The history books don't call it an apocalypse. They call it "The Great Descent."
It happened exactly three hundred years ago, in the year 2030. There was no warning. No alien armada darkening the skies, no gradual rise in sea levels, and no nuclear war. Instead, the sky simply... cracked.
Across the globe, from the bustling streets of New York to the quiet rural fields of India, neon-blue fractures tore open the fabric of reality. They looked like jagged scars on the atmosphere, humming with a sound that made teeth ache and dogs howl.
Then came the "Mist."
A thick, luminous fog poured from these fractures, covering the Earth in a matter of days. Scientists frantically analysed it, calling it an atmospheric anomaly. The religious called it the breath of God.
They were both wrong. It was Qi.
For the first month, humanity rejoiced. The sick were cured overnight. The elderly regained their vitality. Crops grew to the size of trees within weeks. It seemed like a Golden Age had arrived.
But the energy that strengthened humans also evolved everything else.
Rats grew to the size of wolves. Stray dogs developed scales that could deflect small-calibre bullets. The insects... the insects were the first nightmare. When a mosquito the size of a drone can drain a grown man dry in seconds, civilisation begins to crumble.
Then, the fractures fully opened.
From the dimensions beyond—what we now call "Dungeons" or "Rifts"—came the Beasts. The guns of the Old Era were useless. Bullets shattered against the hide of even the weakest E-Rank wolf. Missiles were intercepted by the telekinetic minds of B-Rank horrors. Humanity was pushed to the brink of extinction. We lost 60% of the global population in the first five years.
Traditional governments collapsed. Currencies became worthless paper. The only thing that mattered was survival.
But pressure creates diamonds.
Under the threat of annihilation, the dormant genes within humanity began to wake up. The First Generation Awakeners appeared. They were men and women who could harness the Qi in the air. They could punch with the force of a cannon, move faster than the speed of sound, and withstand the claws of the beasts.
They didn't need technology. They were the technology.
Led by the legendary "Seven Saints"—the first humans to break the mortal limits—humanity pushed back. They built massive Fortress Cities, enclosed within energy domes powered by the very Monster Cores harvested from their enemies.
Three centuries have passed since then. The wars have stabilised. The cities have been rebuilt, protected by massive walls and patrolled by the new ruling class: The Martial Artists.
The world of today—Terra-Reborn—is a world of dazzling contrasts.
Look up, and you will see sleek, anti-gravity cars zipping between skyscrapers made of reinforced alchemical glass. You will see holographic billboards advertising "Grade-3 Healing Pills" and "Monster Bone Swords."
Look down, and you will see the truth.
Society has been rewritten. Democracy exists on paper, but in reality, strength is the only vote that counts.
If you are a Civilian, you are labour. You keep the lights on. You live in the outer rings of the city, closest to the walls, where the roar of beasts can still be heard at night.
If you are a Martial Warrior, you are a citizen. You have rights. You live in the safe inner districts.
If you are a Grandmaster, you are a law unto yourself. Corporations bow to you, and armies move at your command.
In this world, your worth isn't determined by your bank account, your lineage, or your kindness. It is determined by a single number on a screen: Your Power Level.
And nowhere is this brutal truth more apparent than in the breeding grounds of the future rulers: The Martial Academies.
These institutions replaced thetraditional universitiesd. Mathematics and Literature are still taught, but they are secondary. The core curriculum is survival. Breathing techniques, anatomy of monsters, weapon mastery, and cultivation theory—these are the subjects that determine your future.
Every year, millions of teenagers turn eighteen. They stand before the "Awakening Stones," praying to the heavens for a high-grade talent.
An F-Rank Talent means a life of mediocrity. You might become a slightly stronger construction worker or a guard.
A C-Rank Talent guarantees a comfortable life. You will be a respected warrior.
An A-Rank Talent? You are instantly royalty. The great clans will fight to adopt you, and the government will pour resources into your growth.
But for those who fail to awaken... or those whose talent is deemed "waste"... the world is a cold, unforgiving place. They become the background noise of society. The invisible gears that keep the machine running for the strong.
And nowhere is this brutal truth more apparent than in the breeding grounds of the future rulers: The Martial Academies.
These institutions replacedtraditional universitiesf old. Mathematics and Literature are still taught, but they are secondary. The core curriculum is survival. Breathing techniques, anatomy of monsters, weapon mastery, and cultivation theory—these are the subjects that determine your future.
But for one man, this history isn't just a chapter in a textbook.
For Arthur Vance, the year 2030 wasn't "The Great Descent." It was the year he paid his mortgage. It was the year he filed his taxes as an ordinary corporate worker in Mumbai. It was the year his mundane life came to an end.
300 years later, Arthur woke up.
One moment, he was a thirty-year-old salaryman in the Old Era, exhausted from overtime. Next, he gasped for air in the unfamiliar, smog-choked room of an orphanage in Sector 12. He looked at his hands—small, calloused, and trembling. He rushed to a mirror and saw the terrified face of a twelve-year-old boy staring back.
He had transmigrated. He had crossed three centuries of time to land in this dangerous, high-martial future.
At first, he was ecstatic. He had read enough web novels in his past life to know the script: A transmigrator always gets a Golden Finger. A Cheat System. A mysterious ring. He believed he was destined to be the hero of this new age, the one who would rise above the heavens and conquer the stars.
He waited for the "Ding!" sound in his head. He waited for a magical grandfather to appear. He waited for his latent talent to shake the world.
He waited for thirty years.
The notification never came. The grandfather never appeared. And when he stood before the Awakening Stone at age eighteen, the cold, mechanical voice of the examiner shattered his delusions of grandeur.
"Talent Grade: E-Rank. Constitution: Common. Destiny: Worker Class."
The script was broken. The "hero" was just an extra.
Now, at forty-two years old, Arthur Vance is not a conqueror of stars. He is a survivor of reality. He didn't become a God of War; he became the guy who cleans up after them.
He lowered his head, picked up his broom, and accepted that in this story, he wasn't the protagonist.
Or so he thought.