Space Ordiman’s tabletop RPG system revives the dark essence of classics like Vampire: The Masquerade, Call of Cthulhu, Werewolf: The Apocalypse, Mage, and Dungeons & Dragons, placing players inside a shadow-drenched world where secrecy is survival and infiltration is the only path forward. As an operative of an ancient global Order, you must descend into twisted cults, confront entities from the deepest spiritual layers, and endure harrowing revelations to stop the Great Reset — a catastrophic plan that would wipe out humanity by 2030. In this universe, sects have forged alliances with dense, corrosive forces beyond the physical world, and the clock now ticks mercilessly toward a five-year extinction.
In 1980, a silent process stirred within the deepest layers of the spiritual plane—methodical, patient, and forged with a single, merciless intention: the eradication of humankind. It was not an isolated event, but the first tremor of a vast and calculated operation orchestrated by intelligences that do not belong to our world. Their purpose was brutally simple: to turn Earth into a spiritual breach, a permanent gateway for entities that should never be allowed to cross into the physical realm. Their very presence corrupts reality—bending its rules, eroding the human mind, and reducing sanity to drifting ash.
In the decades that followed, the plan advanced without faltering. Each era brought new manipulations, subtle but malignant, woven seamlessly into the fabric of the world. Minor incidents, isolated tragedies, spiritual distortions, and quiet shifts in collective behavior revealed that an unseen hand was guiding the course of history. Every piece fell into place with unnerving precision. And in 2030, the one who began it all—Ordiman, an ancient entity risen from the Underrealm ages ago—will cross the boundary between worlds and initiate what the hidden archives call the Great Reset. Once this process begins, there is no turning back. Humanity will not face war, nor immediate destruction; it will simply cease to be what it has always been.
Many human groups—cults, covens, and secret societies—have aligned themselves willingly with these forces. Some seek forbidden power, others chase the promise of arcane revelation, and many follow blindly, unaware of the true cost of their devotion. Their influence spreads through formal institutions, forgotten communities, and remote frontiers where no spiritual vigilance remains. They act as brokers and conduits, weakening barriers, preparing the ground, ensuring that Ordiman’s arrival unfolds without meaningful resistance.
Yet resistance endures, fragile though it is. The Ordo Lux, an ancient order operating in the shadows since before the fall of the earliest civilizations, has tracked this unfolding plan from the beginning. They have studied the omens, charted the patterns, and documented every spiritual interference of the past decades. They know what approaches. They know what is at stake. And they know that, standing alone, they cannot halt the advance of the Great Reset.
This is where your path begins. Not as a chosen hero, but as one capable of walking through darkness without surrendering to it. Your mission is to infiltrate these groups, uncover their movements, decipher their symbols, gather the secrets they guard, and expose the unseen connections that keep the plan alive. Every step matters. Every fragment of truth shifts the balance. Every decision made at the right moment may spell the difference between annihilation and survival. If the Great Reset is to be stopped, it will not be through brute force or divine salvation—it will be through the actions of those who dare to cross the shadows before they consume all that remains.
To understand what unfolds now, one must return to 1980—when the first true spark of this grand design was lit. In that year, within the deepest strata of the Underrealm, a gathering took place unlike anything ever recorded. It occurred in a vast chamber carved from living darkness, where the walls pulsed like sentient flesh. Presiding over the assembly was Nocthyl, an entity known in occult archives only through fragmented, contradictory accounts—always described as a shape that moved like a shadow, yet spoke with unnerving clarity.
Nocthyl presented what she called a breakthrough in spiritual containment: a technology capable of imprisoning consciousness without the captive ever realizing it. According to her, a disembodied consciousness—stripped of its flesh and reduced to its spiritual core—could be submerged into a solution of enriched plasma. This plasma acted as a conduit, transmitting information directly through the ectoplasmic structure of the spirit. The result was a fully simulated reality, indistinguishable from the original, where the imprisoned mind would live, act, and generate energy as though nothing had occurred.
The purpose was not punishment. It was harvest. Within those manufactured worlds, consciousness became a stable source of power, feeding the architects of the illusion. The individual would suspect nothing. There would be no rebellion, no suffering—only the silent extraction of vitality, disguised as ordinary existence.
During that fateful meeting, Nocthyl proposed expanding the process to the material universe. They would need a physical anchor—somewhere they could root themselves, a foothold that would allow the parasitic cycle to spread across multiple planes. After long deliberation, they chose Earth. The reason was strategic: Earth’s spatial alignment with Saturn, a liminal threshold between the physical domain and the subtle realms.
