The world as we know it changed in the year 1950—not with fire, war, or catastrophe, but with a spark. A spark in the soul of humanity itself. Overnight, every man, woman, and child awakened with something new coursing through their veins. Powers. Some could bend light to their will, others could breathe life into stone or speak to the oceans. It was a global mutation, a rewriting of the human blueprint. Scientists had no explanation. Theologians called it a gift. Historians would one day call it The Ascension Year.
What followed was not chaos—but balance.
Instead of collapse, the world found unity. The same powers that could have destroyed civilization brought about its salvation. The global economy recalibrated itself, as energy manipulation, bio-enhancement, and instant food synthesis eliminated hunger. With the ability to feel others' emotions, walk in others' memories, and experience pain not their own, humanity shed its oldest diseases: racism, sexism, greed. Those concepts became relics of a time too primitive to understand its own potential.
And from the need for structure amid power, a new governing body rose: the Super World Order, or SWO. They weren't tyrants. They were guides. Elected by every corner of the Earth, their sole mission was to maintain harmony, not dominate it.
Through the SWO's creation of the Harmonic System, human powers were regulated and trained like instruments in a universal symphony. Terraformers restored dead landscapes into vibrant meadows. Gravity manipulators carved floating gardens across the skies. Aquamancers purified oceans, bringing back marine species long thought extinct. There was no such thing as an endangered animal anymore—because extinction had been made obsolete.
And the Earth bloomed. The deserts shimmered with flowering trees, engineered to withstand the heat. Mountains glowed faintly under bioluminescent moss. Cities and nature weren't separated anymore—they coexisted like twin heartbeats.
Massive arcologies rose, combining sustainability and architecture in ways the old world could never fathom. Solar canopies stretched over valleys, capturing energy that powered entire regions. The skies were filled with gliders and soaring lifeforms—some natural, some born of imagination. Forests whispered in tongues of wind and song, a language humans had learned to hear. And everywhere, harmony reigned.
Fifty years passed.
By the dawn of the 21st century, space was no longer the final frontier. It had become the next vacation spot. What once required decades of government-backed effort was now streamlined through quantum engines and gravity folds. The first civilian vessel soared past the moon toward Arcturus-IV, returning with footage of skies dyed in pink auroras and seas that glittered like shattered gemstones. Humanity was no longer confined to a single world.
A decade later, interplanetary tourism flourished. Colonies began forming on moons, planets, and orbital rings. People celebrated birthdays under Saturn's rings, held weddings on the ice cliffs of Virellion Prime, and painted murals in low-gravity workshops aboard floating galleries.
Ten more years, and exploration expanded to distant galaxies. The Exal Galaxy, with its twin suns and nebular rainstorms, became the symbol of the new golden age. Students took field trips to star nurseries. Researchers studied living planets that pulsed like beating hearts. Artists sculpted in zero-gravity with plasma and magnetized sand. Space no longer belonged to the few; it was a shared legacy.
And then came the greatest leap.
In the year 2070, the invention of wormhole convergence and universal translation tech led to first contact with intelligent life from other planetary systems. And these weren't mere civilizations—they were Kingdoms. Entire worlds governed not by borders or flags, but by concepts: the Kingdom of Flame, where fire was a sacred language; the Kingdom of Echoes, where every word spoken lived forever; the Kingdom of Petals, where wind carried thoughts.
Each Kingdom introduced new races, each gifted in unique ways. There were beings made of sound frequencies, shifting forms with every tone. Crystal-bodied sentients who stored memories as refracted light. Ethereal beings who could fold reality with gestures of thought. Powers that even the most gifted humans found humbling.
But humanity did not recoil. It did not conquer. It embraced.
Cultures mixed. Stories were exchanged. And as they did, humanity realized something profound: these other races, too, had once feared difference. They too had fought wars, endured inequality, struggled with division. And they too had risen from it.
In one year, the ancient scourge of racism died again. Not just among humans, but across species. Not through ideology, but through shared experience. The universe had reminded humanity of its own journey. Prejudice was not universal. Understanding was.
As Earth became one world among many, and humanity one race among hundreds, something rare and powerful began to blossom: not dominance, not superiority, but reverence.
Children in the new age grew up speaking a blend of Earth dialects and galactic tongues. They played with toys that mimicked alien flora, studied math taught by beings who calculated in dream patterns, and practiced martial arts from species with six limbs. Their heroes weren't just human—they were universal.
And standing watch over this new cosmos was the SWO, no longer just a council of Earth, but a peacekeeping force spanning systems. Their mission unchanged: not to rule, but to guide.
In every city—whether carved into mountains on Earth or floating on a gas giant's winds—there was a mural. It showed a hand of flame holding one of light, a being of shadow beside one of crystal, a human at the center, not above, not below, but equal.
A single line was etched beneath each mural, in every language known:
"Harmony is not the absence of difference. It is the celebration of it."
And so, the age of Sovereigns began. A time not of kings, but of those chosen to protect this delicate symphony.
But in the shadows of even the brightest lights, something ancient stirs...
The Sovereign of the Absolute Cataclysm is coming.
And harmony may yet be tested.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now, in the year 2100, a tragedy unfolds.
Noir Zelion, a 15-year-old Earthborn youth, found himself accused of the unthinkable: murder. Once named Daniel Vermillion, his life shattered when he was exiled from Earth. The name Daniel was deemed too sacred, too radiant, for someone branded a killer. By decree of Mayor Halrix Grendall, his name was stripped and rewritten: Noir Zelion—a name cloaked in shadow.
But Noir was innocent.
He had lived a quiet life in the mountain town of Lysoria, watching over his younger sister, Aria, and their frail father, Juno, whose body had begun deteriorating from an incurable neural decay. His twin brother, Dvyne Vermillion, walked beside him in flesh but not in soul. Born moments apart, they were as different as dusk and dawn.
Dvyne—gifted, adored, envied for his raw talent—had always harbored a secret poison: an inferiority complex so deep it festered into hatred. He believed Noir's natural presence and quiet strength overshadowed him, even without powers. While the rest of their family was born powerless, Dvyne alone was gifted. Yet he felt like the anomaly, the lesser half.
So, he devised a cruel scheme.
He framed his brother for the murder of a town elder—using illusion and blood magic inherited from their distant lineage—knowing the town's prejudice against the powerless would weigh the scales against Noir.
Mayor Halrix, who had always detested Daniel's presence, used the moment to exact personal vengeance. Rumors whispered that Halrix's own son had once lost a position in the SWO youth academy due to Daniel's academic excellence. The mayor made no attempt to hide his disdain, calling Daniel "a crack in the mirror of perfection."
After the verdict, Halrix contacted the King of Earth—King Aetherion Solmare. A ruler known for his poetic justice, Solmare authorized a grand ceremony, broadcast to a dozen systems. Ancient propulsion technology, once used for ceremonial transport, was reactivated. The accused would be launched to an uncharted planet, chosen by fate.
Thousands gathered in the crystal amphitheater of Lysoria. Noir, shackled in gravitational binders, stood tall. White-haired, black-eyed, his semi-muscular frame still bore the quiet dignity of innocence. He did not cry. He did not beg. His sister screamed. His father collapsed. Dvyne smiled.
As the light swallowed him, and the stars pulled him into exile, a single thought echoed in Noir's heart:
"I will return. And I will bring the truth with me."