The Pulse didn't merely travel; it rippled through the vast emptiness of space, a wave of intangible light that touched the distant reaches of the solar system before it ever neared Earth. On Mars, the automated rovers registered inexplicable spikes in atmospheric pressure and sudden, localized magnetic field reversals. On Jupiter, its mighty storms flickered with anomalous energy, and even the distant Oort Cloud registered a subtle, resonant tremor. This was a force wholly unknown to human science, a pure, primordial surge that didn't match any solar flare, stellar nursery, or dark matter signature ever observed.
When this cosmic wave finally struck Earth, its initial point of manifestation was Deep beneath the Pacific Ocean. In the crushing depths of the Mariana Trench, where light dared not tread, a fracture in the bedrock—older than any tectonic shift recorded by science—became the conduit. The Pulse shot upwards, passing through miles of crushing seawater like a spear of profound, unseen light, detectable by every satellite, deep-sea monitor, and geomagnetic sensor in orbit or on Earth. Instruments worldwide screamed, registering unprecedented spikes in gravitational variance, magnetic polarity inversion, and inexplicable oscillations in time-space alignment. All of this emanated from the ocean's deepest point—the Challenger Deep.
Yet what the scientists saw in data, others felt in their bones—a profound, disorienting shift in the world's very essence.
Far across the planet, in the frozen stillness of the upper Himalayas, a circle of monks meditated in synchrony, their chants echoing through the thin, icy air. They did not need satellites; their hearts, aligned with the subtle rhythms of the world, suddenly beat out of rhythm. The youngest among them, barely sixteen, collapsed with a gasp, eyes wide and tear-filled. "The world is changing," he whispered, a tremble in his voice, as the elder monk cradled his shaking form. No further explanation was needed. All of them, from the eldest sage to the greenest novice, felt it: the Earth was stirring into an unprecedented awareness.
In the dense, pulsing green of the Amazon jungle, isolated from modern civilization, an elder shaman stood from his ceremonial seat of woven roots and stone. He placed his palm against the bark of an ancient kapok tree and listened. Not with ears, but with spirit. The sap of the tree ran hot, almost vibrating. The birds grew silent. The river's babble ceased. It was as if the very jungle held its breath, sensing an awakening within its ancient guardian. "The world speaks again," he murmured in awe, "and her voice is immense."
In cities of steel and light, where glass towers scraped the clouds and millions went about their lives with faces glued to screens, the change was subtler but no less real. Birds flew erratically in the sky, their navigation disrupted. Dogs barked without reason, sensing an invisible disquiet. Sensitive children awoke screaming, unable to describe the profound unease clawing at the edges of their minds. A feeling, just beneath awareness, crawled through the collective psyche of humanity. Something massive and ancient had moved, and the world would never be the same.
The Pulse—capitalized in the minds of those who studied it—didn't simply echo through stone or flesh. It resonated through mana.
Unknown to modern science but long chronicled in ancient scripts, mana had always been part of the world, existing as the subtle lifeblood of creation. Hidden, subtle, only manipulatable by those gifted or cursed enough to perceive it. The cosmic Pulse didn't create mana—it was the catalyst that revealed and amplified it, flooding the Earth with energies it had been cut off from for eons. Across the globe, lines of power, once dormant, flared into being. In Iceland, ancient runes glowed on stones that hadn't been touched in centuries. In Egypt, the Nile shimmered with a strange golden hue under the moonlight. And in Tokyo, a child drew a glowing circle on her bedroom wall without realizing her chalk had become a conduit for raw energy.
This sudden, overwhelming influx of cosmic mana was the true trigger. For eons, Earth's Will—the very consciousness of the planet itself—had slumbered, content to watch its children rise and fall, its deeper senses attuned only to the natural flow of its own internal energies. But now, with the breach of the veil that separated Earth from the mana-saturated multiverse, and with this overwhelming external infusion, the Will opened one eye. Not in panic, but in purpose. The Earth was not simply reacting to the mana influx—it was preparing.
Humans, long dormant in potential, began to change. Across the globe, people experienced strange, spontaneous awakenings. They were no longer bound by mere biology or physics in the ways they once were. Instead, many discovered they had affinities—elemental alignments tied to the newly active ley lines. Some awoke with the ability to command flame, others to walk upon water, bend wind, or shape earth. These individuals became known as Awakeners, and as days passed, they began to identify with their unique element or power.
Yet not all Awakeners controlled elements. A rarer, more chaotic awakening occurred in a few—a direct bestowment of supernatural gifts by the Earth's Will itself, acting as a planetary immune response to the cosmic intrusion. These individuals didn't draw mana from the world—they were anchored to it, possessed of strange, divine abilities that defied classification: immunity to magic, perfect memory recall, projection of truth, or manipulation of emotion. They became known as Bearers, and they were feared and revered.
The initial, chaotic period of awakening was merely a prelude. As the two years progressed, the Earth's Will, now fully conscious, began to exert its influence more directly, subtly guiding the burgeoning powers of its chosen Bearers and subtly shifting the global mana lines. This wasn't a benevolent nudge; it was a planetary defense mechanism, preparing for the true threat. The rift in the Milky Way, once a distant source of energy, was widening, and something vast and ancient was beginning to stir within its depths—something that had sought Earth's unique life-mana signature for millennia. Humanity's struggle with its newfound abilities and internal divisions was about to become a fight for planetary survival against an enemy from beyond the stars, an enemy for whom mana was not a gift, but a commodity.
The Earth, in its profound, silent wisdom, knew this. It had seen civilizations rise and fall, felt the ebb and flow of countless lives, but this was different. This was an existential threat, not just to humanity, but to the very essence of the living planet. The Awakeners and Bearers, with their incredible, often unwieldy powers, were its last, best hope. They were raw, untrained, and often at war with each other, but they carried the spark of the Earth's defiance. The coming conflict would reshape not just continents, but the very definition of what it meant to be human, and whether life, in its vibrant, messy diversity, could truly endure.
Over the these two years, Earth shifted violently. New nations rose under awakened leaders. Old powers collapsed. War broke out between elementally divided factions. And just as Earth teetered on collapse, the worst began.