[World: EARTH]
[Magical Saturation Level: 5%]
› Bottleneck Reached
The message echoed through the Celestial Assembly Grounds.
Earth's projected sphere pulsed—faintly, like a heartbeat under gauze. The fog that had long concealed it didn't vanish, but began to loosen, as if the pressure behind it had grown too much to bear.
Cities emerged from the mist. Roads. Ocean gleam. Flickers of mortal life.
Then—on a pale stretch of mortal path, a crack appeared. A fissure in the sky, narrow and shimmering.
It pulsed. Once. Twice.
Then it split.
The tear widened with a soundless shudder, revealing not stars or void, but a world behind the world. A place of damp stone and green rot. The kind of place that bred teeth.
And through it came goblins.
Not marching. Not invading. Falling.
They tumbled out of the rift in a chaotic snarl of limbs, squeals, and rusted weapons. The first hit pavement and flailed. Another shrieked as it tried to stand—
—and was obliterated by a red metal construct roaring past on wheels.
Another followed, fared no better. One managed to raise a jagged spear before a larger construct turned it into an ex-goblin with a satisfying thud.
The Constellations watching said nothing for a moment.
"…They're not very coordinated," murmured one.
"They're being slaughtered by mortal transports," another observed, half in awe.
More creatures poured out. Goblins. Something orc-adjacent. One troll, too big to fall cleanly, got stuck halfway in the gate and thrashed like an angry cork in a bottle.
Mortal panic. Screeching tires. Someone screamed into a glowing rectangle.
"…Is that mortal… holding a talisman?" one of the Constellations asked, squinting at the projected image.
A crablike claw pointed. "It glows. Perhaps a warding stone?"
"No," muttered someone else. "They're speaking into it. Issuing commands, maybe."
The red construct ran over another goblin with a crunch that echoed through the vision. Somewhere, a bystander flinched—but didn't run. Instead, they lifted their glowing rectangle and began tapping it rapidly.
"What… what are they doing?" said a Constellation made of cloud and copper. "The beasts are loose, their road is broken, and they're casting spells into mirrors?"
"I don't think that's a mirror," One muttered. "Or a spell."
"They're pointing it at the creatures. Recording them. Sharing it with others. Look—see how the images multiply. The illusions ripple outward."
"They're summoning reinforcements?"
A pause.
"…No," said one of the Constellations. "I think they're… broadcasting."
A stunned silence followed.
"Madness," someone whispered.
A mortal in blue clothing hurled a drink at one, screamed something unintelligible, and ran—but not before turning the glowing rectangle on themselves to make a face.
"…That one smiled," someone said flatly. "While fleeing."
"They're doomed," murmured a star-beast. "Absolutely doomed."
-
EARTH
The first crack formed above a freeway.
No warning. No sound. Just a shimmering fissure in the air—like a tear in plastic wrap—hanging over six lanes of westbound traffic.
Then the goblins started falling.
One hit the hood of a car and bounced.
Another landed on the asphalt, shrieked, and was immediately crushed under the tires of something red and fast-moving.
Metal crumpled. A third goblin raised its head just in time to see a delivery van bear down on it, headlights blazing.
There was no plan. No formation. No strategy. Just bodies—green and snarling—spilling into a world that had never believed in monsters.
Within minutes, there were dozens of them.
Green, twisted things with rusted blades and too many teeth, pouring out of a world that stank of moss and blood.
Some ran. Some leapt onto passing vehicles. Most just flailed and died, ill-prepared for the onslaught of modern infrastructure.
The flashing lights of two police cruisers cut through the chaos—blue and red reflections spinning off mangled cars and broken glass.
Officers were already on the scene. Weapons drawn. Shouting commands no one could follow.
"Get back! Get back!"
"Drop the weapon—drop it—damn it—"
The thing didn't drop anything.
It snarled, lunged at a woman crawling out of a silver SUV, and drove a jagged blade into her shoulder.
Gunfire answered.
Three shots—loud and close—and the creature dropped like wet laundry.
Officer James lowered his sidearm with a trembling hand. "Jesus Christ. What is that?"
No one answered. There was too much screaming. Too much motion. Another goblin scuttled across the hood of a patrol car, chipping the windshield with its blade before catching a bullet to the chest.
"Dispatch, this is 2-17—we've got multiple hostiles on the freeway," a voice crackled into a shoulder mic. "Not human. Not—anything. They're attacking civilians. We need backup. SWAT. National Guard. Something."
He turned—and froze.
The tear in the sky, still hanging over the freeway, shuddered—then popped.
Something massive fell through.
It hit the roof of an abandoned sedan with a crash, crumpling the vehicle like a soda can and rolling off with a groan that sounded both annoyed and concussed.
The troll had finally made it.
It flopped onto the pavement face-first, limbs sprawled, one leg still twitching in the air like a flipped turtle.
The creature rolled onto its side and belched. Loudly. A wet, swampy sound that echoed off the overpass.
"...Did that thing just fart out of its mouth?" someone muttered behind him.
The troll sat up with an aggrieved grunt, blinked at the burning cars and tiny uniformed humans running around.
Then it roared.
James didn't hesitate. "OPEN FIRE!"
His partner didn't wait. Squeezing the trigger, her sidearm cracking twice—pop pop—useless against the troll's thick hide. The bullets pinged off, one ricocheting into the curb.
Others joined in. More sirens wailed. An officer emptied a shotgun, the blast slamming into the creature's chest and staggering it a step—but only a step.
And then the troll charged.
It moved like a drunk train. Not fast. Not elegant. But inevitable.
It swung wide—smashed through a concrete divider like it was drywall. Debris flew. Someone screamed.
One officer got clipped—just a glancing blow—but it sent him flying. He hit the ground hard and didn't get up.
"Guns aren't doing shit!" someone yelled.
"Eyes! Aim for the eyes!"
Another volley rang out—focused, coordinated. One, two, three bullets struck true. The troll howled, flailing wildly as thick black ichor sprayed from its face.
It staggered back, one hand over its ruined eye socket.
The officers barely had time to breathe.
Because then—it started to heal.
The skin around the wound rippled, twitched, and began knitting itself back together.
James's blood ran cold. "...It's healing. It's regenerating."
[System Notification]
[Synchronizing…]
["He Who Carries the Final Trumpet" seeks to form a Contract]
A quiet, reverent hum buzzed at the edge of his hearing—like distant choral music.
James stared, mouth dry.
"...What the hell?"
The message didn't vanish. Instead, it pulsed brighter—urgently now.
[Do you wish to accept the Contract?]
[YES] [NO]
James didn't move.
The troll was coming back—healing, roaring, faster this time. Blood still leaked from its ruined eye, but the socket was already closing, the flesh crawling like something alive.
And that box—
That floating, glowing box—
Was still there. Still waiting.
He stared at it like it might bite him.
James's lips parted. "...The hell are you?"
Another officer screamed. The troll smashed a burning car aside like a toy. James could see the next victim in its path—a teenage girl limping, too slow, too panicked to know what was behind her.
"…Screw it."
He hit [YES].