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helloseashere · 2 months ago

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Fragmented

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Chapter Two: When the Sky Cracked

History, they say, doesn’t care for dates—dates are too neat, too delicate for memory. It cares only for the things that come bleeding through the cracks in time. The day the sky cracked open is not remembered as a date, but for what it let fall: the dragons.

The First Rift did not simply open—it shattered. A tear so violent, so profane, that it cracked the air itself. The sky, torn like a canvas left too long in the sun, bled molten light over the Carpathian Mountains, and the Earth itself seemed to tremble beneath the weight of the coming storm. For days, the air smelled of sulfur, the acrid sting of ozone and fire. The first witnesses—those who had the fortune of living long enough to speak—claimed that the fabric of reality itself unraveled in a tear so enormous, it seemed as if the heavens were simply giving up. The winds screamed as the air thickened with something ancient, something wrong, and through this bleeding rift came two forms that eclipsed the sun. Two Dragons.

The first dragon was red as fire—the color of blood, of ruin. It was a monstrous thing, spined with protrusions that looked like jagged iron, its body wound with a strength no living thing had ever known. It moved like a force of nature, an embodiment of war itself. Cities in Eastern Europe fell in a matter of hours. Prague—one of Europe’s ancient jewels—was nothing but ash before noon. Krakow, with its storied walls, was shattered like glass beneath the dragon’s wake. The German military scrambled to respond, but the dragon’s scales were like molten shields, and nothing could pierce its hide. Missiles detonated in midair, their explosion nothing more than a burst of futile light.

The other dragon was green, a long-necked serpent that seemed to slip through the sky like a shadow given form. Its scales shimmered with an ancient energy that made the very air tremble. It coiled above East Asia, sending tsunamis of fear through every city it passed. Tokyo, once a city of light, was swallowed by a darkness so complete it was as though the sun had died. Seoul barely survived. And in Nanjing, the dragon rested on the ruins of what had been a temple, its roar like cracking glaciers—harsh, cruel, mocking. The armies that came for it were little more than ants, swarming beneath its weight, their weapons nothing more than the scratching of insects against something far too vast to notice.

But humanity did not kneel. Humanity did not cower.

They screamed. They fought.

And in that fight, something awoke in them. Something terrible, something born not in the sterile halls of science or the temples of old gods, but in the chaos of pure desperation. Weapons of myth forged from the very will to survive. Shields that deflected the dragon's flame. People who could leap onto the backs of monsters and tear them apart with their bare hands. The first Hunters, born not from laboratories or rituals, but from blood and fire, arose. They were the survivors, the few who could hear the rift's call, who could feel the ancient energy rewriting the very core of their being.

Some said the rift rewrote DNA. Others whispered that the dragons themselves brought with them magic older than the world. It didn’t matter. What mattered was this: Humanity did not bend. Humanity fought back.

And so they formed alliances, forged not from diplomacy but from necessity. The red dragon was brought low over the ruins of Vienna, its massive form falling with a deafening roar, shaking the ground as it died. The green dragon, sensing the fall of its twin, hissed something ancient and incomprehensible before vanishing back into the rift, leaving nothing but silence and the stench of death in its wake.

The rift sealed itself. But the world did not heal.

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Five Years Later

The world was never the same. Rifts continued to tear through the fabric of reality. Smaller now, more frequent, but always dangerous. Some rifts led to dungeons, sealed pockets of otherworldly space that hid monsters, treasure, relics, resources that defied reason. Others were less predictable, more violent. The rift—their rift—had broken something deep within the Earth, and every rupture, every tear in the world, was a reminder that the old laws no longer applied.

And so, the Guild System rose. The Hunter Order. The Rift Accord. The politics of this new world were brutal. The United Rift Authority (URA) was born from a fractured coalition—NATO, the UN, and the newly awakened powers banded together to regulate Rift activity. Guilds became the new aristocracy. Those with power to clear dungeons wielded wealth. Those who could survive Red Portals became legends.

A Red Portal was a sovereign zone of death. Nations only sent teams inside when they had no choice, and only after negotiating the price of their lives. To survive a Red Portal made you mythic. Only ten teams in the world had ever returned.