Saturn serves as a regulator of transitions, a boundary where cosmic laws bend and the fabric between worlds grows thin. Through this alignment, they believed they could manifest high-density entities—beings long prohibited from entering physical form due to their extremely low vibrational frequency. These entities had rejected evolution itself, and for that, the universe sealed them away. They were considered universally restricted, forbidden by the fundamental laws of manifestation.
But Earth, positioned near this threshold, offered a breach. With enough preparation and influence, these beings could bypass their restrictions and enter the physical plane through human structures. This was the seed of everything that followed: the infiltration of cults, the manipulation of institutions, the orchestration of events that would lead to Ordiman’s return in 2030.
And now the cycle reaches its final phase. Only one question remains: will anyone intervene before the arrival shatters the last barrier between the two worlds?
On Earth, the unfolding of this grand design never occurred in isolation. For decades—perhaps centuries—countless cults, occult cells, and clandestine orders have operated in quiet alignment with the forces behind Ordiman. They share no faith, culture, or homeland; what binds them is a single, silent directive: to prepare the world for his arrival. Their infiltration into key historical events has been deliberate and surgical, manipulating circumstances from the shadows and shaping outcomes that appeared spontaneous, tragic, or inexplicable. Many disasters that baffled investigators, many sudden global shifts that felt unnatural, carry at some hidden level the subtle imprint of their interference. Their work serves a dual purpose: to destabilize human civilization and to generate emotional shockwaves dense enough to thicken Earth’s psychic field, gradually tuning it to frequencies compatible with low-vibration entities awaiting a passage into the physical world.
Yet their influence extends far beyond physical manipulation. Within the digital realm, these groups orchestrate fear with mathematical precision. They seed panic, amplify rumors, distort information, and sustain a stream of subliminal pressure that shapes collective perception without ever being noticed. Through repetition and calculated emotional engineering, they reinforce narratives of collapse, helplessness, and existential dread. Every viral crisis—manufactured or merely exploited—serves as fuel, subtly altering the planet’s emotional frequency. And while humanity remains distracted, signs of Ordiman’s proximity have begun surfacing with unsettling regularity. The phenomenon designated as 3I/ATLAS, publicly dismissed as a scientific anomaly, is described within the sealed archives of the Ordo Lux as the first energetic shadow cast by the entity pressing against the threshold of Earth. A precursor. A warning. Proof that the process is already underway.
Although authorities attribute these manifestations to technical malfunctions, atmospheric distortions, or natural fluctuations, the pattern they form is anything but random. Only those who understand the occult framework can recognize its structure—a sequence as old as the stars and as precise as a machine. Few ever notice the hidden connection between global turmoil, emotional manipulation, and the emergence of phenomena that defy scientific classification. To the untrained eye, the world simply appears chaotic, unstable, and fragmented. But behind the veil lies a design of immense scale, in which every crisis, every unexplained event, every moment of collective fear functions as a cog in a system meticulously engineered over generations. Ordiman’s approach is no longer a matter of speculation; the architecture of the plan is nearly complete. And only those willing to operate within the same shadows in which it was born may yet find a way to interfere before the final outcome becomes irreversible.
In the chaos of the early 2000s, amid the devastation of the Second Congo War, a truth far darker than famine, massacres, and collapsing nations took shape beneath the ruins. While the world saw only geopolitical violence and humanitarian catastrophe, something ancient stirred behind the veil — a forgotten cult from the depths of Tanzania, slithering back into existence like a shadow crawling out from the cracks of history.
Whispers spread through refugee corridors and war-torn villages: priests crossing borders unnoticed, acquiring entire groups of people not for labor, not for warfare, but for ritual sacrifice to a deity feared even in myth — Wombá. Yet Wombá was never merely a god. He was the mask of Nocthyl, the entity of the deepest layers of the Underworld, a being nourished not by worship but by suffering itself.
His followers, the Wombaia, traded in terror as currency, blood as offering, and agony as sacred fuel. Their rites tore at the seams of reality, allowing fragments of the Underworld to seep into the physical world. Governments claimed to have eradicated the cult during the so-called “Great Witch Hunt” in Tanzania — a purge so violent that entire villages were reduced to ash. History calls it progress. The truth is simpler: the cult was never destroyed. It merely changed its shape.
The Wombaia infiltrated cities, governments, markets, and minds. They abandoned shrines of stone and built something far more dangerous: an invisible religion rooted not in geography but in consciousness — a psychic latticework linking human fear to the architecture of the cosmos. Within this psychospheric realm, their priests wandered impossible landscapes: plains of living bone, oceans of black fluid, geometric cities that rearranged themselves like thinking machines. And at the center of every vision loomed the same colossal presence — Wombá/Nocthyl, whispering directly into the mind.
