It began like a miracle.
People pointed at the sky, thinking it was some atmospheric anomaly like a solar flare, maybe, or one of those auroras that slipped south for no good reason. The clouds parted like curtains cut down the middle, revealing a shimmering slit of fire hanging motionless above Central Eurasia. It was a vertical scar that was impossibly straight, yet trembling at the edges, as though the air itself had grown sick.
Satellites caught it first. Then drones. Then every pair of eyes from Istanbul to Delhi. The social media exploded. Hashtags like #SkyBurn, #HeavenIsBleeding, and #AlienRift trended globally within minutes. Live feeds streamed the phenomenon from five angles. Scientists and priests both crowded into newsrooms, tripping over each other to give explanations.
"An upper-atmosphere plasma anomaly."
"A magnetic reconnection event."
"A divine sign."
They all said different things. Yet, none of them said the truth. The world watched. Staring upward like children at a fireworks show. Hoping it was just strange, beautiful, and harmless.
It wasn't.
The Tear didn't make a sound. It didn't flash or erupt. It simply opened. The way a mouth does. Or a wound.
It unzipped the sky and let something in.
At first, it was invisible. A ripple, a distortion like looking through a heatwave. Then the shimmer gained mass. A shape. Size. It bloomed downward like ink dropped into water, slow and blooming, until it cast a shadow across half of Kazakhstan.
People screamed long before they saw what they were screaming at.
Every animal within a thousand kilometers fled or collapsed. Flocks of birds fell mid-flight. Herds of livestock convulsed, split open, and died. Human beings vomited blood. Some seized. Others clutched at their heads, hearing whispers in languages their ancestors never spoke. Communications blacked out across a dozen satellite bands. GPS systems glitched. Clocks reversed. Radios spewed white noise and static-warped fragments of old songs, as if time itself were fraying.
And then it stepped out. No one saw its full form. You couldn't. Not because it was hidden—but because the mind couldn't process what the eyes were seeing. Some said it was all eyes. Others, none.
Some swore it had wings like glass, bent backward.
Some only remembered the smell—burning metal, salt, and rotting feathers.
They named it Ashuron. Not officially. Just in whispered reports, graffiti, and conspiracy forums. No one knew where the name came from. It simply... appeared. As if the Kaiju brought its own story with it.
Yet, Ashuron walked.
The Earth bent around it. Asphalt liquefied. Mountains leaned away. Not toppled—retreated. As if the terrain knew this thing was older than gravity and owed it no loyalty.
In five minutes, three cities disappeared. No impact. No explosion. They just flickered—glitched out of existence, pixel by pixel. Families. Buildings. Roads. Gone. Not destroyed. Just unwritten.
Governments panicked. First came the denials.
"It's a visual anomaly."
"It's a Russian holographic weapon."
"It's a tectonic disturbance, coupled with high-altitude optics interference."
Then came the orders.
Scramble jets. Evacuate capital zones. Lock down power grids.
But, none of it mattered.
The Kaiju did not fight.
It ignored.
Fighter jets vanished mid-pursuit. Entire convoys blinked out while in full retreat. Nukes launched from submerged silos detonated in place, vaporizing their operators. Not because the Kaiju retaliated—but because physics failed in its presence.
On the sixth day, footage surfaced.
A soldier—unnamed, unknown—captured the Kaiju at low altitude. Just one frame. One second. A glimpse of its "face," if it could be called that.
Not bone. Not flesh.
A fractal pattern.
Like a cathedral made of hunger.
The soldier died seconds after transmission. Not from wounds. From incompatibility. His blood boiled inside his veins.
Ashuron remained for seven days.
Seven days of silence, reshaping, unraveling.
Then the Tear closed.
The Kaiju folded in on itself like a dream forgotten mid-thought.
What it left behind would become known as the Dead Zone—an expanse of land where the laws of physics no longer held. Trees grew upside-down. Rain rose upward. Time looped in erratic spirals, trapping insects in eternal mid-flight. The dead walked for hours before falling a second time.
The world mourned the cities lost.
And then… tried to move on.
Humans are good at that. Adapting. Lying. Pretending something so enormous can still be put into boxes labeled "tragedy" or "disaster."
But it wasn't a disaster.
It was a harbinger.
Three weeks later, the second Tear opened—this time over the Atlantic.
And the sky began to bleed in earnest.
Fishing vessels nearby reported a sudden absence of stars. Not clouds. Not fog. Just… a blankness. As though someone had deleted that part of the sky.
Then came the water.
A twenty-meter wave radiated outward from the breach with no tectonic trigger. It swallowed half the eastern Caribbean in silence.
There were no thunder, no lightning, and no wind. Just the sea standing up and walking.
This time, humanity didn't hesitate. The memories of Ashuron were still raw. The terror, still televised. Military forces were already mobilized under the newly minted Intercontinental Threat Response Coalition—a desperate pact formed between broken superpowers trying to appear whole.
