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BY WILLIAM WARNER CHAPTER 9: “ESCAPE PART TWO” “VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA” The freighter-style boat glided silently along the River of Souls, its metallic hull reflecting faint glimmers of cosmic light as it drifted through the Wraith’s most sacred and surreal expanse. The steady churn of its engine was the only mechanical sound—a low hum swallowed by the infinite quiet of this otherworldly realm. Here, in this strange corridor between dimensions, the air was thick with energies that couldn’t be measured—only felt. The orange skies, so familiar in other parts of the Wraith, were gone. Above us, a vast galactic canvas stretched out across the heavens. Stars shimmered like ancient memories, pulsing with unknowable rhythms, arranged in impossible geometries. Some constellations seemed to move when not observed directly. Others hovered in place like symbols from forgotten languages. The veil between this place and the higher dimensions was thin—so thin that one could feel their skin buzzing, their mind flickering with stray thoughts and impressions that didn’t belong to them. It was as if ghosts whispered just inches from the ears, yet said nothing that could be understood with language. Just emotion. Just memory. Just… weight. The boat rocked slightly as the current shifted, the river thickening with streams of glowing silver—souls, flowing in all directions like migrating stardust. These weren’t mere apparitions. They had form and substance, faint outlines of the people they once were. Some huddled in groups. Others floated serenely, eyes closed, faces relaxed as if dreaming for the first time in eons. Ahead, a whirlpool began to form. It wasn’t made of water, but of concentrated soul-energy, spiraling upward like a cosmic funnel. At its apex was a glowing wormhole, a shimmering hole in the sky that twisted space and color like a wound in reality. As the boat approached this convergence, Beelzebub ordered Deathskull to guide the vessel carefully to the left, avoiding the gravitational pull of the vortex. Deathskull’s skeletal hands gripped the controls, adjusting the rudder as the boat carved a slow arc around the whirlpool’s perimeter. Honey, the dog, padded forward cautiously and poked her head over the railing, ears perked, nose twitching. Beside her, the Proboscis monkey stood on his toes, long fingers curled around the edge of the ship as he gazed into the radiant spiral. The two animals, usually full of playful movement, were still—utterly captivated. And so were we. None of us spoke. We didn’t need to. Before us, we witnessed the uncanny procession of souls. They were rising from the whirlpool, drifting upward through the open sky, toward the wormhole. The movement was gentle and solemn, like an underwater ballet choreographed by divine intelligence. Each soul retained the clothing they wore in death—a soldier in torn armor, a nurse in a faded gown, a child in pajamas smeared with ash. Some had wounds. Burns. Lacerations. Gaping holes in their torsos. But as they ascended… they began to heal. Wounds mended. Flesh regenerated. Broken bones realigned, and charred skin slowly restored to smooth perfection. The dead were not just rising—they were transforming, becoming whole again before our very eyes. It wasn’t grotesque. It was beautiful in a way that defied earthly comprehension. Like watching a shattered mosaic reassemble itself into something even more intricate and profound. Above, the wormhole pulsed in time with the ascension. It wasn’t just a hole in space—it was alive, responding to the spiritual passage. Its edge rippled with fractal flames, gold and indigo intertwining like dancing serpents. A current of pure intention seemed to flow upward from the river into the opening, guiding the souls like a cosmic current. We stood, transfixed. Even Beelzebub, who had witnessed eons of strange phenomena, seemed humbled. He watched with unblinking eyes, his cloak fluttering softly in the spectral wind. Though no words passed between us, I could sense the unspoken reverence in everyone—each of us struck by the sheer sacredness of the moment. Beelzebub’s voice eventually came, low and solemn, like a scripture spoken from memory. “These souls have chosen to make a safe passage… from the physical realm into the higher dimensions. They are not escaping. They are returning. They did not cling to dogma, nor to the false light of deities. Such as myself. They found something greater. A spiritual sovereignty immune to corruption. Even here… the Wraith cannot touch them.” The boat drifted quietly around the whirlpool, the edges of the vessel occasionally catching trails of soul light as it passed. These souls didn’t acknowledge us—they had no need to. Their path was clear. Unburdened. Free. As they floated upward, the final remnants of their earthly pain dissolved. They left behind not just bodies, but identities, fears, regrets. And yet… there was no erasure. Only integration. As if everything they had been, everything they had suffered, was now part of a greater wholeness—absorbed into the tapestry of higher existence. The higher dimensions welcomed them not with gates or angels, but with resonance. A harmony that echoed across space and soul alike. And then they were gone. The wormhole shimmered, pulsed one final time, and dimmed ever so slightly, as if exhaling. The vortex below it slowed, no longer summoning, just spinning gently like a memory. The boat continued forward, the river bending toward some unseen destination. And though no one spoke, I felt something stir in my chest—a strange ache, not of sadness, but of remembrance. Of something I had forgotten I was missing. Something I hoped to one day earn. The Wraith still loomed around us, and danger was far from over. But for a moment, on that river, beneath a star-lit sky, we had witnessed something beyond fear. Hope. Beelzebub reached beneath his tattered cloak and retrieved a Dragon Stone—a relic older than most civilizations, humming with ancient resonance. It was carved from black crystal, shot through with red veins that pulsed like molten arteries. The second he removed it from his robes, the air shifted. Time seemed to slow. Even the gentle current of the River of Souls took on a deliberate stillness, as if all things were momentarily held in anticipation. He stepped forward to the pulpit of the ship—a jagged prow that jutted forward like the bow of a cathedral set adrift—and carefully affixed the Dragon Stone to the slot carved into the altar-like structure. As soon as the stone met the socket, a low, thunderous hum surged through the vessel. The entire hull shivered with it, like a beast waking up from a deep sleep. Then the sky changed. Above us, the serene cosmic canopy dimmed, folding away like a dying flame. Orange light flooded back into the world, washing the sky in the familiar hue of the Wraith realm. Burnt amber and molten crimson bled into each other, painting a heavy, unreal atmosphere. We had left the threshold between worlds and entered back into the dangerous domain of the damned. But we were not alone. With a guttural roar that tore through the firmament, a massive dragon descended from the upper thermals of the sky. Its wings spanned the breadth of small mountains, scales rippling with a living sheen of crimson and obsidian. Every beat of its wings stirred the clouds and sent down tremors of wind that rocked our freighter-style boat. Eyes like molten gold locked onto us with the kind of judgment reserved for titans and gods. The Dragon of Ascension, guardian of the soul’s final journey. It spiraled overhead, eclipsing the light, but then its course subtly adjusted. Its snarl ceased. Its stance softened. The Dragon Stone had done its work. The dragon recognized the signal—we were not intruders. Our request for safe passage had been acknowledged. Far above us, the sky was not empty. Demonic riders on lesser drakes had tried to stalk the skies, perhaps unaware of the Dragon of Ascension’s proximity. They wore jagged armor, wielding spears brimming with soul-sickening energy, and their creatures were malformed—a mockery of the true dragons that once guarded the afterlife. The guardian responded without mercy. With a single beat of its wings, it surged upward like a missile, slicing through the clouds. Flames spewed from its throat, engulfing the demon riders in cones of incinerating fire. There was no battle, no resistance—just obliteration. One by one, the drakes and their riders became streaks of blackened ash falling like rain into the river below. The dragon’s movements were balletic—an ancient, lethal choreography of domination. With every strike, it reaffirmed the natural order. There was no defiance in the Wraith sky tonight. Only judgment. And yet, despite the destruction around us, we remained untouched. Our vessel glided forward, low and steady, beneath the blazing theater above. It was a surreal juxtaposition—the calm of our mission, the stillness of the river, with chaos unraveling overhead like a celestial war. The guardian dragon gave us distance, as if honoring our purpose. Our crew remained silent. No one dared to move. The Proboscis monkey had curled itself into a ball near a cargo crate, its eyes darting between the flames and the stone affixed to the pulpit. Honey, the loyal dog, sat rigid by the helm, ears alert but not fearful. It was as if even the animals knew we were under the protection of something ancient and incomprehensible. Beelzebub stood with one hand still resting on the pulpit, his eyes fixed on the guardian in the sky. Deathskull didn’t flinch; his skeletal frame remained statuesque behind the wheel. And I… I felt something stir in my bones. A sense of smallness, but not despair. More like standing before a mountain that had chosen not to crush you. Respect. That was what this was. Not peace. Not safe. But mutual recognition between forces trying to preserve order in a place defined by entropy. The dragon eventually veered away, disappearing into a glowing rift in the sky. The flames from the battle slowly ebbed out, curling into strange wisps that vanished before they reached the river. In its wake, the orange light dimmed slightly—no longer oppressive, just