Chapter 1 : The Fracture

  The wind howled high in the mountains, wrapping around the pine trees like the whispered breath of ghosts. A lone hiker trudged through the dense forest, his camera slung over his shoulder, boots crunching against loose gravel. He stopped, blinking. There, in a clearing between the trees, the air shimmered, a subtle distortion that intensified into a rippling fracture, as if the very fabric of the world was being pulled apart. A faint, almost inaudible hum vibrated in the air.

  No explosion. No warning.

  One moment, the world spun safely inside its invisible shell. The next, the shell cracked—and broke apart like brittle glass under a titan’s boot.

  A tall, vaguely humanoid figure stepped into existence, cloaked in deep purple robes gilded with gold. His presence was a cold breath on the skin, unnoticed until it was too close. The Guide had arrived.

  Or so he called himself.

  He floated over jagged mountain ranges and endless oceans, hands tucked behind his back, humming a tuneless song.

  When he finally spoke, it was less a sound and more a vibration that pressed against the bones of the world. “Hm. Fragile creatures.” His voice was laced with boredom.

  He drifted past a hiking trail where a lone man stood frozen, his face a mask of stunned horror, eyes wide with disbelief. A faint ripple emanated from the Guide’s sleeve as he flicked his wrist, washing over the hiker like an unseen wave.

  The hiker remained rigid, his mouth a silent scream. The Guide’s hand, adorned with rings of dull gold, moved with a languid grace. “Memory wipe, I suppose. Standard protocol,” he muttered, his tone utterly devoid of interest.

  A pulse of pale light bloomed before his outstretched finger and struck the hiker’s forehead. The man’s eyes rolled back, leaving them vacant, and he crumpled to the earth.

  “Wait—” The Guide’s brow furrowed, a flicker of something akin to surprise. He observed the still body. “Oops. That might’ve been too much. Hm. They may be weaker than expected,” he added with a sigh, turning his back on the unmoving form. “Oh well.”

  Behind him, the rift pulsed, its edges now writhing. The first of the invaders clawed at the edges of reality, desperate to pour through.

  Tch Tch Tch.

  Now Now. Not now. Not yet.

  He turned toward the sky. Cracks, almost invisible to the naked eye, webbed the atmosphere. The barrier had lasted eons, a passive but powerful seal cast long ago. But time had eroded its strength. There was no great cataclysm, no villainous plot — only decay. And now, it had failed.

  The Guide raised a hand. "Let’s not bring the entire carnival in all at once. Waves. Rules." He paused, considering. “Or maybe just easier on them. Who knows.”

  He hovered a moment longer, his robe catching the light in strands of gold. Then, almost as an afterthought, he sighed again. “And less paperwork.”

  Elsewhere, in a moving train headed to the city, Conner leaned against the window, the rhythmic rattle of the tracks a dull counterpoint to the anxious knot tightening in his stomach. A nervous tremor ran through his calloused hands as he gripped the worn strap of his backpack, the roughness a testament to months of labor. The dry air of the train did little to ease the tension in his throat.

  He stared out at the endless gray buildings blurring past, punctuated by the occasional splash of tired green. His nerves were already frayed by the looming job interview, and the grim news reports flickering silently on the overhead screens only amplified his unease. A faint scent of stale air and distant exhaust hung in the carriage.

  He noticed a child sitting nearby, engrossed in a worn, secondhand manga volume. The cover, though faded, still pulsed with vibrant colors depicting swords, dragons, and radiant heroes. The child’s gaze remained fixed on the page, lingering on each panel.

  Conner liked stories like these – simple escapes. Sometimes, he felt adrift, not just in this crowded train, but in a world that seemed to demand a kind of ambition he didn’t possess. Try harder. Stand out more. The words echoed in his memory. But he didn’t want that kind of spotlight. Still, he tried, because the belief in the eyes of his family weighed gently upon him.

  The train hissed to a stop. He stood, slinging his modest backpack over his shoulder, the faint, clean smell of detergent a small comfort. He took a deep breath and stepped onto the platform.

