The year following the Genesis impact became the darkest chapter in human history, a time when the world as it was once known ceased to exist. The creatures that emerged from the ashes—later named The Aberrants—were not merely an accident of nature, but something far worse. They were the children of destruction, grotesque abominations sculpted by the radioactive corruption of Genesis' fallout.
They spread like a living plague, an unstoppable tide of horrors that hunted relentlessly, consumed endlessly, and destroyed without mercy. Their existence was not driven by hunger or instinct, but by something far more sinister. It was as if they had been engineered for one singular purpose— the extermination of mankind.
Some Aberrants stood like monstrous titans, their colossal frames casting shadows over the ruins of once-great cities. Their movements alone were enough to bring destruction, their massive clawed feet reducing concrete to dust, their roars echoing like death knells through the hollowed-out skeletons of civilization.
Others, though smaller—standing as tall as military trucks—were no less terrifying. They moved with inhuman speed, tearing through the remnants of human defenses like wolves among helpless prey. Their shark-like heads bore elongated jaws, lined with rows of jagged, serrated teeth capable of tearing through metal as if it were paper. Their eyes—glowing orbs of malevolent intelligence—pierced the darkness like cursed lanterns, their eerie yellow or blood-red hues signaling certain death for any who crossed their path.
Horn-like protrusions jutted from their skulls, grotesque and jagged, some carrying electrical surges that crackled with unstable energy. Their muscular forms, horrifically unnatural, were stitched together with biomechanical enhancements— metallic plates fused with their cracked, blackened flesh, glowing energy cores embedded deep within their torsos, pulsing like malignant hearts.
Their skin was an abomination—a seamless, unnerving fusion of organic and synthetic material. Cracked, armored plating covered parts of their bodies, while other areas were sleek, smooth, and polished like experimental war machines. From their backs, tentacle-like appendages writhed unnaturally, some tipped with blade-like claws, others laced with pulsing biomechanical wires that dripped with unknown fluids.
Wherever they walked, they left ruin in their wake. No settlement, no fortress, no desperate band of survivors could withstand them for long.
Humanity's fall was swift.
In the first three months alone, over half of the world's population was eradicated. Governments crumbled, nations ceased to exist, and the last remnants of human authority vanished into nothing. Those who survived either burrowed deep underground into government bunkers, or scattered across the surface, becoming nomads in a world where every shadow could mean death.
By the end of that first, horrific year, the numbers were grim.
From the 8 billion lives that had once populated Earth… only 400 million remained.
And every day, that number continued to dwindle.
For those who remained on the surface, survival should have been impossible. The world had become a wasteland—a graveyard of civilizations swallowed by the chaos left in Genesis' wake. The sky was often shrouded in dense, unnatural clouds, tainted by radiation and ash. The air itself felt heavier, thick with the lingering echoes of catastrophe. The Aberrants hunted without rest, their grotesque forms prowling through the remains of once-great cities, ensuring that no place was truly safe.
And yet, against all odds, humanity endured.
But survival came at a cost. The Genesis meteor had not just destroyed— it had changed. The fallout left behind more than just death and decay; it had unleashed something unpredictable, something no scientist, no government, no military could have foreseen.
It rewrote the very fabric of human existence.
The radiation, an unknown element unlike anything recorded in history, seeped into the land, into the water, into the bones of those who had been left behind. And then, it began to alter them.
At first, the changes were subtle—a flicker of energy where there should have been none, an unnatural resistance to wounds, an inexplicable surge of strength. But soon, the mutations became something more—something extraordinary.
Across the ruins of the world, stories emerged of people awakening to powers beyond human comprehension. A young woman, cornered by an Aberrant in the shattered remains of a city, screamed in terror—and in response, a torrent of flames erupted from her hands, incinerating the beast where it stood. In the vast desert wastelands, a lone man discovered that his body could harden like stone, shrugging off Aberrant claws as though they were nothing more than paper. A child trapped beneath rubble reached out with a desperate plea—only to watch in stunned silence as thick vines erupted from the earth, lifting the broken concrete away.
It was as if the planet itself—**wounded, scarred, but still alive—**had given its chosen few the tools to fight back.
These individuals, humans no longer bound by normal limitations, became known as Transcendents.
At first, their powers manifested chaotically—uncontrolled and wild, often as much a danger to themselves as they were to the Aberrants. Some were horrified by what they had become, fearing they had turned into monsters themselves. Others embraced their abilities, seeing them as both a gift and a curse.
Over time, those who survived learned to harness their powers.
The Transcendents were as diverse as the world they had inherited, their appearances shaped by the hardships of survival. Their athletic, battle-hardened builds were a testament to the struggles they had endured. Some wore long-sleeved tactical jackets, adorned with accents of gold, green, or deep purple, while others draped themselves in robes reminiscent of ancient warriors. Their hairstyles varied—some cut their hair short for practicality, while others allowed it to grow wild and untamed, a reflection of the lawless world they now roamed.
