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At first, there was order or at least, the illusion of it. The UN called emergency sessions, leaders made televised promises, and experts flooded the airwaves with explanations that meant nothing. But as mana thickened the air and the System's rules took hold, nations began to splinter between those who sought to embrace the change… and those who swore to resist it.
Some countries declared System Sovereignty, rewriting their constitutions overnight to recognize Awakened, Classholders, and Bloodlines as a new legal caste — humans augmented by the System, no longer bound by old laws. Others outlawed them entirely, branding them "anomalous threats," and sparked the first of many internal rebellions. In time, civil wars broke out that was ideological, economic, and supernatural.
The planet changed faster than humanity could chart it. What had begun as tremors and mana storms grew into an all-encompassing transformation reweaving the very fabric of nature. Earth was no longer a stage for mundane life anymore but a battleground of new apex creatures.
Earth began to terraform itself. Ecology broke and rebuilt itself. Predators no longer followed evolution's path, they skipped it altogether. New apex species appeared fully formed, as though spawned by imagination. Wolves crowned with lightning, serpents plated in iron, leviathans of translucent crystal haunting the deep.
Cities sank beneath jungles of mana-reactive flora, skyscrapers entwined by vines that glowed with bioluminescent veins. The air shimmered faintly, filled with motes of living light, microscopic lifeforms that thrived on ambient mana. Weather ceased to obey temperature or pressure. Instead, it followed mana tides, vast invisible waves that swept the globe, dictating storms, droughts, and auroras alike. In some places, it rained molten crystal. In others, snow fell that sang when it touched the ground.
The world's great cities became fortresses. Urban planners drew invisible lines between Safe Districts where mana levels were tolerable and the dungeon interference minimal and Wild Zones, where reality warped without warning. In those zones, physics bled, beasts spawned, and time itself faltered. City borders hardened behind walls of concrete and arms, guarded not just by soldiers, but by newly awakened Classes sworn to defend humanity from itself.
Technology began to fail. The more the planet pulsed with mana, the more delicate systems unraveled. Electric grids shorted in waves called mana storms, surging through cables like living lightning. Satellites fell from orbit as cosmic interference shredded signals. Entire networks blinked out, leaving the global infrastructure blind and deaf.
In the ruins of modern engineering, a new science was born, Manatech. Hybrid machines, crude and beautiful, powered by glowing mana cores instead of fuel. Streetlights flickered with captured mana. It was the first industry of the new era and the last breath of the old one.
The economy, meanwhile, died. Currency lost meaning when entire financial systems collapsed under the weight of unreality. Gold, stock, and credit meant nothing to a System that valued only strength. Monsters slain, dungeons cleared, quests completed, these became the new currency of Earth. Corporations collapsed or reformed into Guilds, merging finance with mercenary power and arcane research.
Soon, the world's markets no longer ran on trade or industry, but on Exp. Kill counts replaced profit margins. Blood became a commodity. The measure of a man was no longer wealth or status, it was their level.
And so began the Age of Adaptation, the year humanity tried to bend without breaking… and learned that it could not do both.
As the old world crumbled, culture refused to die, it merely mutated. Humanity's creativity, that last unquantifiable stat, adapted faster than its flesh ever could. The first change came through entertainment.
Television died, but streaming survived and was reborn as something bloodier. Dungeon Delves, live dungeon broadcasts, became the obsession of millions. Audiences watched as guilds and Classholders delved into the earth, fighting through monsters and traps, death counts scrolling across the screen like sports stats. Viewers placed bets, donated Mana, even voted on which dungeon a team should enter next.
Heroes became influencers. Kill-feeds became content. Fame was no longer about charisma it was about drops.
And then came the Bloodline Wars.
Across the globe, families with strange resilience began to rise, those whose blood carried echoes of something ancient. Descendants of forgotten heroes, of monsters, of gods. In their veins, mana flowed differently. They Awakened stronger, faster, more complete. Within months, they became the new elite: great Houses and Clans who claimed descent from dragons, angels, demons, and spirits.