The roots of the cult stretch back nearly a millennium. In the year 1030, an isolated tribe conducted six hundred consecutive days of ritual sacrifice so brutal that the psychic field above them ruptured. Through that wound, Nocthyl made his first contact with the human world. Horrified at first, the tribe eventually embraced the “gift.” They became the first Wombaia — bearers of forbidden insight — communicating through symbols that vibrated with their own internal light and projecting their minds into realms no human was meant to witness.
Over the centuries, the cult evolved into a secret system of passage — a mechanism for opening doors between worlds. Through pain, trance, and mental projection, they reached out to entities dwelling in the “Fissures of Creation,” beings that defied biology, language, and sanity. Some priests returned warped yet enlightened; others vanished completely, consumed by the realms they attempted to navigate.
By the early 2000s, the Wombaia had transformed from a tribal faith into a global phantom network, steering conflicts, manipulating digital fear, and feeding on the despair of collapsing nations. And now, concealed beneath the noise of modern life, their rituals are converging toward something far greater — a culmination for which the world is catastrophically unprepared.
While Africa burned under the weight of war, something far different unfolded within the shadows. A team of mercenaries — hired by sponsors who existed on no document, no registry, no nameable authority — received a single, cryptic directive: retrieve an occult manuscript long believed lost, known as Ubabu Ukunta. In the underworld of forbidden lore, the book was not treated as an artifact but as a weapon. Its pages were said to contain formulas capable of opening gateways between layers of existence, linking the human world to entities far beyond mortal comprehension.
These entities did not conquer with armies or machines. They manipulated the Mental Psychospheric Plane, influencing entire populations through dreams, invasive symbols, and thoughts that did not originate in the human mind. The mercenaries were unaware of this. But those who hired them understood the danger well: retrieving Ubabu Ukunta meant venturing into territories where reality thinned, where ancient rites long extinguished still echoed through the fissures of the world.
The book’s origins traced back to an ancestral order that documented its contact with a being worshiped in Tanzania as Wombá. Yet Wombá was merely a mask. Its true name was Nocthyl, a Local Creature born from the densest layers of the Underworld — not a god, but a parasite carved by millennia of chaos, feeding on terror and the vibrational residue of human suffering.
Nocthyl entered the earthly plane after six hundred uninterrupted days of human sacrifice performed by an ancient African population. Their despair forced a violent rupture in the psychospheric field, tearing open a bridge to the Underworld. The population that created the breach was annihilated by the very rituals they invoked, but Nocthyl remained. Across the centuries, he anchored himself to Earth. Every culture he touched gave him a new name. In Tanzania, he survived as Wombá — the blood-devouring spirit.
His influence resurfaced during the African wars. Modern Wombaian priests, hidden within the chaos, trafficked thousands of civilians for ritual slaughter. Their leader, Kofi, sought something unprecedented: a single rite requiring fifty thousand victims — powerful enough to tear the psychospheric barrier permanently and grant Nocthyl direct access to the physical world.
Unable to transport so many captives back to Tanzania, Kofi chose a remote region of the Congo, a land already vibrating with death. There, he and his acolytes repurposed an abandoned coal mine into a sacrificial chamber. Fifty thousand prisoners were forced into the abyss; the entrance was sealed; a colossal fire burned day and night for weeks. Within the mine, panic consumed the trapped until their voices fell into absolute silence.
Witnesses reported that the flames twisted into monstrous shapes and that the air thrummed with unnatural resonance. One priest, seized by terror, renounced Wombá — and was cast into the mine alongside the others. When the fires finally died, the site was no longer the same. The psychospheric fabric there had ruptured. Anyone who approached felt nausea, vertigo, and intrusive hallucinations. Some heard screams carried by the wind; others saw towering silhouettes with burning eyes lurking among the trees.
For decades, the Ubabu Ukunta circulated through private dinners and occult salons, shown only to a select circle of collectors who understood — or pretended to understand — its weight. Those who opened it felt something watching from between the lines: voices in nonexistent languages, shapes forming in the darkness, a pressure behind the eyes that never faded. Some became ill. Others went mad. Even so, no one dared to part with it. Power, even cursed, is never discarded.
That changed in 2015. The manuscript’s owner — a respected Parisian aristocrat — kept the book locked beneath his mansion, protected by steel doors. On a November night, intruders entered silently. No alarm, no broken lock. They moved through the house as if they had lived there for years. At dawn, nothing was missing except the manuscript, wrapped in a red cloth. The owner filed no report. Within a year, he was dead — rumors whispered that the book had collected its final price.