strange, alien, and charged. We resumed our journey. The freighter creaked and churned forward once more, sailing into deeper layers of the Wraith. Around us, strange black monoliths began to rise from the river’s edge—ruins of an ancient civilization that once believed they could harvest the souls of others for power. Their remnants jutted from the fog like broken fingers, haunted and skeletal, reminders of the cost of hubris. And so we continued—guided by stone, shadow, and fire. The mission was far from over. But the river had acknowledged us. And for now, at least, the heavens above had chosen to let us pass. The freighter groaned as it approached the cracked stone pier, its hull scraping softly against rusted mooring pylons half-swallowed by the soul-touched waters. The city loomed before us—twisted iron skeletons, collapsed skyscrapers, and alleyways cloaked in fog that seemed to breathe with a life of its own. Above the wreckage, like a titan asleep in a throne of ash, stood the enormous mech, its silhouette etched against the orange and purple haze of the Wraith sky. “There,” Deathskull said, pointing a skeletal digit toward it. “That mech has a core wormhole system—buried tech. If it’s still intact, it can open a safe corridor.” “Let’s hope no one beats us to it,” Beelzebub muttered, stepping onto the cracked pavement. We disembarked in silence. Honey’s paws clicked softly across the stone while the monkey clung to my shoulder, its eyes darting nervously at flickering shadows between the buildings. The streets were warped—pipes protruding from the ground like veins, flickering lights still blinking in broken windows. Signs in dead languages swung in the wind. At every turn, we passed reminders of a lost era: rusted rail cars on bent tracks, vending machines filled with fossilized rations, a toppled statue of some forgotten industrial deity. Beelzebub sniffed the air. “Demonic residue. Not fresh, but… something’s been here.” I nodded and kept moving, my hand resting on the grip of my chain sword. The mech was growing closer now. It stood with one arm outstretched toward the sky, as if trying to reach something that never came. Its surface was covered in grime and moss, but here and there, its lights still blinked. Something inside was still alive. “Almost there,” Deathskull said, his voice low. “Let’s hope its mind hasn’t gone rogue.” The sky deepened into a bruised shade of crimson as we pressed forward, the ruined skyline of the Wraith city shuddering with unnatural groans and metallic sighs. Just as we crossed a shattered plaza choked with skeletal trees and twisted steel, the ground trembled—a dull, rhythmic thud echoing through the veins of the earth like a prelude to something ancient and cruel. Then they emerged. From beyond a charred overpass, a wave of demonic foot soldiers spilled into view—slithering, crawling, sprinting, shrieking in a dozen dialects of madness. Their bodies were half-cloaked in black flame, their weapons fused with bone and tar. The air grew dense and sulfuric, as if we were inhaling the very breath of decay. Beelzebub moved fast. His hands weaved ancient sigils through the air, glowing white-hot against the dark. Glyphs hovered like embers around his fingertips before exploding outward in arcs of brilliant light. A wall of raw energy ignited, sweeping across the city’s threshold and freezing the oncoming horde like statues mid-charge. Limbs contorted, eyes bulged, and in moments the snarling swarm was suspended—locked in time. But the momentary silence that followed was not relief. High above us, perched on the skeletal remains of an observation tower, stood Maladrie—draped in flowing obsidian silk that flickered with illusory shimmer. Her silhouette shimmered with shifting beauty, impossible geometry, and dark suggestion. Her long, silver-black hair waved in the Wraith wind, and her eyes—twin stars of envy—burned with obsession. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Instead, she raised her arms—and tore reality open. From the rift exploded two colossal beasts. The first, The Seven Headed Sin, emerged like a living monument to forbidden genetics and ancient punishment. Four hundred feet tall, it loomed like a mountain. Seven grotesque heads—each with bat-like wings protruding from their temples and curved horns like molten steel—gnashed and screamed in different octaves. Its torso rippled with eyes that blinked without rhythm, giving it sight from every angle. Veins pulsed beneath its black skin, which steamed in the cold air like a furnace struggling to contain its wrath. The second creature stormed from the flames behind it—an ancient war elephant, towering at two hundred feet, its hide a patchwork of demonic plating and fossilized bone. Its tusks were blades, sharpened to scythe through concrete, steel, and flesh alike. Its scream was a trumpet of extinction—a raw, primal blast that shattered the glass of every ruined building for miles. Its steps cracked the foundation of the world beneath it, and it ran like a juggernaut determined to crush history itself. They were titans. Maladrie had summoned monsters meant for the apocalypse. Beelzebub shouted for us to move. “Go to the Mech, I’ll stay behind!” There was no time for strategy. No time to fight. Not yet. We ran. Honey barked in terror, and the monkey clung to my back as we sprinted toward the towering silhouette of the mech. The air became a storm of debris and screams, buildings collapsing behind us, black fire licking the edges of the sky as the beasts gave chase. Their roars chased us like shadows with teeth. The mech stood at the edge of a crater, its armored frame partially buried in rubble, like a fallen god waiting to be awakened. It was ancient, but it hummed—its systems still alive beneath centuries of dust and corrosion. Runes lit up along its legs as we approached, as if it sensed our desperation. We reached the base. Deathskull peeled away panels with cybernetic strength while I punched the emergency activation codes. The entrance hissed open, revealing a vertical shaft bathed in pale green light. We dove inside, the bulkhead sealing shut just as a wave of collapsing buildings swallowed the ground behind us. Inside the cockpit, the mech felt like a cathedral built for war—enormous, ritualistic, with a pilot’s chair that looked more like a throne of thorns and cables. I climbed in. The harness clamped around my torso, wrists, and skull. Wires pierced the suit. A sharp pain entered my spine. “This mech,” Deathskull said, his voice echoing through the chamber, “is more than a weapon. It's sentient. It speaks in your blood. Piloting it… it will change you.” I felt it. Like molten data flooding my veins. The machine whispered secrets. It spoke to my brainstem in a tongue older than civilization, and I welcomed it. My body jerked. My mind expanded. I saw blueprints of stars, kill-counts, limb trajectories, psychic pressure zones. I saw through its eyes. I didn’t care about my chemistry. I didn’t care about the warnings. Because outside, two monsters wanted to turn us to ash. And this mech? This was our answer. As the cockpit sealed shut, hydraulic locks clamped into place with a hiss of ancient steam. Deathskull and the animals were secured into the passenger restraint system behind me, encased in a reinforced cradle of shock-absorbing armor. I stood on a circular platform that lifted me into position, where coiling cables and neuro-fiber links fastened to my limbs, spine, and temples. The machine’s neural interface surged to life. A domed visor descended over my eyes, flickering with glyphs and loading symbols that bled away into seamless clarity. Instantly, I was no longer in the cockpit—I was in the mech. Every movement of my arms, legs, hands, and feet translated into the immense, calibrated motions of the towering war machine. When I turned my head, the horizon shifted. When I clenched my fists, the mech’s massive hands responded with impossible strength. The sensation was intoxicating. I felt the weight of mountains beneath my feet. I could sense gravity differently, like it bowed to my presence. My vision stretched for miles, enhanced by multi-spectrum targeting and heat detection. The wind rumbled against my chest like distant thunder. At that moment, I was a 400-foot titan. And the monsters were waiting. The mech roared to life as I surged forward, the massive chain sword gripped in the machine’s plated hands sparking with divine fury. Each step thundered through the crumbling streets, flattening abandoned vehicles and splitting the earth with my momentum. Chunks of pavement burst beneath the mech’s heels as I stormed toward the twin nightmares looming on the horizon. The Seven Headed Sin let out a discordant wail—seven demonic screams layered over one another like a corrupted symphony, vibrating the atmosphere with sickening force. Its malformed heads writhed like serpents, each one snarling with rows of jagged, blade-like teeth. Its eyes, hundreds of them, blinked in chaotic unison. Beside it, the tusked elephant-like behemoth bellowed and scraped its massive tusks against the street, cleaving concrete towers like paper as it barreled forward. I raised the chain sword high. The engine within its spine shrieked as the blade ignited, teeth spinning in rapid succession, carving through the very air with burning trails. I brought it down hard across the elephant monster’s flank. Sparks erupted. Hide like volcanic armor cracked under the force, ichor spewing into the air in bursts of sulfurous steam. The beast howled and swung its massive head, knocking me back with a thunderous blow. I crashed into a line of derelict skyscrapers. Steel and glass crumbled around me. Alarms wailed briefly before they were silenced by the settling dust. I tried to stand—my limbs moved slow, sensors blinking red. Damage alerts flared inside the visor. The elephant advanced again, tusks aimed to impale. Then the sky caught fire. From above, the great dragon of the River of Souls descended—wings stretched wide like curtains of flame and shadow. Its eyes glowed with celestial gold, ancient wisdom and unbridled fury burning within them. It curled in midair and spat a jet of fire that coiled like a living serpent, striking the Seven Headed Sin square