Drones circled the breach. Submarines approached. The U.S. launched two high-yield warheads before anything could emerge.
Nothing survived the detonation.
Yet, the Kaiju still remained unaffected. Three hours after the blast, four new Tears opened—simultaneously—across the globe. South Africa. Siberia. The Indian Ocean. The Mojave Desert.
The world map fractured like glass.
By the third month, no one knew how many Kaiju there were.
No two looked alike.
No names were official, but they spread like wildfire through message boards, black-ops files, even tattoo parlors: Shrike-Mother, Omenwalker, Ten-Voice, Eclipse-Spine, The Hollow Saint.
People named them because it made them less terrifying. You can fear a god. You can scream at a monster. But when it has a name? You can curse it.
You can hate it.
The largest recorded Kaiju—codenamed Cathedral Dusk—floated thirty kilometers above Riyadh for forty-six hours without touching ground. It was never filmed in full. Any camera that tried melted internally. Pilots who got within five hundred meters lost the ability to understand language.
Not just speak. Understand.
They returned babbling, unable to recognize letters, maps, or even facial expressions. Their families were strangers. Their minds rewritten.
And then the Kaiju sang.
People in five countries heard it.
It wasn't music. Or words.
It was… instruction.
They called it the Choral Pulse. One long, aching note that reverberated through metal, bone, and memory. People collapsed. Windows shattered. Those closest to the sound bled from their ears and collapsed in seizures, whispering phrases that had never existed before:
"We are not the authors.""The gate is not yours.""Unbirth is mercy."
Afterward, Cathedral Dusk vanished.
So did Riyadh.
In its place: a smooth, obsidian crater. Perfectly circular. No debris. No bodies. No blood. Just a ring of molten glass, pulsing like a heartbeat. Within weeks, society tore itself apart—not from the Kaiju, but from the fear of them.
Twelve cities fell.
Not all to Kaiju.Some to fire. Others to panic. Others to humans.
In Berlin, riots broke out over food hoarding and evacuations. Entire neighborhoods were torched by citizens who feared "Kaiju-infected" individuals. In Mexico City, the government detonated its own dam system, flooding the valley in a failed attempt to "wash away traces." Over 600,000 were dead.
In Egypt, military leaders staged a coup and declared the country a "Kaiju Sanctuary State." No foreign entry. No satellite surveillance. No explanation.
Cairo vanished from radar the next month.
In Canada, suburban neighborhoods burned themselves in coordinated suicides, believing the Kaiju were divine and that dying early would spare their souls.
In the U.S., martial law fractured into state-run military blocks. The East Coast Command Center in Boston was wiped out not by a Kaiju—but by a viral code uploaded into its automated defense system by a 14-year-old claiming to "speak to the music between stars."
The AI misclassified its own personnel as Kaiju proxies and executed 3,400 soldiers in under 11 seconds.
By month four, nations were gone.
The world was no longer divided by borders.
Only by zones:
Breach Zones – Active Tear regions. Proximity equals death.
Residual Zones – Kaiju have passed through. Inhabitable with extreme caution.
Green Corridors – Still untouched. Temporary sanctuaries. Highly contested.
Dead Zones – Physics no longer functions. Considered "unreal."
Satellite coverage dropped by 87%.
The internet shattered into private, encrypted mesh-networks. Most of the world went offline. The only common connection left was the screaming. They rose in cities at night, without explanation—people jolting from sleep, clutching their heads, eyes rolling back, mouths open. Whole apartment blocks wailing as one.
No one knew why. Some said it was just trauma. Others said it was the Kaiju… syncing.
Military efforts failed, again and again. The Intercontinental Coalition threw every weapon in the known arsenal. Orbital strikes. Antimatter bursts. Kinetic rods dropped from Earth's orbit.
The Kaiju adapted. Or didn't notice due to their Extradimensional Armor.
They were never injured. They never angered. At best, they were distracted. For minutes. Hours. At most, a day.
Then they continued. Humanity couldn't kill them. They couldn't even predict them.
The best minds left alive said the Kaiju operated in dimensions that were uncountable. Their motives were unknowable. But Earth was merely intersecting with something older, deeper.
But there were fringe voices too.
Voices that said the Kaiju didn't come from outside.
They were never "invaders." They were here to cleanse. The final meeting of the Intercontinental Coalition occurred inside a floating platform above Iceland. Only nine generals made it. None survived.
What little footage was recovered showed a brief, flickering image of the Kaiju that arrived. It was thin, but towering.
The platform was not attacked. It simply…
Froze.
Not exploded. Not crumbled.
Frozen in time.
Thirty seconds of static.
Then the footage ended.
The platform was later found intact, still floating, lights still on. All nine generals frozen in mid-speech. Blinking. Half-breath.
