The words on the scroll gnawed at her, refusing to fade. They pressed into her mind with a feverish intensity, etching themselves somewhere deeper than memory: "You see it now—the day's here. Every demon is loose, out of whatever cage held them. Nothing's stopping them anymore.
The world's falling apart, and the chosen one isn't even born yet. Demons run the show. All they care about is finding the chosen one's mother and killing her before the child can take a breath."
She read those words over and over, each repetition hollowing her out. Disbelief warred with numb terror as the full weight of what they meant settled over her. The gods—those distant, shining figures people built their hopes around, the ones prayed to at dawn and dusk, the ones trusted to keep evil at bay—offered nothing. Not even a whisper of comfort or warning. They had become as unreachable as stars behind storm clouds. She wondered, her spirit bruised and battered, why they would allow this deluge of suffering to flood the world. Why would they let demons slip their chains and turn everything to nightmare? The question echoed inside her, gathering heaviness until it felt like her bones would snap under its burden. If even the gods had abandoned them, what hope could remain for anyone?
She forced her gaze back to the scroll, desperate for something—anything—that might offer a clue or a way out. That's when she saw it: a drawing so detailed it made her skin crawl. It was her own face, unmistakable, staring out from the parchment with empty, sightless eyes. Her body was sprawled in a pool of blood that twisted into grotesque patterns, each spatter a dark prophecy. Beneath that scene, another: entire cities reduced to ruin, their skeletons jutting up against an ashen sky aflame. At the fore, the chosen one—still a child, bound and forced to kneel before a jeering mob as flames licked the horizon. The message was clear: this was the price of resistance, a warning to any who dared to hope.
A sick panic overtook her. She recoiled, bile rising in her throat, and hurled the scroll away as if it might burn her. The instant it struck the floor, it vanished, dissolving into nothingness. But the terror it had stirred refused to leave. It gripped her with icy fingers, squeezing tighter every time her heart beat.
Outside, a new kind of sickness crept across the land, one that defied understanding and mercy. It spread not just among humans, but through spirits as well—those immortal beings who had once mingled with mortals, who had walked among them, even loved them, fathered children with them. Now, they too were afflicted, weakened and dying. The ancient boundaries between humans, spirits, and demons withered, blurring until they collapsed entirely. Blood of every shade soaked the ground: crimson from humans, shimmering silver from half-breeds, thick black ichor from the demons. It was as if the world itself was bleeding out, every wound a crack in reality's fabric.
Then the sky itself seemed to shudder. The seven gates of heaven—sealed and guarded for centuries—splintered open. The world shook as legions of demons, wild spirits, and rebel angels erupted from above, their grief and fury seething in the very air, twisting the winds into howls of rage. The world was no longer governed by order but by the raw, chaotic will of these unleashed beings. The sun dimmed beneath their shadow, and the ground trembled with every step they took.
Far below, the gates of hell and the ancient underworld began to fail. Their locks, worn thin by ages of unrest and whispered rebellion, finally snapped. The earth split, thunder rolled across black clouds, and from within the fracture, Elixer—once imprisoned, now set free by the world's unraveling—roared forth. He tore through the sky, his arrival a wound in the firmament. His four spirits, finally freed from their bonds, shrieked their fury and dove toward the earth, eager to unleash all the violence of their captivity. In their wake, other demons surged, a tide of hunger and ambition, eager to shape a new dominion from the chaos.
Amidst this upheaval, Elixic—who had been masquerading as a human, living a borrowed life—felt the irresistible pull of the opened gates. He shed his human disguise and began to search hungrily for a new vessel. He found it in a dying child, a rare half-human, half-spirit, whose veins throbbed with ancient magic. Elixic slipped into the failing body, drawing in immortality with each breath. But even as power returned to him, he felt no triumph. He knew Elixer would be hunting him; retribution was inevitable. There was no sanctuary, only fleeting safety in the shadows and the constant gnawing of fear. The taste of power was soured by dread.
Civilization unraveled in a matter of weeks. Demons swept through cities and towns, possessing half the survivors, destroying everything that had once brought structure and comfort. Where laughter and conversation had once filled the streets, now there was only silence, broken by distant, anguished screams. Katrina, battered and desperate, fought with every ounce of strength she had left to free her son from a demon's clutches. But pain crashed over her—a pain so deep it felt like her body was splitting in two. Labor had started, relentless and unstoppable.
The world outside was a wasteland. Hospitals and markets were empty shells, the living either fled or dead, and the proud city of Newtown had become nothing but a wreckage of stone and bone. Alone, Katrina stumbled through the ruins, every step a struggle, clutching her swollen belly as contractions wracked her body. She found shelter in the cold, damp darkness of a collapsed cellar. Blood and water spilled in waves, pooling at her feet. Her cries echoed off the crumbling walls, mixing with the distant, monstrous howls that haunted the night—a chorus of agony and hunger that signaled the end of the old world and the birth of something terrifying and new.