in the torso. The creature screamed, clutching at its burning limbs as flames traced through the network of eyes along its chest and arms. The dragon twisted, landing with a quake beside me. Its scales glistened with astral energy, and each beat of its wings sent shockwaves rippling across the ruined battlefield. The elephant charged again, but the dragon intercepted, biting into its armored head and slamming it against a broken tower, toppling the monolith like a toy block. I rose. I grabbed my sword again, reboot systems chirping as they restored function to my limbs. I lunged toward the Seven Headed Sin, this time sidestepping the rain of corrupted fists. My blade found purchase in its torso, carving upwards as severed heads screamed and dropped like rotten fruit. The creature retaliated, clawing and shrieking, but I stood my ground. Each movement I made resonated with purpose, the mech’s fury aligning with my own. The dragon and I fought as one—organic and machine, spirit and steel. Together, we held the line against these unholy colossi, shaking the very foundation of the Wraith with every blow. The earth trembled beneath our clash—mech and dragon against the twin leviathans of Maladrie’s conjuring. Smoke and spectral ash churned through the broken skyline, forming oily clouds that coiled around the skeletal remains of the city. The sky flashed with deep hues of orange and violet, casting eerie light over the battlefield as if the heavens themselves watched in apprehension. The Seven Headed Sin, though wounded, rose taller than before, its remaining heads howling in chaotic harmony. A pulse of shadow erupted from its chest, a wave of dark energy that shattered windows, bent iron, and sent my mech sliding backwards across the cracked pavement. Sparks exploded from the joints in my legs as I dug in, stabilizers screaming against the force. I responded with a burst of hydraulic power, lunging forward and plunging my chain sword into its hip, grinding through twisted flesh and ichor-coated bone. The creature shrieked, three of its heads vomiting streams of corrupted light that struck my torso in staccato bursts, melting armor plating and exposing inner servos. My HUD is filled with warnings. Damage thresholds breached. Cooling systems compromised. Still, I pushed forward, driving the blade deeper until the beast flung me away with a clawed fist. I tumbled across the cityscape, leveling what remained of a transport station and crashing through a support column that once held a maglev rail. Rubble buried my mech halfway, sensors spinning with interference. My breathing was heavy inside the neural harness. The feedback from the machine surged through my nerves like adrenaline on fire. Meanwhile, the dragon continued its duel with the tusked monstrosity. The elephant-beast reared, slamming its obsidian tusks into a crumbling high-rise, toppling the structure onto the dragon’s wing. The mighty creature screeched, twisting away as debris scraped its scaled hide. Flames burst from its maw in retaliation, but the behemoth was relentless. With a thunderous bellow, it charged again, goring the dragon along the side and pinning it into a ruptured power silo. The resulting explosion rocked the skyline. The dragon roared, wings flaring with blazing defiance. With one titanic sweep, it batted the elephant away, sending it rolling across the ground like a meteor. The behemoth crashed into a fuel plant, detonating silos in sequence, fire pillars erupting into the sky as black oil and glowing embers bathed the area in light. But neither side relented. From the ground, I forced the mech to rise. Actuators groaned, gears whined, and sparks bled from my shoulder mount as I hefted the chain sword once more. The Seven Headed Sin turned to me again, its eyes leaking molten corruption, its severed necks writhing like snakes desperate to regenerate. Around its arms, tendrils of shadow formed new weapons—living whips made of compressed dark energy, lashing the air like serpents with razor tongues. I blocked the first strike, but the second coiled around my mech’s leg, dragging me forward across concrete and steel. I twisted my torso and activated the shoulder cannon—one of the only ranged options left. With a metallic whomp, the cannon fired a streak of blue plasma that exploded against the beast’s midsection, shearing away armor and igniting a fire within its ribcage. But the beast did not fall. It howled and retaliated with renewed fury. The battle raged on. The sky above burned like a sunken furnace, an endless sea of molten orange that shimmered and swirled with impossible winds. I could barely breathe, every breath inside the cockpit felt thinner than the last as the mech soared higher and higher—no longer under my control. The Seven Headed Sin had wrapped itself around the mech like a parasite, its sudden wings thundering against the atmosphere as it pulled us into the higher reaches of the Wraith’s stratosphere. The weight of it crushed down on my mech’s shoulders. I could hear the groan of metal and the pained shriek of servos trying to hold firm under the monster’s mass. My HUD glitched with static, the temperature rising within the cockpit, warning lights flashing across my vision like red stars. The air tasted of metal and panic. I reached for the chain sword, but it was gone—torn from the mech’s hand during the struggle. But I wasn’t helpless. On instinct, I forced the mech’s right arm to flex, engaging the embedded gauntlet blade. The steel hissed forward, humming with kinetic energy. I raised the arm despite the weight of the creature on my back, sensors screaming at the torque. With a single, savage motion, I drove the gauntlet blade backward. The blade plunged through the beast’s spine—if it had one—slicing flesh, nerves, and twisted sinew. The Seven Headed Sin released an otherworldly screech, all its heads wailing in disharmony as dark ichor sprayed across the orange sky like ink in firelight. The wings beat wildly, losing rhythm, then tore into shreds of shadow. The creature spasmed, detached, and fell apart mid-air in a rain of corrupted meat and disintegrating bone. But victory came at a cost. With the beast no longer holding us aloft, the mech plummeted like a meteor through the Wraith’s orange sky. My sensors went black for a moment, then surged back on with a critical systems warning. Wind howled through the reinforced seams of the cockpit. The descent was steep, fast, furious. I could see the ruins below—twisted metal towers, jagged remains of bridges, and the scorched craters where entire blocks had been erased from existence. We were going to hit hard. From the ground, the dragon—its body streaked with blood and smoke from its own battle—lifted into the sky. It ascended like a crimson comet, wings outstretched, trailing fire in its wake. Its eyes locked onto us, burning with intelligent focus. It surged upward, pushing faster and faster, trying to match our velocity, talons outstretched. We were falling too fast. It reached for us. Claws nearly grazed the mech’s leg. But it wasn’t enough. The impact came like the fist of a god. The mech slammed into the ground on its left side, demolishing the remains of a shattered highway and sending shockwaves that rippled through the surrounding buildings. Steel buckled. Glass vaporized. A crater opened beneath us, swallowing what was left of the road. The cockpit screamed with alerts. I was thrown forward, my harness straining to hold me in place. Pain exploded through my body as my left arm seized with agony. The feedback systems had shortened. The neural harness had backfired. Something inside the piloting interface ignited. White-hot pain spread from my shoulder down to my hand. I looked through the haze and saw the device on my left arm melting, fused into my flesh. A hole had been burned straight through the tissue, cauterized by the tech’s overload. My breath hitched, my vision swam, and the agony pulsed like thunder beneath my skin. The dragon landed beside us with the gentleness of a mountain descending from the sky. Its wings folded as it knelt, nudging the ruined mech with its snout, testing to see if we had survived. Inside, I leaned back against the scorched padding, my left arm useless, my body trembling from the residual neural shock. My blood, sweat, and the coolant from the cockpit mingled into a bitter cocktail of survival. But we weren’t defeated. Or dead. We won. But we were far from whole. And above, far beyond the dragon’s protective wings, the sky was shifting. It wasn’t over. Not even close. The cockpit hissed with dying energy, its warning lights dimming as I scrambled through the pain to deactivate the neural piloting system. My scorched left arm throbbed violently with each breath I took. The smell of burnt plastic and singed flesh lingered thick in the air. I gritted my teeth, fumbling at the release latches around my wrist and spine. Sparks danced as I disconnected myself from the system. “Deathskull!” I growled through clenched teeth, bracing myself against the wall of the cockpit. “Activate the damn portal—now!” Deathskull spun in his seat, alarm in his eyes, even beneath the dark skeletal mask that concealed half his face. His fingers hovered uncertainty over the console. “You’re injured,” he said, voice taut with concern. “We need to stabilize you before—” “No time,” I snapped. “She’ll send more. We both know what Maladrie is capable of. We won’t survive a second wave.” Deathskull hesitated, then nodded grimly. He pulled a small lever from the side of the dashboard and turned to me. “You’ve got to pump this lever—seven times. Then press the red button. It'll breach the veil.” I stumbled toward the mechanism, clutching my wounded arm. The lever was stiff, rusted from heat damage. Every pump sent new jolts of pain through my side, but I didn’t stop. One… two… three… by the sixth, my vision blurred. On the seventh, I slammed my good hand onto the red button. The ship trembled. The walls groaned. Outside the mech’s viewport, space began to twist and ripple. Like an oil slick tearing in reverse, a rift opened up just above the ruined cityscape. Vortices of purple and black energy coiled into a circular aperture, its edges lined with fractal lightning. Deathskull turned to his