And when they fought, they fought like legends reborn.
For two long, grueling years, the Transcendents waged war against the Aberrants. The ruined cities became their battlegrounds, every street littered with remnants of old-world technology and the charred remains of failed defenses. Battles were chaotic, brutal, relentless— flashes of raw elemental power lighting up the night as fire met claw, steel met flesh, and wind carried the echoes of war through the empty streets.
But in the end, humanity did the unthinkable.
They pushed back.
The Aberrants, once an unstoppable tide of devastation, began to retreat. They were not invincible—not against enemies who could wield fire, shape the earth, bend light and shadow to their will.
And so, for the first time since Genesis, humanity reclaimed the land that had been stolen from them.
From the ashes of the old world, settlements began to rise once more. But they were not the same. The cities of before—**gray, sterile, suffocating—**were gone.
The new world belonged to the Transcendents.
Their settlements blended technology with nature in ways that had once seemed impossible. Solar panels and wind turbines dotted the skyline, sleek and elegant, their energy harvested not just from the remnants of pre-Genesis technology but from the very abilities of the Transcendents themselves. Green rooftops, cascading gardens, and bioluminescent flora adorned every building, their glow cutting through the endless night. Waterways ran clean once more, purified by those who could bend nature to their will.
It was a solarpunk world, reborn from ruin—a civilization built for survival, for resilience, for adaptation.
For the first time in years, there was hope.
But peace is always fleeting.
And something darker waited beyond the horizon.
Two months into this fragile peace, the ground split open, and the past emerged.
The government bunkers—silent, buried, and forgotten—suddenly unlocked. Massive steel doors, once thought to be sealed for eternity, groaned and screeched as they were pried open, releasing a flood of people who had not set foot on the surface since Genesis struck.
Eighty million humans—untouched by the horrors of the outside world—stepped into a world they no longer recognized.
Their skin was smooth, unscarred by the brutal years of survival. Their uniforms—crisp, unblemished, and free of dirt or blood—stood in stark contrast to the rugged, battle-worn attire of those who had fought to reclaim the earth. Their eyes, unadjusted to the unfiltered sunlight, squinted at the sky like newborns opening their eyes for the first time.
But at the forefront of this emergence marched something far more ominous.
The Hyperion Union.
A faction born from the remnants of the old world's military elite, political authorities, and corporate executives, they were the ones who had controlled the bunkers. While the world burned, they thrived in the dark. While the Transcendents clawed their way through blood and ruin, they waited, biding their time.
And now, they had returned.
Clad in navy blue and cream-colored uniforms, their brass epaulets and bronze-plated insignias gleamed under the sun. Their coats were long and pristine, buttoned tightly against their chests, as if to shield themselves from the filth of the outside world. Their boots clicked in perfect unison as they moved with calculated precision, their movements rehearsed, disciplined, and deliberate. Dark sunglasses obscured their expressions, making them unreadable, untouchable—the embodiment of cold, unyielding authority.
They did not step onto this broken world as refugees returning home.
They stepped onto it as rulers reclaiming their kingdom.
Their leaders surveyed the land, eyes scanning the ruins, the settlements, the Transcendents who had risen from the ashes, and they declared their intent.
"Humanity must be restored."
They spoke of rebuilding civilization, of restoring order, reclaiming lost territories, and uniting mankind once more under a single banner.
To those who had suffered, fought, and bled for this world, their words rang hollow.
The Transcendents—**the ones who had endured the nightmares outside, the ones who had battled Aberrants with their bare hands, the ones who had lost everything—**stood unmoving, watching.
Their scars were fresh. Their memories, sharper than ever.
They had not forgotten.
The bunkers had sealed shut when the world begged for help.
The Hyperion Union had abandoned them in humanity's darkest hour.
And now, they had returned—not as allies, but as overseers.
But what the Union failed to realize was that the world they had left behind no longer belonged to them.
It belonged to the Transcendents.
And they would not kneel.
The fragile peace between the Transcendents and the Hyperion Union shattered within weeks.
What started as tense discussions quickly unraveled into open hostility.
The first formal meeting between the two factions was meant to be a chance to negotiate, to find some common ground. But there was no trust—only the gaping wound of betrayal that had never healed.
Ryuji, one of the most respected Transcendent leaders, stood tall and unyielding, his voice cutting through the heavy silence of the council chamber. His words dripped with fury, laced with the raw anger of a people abandoned.
The Hyperion officer seated across from him remained still, unmoved. His pristine uniform was spotless, the brass buttons polished to a gleam. The dark lenses of his sunglasses reflected Ryuji's scowl, revealing nothing but his cold detachment. The two men could not have been more different.
The meeting lasted mere hours before it became clear—there would be no alliance.