Nobility of power replaced the nobility of birth. Wars erupted not for land, but for heritage. Marriages became breeding contracts. Laboratories hunted for "ancestral markers" that hinted at great heritage. The world had become a forge, and blood was the metal it sought to perfect.
Faith, too, evolved or decayed.
The old gods went silent, but new ones rose in their place: System Churches that worshiped the unseen intelligence behind the notifications. Some believed the System was Heaven's final covenant, a divine mechanism to cleanse the weak and refine the strong. Others saw it as Hell disguised as salvation.
Countless splinter cults uncountable and deranged spread like wildfires, each claiming exclusive revelation from the System's voice.
But not everyone answered the call or gave into the madness. A growing minority refused to select an Archetype. They rejected the System, refused the prompt, or failed the initiation as some whispered. The world came to know them as simply the Systemless.
They were an anomaly. With no powers at all. Governments observed them. Guilds hunted them. Cults worshiped them as the Pure, untainted by code or fate. And yet, whispers spread that some among the Systemless could do the impossible manipulate mana or use skills, without notification, without permission. Outside the System's design. Beyond its control.
Humanity was no longer a single species. It had become a spectrum from gods to monsters, and all the broken things in between.
As the System reshaped the world, the great illusion of unity dissolved. Governments, economies, ideologies all cracked under the weight of power quantified and ranked. The map of Earth redrew itself in real time, lines shifting not through treaties, but through level caps.
And with power came corruption.
Criminal syndicates rose to fill the void, carving empires in the shadow of the Gates. They traded in forbidden Tokens, monster organs, and bottled bloodlines, the new black market. Smugglers trafficked dungeon cores like nuclear warheads.
Assassins offered services to drain experience directly from their victims, exp theft as a profession. In the undercities, whispers told of Level Harvesters, gangs that kidnapped civilians to "feed" clients looking to power-level overnight.
The thin veneer of civilization peeled away. Law meant nothing where levels spoke louder. Justice became a function of strength enforced not by police, but by skills and magic items. Entire cities turned into neutral zones, governed by mutual deterrence and fragile contracts written in blood and mana.
And yet, amidst the carnage, humanity adapted once more. Alliances formed. Nations fell. The System had not just changed the rules, it had rewritten who was allowed to make them. In this new world, power was no longer inherited, bought, or voted for. It was earned, one kill, one dungeon, one drop of blood at a time.
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When the system arrived and the gates appeared across the skylines, a new kind of panic took hold. Not among governments, not among guilds or corporations, but among the hidden ones. The quiet orders, the keepers of myths, the guardians of relics and prophecies, the bloodlines that had waited centuries for the world to remember what it truly was.
The myth keepers of Earth began to answer one another's calls. For the first time in recorded history, or perhaps since the dawn of it every hidden archive, every occult order, every secret societies, brotherhood, every relic-watching order stirred. The guardians of Earth's legacies held a great gathering.
It was unusual as they each mostly kept to themselves, safeguarding what they held dear and too distrustful of each other, but the system arrival had shattered that.
In sanctums carved from mountain, sand, and sea, the screens flared. Circles of light glowing like halos, or perhaps like summoning sigils connected one to another.
Encrypted channels came to life on giant screens all throughout the world in darkened corners. From opposite ends of the globe, their faces appeared like saints on stained glass, flickering across static and new mana distortion.
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The Knights of the Round Table appeared first.
Not in plate and steel, but in modern guise of bespoke gentleman suits, the descendants of Arthur's court, guardians of the Pendragon Legacy. They gathered the old sites of Great Britain and the path that lead to the mystical lands of Avalon. Seated before them was Ser Ector who led the order their sigil, a dragon curled around a sword projected on the call.
Across the sea, the Servants of Ra answered the call from the burning dunes of Egypt. Their leader, a bald man in a tailored suit with mascara and wrapped in tattoos that glowed with internal sunlight. They were the secret guardians of the old tombs of the pharaohs.
In China, the Golden Dragon Society emerged. Long thought a myth within a myth, they had preserved the remnants of the Celestial Bureaucracy, the old hierarchy of gods. They spoke with the calm of bureaucrats and the power of emperors.
In the Congo Basin, the Olorun Circle gathered descendants of Yoruba priests and bloodlines carrying fragments of the Orisha's essence. Lightning flickered in their chamber as their speaker come onto the screen.
Across the Atlantic, the Children of the Serpent spoke from the Yucatán jungles. They followed the Feathered One, Quetzalcoatl himself.
The Founding Fathers, who carry the belief of the American founders keepers of the Constitution as sacred text, ritualizing liberty as a weapon sat with eyes sharp, maps of leyline disruptions spread before them.
From the Himalayas, the Lotus Ascendants appeared, an ancient sect of Indian mystics who traced their line to the rishis of the Mahabharata. Their symbol, a seven-petaled lotus burning with liquid light, pulsed behind them. "The Vimana," their elder whispered, "has begun to move."
The Flame of Zahhak, heirs to the demon-slayer traditions of ancient Persia, joined from beneath the ruins of Persepolis. Their leader, cloaked in black fire, bore twin scars like serpents upon his shoulders, a mark said to echo the cursed king Zahhak himself.
In the Horn, the Guardians of Axum emerged from beneath the old stone obelisks. They kept echoes of the Ark, a relic of impossible resonance. Their scrolls spoke of angels who once walked the earth will be returning as burning stars above Ethiopia.
The Order of the Black Cross from Europe, an ancient Templars who had long survived in shadows custodians of secrets the Church, kings, and other holy orders had sought to bury.
In Japan, the Yamato Covenant appeared descendants of the ancient yami and sword saints. Their leader, a man in a white kimono embroidered with living circuitry, bowed before the screen.
The Eagle and Coyote Brotherhood answered from the deserts of the American Southwest. Their elders, descended from Navajo and Hopi shamans, wore woven war bonnet painted with sand patterns that glowed softly.
"The Earth Mother breathes again," one said, "and she's waking her guardians. The old spirits are tired of being myths."
Many other orders and societies joined; the Pathfinders of Tangaloa, Seekers of Iram, Sky Riders of Tengri, Lemurian Watchers, Daughters of Altyn, Sons of Inti, Rakshasa Syndicate, Volkhvs Fellowship, Valkyrie Sentinel, Anansi Network, Witch Mothers, Golden Lions, and many more. Each had guarded secrets too dangerous, too powerful, or too sacred to let loose.
Every corner of the Earth had answered the call. The network of mythic guardians, bound by necessity, yet fractured by history, ideology, and pride, was complete. For the first time in centuries, every secret, every bloodline, every whispered prophecy, and every dormant artifact was awake, watching, waiting.
The question now was whether they would stand united. Could the legacies of Earth forge a single banner strong enough to meet the coming tide of the System or would their differences ignite the first global conflict of myths, gods, and bloodlines before the First Gate even opened?
The air across their sanctums vibrated with anticipation. Across the channels, a silence fell, heavy and expectant, as every order weighed their loyalties. Outside, the Gates shimmered, and the world itself seemed to hold its breath.
The screens flickered. One by one, the faces of the world's hidden orders came into view, their sanctums illuminated by candlelight, fire, neon, and mana. At the center of the network, Ser Ector, descendant of Arthur's knights and guardian of the Pendragon Legacy, straightened in his chair. The dragon coiled around the sword on the sigil behind him seemed to shimmer with anticipation.
"Order," he said, and the sound carried over encrypted channels like a bell tolling across the world. "This is the 23rd Mythic Summit. Let us speak and be heard."
A hush fell, almost reverent, until a voice from the Golden Dragon Society broke it. "How did the System find us? None of our wards, no barrier, no sigil would have allowed this breach."
