The light of Kailas wavered, then collapsed inward. What had once pierced the heavens twisted into a spiraling wound in the sky—a gateway bleeding into another world. Through it shimmered alien constellations, colossal warships drifting like predators, and distant silhouettes watching in silence.
The mortals below broke.
In Tibetan villages, monks and elders dropped to their knees, chanting mantras through trembling lips. "Shiva has awakened… the gods have returned," they whispered, torn between awe and terror.
In Delhi, crowds poured into the streets, trampling each other in desperation as armored convoys thundered past. In Beijing, citizens flooded temples, burning incense in frantic prayers even as riot police clashed with worshippers. In Washington, conspiracy theorists screamed of alien invasions while churches overflowed with the faithful begging for salvation.
Across the Middle East, muezzins faltered mid-prayer, declaring the mountain a trumpet of angels. In Cairo, imams cried it was the Day of Judgment. In Paris, Rome, and Lagos, bells tolled without order, their echo mixing with cries of fear.
The world no longer breathed—it convulsed.
The Strike
Within minutes, militaries moved.
China declared martial law across Tibet. Anti-aircraft batteries roared to life, fighter squadrons screaming across the sky. The United States greenlit "containment strikes," stealth bombers lifting from Pacific carriers.
The skies thundered with human defiance.
Missiles streaked upward, contrails tearing into the rift. Jets banked and unleashed volleys of precision fire. Artillery shook the mountains, shells detonating in furious blossoms of flame.
The world had seen many wars, but nothing like this.
For a heartbeat, hope surged. Radar operators cheered as blips marked "enemy" flickered. Control rooms erupted in cries of victory.
And then—came the answer.
A single lance of violet light stabbed outward from the rift. Not fire. Not lightning. Pure annihilation.
Jets did not explode. They ceased to exist, erased mid-flight. Pilots' final screams were cut off mid-transmission. Entire squadrons vanished in seconds.
On the ground, a shockwave of compressed spiritual force ripped through mountain passes, flattening armored divisions as if they were toys. Screams echoed, then died.
Far out at sea, U.S. carriers reeled as black lightning forked down from the rift. Steel crumpled like paper, hulls split, sailors thrown screaming into the waves as decks collapsed. War machines sank in minutes, swallowed as burning wreckage.
Then—silence.
No jets. No artillery. No chatter. Only the wind howling over the Himalayas.
The rift stabilized again, its guardians unmoving. They had struck once—swift, merciless—and then stilled, watching, waiting.
The World Freezes
India halted its advance. Russia recalled its elite Spetsnaz from the mountain passes. European units froze, issuing emergency stand-downs. None dared to move again.
News feeds crackled with disbelief:
"—U.S. Pacific fleet crippled, carriers destroyed—""—China's western squadrons annihilated in minutes—""—no further attacks, the enemy holds position—"
Fear crystallized. Some called it invasion. Others called it divine judgment.
William's Burden
In his marble estate, William drowned in calls.
Encrypted lines. Red phones. Ministers and generals, voices like knives.
"You promised you could manage them! Fix this or you're finished!"
"Get those things under control, William, or you'll be the scapegoat when this ends!"
William sat frozen, the handset trembling in his palm. He could barely hear over the pounding of his heart. For years he had dealt with tycoons, ministers, generals. But this—this was beyond all of them.
For the first time, he realized—he wasn't a kingmaker anymore. He was a liability. A loose end. And loose ends were cut.
He imagined burning his accounts, fleeing under a false name, vanishing into obscurity. His empire of wealth and influence crumbled in his mind like sand slipping through fingers.
His only hope was Su Liana and her master. If they acted, if they fought, perhaps the world would spare him. If not—he would be devoured as the scapegoat.
In the silence of his hall, William whispered to himself: "Please… intervene. Before they decide killing me is easier than waiting."
Before the Rift
At Kailas, the cultivators stood before the wound in the sky. The Himalayan wind howled, snow swirling, but none flinched.
Su Liana's fists clenched at her sides, her gaze burning. Su Chen's aura seethed with barely restrained aggression. The guards shifted uneasily, glancing at one another.
Karma's chest was tight. He had seen the destruction. Entire militaries flattened in minutes. His Qi Condensation realm was dust before such power. Fear clawed at him, but beneath it burned one thought sharper than the rest: If this is what they can do to armies, what chance does my sister have?
Mira's voice whispered in his mind, sharper than ever:Host, do not mistake their silence for mercy. Even Golden Core would fall here. This is not battle—it is warning.
But Yuan remained still as stone. His eyes never left the rift, his silence heavier than the howling wind.
Finally, Su Liana broke it. "Master… the mortals are broken. Our people are missing. Should we not act?"
Yuan's gaze never wavered. His voice cut through the storm like iron.
"Not yet. They struck once to warn. The next blow will kill without restraint."
The guards froze. Su Chen's aura dimmed slightly, restrained by his authority. Even Su Liana bowed her head in reluctant silence.
The governments of Earth waited. The cultivators waited.
And Yuan, immovable as the mountain itself, stared into the rift unblinking.
On the other side, vast warships loomed, their cannons silent, their crews still. Watching. Waiting.
The first blow had been struck.The second would not be warning.
It would be war.