July 3, 2000 — Seoul, South Korea
The morning began like any other.
The sky was a flawless blue, unmarred by even a whisper of cloud. Heat shimmered above the sunlit asphalt, turning passing cars into blurs of light and shadow. Car horns echoed through the city like birdsong. Food vendors clattered open their stalls, oil sizzling in deep pans as the air filled with the scent of grilled meat, sweet soy, and roasted garlic. Somewhere, a tinny radio played the latest pop song, a sugary melody looping over static.
Children darted through narrow alleyways, laughter trailing behind them like streamers. They weaved past rusted bicycles and fluttering laundry, their faces bright with the kind of joy only summer could bring.
It was just another day.
Ordinary.
Unremarkable.
Until the towers appeared.
They didn't descend from the heavens.
They didn't erupt from the ground.
They simply existed—suddenly, silently, completely. Obsidian-black monoliths, each one impossibly tall, smooth, and seamless as if carved from the void itself. No seams. No doors. No windows. Just walls that reflected no light and devoured the gaze of all who dared stare too long.
One stood in every major nation: South Korea. The United States. Japan. China. Russia. Brazil. The Philippines. India. The United Kingdom.
Even Antarctica.
There was no sound. No tremor. No warning in the stars.
Just silence.
And then—hysteria.
People screamed. Helicopters circled. News anchors stammered on live TV. Satellites blinked out, feeds glitching into static. Scientists stared at their instruments, lips moving silently as if the numbers betrayed reality itself. Governments scrambled for answers. Religious leaders cried out prophecies. Children clung to their parents.
And then the vanishings began.
Within twenty-four hours, millions of people disappeared.
No flash of light. No portal. No explanation.
Mothers, mid-bedtime story, gone in an instant. Fathers on morning commutes, vanished behind the wheel. Children reaching for toys who never touched them. Whole neighborhoods turned to ghost towns. Phones rang endlessly. Food spoiled on stoves. Cribs stood empty. The silence was deafening.
The world didn't mourn. Not at first.
It panicked.
For the first time in modern history, Earth truly paused. Not for war. Not for politics. But for something else—something cosmic. Something wrong.
Wars stopped. Flags were lowered. Ancient grudges dissolved overnight. The United Nations became a command center. Scientists, linguists, soldiers, hackers—all united under one desperate goal: survive.
A global task force was formed.
They entered the towers.
What they found broke every law of physics, biology, and sanity.
The towers weren't buildings.
They were alive.
Walls that pulsed like flesh. Corridors that reformed themselves behind you. Floors that twitched beneath your boots. The air inside buzzed with a low hum—words not meant for human ears, whispered by something watching from beyond the veil of reality.
Some said the towers breathed.
Others said they hungered.
The first monster appeared two days later.
Sergeant Jacobs, a U.S. Special Forces commander, encountered it within the New York tower. His team descended twelve levels before they were ambushed.
A colossal insectoid beast.
Gleaming black carapace. Six bladed limbs that moved like scissor jacks. Crimson eyes like molten coals. It stood over three meters tall and moved with terrible speed.
Bullets bounced off its shell like rain.
It killed two men in seconds. One was bisected mid-scream.
Only a direct grenade to its thorax slowed it down.
The footage leaked.
It spread across the internet like wildfire—proof that this was no hoax. No dream. This was the new reality.
That night, Dr. Hana Choi of Seoul appeared on a global broadcast. Her voice trembled. Her eyes were rimmed with red.
> "These entities… they're not random. They adapt. They coordinate. Like an immune response. These towers are not architecture. They're organic. They're part of something larger. A living system. We must evacuate. We must prepare."
The world didn't wait long.
Moments later, General Carter of the United States appeared in full military dress, eyes sharp beneath his cap.
> "This is not a drill. This is not localized. All nations will enact global emergency protocols. Civilians must seek shelter. Military forces will mobilize. We face an unknown threat. And we must survive."
And so, the world changed.
Maps were redrawn with shaking hands.
Borders forgotten.
Humanity became one species, standing together at the edge of extinction.
---
July 5, 2000 — Sector 9, Seoul
In the middle of the chaos, a little boy clutched his mother's hand like a lifeline.
His name was Rover.
He was five years old.
He wore a red dinosaur backpack, too big for his small frame. His other hand clutched a chipped plastic robot, its left arm long gone from rough play. Sweat rolled down his cheeks, stinging his eyes. His legs ached. His lips were dry.
All around them, families pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in a slow-moving line outside a reinforced concrete shelter. Metal barricades funneled the crowd. Soldiers in fatigues stood watch, rifles at the ready, scanning the sky. A megaphone blared instructions no one could hear.
Some people sobbed. Others whispered prayers. Most simply stared ahead, eyes glazed, as if already resigned to a future they couldn't grasp.
Rover looked up at his mother. Her face was pale, lips cracked. She hadn't spoken in minutes. Her grip trembled.
> "Mama," he whispered, tugging on her hand, "why is everyone so scared?"
She didn't answer.
She couldn't.
Her gaze was locked on the soldiers ahead, as if willing the line to move faster through sheer desperation.
Rover frowned and shifted his weight, the toy robot clutched tighter.
> "Mama, it's hot…"
> "I know, baby," she murmured. Her voice was raw, like it had been ground against stone. "Just a little longer."
He tried to believe her.
But even at five, he could tell something was wrong. The adults were too quiet. The air was too still.
Then, as if summoned by his doubt, a strange sound brushed his ears.
A low, distant whistle. Like wind through broken glass.
Rover tilted his head. Squinted into the sun.
> "Mama… what's that in the sky?"
Before she could respond, a scream ripped through the silence.
> "SOMETHING'S COMING!"
The crowd surged.
People pushed forward and back at once, a tidal wave of fear. Soldiers shouted. A mother clutched her child. A man fell. Panic bloomed like fire.
A shadow rolled over the street.
It came from above, vast and fast-moving, blotting out the sun like a curtain drawn across the sky. The air temperature dropped sharply.
Heads turned skyward. Mouths fell open.
And then it came.
A deafening shriek tore the sky in half.
A massive shape dove from the clouds—a wyvern, ancient and terrible. Its wings were vast, like torn leather sails stitched with veins. Its scales shimmered like molten blood, each movement catching the light in flashes of infernal red. Horns spiraled from its skull like twin blades. Its eyes glowed with a cruel, intelligent fire.
Its mouth opened wide—and it roared.
Not a roar of pain. Not even of hunger.
A roar of dominion.
And then it crashed into the street.
Concrete shattered. Pavement split. Cars were thrown like toys. A wall of heat and wind blasted outward, shattering windows for blocks.
Soldiers opened fire.
Gunshots filled the air. The wyvern reared, bullets pinging harmlessly off its hide. It laughed—or something like it. The sound curdled the blood.
Then it lunged.
A man vanished between its jaws.
Another was impaled on its tail.
A third tried to run and was caught mid-step, crushed beneath a claw the size of a dinner table.
Screams filled the air.
Smoke rose. Sirens wailed. A woman screamed for her child.
And in the middle of it all, Rover stood frozen.
His hand slipped from his mother's trembling grasp.
His toy robot fell to the ground with a hollow clack.
He looked up, eyes wide with wonder and horror.
> "That's… a wyvern," he whispered. "From my book…"
But this wasn't a book.
This wasn't a dream.
This was real.
And it was only the beginning.