In the newly integrated cosmos, a colossal planet orbited a brilliant blue star that burned with the majesty of a second sun. This world was more than four times the size of old Earth, yet from space it would still be called the "Blue Planet." Vast oceans stretched endlessly across its surface, gleaming like liquid sapphire. But unlike Earth, it bore only a single continent. A titanic landmass girdled by the sea. No trace of civilization marred its expanse. Only boundless jungles, jagged mountain ranges, blistering deserts, and untamed savannas spread from horizon to horizon. At the poles, monumental sheets of ice reigned supreme. This was New Earth.

While all intelligent beings had been transported to the system's tutorial worlds, most beasts had been cast onto New Earth instead. The fusion of the planet had taken only a few days. No surprise, for nothing ever lingered when the System was at work. Yet this was not the only world blessed, or cursed, by integration. Six more planets circled the same star, each heavy with promise. Around them stretched a galaxy far denser than the Milky Way ever was. Over a hundred planets revolved around that blue sun, each one awash in light and mana. And this galaxy was but one among countless others in a universe so vast that on old Earth, no astronomer could have dreamed its scale. On every world, beasts thrived, evolved, and fought for treasure, while humanity and other sentients were locked in the System's cruel tutorials. Already, some creatures had clawed their way to high E-rank, enough to devastate entire factions upon arrival.

Thus, when over fifty thousand humans materialized in the heart of a sprawling jungle, not a single one flinched. Fear had long been burned out of them. They moved with military precision, as though every step had been drilled into their bones. Scouts shot outward like arrows, combing the wilderness for beasts, resources, or rival survivors. Each newcomer bore heavy packs loaded with provisions, weapons, and even building supplies. The rest set to work at once, axes flashing as they carved a foothold into the untamed world. These were no ordinary survivors. They were a faction forged in blood and trial, prepared for the crucible of New Earth.

At their center stood a man who shone brighter than them all. Eric, the chosen of Solarian. He was a giant of a human, broad-shouldered and towering, his cropped blond hair glinting beneath the jungle sun. Pale armor of silvered steel encased his form, and over one shoulder rested a broadsword of impossible size. Once, Eric had been just another soldier on Earth. For many, integration had been a nightmare but for him it was a revelation. The influx of mana had awakened his slumbering bloodline and it didn't take long until he got the divine blessing of one of the mightiest gods in existence.

Eric had joined the military not out of bloodlust, but out of duty. He had always known others were fragile, and he trusted himself to carry burdens they could not. He was only twenty when the System descended, untested in real battle. Yet when one of his companions betrayed their group, murdering in the night, Eric's awakened bloodline gave him the strength to end the man swiftly. From that moment onward, his path was set. He roamed far and wide, his power growing with every trial, his faction swelling as survivors flocked to his banner. Many challenged him for leadership, but none could match his strength. Even beasts, and later the elves themselves, fell before him.

The elves had been a bitter disappointment. Eric, a devoted Tolkien fan, had once revered them. To find them twisted, cruel, and treacherous broke his heart. Their war against his people was brief. His power was overwhelming, and soon their kind was scattered or exterminated, with only a handful surviving in flight. The special quests given by the System were mere trifles in comparison. No, his greatest trials came from within.

The System's new currency was credits, and many humans found murder more profitable than beast-hunting. His camp grew restless, plagued by assassinations in the night. At first, Eric resisted the counsel of his divine patron. But eventually, the old god convinced him. The first execution was gruesome, traitors scalded alive with boiling water. Yet its effect was undeniable. Murders all but ceased, and order reigned. For the first time, his people were united, bound by both fear and faith.

Eric did not waste the peace. He trained his closest followers with relentless intensity, forging them into warriors worthy of their own legends. Still, his god whispered of the truth. Power was everything, and even loyalty had limits. Sooner or later, Eric would be forced to walk his path alone. Power meant time, and time was the only true currency of survival. Every faction, every chosen, fought against the same clock. To kill one such as Eric was to seize his mantle, his strength, his destiny.

And so, in the final weeks before New Earth's awakening, Eric honed himself once more. He tempered his bloodline, strengthened his bond to Solarian, and steeled his will for the trials ahead. For even if the elves had been his only foes in the tutorial, he knew what awaited him. This world had been fused with worlds inhabitated by vampires, elfs and orcs. Enemies who would not be so easily broken.

