On Sonic’s 16th birthday, what began as a day of laughter, races, and cake turned into the opening act of a nightmare.

The morning in Green Hill was perfect—blue skies, warm breeze, the scent of wildflowers in the air. Friends gathered, decorations danced in the wind, and the distant waves provided a gentle rhythm. But by afternoon, the light dimmed unnaturally.

Dark clouds twisted overhead in impossible patterns, flashing violet lightning with no thunder. The festive air vanished, replaced by a stillness that warned of danger.

Sonic, Tails, Knuckles, Amy, Rouge, Blaze, Silver, and Shadow stood on a rocky plateau, the celebration forgotten. Before them hovered Wizard Skilo—tattered cloak whipping in the wind, a dark, gnarled staff humming with the storm’s pulse. His violet eyes burned like twin beacons, casting long shadows.

The first strike came without warning. Magic warped the ground, bolts of black lightning twisted midair, and illusions made friend appear as foe. Each attack carried a cold, draining weight, as though life itself was being pulled away.

The heroes fought back with everything they had—Sonic’s blue streaks darting between attacks, Tails firing gadgets from above, Blaze’s flames clashing against Skilo’s dark winds, Knuckles shattering stone, Silver hurling debris, Rouge striking from blind spots, Amy swinging her hammer, and Shadow cracking the air with Chaos energy.

But Skilo never faltered. His faint smile spoke of certainty, not struggle.

Then he stilled. Shadows swirled in his palm, forming a dark orb, small yet suffocating. It pulsed slowly, radiating cold that dimmed the sun. Its surface writhed like black smoke trapped inside.

Sonic’s quills prickled. Tails steadied himself, eyes analyzing its energy. Blaze’s fire guttered out. Silver’s telekinesis failed. Even Shadow hesitated.

A sudden gasp cut through the silence.

Eggman, watching from his Egg Mobile, had gone pale. “No… not that… not again.” His hands shook as he pointed. “That’s no magic—it’s a seal. A prison.”

The group stayed frozen.

“Inside,” Eggman said, voice tight, “are the Ghouls. Spirits older than the continents. Forty-five years ago, they brought Mobius to its knees—burned cities, poisoned skies, drowned seas in shadow. The war they waged nearly erased us. They were sealed away… and even I would never free them.”

Sonic saw flashes in his mind—a world divided, one half thriving, the other a scorched corpse under endless storms.

If Eggman spoke the truth, this wasn’t just a ruined birthday or another dangerous weapon.

Skilo wasn’t holding a relic.

He held the key to the deadliest chapter in Mobius’s hidden history.