John and Rose had been two of them.

Their guild, Ellis Dawn, was small but mighty. They never sought fame, but in a world where survival was a brutal currency, fame found them all the same. The Warden and the Protector—they were names whispered in every tavern, in every dark alley where Hunters gathered. Theirs was not a story of glory, but of blood, sweat, and rage. They were the ones who fought, who bled, and who survived.

But every year, on the same day the First Rift opened, they returned to that same field. A place that was once a school. A place that had once been home to their daughter, Evelyn.

Five years had passed, and every year they stood in that cratered place, under the shadow of a grave marker that stood tall and proud, though no body lay beneath it. The marker had never once been disturbed. No body had ever been found.

Their younger daughter, Emily, was thirteen now. She had awakened last year, quiet and observant. She was smart beyond her years, dangerously so. She had learned to ask fewer questions, for she already knew the answers. She knew that Evelyn’s body had never been found, and that sometimes her parents still cried when they thought no one was watching. She knew, too, that when her father forged chains in training, they pulsed with rage instead of light.

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And so they returned, the ritual unchanged. The rift still hummed in the distance, and as they approached the empty field, the air seemed to thicken, the memory of what had happened still fresh in the cracks of the land. The ground itself had never healed. The shattered pavement, the blackened stone, the scorched earth—it was all still there, a reminder of the day the sky cracked, the day everything ended.

John stood over the grave marker, his fists clenched, his breath ragged.

"She's not coming back," Rose whispered, her voice cracked and broken. She reached out, brushing her fingers over the cold stone. "She's not coming back."

But John was silent. His eyes, burning with the heat of a thousand battles fought and lost, scanned the horizon as if expecting, hoping, to see a figure emerge from the smoke, to hear the sound of footsteps on the cracked pavement. But nothing came.

Only the wind. And the whisper of something far older than either of them, far older than humanity itself.

The dragons were gone. But the world had not healed.

And in their absence, there was only the echo of what had been, and the shadow of what was yet to come.

#fantasy #webnovel #story

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helloseashere · 2 months ago

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So, I just started a webnovel project. I just want to share my ideas. Please be gentle with me.

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Name: Fragmented

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Chapter One – The Day the Sky Shattered

The sky cracked open at 4:17 PM on a Thursday.

Johnathan Ellis would never forget the time, not because of the disaster, but because he had glanced at the car’s digital clock, irked by the creeping weight of traffic as they neared downtown. Rosaline, her lips curved into a soft smile, hummed along to an old song, the kind that still clung to the air like perfume. In the back seat, their youngest daughter, Emily, tugged at the zipper of her unicorn backpack, muttering over how fancy the restaurant was supposed to be.

They were headed to fetch Evelyn from school. Dinner was at six. Rosaline had chosen her favorite earrings, the ones that shimmered in the sunlight like liquid silver, and John had even ironed his shirt—though it still smelled faintly of his cologne. It felt like a normal day. A calm day.

They never made it to Evelyn.

The first scream came like a splash of cold water—sharp, jagged, cutting through the stillness of the moment. Then another. The light turned green, but no one moved. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath. Then, a shadow passed overhead—too fast, too large, too wrong to be anything that belonged to the earth.

John’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "What the hell—"

And then, without warning, the sky split.

Not metaphorically. Not in some poetic, end-of-the-world way. No—literally.

A jagged tear, like a wound in the heavens, cleaved the clouds. Purple lightning erupted from the rift, a crackling, violent cascade of electric venom. And through it, through that rent in the very fabric of existence, poured things—creatures that shouldn’t have been. Beasts that could’ve crawled out of some dark myth, twisted nightmares made flesh. One of them, its body an unholy blur of too many legs, slammed into a building across the street with an awful crash. Another, its scream tearing at the air, dive-bombed into the crowd.

And then—pandemonium.

People scattered like broken glass. Cars piled into each other, metal shrieking against metal. And Emily—Emily screamed.

John slammed the car into reverse, the tires squealing in protest as he threw a glance at Rosaline.

“Look at me, baby. Eyes on me,” she commanded, her voice sharp with a steel-edge desperation, her gaze locked on their daughter.