console, inputting coordinates at lightning speed. Ancient glyphs flickered across the screen, mixing with digital star charts. The mech’s systems hummed, rerouting the last of its power into the portal stabilizer. Outside, I could see Beelzebub standing atop a scorched tower near the ruins of the River of Souls. His dark cloak fluttered in the smoky wind, the gleam of the dragon stone still on his chest. He raised a hand, his expression solemn, eyes like black mirrors of fire. “Thank you,” his voice echoed through the comms, quiet but resolute. “The souls will be safe now. But your war is just beginning.” Then he turned, his figure swallowed by the storm clouds forming over the horizon as more demonic legions began to emerge in the distance. He stayed behind, a sentinel of the river, while we made our escape. The portal yawned wide, gravity pulling us forward. The mech’s legs trembled as the systems fired one last sequence, lifting us just enough to carry our weight through the rift. Deathskull held onto the command chair, the animals—Honey and the proboscis monkey—strapped beside him in a panic. I clutched the safety rail, shielding my left arm, as the mech pushed through the dimensional tear. And then—silence. The whirling chaos of the Wraith realm dissolved. Light shifted. Gravity adjusted. A burst of white overtook us. When the light faded, the world was green again. Familiar. Still. Trees rustled in a late summer breeze. Crickets chirped somewhere nearby. The sound of bees humming over the gentle ripple of a creek. The mech’s feet sank into soft earth, and I recognized the small grassy clearing bordered by thick woods and rocky banks. Money Creek. Bloomington, Illinois. We were back. The portal shrank behind us, folding in on itself with a low moan, before snapping shut with a flicker of lightning. I slumped back in the pilot’s seat, the pain in my arm blurring the edge of my vision. The HUD flickered with a single word: STANDBY. Deathskull looked over at me, the relief in his voice unspoken, but visible in the way his shoulders dropped. The animals, startled but unharmed, wriggled against their restraints. I let my head fall back, watching as the wind bent the trees and the sun broke through the clouds. It almost felt like it had all been a dream—until I glanced down at my arm. The blackened metal had fused into my flesh. There was nothing dreamlike about it. We were back. But we hadn’t returned unchanged. CHAPTER 9: “ESCAPE PART TWO” “VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA”

By William Warner CHAPTER 12: "JEREMIAH FLEET" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA" As Emily and I climbed back up the hidden stairwell into the main hall of Jericho’s twisted cathedral, our boots echoed on the stone steps, still wet with condensation and the lingering scent of death. The desecrated altar sat like a monument to false divinity, its fractured slabs casting long shadows under the flickering red lights above. The cathedral's silence was no longer peaceful—it was tense, like a drum skin pulled too tight. We were no longer explorers here. We were invaders. Suddenly, Emily’s wrist gauntlet buzzed and emitted a low beep. A red projection blinked into existence above her arm, shimmering with static until the hazy image of Serenity appeared. Her eyes were strained, and her tone was uncharacteristically sharp. “They’re coming,” Serenity said without preamble. “The Knights are launching a massive fleet from the planet Jeremiah. It’s not just Jericho they’re after anymore—they’re coming for York too. Retaliation. Big time.” Emily tensed beside me. “How many ships?” she asked. “Too many,” Serenity snapped. “Dozens of siege frigates, and at least two dreadnoughts. Our Long Ships aren’t built for this kind of skirmish. The tech disparity is too wide. If they breach York’s planetary shield, it’s over. We won’t be able to hold.” My thoughts swirled with calculations. Every second counted. “Is there any way to infiltrate their fleet?” I asked, stepping forward. “Can we destroy them from within? Sabotage their engines? Wipe their navigation? Anything.” Serenity’s projection flickered with static. “It’s possible, but not without risk. We’d need access codes, internal mapping, fleet formation patterns—things we don’t have yet. The only way we might get that intel is if we can access deeper military files on Jericho. You’re still in their capital. There might be something underground or in a high-ranking officer’s archive. Otherwise, we’re blind.” Her tone softened just slightly. “You need to get out of there, now. Regroup with me back on York—” I cut her off. “Just keep your mouth shut, Serenity. We’ll handle this.” Serenity’s expression darkened, but she didn’t argue. The call disconnected with a sharp digital flick, and the air grew quiet again. Emily exhaled slowly. “That was harsh,” she said, half under her breath. “I don’t need more panic,” I replied, looking around the desecrated holy hall. “We need answers. Serenity’s right about one thing—we’re not done with this planet.” We began scanning the walls for hidden panels or passageways. The cathedral’s core was ancient, likely rebuilt dozens of times by different sects, each adding layers of secrets. Jericho’s oppressive gothic-industrial aesthetic made everything feel overdesigned and overengineered—what looked like a pipe could be a switch, and what looked like a panel could be a door. We located a recessed maintenance shaft near the altar’s shattered edge. A small inscription was carved above it in some old dialect, possibly a mix of High Imperial and religious code. It read: “Only the sanctified shall observe the Throne’s True Power.” Emily raised an eyebrow. “That’s not ominous at all.” I pried the panel open. It led to a narrow corridor lined with dim, reddish lighting and a descending ramp. My helmet interface lit up with unknown EM fields, likely caused by Imperial dampeners or cloaking systems. Emily flicked on her head light, and we pressed forward. The corridor opened into a command sanctuary—clearly used by ranking clerics and military strategists. Embedded into the walls were dozens of holoscreens and ancient data cores—some Imperial, others far older, almost alien in design. I approached a large circular console in the center. Its surface was smooth obsidian until I placed my palm on it. The console roared to life. A red holographic interface bloomed outward, displaying complex fleet schematics. Battleship layouts. Planetary routes. Combat protocols. My eyes darted over the information, searching for anything that looked like a vulnerability. “There,” Emily pointed at a secondary diagram. I traced my finger across the flickering holo-text, letting each revelation sink in. The files painted a cosmic conspiracy more complex than any war we’d fought—Nasga architects, Arckon overseers, and a web of hidden manipulation stretching across species and epochs. “The Nasga People,” I murmured, reading the description. The information floated above the console: “Arrived at the dawn of this galaxy. Seeding lifeforms using technology reminiscent of the Arckons: mammals, reptiles, bird‑like beings—all created for coexistence.” It was a mythological origin rewritten in cold code. Screens shifted to display images: Jaguars, leonine reptilians; Charoon, spinosaurus‑headed humanoids with sleek scales; Troodons, avian in structure; and Buerr, bear‑faced, noble warriors. To think these ancient, engineered races existed here… engineered by beings who came from beyond. Another file read itself: “If the citizens of the Red Dragon Empire were to discover that the Nasga people made us, and that the Arckons made them, it would destroy this Christian Empire in an instant as people panic. To make matters worse, the Vikings have adopted the new faith of Spiritual Alchemy, which revolves around the idea of becoming a creator being.” I felt the magnitude of it. “They tried to suppress knowledge,” Emily voiced softly behind me, arms crossed against her chestplate. “Because once people realize they weren’t ‘chosen’, their faith collapses.” I paused on the document’s signature line: Edward Murray—a Noble from the Russ legion. The name rang alarm bells—someone trusted, someone with a seat at the highest tables. His betrayal in ink confirmed it: this was an empire‑conceiving treachery. Emily reached out, her hand steady in mine. “Are you okay?” I closed my eyes, taking a steadying breath. “This is a lot to process.” My voice wavered, betraying exhaustion. “We thought we were fighting swords and demons—but this… this is war against cults of truth and lies.” She nodded, courage mirrored in her green eyes. “Now we know why they offered us false worship—and why they feared Spiritual Alchemy. They believed it would make us gods ourselves.” I shook my head, stunned at the scale of it. “If people knew their history… the Imperial system could topple overnight. Aelle’s throne would crumble—just like Ragnar’s did in Vikingnar.” Emily squeezed my hand. “We can use this. Not destroy. Expose.” I swiped through the data, vision narrowed. “ Then we broadcast—history and all—this truth. We launch the sabotage on the fleet, securing York and Jericho.” A slow smile curved Emily’s lips. “Never a dull moment with you.” For a moment, the cathedral’s oppressive air fell away. We were no longer pawns in someone’s galactic chessboard. We were the ones holding the board. “Let’s rewrite destiny,” I pressed my palm against the glowing console. “No more holy lies. No more hidden creators.” Emily pulled me close, head resting on my shoulder. “Together.” And in that cathedral sanctuary—tainted though it was—we made our vow: to bring truth to the galaxy, no matter how unstable the ground beneath us might shake. The plan was born: expose the secret lineage, sabotage the imperial armada, and reclaim what was ours—truth, sovereignty, and a future built on knowledge, not gods. With a steadying breath, I scrolled into the Imperial Fleet File. Lines of red-accented data filled the holo-screen, and my pulse quickened. “Each vessel of the Red Dragon Empire is equipped with an onboard Psychic navigator—individuals trained to safely traverse the Wraith. These Psychics can relay encrypted messages between star systems. Any individual with the proper