Cracks in the Sky
The sky shattered like glass forcefully struck by a god's hand.
In utter silence, pale blue shards scattered, reflecting the glow of a massive silver ring now hanging low in Earth's atmosphere. The phenomenon marked a tangible boundary between the world humanity had always known—and something that was never meant to be revealed. From that day on, the world no longer belonged solely to mankind.
From beneath human skin, creatures began to reveal their true forms.
World Migrants. Voidborn. Descendants. Apostles.
They didn't rise from a long slumber, nor did they crawl out from some new dimension.
They simply stopped hiding.
And the world realized it had been living side by side with something it never truly understood… all along.
The Unreachable Shadow
The moment the sky cracked, the search began.
World governments, secret orders, supernatural organizations—all of them turned their sensors toward a single question:
What triggered all of this?
Where did the rupture begin?
The answer should've been at the one place that had once been the main stage for every major change:
Little Garden.
The world in-between.
The life-system of the Awakeners.
The source of magical items, unnatural power, and unimaginable technology.
But now, it was gone.
No trace. No portals. Not a single detectable signal.
As if it had never existed at all.
Silent Witnesses and Those Who Know
Inside secret chambers of global organizations, Little Garden was still listed as an active reality entity.
But its coordinates—vanished.
Its frequency—silent.
All recovery attempts: failed.
Void-based teleportation systems wouldn't respond.
Dimensional connections were severed.
Even the Apostles could no longer sense its pulse, as if the world itself had been locked… by something outside the laws of creation.
But six people still held the key to that place.
They didn't speak.
Made no claims.
Neither denied nor defended.
Arven. Syrra. Lorrick. Veyra. Nolien.
And one figure above them all:
Kaelen Virelith.
Now known by a single title:
The Empress.
Whispers Among Entities
In a secret gathering among the ruins of an ancient tower, an old Voidborn leaned on a staff made of black crystal. His fog-like eyes gazed up at the fractured sky.
"That garden… I once saw it. In dreams. In fragments of the past."
"And now… even in illusions, it no longer appears."
Some Descendants began to question.
Some Apostles dug through relics of forgotten eras, searching for traces of the one who rewrote creation.
One World Migrant fragment activated a sacred search protocol.
But they all reached a conclusion none of them could change:
"Little Garden isn't lost," the Voidborn whispered.
"It's being controlled. Hidden. By a new creator."
Yet to the outside world, Little Garden was nothing more than a myth.
A mass trauma.
A lingering nightmare from an age of ruin.
A collective illusion, explained away with theories and superstition.
Behind the Veil
Somewhere unreachable by dimension or thought, beyond layers of reality, a girl stood on a mirrored lake that reflected not the sky—but the beginning of a new world.
The Empress wore an obsidian gown layered with Valkyrie Set armor, her hair flowing with the shimmer of starlight, and in her eyes… only the cold calm of a ruler who no longer cared for humanity's fate.
Before her floated an impossible geometric structure—cubes bound by roots, spirals of light, interwoven dimensions moving like the inner gears of a celestial clock.
The Myriad Miniature Garden.
An inheritance from a world shattered by the war of gods.
The true form of what was once known as Little Garden.
The Empress stared at her perfect creation.
A world no longer a playground for gods.
No longer a tool.
No longer anyone's property.
She lowered her gaze, then whispered to the world—as if it could hear her:
"You're not theirs anymore."
"You belong to me now."
While the world scrambled to find what could no longer be found, The Last Six moved in silence.
The Myriad Miniature Garden wasn't used for glory—nor for domination.
It became a catalyst.
A hidden space where the old system was broken down and reforged into new power.
Within it, magical resources that were otherwise inaccessible to the outside world were multiplied, replanted, and restructured into weapons.
They didn't open a gate to the world.
They built a fortress beyond the world's reach.
Elsewhere, several supernatural intelligence organizations began identifying a recurring pattern.
Vanished magic transmissions.
Locations that had gone dimensionally silent.
One name—The Empress—began circulating again.
Not as urban legend this time, but as a possibility:
A Transcendent.
A being with direct access to realities beyond reason.
An entity who may have re-sealed Little Garden for reasons no one could comprehend.
And as whispers turned into thunder, new factions of truth-seekers emerged.
They called themselves the Chrono-Knights, the Liberators, the Seekers of the First Garden—different names, but all pursuing the same thing:
To uncover the truth about Little Garden.
To find The Empress.
Some wanted to destroy her.
Some wished to plead with her.
And some simply wanted to know… who had taken the world from the hands of the gods.
And that question now echoed—
Not just among humans.
But among the Voidborn.
The Apostles.
The entities who once believed they were the world's final rulers.
The Council of the Awakened
The structure stood silent at the heart of Evernight's Neutral Zone—a rounded dome of ancient obsidian, defying time and refusing entry to any light that lacked permission.
