And across the Earth, more and more began to awaken.
Golden orbs crack through skies, back alleys, warzones, slums, hospitals, cathedrals—each one slamming into a soul not just chosen by fate, but twisted by it. They fall without sound. No trumpet. No prophecy. Just light—pure and absolute—descending like forgotten promises reignited.
Each chosen awakens differently. In agony. In ecstasy. In silence.
But all are changed.
They are granted something no mortal was meant to hold.
A gift wrapped in ruin.
A godlike ability… and a fatal flaw buried within like a ticking heart.
Unbeknownst to even Olympus, to the gods who believe themselves architects of justice, something else has touched the blessings. A whisper behind the divine. A glitch in the holy signal. A seed inside every gift.
THEY.
A name not spoken. A presence not seen.
Only felt.
Every Chosen hears it—quietly, deeply, like a memory they haven't lived but somehow know:
