When the old world broke, it did not happen in a single day. It was a prolonged whisper in the foundations of the planet: oceans rising like walls, cities devoured by their own nets, skies turned into mirrors of fire. The civilization that once covered the Earth like an endless tide, retreated; leaving behind shining ruins and invisible scars. But from the ashes and the mist, the survivors emerged, fragments of humanity that still carried the flame of ingenuity, the will to live, and the memory of what was lost.

Those who chose to look to the sun, sought redemption in symbiosis with nature. They called themselves Solarnati, and built their homes interweaving ecological engineering with organic processes: structures covered in intelligent moss, solar panels that sprouted like leaves, autonomous irrigation systems. For them, the world was not a machine or a resource, but a living system that must be healed with respect, care, and patience.

Others descended into the abysses of concrete and silicon. They became Nanocodax, humans redesigned by necessity, inhabitants of the shadow, of the digital pulse and organic circuits. They learned to talk to computers and the invisible swarms that wove new forms of existence within their bodies. They sought no forgiveness: only the freedom to remake themselves again and again in their own image.

And in the skies, above clouds that never slept, the Hydrovelan arose. Nomads of the winds and hydrogen, they wove their civilization with fabric and light gas, harnessing atmospheric currents as vital routes. They built airships that were both home and fortress, farmed in the air, and harvested in the mist. For them, motion was sacred, independence an art. They lived for the journey, for the borderless map.

For generations, these three ways of life coexisted in an unstable but functional balance. They crossed paths, shared knowledge, argued, and ignored each other by turns. But they understood that, despite their differences, they shared a common past and an uncertain future.

Until one day, reality itself tore apart.

The Star Weavers did not arrive. They simply were there. As if they had always existed between the folds of reality, waiting to be noticed. They did not speak, they did not make demands. But their mere presence bent the laws of physics, sowed impossible dreams, and sparked questions for which no human mind held an answer. At first there were visions. Then impossible structures. And finally, contacts.

From that moment on, the balance began to fracture. Not because of war, but because of doubt. What did it mean to be human in the face of those who could transmute matter, time, and space with a single thought? And what if the very act of looking upon the Star Weavers, of striving to understand them, began silently rewriting those who beheld them… and, in an unexpected reflection, rewriting the Star Weavers themselves?

The world was no longer on the verge of a new order, it was in the midst of its rebirth, or a definitive change.