Emily’s tiny hands clutched at her mother’s seat. “Where’s Evie?”

John’s breath caught in his throat. “We’re going to get her,” he said, though the words tasted like ash. How? He didn’t know. “Hold on.”

He whipped the wheel, pressing the gas pedal to the floor, but the road ahead was already a mess of chaos, choked with wreckage and things that didn’t belong.

Another creature—this one massive, reptilian, with scales like molten rock and a mouth that hissed with venom—leaped over an overturned bus, crashing down on their car’s hood. The impact shook them, a shower of glass and sparks flying into the air. The scent of sulfur, thick and choking, mixed with smoke that curled into their lungs like a sick joke.

John yanked open the door, fingers scrambling for the tire iron. It was instinct, raw and primal, a rage that had no name. He couldn’t think. He just moved.

The creature turned its gaping maw toward him, eyes gleaming with a hunger that chilled him to his marrow. For one sickening moment, he saw himself die in those eyes—a crumpled corpse in the street, forgotten in the wake of this nightmare.

And then—everything burned.

Time didn’t slow—it stopped.

Heat coursed up through his spine, racing through his veins like wildfire, filling every fiber of his being with an impossible, overwhelming force. He wasn’t breathing. He wasn’t thinking. He was just moving.

When the creature lunged, John felt something inside him crack wide open, a rift as jagged and violent as the one in the sky.

The tire iron was no longer just metal. It shifted, it breathed, it became something else. Something alive.

He swung—hard—and the creature’s skull caved in with a sickening crunch. Its body slumped, limp and lifeless, onto the pavement.

John stood there, breath ragged, eyes fixed on his hand. His skin glowed—faint, but unmistakable—golden, like light itself had taken root in his flesh. The weapon in his hand shimmered, shifting as though it were an extension of him.

Behind him, he heard Rosaline's voice—soft, but with an undercurrent of something else. Not fear.

Recognition.

“John…”

Her hand was glowing too. Not the faint flicker he had, but a brilliant, white-blue radiance that arced across her arms, a barrier of shimmering light that enveloped Emily. The little girl’s sobs were muffled, the glow flickering like a fragile star’s pulse, wrapping her in protection.

The chaos was still everywhere—beasts screeching, people running in every direction, buildings crumbling—but something had changed.

They weren’t powerless anymore.

John didn’t know what he was doing. He just knew why he was doing it.

"Rose, go! I’ve got the left!" he barked, his voice hoarse, every syllable laced with the weight of desperation. The weapon in his hand shifted again, its jagged edges folding into a brutal, spiked mace. He swung it in a wide arc, striking down the first creature that dared to approach. Blood, or something worse, splattered across his face.

Emily screamed again—high-pitched, gut-wrenching—as a creature lunged from a wrecked van, its jaws open wide. Rose snapped into action, blue-white energy flaring from her hands, igniting the air in front of them. The beast collided with the invisible barrier with a sickening thud—then crumpled, its bones snapping with a sound so loud it echoed through the ruined street. It hit the ground in a twitching heap.

The barrier held firm.

“Stay behind me,” Rose said, her voice a low growl of command, as she pivoted to keep Emily in her line of sight. Her eyes, red and frantic, were locked on their daughter. “No matter what.”

Emily trembled, tears streaking down her dirt-streaked face. But she nodded, too terrified to argue. The small girl clung to her mother’s side, sobbing in muffled gasps.

They moved forward, each step a death sentence. They were no longer walking through a city—they were crawling through a nightmare.

Streets that had once been so familiar were now a warzone. Fires roared in windows, some still fueled by overturned cars. Buildings buckled under the weight of destruction. Bodies—human and monstrous alike—littered the cracked asphalt. Blood pooled where blood shouldn't be. The acrid scent of burning flesh mixed with the sulfur of the creatures' passing.

And the screams. The unrelenting screams.

John didn't feel the pain of the cuts on his arms or the exhaustion creeping into his muscles. He barely registered the sound of his own breath, ragged and wild, as he swung the mace again, cleaving through another creature’s skull. Rage, fury, and terror became the only fuel in his veins. His weapon was an extension of that fear, reshaping itself with every emotion—each swing a reflection of how broken he felt inside.

