The first rift opened in Greenland.
It began as a minor aurora anomaly—shifting colours that refused to fade, even under daylight. Scientists initially dismissed it as an electromagnetic aftershock from the Mariana Pulse. But three days later, the sky cracked. The air above Nuuk, the capital, shimmered like a broken mirror, and then something tore through it.
A creature unlike anything in human taxonomy—a writhing blend of obsidian scales, floating appendages, and bioluminescent tendrils—descended from the sky. It didn't land. It hovered, scanning with alien eyes as it emitted clicking frequencies that melted glass. It was the first known visitor from the multiverse.
Before military response could mobilise, it retreated, slipping back into the rift.
Then came the others.
Within a week, twelve more rifts opened: deserts, forests, mountains, oceans, and major cities were touched. Some released creatures—beasts that defied gravity, organisms made of living flame or psychic fog. Others were still, humming with dangerous mana but apparently inactive.
People panicked. Nations imposed curfews. Religions clashed over the meaning of the signs. Doomsday cults began to rise, believing the end of times had arrived.
Then, the skies truly split.
On the thirteenth day, across the Earth's surface, a simultaneous fracture opened in each hemisphere. These weren't simple rifts; they were Gates—massive, stable portals swirling with coloured storm clouds and ancient runes. The air thundered with the roar of otherworldly pressure. The oceans reacted violently, and tectonic plates shifted as if Earth itself braced for what was coming.
From these Gates came the Alliance of the Five Races.
The first to emerge were the Skorathi—winged serpents adorned in silver-armoured scales, their minds linked by a hive telepathy that crushed unprotected human thought. They colonised the sky, carving floating fortresses in the upper stratosphere, held aloft by invisible psychic webs.
Next, the Thal'Nok surged from volcanoes and magma beds, beings of molten stone with ember-forged weapons. They devoured ley lines, choking entire ecosystems of mana as they marched across continents, raising obsidian spires in tribute to their godlike king, Mor-Kathul.
From the shadows came the Veyari—beings born of void and silence. They entered through thin slivers of reality, walking through walls and slitting throats before their presence was even confirmed. Veyari emissaries manipulated media, infiltrated governments, and whispered fear into the ears of power.
In the deserts, the Kershai arrived—semi-crystalline entities with shifting forms of light and illusion. Their intelligence was vast and cruel, their bodies reshaping at will into fractals of madness. They brought no armies, only riddles, dreams, and collapses of logic. Madness spread where they lingered.
Last came the Myrr'zel from the deepest parts of the ocean. Their forms were mercurial, shimmering between aquatic humanoids and multi-limbed leviathans. They brought tsunamis and monsoons, claiming the world's water as their dominion.
Together, they stood atop the food chain.
Humanity, fractured and shocked, faltered. Military forces attempted resistance, but conventional weapons proved useless against creatures immune to physical force, or those who phased through dimensions. Even mana-users—those freshly Awakened—stood little chance. The elemental affinity within them was raw and inexperienced.
That was when Earth responded.
Earth's Will, now fully roused, recognised the planetary threat. Through ancient leylines and mystical nodes, it reached into the collective essence of mankind. From among billions, it chose thirteen.
These individuals came from all walks of life. A disillusioned war veteran. A child dying of disease. A farmer with soil-stained hands. A refugee. A forgotten monk. A scientist on the edge of atheism. A prisoner. A dancer. A teacher. An orphan. A mother. A librarian. And a boy who had never spoken.
Each was touched directly by the Will—not simply Awakened, but Crowned.
Their powers were unlike any before.
They did not simply manipulate elements—they embodied them:
Fire burned with cosmic heat, capable of igniting stars in the palm.
Water was both ocean and memory, bending tides and healing minds.
Wind cut through dimensions.
Earth became sentient stone, an impenetrable fortress.
Lightning seared through time, faster than causality.
Ice slowed entropy itself, freezing fate.
Metal reshaped bones into living weapons.
Light banished illusions and scorched darkness.
Darkness hid entire cities from space.
Gravity collapsed battlefields into singularities.
Storm brought celestial fury, combining wind, lightning, and rain.
Each of the Thirteen held one of these primordial forces. The world called them the Thirteen Pillars.
They didn't lead armies. They were the army.
Their first strike came in the ruins of Paris, where the Kershai were building a logic prism to invert human reality. The Pillars descended as legends. The Fire Pillar walked through energy barriers. The Sound Pillar screamed until dimensions bled. The Earth Pillar halted time in a kilometre radius using sheer mass.
For the first time, the invaders faltered.
Over the next three years, Earth stabilised.
The Pillars established strongholds over each continent, defending rift zones and closing minor portals. With their guidance, humanity learned to wield mana, build defences, and train new generations of Awakeners. Cities were reconstructed around leyline nexuses. Mana academies flourished.
But the Five Races were not idle.
They too evolved, learning human tactics and corrupting lesser Awakeners into dark versions of themselves—called Fractures. These beings retained human shape but had minds overridden by alien consciousness. The war escalated.
Every battle reshaped the planet.
The Sahara became a jungle. Antarctica melted into a tropical sea. The moon cracked. And the Amazon was uplifted into floating biomes, where Nature Pillars nurtured new defensive life.
Then... the stalemate.
The Five Races could not breach the Pillars. The Pillars could not close the Great Gates. Ten years passed in tense equilibrium. Humanity adapted. Fear gave way to routine. Every child born under an active leyline had a chance of Awakening. It became known as the Cycle of Ascension—each third year, the Earth gifted the planet with a new batch of mana-bonded humans.
But something loomed.
The Pillars began to fade. Not in power—but in spirit. Isolation, trauma, and the burden of expectation began to eat away at them. Some went missing. Others fell silent.
And so, Earth's Will began preparing anew.
The story was not ending.
It was just beginning.