Chapter 1: The Day the Sky Tore Open
It started with a whisper in the wind. A low, guttural hum that resonated in the bones of those who heard it. Then, the sky split apart.
Across the world, in every major city and the most obscure of villages, reality itself seemed to rupture. Great, jagged wounds formed in midair, swirling vortexes of deep crimson and crackling black lightning. The air stank of sulfur and something worse—a festering rot that clung to the back of the throat. From these wounds in space, they emerged.
The first few creatures that crawled forth were horrors beyond comprehension. Towering behemoths covered in obsidian-like carapace, their eyes a molten gold that pulsed with unnatural intelligence. Smaller, more grotesque abominations followed—skeletal hounds with razor spines, faceless humanoid figures that moved in jerky, erratic motions, their clawed hands twitching as if eager to tear flesh from bone.
The massacre began instantly.
London fell first. The portals above the Thames vomited out an ocean of monstrosities, their howls and screeches drowning out the screams of the dying. A woman, still clutching her child in her arms, was torn apart in the span of a breath. Blood splattered across the cobblestones, the remains of bodies melting into an unholy sludge beneath the creatures' feet.
New York was next. Skyscrapers trembled as winged nightmares descended upon them, their jagged talons slicing through concrete and steel with terrifying ease. The streets were choked with bodies, some half-consumed, others left twitching as their insides were devoured by swarming, insectoid creatures no larger than a fist.
Beijing, Moscow, Cairo—everywhere, the story was the same. Humanity screamed, fought, and lost.
Military forces mobilized within minutes, but even the most devastating human firepower was useless. Fighter jets locked onto the creatures, unleashing payloads of missiles that struck dead-on… only for the monsters to emerge from the smoke unscathed. Some absorbed the explosions into their own bodies, their forms warping grotesquely before lunging forward with renewed strength.
In the United States, an armored division rolled through the streets, tanks unleashing their fury. The shells struck true, sending monstrous limbs flying, but within moments, those same limbs slithered back, reattaching themselves as if nothing had happened. The largest of the beasts, an entity that resembled a nightmare given form—a colossal, many-limbed thing covered in shifting black tendrils—simply looked at the tanks. They crumpled as though an invisible fist had squeezed them into nothingness.
Cities burned. Skies darkened beneath the smoke of a dying civilization. Those who fled found no sanctuary—more portals tore open in rural landscapes, in the depths of oceans, atop the frozen wastelands of the poles. There was nowhere to run. No place safe.
Governments collapsed within hours. Communication broke down as the world drowned in blood and shadow. The creatures moved with purpose, not merely slaughtering but feeding. Draining something more than just flesh from their victims. Taking something deeper, something essential.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the creatures stopped.
The portals still pulsed, still hung in the sky like open wounds, but the monsters stood motionless, their heads tilted as if listening to a sound only they could hear. The surviving humans held their breath, too terrified to move. And then, the sky itself seemed to speak.
A voice—deep, resonant, and laced with an authority that made the soul tremble—rumbled across the heavens. It spoke in no language known to man, yet every survivor understood its meaning.
"Your world belongs to us now."
In the United States, an armored division rolled through the streets, tanks unleashing their fury. The shells struck true, sending monstrous limbs flying, but within moments, those same limbs slithered back, reattaching themselves as if nothing had happened. The largest of the beasts, an entity that resembled a nightmare given form—a colossal, many-limbed thing covered in shifting black tendrils—simply looked at the tanks. They crumpled as though an invisible fist had squeezed them into nothingness.
Cities burned. Skies darkened beneath the smoke of a dying civilization. Those who fled found no sanctuary—more portals tore open in rural landscapes, in the depths of oceans, atop the frozen wastelands of the poles. There was nowhere to run. No place safe.
Governments collapsed within hours. Communication broke down as the world drowned in blood and shadow. The creatures moved with purpose, not merely slaughtering but feeding. Draining something more than just flesh from their victims. Taking something deeper, something essential.
The war raged on for three years. Humanity's numbers dwindled, their once-mighty civilizations reduced to scattered fortresses of resistance. Every battle fought seemed like a desperate last stand, and with each passing day, hope grew thinner. Until they arrived.
A race calling themselves the Skryl—Skrylians—descended from the stars. They looked human, but there were subtle differences: their eyes shimmered with unnatural colors, their physiques were slightly more refined, and their abilities far surpassed anything known to mankind. They possessed strength that could shatter steel, speed that defied the eye, and abilities that bent the very laws of physics.
The united remnants of Earth's governments, forced into a single governing body for survival—the World Defense Authority (W.D.A)—were given an offer. The Skrylians would help turn the tide of war—on one condition. They sought a place to call home, a new world to inhabit. The desperate leaders of humanity agreed without hesitation.
The meeting took place in an underground bunker beneath Geneva, one of the last fortified locations left on Earth. The room was dimly lit, a relic of a world that once believed wars were fought between nations, not against extinction itself. The surviving leaders of the W.D.A. sat around a long steel table, their faces gaunt, eyes hollow from years of suffering.
At precisely midnight, the air within the chamber rippled. A tall figure materialized at the far end of the table. He—or it—looked human, but there was an ethereal grace to his movement, an unnatural stillness when he stopped. His silver hair seemed to shimmer under the weak lighting, and his golden eyes held an eerie, hypnotic glow.
"I am Vael," he spoke, his voice smooth, almost melodic. "I speak for the Skrylians."
The silence in the room was heavy. No one had the strength left for pleasantries.
General Katarov, the acting leader of the W.D.A., leaned forward. His uniform was tattered, his once-proud posture reduced to a weary slouch. "You claim you can help us. Prove it."
Vael's gaze did not waver. He raised a hand, and the room grew cold. A holographic projection—no, something real—formed above the table. A swirling mass of alien energy condensed into the shape of a battlefield, showing a skrylian warrior standing alone against the monstrous invaders. With movements too fast for the human eye, the warrior dismantled an entire horde within seconds, using nothing but raw power and unmatched precision.
"We have already tested our abilities against your invaders," Vael said. "We can fight them. We can end this war."
A murmur spread through the room. Hope was a dangerous thing, but for the first time in years, it flickered back to life.
"And what do you want in return?" Katarov asked, his voice measured.
"A home," Vael replied simply. "Earth is vast, and many of your cities no longer stand. We require a place to settle, to live among you. We will help rebuild, and in return, we ask to coexist."
It was a steep price, but humanity had no bargaining power left.
Katarov exhaled, rubbing his temple. "If you fight with us, if you help us win this war, then Earth will be your home as well."
Vael nodded. "Then we have an accord."
And so, the battle for Earth shifted. With the Skrylians on their side, humanity fought back with newfound power, pushing the monstrous invaders back. The war, once a hopeless slaughter, became a war of reclamation.
After years of bloodshed, the final portal was sealed, and the last of the creatures were eradicated. The earth stood on the precipice of a new era. Cities lay in ruins, millions had perished, but against all odds, humanity had survived. And with the Skrylians now sharing their home, the world braced itself for a new dawn.