The elves were no less cruel than the beasts, and life under their dominion had often ended swiftly for ordinary folk. Eric knew such threats would rise again, and he would be the one to face them. Already, the first trees were crashing down, each fall echoing like thunder through the jungle, the air filled with the sharp cracks of splintering wood. His divine patron had advised him well. Those who had chosen the path of builders were granted additional blessings. Now, more than six hundred stood ready, joined by tacticians who immediately began to marshal the vast crowd of survivors. Their task was clear. A city must be raised at once, its foundations secured against the dangers of New Earth. Towering walls, armed and unyielding, would be their first defense. For now, even the fighters lent their strength to the labor, axes flashing as they cleared the land so the builders could work without delay.

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Eric himself did not join the toil. Instead, he rose into the air, borne aloft by radiant light until he hovered high above, visible to all below. There he settled into meditation, his presence a steady beacon over the restless throng. Outsiders might have sneered at such detachment, thinking it arrogance for a leader to leave his people to their work. Once, Eric himself might have agreed. But his patron had taught him a harsher wisdom. Hope was a weapon, and appearances were as vital as steel. His role was not to hew timber but to embody strength. If he looked unshakable, his people would believe they had a chance to endure in this unforgiving world.

Yet his meditation was not idleness. His patron had warned him that within hours, they would encounter the first incursion, a tear into hostile realms. When it appeared, it would fall to Eric to seal it. The fighters who emerged from such rifts would be seasoned, hardened killers. Perhaps none could truly challenge him, but even the smallest mistake might cost his people dearly. That, above all, he would not allow. Their faith, their survival, their future, all of it rested on his shoulders and he had sworn he would not let them down.

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"Not another jungle!" Urgol roared, his voice so deep and thunderous that the canopy above seemed to tremble. The massive orc stood over three meters tall, his skin a dark, earthen green. He was nearly as broad as he was tall, his arms bulging like the legs of warhorses, thick with raw muscle and veined with power. To look at him was to see a walking mountain of flesh and steel. Urgol was no ordinary warlord, he was the chosen of Ghor'Vhar, and by many accounts the most powerful orc in the newly integrated universe. Outsiders often dismissed orcs as brutish savages, but Urgol delighted in shattering that illusion. Beneath his brutish grin was a calculating mind, sharp and cunning, though he often played the fool to lure enemies into lowering their guard. The elves in his tutorial had never realized the truth until his waraxe had already split them in two.

What Urgol truly hated was terrain that favored the weak. Jungles were a nuisance. Too many trees, too many places for prey to hide. He enjoyed the chase, yes, but not when it turned into a hunt through endless shadows and undergrowth. He wanted to see his enemies run across open ground, to hear their screams carried on the wind before his axe cut them short. "Cut down those trees! I want the camp ready by nightfall!" he bellowed, his command crashing through the air like a war drum. Fifteen thousand orcs moved at once, their discipline forged through conquest. Where Eric's humans labored slowly, the orcs carved through the jungle in a storm of violence. Massive weapons hacked down trunks thicker than houses, and shamans drained the life from the earth itself, leaving only barren soil and broken roots in their wake. The green wilderness withered, reshaped into a wasteland. The kind of camp Urgol favored.

"And find me an incursion, another arrival, or a beast worth my time!" he roared, his tusked grin spreading wide. The scouts, leaner, faster orcs with eyes sharp as hawks darted into the jungle, vanishing into the shadows. They knew well that failure meant death. If they returned with nothing of value, they would be the first to feel his wrath. Until then, Urgol would entertain himself. He swung his great waraxe from his back, the weapon nearly as tall as he was and heavy enough to make even his titanic arms strain. It was forged for devastation, each swing capable of leveling a tree or shattering stone. He had no need for lighter weapons. Where was the joy in that? He relished the look of despair when lesser orcs tried to lift his axe and failed, their pride crumbling under its weight. None were as strong as Urgol, and he knew it.

Even so, power was not his only ambition. A warcamp had to be raised before he could open the first portal to Ghor'Vhar's realm. Such a portal would work like a permanent incursion, a gateway that poured warriors and resources into his hands without end. It was a gift only a god could grant, a weapon no rival could hope to match. Yet his blessings did not stop there. The wives of his patron had marked eleven female shamans with divine favor, and soon each of them would stand at his side as consorts. Together, their strength would eclipse any opposition. Twelve chosen, bound by blood and divine will, the perfect warband. Urgol grinned as another ancient tree crashed to the ground at his feet, the air filled with the thunder of splintering wood. This world was already promising much, and for Urgol, it promised above all endless war.

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