In an unknown city...
The slum-like city stretched like a rusted wound across the horizon—an endless tangle of tin roofs, leaning towers, and smoke that never truly faded.
Here, sunlight had to fight its way down through the haze, reaching the streets only as a dull grey shimmer. The people who lived beneath it belonged to every race with every feature imaginable—scaled, winged, horned, or gilled—but all carried the same hollow look: the kind born from being stepped on too long.
Yet today, even the hopeless moved with purpose.
They surged through the filth-slick alleys toward the heart of the city, where a column of pale light stabbed into the clouds.
Suspended above the city center floated an immense, translucent screen—the World Projection. It pulsed faintly like a sleeping eye, whispering promise and terror both.
It had been several centuries since it had been last seen, yet many knew of its significance.
For the World Projections, appearance meant something of true importance was to take place.
Shouts, laughter, and the clatter of countless feet filled the air. Every thief forgot his prey; every beggar forgot her hunger. For one day, even the dregs had a reason to run and look up.
Far from the center, a narrow lane lay half-drowned in shadow.
A man cornered a thin, blue-skinned girl between a wall of stacked crates and the slick stones behind her. His voice scraped the silence like a rusted blade.
"Give it back, you little rot. The box—now."
The girl shook her head so quickly her tangled hair whipped against her cheeks. No sound escaped her, only the rasp of her breath. Her bare feet slid against the mud as she tried to shrink farther into the wall.
The man's patience, never a strong thing, broke.
"Don't play dumb."
His hand shot forward, seizing a handful of her rags. The fabric tore, and a small wooden case tumbled from beneath it, striking the ground with a hollow thud.
Both froze.
A curse hissed between his teeth as he shoved the girl to the ground and stooped to snatch it up. "You lying—"
The seal along the lid hung half-split. Inside, where there should have been neat rows of tightly wrapped cigarettes, half were gone. Empty sockets stared back at him like missing teeth. His face drained of color, then darkened with fury.
"You worthless brat," he spat, driving his boot downward. The girl folded with a strangled whimp, but he wasn't listening.
His thoughts spun to the buyer waiting at the exchange point, to the coins he wouldn't get, to the projection already beginning without him. Every second here cost him more than she was worth.
He raised his foot again—then paused.
The city's noise had vanished.
A heartbeat ago, the streets had roared like a tide. Now the only sound was his own breathing and the faint hum of the holographic light filtering down the alley mouth. He frowned. "Tch… already started?"
He spat on the girl and muttered, "Today has been absolute shit."
As he pressed his foot into her stomach to keep her down, his gaze slid back to her—skin a pale, luminous blue, eyes shut tight in pain.
A half-blood merfolk, maybe. Whorehouses paid well enough for exotic stock.
He made up his mind, he would sell the street right to recoup a bit of the losses he had suffered today.
'She won't even be worth one-tenth the amount I would have gotten.'
He stepped closer.
Then a sound broke the quiet—slow, deliberate footsteps, soft as if the air itself bent around them.
The man turned, and his stomach turned colder than the stone beneath his boots.
Someone approached from the deeper dark: tall, shrouded, moving like a shadow that had forgotten how to be human.
The stranger's frame was thin to the point of absence, clothes hanging in tatters that did nothing to disguise the wrongness beneath. A hollowness pressed outward from him, not quite visible, yet the air rippled faintly with every step he took.
"Y–you lost, friend?" the man asked, voice cracking. His fingers clenched tighter around the case.
The figure stopped a few paces away. When it spoke, the voice sounded scraped from the bottom of a grave."Did you bring the package?"
The man blinked. "Grim… ?"
The name slipped out before he knew it. His eyes darted to the small pouch the figure carried, sagging heavy with coins.
Relief flickered.
"You're the buyer? Here, see—got it right here." He thrust the case forward with trembling hands.
It struck the stranger's shoulder and clattered to the ground.
'Shit! What have I done? Why in Abaddon's name did I throw it at him? I'm going to di-'
No reaction.
The figure did not react.
The figure bent, movements eerily measured, and lifted the box. Fingers—grey, long, almost translucent—brushed the broken seal. A faint sound escaped him, not quite a sigh, not quite a growl.
'No-Shit! I forgot that it's half empty! He will think I'm tryna short-change him. I have to explain!'
The man licked his lips. "H-half's missing, yeah, but that's—look, that rat there stole it! I caught her before she sold any. You can take the rest, I'll even drop my payment for the inconvenience. Free, all yours."
The figure said nothing. The air grew heavier, pressing against the skin like deep water.
"Listen, I don't need payment," he babbled. "Consider it—"
A muffled whimper cut him off. The girl stirred from under his foot, a weak noise scraping from her body.
The man's temper flared again. "Shut up, you—"
When he looked back, the stranger was no longer as far.
He barely had time to blink before the shape loomed inches from him, eyes, or better yet, eye—or what passed for one—glimmering faintly within his vision.
The man stumbled backward, breath catching in his throat as his foot left the girl. Then something cracked—loud, sudden.
His body hit the ground, pain exploding through his leg like fire.
His leg.
The bastard snapped his leg.
He screamed. Or thought he did; the sound came out strangled.
"Now not even scum like you can do anything right," the figure murmured, the words almost tender in their disdain.
The man tried to crawl away, dragging his leg behind him, barely moving an inch, when the girl whimpered again.
From the side of his gaze, he saw the girl cry in pain, her small frame convulsing in pain as a faint cry escaped her.
