The land peeled open, the sky was torn asunder, and everything we thought was myth came crawling out. The Earth itself began to stretch, expanding far beyond its known boundaries.
Old machines failed to pierce the veiling barriers that marked Earth's growth. Satellites flickered to static. Once-pristine instruments failed one after another, and scientists whispered of a world now a hundred times its former size, perhaps even more.
That day, all the major space stations sent out their dying signals, silent flares of desperation from men and women who would never see home again. No goodbyes, nor any last words. Just a flicker of light against the void before they were erased from existence.
But with their efforts, our technological devices lit up one last time.
One message, a call to arms for any abled body who could stand.
Code Black.
That's what they called it.
There was nowhere to evacuate, it was a collective effort to resist the imminent threat.
Within a few minutes, rusted atomic bombs to next-gen graviton raced out from silos, submarines, and military bases. Even weapons still locked in prototype vaults were thrown with abandon.
The world burned for three days, and no voice rose in protest. Not against the fallout, not against the fire. To humanity, the searing heat felt like warmth, a sacred warmth, a proof that mankind had endured.
But it was only the beginning of the end.
With powers beyond nature and bodies immune to deadly radiation, they moved through the destruction like it was a mere breeze. Their barriers shimmered, unbroken even by atomic scorch.
The Day of False Hope.
All that mankind had built, every instrument we trusted for millennia, failed us in the end.
When the final laser sputtered and burned through its reserves, the world fell into chaos. They came from every direction, some looked benevolent, some monstrous, others even looked exactly like us.
Those with any combat skill formed their own factions and turned to guerilla warfare. We fought for our homes, our streets, our own.
Veteran soldiers strapped explosives to their decaying bodies. As they disintegrated in the embers of war, most of them died with a smile still on their faces.
In their final moments, they believed their sacrifice would shape a future.
A future paved in gore, cinders, and the will of humankind to live.
From their dusty, cold hands, we pry away what gives them their power.
Cultivation manuals, mana arts, life force manipulation, the secrets that once made them gods in mortal eyes.
We lacked everything they were born with. No meridians like of the cultivators, nor cores like the titans or the giants. Expecting crystalline minds like demons and the divine was nothing more than mere fantasy.
However, inside every man and woman was a remnant.
A spark, a forgotten power we once had. That spark gave us just enough strength to hold energy. A bare minimum, but enough to grow into something greater.
Nucleus, a dreg of a core within every cell. Nervous system, twisted yet unmistakably shaped like meridians.
Crippled, yes. But capable of circulating energy throughout our bodies. And to fight? It was more than enough.
Scientists experimented on themselves, gritting through agonizing mutation, dissecting themselves with wide focused eyes. They didn't shed a tear as they were getting a glimpse on the second coming of mankind.
The second light we have discovered through all the trial and error. From the scraps of countless power systems and lives lost, we forged a path of our own.
Magicules.
The unfortunate thing is that time waited for no one.
Mankind had been reduced to just a few million, most of us sacrificed to fuel the enemy's cursed relics and power-hungry artifacts.
Some sold themselves as slaves, vowing eternal service to the master of the land.
With the last of us surviving through with only scraps and spittle in our throats, we were held together by one thing in our hearts.
A burning vengeance.
While the gods, demons, giants, titans, and immortals wage their war with one another. In these war zones and ruined landscapes devoid of resources, we built our first settlements.
To the eyes of these powerful beings they were small, unassuming and unimportant. But beneath it all, massive constructions were underway.
Megacities forged not for survival, but for retaliation.
Within a millennium, even humanity began to forget the once green planet they called Earth, speaking only of Fracturion as if the old world had never existed.
The only thing they have not forgotten is the inferno of retribution burning in their hearts.
And now, they will answer with wrath.
Slaves of a hundred generations, who mapped whole continents in chains, now bared their fangs at their so-called masters. From the earth, siege weapons rose, their cannons blazing with the fury of mankind.
The second coming of man had arrived.
Led by Alformann, the greatest Archmagus to ever wield magic, under his command, we surged across the broken earth to reclaim the land that was always ours by right.
Towering fortresses, each rising kilometers into the sky, advanced with us. These walking bastions of steel protected the men who wielded magicules strong enough to turn enemies into dust.
"From dust we came, from dust we shall rise again!"
With our sonorous voices echoing as we marched, cultivation sects, demonic armies, and giant hordes rose to stop us. But their fractured greed was no match for our unity.
Within seven days, the magicians crossed the land from east to west, liberating every human they could along the way.
In the end, we claimed what was rightfully ours. A fragment of land in this shattered Earth.
Alformann stepped out of the Fortress and knelt, clutching the soil beneath his boots as though he were holding the most precious thing in the world.
"From dust we rose, through fire we marched, and by unity we endured."
Afterward, alongside the six other Archmagus, they formed the Trifecta. A unified front for all of mankind that stood for three ideals that defined unity, progress and freedom.
While this tale found its close, a thousand more branched out from this seed of change.
Cain looked up, his jaw trembling, but his eyes held firm.
"Is the war over?"
Arthur chuckled, his gaze distant but kind.
"We're still answering that, boy."
Cain leaned into his chest. His wide eyes searched for something more.
"Another story, Grandpa!"
"That's enough stories for tonight young man. Sleep early, you've got lessons with your Aunt Roberta tomorrow."
Cain pouted but nodded, dragging his feet as he stood.
"Good night, Grandpa."
"Night, kid."
Arthur watched him disappear into the corridor.
Far above the scarred land, the two had been sitting atop a moving fortress.
A war colossus that cut across the broken world.
The seventh generation of its kind.
And maybe, Arthur hoped, the last.
He turned his gaze to the horizon, war still flickering in distant clouds.
'A thousand years of blood, steel, and sacrifice.'
"Too long. Far too long."
He clenched his fist, almost wishing just this once.
That this will all end in peace.