In the first weave of fate, in the first world called Aurela, the sky split like torn silk, and three outsiders fell through that scar.

Two were Asian, one was African, three silhouettes against a bleeding dawn.

Mo Rain, Hakon, and Yulei Hayato came from the same earth, a small raft in a black sea, so they clung and pulled each other up.

With sharp minds like knives in their sleeves, their wants grew simple, straight as an arrow’s flight.

They wielded a mysterious force like fire cupped in their palms; no king could knight them, and no kingdom’s seal mattered.

With that hidden power, they were nobles of the world, crowns forged from thundercloud and shadow.

Court nobles and those “world nobles,” the secretive mages, eyed their hoard like wolves eyeing a lone lamb.

Taking what the three had built would be easy, a hand sweeping sand from a table.

They were imprisoned, iron biting skin, because wealth runs dry, but creators fill the river again and again.

Greed like wildfire licked the royal court, and the nobility, led by the crown, chose to wrestle the mages.

In the chaos like a storm of broken glass, the three finally fled their cell.

They grew up fast, skin toughened like bark; truth hit like winter—this world was cruel and knew no rights.

To live, they needed power like the mages’, that cold, secret moonlight lodged in the bone.

They held one another up, shoulder to shoulder, whispering courage like embers in the dark.

They hit walls a hundred times and walked a hundred knife-edges; this world repelled their magic like oil shunning water.

Whatever spell they tried, it slipped through their fingers like rain through a sieve.

Still, they didn’t quit; they chased rumors like fireflies and dug for any seed that might sprout into strength.

One day, Hakon brought news like thunder on clear sky.

Four years prior, the year they arrived, a meteor fell and carved a wound across the heavens.

It landed in the desert where they first appeared, a place of sand like pale bones.

When they first fell into Aurela, they landed in wasteland; that desert had once been forest, green as a sea.

The meteor’s fist smashed it to dust, trees toppled like grain before a scythe.

Mo Rain and Hayato warned against the risk, their voices cool as dew, but Hakon’s hate had already boiled over.

In four years, he’d built a home like a warm hearth—beloved wife, two children, one boy, one girl.

The disaster blew it all out like a candle in a gale.

For Hakon, without the fire of revenge, breath was ash and days were hollow shells.

So, helpless and grim as winter ravens, Mo Rain and Hayato went with him to that desert, the place where it all began.

Life withers there at a pace you can watch, like frost devouring grass; yet they walked untouched, three figures in a dead wind.

Just as on day one, when they staggered from that sand, the desert spared them like an old oath remembered.

Anything born of Aurela that entered aged before your eyes, skin turning paper-thin until silence claimed it.

Beyond the foreign knowledge in their skulls, only that birthplace of dust proved they weren’t like Aurela’s natives.

Unafraid of that so‑called “radiation,” they searched the dunes like ants combing a field.

At last, in a wide crater, they found a fragment, a black tooth in a giant’s jaw.

The pit was dozens of meters across and ten deep; no great meteor lay there, only a fist-sized shard.

The three travelers drew power from that shard, a river tapped with a bare hand.

They weren’t mages, yet power answered like a hawk to a whistle—no chant, no meditation, only will.

With humiliation like a thorn and hatred like iron, they led their sworn followers to war against their old hunters.

Hakon erased that kingdom like chalk under rain; a vast land collapsed into one immense crater.

The domineering Mage Association shattered and scattered, a flock broken by lightning.

In the end, the three parted like roads after a pass, each carrying a different star.

Mo Rain roamed the world, a lone lantern, searching for the way home.

Hakon buried himself in shadowed experiments, night after night, to resurrect his wife and children.

Yulei Hayato fell for a woman, chose hearth over sword, married, and settled under a quiet sky.

If it had ended there, the story would’ve been a gentle dusk.

Hakon’s heart beat only for revival, so Mo Rain and Hayato handed him the shard, hoping that strange stone would help.

Ten years later, Hakon returned like a storm god, a flick of his hand calling wind and rain.

He wasn’t the Hakon they knew; he was a zealot in a god’s mask, ready to sacrifice the world for love.

The old comrades clashed, storm against mountain; ten years of studying the shard had steeped Hakon like tea dark as ink.

Hayato had a family now, roots sunk deep; he would never allow Hakon to bleed the world dry.

Knowing the shard fed Hakon’s power, Mo Rain and Hayato laid a trap like a net cast at night.

Hakon tore their hope apart with absolute force, a hammer striking glass; it all fell in glittering ruin.

Because he stood inside a field called godhood, a horizon only he could cross.

