How do you see the world?
Is it a place of endless possibility, where you can rise to greater heights through business, power, or fame?
Or do you see it as a landfill of broken dreams, where people are born at the bottom and stay there?
Your idea of the world might be different from mine. Different from anyone else's.
But ideas change.
And it all changed the day the world shattered.
Planes fell from the sky, plummeting toward the earth with terrifying force. Buildings collapsed inward, glass and steel turning into storms of razors that tore through streets and bodies alike. Wildlife suffered just as brutally. Forests burned. Oceans boiled in places. Entire ecosystems were erased in moments.
The world as people knew it was breaking.
People ran. Prayed. Begged for something to stop the madness.
Nothing answered.
And the worst was still coming.
Investigations revealed that these weren't random disasters. They weren't natural phenomena. They were fractures. Space-time itself was splitting apart.
Reality was cracking.
Something was trying to break into our world.
And then it did.
The day the sky folded inward.
The firmament shifted. The air went still. No wind moved. No clouds drifted. The sky froze like a held breath.
And then it screamed.
A sound tore across the planet, a hellish shriek that seemed to rip through bone and marrow. The sky split open, peeled back like flesh.
And through the wound, they came.
A deep, bruised crimson glow spilled across the earth like an endless sunset that never faded. There was no visible sun in their homeland. Instead, faint red fissures drifted across their sky like glowing scars.
And then she stepped forward.
At first glance, she looked human.
But only at first glance.
Her skin was smooth, a light obsidian tone that seemed almost polished. Beneath the surface, faint crimson veins traced delicate patterns along her arms, collarbone, and neck. The red light pulsed steadily, slow and calm, like a patient heartbeat.
Her hair fell past her shoulders in thick, straight strands the color of ink. Under certain light, subtle red threads shimmered through it like embers trapped in shadow.
Her face was nearly symmetrical.
Beautiful.
Too symmetrical.
Defined cheekbones. Smooth jawline. Precise features that felt crafted rather than born.
Her lips were dark, almost black. Her teeth looked normal—until the light caught them. The edges were slightly sharper than they should have been. Not animal fangs. Not monstrous. Just refined to a quiet, surgical point.
Her eyes were impossible to ignore.
The sclera were not white but deep charcoal gray. Her irises glowed a muted crimson, and at their center rested a thin vertical pupil, like a slit carved into light itself.
When she stepped fully into our world, the air felt heavier.
She declared herself the Ninth Child of the Red Matron, Mother of All Noxari.
A being she described as all-powerful. All-knowing. Kind. Gentle. Benevolent.
According to her, the Noxari saw promise in humanity. Potential. They wished to guide us. To take control and lead us toward a better path.
To fix us.
Humanity refused.
It was never in our nature to submit.
Cause met effect.
War followed.
A pitiful one.
The Noxari outnumbered humanity. They wielded powers beyond comprehension. They bent gravity as if it were cloth. They summoned entities that defied logic. They created explosions that erased entire cities from existence.
Hope flickered.
And nearly died.
Until they came.
Eleven gods.
They chose humanity.
No one knows why.
These gods bestowed strange powers upon humans—powers that rivaled the Noxari. Contracts were formed. Strength was awakened. Humanity pushed back against the tyranny.
And against all odds, humanity survived.
Victorious… for a time.
The Noxari did not retreat fully. They did not surrender.
They adapted.
And so began what history now calls the Endless War.
Two hundred and thirty-seven years have passed since the sky first screamed.
Humanity evolved.
Skyscrapers now pierce the upper atmosphere. Cities run perpetually without decay. Diseases that once wiped out millions have been cured. Energy flows endlessly. Technology and divine power intertwine seamlessly.
The gods have never left.
They watch.
They guide.
They protect.
Or so we are told.
But I ask you again:
How do you see the world?
Is it full of possibility?
Or is it broken beyond repair?
Because it isn't all sunshine and comfort.
And if you think it is, I pity you.
The world is what you make it.
So go out and shape it.
Before someone with different ideals shapes it for you.
Hold that thought.
Because what you choose to do next…
Might start the plot.