Within it, seven nameless seats were occupied by beings whose existence could not be denied by anyone still living.
They hadn't come at the call of power.
They weren't appointed by title or sworn in by oath.
They were here for one reason: power.
The world called them the Council of the Awakened.
Not a faction. Not an alliance.
But the remnants of a storm that failed to destroy them.
They weren't chosen.
They endured.
And that alone was enough to earn them a seat at this table.
Today, they didn't gather to debate territory, resources, or inter-faction conflicts.
Not to weigh dominance over magic or technology.
Today's topic was something older than the world itself.
Darker than any ruin.
"The gate between worlds has opened… and the Envoys from the Kingdom of Nythera appeared without warning."
Leiron Mett's voice cut through the silence, calm yet sharp—like a data-blade slicing through the veins of reality.
"They came bearing neither peace…
Nor an outright threat.
But they brought a map. A map of a world we've never seen—
and are not yet ready to understand."
Seven figures, seven that history had failed to erase:
Althea Marwen — the Arc-Witch. Heir to raw magic from the east, where wild resonance cannot be contained.Raelwyn Croft — the Executioner. Keeper of the law's edge, drawing the line between the old world and the post-collapse order.Leiron Mett — Neural-Net Commander. Master of strategy and networks, decoding inter-regional signals and danger grids.Riven Duskfall — the Independent Shade. No faction. No master. Just information—and whispers.Serena Valquar — the Ruin Healer. She calms conflict, but is not blind to the spark of war.Talon Nightshade — Hunter of Foreign Entities. Eyes that trace the world through the fog, marking presences that should not exist.Mira Solenrai — Pyromancer. Flame at the frontlines, commander of forces when fractured-dimension dungeons began to surge.
Some among them were survivors—living witnesses of the First Collapse.
Others were products of a changed world,
born as defense mechanisms—souls strengthened by the World Will,
when external entities tried to tear the world's framework apart.
Now they listened.
Report after report.
Of inhuman creatures living in disguise.
Of rifts between realities torn open by Nythera's hand.
Of ancient entities calling themselves Transcendents—or older still: the Archaic.
They did not abide by the laws of magic, physics, or any known dimension.
Mira smirked.
"A map? Or bait?"
Raelwyn responded with an icy stare.
"Enough. Even suspicion needs a foundation."
Leiron spoke again.
His voice now void of anything human.
"If Nythera has opened the gate...
Then this isn't a visit.
It's a measurement—of a battlefield."
The Council of the Awakened didn't issue decrees.
They gave no orders.
They only took note,
watched,
and quietly began mustering strength from the shadows.
Because the world had never truly known peace.
And for the first time…
the threat did not come from among mankind.
Fracture on the Throne of Nythera
Far from the clamor of the lower world, at the peak of a tower in the now half-abandoned Palace of Nythera, three voices still echoed in the throne room.
What remained of the kingdom that once dictated the rhythm of the world's magic was now whispered by a King without a crown, a Knight without an army, and a Princess with no people left to rule—but with a vision her father never possessed.
Outside, the world had changed.
Inside, the truth was buried.
"The old clans…" the King murmured, his eyes fixed on the noble emblems hanging from the walls.
"It's been a long time since they've truly bowed to this throne."
"But they still follow orders—or at least pretend to," the Knight replied.
"Because they believe the Hidden Household still watches from the shadows."
"And that's a lie we created ourselves," the Princess said coldly.
"They never existed. We invented them out of fear—so that collapse would feel slower."
Silence fell again after the admission.
They knew.
In this new world, power was no longer inherited.
It was seized, measured, and retested.
The four great factions that now ruled Nythera—Virellia, Krayenholt, Vernwald, and Myrren—had become kingdoms within a kingdom.
They controlled magic. Armies. Public opinion.
The royal family had become little more than a relic, moved by rumor and memory.
"All this time, they believed the Hidden Household was guiding them from afar," said the Knight.
"But what they believed in… was only a shadow. We fed the lie. And now, that lie is coming to devour us."
The Princess rose.
The formal cloak hung from her shoulders—worn again after so long. Not for ceremony, but as a declaration of direction.
"We can't keep looking to the past."
"We turn our eyes to another world."
"To Earth."
"Because there… a new history is being written."
"Transcendent-level conflict," the Knight added.
"This isn't some squabble between Awakener guilds.
This is war—even the gods once avoided."
Silence returned—but this time, not from despair.
This time, there was direction. There was a crack in the veil.
And in a collapsing world, even a lie could be a foothold—as long as they moved faster than the truth.
"Send an observer," the King ordered, his voice finally settling into something that resembled resolve.
"If we can't hold the throne here...
then we'll seek it—elsewhere."