The fabric of reality didn't unzip; it tore.
High above the Ocean, in the exosphere where the air was thin and the cold was absolute, a jagged fissure of grey light split the darkness. It wasn't a portal. It was a forced entry.
I stepped out of the Akashic Records and into the war.
Gravity seized me instantly, but it wasn't the gentle pull of Earth. It was the crushing, artificial gravity generated by the Demon Armada.
Thousands of obsidian dreadnoughts hung in orbit, blotting out the sun. They cast a shadow over the entire hemisphere, turning high noon into a twilight of purple and black. The air was thick, saturated with Miasma—the heavy, chaotic energy of the Abyss that had flooded the solar system upon their arrival.
It wasn't toxic—that was a misconception of the weak—but it was heavy. It pressed against the skin like a lead blanket, demanding submission.