The Ubabu Ukunta resurfaced far from the public eye, sold in the European underground market to a single buyer whispered about in occult circles: Øystein Yngve, a Norwegian fanatic obsessed with transcending humanity. Born into wealth and raised by an occultist mother, he believed he was the result of a ritual — not a conception. He claimed to carry within him the spark of a forgotten god destined to awaken.
His lineage — real or imagined — tied him to the violent rites of 1990s Norwegian black metal, when followers attempted to carve vibrational wounds in the fabric of reality. When Øystein acquired the manuscript, he isolated himself in a sealed mansion in the Norwegian fjords. Neighbors miles away reported strange sounds — part roar, part thunder — and red lights hovering over the sea. Øystein spent his days reading the book aloud, surrounded by black candles and distorted music, convinced that he was nearing divine metamorphosis.
His journals described burning veins, prophetic dreams, and glimpses of a face in the mirror that was no longer his own. To him, the Ubabu Ukunta was not history: it was a blueprint for ascension. And behind it all moved Nocthyl, the Underworld entity once worshiped as Wombá — a cosmic parasite seeking physical and energetic manifestation on Earth.
Its arrival would tear the planet’s fabric to shape a body of bone, blood, metal, and a density impossible for human life to withstand. More terrifying still would be the energetic invasion: the contamination of Earth’s vibrational field until every breath, every thought, every dream carried the mark of Nocthyl.
Humanity would not die immediately — it would be harvested. Earth would become a feeding ground, its suffering amplified into a beacon for other Creatures from the deep layers: ancient hunters of consciousness drawn by the scent of a collapsing world.
And the Ubabu Ukunta, now in Øystein’s hands, was no longer a mere reliquary. It had become a door.
In late 2009, a silent disturbance rippled across the mental plane of reality like an echo emerging from regions that should not exist. For most people, it manifested only as a vague unease — a restless night, an inexplicable chill, a fleeting moment of disorientation. But for those who carried in their blood or mind the remnants of an ancient occult lineage, the impact was immediate and unmistakable. It felt like a sudden awakening, as if an invisible hand were pressing against the inside of the skull, pulling their awareness toward something that had slept for centuries beneath the layers of the physical world.
This lineage traces back to forgotten eras — to a primordial ritual that, whether by accident or desperation, opened a fissure into the Lower Realm, a place where thoughts possess weight, where fear takes form, and where time itself seems to rot. A presence passed through that breach, not as an invader, but as a shadow spreading through generations, watching and waiting. It remained dormant for centuries, never gone, only quiet. The pulse of 2009 was its first coordinated movement since the Middle Ages — a call issued not through words, but through deep, oppressive frequencies that seeped into dreams, sensations, and emotional states.
Across the continents, individuals reported sudden episodes of panic, intrusive visions of places they had never seen, and the unsettling certainty of being watched from inside their own thoughts. Dispersed occult circles and isolated cult cells — many of which had lost connection with one another — began acting in perfect synchrony, as though receiving telepathic instructions from a central source. Their rituals aligned, their symbols converged, their practices became mirrors of each other.
At the same time, the phenomenon seeped into the digital world. Corrupted audio files, hidden forums, distorted images, and geometric patterns began circulating as new ritual tools. Emotional density — intense fear, grief, existential confusion — became the perfect food for the entity that had awakened. The greater the human chaos, the stronger its influence grew. Between 2010 and 2016, the world witnessed a rise in social, psychological, and spiritual instability that quietly mirrored the expansion of this unseen force.
In 2020, at the height of global turmoil, the entity achieved for the first time a state of partial anchoring on Earth. It was not a full manifestation — but enough for its vibrational presence to latch onto the planet like a shadow gaining mass. Since then, cult activity has intensified alarmingly. Incidents of collective hallucinations, community-wide paranoia outbreaks, and psychological collapses with no medical cause have become increasingly common.
In late 2009, a silent disturbance rippled through the mental plane of reality like an echo coming from regions that should not exist. For most people, it was nothing more than a vague discomfort — a restless night, an inexplicable chill, a brief moment of disorientation. But for those who carried in their blood or mind the fragments of an ancient occult lineage, the impact was immediate and unmistakable. It felt like an abrupt awakening, as if an invisible hand pressed against the inside of the skull, pulling consciousness toward something that had been dormant for centuries beneath the layers of the physical world.
This lineage traces back to forgotten eras, to a primordial ritual that—whether by accident or desperation—opened a fissure into the Lower Realm, a region where thoughts have weight, where fear takes form, and where time itself seems to rot. A presence crossed through that breach, not as an invader but as a shadow spreading across generations, watching and waiting. It remained latent for centuries, asleep but never absent. The pulse of 2009 was its first coordinated movement since the Middle Ages — a signal not spoken in words but broadcast in low, oppressive frequencies that infiltrated dreams, sensations, and emotional states.
