Ten years ago, an extraordinary phenomenon irrevocably altered our world.
A vast, silent blade of pure white energy descended from the heavens, cleaving the sky with blinding brilliance. Its intensity grew with each passing moment, distorting the surrounding air and bending reality itself. Far below, the sun set peacefully over an orange horizon, unaware of the spectacle unfolding above.
In cities teeming with life—amid towering buildings, illuminated billboards, and crowded streets—people froze in place, hearts racing. From their vantage point, it appeared distant yet unmistakable: a silent comet trailing a ribbon of light across the sky, resonating at a frequency beyond human perception.
Then came the detonation—not a mere flash, but a profound pulse that carried the essence of molten honey and metallic ozone. It rippled across the planet, piercing clouds and atmosphere alike.
Fishermen on Pacific swells, shepherds on vast grasslands with flocks frozen around them, wild animals on sunlit savannas, and scientists in remote Antarctic outposts—all stood motionless, transfixed in that same blinding moment.
That same instant the world erupted in colors beyond description—violets merging into crimson, molten golds undulating like living auroras—as the air itself hummed with an ancient tone.
Iridescent shards drifted downward like luminous snow, each glowing softly from within and whispering as they fell.
No one was spared its touch.
It chose us—or perhaps we chose it. Either way, nothing would ever be the same.
I was eight years old then, a child with hands dusted in playground gravel, laughter fading from my lips as I gazed upward at the impossible.
When the Fragments reached me, settling into my skin and dissolving seamlessly, the sensation was one of pure warmth without heat, weight without pressure, and sound without noise. Wordlessly, it conveyed a lullaby older than memory, drawn from dreams long unspoken yet eternally familiar.
In that suspended moment, the world appeared fragile and exposed—a small, blue sphere adrift in the void. Clouds hung motionless, oceans gleamed like glass, and all motion ceased. Continents revealed their scars, cities flickered like faint constellations beneath unyielding skies. A profound silence enveloped the planet, as if Earth itself paused to recall the memory of that light.
In the weeks that followed, as life resumed a fragile semblance of normalcy while the event lingered in collective memory, some individuals awoke profoundly changed. Supernatural powers emerged within them, shattering the boundaries of human potential.
Many were corrupted by unchecked ambition: some destroyed property for mere spectacle, others enslaved the innocent for pleasure, and a few pursued dominion vast enough to reshape the world.
Darkness was not imposed; it was embraced.
The world fractured under its own divisions.
Five years later, when I was fifteen, I lost my parents to that ensuing chaos—a wound that has never healed.
I had received powers the moment the Fragments touched me, accompanied by surges of fear and anger. Yet I refused to let them dominate me. Instead, I tempered them, directing the energy toward a greater purpose in a world desperately in need.
I could no longer stand idly by as innocence was crushed beneath unchecked power.
I became a hero out of defiance—against the chaos, against the cruelty, and against a world that demanded I accept its darkness.
I dedicated myself to the fight, relentlessly confronting those who perverted their abilities into tools of cruelty. Each battle inflicted scars—on the world, on others, and on myself—but I convinced myself the cost was justified.
I fought to heal the wounds inflicted by the corrupt, to restore safety in place of fear, trust where it had been broken, and compassion amid the ruins of terror.
Every strike and every sacrifice was offered in service of a humanity worth preserving.
Yet no matter how many tyrants I defeated or lives I saved, true change remained elusive. The corruption persisted.
Doubt became my constant shadow: Was my path truly righteous, or was I merely delaying an inevitable collapse?
I dreamed of a reborn world—one where power served only kindness, where no shadow could extinguish a life, where joy remained inviolate, and every soul, fragile or mighty, was cherished as a masterpiece of the cosmos.
In the quiet aftermath of that vision, one question endures:
Does such a world truly exist?
I still do not know.
But I am prepared to raze this one—if that is the price of determining whether a better one can rise from its ashes.