Before time could be counted, there was silence.
No fire, no wind, no water, no stone.
And then, without cause, came a sound—
a note without an instrument, a song without a singer.
It pulsed once, and darkness rippled.
It pulsed twice, and light cracked open.
It pulsed thrice, and the world was born.
The people who came after called it the First Resonance.
It was not a god, though gods later claimed it.
It was not a law, though laws bent around it.
It was not alive, and yet, every living thing carried a fragment of it.
The fragments were small at first.
A woman whose hands did not blister from harvest.
A child who saw in the dark when others could not.
A man who healed from wounds quicker than steel could cut him.
But as generations passed, the fragments sharpened.
Some could split boulders, others called flame from air,
and still others whispered to storms and they answered.
Civilizations rose from these fragments—
scholars who studied them, kings who commanded them,
priests who worshipped them, and warlords who bent them into armies.
And so the fragments were named.
Skills, when they were honed by practice.
Abilities, when they came as gifts of nature or bloodline.
Not all fragments were equal.
A farmer who healed quickly was called G-Tier.
A soldier who split mountains might be B-Tier.
And above them… legends told of Transcendents,
beings who no longer obeyed time, or space, or causality.
But legends, like stars, shine far beyond reach.
And in the shadows beneath them, mortals lived, struggled, and died—
never touching the light, yet always chasing it.
For the First Resonance had given them gifts, yes.
But it had also left behind a curse:
Canon Events, fixed points in time where fate demanded sacrifice.
Try to resist, and the world itself would bend to correct you.
And yet—
whispers spread, even now,
of those who might break even fate.