As the pain tore through her, Katrina realized she was more than a victim of fate. She was the crux around which the world's hope and despair spun. Every scream, every desperate breath, was a defiance of the darkness pressing in on all sides. Outside, ancient powers warred for dominance, but inside that ruined cellar, something fragile and miraculous still struggled for life. And in that struggle, perhaps, was a sliver of the redemption the world so desperately needed—even as the gods watched in silence, and the shadows closed in.
Time unraveled, dissolving into a blur of pain, sweat, and determination as Katrina fought to deliver her child into the world. Minutes stretched and collapsed, boundaries between heartbeat and eternity blurring until even the universe itself seemed to pause, every breath suspended in anticipation. The air in the battered room thickened, charged with a strange energy, as if unseen eyes watched, waiting for this precise moment. With a final, agonized cry, her child arrived—a tiny, shivering boy, his first gasp a desperate plea for life.
As Katrina gathered him to her chest, trembling and spent, she caught the eerie glow on his right hand: a mark shining through newborn skin, the name Optima etched in light that pulsed with an ancient power. This was no ordinary birth. He was the son of the one whispered about in legends, the being called 'ALL.' In her arms lay the child prophesied to tear down worlds and resurrect them, the axis upon which fate would hinge, the one for whom destinies would shatter and reform.
His cries cut through the heavy silence, wild and raw, echoing off the cracked walls like a beacon in the darkness. Each wail seemed to challenge the gloom itself, declaring his arrival to a world on the brink. Katrina clung to him, her exhaustion deepening with every heartbeat, but a strange sense of purpose flickered within her—an instinct to protect, to shield this fragile hope.
Suddenly, the air shifted. She was no longer alone. From the edge of shadow, a figure emerged—unlike any she'd seen or even imagined. Blood stained his torn clothing and skin, the color of old rust and fresh wounds. It clung to him, a testament to battles survived and horrors witnessed. His presence radiated violence and something older, a force forged between the first spark of creation and the last echo of destruction. In his hands blazed twin swords, their flames carving restless, flickering patterns that danced over the battered walls and floor.
He moved with a gravity that made the world seem to tilt around him, every step sending a subtle tremor through the ground, as if the earth itself recognized and feared him. The air around him crackled, charged with ancient power and expectation, the weight of untold centuries pressing in on Katrina. He was not demon or man, but an echo of something elemental and eternal, shaped by chaos and order alike.
He stopped before her, lowering his swords but never releasing them, the fire reflecting in his eyes—eyes that held storms, losses, and the memory of ages. He studied the baby first, then Katrina, his gaze sharp enough to pierce the soul.
"You have brought forth the one who can shift the balance," he intoned, his words resonant and heavy, as if spoken at the dawn of time. "The world is already turning. There are those who will come—angels hungry for salvation, demons desperate for control. They will hunt this child, drawn by what he represents, what he might become. But all is not yet lost. Old vows linger, older hopes flicker in the darkness. I am neither your savior nor your doom, but while he is helpless, I will clear the way, just long enough for him to take his first steps alone."
He traced a glowing sigil through the air with his blade, and in an instant Katrina's mind was flooded with visions—armies clashing beneath torn skies, monstrous shapes rising from the deep, her son grown tall and fierce at the heart of a flaming world. She saw herself, older and hardened, leading a frightened crowd through shattered landscapes. She saw two figures—Elixer and Elixic—locked in a vicious battle that split the heavens and threatened to unmake everything.
The images faded, leaving her breathless and shaken. The stranger rose, firelight flickering along his bloodied arms. "Speak his name to no one," he warned, his tone sharpened with urgency. "Protect him at all costs. There are powers older than gods, crueler than the darkest demon, and their gaze is already upon you both."
Without another word, he turned and melted back into the night, his flaming swords leaving brief ribbons of light that curled and vanished in the mist. The storm outside finally broke, rain pounding the roof and streaming down the walls, washing the blood from Katrina's hands and face. She pressed her son close, tears mingling with the rain, and felt the fierce, undeniable beat of hope in his tiny body—a hope that howled and refused to be silenced, a hope that belonged to her, to him, and perhaps to the whole broken world.
Nothing would ever return to what it once was. Beyond the shattered window, the world lay raw and wounded, threats lurking in every shadow. Yet in Katrina's trembling arms, a new force had entered existence—one with the power to remake everything. And as the stranger faded, melting into darkness, unseen eyes stirred and narrowed, drawn by the promise now cradled in her embrace. The real battle was only beginning, and the fate of all things would rest on the choices made .