**Time: 22nd, 07:15 GMT**
Jack brewed bitter coffee, its scent thick in the air.
Suddenly, the dawn light reflecting off Canary Wharf's glass towers—**vanished**.
Not cloud cover.
Absolute, instantaneous darkness—as if the universe's main switch flipped.
Emergency lights snapped on, casting stark shadows over stockpiled supplies.
Outside, car horns blared into a discordant wail, then dull crunches and shattering glass.
Silence. Ten seconds of tomb-like stillness. Then, the rising tide of panic from the streets below.
Ten minutes later, light returned as abruptly as it left. Emergency lights died.
The world stuttered, then lurched back into gear with horns and distant screams.
---
**Time: 22nd, 16:00 GMT**
"…This is BBC World News, breaking. I'm James Wilson. Following this morning's global blackout at 07:15 GMT, approximately one hour ago—15:00 GMT—the sun vanished again worldwide! This darkness lasted thirty minutes! Global communications are collapsing. Panic is exploding…"
Shaky footage cut in: chaos in Times Square; burning barricades near the Arc de Triomphe; thousands praying by candlelight in St. Peter's Square.
"We attempt to link to Royal Observatory head, Sir Marcus Thorne… signal unstable… Sir Marcus? …Connection failed. Joining us: Professor Evelyn Crawford, Cambridge Astrophysics Chair, and theoretical physicist Dr Lionel Black. Professor, global, instantaneous light-blocking—unprecedented! Explanations?"
Professor Crawford, weary but controlled: "The **unpredictability** and **perfect global synchronicity** are terrifying. Satellites confirm solar luminosity unchanged. Not an eclipse. Not any known phenomenon. It's as if… an invisible energy filter or spatial distortion wrapped the Earth, blocking visible light."
Dr Black interjected rapidly: "Gravity sensors show Earth-Sun interaction normal! Orbit stable! The Sun *exists*. This points to rare high-energy interstellar medium disruption or… incomprehensible solar atmospheric changes altering radiation."
"Doctor, online 'doomsday' theories—especially about the 28th—are exploding. Two blackouts in eight hours fuel this. Your response?"
"Panic stems from ignorance," Black adjusted his glasses. "Science observes, explains—it doesn't prophesy. No credible model predicts apocalypse. We lean toward extreme 'cosmic weather.' Vital to stay…"
— Signal shredded into static snow —
"…zzzt… urge… zzzt… calm… zzzt… trust authorities… zzzt… stock essentials… zzzt… avoid travel…"
Dead air. Only the emergency lamp's ghostly glow remained.
Jack switched off his old backup TV. Internet? Gone. His phone buzzed nonstop since the first blackout.
Messages flooded in from friends who'd told him to "take a holiday":
> **"Jack! Holy Sh*t! This morning?! That date you said—the 28th?? REAL??"**
> **"Miller! Ring back! What's with the sun?! What the F*CK do you know?!"**
> **"Jack, for God's sake! We need the truth! What happens?!"**
Jack rubbed his temples. The book's later pages were gibberish!
He could only repeat: "Stock food! Water! Meds! Warmth! Solid fuel! Stay indoors! Barricade! I don't know specifics, but after the 28th, darkness and cold will last! Trust me this once!"
That evening, hood up, he slipped to the corner Tesco Express.
His heart sank.
Shelves were stripped bare; packaging littered the floor; staff boarded shattered windows. Sirens wailed nearby. BBC reassurances crumpled against raw fear.
News alerts screamed:
> **Twin Blackouts! Doomsday Clock at Midnight?**
> **Science Silent as Panic Engulfs Europe**
> **Looting Frenzy: Supermarkets Ransacked, Gov Urges Calm**
> **Vatican: Pray in Darkness, God Has Not Forsaken**
Jack switched off his phone. This was the overture.
He had no time for spectating. He needed the book's lifeline: **Glyphs**.
After cracking those 300 symbols, he knew he could craft "Prima Conduit Glyphs." Using tough vellum and mineral ink (the book hinted at silver and sulphur), he'd made a few. Lifeless. Until the first blackout.
Instinctively, he'd glanced at them. One glyph, drawn in deep crimson ink—**came alive**! Its lines glowed like molten copper!
An identical phantom glyph hovered inches above it, radiating searing heat! Seconds later, the light imploded.
The paper itself levitated, drifting down only when Jack touched it.
His heart hammered.
He understood: the morning blackout marked the start of the "Aether Tide"! Thin "Aether"—the universe's primal energy—was seeping in, activating the glyph!
