Amons World, Emerald Plain.
The July sun was scorching.
In the wheat fields, several farmers bent over to harvest the golden ears of grain.
Sweat trickled down their dark backs, dripping onto the parched earth and evaporating instantly.
"This year's harvest is good." An old farmer, his face lined with wrinkles, straightened his back and wiped sweat with a coarse cloth draped over his shoulder. "Two more days in the sun and we can bring it in."
"Yeah, it's much better than last year." The young man beside him agreed, though his sickle never stopped moving. "I heard the Mulsang tribe to the east suffered a drought and lost everything."
"Sigh, these days..."
The old farmer stopped mid-sentence, his sickle clattering to the ground.
The young man looked up, about to ask what was wrong, only to see the old farmer with his head tilted back and his mouth wide open. The cloudy eyes of the elder reflected the sky.
He subconsciously followed the man's gaze upward.
The sickle slipped from his hand.
The sky had split open.
A crack spanned the horizon from east to west, its edges jagged and irregular, as if torn from the inside by some terrifying force.
Inside the rift was pure darkness, with countless tiny points of light flowing slowly within it, like an inverted starry sky.
Then, a shadow appeared.
The shadow was deep within the rift, its silhouette so blurred it was almost impossible to make out.
It was like looking at a city from thousands of miles away; one could only vaguely discern some sort of massive, orderly complex of buildings.
The wheat field grew silent, save for the rustling of the wind through the grain.
"Divine... divine punishment..."
The old farmer's knees buckled.
He fell to his knees, his forehead striking the wheat stubble hard enough to break the skin, yet he seemed entirely unaware of the pain.
The young man knelt beside him.
In the entire wheat field, across the Emerald Plain, and in every corner of Amons World, every sentient being who looked up to see that rift stopped what they were doing at that moment.
In the cities, merchants stood up from behind their stalls, staring at the sky as coins scattered across the ground.
In blacksmith shops, hammers struck anvils with sparks flying, but the smiths didn't notice.
In palaces, nobles rose from their banquets, wine glasses slipping from their fingers and shattering on the smooth stone floors.
In the mountains, hunters lowered their bows.
By the rivers, fishermen let go of their nets.
In the mines, workers climbed out from underground, their faces covered in black dust as they gazed at the wound spanning the heavens.
Everyone saw it.
Everyone stopped.
And then, fear began to spread.
"What is that thing?"
"The sky is broken!"
"God is angry! God is punishing us!"
Screams, cries, and prayers erupted simultaneously in every city, village, and settlement. Mothers held their children tight, men grabbed weapons, and the elderly knelt, bowing their heads repeatedly toward the sky.
The Holy City, Emerald Crown.
This white city, perched atop the world's highest peak, was the center of faith for all of Amons World.
At the top of the cloud-piercing spire in the center of the city, a figure in white robes stood on a terrace, looking up at the rift.
He was an old man.
His hair and beard were white, his face lean, and his eyes were a vibrant emerald green. His white robes were embroidered with intricate gold patterns that shimmered faintly in the sunlight.
High Priest Orion.
One of the three people standing at the pinnacle of power in Amons World.
The veins on his hand bulged as he gripped his staff.
Behind Orion, a middle-aged woman in a pale green robe spoke in a low voice.
Her face was ordinary, and her pale green hair hung down to her waist.
Her eyes were also green, but much paler than Orion's.
"High Priest, that thing... what exactly is it?"
Orion did not answer.
He simply stared at the blurred shadow deep within the rift, the darkness reflected in his emerald eyes.
The shadow sat there, motionless.
"Summon all tribal leaders," Orion's voice was hoarse. "Convene the Guardian Council."
The middle-aged woman hesitated. "High Priest, the Guardian Council hasn't met in three hundred years..."
"Summon them."
Orion interrupted her and turned around.
The woman's words caught in her throat. She saw Orion's eyes. His emerald pupils had shrunk to the size of pinpricks, and the whites were bloodshot.
She had followed the High Priest for a hundred and seventy years, yet she had never seen him wear such an expression.
Fear.
The High Priest was afraid.
"Yes." She bowed deeply and turned to leave quickly.
Orion turned back to face the rift in the sky.
At that moment, an invisible pulse emanated from deep within the earth.
The ripple was so faint it was almost imperceptible, like a breeze or a sigh. It rose from the deepest depths, passing through rock, soil, the stone foundation of the spire, and through the soles of his feet, traveling up his skeleton to the top of his skull.
It was the World Mother.
Orion closed his eyes.
The pulse contained no words, no images, no translatable information.
Only a pure, primal emotion.
Danger.
Extreme danger.
Survive at all costs.
Orion opened his eyes.
The World Mother never spoke of her own accord.
She was merely a chaotic, half-dreaming collective of instincts, devoid of thought or emotion.
Orion looked up at the rift once more.
The shadow remained still.
Silent and motionless.
But Orion knew that thing was coming.
In fifty years, a hundred years, or perhaps longer.
But it would come.
And Amons World had to be ready before then.
Simultaneously, across Amons World, the powerful of every tribe, city, and settlement sensed the World Mother's warning.
Eastern Plain, Ironwood Tribe.
The tribal leader, a giant over three and a half meters tall with dark blue patterns covering his bare torso, stood before the tribal altar. He slammed his battle-axe into the ground, sending stone fragments flying.
"Beat the war drums! Summon all warriors!"
Northern Icefield, Frost Whisper Tribe.
An old woman draped in white fur sat cross-legged deep within an ice cave, surrounded by dozens of fist-sized floating ice crystals. She snapped her eyes open, and the crystals shattered simultaneously, shards embedding themselves into the ice walls.
"Marshal the troops! Prepare for war!"
Western Desert, Sandstone Tribe.
A lean, middle-aged man leaped from a sand dune, the rift in the sky reflected in his amber eyes. The sand beneath his feet began to vibrate, and countless tiny grains hovered, forming a rotating ring of sand around him.
"Every tribe, every warrior, everyone who can hold a weapon. War is coming."
Southern Swamp, Blackwater Tribe.
A humanoid creature covered in dark green scales emerged from the depths of the marsh, mud sliding from the gaps in its scales. Its eyes had vertical amber pupils that viewed people as mere food.
"The wound in the sky."
It grinned, revealing rows of fine, sharp teeth.
"Interesting."
The entire Amons World mobilized at that moment.
Wars between tribes ceased.
Border conflicts ended.
Blood feuds lasting three centuries, disputes spanning five hundred years, and grudges accumulated over a millennium were all set aside in the face of that rift.
It wasn't because they had suddenly become peace-loving.
It was because the World Mother told them that if they couldn't stop what was inside that rift, everyone would die.
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