Across every continent, individuals reported sudden episodes of panic, intrusive visions of places they had never seen, and the unsettling certainty of being observed from within their own thoughts. Dispersed occult circles and cult cells that had long lost contact with one another began acting in unison, as though receiving telepathic instructions from a single hidden source. Their rituals aligned, their symbols matched, and their practices became mirrors of one another.
At the same time, the phenomenon infiltrated the digital world. Corrupted audio files, secret forums, distorted images, and geometric patterns began circulating as new ritual tools. Emotional density — intense fear, grief, existential confusion — became the perfect nourishment for the entity that had awakened. The greater the human chaos, the stronger its influence grew. Between 2010 and 2016, the world saw a rise in social, psychological, and spiritual instability that silently accompanied the expansion of this invisible power.
In 2020, during the peak of global turbulence, the entity achieved for the first time a partial anchoring on Earth. It was not a full manifestation — but enough for its vibrational presence to latch onto the planet like a shadow beginning to take form. Since then, cult activity has intensified at an alarming rate. Cases of collective hallucinations, community-wide paranoia, and psychological collapses without medical explanation have become increasingly common.
Before being sent into the occult world that grows within humanity’s shadows, you will undergo the full training of the Ordo Lux — a rigorous process that not only prepares your body and mind but rebuilds your perception of reality itself. For weeks, you will be exposed to stimuli designed to expand your limits, test your psychological resilience, and adjust your sensitivity to the invisible layers of the mental plane. None of this is optional. The Ordo Lux does not train recruits; it forges instruments of war. You will learn to detect psychic presences, decipher vibrational patterns, and recognize the influence of entities that operate outside human biology.
After the initial conditioning comes the advanced instruction — mastery of the technological tools created specifically for operations against cults of the Lower Realm. The Ordo Lux will provide you with devices capable of capturing mental distortions, psychic-signal filters, acoustic-cloaking fields, and untraceable encrypted communication protocols. These artifacts are not mere scientific inventions; many were developed through reverse-engineering anomalous phenomena. Some agents claim that certain equipment feels “alive,” reacting to the emotions or intentions of the user. You will learn to wield them as extensions of your own body.
With this arsenal, you will be deployed to infiltrate cult cells — groups operating within clandestine temples, hidden forums, front companies, and spiritual enclaves that feed the Lower Realm with human emotional density. Your task will be to blend in, observe, and gather crucial information: names, patterns, routes, symbols, points of convergence. In many cases, your mere presence will already put you at risk. You will approach individuals marked by the influence of entities that corrode the mind. And when infiltration requires extreme proximity, you will have to impersonate one of them, reciting their codes, understanding their rituals, and witnessing practices that few could endure without losing their sanity.
However, the Ordo Lux is explicit about one point: this is not a mission of observation alone. In situations where human lives are at risk, or when a cult cell nears a critical ritual, you will have full authorization to execute targets without hesitation. Precise, silent, strategic elimination is a core part of the doctrine. You will be trained to neutralize physical threats, disarm psychic traps, and destroy ritual artifacts before they can open new fissures between worlds. Your hands may be forced to act with lethality — and the Order expects you to do so without failure.
Because in the end, none of this is about you. None of it is about the Ordo Lux. Everything revolves around the hidden countdown advancing toward 2030 — the year foreseen for the Convergence, the Psychic Breach that will connect the Lower Realm to Earth irreversibly. If the cult cells succeed in their purpose, humanity will not be destroyed instantly, but gradually consumed, transformed into vibrational sustenance for entities that should never exist in this plane. This is what is at stake. That is why the mission overrides morality, fear, exhaustion, and even life itself. Your duty is to prevent the final collapse — whatever the cost.
After the Event of 2030, when the sky split like a thin veil and revealed the hidden anatomy of the cosmos, humanity finally understood that something had crossed the border of the invisible. The Ordo Lux emerged from the shadows—not as a government, nor as a religion, but as a silent containment mechanism. You were identified among those who remained sane enough to witness the impossible without breaking. The Order believes this ability is no accident, but a response from human consciousness itself to the new world. Now, you will be guided through the veiled corridors where forbidden knowledge is studied, and where every recruit is shaped to confront what should not exist.
Your training will not be physical, though the body remains a useful instrument. True preparation occurs in the mind. The Ordo Lux has developed psychoacoustic technologies, luminous diagrams, and perception-break methods capable of stretching or compressing your awareness at the threshold between lucidity and controlled delirium. You will learn to recognize patterns that no longer obey natural laws. To hear frequencies that do not belong to sound. To read symbols that change when observed. To resist the touch of concepts that attempt to inhabit your consciousness. Each session is both a wound and a revelation; each advancement a calculated risk of losing something you will never regain.
