PROLOGUE: Echo of a Shattered Star
Earth Calendar Era, Year 4,577,000,770 — The End of Earth
The night sky had changed.
For centuries, humanity had gazed in awe at the approaching silhouette of Andromeda—a swirling galactic titan, drawing ever closer to the Milky Way. Scientists called the event MilkyDromeda, predicting a beautiful cosmic merger that would span millions of years. They promised starlight and wonder.
They were wrong.
Andromeda was not empty.
It was a prison. A tomb for ancient forces. When the galaxies collided, the seal shattered.
From the rupture spilled horrors not born of Earth—cosmic plagues that infected planets, and nightmare creatures that restructured life into twisted monstrosities. Cities vanished in seconds. Oceans boiled. Skies burned.
In mere days, Earth's great civilizations crumbled. Of nine billion, barely a billion survived.
Yet, from annihilation, something awoke.
A new phenomenon—born from desperation and the will to fight. It came to be called The Awakening. Those chosen by it unlocked supernatural powers, bending physics and logic itself.
They became the Awakeners, Earth's final guardians.
With them, humanity built steel fortresses across the burning ruins—strongholds of the last hope. Peace returned, briefly.
Until the sea rebelled.
From the deepest abyss, a monster rose—larger than mountains, older than time. It was given a new class of danger: Earth-Grade. A Sea Dragon, its emerald scales gleamed like wet jewels, and its roar shattered entire defense lines.
Even Awakeners died.
And once more, the sky fell.
Some called it God's wrath.
Others declared God was already dead.
The Earth cracked. The stars bled. And the world ended.
---
Five Thousand Years After the Fall
Void.
Cold.
Silent.
A man drifted through the dead of space.
His golden armor—once radiant—was fractured, glowing faintly like a forgotten sun.
He was Zen Luo, the Heavenly Sword Emperor.
The final protector. The last soul of Earth.
Before him stretched an armada of nightmares—millions of warships blotted out the stars. Within them: billions of synthetic minds and evolved creatures. All of them had come for one purpose.
To kill him.
Zen sighed. A mist of frost escaped his lips, vanishing instantly.
There was no fear. No anger.
Only weariness—ancient and absolute.
He closed his eyes… and opened his wings.
Six radiant blades of golden-silver light erupted from his back, slicing through the dark. Then came the sword—a twin-bladed weapon of pure astral metal, vibrating with enough energy to cleave galaxies.
And in a blink, he disappeared.
Not through speed.
Through absence.
Zen reappeared behind the fleet.
No sound.
No motion.
He sheathed his blade.
Then the stars screamed.
Warships—fortresses the size of continents—fractured silently. Cut into flawless slices. Their reactors ignited in a silent chain of fireballs, consuming everything. The void turned crimson.
But the moment of victory lasted only heartbeats.
The universe shuddered.
Nine points of light appeared across the void.
Growing. Accelerating. Collapsing gravity with them.
They were not ships.
They were neutron stars—dead suns, forged and hurled as weapons.
Zen turned, his eyes wide.
He slashed, screaming through the void, trying to sever destiny itself.
It was not enough.
The nine stars devoured him.
His shields shattered like paper.
His body disintegrated.
His mind collapsed into whiteness.
Then came a voice.
A laugh echoed from the abyss.
And from it, emerged a golden figure—limitless in size, boundless in presence.
"A mortal soul that withstands the Nine Celestial Destroyers... fascinating."
Zen's scattered soul trembled.
"Child of man," the voice echoed, "your will endures even in death. Will you carry my legacy?"
With the final spark of self, Zen's broken spirit screamed:
"YES!"
---
Seven Days Before the End
Light.
Warmth.
Breath.
Zen gasped.
Air flooded his lungs. Sweat ran down his neck. His body jerked upright—alive.
He was no longer in space.
No longer at war.
He was… home.
His bed.
His room.
Posters of ancient bands on the walls.
The faint glow of a desk lamp.
The soft hum of a world not yet broken.
Zen's hand trembled as he grabbed his phone.
The screen blinked on.
Earth Calendar Era, Year 4,577,000,770
Date: July 19th — Seven Days Before the MilkyDromeda Event
His breath caught. His eyes stung.
He was back.
He had seen the end. He had died with it. And now… now he had returned to the last seven days of Earth.
Tears streamed down his cheeks. Not from sorrow, but from burning purpose.
This time, he wouldn't be just a guardian of ashes.
He would rewrite fate.
> "This time," he whispered, voice trembling with rage and hope,
"I'll protect everything I once failed to."