resonance can receive these transmissions.” Emily scoffed softly, running a dark-gloved fingertip through her hair. “They claim to be Christian, yet worship a literal angel on the side—and twist alchemy into a tool for dominance. Hypocritical assholes.” I laughed, a low chuckle that lightened the cathedral’s gravity. Then clarity struck me like a bolt across the sky. “Relay stations.” I whispered, turning back to Emily. “We can broadcast truth across their empire—right into the heart of their society.” Emily reached for her wrist holoscreen, switching to camera mode. The light flickered into a warm amber glow as I looked into the lens and began recording. “This clip reveals how far King Aelle will go to control you,” I announced calmly. The scene shifted to our faces, straining over that dying woman in Jericho’s basement, surrounded by malnourished prisoners. The footage showed her final words—"Help… My gods hate me…" My image returned. “King Aelle… withheld this reality from you. You were made in the image of God, destined to create just like the Nasga civilization—and the Arckons who preceded them.” Emily cut the recording, then turned to me quietly. “We can send that link through the Psychic Relay Station; the whole empire will receive it on their comms.” I nodded, stepping closer. “Let Red Dragon's minds open. If the people know the truth… the empire collapses from within.” A crease formed in Emily’s brow. “And the fleet?” she asked gently. “Their flagships all have just one Psychic each—unless they kept extras on planets like Jericho.” I tapped the data pad. “If we secure or negotiate with those planet-based Psychics, the Empire’s Wraith navigation collapses.” Emily exhaled, doubt shadowing her eyes. “And if they refuse?” I paused, choosing my words. “Then we corner them into a path that leads nowhere else but the Shadow Realm.” Her head tilted, lips tightening. “So… annihilation.” “If the choice is psychic betrayal—or total military extinction—is that really monstrous?” I answered softly. “We’re saving the galaxy from a lie built on spiritual oppression.” Emily met my gaze, tension in her posture. The weight of our plan pulsed in the silent hum of the chamber. Ultimately, she nodded once—firmly. Our resolve is sealed in action. I reached for her hand and squeezed it. “We stand together.” The low hum of the palace’s power grid echoed around us. On the holo­table, projections of the Red Dragon fleet lingered next to maps of Jericho, York, and the Psychic Relay node. The conference chamber’s glass walls reflected faces marked with resolve, fear, hope, and determination. As we prepared to strike at the heart of empire and truth alike, I couldn’t shake a single certainty: We were about to change everything forever. Emily and I moved as one, exiting the Capitol’s glass doors with determined resolve. The air was cool, tinged with the lingering scent of blood and dust from the recent battle. warriors in sleek, graphene-reinforced armor parted for us, their expressions grim with purpose. One of the warriors—a tall woman with a Viking knot dyed in crimson—stepped forward. “My lords, we discovered this in the old Research Vault,” she said, her voice low. She held open a steel-clad doorway, revealing stairs descending into dim, humming depths. Red cables snaked through the ceiling, gothic arches supported overhead, and vents exhaled mechanical breaths that echoed through the corridors. We followed her into the facility. The walls were lined with arcane circuitry—rows of transparent tubes pulsing with alien light—and behind a reinforced window, the portal glowed. It was a holo-vortex framed in black metal, suspended at the center of a circular console. Its colors spiraled from crimson to deep violet, casting shifting shadows across the room. I recognized it immediately. It mirrored the portal I’d seen on Earth—reverse-engineered Wraith tech, stolen from the Greys. The Imperials had done this themselves. My stomach clenched. We couldn’t allow them to perfect it. Together, Emily and I approached the console. Cold steel fingertip panels awaited input. I keyed in the precise coordinates of Jericho’s Psychic Relay Station. Each press caused a hum to intensify. Fingers poised, Emily glanced at me—silent questions passed between us. The hum crescendoed. The vortex stabilized. Wisps of crimson light spilled out before the center turned black. A rip in reality shimmered, beckoning. Emily stepped back. I turned to the Viking assembly. “Hold here. Follow if—” But before I could finish, she cut in, quieter but harder. “Don’t follow us! We’ll keep in touch.” Her voice carried finality. I nodded, then without another word, together we stepped into the swirling gate that glowed crimson. The transition through the Wraith Portal left behind a static buzz in my spine. As the swirling crimson light folded into nothingness behind us, Emily and I stood still, absorbing our surroundings. The chamber before us was immense—like a cathedral fused with a space station. High vaulted ceilings loomed above, arched in gothic latticework carved from black alloy and wrapped in red, glowing circuitry. Industrial piping ran between ribs of steel like veins through bone. The floor was smooth obsidian glass, reflecting not only our figures, but the radiant lights of floating monitors and holographic data reels cycling in endless patterns along the perimeter of the space. Central to the cathedral stood a massive circular platform raised a few feet off the ground, accessible by narrow steps that seemed to float in place. In the air above it, suspended in a slow, unnatural rotation, was a cloaked figure—levitating with a grace that defied physics. The figure unraveled her hood with a fluid motion, and long, silver hair flowed like silk caught in zero gravity. It was her. Valrra. I clenched my jaw immediately. My hand instinctively went to the hilt of my chainsword. Emily stepped forward beside me, voice cool but cutting. “Of all people.” I narrowed my eyes at the floating woman. “And why in the hell are you working for the bad guys, Valrra?” There was a delay—just a second—but it told volumes. Her violet eyes didn’t meet ours at first. She descended slowly, her boots touching the floor without a sound. Around her, glowing cables coiled and writhed, linked to the relay hardware. Her face was pale, unreadable. “I didn’t choose this,” she said. “After I fled Cybrawl, I was captured. They kept me alive only because of my mind. My psychic ability. And because I could operate the Wraith frequencies. I’m under Imperial Law now... a prisoner, forced into servitude.” Emily crossed her arms, tense and unyielding. “That doesn’t explain everything. Why did you kidnap William? Why manipulate me into merging with an Immortal? You knew what that would do.” Valrra’s expression flickered. Her lips parted as if to speak—but no words came. She looked down at the floor. “I can’t say. Not here. They’re always listening. Even now.” I stepped forward, fury under control, but bubbling just below the surface. “You owe us the truth.” “I owe you more than that,” she replied, her voice soft but cracked. “But right now, I can do one thing that might tip this war in your favor. I can send your message across the Red Dragon Empire’s psychic network. Every planet, every citizen with a psychic receiver will feel it. Hear it in their dreams. See it on their devices. I just… I need you to trust me for five minutes.” Emily looked at me. I nodded once. “Fine,” I said. “Do it.” Valrra exhaled and turned back to the central platform. From her belt, she retrieved a small, crystalline object—hexagonal, pulsing with inner red and white lights. She inserted it into a console slot, and the entire room pulsed. Around us, the cathedral’s walls came alive. Massive arrays unfolded from the ceilings like the petals of a steel flower. Holographic rings spun faster. Then came the noise—not auditory, but felt—a resonance that passed through the bones. The air shimmered. And then— Visible sound waves. A symphony of crimson, gold, and ultraviolet pulses radiated out from Valrra’s chest and hands like concentric ripples in water. The pulses surged into the air, riding invisible pathways through dimensions unseen by the naked eye. “I’ve piggybacked your video across the psychic neural net,” she whispered. “Now… they’ll know.” The relay screens began to display our recording—Emily and I aiding the dying woman in the Capitol basement. The words I spoke on that video echoed not just through the screen, but into the mind, into dreams and thoughts. From backwater mining colonies to metropolitan cathedral-cities, the truth screamed like a blood-red virus in the mind of every citizen: “King Aelle has hid the truth from you. You were created in God’s image, and you’re destined to create like a god. Just like the Nasga people who created us, and like the Arckons who created you, William. They are your gods.” Then came the cutscene of the hidden files, revealing the hypocrisy of the Empire’s so-called Christian dominion. The false goddess Madeline. The manipulation. The fabricated guilt traps. The reward-slavery complex. Emily turned from the screen. Her fists were clenched, eyes fierce with righteous fire. “They’ll never undo this,” she said. “It’s already inside them. Like a blade.” Valrra’s face showed the briefest hint of a smile. “Now you just have to finish what you started.” “And what about the fleet?” I asked. “The one coming from Jeremiah.” Valrra’s gaze drifted toward the shadows above. “The flagship’s psychic relay can be disrupted. But only if the Psychic aboard is forced to choose. If you reach them—make them understand what’s been done in their name—they might defect. If not…” I finished her sentence: “We send them to the shadow realm.” Valrra’s aggression turned lethal now her eyes burned with dark purpose. She whispered, "There’s only three more Psychics you have to worry about," she said with a smirk. “I’m sorry, you weren’t what I was looking for,” and with one hand, she activated a dormant portal behind her. It—was not set to a distant world, but directly into the Wraith. Before I could stop her, the air tore open, and a towering demon emerged—an orange-skinned, winged warrior with the head of a raging bull. Fangs glistened in its maw, and it