That night, the sky above Sanctuary resembled a damaged canvas, marred by the strokes of an angry deity. Blue and purple streaks surged from behind the clouds, forming a massive spiral pattern that was only occasionally visible before being shrouded once more in dark clouds. Each flash froze the air, igniting fear in the hearts of all creatures that gazed upon it.
In the small villages of Gaia and Oda, mothers huddled at their doorways, shivering. Inside the cracked wooden shacks and the cold stone chambers of the palace, the cry of newborns echoed—an unsettling cry. A young mother, Aira, trembled as she heard that sound, her eyes glistening with tears. "Is this a bad omen, dear?" she asked her husband, Rian, who waited anxiously beside her. It was not merely the wail of anxiety welcoming a new world, but a sound that resonated with echoes from something older, more primal than the world itself.
An elderly midwife knelt in the western part of Gaia, her hands trembling as she cleaned the body of a newborn baby fresh from its young mother's womb. "Oh God, what has happened?" she whispered to herself, staring wide-eyed at the baby's umbilical cord. But her fingers stiffened as she glimpsed the cord: there, a tiny spiral pattern was clearly imprinted, almost shimmering like silver ink beneath the skin. Fear froze her mouth; she wanted to scream, but her voice was swallowed by a strange rumble from the earth—a sound as if it emanated from the depths of the world, from ancient cracks that had now once again opened. Outside, a seagull flew low, chirping a melancholic tune as if mourning the tension-filled night. "We need to inform the others," said a young woman standing in the corner of the room, sending shivers down the midwife's spine. "We can't ignore this."
At the Oda palace, similar news spread quickly. Each birth that day bore the same ominous sign. The palace shamans gathered in the basement, examining baby after baby with increasingly pale faces. "This is unusual," whispered one shaman, her voice trembling. "These signs... we must inform the queen immediately." They hesitated to speak further, fully aware that even a whisper could summon a more severe curse. Among the cries of the infants, strange tones echoed—like the rustling of wind from lifeless valleys, or perhaps… the whisper of something that longed to be reborn. The atmosphere in the basement was thick with tension, as if time had frozen, and the desperate urge to know clashed with a deep-seated fear.
On the surface of the Sanctuary, phenomena were intensifying. On the old stone streets, pedestrians looked up, gazing at a sky that was no longer whole. "Do you see that?" a pedestrian asked in a hoarse voice, pointing her index finger at the darkened sky. Each flash of blue-purple in the firmament compelled them to kneel, praying, or simply covering their ears, hoping it was all just a nightmare. "This is a sign," her friend Fitran replied in a tone of despair. "We have to leave this place!" Yet, the rumbling from beneath grew more distinct: the ground trembled, sometimes like an impatient heartbeat, at other times like the tread of some immense and unknown entity. Amidst the panic, some felt a cold wind caressing their skin, as if trapped spirits were striving to free themselves.
Joanna stood atop the crumbling tower, her blonde hair, now intertwined with flickering flames, whipped about by the fierce wind. Her gaze fixed intently on the swirling sky, her body radiated a faint aura, a blend of angel and human. "I can feel it," she whispered to herself, though the wind swept away her voice. She had known—ever since she received the blood of Michael and Fitran Fate—that a day like this was inevitable. A day when the spiral of Fitran would truly tear apart the boundaries between worlds and the void, between birth and curse. And within her heart, a faint hope flickered, "If all of this must happen, may I be a beacon of hope, not destruction."
In that moment of calm, Joanna closed her eyes for a moment and gathered her strength. "God, grant me strength," her prayer flowed with sincerity, "to face whatever may come."
From the tower, Joanna could see small flames dancing across the city—a sign of new births and old deaths battling at the edge of time. She felt the cries of babies, sensed the fears of mothers, even the hidden panic in the hearts of the palace guards. All these feelings swirled within her, forming a vortex of consciousness that became increasingly difficult to distinguish between her own or that of the world. "I never imagined I would witness such wonders," she whispered to herself, as if inviting the night wind to bear witness. "This is just the beginning," Joanna whispered, more to the night wind than to anyone. "The spiral blood has risen. And the old world… will soon be forgotten."
In the underground corridor, among the ancient roots of the world tree that had now turned black, Gabriel walked carrying a magic lantern. He heard the heartbeat of the world growing louder, as if something was crawling from the womb of the earth. Each of his steps felt heavy, as if the weight of history was trying to push him back. On the old stone walls, cracks of blue light appeared—leyline veins that once flowed with protective magic, now became a pathway for something unrecognizable. Gabriel pressed his ear to the ground, and there he heard: a sound like the cries of a baby mixed with the sobs of an elder who had lost their name. "What is this?" he murmured, trying to calm his racing heart. "Why does this sound feel… familiar?"
Meanwhile, deep within the ruins of the city of Oda, Mitsuyori Aketsu ran beneath a rain of ash. Her body was half-covered by an illusionary cloak, and her face tightened with worry. She spotted a group of people gathered around a house. There was a woman in labor, surrounded by family members who were crying and praying, yet none dared to touch the newborn baby. "What happened?" Mitsuyori asked, her voice trembling as she approached the crowd. An old man in the corner replied, "The baby... something is not right." As Mitsuyori drew closer, she saw a glowing spiral on the baby's back—slowly spinning, as if searching for a way out of this world. The sound of sobs echoed in her ears, stirring compassion in the depths of her soul.