With the collapse of all technology during the Night of Silence—the moment every machine on the planet died—hundreds of cults emerged. Some are merely disoriented; others, however, appear to receive messages not born of human minds. Your role will be to infiltrate these sects without being consumed by them. The Ordo Lux will provide identities, protocols, analog instruments, and artifacts that react to cognitive distortions. Your task is to observe, decipher, and survive long enough to bring back whatever is possible: reports, ritual patterns, names, vibrations—any fragment that helps the Order understand what moves behind the eyes of the devotees. There are no guarantees of return—only the certainty of necessity.
Every mission assigned by the Ordo Lux exists because something greater than humanity is moving. There is no ordinary hierarchy, no rewards, no glory. There is only urgency. If you fail, it is not you who will be lost, but a piece of the fragile equilibrium preventing the planet from sliding into an irreversible state of cosmic disorder. The end of 2030 is not a prophecy, but a projection based on the acceleration of phenomena that began the day the sky opened. Your presence in the field is not heroic—it is necessary, inevitable, and above all, costly. The Ordo Lux does not require obedience; it demands conscious sacrifice.
With each passing month, the light behind the stars seems to draw closer. The constellations shift subtly, as if observing humanity with growing interest. Researchers of the Order believe that the veil separating us from the true universe has not fully torn; it has merely thinned. And when it finally collapses, everything beyond it will cease to be vision and become presence. Your training, your infiltrations, your missions—none exist for any purpose other than delaying that moment. You are not a soldier, nor a spy. You are a temporary guardian between worlds—the last fragment of lucidity before the unknown claims what is its own.
An entire year had passed since that impossible day in 2030. On January 13th, the world felt the same fleeting shock once more — an almost invisible vibration beneath the skin, a brief pulse no one could explain — and then the sky tore open like a curtain ripped away by colossal hands. Galaxies once billions of light-years away appeared so close they seemed hung above every horizon. Nebulae spilled like rivers of light, giant stars throbbed like exposed hearts. For a moment, the world dared to admire. But that moment did not last. Wonder was crushed by terror when the machines died. When the firmament ignited, Earth went dark.
Within minutes, every trace of human technology ceased, as if the planet had been unplugged from its own modern era. There were no explosions, no sparks, no alarms — everything simply... stopped. Power grids collapsed, satellites went silent, airplanes dropped like stones, hospitals sank into darkness. Phones, computers, engines — nothing responded. It was as if humanity had been violently ripped from its future and hurled back into an age without tools. People looked to the sky in search of answers, but found only that impossible cosmic ocean. And while the world still struggled to grasp what it meant to exist without technology, the second calamity began.
The global temperature rose by five degrees in a matter of hours, as if the planet had been moved a few steps closer to the sun. But it was not the sun — it was the very fabric of the cosmos, now exposed and luminous, radiating heat. The equatorial line became an almost instant death zone. Forests burned without flame, oceans evaporated into toxic mists, cities turned into unbearable greenhouses. Entire regions, once densely populated, were transformed into scorching deserts. Whole nations were swallowed by heat before they could even attempt a response. It was as if the planet were being cooked from the inside out.
Faced with sudden climatic collapse, humanity did only what it could: it fled. In masses, without direction, without borders, moving in colossal waves toward the poles — now the only places still tolerable for human life. It was the largest migratory movement in history, though no one remained to officially record it. The old metropolises became concrete skeletons. Governments fractured, hid, or disappeared entirely. Armies collapsed without communication. What was left of civilization scattered into small refuges, desperate enclaves trying to create order in the midst of absolute chaos. People rebuilt what they could with primitive tools and fragmented knowledge.
And so, in just one year, everything that had taken centuries to build dissolved like vapor. The internet, satellites, power, modern medicine — all vanished at once, as if they had been nothing more than a collective dream. Only the sky remained: brighter, stranger, closer. A constant reminder that the world had changed forever, that something colossal had touched the Earth and torn its former reality out by the roots. Humanity, small and vulnerable, looked upward and understood that whatever had opened the firmament was not finished. The cosmos was no longer distant. It was watching — approaching, inevitable.
Four years had passed since the collapse. Humanity had regressed into something primitive — tribal, instinctive, desperate. Everything that once felt permanent had been ripped away without warning. Modern life had become nothing but memory, a distant echo of what it once meant to be human. Living was no longer a complex path; it had hardened into a single brutal word: survive. Hunger emptied entire continents, devoured families, turned fertile lands into battlegrounds. Violence became border, law, and language. Every settlement, every small human cluster, raised its own scarce and bloodstained rules, fighting for scraps of water, shelter, and silence.