The world cracked and kept cracking, a plate under relentless heat; kingdoms and races vanished like snow in a kiln.

In that wreckage, Mo Rain noticed a strange mercy: souls didn’t disperse like smoke.

They congealed into undying obsessions, like lanterns drifting between heaven and earth.

If the dead lent her their fire, could she stand against Hakon’s storm?

Those resentful souls listened, and after Mo Rain spoke, they burned themselves like dry pine, fierce and bright.

They offered their power to her, unflinching, for one purpose—to cut down the culprit, the self-proclaimed god.

Billions threw themselves into the flame; Mo Rain used her shard studies and the shard-force lingering in her body.

She forged a counterfeit shard, a moon made from borrowed light.

But false is false; even with that blade of dawn, she couldn’t cleave Hakon’s night.

At the last moment, Hayato traded life for a heartbeat and tore the shard from Hakon’s hand.

To stop resonance between Hakon and the stone, he used a secret art and sealed the shard into his ten-year-old daughter.

He sank his own memories with it, falling into deep sleep like a stone in a well.

Without the shard, Hakon went utterly mad, turning into a bank of black mist that ravaged the land.

He became a beast with no mind, only the urge to unmake, a tide chewing the shore.

Mo Rain couldn’t be slain by that monster, yet she couldn’t halt the world’s breaking either.

At last, all was ruined; the world lay a graveyard of ash, and Hayato’s daughter fell to Hakon’s hand.

What baffled Mo Rain was this: after the girl died, the sealed shard didn’t surface.

It was as if it had never existed, a phantom stone lost between breaths.

Mo Rain didn’t think further; she stood in the ruins like a lone pine, clutching the counterfeit forged from billions of souls.

If only she could go back, she thought, back to the spring before the frost, and change it all.

A miracle answered; the fake shard flared like sunrise, and a dial floated before her eyes.

Its hand spun counterclockwise like a river turned, and Mo Rain vanished from that world.

“That’s the first fate, the story of the first world…” She sat hugging her knees, head bowed like a wilted flower.

A circle of cats listened, whiskers still, as if rain tapped paper screens.

Hell Lord Christo paced, tail of thought lashing, as if counting steps on a blade’s edge. “Meow~ so the root’s that meteor, huh…”

Christo’s words were what every cat’s heart was already meowing.

“Meow, it’s that damn rock for sure. If I’m wrong, I’ll eat crap!” Dufei waved a fat paw, confidence puffed like fur in winter.

Ouyang nodded; however you cut it, every thread tied back to that stone. “And then? From your face, there’s more, right?”

Mo Rain nodded, a shadow moving under still water.

“With that dial, I dropped into a new world, a mirror of the first, clouds and streets the same.”

“The time was earlier, though—five years before our crossing.”

She found the forest, green as memory; no meteor had fallen, and no sand had swallowed the trees.

She watched that place for five long years, patience like frost on iron.

When the hour struck, no meteor came; instead, the sky opened a rift, and one figure tumbled out.

Yes, just one—Yulei Hayato.

No Mo Rain, no Hakon, only a single ripple in a quiet pond.

Confused, Mo Rain stayed hidden, a moth behind paper, and watched.

He had no memory of Mo Rain or Hakon; alone, he struggled like a sapling in wind.

Luckily, with Mo Rain’s secret help like rain at night, he found footing in that foreign earth.

Time flowed; Hayato married, a hearth flame lit; when the child was born, something felt wrong, sharp as a thorn.

The little girl carried the meteor’s aura, a scent of cold iron; Mo Rain checked and found the sealed shard in her.

Yulei Hayato’s daughter, Yulithilis, bore it, and the sealing sigil matched the first world’s Hayato.

The shard had slipped into a parallel world, a stone skipping to the next ripple.

Uneasy, Mo Rain waited ten more years, a thread pulled taut.

In the first world, that mark meant Hakon’s sacrifice; and what she feared arrived—a giant face formed from stormclouds.

“That’s how it goes… No matter how many parallel worlds I cross, no matter the changes, three things never shift.”

“First, Hayato marries someone.”

“Second, the child is always a girl, and she carries the shard.”

“Third, Hakon appears.”

Mo Rain tried to halt Hayato’s marriage, to see if fate would bend if the girl never drew breath and the shard never showed.

If Hayato didn’t wed, at the appointed time, an infant would appear near him like dew beading from air.

Ten years later, Hakon still arrived, storm-black and smiling.

In one parallel world, Mo Rain tried killing Hayato; the instant he died, Hakon appeared, as if summoned by a bell.

It was an endless loop, a wheel biting its tail; no matter how many times she reloaded, the board refused to break.