Steel screamed as a Saifuko staggered backward, its massive frame carving trenches into the ruined ground. Across from it stood a Fiokus—towering, wolf-shaped, its purple fur swaying unnaturally, each strand moving like a sharpened blade.
The beast lunged.
Its claws tore through metal with contemptuous ease, peeling armor away as if it were paper.
"Careful!" a voice shouted over the comms.
"Try not to break the Saifuko!"
The pilot gritted his teeth and forced the machine back into position.
A shadowy hall.
A lone human sat upon a throne of black metal, half-swallowed by darkness. Behind him, a symbol burned faintly into the wall — the mark of the Worshipers. Figures knelt in silence, their faces hidden, their loyalty absolute.
On a scorched plain, another Saifuko clashed with a Fiokus, sparks and blood scattering across the battlefield.
From all three places, from all three sides, the same words were spoken — not shouted, not declared, but stated as fact.
"This is a story… of a crumbling world."
A classroom, reinforced with steel and concrete.
A man stood before a group of young pilots, his voice calm, practiced.
"Humanity has suffered catastrophic losses," he said. "At present, less than ten percent of our original land and population remain."
A hand rose.
"Sir," a trainee asked, "why did the war start?"
The instructor paused.
"No one knows," he replied. "We only know when it started."
He turned to the display behind him.
"Thirty-eight years ago."
The sky roared.
A fighter jet screamed through the clouds, its pilot locking onto a Fiokus below. Missiles launched — only to be sliced apart midair. Gunfire followed, every shot dodged with inhuman precision.
Sweat dripped down the pilot's face.
"Damn it…"
He pushed the throttle forward.
If distance didn't work, he'd end it up close.
The Fiokus reacted instantly.
Its fur snapped outward like a storm of spears, piercing through the jet's hull. The aircraft detonated, scattering fire across the sky.
Before the Fiokus could move again, another jet struck from behind, unloading everything it had.
The beast collapsed.
The classroom returned.
"With that," the instructor said, shutting off the display, "today's lesson is over."
Chairs scraped against the floor as trainees stood.
Two friends moved together through the hall.
"Hey," Kael said, stretching. "Wanna grab some food?"
Koro nodded. "Yeah. Let's go."
They stepped outside—
And Koro froze.
Something felt wrong.
He couldn't explain it. No sound. No warning.
Just a pressure in his chest, like the world itself had shifted—quietly, irreversibly.