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No one knows exactly when the Earth began to stretch.

It wasn't a bang or a storm or some cataclysmic flash in the sky. It was quieter than that. Subtle. The world simply... grew.

They called it The Expansion.

Maps became unreliable overnight. Routes that once led to familiar lands now curved toward impossible places. Cities woke up to find forests where seas had been. Deserts swallowed forests. And in more than a few places, the air shimmered like heat on asphalt—thin veils between realities breaking down.

New continents emerged, stitched into the crust like afterthoughts. Old ruins rose from the seas. Weather patterns warped. Time zones shifted. It wasn’t just a change in terrain. It was as if Earth had collided with something else—some forgotten realm, older and wilder than anything in recorded history.

And then they came through.

Not in ships. Not in armies. Just… appeared. Portals. Tears. Crossings. No one agreed on the term, but the result was the same: beings from beyond the veil stepped into the world humans had once believed was theirs alone.

They came in all with gold-flecked eyes and claws that whispered spells; elves with memories that stretched before recorded history; creatures of shadow, flame, and bone; vampires who walked in daylight with masks of civility; living storms and whispering trees. Some looked human. Most didn’t.

At first, they explored. Curious. Confident.

Then, they conquered.

They believed Earth would be easy. Soft.

They were half right.

Magic had long been a rumor. A background hum. Old traditions and nonsense, according to most. But when The Expansion happened, it was as if something inside humanity unlocked. People began changing. Some slowly. Some violently. Within weeks, nearly eighty percent of the human population showed magical potential—latent abilities, strange sensitivities, uncontrolled eruptions of power.

Entire cities fell in the first wave of invasions.

The second wave was different. Because by then, humanity had started to fight back.

The military fractured and reformed. New divisions rose—mages trained in weeks, frontline soldiers backed by arcane tech. Science and sorcery fused at breakneck speed. Guns enchanted with spells. Drones powered by spirit batteries. Armor that bled when damaged but healed when fed magic. Humanity became something new—not quite what the invaders feared, but far from what Earth had been.

The war burned for seven years.

No one claimed victory.

Instead, a peace was signed—not out of goodwill, but necessity. The new nations of the post-Expansion world drew lines across the map, carving Earth into fortified sectors, magic zones, and unstable shadowlands. Borders bristled with arcane cannons. Trade routes were protected by contracts enforced by warlocks.

Treaties were penned, broken, rewritten.

But peace was a mask.

Border towns vanished in the night. Ambassadors turned up dead, or worse. Magical anomalies devoured entire neighborhoods. Propaganda flowed from every side.

The new world was a patchwork of contradictions. Cities floated above ruined plains. Arcane academies taught spellcraft beside what remained of collapsed universities. Great beasts slumbered beneath metro stations.

People adapted.

They always do.

Corporations rose, selling magical goods to the masses. Currencies adjusted. Schools restructured. Children were tested for magical potential by age five. If they had it, they were trained. If they didn’t… well, the world had less room for the powerless now.

Faith shifted too. Old religions bent or broke. New ones took their place—some based on ancient traditions reawakened by the Expansion, others entirely modern and opportunistic. Not all of them were benign. Cults flourished in the shadow zones. Movements promised salvation, power, or control. Some promised nothing at all—just the chance to survive with a shred of meaning.

And underneath it all, something darker stirred.

Earth wasn’t just a planet anymore. It was a stage. A battlefield. A dream stitched together from too many nightmares.

...

..

.

In the divine realm, there floated a floating island made entirely of gelatin. It wobbled every time laughter was heard across any world. Its rivers sparkled with juice, its trees bloomed with balloon-shaped leaves, and somewhere in the center, upside-down and humming the theme to a sitcom that had never aired, sat Jexal, the god of Mischief and laughter.

Jexal was bored.

“Again?” he muttered, flipping over onto his stomach on a floating couch that had been flying in lazy circles for the past century. “They’re still telling the same joke in Realm F. Something about cows crossing the road. Ugh.”

He snapped his fingers, and the sound of 300 rubber chickens colliding with a kazoo filled the air. A gumball comet exploded above him in celebration. Nothing. Not even a grin.

“I swear,” Jexal sighed. “Eternity used to mean something."

From behind a cotton candy curtain drifted a glowing orb with eyes. Snark, one of his lesser spirits, blinked at him lazily. “You could always nap.”

“I’ve napped so much I had a dream within a dream within a rerun,” Jexal groaned, flopping to the floor. “No. I need stimulation. I need chaos. I need…”

His eyes widened.