brandished a jagged battle axe that dripped with infernal energy. I shouted a warning to Emily, but the creature advanced too quickly. I raised my chainsword and plunged toward the demon, hoping to distract it long enough for Emily to stop Valrra. Emily yanked Valrra backward by her hair, briefly halting the portal’s surge, while desperately working to shut it down. The demon swung its axe in deadly arcs. I parried and countered, moving in close. The monster lacked finesse—crudely skilled with steel, but no training in close-quarters fighting. It howled, mid-swing, when I struck its groin hard with the butt of my weapon. It staggered. Using that moment, I drove the chainsword deep between its legs. The demon collapsed in a roar, clutching its wound—then slumped and died without vanishing. Emily finished sealing the portal. But as smoke still curled from its threshold, Valrra—raw and possessed by Maladrie’s demonic essence—sprung away from Emily, hurling fireballs that exploded across the shattered tech. Dark energies intensified as more of Maladrie’s demon-warriors materialized: winged, orange-skinned soldiers cracked with infernal light and brandishing flaming swords. Emily and I took a battle stance. We were outnumbered, but our swords were tempered with purpose. I yelled, “Form up! Now!” — and we tore through the horde. Every step was brutal, every swing decisive. The air shimmered with smoke, sparks, and the ringing of metal—a hellish echo in that vaulted hall. Valrra hovered, shifting shape: her frame twisted into a demonic form, horns curling across her skull, and her face set with savage intent. She summoned bolts of fire and more warriors. Emily and I spun together—her blade glittering red, mine humming fiercely. A chorus of clashing steel and hissing flame erupted. Valrra lunged at Emily. Emily parried, keeping her blade steady. I saw my opening: Valrra focused on combat, not on self-preservation. I silently broke away, darting past smashed consoles, cobblestones cracking beneath my feet. My hand found a length of steel pipe embedded in the wall, scorched and torn free by battling forces. I backed slowly, then rushed forward, pressing Emily to lure Valrra my way. Emily taunted the demon away from the others. Valrra pursued, confident in her supernatural speed. When she passed within range, I thrust my improvised weapon—a trench-knife, bound to the pipe and tipped with lethal shungite—straight into her abdomen. Valrra’s eyes widened in shock as the blade tore through her flesh. She crumpled mid-air, dusting sparks against the floor. Emily was beside me in an instant. Valrra landed with a dull thud and immediately began to go unconscious—the demoness rotted instead of turning to black ash. Emily's face was a portrait of grim resolution. The golf-club screech of the sealed portal clawed through the silence. The room was still. The demons were gone. Maladrie’s influence—but briefly seeded—retreated like a tide sucked backward by gravity. I wiped sweat from my brow. Emily gently placed a hand on my shoulder, steadying me. Our eyes met. In that ragged silence, we stood together on battlefield-spattered flooring, battered but unbroken. We had stopped Valrra’s betrayal. But we had cut open the Wraith in the heart of the Empire. And now, the enemies who controlled that realm would know we were coming. I sheathed my blade with slow care. Emily tightened her grip on her sword hilt. In the hush, a single thought roared louder than any demon’s warcry: This war is far from over. We walked together out of the ruined cathedral-hall, ready to bring the fight to the forces that had unleashed the Wraith’s demons on our world. The air hung heavy with heat and the smell of demon blood. Valrra’s twisted corpse lay motionless, pinned to the wall where my makeshift shungite spear had struck her. Emily wiped demon ash from her lip, her blade still humming faintly from the energy it absorbed. We stood in silence, surrounded by the bodies of Valrra’s summoned warriors, the chaos we had carved now frozen in aftermath. But my mind wasn’t quiet. I stepped forward, staring at Valrra’s face—still partially twisted from her demonic possession, yet eerily human in death. Her final words looped in my mind like a glitching transmission: “I’m sorry… you weren’t what I was looking for.” My hands curled into fists. The words weren’t just insulting—they were loaded. Coded. Deliberate. Emily stood beside me, breathing hard. “What the hell did she mean by that?” she asked. “And why’d she turn into a Demon like that?” I didn’t answer at first. I crouched beside Valrra’s remains and noticed something hanging around her scorched neck: a hexagonal flash drive crystal, black and pulsating faintly with red data threads. Carefully, I pulled it from the chain and slid it into the nearest command console. The red-tinted monitor lit up with encrypted files. Emily stepped beside me as we sifted through the layers of intel—some in ancient Arckon glyphs, others in the Imperials' secret dialect. Then we found her personal log. Her actual motives. I began to read aloud. “The subject known as William survived fusion with the Immortal. The fusion was meant to occur during extraction on Earth, but resistance caused the plan to spiral. The Immortal instead bonded with him in the chaos. I assumed the fusion would either kill him… or make him unstable.” “When reports came in that he survived a later encounter with a Stethacanthus Hive Warrior, I feared he was still only partially merged. That perhaps he wasn’t the true vessel after all.” Emily narrowed her eyes. “Wait… she’s saying she thought you might’ve died fighting that Stethacanthus? That shark-thing that ambushed you years ago?” I nodded slowly. “She wasn’t sure if I was fully fused with the Immortal. The Stethacanthus wasn’t connected to the Immortals—it was just one of those freak apex predators out in deep space. But the fact that I barely survived it spooked her. She wanted a backup plan.” Emily’s eyes widened in realization. “That night at my house… when you first showed up, and you brought your gear—” “She snuck another Immortal into my bag,” I said, bitterly. “Thinking that if I wasn’t fully merged, it would finish the job. Only…” Emily took a half step back, processing it. “It bonded with me,” she whispered. I looked at her solemnly. “She never intended for that to happen. But you were exposed. And now… you’re fused too.” Emily let out a slow, bitter laugh. “So she was playing god the whole time. Just pushing pieces around without knowing what the hell she was really doing.” “She wanted to be the one who created the vessel of the next age,” I said, voice tight. “If I was the one the Immortals chose… She wanted a claim. That’s why she was trying to manipulate everything—from the fusions to the politics.” We opened a second file. A message between her and Edward Murray. His signature was encrypted, but unmistakable. “Once King Aelle is disposed of, I will ensure you and William rise to power. Your child—if conceived during full Immortal synchronization—will be a divine heir. In exchange, you will preserve the religious framework of the Red Dragon Empire and assist me in locating my Immortal. The age of kings will fall, but our rule will be eternal.” Emily blinked, visibly revolted. “She wanted to have your kid? This was some twisted imperial breeding program?” “She didn’t just want power,” I muttered. “She wanted control of the future. She wanted to tether herself to whatever destiny she thought I represented.” “But she was still working under Murray,” Emily said. “He made promises, but he was using her.” I nodded grimly. “Valrra thought she was a kingmaker… but she was just a pawn. Murray doesn’t want a partnership. He wants the whole throne. He probably fed her just enough lies to keep her loyal until she outlived her usefulness.” Emily shook her head. “So the entire Red Dragon Empire is being manipulated by psychics, demons, and Immortal cultists with twisted family agendas. I can’t believe we ever thought this was just about Aelle’s crown.” I turned from the console. The glow of the red screen painted shadows across my face. “We exposed Aelle’s crimes. But Murray? He’s building something deeper. He’s the real architect of this insanity.” I glanced back at Valrra’s corpse. “And she was just one layer of it.” The relay station hummed with eerie stillness, even as my wrist gauntlet glowed red from the live feed. I didn't hesitate. Hand poised, I confirmed the upload of our exposé—the raw footage from Jericho’s basement, the twisted rituals, the revelation of Maladrie, King Aelle, and the Red Dragon Empire's desperate machinery of control. Seconds later, the station’s central holo‑screen erupted in chaos: massive riots, crowded streets aflame, and citizens pouring into the streets chanting for justice. “These protests aren’t just about false gods or alien threats,” Emily murmured, her hand resting on mine as we watched. “They bought us time.” I nodded. Time to finish what we started. With quiet resolve, Emily and I activated the nearby Wraith portal console. Its crimson glow deepened, pulsing like a heartbeat. Our warriors, battered but resolute, fell in line behind us. “Stay tight,” I told them. Emily squeezed my hand, wordlessly confirming—and we stepped into the portal together. The crimson vortex of the Wraith Portal collapsed behind us with a low growl, leaving a brief shimmer of energy in the air. Emily and I stood once again on the cold, durasteel floors of the research facility on Jericho—exactly where we’d left. The atmosphere felt heavier now, the station charged with the weight of what had just happened in the Relay. Our warriors were waiting, exactly as instructed—lined up near the console banks and the crude makeshift barracks they’d fashioned from overturned tables and armored panels. Some sharpened their plasma axes, others adjusted runes embedded in their chest plates. Their loyalty hadn’t faltered. That gave me confidence. I stepped forward, my boots clanking with authority on the metal floor. The warriors looked up, eyes wide, and one of the captains—Bjarn, a weathered Viking with a jagged mechanical jaw—approached us. “Well?” he asked. “Did the Empire hear the message?” “Oh, they heard it,” I said, my voice sharp. “They’re