Looking at her leg, which had been bent the wrong way, he realised what had happened.
'Oh fuck! He snapped her leg, too. I'm done for...'
The stranger knelt beside her, shadow swallowing shadow, and reached toward her face and forced his bony hands into her mouth.
Something glimmered as he withdrew his hand—small cigarette sticks, somehow not covered in moisture.
'The missing cigarettes...' The man's stomach lurched.
The figure studied the fragments, then shook his head. "Good that you got merfolk blood," he said quietly.
"You stopped my stuff from getting damaged. I might have killed you for it, they had."
He turned his gaze back to the man, who flinched as though struck.
A soft clink broke the silence.
A pouch landed on the ground beside him, heavier than it looked."Don't spend it all in one place," the figure said.
Then, looking down and noticing the small puddle beneath the man's feet, he added.
"And get some new pants as you fix your leg. Leave the girl alone, too. Bad enough that you pissed yourself in front of a kid..."
The man couldn't tell if it was mercy or mockery.
Then a low hum rolled through the streets—a single, resonant tone that made the stones tremble.
From far above, the light of the World Projection flared to life, painting the clouds in shifting sigils. The slums erupted in distant cheers.
The figure tilted his head, almost wistful. "So it begins," he murmured as he picked one cigarette. "I'll only manage one before the start."
He stepped into the alley mouth, and in the blink between one heartbeat and the next, he was gone.
"I guess my time's up."
Only the faint echo of his footsteps and voice lingered, fading beneath the rising chant of the crowd.
And up above, the light of the World Projection bloomed wider, bright enough to swallow the whole sky.
All of this happened as the world continued to gather.
Meanwhile,
At the very heart of the city, the crowd had grown into a living sea—one of motion, sweat, and restless noise.
From the worn cobblestone plaza to the slanted roofs that framed it, every inch of space was claimed by bodies craning their necks toward the sky.
Above them floated the World Projection—a translucent expanse of light that stretched wider than one could comprehend, an ethereal window showing reflections of countless realms.
Glyphs spiraled across its surface, old as time, forming the crests of each of the Twelve Grand Empires.
Each rune glimmered like molten glass, its radiance outshining the grey, choking haze that usually covered the slums.
People from every race imaginable filled the square. Furred beastkin rubbed shoulders with highborn elves wearing threadbare cloaks. Hulking ogres jostled against spirit-born merchants cloaked in mist. Even a few seraphic offshoots stood among them, their dulled halos flickering faintly in the dim light.
This scene and others like it could be seen across all the myriad realms of Mythralis.
A thousand tongues muttered in unison—grumbling, cursing, whispering in awe.
"Oi, watch where you're stompin', you overgrown tusker!" a human barked, clutching his ribs after being elbowed aside.
"Maybe if your kind weren't so fragile, you wouldn't break so easy," the orc grunted, not even turning his head.
Nearby, a pair of women whispered as they adjusted their veils, their eyes flicking toward a third who passed by wearing a clean white cloak.
"Look at her," one sneered. "Acting all imperial just because she's got a clean robe."
"Please," the other said, smirking. "She probably rented it just to be seen when the screen lights up."
The arguments blended into the larger hum of voices. None left the square, though. Curiosity overpowered discomfort.
A younger demon, his horns small and new-grown, frowned up at the sky. "What's even happening? Why's the Projection on? Some festival?"
An older demon beside him scoffed. "Festival? Hah. You're new to life, aren't you, whelp? The World Projection ain't for common use. It's a medium reserved for the Grand Empires and Archetext. They only use it to speak to every realm of Mythralis at once."
"So it's like a… world announcement?"
"That's the idea, you whippersnapper," the older demon said, scratching at his greying beard. "Last time it lit up, they announced their victory over the Conflicts in Atlantis. Before that, it was when they declared the death of Sage Merwild."
The youth's brow furrowed. "Then… what declaration's happening now?"
A snort came from behind them. "Are you dense or just cave-born?" A broad-shouldered man with a cracked halo above his face leaned in.
"You haven't heard? The Empires finally caught one of the Ten Calamities. The Number one, at that."
The younger one blinked. "Wait—you mean—?"
"That's right," the scarred man said, his grin sharp. "This ain't no festival. It's an execution."
A ripple spread through those nearby as the words sank in. Some gasped, some whispered names they dared not say aloud, while others broke into nervous laughter.
"Number one, huh? Finally caught that bastard."
"About time."
"I heard he burned a whole realm once—fed on the ashes of virgin women and children."
"Nonsense! I heard he murdered gods in their sleep and defiled the citadels of fiends."
"Does it matter? The man's filth. Let him hang."
A woman with sharp ears and green hair clasped her hands together, voice rising above the din. "Bless the Empires! To capture such evil—truly, the Archetext guides them!"
Many nodded fervently, echoing her sentiment. The name of the unseen entity always inspired reverence.
But not all.
An old voice rasped from somewhere within the press of bodies. "Guides them, eh? More like toys with them."
Heads turned toward a bent figure hunched on a broken crate, his eyes milky with age but bright with disdain. "You children think this is justice? Bah. This is theater. They had the power to catch him years ago. They waited—waited for the right stage, the right crowd, the right spectacle."
"Old fool," someone muttered. "You saying they let him live and do what he did?"
"I'm saying," the old man growled, "you're all too busy clapping praises to see you're all being led on."
A few faces tightened. Most simply ignored him. Whatever the truth, none could deny one thing—today, something monumental was about to happen.
And then it did.