She gazed up at the sky, still struck by spirals of blue and purple lightning. In her heart, Mitsuyori knew: no illusion could hide the fitran spiral, especially not from something waiting beyond reality. She whispered softly, "What do you want from me, oh little one?" She clutched a small talisman, a gift from Nobuzan, and vowed to protect what remained of this bloodline, even if it meant living with lies and sacrifice. The whispering wind seemed to respond to her uncertainty, "Guard her, save this peaceful soul..."
In a corner of the Sanctuary, an elderly mother cradled her grandson, gazing at the small spiral in the baby's hand. Her eyes glistened with tears, yet her lips quivered as she recited an ancient prayer, a legacy from a time before the world was torn apart by war. "Listen, my dear grandchild," she whispered gently, "this mark is a heritage—not a curse, nor a blessing, but a 'trace' of something long hidden that now demands recognition." The darkness of the night seemed to strip away the boundaries between their world and another, infusing a magical sensation in each of her breaths.
"Spiral baby…" she murmured softly, her voice nearly drowned out by the rumble reverberating through the walls of the Sanctuary. "You are both the key and the gateway. If you are born today, tomorrow the world will weep." Each word she spoke felt heavy, as though the burden was not only on the baby but also on all of humanity.
Under the ground of the Sanctuary, the rumble grew louder, as if the earth was expressing its dissatisfaction. In an old well, water reflected a spiral light dancing like a serpent on the surface, creating a terrifying intricate illusion. The priests of the Sanctuary delved into ancient records, seeking traces of the spiral fitran and the meaning of its emergence, carried away by chants that pulsed rhythmically like a heartbeat. "What will we do if this prophecy is true?" asked one of the priests, his voice trembling with fear. "We can't let the world know about this baby!" responded another in a panic, his face paling.
This tightly-woven narrative contrasted sharply with a more poignant atmosphere of hope. Amidst the crowd of fear, a different voice emerged. Some young people gazed proudly at the spiral mark on their baby's body, hopeful for a new generation capable of defying the old world's fate. "Look, this is a sign of courage," whispered one of them, her eyes sparkling with spirit. "We must fight, for them!" They murmured about change, about hope that only blossoms amidst ruins and blood. "We are the pioneers of the future!" shouted a young man, ringing out in the chaos. Yet, that night, hope and despair grew together, intertwining like roots that could never truly be separated.
Deep within the earth, the voice of Tiamat began to resonate, echoing through the darkness. Although she had not fully awakened, the vibrations of her presence weighed heavily on all that lived, making them acutely aware of the passage of time. "She will come," whispered an old priest with a wrinkled face, "are we prepared?" Amidst the fog and cracks, the sound of a baby's cries blended with a mother's howls, forming a haunting melody of birth and death. It was as if everything born was destined to remember one another, and with each passing second, they drew ever closer to an unspoken fate.
The sky, the earth, and all that lay between held their breath—awaiting, questioning, and fearing the answers to come. "What will happen if the cracks grow larger?" Joanna whispered, her voice barely audible in the oppressive silence. She sensed the vibrations in the air, as if the universe was responding to her apprehension.
As Dawn approached, the Sanctuary's ground felt heavier than usual. People slept restlessly, dreaming of spirals, giant dragons, and disasters lurking beyond the horizon. Some awoke in cold sweats, staring at the dark sky as if hoping to catch a glimpse of the stars, but all they could see were shadows of impending threats closing in. Joanna descended from the tower, her fingers brushing against the ancient stones, now warmed by spiral magic. She knew her task was far from over. "Every spiral you encounter, bring it to me," she urged herself. "I must find the source of the cracks, stem the tide of spiral fitran before it's too late."
Gabriel navigated the corridor, delivering news to Joanna: "The leyline cracks are widening. Spiral energy is spreading uncontrollably. I fear, Joanna, that we have already lost control before we even had the chance to try." His face was pale, his eyes radiating profound fear.
Joanna looked deeply into his eyes, their gazes meeting in the dark, and at that moment, she felt the weight of responsibility heavier than ever before. "No, Gabriel. We still have our names, our will. As long as fitran has not completely seized the world, we can still fight." Her voice was firm, yet a trace of doubt lingered in the depths of her soul.
But outside, the world had already changed. Spiral babies continued to be born. Each of their cries, each spiral on their bodies, opened new doors to something darker—perhaps even to a new beginning that no one could yet comprehend. In a corner of the village, an old grandmother watched the events unfold, her mouth trembling as she recited protective mantras. The cracks in the ground widened, the rumbling grew deeper, and a purple fog thickened over the sacred land of Sanctuary, creating an almost mystical atmosphere. "We must act quickly, before everything is swept away," murmured Oda Nobuzan, her eyes ignited with determination.
That night, the world waited in horror. Beneath the spiral light that split the sky, the name Fitran Fate—father of the spiral and harbinger of ancient disaster—echoed in every heart, marking the dawn of a new chapter in the history of Sanctuary. "Are we ready?" asked Lira, her voice trembling as she gazed at the dark sky, adorned with stars that seemed to watch with curious eyes. "No one is prepared for what is to come," Eldar replied, his eyes shining with a mysterious light. "But perhaps, it is this very unpreparedness that will become our strength."
And in the belly of the world, Tiamat smiled. The gates had opened, the blood had awakened, and the old world was but a memory waiting to be erased forever. In the shadowy corner of the cave, soft whispers could be heard, as if the voices of trapped souls awaited their freedom. "We will rise," they murmured, adding weight to the tension that pervaded the atmosphere. "We will not be forgotten." She felt as though the souls were merging with the invisible beings around her, forming a strong and mysterious bond, waiting for the moment to emerge from the darkness.