hearing it right now. Protests are already spreading across the Red Dragon Empire. The truth’s out—about the Nasga, the Arckons, the false divinity of King Aelle. But we can’t just rely on riots and hope the system collapses on its own.” Emily stepped beside me, placing her hand on my shoulder as she faced the group. “We’re taking the fight to the source. Jeremiah.” The room went still. Even the buzzing consoles seemed to hold their breath. I nodded. “That’s right. No Longships. We’re not going in with a full invasion force. Instead, we’re using the Wraith Portal—slip in, just us and a select strike team.” Bjarn blinked. “To do what exactly?” “To hijack their main Imperial vessel,” I said. “The flagship—the gold-plated dreadnought docked above Jeremiah’s orbital defense grid. It’s the brain of the entire Knights’ fleet. With it under our control, we’ll rain fire from above, disable their entire command structure, and force the rest to either surrender… or burn.” For a moment, silence returned to the room. Then the warriors began to grin—grins filled with bloodlust, hope, and vengeance. I tapped my wrist gauntlet: the red icon pulsed—Serenity. She appeared as a crimson-hued avatar, half-enthralled by the moment’s seriousness. “We’ve successfully uploaded the message,” I said. “I slaughtered Valrra, and her Demons. The Wraith Portal is active, and we’re ready for the Jeremiah mission.” Serenity’s avatar flickered. “Ok?” she responded, voice tight. She was taken aback, but she trusted me. Serenity’s crimson figure nodded. “Backup?” she asked. I pressed my jaw forward. “If things go south, you’ll get the signal. Bring the cavalry.” She waved and the link died. Emily and I stood for a moment, staring at the Wraith portal humming in the center like a storm cloud waiting to strike. Beside us, the silent soldiers shifted shifts of energy, breathing in sync with the portal. The crimson swirl of the Wraith Portal faded behind us as Emily, myself, and our band of Viking warriors emerged onto the surface of planet Jeremiah. The atmosphere was starkly different from the gloom of Jericho. The air, though heavy with industrial fumes, was strangely cleaner. Gothic spires still loomed above us, but they were better kept—polished, ornate, with statues of Madeline and Christ casting long shadows over wide stone plazas. The city had an eerie sense of order. This wasn't just another world under Imperial control—this was a gathering place for their nobles, their elite. The architecture confirmed it. Concrete cathedrals soared with vaulted arches. Iron gargoyles clung to watchtowers. Stained glass windows reflected warm, holy light onto dark metallic walkways. Imperial banners of blood red and gold draped from every building. The entire city was a fusion of religion, power, and war—a shrine to the Empire’s twisted values. We moved in silence, blades drawn, ducking into alleyways and moving along shadowed colonnades. Whenever an Imperial soldier or Knight crossed our path, we struck like ghosts. Our warriors moved with swift precision—axes and short blades slicing through their enemies before they had time to scream. Eventually, the steel-tiled alleys opened into a massive docking yard. Cargo crates were stacked in rows, and spotlights cut across the fog of industrial exhaust. The hum of machinery was constant. Massive steel arms were loading supplies into a dark gray Imperial cruiser, its gold trim marking it as a vessel of high clearance. We dropped behind a stack of crates. From our vantage point, we spotted something unusual: a prisoner. A hooded figure, wrapped in a long black cloak and bound in energy chains, was being escorted up the ship’s ramp by two Knights in plated crimson armor. The chains were laced with glowing runes—powerful enough to suppress even psychic energy. “That’s our hostage,” I whispered. Emily narrowed her eyes. “If they get that ship off the ground, we lose them.” Without another word, we moved. Our warriors unsheathed weapons and followed. We broke cover, sprinting across the metallic yard. Shouts erupted behind us. A squad of Knights saw us too late—we were already at the ramp. I ran up the platform first, my chainsword roaring to life as I cut down the escorts. The other Knight tried to draw his blade, but I was faster. My Chainsword flickered in a crimson arc, and the Knight collapsed, lifeless. Inside the ship, the lights were dim—red emergency LEDs lit the corridors. I hit the console at the side of the ramp and forced the door shut. A loud clang echoed through the ship as I activated the manual welding torch and sealed it. Sparks rained down. “They’re locked out,” I said. “Let’s move.” Emily reached into her pouch and released one of her scanning orbs. It hovered into the air, emitting a low, pulsing hum before projecting a red hologram of the ship’s schematics between us. “Bridge is two levels up. Two small guard patrols—one on this level, another below deck.” “We take the bridge first. If we control that, we control the whole ship.” The orb blinked and retracted. We moved swiftly through the steel corridors, each corner bringing the clash of weapons. Knights met us halfway through the first deck. It was tight, brutal combat—hallways barely wide enough for three people side-by-side. One of our warriors was wounded in the thigh by a halberd swipe, but another yanked him aside and slammed the attacker into a wall with a war hammer. Emily and I kept pushing forward—blood sprayed across console panels and walls, boots echoing on grating floors. The bridge was just ahead—a bulkhead guarded by two heavily armored Knights. They raised their swords, but I launched forward, my chainsword cutting through both weapons and armor with a shriek of metal and plasma. Emily followed up, disarming the last one and slicing his knees before finishing him cleanly. I slapped my palm against the bridge door scanner, overriding it with brute force. The door slid open. I herded everyone in, then shut and sealed the bulkhead behind us. We had taken the bridge. The control room was shaped like a hexagon, with reinforced glass showing a wide view of the dockyard below. Gold-lit consoles flickered with encrypted data. A shrine to the Empire’s martyr saints was built into the far wall—porcelain white, with candles still burning. Emily spit on the floor. I approached the main helm, pressing keys until I gained access. One of our warriors moved to the prisoner, still chained and slumped against the side wall. He knelt beside them and pulled back the hood. A tan man—pale, scarred, eyes flickering with faint psychic glow. “He’s sedated,” The Viking warrior noted. “Still breathing.” The cloaked figure straightened in the low-ceilinged bridge, stepping out of the shadows. “You must be the ones who stole my transport,” he said, voice calm, almost amused. He pulled back his hood to reveal sharp features and pale eyes that shimmered with a curious light—psychiatric eyes. “I’m Christopher,” he introduced himself. I studied his face and stance: no hint of hidden malice, no psychic tremors betraying allegiance to Maladrie. Emily placed a hand on my arm and gave a subtle nod. The guards relaxed marginally, albeit warily. Christopher glanced at the walls, lined with holographic weapon displays and command consoles. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said with a half-smile, “Don’t worry—I’ve resisted her influence. Maladrie’s seductions don’t work on me. I have my own wife.” I gave a slight nod. “That’s good,” I said softly, voice steady. “Any alliance with Maladrie is a trap.” Christopher chuckled, but as I moved to give a guard instruction, Emily waved me back to the pilot’s seat. She pressed controls, and the bridge’s sliding double-doors hissed closed with finality. I took my seat, fingers hovering over the override panel. Immediately, I locked every internal door on the ship. The lower deck is sealed with a soft thrum—metal shutters sliding into place. Our warriors, gathered in the fuselage behind us, leaned forward, their silhouettes framed under dim red lights. Pressure thrummed in the air as I initiated the anti-gravity thrusters. The ship lifted mere feet off the ground in silent rebellion against gravity. Emily guided us into position; outside, the dockyard faded, metallic crates and service cranes shrinking in our viewports. “Ready,” she whispered. I nodded and activated the targeting grid. Unlike Hollywood spectacle, this ship’s armament was singular: a focused laser cannon, tuned precisely to burn through the densest energy shields and graphene-reinforced hull plating. Through the main viewport, I tracked a squadron of Imperial vessels resting in empty berths. My aim locked onto the first. The laser system powered up—crimson energy humming, coalescing into a tight beam. Within moments, a solid weapon beam carved through the nearest ship’s hull, glowing red-hot as the beam seared deeper. Alarms must have wailed below as panic spread through the dock—hull ruptures, metal plating giving way, internal fires erupting. I clicked to shift targets, and the beam swung toward the hangar entrance, slicing through recessed armor to torch the interior. I didn’t cease until dockyard cranes collapsed and storage domes crumpled into smoking ruins. Then, Emily’s voice cut through the chaos, “Incoming!” My senses snapped upward. A second Imperial cruiser — larger, armed, airborne — was bearing down on us, energy shields humming in readiness. Its weapons opened fire as we transitioned: a volley of shimmering pulses that struck our shields in a sudden wash of impact. Lights flickered. I grasped the console, teeth clenched. Emily guided us downward and forward in a sweeping arc. “Under their hull,” she called, eyes fixed on tactical tracers. I followed—and, with a juddering jolt, our ship collided with theirs. My world spun; alarms blared. Metal shrieked. But we held fast—and the momentum carried us beneath the enemy vessel. Below, I raised the laser again, sweeping the beam along their undercarriage. The ship buckled and groaned. I held steady until the hull split in a burst of molten energy, then powered down. The enemy ship wavered, shields brittle, systems failing—and began its descent, tumbling away from the battlefield. Emily and I exhaled. Victory. “I can initiate the teleport,” Emily began. I gripped her shoulder. “We need confirmation—” “Too late,” Christopher called. His tone was urgent, but the ritual was already underway: emergency teleport protocols engaged. Lights pulsed green, then blue, arc-shaped waves rippling in the cockpit. We blinked—and the battlefield vanished. Glasses of stars reappeared through the viewport: unfamiliar constellations, swirling gas clouds, a distant planet casting an olive & blue glow. We were not in the Wraith—nor were we in Jericho. We hovered in a segment of space near the outer bounds of the Red Dragon Empire. “Where are we?” I whispered. Emily gave me a half-smile, her hand tight on my thigh. “Far enough. We’re at the outskirts of the Empire.” CHAPTER 12: "JEREMIAH FLEET" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