When the fear spiked, a sword would form in his hand, blade honed to a cruel sharpness. When his anger surged, the sword would splinter into something more savage—a flail, spikes bristling from every direction. When a Wyvern descended from the burning sky, claws scraping against stone, he summoned chains—glowing white and scorching with heat. He ripped the beast from the air with brutal force, sending it crashing into a building.

“How the hell are we doing this?” he gasped, his breath rattling in his chest. Sweat stung his eyes, and his hands shook as he formed yet another weapon.

Rose glanced down at her glowing hands, the light flickering as though it were something she could barely hold onto. She didn't answer immediately. Her eyes were focused on Emily, the child tucked securely behind her barrier, safe for now.

“I don’t know,” she said finally, the uncertainty in her voice unsettling. “But we’re not the only ones.”

And they weren’t.

Here and there, as they pressed on, others were awakening. A man with molten hands—fingers burning hot as he pried a car off a crushed child. A teenager who screamed so loud the sound turned into a ring of fire, consuming anything in its path. But for every person who stood up, ten more fell. Torn apart. Devoured. Crushed. Burned alive.

And then—just as it had been from the start—came the whispers. The pleas.

“Please, let her be alive.” Rose’s voice cracked, the words trembling out in a prayer she didn’t believe. Her eyes were wet, not from the smoke or the sweat, but from a horror she couldn't express. “Let her be alive, please—”

They turned the corner.

And saw hell.

Eve’s school—or what was left of it—was a crater of burning concrete, twisted metal, and bone.

The front half of the building had collapsed completely. The air was thick with smoke. The field was drenched in blood. And the bodies—students, teachers, parents—lay scattered across the wreckage like discarded, broken dolls. A massive, tusked creature, its skin thick and mottled, swung a car like a club, knocking survivors to the ground. Another creature—spider-like, with too many eyes—scuttled over the ruins, dragging a boy by his ankle, the kid’s screams muffled as he disappeared beneath the beast’s grip.

Rose’s hand shot out instinctively to cover Emily’s eyes, but there was no shielding her from the chaos.

“Eve!” John screamed, voice breaking as he ran forward, charging into the hellscape. “Evelyn!”

But the word fell flat, swallowed by the overwhelming noise of the destruction.

He fought like a man possessed, swinging the mace again and again. His body was a blur of motion, rage, and instinct. The weapons he conjured seemed almost to be alive in his hands, forming and reforming with every need, every swing.

Behind him, Rose pushed the barrier outward, sweeping survivors into its glowing shield when she could. But there were too many. Too many.

A young teacher—a girl no older than twenty—ran toward them, dragging a bloodied child behind her. John saw her face for a moment—pale, terrified—and then something swooped down from the sky, a dark shape with talons sharp as razors. It tore through her body in an instant, splitting her in half like a rag doll.

Rose’s hand shot out again, her barrier flashing wide to protect the child. The kid, sobbing uncontrollably, curled into her, clinging to her legs as if she could shield him from the carnage around them.

John didn’t even look back.

They climbed over the rubble and into the courtyard. His hands were slick with blood, his chest on fire with every breath. He climbed higher, stumbling over twisted metal, calling his daughter's name over and over, the sound of it hollow in his own ears.

Nothing.

And then, they saw it.

The classroom.

It was gone. The walls were blackened, charred, the roof long since collapsed. Scorch marks lined the ground. Bones—pieces of bones—lay scattered in the ruin. There was a single shoe, half-melted into the broken concrete.

And the chain. The one Evelyn had worn since she was thirteen. The one she never took off.

John’s legs buckled beneath him. His chains hit the ground with a loud clang, but he barely heard it.

Rose collapsed beside him, her voice a raw, agonized whisper. "No... no, no, she... she could’ve—she could’ve gotten out... she could've—"

But there was no sign of her. No body. No scream. Just the faint, bitter hope that perhaps she’d made it.

The wind whipped through the ruins, carrying with it the smoke and the scent of burning flesh.

And above them, the sky continued to split, like a wound never meant to heal. The rifts in the sky were growing wider, bleeding across the world, and the world—what was left of it—was still dying.

#webnovel #story #project #fantasy

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