The end of the world didn't begin with a bang. It didn't begin with a nuclear siren or a declaration of war.
It began with a tear.
Ten years ago, above the smog-choked skyline of the city, the fabric of reality ripped open like cheap silk. The sky, usually a dull grey, turned a bruised, violent purple.
People froze. Cars stopped in the middle of intersections. Office workers pressed their faces against high-rise glass. Thousands of smartphones were raised to the sky, recording the moment humanity lost its place at the top of the food chain.
Then came the sound.
KRRR-RACK.
It sounded like the spine of the earth snapping in two.
From the purple gash in the heavens, they fell. Not aliens. Not spaceships. They were nightmares dragged out of ancient scriptures.
Creatures with skin the color of dried blood and tusks longer than machetes crashed onto the asphalt. Rakshasas. They landed on buses, crushing them flat. They tore through concrete buildings as if they were made of wet paper.
Gunfire erupted from the police lines below. It was pathetic. Bullets bounced off the monsters' hides like pebbles against a tank.
"Retreat! Fall back!" a commander screamed over the radio, his voice cracking with terror.
A massive Rakshasa, standing two stories tall, picked up a patrol car and hurled it into a fuel tanker. The explosion painted the street in fire. The monster threw back its head and roared—a sound that vibrated in the bones of everyone within ten kilometers.
Hope evaporated. This was the Kali Yuga made flesh.
But just as the monster prepared to trample a group of fleeing civilians, a flash of gold cut through the smoke.
BOOM.
A figure landed between the civilians and the beast. The concrete cratered beneath his feet.
He was a man clad in tattered modern clothes, but his right arm was encased in golden light. On his wrist, a heavy, intricate gauntlet spun with mechanical and mystical energy.
The Rakshasa snarled, confused by the tiny insect standing in its way.
The man didn't flinch. He raised his glowing fist. The air around him shimmered, the temperature skyrocketing in a split second.
"System," the man whispered, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "Engage Avatar: AGNI. Max Output."
< ACCESS GRANTED >
A robotic, ethereal voice echoed from the device, audible only to him.
< WARNING: SOUL INTEGRITY AT CRITICAL LEVELS. >
"Doesn't matter," the man gritted out. "Burn it all away."
Flames—pure, white-hot flames—erupted from his body. They didn't look like normal fire; they looked like pieces of the sun. The fire twisted, taking the shape of a six-armed warrior behind him.
The Rakshasa realized its mistake too late. It tried to run, but the man snapped his fingers.
SNAP.
A pillar of fire pierced the heavens. The monster didn't even scream; it was vaporized instantly, leaving nothing but ash on the wind.
The man stood alone in the inferno, his chest heaving. The golden light on his arm began to flicker and die. The gauntlet hissed, cooling down, returning to the form of a rusted, heavy iron bracelet.
He looked up at the tear in the sky, where hundreds more monsters were descending.
"I bought us some time," he whispered to no one. He pulled the bracelet off his wrist. It clattered to the ground, looking like nothing more than a piece of junk. "Find the next one. Find someone better."
The man collapsed into the smoke.
The bracelet lay in the rubble, silent, cold, and waiting.
Waiting for a boy who was currently six years old, sitting in a classroom, unaware that destiny was about to ruin his life.