  Waiting for him was Jane, his cousin — a burst of bubbly energy with bright eyes and an exaggerated wave. “You’re finally here!” she grinned. “Come on, let’s go! Mom’s been cooking for hours, and Dad’s taking the day off just for you!”

  They navigated the city’s crowded veins — the rumble of the packed subway, the hurried flow of crosswalks, the insistent blink of neon signs. Eventually, they arrived at a modest apartment nestled in a quiet lane, a haven of warmth emanating from within.

  The rich aroma of home-cooked food drifted from the kitchen, where his aunt Cathy, sleeves rolled up, stirred a pot with practiced care. She looked up, her smile radiant. “There you are! Sit, sit! I made your favorite — you'll need plenty of energy for today wont you!”

  His uncle, Rick — a sharp but kind-eyed man in a crisp shirt with rolled sleeves, his hands bearing faint smudges of mechanical grease — emerged from a small home office. “The production line doesn't stop for anyone,” he said with a familiar smirk, “but I made some time today.”

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  They were busy people, their lives a constant juggle of projects and deadlines. Yet, for him, they carved out time. They always did, even when Conner felt he didn’t quite deserve it.

  They ate together, the air filled with laughter, gentle advice, and soft chatter. His grandmother, Grace, offered comforting anecdotes for his interview, her hand occasionally nudging him to eat more. Jane, with a playful grin, kept stealing bites from his plate.

  After dinner, as Conner stood by the door, awkwardly adjusting his tie in the mirror, his cousin appeared. “Don’t forget this!” Jane chirped, pressing a cold juice bottle against his cheek.

  “Gah! What the Hell!”

  She laughed. “Keeps you awake. Your favorite flavor too. Good luck!”

  Conner smiled, a little flustered. The tie still felt slightly askew. His uncle appeared behind him, his reflection joining Conner’s in the glass. “Here,” Rick said, gently adjusting the knot. “You don’t have to act like someone you’re not. Just show them who you are. That’s good enough.”

  Conner nodded, a nervous grin touching his lips. “Thanks.”

  Conner stared at the imposing forty-story building, a wave of overwhelm washing over him.

  Thump! A figure hurried past, shoulder-checking Conner, offering a brief, nauseated glare before continuing on.

  “Haha, my bad,” Conner mumbled an awkward apology, but the man had already disappeared through the revolving doors, seemingly oblivious to his existence.

  “Hey, I’m here for the interview,” Conner announced to the reception desk.

  The woman on the phone gave him a slow, appraising stare, her expression sour. With a dismissive scoff, she gestured toward the hallway. “Right through the door on the left.”

  Despite his confident answers and best efforts, a familiar sinking feeling settled in Conner’s gut as he walked out of the office building. The polite but undeniably disinterested look in their eyes spoke volumes. He wouldn’t get a call back.

  Disappointment weighed heavily on his shoulders as Conner wandered the streets. Then, a sudden cacophony – car alarms blaring in unison, their shrill cries echoing through the district. Just as abruptly, silence fell.

  BOOM.

  A shockwave rippled through the air, hitting him like a physical blow. He stumbled, grabbing a nearby wall for balance, his breath catching in his throat as he peered around the corner.

  In the middle of the street, a swirling vortex of darkness churned mid-air, tendrils of shadow spiraling outward in chaotic bursts. It twisted like a tear in reality itself, and a wave of putrid stench, like overturned graves, rolled outwards.

  A woman from a nearby house, muttering about the noise, stepped onto her porch, curiosity overriding caution. She inched closer to the swirling darkness.

  “Wait! Don’t!” Conner shouted, his voice cracking with urgency.

  Too late.

  She reached out, her hand disappearing into the blackness—and was blasted backward, her body hitting the pavement with a sickening thud.

  He ran to help, but froze.

  A crude, jagged dagger jutted from her skull, a dark stain blooming on the concrete beneath her head.

  His stomach lurched. He stumbled back, a wave of nausea washing over him. Then, a scream – sharp, piercing, close by.

  THWACK.

  Something slammed into his back.

  He collapsed, a jolt of pain shooting up his spine. His backpack absorbed most of the impact, but the sickening crunch of his laptop echoed in his ears.

