way that carried both love and sorrow. She reached out, fingers gliding gently through his snowy hair.
"My sweet boy…" she murmured, voice low, melodic, yet heavy with something unspoken. "Who ever told you it was only a story?"
The words pressed down like a weight in the air. Even the quiet twin stirred, his crimson gaze sharpening as though he had always suspected the truth.
The woman rose, her long white hair cascading like a river of silver, the faint light painting her form ethereal. Sitting at the edge of the massive bed, she pulled both children close—one squirming with endless energy, the other staring into nothingness, lost in thought.
"There are truths," she whispered, "that are too dangerous to speak plainly. So we veil them in stories, hoping the world will not notice. But you, my children… you were always meant to know."
The lively boy froze, unease creeping into his expression. The detached one only blinked, his small hand curling into the sheets.
She kissed them each on the forehead, lingering as if to etch the moment into memory. Then she straightened, her silhouette outlined in the dying glow of the candle.
"Now sleep, my children," her voice slipped into something solemn, almost ceremonial. "Tomorrow is a big day for you too. After all… it's the day you awaken your elements."
The flame went out with a soft breath, plunging the room into darkness—save for the faint gleam of two pairs of crimson eyes, glowing in the night.