The city of Mars breathed like a living thing.
Music spilled through the streets, soft at first, then louder—drums echoing between crystal towers, strings humming under the open sky. Lanterns floated above the crowds, their red glow drifting slowly, peacefully, as if nothing bad had ever happened here.
Children ran in circles, laughing until they fell into the dust. Their parents watched them with tired smiles, hands resting on knees, hearts still racing from fear—but finally slowing.
Soldiers leaned against walls, helmets set aside. Some shared food. Some told stories, laughing too loudly, too quickly, as if afraid silence might bring the terror back.
Old women cried openly. Not from pain—
from relief.
"We are alive," someone said.
"Mars is alive," another answered.
Food passed from hand to hand. Cups clinked. Music grew bolder.
Fear had lost its grip.
People believed the danger was over.
They believed the sky had forgiven them.
Near the edge of a wide stone square stood a small woman.
She was easy to miss.
Short. Thin. Wrapped in plain fabric darkened by ash stains. Her hair was tied back roughly, strands slipping loose. Her hands trembled slightly—not from fear anymore, but from exhaustion.
She held a simple plate of food. Warm. Steaming gently in the cool night air.
A child ran past her and almost collided with her legs.
She laughed.
The sound surprised even her.
It felt strange—laughing after thinking she was going to die.
She looked up at the lanterns drifting overhead, at the blue sky peeking through thinning clouds.
"We made it," she whispered, to no one.
She stepped forward.
Her foot caught on cracked stone.
The plate slipped.
Food fell.
She gasped softly and bent down quickly, cheeks warming with embarrassment, still smiling as she reached to gather it.
That was when she saw the steam.
It wasn't rising gently anymore.
It twisted.
Curled.
Thickened.
The stone beneath the food darkened, spreading outward like a stain.
A faint hiss reached her ears.
Her smile froze.
She frowned.
She leaned closer, confused.
The heat touched her skin.
Not warmth.
Heat.
Sharp. Wrong.
She pulled her hand back instinctively, breath catching in her throat.
Her heartbeat quickened.
Slowly, she straightened.
The sounds around her began to thin.
Music dulled, as if someone had placed a hand over it.
Laughter stretched, warped, then faded.
Her ears rang.
She swallowed.
Her eyes lifted.
The sky was wrong.
The clouds were moving—but not drifting. They bent inward, folding around something unseen. Light twisted between them, stretching unnaturally, like glass pulled too far.
Her hands began to shake.
A pressure pressed down on her chest.
She raised one finger, pointing upward, arm trembling violently.
Her mouth opened.
Her scream tore through the square.
"LOOK—!"
The word shattered as the sky ripped open.
A massive asteroid tore through the clouds, wrapped in fire, screaming without sound. It did not fall—it charged, cutting through the sky like a weapon thrown by the universe itself.
The air ignited instantly.
The ground screamed.
Heat slammed into the city in a single breath. Wind exploded outward, flattening bodies, snapping bones, tearing children from their parents' arms.
Screams erupted everywhere.
People ran.
People fell.
Some didn't even have time to understand.
Buildings cracked, crystal towers exploding into light and shards. Streets split open, red stone melting as if it were wax.
For one heartbeat—
There was no sound.
Only blinding white.
Then the force hit.
A wall of destruction surged outward, erasing everything it touched. Bodies vanished—not burned, not crushed—simply gone. Stone liquefied. Metal curled inward. Fire consumed the air itself, leaving nothing to breathe.
The square ceased to exist.
The woman ceased to exist.
Mars did not scream.
It broke.
The royal palace trembled like a wounded beast.
Walls groaned. Chandeliers shattered. A massive window facing the city split violently down the center.
Glass exploded inward.
Shards screamed through the hallway, slicing banners, embedding into stone, scattering like deadly rain.
King Kevin turned.
Another shockwave hit.
He ran.
His boots slipped on marble dust. His armor scraped against walls as he slammed into doorframes, ignoring the pain tearing through his body.
He reached the balcony.
The world beyond it was no longer a city.
It was fire.
A horizon of fire and collapsing darkness.
Where towers once stood, there was nothing—no shapes, no streets, no life. Just burning light swallowing itself, ash rising in towering waves.
King Kevin froze.
His knees buckled.
He fell forward, catching himself on the railing, fingers digging into stone until they bled.
His mouth opened.
No sound came out.
Tears filled his eyes, blurring the destruction into streaks of red and black.
His chest rose sharply, then failed.
He tried to scream.
He couldn't.
Behind him, footsteps echoed softly.
Mother Telsa stood in the shattered hallway.
Her staff hung loosely in her hand.
Her face was pale.
Not shocked.
Not surprised.
Her eyes were filled with something heavier.
Understanding.
Guilt.
Fear.
She said nothing.
She didn't need to.
Ash drifted through the broken window, floating gently, settling on the palace floor.
On the King's shoulders.
On his hair.
On the future.
The cries of the newborn echoed faintly from behind closed doors—fragile, unaware.
King Kevin stared into the burning distance, unmoving.
The celebration was gone.
The city was gone.
Mars was gone.
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Absolute.
The universe had made its choice.
TO BE CONTINUED