  He turned over. A group of skeletal figures, cloaked in rusted black armor, stepped from the now-widened portal. Their movements were jerky and unnatural, like marionettes controlled by unseen strings. Faint red light glowed in their empty eye sockets. Swords. Maces. Bows.

  Screams erupted across the neighborhood, followed by the sharp cracks of gunfire.

  The knights turned their attention towards the sounds.

  He ran.

  Through narrow alleys choked with overflowing bins, over crumbling brick fences, into the skeletal frame of a half-finished construction site. Screams pursued him, mingling with the acrid smell of smoke and the distant flicker of flames.

  Screams echoed behind him, closer now.

  And then—the cloying stench intensified: metal, burnt ash, and the thick, sickening sweetness of blood. It clung to him, coating his tongue, filling his lungs with a suffocating weight.

  He turned a corner—and collided with a wave of panicked people fleeing in the opposite direction.

  The twang of a bowstring being drawn taut sliced through the chaos.

  Three tall figures with bows, clad in the same rusted black armor, their red eyes gleaming, appeared at the end of the alley.

  "NO!"

  Too late.

  Arrows whistled through the air.

  The fleeing figures slammed into him, their collapsing bodies knocking him to the ground.

  Conner froze beneath the sudden weight, the air forced from his lungs.

  The coppery stench of blood soaked into his clothes, a warm, unsettling wetness spreading across his back.

  He didn't dare breathe.

  Drops of blood plinked onto his face, warm and viscous.

  He could hear them – the knights. Heavy, clanking bootsteps passed inches from his face, their unnatural gait carrying them over the fallen.

  Conner held his breath, every muscle rigid. One wrong twitch and he’d join the silent heap.

  The rain began, a cold, prickly drizzle that plastered his hair to his forehead and washed away the grime and blood on his face. His heart hammered against his ribs.

  With trembling hands, Conner pushed the bodies aside and scrambled out of the pile. Blood trickled down his cheek.

  He clutched at his shirt, his fingers brushing against the silk of his still-knotted tie. The image of his uncle Rick’s gentle adjustment flashed in his mind, followed by Jane’s bright laughter and the cold press of the juice bottle against his cheek.

  He gasped, fighting for breath.

  Awareness of his surroundings sharpened. A primal understanding of what needed to be done surged through him.

  He had to get up.

  He had to get back home.

  Stumbling, he began to run again, his legs heavy and unresponsive. He cut through the muddy chaos of the construction site. Then, a piercing scream ripped through the air.

  He stopped abruptly, heart leaping into his throat, and ducked behind a stack of unevenly piled lumber.

  A mother and daughter stumbled into view, huddled against a crumbling brick wall, their faces streaked with dirt and tears. The mother’s eyes locked onto his hiding place, a silent plea etched in their depths.

  “Please! Help us!”

  Conner froze, a cold dread gripping him.

  They reminded him of the past, of his own mother’s desperate fear.

  He wanted to help – needed to. His mind screamed for him to move, his legs urged to action. But a deeper, more visceral instinct held him rooted. He knew, with a sickening certainty, that he was helpless. Paralyzed by a terror that stole his will.

  He clenched his fists, teeth grinding against each other. He looked away, unable to bear their desperate gaze.

  CLUNK.

  A brutal swing.

  The heavy mace shattered against the mother’s skull with a sickening crunch.

  The daughter screamed, a raw, animalistic sound, and lunged towards her fallen mother. She didn’t even see the blade that pierced her small chest from behind.

  Thud.

  Silence descended, heavy and absolute.

  Conner slumped to the ground behind the lumber pile, his body shaking uncontrollably. Blood and rain mingled into a muddy slurry beneath him.

  He could still hear the phantom sounds of steel piercing flesh, the dull thud of bodies hitting the ground.

  He crumbled, his hands flying to his face in a futile attempt to block out the horror.

  When the heavy footsteps finally faded, leaving an echoing silence, he pushed himself to his feet.

  He turned to look – but stopped halfway, his body refusing to obey.

  He didn’t want to see that sight. He couldn't.

  He ran. Faster this time. Driven by a desperate need to reach the familiar, the safe. Toward his family. Towards his home.

  The first wave had begun.