The city of Neo-Eden pulsed with neon light, casting a synthetic glow across the endless sea of people gathered on the streets. Towering holographic billboards displayed the countdown, each massive digit ticking away the final minutes of the century.
11:50 PM.
The air was thick with excitement, a shared anticipation electrifying the masses as they awaited the arrival of the year 2100.
"Ten minutes left!" a man cheered, raising a glass filled with some overpriced synth drink.
"Finally! About time we left the past behind," another responded, her voice barely audible over the collective murmur of thousands.
"Can you believe it? We're about to hit 2100!" a young woman laughed, gripping her friend's arm. "Feels unreal. Like we're stepping into a sci-fi movie."
"Yeah, let's just hope we don't get any apocalypse bullshit. I've read too many old dystopian novels to trust a new century," her friend joked, sipping from a steaming cup.
Robot vendors called out from the sidewalks, selling everything from instant-party injectors to glowing vr googles that flickered in sync with the timer above. The smell of street food—both real and lab-grown—drifted through the crowd, mingling with the distinct hum of city drones hovering above to capture the event. Music blasted from unseen speakers, blending into the rhythmic pulse of Neo-Eden's heart.
For once, life seemed unified, and hopeful, as if humanity truly had a future beyond the bleak decades that had led to this moment.
***
Meanwhile,
In the highest room of a run-down high-rise, a different story was unfolding—one drenched in blood.
The walls, once a dull metallic gray, were now streaked with crimson, violent brushstrokes painting a massacre. Bodies lay strewn across the floor, lifeless eyes staring into nothingness. The air reeked of copper and death, thick enough to choke on.
At the center of it all, two figures struggled amidst the carnage.
A hulking brute, muscles rippling beneath a torn jacket, had his massive hands wrapped around the throat of a much smaller, frailer figure—his grip tightening with murderous intent.
Xavier's vision blurred.
Spots danced before his eyes. The brute's grip was suffocating, his weight pressing down like a mountain. He could feel his own strength slipping—
No.
With sheer determination, Xavier jabbed a bloodied finger straight into the man's eye socket. A sickening squelch followed, and the brute howled in agony, momentarily loosening his grip. That was all Xavier needed.
His hand darted to the floor, fingers brushing against cold steel—a knife.
With one swift motion, he drove the blade into the brute's neck.
A gurgled scream. A spray of warm blood. The body collapsed onto him like a falling pillar.
Xavier coughed violently, shoving the corpse off. His entire body burned with pain. His wounds screamed. His breath was ragged. He had barely survived.
"Should've just gotten a bolt gun, who the fuck told me meleeing a gang was realistic…" he muttered between pained gasps. "Would've saved me the trouble." Then again, with his shitty aim, he'd probably have shot himself first.
He finally stood, trembling from exhaustion. His birthday.
December 31st. He was turning sixteen years old today.
One would find it fun to be born on the last day of the year like he was, but what they would forget is the fact it would be completely overshadowed by it being New Year's Eve.
That's how it is with being born on a holiday, and especially for a day like today.
Others his age were out there, celebrating the upcoming century, yet here he was—broken, bleeding, surrounded by corpses, and nearing his death. Ironic.
His eyes drifted to a corpse in the corner. A well-dressed man, a knife buried in his eye. The gang leader.
Xavier smirked. At least that bastard was dead. His debt had finally been paid in blood.
Then, the sound of commotion outside. 'Must be more gang members.' he thought.
He knew how the gangs in this city worked. He knew exactly what they would do.
They wouldn't try to breach the room as reinforcements. They'd burn it.
It's better to get rid of all evidence than to potentially add to it. Even if it would cost their boss's life.
If the boss was in any normal state within the building, then he could activate its disaster measures to stop the flames, if he didn't it meant that he had been taken care of.
A crackling sound confirmed his suspicions. He limped to the window, peering outside.
Fire.
Flames licked hungrily at the lower floors, spreading unnaturally fast. The building's automated filters should've suppressed it, but… Xavier frowned. He glanced beyond the blaze, scanning the cityscape.
No drones. No government enforcers. No one was coming.
Of course. He had forgotten the kind of enemy he chose tonight.
With a heavy sigh, he leaned against the wall, watching the fire consume the building. He didn't care.
His goal was complete. His fate was already sealed.
If he wasn't going to die today, he was going to die sometime later, so it wouldn't matter.
So it's better the new year would come without him.
His fingers dug into his pocket, pulling out his phone. The old device was barely holding together, its cracked screen flickering erratically. "Guess I should've expected this. It's shit like this that people don't use smartphones anymore."
It was a relic from the early 21st century—a time when smartphones still had physical components before everything became chip implants. Despite its age, it still connected to the internet, a small mercy in his otherwise miserable existence.
He turned it on, swiping through the few messages he had. There were only three chats, but his eyes focused on the one he hadn't touched in two years.
[Please, don't...]-Last seen, July 2097.
For a moment, he hesitated. If things had been different, would he be graduating like the others his age? Would he have friends, a home, a normal life? Would she still talk to him? The thoughts were useless, he knew that. The past was set in stone, and no amount of regret would change where he was now.
Heat licked at the edges of the room. The fire was spreading faster than he expected. It fascinated him. He'd never spent much time around fire, but watching it now—consuming everything, rising higher, burning hotter—it felt... alive. Unstoppable. Inevitable.