The Hyperion Union saw the Transcendents as undisciplined, lawless remnants of a failed society. Their priority was order, control, and the restoration of their old-world governance. To them, the Transcendents were dangerous anomalies—forces of chaos that needed to be tamed.
But to the Transcendents, the Union represented everything they despised.
While survivors fought tooth and nail against the Aberrants, Hyperion had waited, sealed away in their steel tombs. They had watched as cities burned, as millions perished, and had done nothing. And now, they had returned—not as allies, not as equals, but as rulers demanding obedience.
Their arrogance was a spark to dry tinder.
When the Hyperion Union attempted to establish dominance—deploying soldiers, enforcing strict curfews, and demanding compliance—the world burned once more.
The war began with a single act of defiance.
One Transcendent settlement refused to disarm. They refused to submit. When Hyperion troops moved in to enforce their will, the survivors fought back. The soldiers, armed with traditional firearms and energy-based weaponry, had expected an easy victory.
They had underestimated what it meant to fight a Transcendent.
The battle was swift and brutal. Bullets were shattered midair by telekinetic shields. Flames erupted from outstretched hands, turning fortified barriers into molten wreckage. Wind and lightning cracked through the battlefield, tearing through armored convoys like they were made of paper.
The Hyperions was forced to retreat.
That was the turning point.
Within months, the rebellion spread.
Survivors and Transcendents alike rallied together under one banner, refusing to let their world be taken from them a second time. This new movement became the Primorph Ascendancy—a defiant coalition of warriors, wanderers, and freedom-seekers who refused to kneel.
Unlike Hyperion's cold, uniformed ranks, the Primorphs embraced individuality. Their clothing was as diverse as their abilities—long jackets with golden embroidery, vibrant scarves billowing in the wind, patchwork armor forged from salvaged materials, and bold patterns that symbolize rebellion. Some wore flowing skirts or layered robes, while others donned rugged boots and reinforced combat gear. Their very existence was a declaration:
We are not your soldiers. We are not your people. And we will never bow.
The war had begun.
A war not just for survival—but for the right to live free.
For five relentless years, the war between the Hyperion Union and the Primorph Ascendancy raged across the ruins of the old world. Neither side could claim victory, but both suffered dearly. What began as a struggle for control had evolved into a battle of attrition, one where survival was measured not in victories, but in how much could be endured.
Cities crumbled, settlements turned to cinders, and the land itself bore the scars of endless conflict. Fields once meant to sustain life were now trampled battlegrounds, littered with the wreckage of war—shattered machines, broken weapons, and the skeletal remains of those who had fought and fallen. Rivers ran murky with ash, their waters tainted by the constant destruction.
Both factions had poured everything into the war. The Hyperion Union, with their steampunk-inspired cities, clung desperately to their belief in order and governance. Their towering metal fortresses, powered by steam engines and arcane machinery, stood as monuments of control in a world spiraling into chaos. Their soldiers, clad in rigid uniforms with brass and bronze detailing, moved with mechanical precision, each battle fought with cold, calculated efficiency.
The Primorph Ascendancy, in contrast, embraced the wild, untamed future. Their solarpunk settlements, powered by the earth itself, thrived on innovation and individuality. Their homes blended seamlessly with nature—rooftops covered in lush greenery, wind turbines spinning in harmony with the breeze, solar panels shimmering under the sun. But their world was constantly under siege. Every night, the war reminded them that freedom was never guaranteed—it had to be defended.
But then the Aberrants returned.
At first, both sides dismissed the scattered reports. A lone Aberrant spotted on the outskirts of a battlefield. A destroyed Hyperion outpost where not a single body was found—just blood, smeared across the metal walls. A Primorph scout patrol that never returned. They thought it was a coincidence. Anomalies. Isolated incidents.
They were wrong.
As the war raged on, the Aberrants multiplied in the shadows. With the Transcendents too preoccupied fighting their human enemies, no one had been left to contain the monstrous threat that had once nearly wiped out civilization. And now, they came back stronger, hungrier, and more ferocious than ever before.
At first, the Aberrants attacked the weakest targets—small, unprotected settlements, nomadic groups traveling between territories. But it didn't take long for them to become bolder. Entire Hyperion convoys vanished overnight, their armored transport vehicles found days later, torn apart like flimsy paper. Primorph strongholds that had withstood years of war were suddenly reduced to smoking ruins.
It was no longer just war between two factions. It was survival against a tide of unstoppable horrors.
The casualties skyrocketed.
From the 400 million survivors who had emerged after Genesis, only 200 million remained—20 million Hyperions, 180 million Transcendents. Each side had lost nearly half their people, but not from battle alone. The Aberrants thrived in the chaos, cutting down both Hyperion soldiers and Primorph warriors alike.
The world was no longer just a battlefield between two opposing forces—it had become a graveyard.
The Hyperion Union and the Primorph Ascendancy now faced an impossible choice.
Continue their war… and risk extinction.
Or unite… and fight for humanity's last chance at survival.