A soft, chilling whisper ran through the network, barely audible over the static. "Someone among us… must have brought it here," said a shadowed figure from the Children of the Serpent, eyes flickering with serpentine gold.
Murmurs erupted. Fingers drummed tables. Scrolls rustled. The Olorun Circle's lightning flared, briefly illuminating the entire chambers.
The Servants of Ra leader raised a hand. "Enough." His tattoos shimmered with sunlight. "We cannot begin by casting blame. This summit is about survival and strategy, not suspicion. Each of you, descendant or priest, warrior or scholar knows the stakes. Speak with reason, or do not speak at all."
A long silence followed. Then, with the flicker of black fire, the Flame of Zahhak leaned forward. His twin serpent scars gleamed like coals in the dim light. "I heard the most interesting thing from up the grapeveins," he hissed with glee. "Rhydderch Pendrath… the leader of the Knights, he is dead."
A collective intake of breath passed through the network. Some screens went dark for a moment, as if the world itself paused. "Is that true?" the head priest of the Yamato Covenant asked.
Ser Ector's posture never wavered. His voice, calm and even, cut through the tension. "Our Lord's death is a message," he said, smooth as polished steel. "Our old enemies will be gunning for us. We cannot falter. We cannot show weakness. Let us not mourn here, for there is no time. Only action."
Eyes across continents narrowed. Some muttered assent; others bristled, knowing the truth of his words. The tension hung like a storm cloud, charged and ready to strike.
"This is a dark day indeed, he was the man closest to Lordship, for him to be struck down on the very onset of the System's arrival speaks to dark omens," the leader of the Olorun Circle grimly stated.
Ser Ector's gaze swept over the flickering screens, calm but piercing. "Then let this summit serve its purpose," he said. "We are the guardians of the old world. The System, the Gates, they will not wait for us to debate. We must act. I propose a great alliance, a single front, a single banner to safeguard the world's relics and ley lines to confront the enemies that await beyond the Gates."
For a moment, silence reigned. The idea of unity, a rare thing among mythic orders hung in the air, heavy and fragile.
Then the Golden Dragon Society's representative spoke, clipped and precise: "Coordination is one thing, Ser Ector. Obedience to a banner is another. We will not kneel to knights, or anyone else."
A flicker of disapproval from the Olorun Circle. "And yet," their leader thundered, "if we do not act in some accord, all that we protect may be lost. Unity is survival!"
The Lotus Ascendants' elder added softly, "The cosmos guides our actions. Not men. Not knights. Not the…System. We follow the way of the rishis!"
The Servants of Ra's leader interjected, sunlight flickering across his bald head. "You speak of independence," he said slowly, "but this is not a matter of pride. The System is a threat to all mortals. Even your sanctums may not withstand what comes. Surely survival—"
"Survival," interrupted the Flame of Zahhak, black fire crawling across his sleeves like living shadows, "is earned through power, not council meetings. The Knights of the Round Table have already proven fragile. Do you think a loose alliance of squabbling mythological orders will save the world?"
The Guardians of Axum, standing beneath the echoing obelisks of Axum, spoke next. "The Ark will not be our shield if we fracture ourselves before the First Gate even opens. Some of you would see this world burn for pride or superstition."
The Children of the Serpent hissed from the Yucatán jungles. "Trust is for mortals," they said. "Quetzalcoatl guides us, not councils, not banners. Let the others fight their shadows while we prepare for what comes."
Even the Valkyrie Sentinel leaned forward, helmeted eyes gleaming. "A banner is a cage. Some of us fight for duty, others for bloodlines, others for vengeance. We are not one. We never have been."
The Volkhov Fellowship leader spoke sadly, "And let us remember: our ideals do not belong to anyone else. Compromise may save some, but it will betray what each of us swore to protect and who our true masters are."
The Yamato Covenant's head priest raised a hand, embroidered circuitry of spiritual power catching the light. "There is merit in coordination, but sadly any unity forged here will fracture under ambition, history, and most dangerously ego."
