It happened thirty years ago.
It started with the pressure.
Not emotional pressure—atmospheric. You could feel the air compressing around your chest. Breathing became a task. The weight of an invisible force pushed against your skull, making it feel like someone had wrapped their hands around your throat and decided to see how long you'd last.
Three of us stood there that day.
The first was a giant—wrapped in cloth, bound like a mummy but alive and pulsing with something darker than life. The linen covering its body writhed like it had a will of its own. It was tall enough to blot out the sun for anyone standing too close. It didn't speak, not yet. But its presence screamed.
The second figure was a hunter. Tall, calm, cloaked in leather scorched from centuries of combat. He held a weapon that was more than a weapon—it was a being. It was said to have a mind, a body, and a soul of its own. Those who claimed to have seen it said it whispered in its wielder's ear and granted godlike power at a cost that no sane person would ever pay.
And the third figure?
Me.
Just me.
Some unlucky bastard caught between a walking apocalypse and a living god. I wasn't supposed to be there. I wasn't a soldier. I wasn't a general. I wasn't even from that continent. I had been trying to escape one war and stumbled into a catastrophe the world had never seen.
It all started on that day—the day they arrived.
The war had been going on for years by then. Two superpowers, locked in a conflict that made the rest of the world look away. A war not just of territory but of ideology, blood, and ego. What started with borders ended with genocide. Bombs rained like thunder. Children were trained as soldiers. And no one remembered why it began anymore—only that it hadn't ended.
That day, the battlefield was soaked with fog. A gray mist that refused to lift, as if nature itself wanted to hide the slaughter from the sky. At the heart of the field was a cursed no man's land where survival was almost mythical. No side dared to claim it. Anyone who went in didn't come back out. That's where I was.
Troops from both sides had bunkered into their respective barracks. You could hear the tension in their breath, the click of nervous fingers loading weapons, the muttered prayers spoken to gods who had long since stopped listening.
Screams echoed in the mist. Voices so mangled with terror you couldn't tell if they were friend or enemy. It didn't matter. The fog swallowed names.
Then a shape appeared.
From the heart of the smoke, a shadow stood. Still. Silent.
The soldiers noticed first. Guns were aimed, warnings shouted.
No movement.
"Identify yourself!" a captain shouted through the comms.
Silence.
Then a general, tired of playing games, gave the order. "Fire."
The first volley of bullets tore through the fog. Muzzle flashes lit up the gray. Hundreds of rounds spat death into the unknown.
But when the smoke cleared, the figure remained.
Not injured. Not even scratched.
And it had grown.
From the mist, a massive silhouette began to emerge—something not human, not even animal. Limbs stretched unnaturally. The cloth around its body moved as if alive, like it breathed. Words fail to describe what it looked like. You had to feel it. And when you did, it felt like your bones were collapsing inside your skin.
Some screamed. Some ran.
But most stood frozen—like prey caught in a nightmare it couldn't wake from.
Then the thing spoke.
Not in any language I recognized. Its voice wasn't heard—it vibrated. It echoed through the chest, bypassing the ears entirely.
"Listen, insects. The Supreme Lord has descended. What you see is not death, but liberation—from your crawling, pitiful existence. Resist, and you will leave no bones. Submit… and perhaps you will be remembered as the first to kneel."
The soldiers didn't move.
They didn't even breathe.
Until the slaughter began.
The public learned of the incident far too late. By then, it was no longer a war but an erasure. Major cities were destroyed in minutes. Governments were dismantled before they could make a single decision. Entire populations vanished.
Whispers spread like wildfire: rumors of unstoppable beings called the Nullborn—creatures born not of flesh, but from something older than the earth. Some said they were gods. Others said they were prisoners of a dying universe, seeking a new home by force.
All I knew is that death had taken form—and walked among us.
At the northern tower, soldiers launched grenades, RPGs, railgun fire—anything they could. Useless. A figure slipped through the fog behind them. No sound. No warning. Just steel.
A massive blade swung once.
Heads rolled.
Blood painted the walls.
The killer stood there, towering, faceless, cold. A living sculpture of death.
Fear ignited. Soldiers fled.
But in their panic, they ran the wrong way—directly toward the enemy.
Across the field, the opposing nation saw dozens of soldiers charging. Believing it an ambush, they prepared to retaliate. Mortars locked. Rifles loaded.
The general on the other side narrowed his eyes. Something felt wrong.
"These men… they're running from something. Not toward us," he muttered.
He raised his hand. "Hold fire!"
It was too late.
Before order could be restored, a scream rang from the highest point.
"Something's flying in"
And then…
The tower evaporated in a column of burning light.
No explosion. No debris. Just dust.
Every head turned. Above them, a winged figure descended. Not angelic—demonic. Its form twisted and writhed like a sketch drawn by a madman. Behind it, the soldiers who had fled dropped their weapons… and wept.
One by one, they picked up the guns of their enemies—and shot themselves.
That… was fear.
The kind of fear that ends bloodlines.
The kind of fear that makes death feel like forgiveness.
And me?
I was still in the center.
Trapped.
Frozen.
Watching gods walk among mortals—and burn everything in their path.
The world had changed. We just hadn't caught up yet.
And that was only the first day.