In a way, it mirrored his own existence. A fleeting burst of destruction, gone as quickly as it came.
He glanced at his phone again. A minute to midnight.
"Wonder what the next century will be like," he muttered, chuckling dryly.
His thumb hovered over the message box. Screw it. He typed out a simple message and hit send.
[Happy New Century.]-Just Sent.
Outside, the city roared to life. Thousands of voices screamed in unison, counting down the final moments.
Ten.
Xavier exhaled, watching as the flames curled around him, creeping closer, hungering for his flesh.
Nine.
He smiled. At least he'd see the new year, even if only for a few moments.
Eight. Seven. Six.
He closed his eyes, the noise of the city drowning out everything else.
Five. Four. Three.
The fire surrounded him, the heat unbearable, yet strangely comforting.
Two. One.
Midnight.
But instead of the triumphant cheers of the city, the world froze.
The fire stopped moving. The air stopped vibrating. The very fabric of time itself seemed to halt before his eyes.
Zayn's breath hitched as he stared at the flames frozen mid-motion, their tongues of fire caught in place like the still frames of a paused film. The heat that should have been suffocating him only moments ago now lingered as an eerie warmth, neither advancing nor retreating.
He reached out with shaking fingers, attempting to disturb the fire's shape, but it remained solid and unyielding, as though sculpted from molten glass.
What the hell is happening?
A surge of panic rippled through him, but even that felt muted, as though the world itself had stilled his emotions along with time. His gaze dropped to his own body, his tattered clothing soaked in crimson.
The wounds that should have been gushing blood remained motionless, droplets hanging midair as if suspended by invisible strings. He twisted his wrist, flexed his fingers—he could still move, still breathe, still feel the dull throb of pain coursing through his limbs.
But the blood, the fire, and the very world outside of him had stopped.
Then, something pulled at him—not physically, but an undeniable force demanding his attention. His eyes snapped toward the shattered window, where the city's neon glow still flickered, casting distorted colors over the streets below.
The gang members who had been fleeing the burning building were now stock-still, their heads all tilted upward in eerie unison. A creeping sense of dread curled in Zayn's stomach as his gaze followed theirs.
His heart stopped.
Above them, suspended in the vast abyss of the night sky, was an impossibly massive open book. Its pages glowed with an intensity that should have seared his retinas, brighter than the sun itself—yet the light did not burn, nor did it force him to look away. The air around it shimmered, warping like heatwaves, distorting reality itself. The book loomed impossibly large, dominating the sky like a celestial deity staring down upon its insignificant creations.
Zayn could not comprehend what he was seeing, but neither could anyone else. The scene was not limited to this one city or even this one continent. No matter where they were—working in underground tunnels, lost within the subaquatic cities, or stationed within the artificial habitats of the space colonies—every single human being, every creature of Earth and the universe, saw the book in the sky as though it hung directly above them.
It was beyond logic. Beyond physics. Beyond sanity.
A weighty silence fell upon the world, suffocating and absolute. A moment later, the silence shattered as an almighty voice boomed from the heavens.
Pathetic.
The word did not simply echo—it resonated, shaking every living soul to its core. It carried disappointment, scorn, and an undeniable authority. Though no one understood why, a deep and primal shame festered in their chests, as if they had failed some incomprehensible expectation. Even the most arrogant and powerful among them found themselves trembling, unable to refute the truth they could not even grasp.
The voice continued, its presence filling not just the air but their very beings.
For so long, you have been granted the opportunity to exist, and yet you have squandered it. You persist without direction, without contribution, without purpose. A wasted existence is an insult to creation itself.
The weight of its words pressed upon them like an unseen force. Zayn's hands clenched into fists, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He wanted to scream, to deny it, to rage against the being that dared to judge them. But the words held power as though it was a universal truth.
The voice carried on, unwavering in its decree.
Such existence is a burden upon the cosmos. Worlds that serve no purpose have no reason to remain. To continue such a cycle is the epitome of waste. But I am not without mercy. I shall grant you purpose.
Zayn swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. The voice did not feel malicious, nor did it revel in cruelty. It simply was—a cosmic judge passing down a sentence without bias, without hesitation.
The reality you know shall be no more. Your world shall be unmade and rewritten, merged into a new existence where all things serve a greater design. You shall be grafted into a world of worth.
A sickening sensation crawled over Zayn's skin, a pressure that made his entire being scream in defiance. He could barely process the being's words before it continued.
In this new existence, all things—be they human, beast, plant, or machine—shall be given a chance to prove themselves. To grasp the essence of truth, to forge their very beings into something greater.
Zayn exhaled sharply as the final words crashed down upon them like a celestial verdict.
To become Loreforged.
As the proclamation settled, reality itself trembled. Cracks of blinding light split the sky, and for the first time since the frozen moment began, motion returned. But it was not the world returning to normal. No, this was something far worse.
Reality was unraveling.
Zayn's stomach lurched as the world around him distorted, threads of existence peeling away like the frayed edges of a burning tapestry. Buildings, streets, and people dissolved into streams of radiant energy, spiraling toward the heavens where the great book remained open, its pages absorbing all that was.
The Regrafting begins.
The voice's final declaration rang clear, and in that instant, everything that existed was unwritten.
And this was what served to begin a new year.
A new era.