And then disintegrated before recovery teams could reach them.
After that, there was no coalition.
Only survivors.
Only Citadels.
Then, years later a major discovery was made. And it all started with a corpse. It was not human, nor a Kaiju, either. If the Kaiju could even die.
It was found in the Andes. Near what had once been a physics research base, now buried under glassy soil and scar-etched cliffs. The entity—what remained of it—had crashed into the side of a mountain and embedded itself halfway into the rock, like a forgotten god hurled from heaven.
But it hadn't decayed. It hadn't even aged. It pulsed.
With every second, its body rippled with a violet hue, like light being filtered through deep water. Its surface shifted between textures—chitin, smoke, metal, exposed circuitry, flowing cloth. None of it held shape. None of it stayed still.
A scavenger team from the East Coalition Citadel found it. Eight scientists, four engineers, two soldiers. Only one survived.
Her name was Dr. Kaoru Miwa.
The footage was partially recovered from her suit camera, though most of it degraded into static. But what little remains… changes when viewed.
On tape: her voice.
"The body isn't dead. Just paused. And it's leaking something."
A glow. A mist. A swirling gas that drifted lazily out of the entity's chest cavity and coiled in the air like it was curious.
Miwa held up a scanner. The screen burned out.
"I don't think this is radiation."
She removed her glove.
She touched it.
And it touched her back.
They would later name it Aura.
It wasn't matter. It wasn't energy. Not quite. It occupied a third space—something quantum, metaphysical, responsive. It shimmered with chaotic brilliance in a way that no spectrum could measure.
When scientists tried to isolate it, it vanished. When they ignored it, it clung to them. Machines couldn't contain it. But minds?
Minds made it grow.
Aura flowed toward human consciousness. Toward pain. Toward loss. Toward thought so intense it twisted reality around itself like a black hole.
It responded most strongly to those on the edge of death.
That's how Miwa survived.
She should've died in that crater from starvation and mental collapse. But Aura cocooned her instead. Preserved her. Infused her blood with particles that rewrote the human genome in real time.
She walked out of the crater barefoot, eyes glowing faintly, half her body armored in hardened filaments of living light.
She had been changed.
The files she carried with her—stored in flesh-coded subdermal drives—became the blueprint for everything that followed.
The first years of experimentation were brutal.
Governments no longer existed, so research fell to private Citadel authorities—city-states run by surviving military remnants, tech conglomerates, and cults that wore science like religion.
Miwa's research was split between them all. Some tried to replicate her bonding. Others tried to weaponize Aura directly, creating bombs, clouds, or reactive bullets.
It never worked. Aura refused control. It melted tanks. Evaporated test labs. Turned rifles into vines. It behaved as if it hated tools. But it did something else. Something more terrifying.
It remembered.
Lab samples placed near trauma victims began to form patterns—faces, names, echoes of emotion too specific to be accidents. One piece of lattice carved a phrase into steel over three days:
"Pain sharpens. Pain shapes. Pain survives."
No one admitted what they were all thinking.
Aura wasn't a power source.
It was a consciousness. And it was present everywhere.
The leading theory became this:
"Aura is residual dimensional intelligence. A psychic exhaust fume from whatever the Kaiju are. It's their breath. Their blood. Their thoughts, trapped in our plane."
And somehow, it responded to us.
But the next breakthrough didn't come from a lab.
It came from a prison.
A former cultist, captured after trying to sacrifice two infants, was locked in solitary in Citadel Murash. He spent forty-nine days screaming nonsense into the corner of his cell.
Then one night, without prompting, Aura began leaking from the concrete.
Guards rushed in. Too late.
The man was dead.
But his body…
Transformed.
Wrapped in translucent strands of glowing filament. Bones hardened. Skin replaced by lattice. One eye replaced by an ever-shifting gyroscopic lens that rotated endlessly.
His corpse was armored.
Alive, even.
The armor fused to him.
When they tried to remove it, it struck back—emitting a concussive blast of gravity that ruptured thirty skulls in a ten-meter radius.
This was no suit.
This was integration.
A theory took hold: what if Aura was not just reacting—but choosing?
What if the trauma it fed on could be invited?
So they built the first chamber.
Steel. Sealed. No exits. Inside: a willing candidate. A soldier. Orphan. Murderer. Volunteer. Victim. All the same by then.
What followed was pain no one recorded. Not for ethical reasons. But because cameras melted. Observers bled from the eyes. Light and sound twisted.
But the subject survived.
Mostly.
He emerged changed.
Wrapped in an armor not made, but grown. A weapon not carried, but worn. Adaptive. Reactive. Pulsing with a heartbeat that wasn't his own.
His voice echoed when he spoke.
He did not remember his name.
Only the war.
And so, the first Godseed Wielder was born.