"THE FIRST TREMOR"
Fusion remembers.
Not in years.
Not in numbers.
It remembers in erosion.
Stone cracked by heat that no longer burns. Moss threading itself into places fire once ruled. Winds that once screamed now pass in long, patient breaths, carrying pollen from plants that learned how to survive without asking permission.
The temple stands where it always has.
Half-buried in red sand and obsidian dust, its geometry softened by centuries of neglect. Columns lean. Steps have sunk unevenly. Ancient stone bears hairline fractures filled with faint bioluminescence—life adapting to architecture meant for something older than memory.
Three colors move through the ruin.
Red heat-winds roll low along the ground, stirring the sharp-edged cactus growth that clusters near the base of the structure. Their bodies are thick and angular, their surfaces glassy, edged like blades. Small red flowers bloom along their spines, glowing softly as they release petals into the current, letting the wind decide where they belong.
Blue currents drift higher, cooler, slower—passing through broken arches and collapsed ceilings as if the stone were only a suggestion.
And beneath it all, purple lingers.
Not flowing.
Watching.
At the heart of the temple, on a slab of ancient stone worn smooth by time, lies a man.
He is motionless.
Broad-shouldered. Muscular. Built not for display, but for repetition. His skin is unmarked by age, but his hair tells the truth—long, black, streaked faintly with red, blue, and violet where light catches it. It spills over the edge of the slab, lifting slightly as the solar winds pass, then settling again.
He wears no shirt.
Fur bracers wrap his forearms, scorched and matted, the leather beneath burned but intact. His pants are heavy hide and worn cloth, reinforced in places that have taken impact more than once. Around his waist hangs a ceremonial loincloth, its fabric ancient and intact in a way the rest of him is not.
Symbols are stitched into it.
They glow neon orange.
Their meaning is older than language.
Beneath his skin, faint veins hold the same light—embers waiting for instruction.
The winds stop.
Not gradually.
All at once.
The red heat-winds die first. Petals fall straight down instead of drifting. The cactus plants shiver, then still. Blue currents hesitate midair, as if uncertain whether they are allowed to continue.
Even the purple presence recoils slightly.
Then—
Threads appear.
Thin. Blue. Precise.
They spiral upward from nothing, weaving themselves into form with deliberate care. A figure assembles where moments ago there was only empty space: tall, robed, shoulders slightly stooped with age. His hair is gray, pulled back simply. His face bears lines not from stress, but from time spent watching consequences unfold.
The threads respond to his hands as if they are extensions of thought.
He steps beside the slab.
Places two fingers lightly over the man's chest.
Nothing happens.
Then, quietly:
"Fusion asks for you," the robed figure says.
"You must awaken."
The threads sink inward.
The man's fingers twitch.
Neon orange ignites beneath his skin—first faint, then brighter, racing through veins like molten glass finding old channels. His chest rises sharply as breath returns to lungs unused to it.
His eyes snap open.
They glow.
Orange, edged faintly with red and blue, unfocused for a fraction of a second as the world rushes back into place.
He exhales hard and sits up in one smooth motion, muscles coiling without hesitation. He rolls his shoulders, stretches one arm across his chest, then the other—movements practiced, efficient, ritualized.
His gaze locks onto the robed figure.
"What's my target?"
No confusion.
No fear.
No hesitation.
The robed man does not answer immediately.
"Not a target this time," he says at last. "You're needed to assist a Seraphim."
The man—Allium—finishes his stretch and steps off the slab. The ground beneath his bare feet warms slightly as he moves.
"Nexon?" he asks, already turning toward the temple's open edge.
"Yes."
Allium pauses.
Purple energy coils faintly along the distant horizon, agitated. Even from here, it feels wrong—restless, uneven.
"Nexon's upset," Allium says. "The ley's swinging wide. Pain, not decay."
He slides one arm briefly through the colored flows lingering in the air. Red welcomes him. Blue steadies. Purple recoils, its motion sharp and irritated.
"You said a Seraphim," he continues. "What's it doing outside the fissures?"
The robed man lifts one hand.
Silence settles again.
"The Seraphim's name is Rose," he says. "She isn't like the others. She has never fed."
Allium turns fully now.
"That's impossible," he says flatly. "They die if they don't consume."
"And yet," the robed man replies, "she lives."
For the first time, something flickers behind Allium's eyes.
Not doubt.
Interest.
"Why?"
The robed man's fingers flex, threads tightening slightly.
"Feel her," he says. "Assist her. I'll answer what I can, when I can."
Allium's jaw sets.
He steps forward.
Then the world breaks around him.
His movement is not a sprint—it is a decision carried out faster than sound. Wind tears backward, dust flaring and scrambling to escape his path. The temple vanishes behind him in a blur of orange and heat.
He crosses open sands in heartbeats.
Purple thickens ahead, rising into a dense canopy of warped growth. Jungle-like foliage twists upward, leaves broad and dark, veins glowing faintly violet. The ground grows uneven, alive in a way that feels defensive.
And above it all—
The Tree.
Massive. Neon purple. Its trunk wider than any structure humans ever built, its branches piercing cloud layers and sky alike. Energy pours from it in slow, pulsing waves, each one uneven, strained.
Nexon's heart.
Allium slows as he approaches.
Not because he must.
Because he chooses to.
A figure waits near the edge of the corruption, frost and pain coiled tightly together, resisting collapse by sheer refusal.
Allium watches her.
Then he moves.
Behind him, far away, the temple exhales.
Time shifts.
And Fusion notices.
END EPISODE 1 — "THE FIRST TREMOR"