“…Earth.”

Snark blinked. “Earth?"

“Yes!” Jexal stood up, arms spread wide as trumpets erupted from thin air. “War! New races! Cultural tension and dramatic irony! Oh, it’s ripe for mischief!”

Snark hesitated. “The Council might not approve…”

Jexal grinned. “The Council hasn’t approved of anything I’ve done since I turned the Judgment Halls into a trampoline park.”

He clapped his hands once. The gelatin island flipped itself over. Another clap, and a shimmering doorway appeared, glowing with pulsing, unstable energy. Jexal stepped through it without hesitation, laughing all the way.

...

..

.

Far from the candy-colored madness of Jexal’s corner of the realm, there existed another place—quiet, grey, and still. A realm where sound moved slower. Where the sky wept ash. Where sorrow had settled into the stone like ancient lichen.

Here, Veld, god of Anger, Sorrow, and all the sharp things you feel but can’t name, opened one eye.

His palace was less a building and more a jagged wound in the world, all harsh angles and endless echoes. He sat upon a throne of cracked marble, unmoving, unmoved.

But something had stirred.

A shift in divine presence. A ripple.

Laughter.

That fool Jexal had gone somewhere. And for the first time in eons, the divine chorus didn’t hum in balance. The strings were plucked too sharply on one side.

Veld stood slowly. His every motion made the air feel heavier. Somewhere in a mortal realm, a widow wept without knowing why.

“So,” he said softly, his voice like cold iron, “you’re moving… alone.”

He turned to a reflection pool—pitch black and silent until he touched its surface. Images shimmered: Earth, 2049. Humanity rebuilding, adapting. Magic now ran through its veins like power lines, visible to those who had awakened. Cities half-human, half-something-else. Streets lined with neon runes and enchanted billboards.

And there was Jexal. Already causing chaos.

He had turned an entire subway system into a rollercoaster. A parade of centaurs had suddenly been afflicted with uncontrollable laughter in the middle of a peace ceremony. Confetti rained where it shouldn’t.

“He’s loosening them again,” Veld muttered.

The gods were not meant to interfere openly, not without balance. Jexal, always the rule-breaker, never cared. But now… with the divine watch turning a blind eye, and Earth in flux…

Veld clenched his fist. The reflection pool shattered like glass.

“This is the moment,” he whispered. “Away from their gaze… I can end him.”

He walked forward, and a rift opened in the air—no fanfare, no flash. Just a slow, bleeding crack in reality. Through it, sorrow seeped into the mortal plane.

And behind Jexal, joy danced, unaware.

...

..

.

Earth, was not the earth Jexal remembered.

For one thing, people flew now. Not in planes. Just… flew. Cities had restructured around magic ley lines and multi-race zones. Humanity, ever adaptable, had adjusted surprisingly well after losing half the war to the Invaders—beings from another realm who wielded natural magic.

But then, humanity awakened too. The magic gene, previously dormant, had bloomed in desperation.

And peace, as temporary as it might be, was forged.

Boring.

Jexal landed in the middle of a market square in ShinToshi- a new city which combined past lands known as Tokyo, Chiba, Yokohama and Saitama, where humans, elves, and lizardfolk bartered side by side. His arrival was subtle—just a small breeze and a giggle in the wind. No one noticed.

Perfect.

He stretched, cracked his neck, and grinned. “Let’s make this interesting.”

First came the banana peels—enchanted to teleport to the soles of anyone who told a lie. Chaos ensued in a matter of minutes.

Next, he charmed a statue of a war hero to break into spontaneous tap dances every time someone saluted it. People clapped. Some ran. One orc tried to join in.

Jexal sat cross-legged atop a fountain, sipping a soda he had stolen from a vending machine that now dispensed bubbles. His eyes sparkled.

“This,” he said, “this is living.”

...

..

.

But behind him, unnoticed by all—even by the seers and the spellbound—walked a figure wrapped in grey. His cloak absorbed light. His presence dimmed joy. Laughter died near him.

Veld walked the mortal realm with silent purpose. He saw Jexal’s tricks and did not smile. Did not frown. His expression was carved from stone.

He passed a child giggling uncontrollably from a spell—she suddenly paused, sensing him, and began to cry without knowing why.

Veld moved on.

This wasn’t the moment. Not yet. To strike Jexal down with mortals watching would only draw attention. The gods had rules—even when breaking them.

But he would wait.

He would follow.

He would find the right moment, when the laughter had peaked, when Jexal’s guard was down, and silence could fall forever