> In the black stillness before dawn, the world held its breath.
Far out in the Pacific Ocean—where the water should have been endless blue—a crimson stain spread across the waves. Not blood, not oil… something older. Deeper. The sea churned and turned red like wine, thick and glowing with a dull, hellish light.
Above, the sky groaned. Not thunder. Not wind. It was the sound of something massive bending—a sound that didn't belong to the Earth at all.
Then came the light.
A rip split the sky from horizon to horizon, like a wound torn through the heavens. From it descended beings—shimmering silhouettes in robes of white and gold, their forms human in shape but too tall, too perfect. Their wings unfolded in silence, glowing softly as they floated over the burning sea. Their eyes pulsed like miniature suns, and where they looked, the water boiled.
On the surface of the blood-red ocean, a different fleet emerged. Ships—not made of steel or carbon, but of blackened, bone-like wood—cut through the waves like predators. Red sails billowed with no wind. At the helm of each vessel stood figures cloaked in shadow and fire, their armor carved with demonic runes. Their horns curled back like ivory crowns, their skin pale as moonlight, and their presence shook the very air.
The angels and the demons.
They met above the Pacific, not in battle, but in acknowledgment—two ancient powers who had waited eons to return. And in the skies above them, glowing fissures began to appear… spreading across the globe.
London's sky fractured.
New York blinked into twilight at midday.
The Sahara trembled, as stone towers rose from beneath the sand.
All around the world, places that once belonged to myth returned as reality.
This was The Merge.
And humanity?
We weren't ready.
world lost its voice.
Phones stopped working. Satellites blinked out of orbit. Radio silence swept across continents like a second wave. No one could explain what had happened—only that it had happened everywhere.
Governments scrambled.
In Washington, generals screamed into dead microphones.
In Tokyo, emergency sirens wailed through abandoned districts as citizens watched glowing trees erupt through pavement.
In Johannesburg, a monument cracked open to reveal a stairway that descended into flame.
Entire cities vanished. Not destroyed—just gone. Erased like chalk from a board.
In their place stood forests that whispered, mountains that moved, and ruins that hadn't been seen since the days of myth.
Across the internet, a single phrase spread like wildfire:
"This isn't magic returning… it never left."
Meanwhile, somewhere along the South African coast, a boy sat atop an abandoned tank, a sniper rifle across his lap.
He didn't panic. He didn't pray.
He just waited.
"Guess it's finally our turn," Karl Francis muttered, tilting his head toward the distant sky—where three glowing rifts pulsed like angry stars.
"You say that like it's a good thing," came a low voice behind him.
Ilisha stepped into view, her boots crunching over fractured stone, twin daggers holstered against her hips.
"It is," Karl said, smirking without looking at her. "The world's gone to hell. That means the old rules are dead."
"And what? You think we get to write the new ones?"
"No," he said, standing. "I think we already are."
The first sound to return was the wind.
It came in low gusts, brushing across the coast where Karl and Ilisha stood like silent statues atop their tank. The scent of ozone and ash clung to the air. Strange birds circled above—too big, too quiet—and a second moon hung faintly in the sky, pale and cracked.
Ilisha scanned the distance. Her instincts screamed that something was coming, but the world was too still, like a chessboard waiting for the first move.
"It's not just a merge," she said finally. "It's a rewrite."
Karl slid a fresh mag into his rifle. "Whatever it is, they picked the wrong planet."
Down the hill, what remained of the 9th Recon Unit had gathered near a burnt-out transport truck. A dozen soldiers—some wounded, some shell-shocked—looked up at the two teens as if they were command.
Because right now, they were.
A man approached the tank—a corporal, judging by his torn uniform.
"Sir... Ma'am... we've got movement—north ridge. They're not human."
Karl stood. "Weapons hot. Spread formation. Tell your men if they hear whispers in their head—shoot the source."
The corporal hesitated. "And if that doesn't work?"
Ilisha was already unsheathing her blades. "Then you run."
They weren't exaggerating.
From the treeline, things began to move.
Not elves. Not demons. Not angels. These were drifters—creatures that had slipped through the cracks between realities. Shaped like men but made of smoke and silver bones, with no eyes—just holes where faces should be.
They moved like phantoms. But they bled.
Karl dropped the first with a headshot so clean the drifter barely noticed it died.
Ilisha met the second face to face.
The battlefield exploded into motion.
The Merge wasn't just the return of ancient powers. It was an invasion—and humanity was fighting blind.
But not everyone.
Somewhere in the chaos, the first spark of resistance had already been lit.
The world didn't shatter all at once.
It fractured quietly—first with static, then with silence, and finally with screams.
The drifters didn't announce themselves. They didn't roar or hiss. They simply appeared, like they had always belonged to the landscape, rising out of shadows like smoke from a fire not yet lit.
One soldier panicked and opened fire too early. The bullets passed through the first drifter like air. The man turned to run—
He didn't get far.
A silver claw sliced through his back like silk, lifting him off the ground in one smooth motion before hurling him into the wreckage of the truck.
"Hold your fire until I mark!" Karl shouted, adjusting the dial on his scope.
His eyes scanned fast—too fast for someone untrained. But Karl had something else.
Instinct.
Click.
The first real shot dropped a drifter mid-leap. The second tore the jaw off one mid-chant, scattering molten teeth across the gravel.
"Left side!" Ilisha called.
She was already moving, blades humming with frost. The air chilled around her as she engaged—fast, violent, and precise. Every step was calculated. Every slash designed to kill, not wound.
One of the creatures lunged.
She ducked, turned, and split it from hip to neck in a blur of blue light.
"Frost," one soldier muttered under his breath, eyes wide. "She's... real."
The others didn't have time to answer.
Karl's voice rang out again. "Marking targets! Light them up!"
Three laser dots blinked across the battlefield.
Machine gun fire roared to life, cutting down the drifters in a line. For a moment, the chaos felt controlled.
Until the air changed.
All the drifters froze. Not out of fear—but as if listening.
Then they turned, all at once, and ran—not from the soldiers... but from something else.
The ground shook.
A shriek tore through the clouds, and from the nearby ridge, a Gate opened. This one was massive—burning red like an eclipse.
Something stepped through.
Eight feet tall, armored in bone and fire. A general, maybe. Or worse.
"Well," Karl muttered, lowering his rifle. "This escalated."
Ilisha's smile returned—cold, razor-thin. "Took long enough."
The true war had begun.