He attacked the book's glyphcraft section. The core revelation: the "Sigil of Conduit" atop each glyph was a portal. Drawing it required "Spiritual Focus"—using mental discipline to weave stray Aether threads into the ink and vellum.
His earlier attempts were hollow shells.
The activated "Ignis Sol Glyph" was a fluke—it had been bookmarking the glowing book, likely "pickled" in its concentrated Aether.
Waiting for another book-glow was hopeless. He needed to learn "Aetheric Resonance"—to sense and channel the elusive Aether himself.
The book claimed "Aether" underpinned matter and energy but had been locked away by a cosmic barrier ("The Aetheric Veil"). Now, the "Tide" was tearing the Veil.
The blackout and glyph flicker confirmed it: Aether was seeping in, faint as mist.
That night, Jack sat cross-legged on cold flooring (feeling like a clumsy yogi), the book on his lap.
He pushed aside street screams and sirens, seeking "Aetheric Resonance."
The book made it sound simple: sense ambient Aether particles, guide them inward, transform them into "Spark of Vitality."
But "sensing" was like asking a blind man to see colour. Ideally, he'd use an "Aether Siphon Glyph."
He didn't have one.
Only the offensive "Ignis Sol." Dead end. He resorted to the crude method: mentally chanting complex "Cadences of Focus," imagining himself a dry sponge.
This required two things: sufficient ambient Aether density and innate "Resonant Chord"—soul compatibility with Aether.
He'd long assessed himself using the book's obscure method: mediocre. "A speck of dust." Frustrating, yet holding the book felt fated.
Reality was ice. Six hours of sitting. Legs numb. Eyelids leaden. Focus frayed. No warmth. No light. No energy. Just cold parchment and distant chaos. Utter failure. Self-doubt gnawed. He knew the path would be brutal.
Exhaustion dragged him under. A shrill ringtone drilled into his skull.
Mike. His ad agency mate. Days ago: "Let it go, Jack. Find a date." Jack grabbed the phone.
"**Jack! F***! F***! F***! It's happened! You were bloody right! We're screwed! Help us!**" Mike's voice was shredded, background a cacophony—screams, glass, engines.
"Mike?… Sun again…?" Jack's heart clenched. A third?
"**Again?! Third time! Just now! Thirty bloody minutes! You didn't feel it?! It's hell out here! Riots! Burning cars! Looting! Listen!**" Mike held the phone out.
Terror surged through the speaker.
Jack snapped awake. Failed meditation forgotten. Cold certainty washed over him.
He was on a cliff, watching the script unfold.
The book hinted that as the "Aether Tide" peaked, "Laws Reforged" would rip space. Cosmic energy turbulence would worsen. Permanent darkness was inevitable.
How long? The book's later pages—star charts and glyphic equations—were beyond him.
"Jack! Talk! Are we dying?! Is it the end?!" Mike's voice cracked.
"I bloody warned you!" Months of frustration, anger, and bitter vindication erupted. "Believe me now? Who said I belonged in Bedlam?!"
"Mate! I was wrong! We all were! Please! For God's sake! What happens?!"
"Listen! The 28th! Brand it in your brain!"
Jack roared. "After that, global **darkness and deadly cold—long term**! Now! Get warm gear! Thick coats! Sleeping bags! Camp stoves! Solid fuel! Petrol! Tins! Water! Grab everything! Hide! Barricade your door! I don't know how long the dark lasts! Weeks! Months! Longer!"
It was all he could offer.
"Long dark? The sun?! If it's gone, Earth flies off, freezes solid! We all die!" Physics-fueled despair.
"Forget that! The sun's *there*! Black was right—gravity's fine! The light's just… blocked! Maybe… maybe it comes back when the 'Tide' passes…" Jack strained for "scientific" terms. He couldn't explain "Laws Reforged" or "Dimensions Torn." Then—a sensation. A fleeting, intense **burning** on his calf! Like static shock.
He looked down. Nothing.
"Jack! You swear?! You're our only hope now!"
"Three days ago I was 'delusional.' Now I'm the Messiah? You wankers!" Jack's laugh was bitter.
"He… hello?… Shit! Signal… zzzt… gone!" Mike's curse cut off. Dead line. The network, like civilization, had snapped. Jack pictured Mike's sleek ad office—now a warzone. London, the world, devoured by the beast of "Unknown."
That strange burning on his calf lingered—a tiny, defiant spark in the dark.