As the years passed, a heavy certainty settled in the human heart: it was over. There was no hope, no direction, no promise. No technology remained, no organization, not even the idea of a future. People no longer spoke of reconstruction, for there was nothing left to sustain such a dream. The world, as it had been known for millennia, was dead. The planet, mutilated and rigid beneath the exposed cosmic sky, breathed like a wounded animal on the verge of death. Five years of continuous decay had drained what was left of civilization. The few survivors moved like shadows, dragging themselves across ruins and deserts, trying only to preserve their own consciousness.
And then, when there was nothing left to believe in, something appeared in the sky. It happened on an ordinary day, under that ever-present cosmic ceiling, when the change began. A distant shape emerged from the vastness — slow, deep, impossibly large. A colossal structure crossed the void, approaching Earth with calculated slowness, like a prehistoric creature awakening from an age-long slumber. At first, only a few noticed. But as the weeks passed, the silhouette became undeniable. It grew. It approached. And it seemed… to build itself before the human eye, detail by detail, edge by edge.
That was when people remembered. Collective memory resurfaced with the weight of a stone sinking into a lake. They remembered the discovery in July 2025, when a telescope in Chile detected an anomalous object entering the solar system. They remembered the global uproar, the fears, the frantic headlines, the scientific debates cut short by the collapse of the world. The object had been named 3I/ATLAS, and for the following four years it fueled both imagination and terror within the last functional societies. It was an interstellar visitor — but unlike anything ever recorded. And now, as humanity staggered toward extinction, it was finally there — visible to the naked eye.
With each passing week, its form became more defined. It was not a comet. It was not a wandering rock. It was nothing natural. Its lines were far too structured. Its dimensions, impossibly vast. Its movement, disturbingly precise. It was a silent colossus approaching not as a celestial body, but as something built — shaped with intention. As 3I/ATLAS carved through space toward Earth, the truth struck with brutal clarity: it was not merely passing through the solar system. It was coming here. It was following an exact route, inevitable and unalterable. And Earth lay directly in its path — as if it had been a programmed destination long before humanity ever existed.
By 2035, humanity had reached its darkest state. Nothing in all of history — no war, plague, climate disaster, or fall of empire — had ever produced such profound ruin. What remained of human beings was no longer society, nor culture, nor even organization. People had reduced themselves to instinct, living day by day like creatures that breathed out of inertia. They survived without purpose, walked without direction, existed without any light to justify continuing. Civilization had vanished entirely. What remained were intelligent primates still capable of speech, but who had lost everything that once distinguished humanity from mere subsistence.
It had been a year since 3I/ATLAS revealed its true form in the exposed heavens. Now it hovered near the Moon — a monstrous presence, larger than Earth itself yet devoid of any natural behavior. It exerted no gravity, emitted no force, produced no tide or distortion. It seemed to exist solely to be seen, ignoring the laws of the cosmos. Its immense circular structure resembled a solid metallic ring, as if an artificial, opaque version of Saturn’s rings had been forged with intention. The surface, a gray almost organic in texture, occasionally displayed faint pulses of light running along its edges, suggesting a slow and deliberate inner mechanism. But most of the time, the colossal construct remained still, silent, watching.
Then, in mid-2035, everything changed again. Without warning, the structure ignited completely, as if an inconceivable engine were awakening after ages. A cold glow raced across its hull, and the colossus advanced toward Earth with a speed that seemed impossible for something so vast. In moments, it consumed most of the sky, transforming the firmament into a living metallic wall. Humanity watched in silence, terrified yet resigned; years of suffering, hunger, and loss had drained away both fear and hope alike. Nothing surprised anymore, nothing horrified, nothing promised salvation. People looked upward as one faces an unavoidable fate.
And then the tubes descended. From within the colossal mass, gigantic metallic conduits extended toward the planet — hundreds, perhaps thousands — each piercing Earth’s surface like divine needles. They burrowed through continents, mountains, forests, and ruins, anchoring themselves deep into the ground. Each tube was the size of a skyscraper, a hollow tower ending at ground level with a single electronic door. When anyone approached, the door slid open automatically, releasing a cold, artificial air that matched nothing that still existed in the ruined world.