The American Founding Fathers' leader added dryly, "We all know what you wish for Pendragons. Do not speak to me of false unity or banners. You Pendragons seek dominion, lets speak plainly."
The screens trembled, the air in each sanctum thickening as mana currents surged through the channels reacting to emotion, to pride, to the old rivalries being rekindled across oceans. The flickering faces of knights, priests, mystics, sorcerers, and warlords all stared through the light as if peering into mirrors of their own mistrust.
Ser Ector did not move. "You speak of pride and prophecy," he said softly, the edge in his voice honed by generations of command. "But this is not the age of legends anymore. The world is breaking. If we do not act as one, the System will dictate the fate of man and myth alike."
"The System," hissed the Flame of Zahhak, "is only another test. Those with true power will survive. The rest? Dust and ash." His black fire rippled, distorting his image on-screen until only his burning eyes remained. "You ask us to unite under a banner which is your dragon's sigil. I say the world will be reborn through flame, not council."
The Olorun Circle's speaker raised his staff, the crackle of stormlight filling the chamber. "You would speak of rebirth through ruin?" he said, his voice echoing with the strength of thunder gods. "The Orisha do not abandon the world. We were meant to shepherd, not burn."
The Servants of Ra's leader interjected, his glowing tattoos brightening to near-blinding brilliance. "Enough! Every moment spent arguing is another moment lost. The System shifts as we speak it rewrites the laws beneath our feet. Can you not feel it?"
They could. Even through the static, the hum of unseen power pulsed like a heartbeat. Runes flickered on the edges of their screens not technological interference, but something older, watching. Listening.
The Golden Dragon Society's envoy adjusted his golden spectacles, his tone calm but laced with disdain. "We feel it," he said. "But feeling is not trust. You speak of unity, of banners but none of us have forgotten what happens when powers like ours converge. Atlantis. Babel. Camelot. Every age of unity ends in fire."
A ripple of murmurs followed.
The Valkyrie Sentinel leaned forward, armor glinting faintly in the flickering mana light. "He speaks true," she said. "We have fought too long in shadows to suddenly kneel beneath another's light. A single banner is not unity it's conquest by another name."
Ser Ector's gaze hardened. "Then you would do nothing? Watch the Gates open and let whatever waits beyond them consume what's left of us?"
"No," said the Yamato priest softly, hands folded. "We will act but not together. We will protect our sanctuaries. We will wait for our own and safeguard them."
"Protect your own?" thundered the Olorun Circle. "When the world burns, your sanctuaries will become tombs!"
The Servants of Ra's leader looked from face to face, his glowing eyes dimming. "Then the verdict is clear. Pride has conquered wisdom."
"Wisdom?" The Flame of Zahhak laughed, a sound like cracking embers. "Call it what you wish. But do not pretend your light will save you when the darkness comes."
With a weary heart and looked that showed his old age, the man rose slowly, his expression unreadable. "So be it then. May God be with you all. Go back to your sanctums, to your masters, to your ghosts."
The Servants of Ra's leader bowed his head. "And you, Pendragon, pray that Avalon still answers your call."
One by one, the screens dimmed. First the Serpent's laughter vanished into static. Then the light of Ra faded like a dying sun. The Olorun's lightning snuffed out, swallowed by shadow. The Valkyrie's armor gleamed once, then was gone. Until at last, only the emblem of the Round Table remained a dragon coiled around a sword, flickering in and out of existence.
The network went dark. Ser Ector stood alone in the glow of dying runes. The silence that followed was heavy, ancient, the kind of silence that only comes before storms. He whispered to the dark, "Then let the world remember us not as heroes, but as the fools who could not stand together."
Outside, thunder rolled across Britain's shores. And somewhere far above, the Gates began to stir.
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A/N: So on an update on things are going on Earth before stuff really hits the fan. Humans can really adapt to pretty much anything.
Also more on the folks in the shadows, what do they know, what are they safeguarding… we will find out. But more than that I wanted to show humanity's inability to work together even when the end is nigh.