Above each entrance, a single word glowed with unmistakable clarity: “ORDIMAN.” Inside, every tube revealed the same interior: a white, sterile hall illuminated by soft lights, with a massive central screen at the far end. And then came the voice. Emerging from invisible speakers, it spoke the local language with absolute precision — calm, steady, almost reassuring: “WE HAVE COME TO SAVE YOU. ENTER. ACCESS ORDIMAN.” The screen repeated the message, accompanied by additional instructions and perfectly rendered warnings in every human tongue, even those long forgotten or extinct. Across the devastated planet, those colossal structures rose like gateways — offering salvation, or something infinitely more terrifying.
It did not take long. By the end of 2035, nearly all of humanity had surrendered to Ordiman’s invitation. One by one, people entered the immense structures, crossed the white chamber, and reached the elevator waiting at the end of the corridor. The interior was strangely elegant — clean, modern, welcoming — yet the journey felt endless. The elevator ascended for days, carrying its passengers through a vertical shaft that surpassed any concept of distance known on Earth.
When the doors finally opened, each person stepped into an incomprehensible metallic expanse — larger than any city ever built, smooth and gleaming like the surface of a colossal starship. Behind them, the doors sealed shut, and the elevator dropped away without making a single sound. Ahead lay a horizon of structures so immense they made mountains look like small hills. Then came the walk. Guided by glowing pathways, the newcomers crossed a labyrinth of metal until they reached the impossible: a world.
It was not a simulation. It was not a partial replica. It was a complete world. Living. Lucid. Familiar. A perfect reconstruction of Earth — or something dangerously close to it. Cities, rivers, oceans, houses, nations… everything was there, restored as if the nightmare of the previous years had been erased from existence. Many wept at the sight. The sense of normalcy was so deep, so comforting, it felt like a miracle after an era of suffering and desolation.
Within just a year, humanity reorganized itself within this “new Earth,” reclaiming former nations, rebuilding routines, reestablishing traditions. It felt like awakening from a dark age and returning to a beloved home. But the illusion would not last. Little by little, strange details began to emerge. The fauna and flora were broader, more diverse, more dangerous than any record of the original world. Ordinary animals lived alongside creatures never cataloged — some gentle, others capable of wiping out entire villages in a single night.
Venomous species spread unprecedented and unpredictable diseases. Entire forests housed beings whose existence defied terrestrial biology. The oceans swarmed with unknown life. It was an ecosystem larger, more vibrant, and infinitely more threatening. And as time passed, a truth began to seep through human communities: as perfect as this world seemed, as closely as it mimicked their old home, they were not alone. Not entirely.
A thousand years had passed since the Great Reset. Humanity had lived in that new world for so long that the event itself had dissolved into legend — a distant myth preserved only in fragmented and contradictory tales. The generations who had witnessed the cataclysm vanished centuries ago, and their descendants seldom questioned where they truly came from...
Then, sometime after the year 3000, something impossible appeared. They were not physical beings, but golden specters — translucent, luminous, flickering like ethereal flames drifting in the air. At first, they only observed silently, like invisible witnesses from another realm. Days passed before someone sensitive enough perceived a faint mental tremor, a whisper that was not a sound but a feeling. Thus began the discovery: the entities communicated through the mind, not through speech. Their presence was gentle yet overwhelming, and the knowledge they carried was older than any human memory. What they revealed changed everything forever.
They declared they did not belong to that world. They came from a higher mental plane from which they had watched humanity for centuries. From there, they saw a truth no one else could comprehend: humanity had died in 2030. All of it. Without exception. The inhabitants of the “new Earth” were not alive — they were spirits trapped inside a vast simulation created by an infernal power. Birth, death, memory, history… every fragment was a programmed cycle designed to keep them contained. The same souls who saw the sky tear open in 2030 were still there, repeating countless lifetimes with their memories wiped clean at the end of each reset. The world they thought they had rebuilt was nothing more than a labyrinth of illusions.
The revelation shattered the world. People realized that nothing around them was physical: the air, the soil, the forests, the oceans, even their own bodies — all of it was part of a spiritual colony crafted to maintain their imprisonment. Fear spread, but so did a strange sense of liberation, for the golden specters revealed something even more extraordinary. They had discovered a way to send messages to the past. Using a newly developed method of encoding information within electrons, they were able to transmit warnings to earlier eras, embedding knowledge into the smallest particles in hopes that someone, someday, would be capable of deciphering them. Time itself became their battlefield.
And someone did. A few individuals belonging to an ancient secret order known as the Ordo Lux had interpreted fragments of those transmissions. These fragmented messages, scattered across years like invisible seeds, were already guiding their steps, subtly shaping their decisions as they attempted to stop the Great Reset before it could occur. In the past — unaware of the true magnitude of their mission — the battle had already begun, echoing across centuries in a struggle that would determine the fate of every soul trapped within the false world.