By William Warner Entertainment: The Heart of King William Studio Welcome to the Entertainment section of King William Studio—a powerful space where stories come to life through written narratives, episodic shows, and original short films. This section isn’t just for readers; it’s for explorers of myth, lovers of sci-fi, and seekers of something greater than the ordinary. Here, each project is a thread in a larger tapestry—a bold, immersive universe shaped by vision, symbolism, and the mysteries of human destiny. “Our Story” King William Studio was born from visions—strange, vivid dreams that haunted me starting in 2019. These weren’t fleeting thoughts but deeply emotional, symbolic experiences that felt more real than reality itself. Each dream carried mythic themes, surreal landscapes, and urgent messages that I couldn’t ignore. I began translating those visions onto canvas, not realizing at the time that this was only the beginning. From 2019 through 2020, my focus was purely artistic—capturing the essence of dreams in vibrant colors and abstract forms. But it wasn’t until after a life-altering car accident in December 2021 that my true creative calling began to unfold. That experience cracked something open within me. It wasn’t just physical trauma—it was a spiritual awakening. My intuition sharpened. I began questioning everything, peeling away layers of outdated beliefs and mental programming that no longer fit who I was becoming. What emerged was a clearer sense of identity, one forged through pain, insight, and radical creativity. That identity became King William. Although I let go of many old beliefs, I couldn’t shake the strange truths I found in ancient texts—especially the Book of Revelation and the prophecies of Nostradamus. These weren’t simply religious or historical documents; they felt like messages buried in time, still echoing forward. Their cryptic warnings and poetic symbolism felt familiar—almost like an extension of my dreams. In time, I started writing my own prophecy, one not bound by tradition or dogma. I call it the Future Alien Astronaut Theory—a mythic, speculative framework that reimagines the end of days through the lens of extraterrestrial intelligence, cosmic warfare, and spiritual evolution. Out of this personal mythology came the cornerstone of King William Studio: Vikings War In Valhalla. What began as a conceptual extension of my dream-worlds has evolved into a fully realized, epic written saga. This story is set in a reimagined Valhalla—a war-scarred realm caught between the mythic and the futuristic, where ancient gods battle alien invaders, resurrected warriors, and forces far beyond human comprehension. It’s brutal, raw, and cinematic, fusing Norse mythology with dystopian sci-fi to create something entirely original. The written version of Vikings War In Valhalla is presented in a blog-style format, allowing readers to follow along as the saga unfolds. Each chapter is crafted with care, layered with lore, emotional intensity, and symbolic undertones. You’ll meet gods on the brink of madness, warriors reborn through alien technology, and apocalyptic visions that blur the line between prophecy and reality. The blog format also allows for frequent updates, character spotlights, and deep dives into the world-building that makes this universe feel alive. But storytelling at King William Studio goes beyond the written word. The Entertainment section will also host a show adaptation of Vikings War In Valhalla, currently in development. This animated series will expand on the events of the blog, giving voice and movement to the characters you've grown to love—or fear. Through striking visuals, voice performances, original music, and dramatic pacing, the series will dive deeper into the chaos of Valhalla and the cosmic war that threatens to reshape the multiverse. This isn’t just a translation of the written story—it’s a transformation. The show will amplify everything that makes Vikings War In Valhalla unique: its mythic scale, it's dark beauty, and its relentless emotional drive. Each episode will bring viewers closer to the truth buried within the fiction, illuminating themes of destiny, betrayal, sacrifice, and the mysterious intersection between ancient gods and alien invaders. In addition to the flagship show, the Entertainment section will also showcase original short films produced entirely by King William Studio. These films will vary in tone and subject matter, offering everything from sci-fi thrillers and psychological horror to poetic visual meditations on prophecy, memory, and war. Some will directly tie into the Valhalla storyline, offering backstory, side narratives, or alternate perspectives. Others will branch into new mythologies—exploring the broader multiverse implied by the Future Alien Astronaut Theory. Each film will be short in length but dense in meaning, designed to evoke visceral reactions and spark deeper reflection. Using a blend of 2D animation, live-action visuals, and symbolic storytelling, these shorts will act as standalone works of art—thought-provoking and experimental, yet always rooted in the themes of transformation, identity, and cosmic destiny. At King William Studio, entertainment is never hollow. Every piece of entertainment is infused with intention. The goal is not just to entertain but to awaken—to challenge assumptions, stir the soul, and point toward a possible future that feels both fantastic and eerily plausible. Whether through written lore, serialized animation, or cinematic short films, everything in this section is built to provoke thought and ignite imagination. This is not a traditional media outlet. This is a vision—a living archive of a future mythology in motion. The Entertainment section stands at the center of that vision, acting as both a platform for narrative expansion and a reflection of the studio’s evolving philosophy. So whether you come here to read, watch, or simply explore—know that you’re stepping into something much bigger than a story. You’re stepping into a universe shaped by dreams, forged in fire, and destined to outlive the noise. Enter the world of King William Studio Entertainment—and witness the rise of a mythology reborn. Free Entertainment, Ad-Supported All creative work on King William Studio —including videos, artwork, and downloads—is offered 100% free of charge . To keep it that way, the site is supported by ads . This allows us to continue producing original sci-fi entertainment without charging our audience. We appreciate your support and understanding. Every view, share, and interaction helps keep the universe of King William Studio  alive and growing.

By William Warner "Vikings War In Valhalla: Prologue" Cybrawl—a war-ravaged, industrialized planet on the far reaches of the known universe. A world of relentless innovation, where towering machines shape the future of existence. The "Droids of Cybrawl", highly advanced mechanical beings, serve as the architects of a grand cosmic project: the creation of "Higher Forms"—sentient energy-based lifeforms born from the conversion of pure cosmic particles into physical matter.   Using an advanced device known as the "Genesis Core", the Droids extract and refine energy from the vast unknown, carefully forging new consciousness from the very essence of existence. These Higher Forms, each unique in structure and awareness, are not imprisoned but carefully preserved, stored in a "pocket dimension"—a space beyond time—until the destined "End Cycle", when all shall awaken for their ultimate purpose.   A massive carrier ship—designation "Craft 64509"—approaches Cybrawl’s primary docking station, its mission precise and delicate. The vessel carries newly-formed Higher Forms, safely contained within crystalline capsules, ensuring their transition to the "Dimensional Vault". The Droids, methodical and efficient, prepare for the transfer with the utmost care.   Yet, within the vast complexities of even the most refined systems, error remains a possibility. As the unloading process begins, a "minor miscalculation" occurs. A careless Droid—rushed but not malicious—accidentally drops one of the capsules. The impact sends a ripple of energy across the docking bay. A hairline fracture spreads along the crystal’s surface.   The containment breach triggers an automatic response—alarms blaring, safety protocols engaging—but it is too late. From within the fractured capsule, radiant energy spills forth, twisting and expanding into its true form. Another soon follows, both glowing with an ethereal light, their awareness stirring for the first time.   The newly awakened entities, acting on instinct, perceive their surroundings with confusion and urgency. They are "not meant to be here", not yet. Unfamiliar with their intended fate, their first thought is "escape".   They surge through the steel corridors of the facility, slipping between vast industrial machinery, guided by an innate drive to flee. The Droids, recognizing the breach, react immediately—not with hostility, but with concern. They follow swiftly, attempting to intercept and contain the entities before they can destabilize or disrupt the delicate balance of their creation.   The Higher Forms reach the "wormhole generator", an unstable passage of shifting energies that links to unknown dimensions. With no time to process their choices, they take the only path available. A final surge of luminous energy—   They vanish.   The wormhole collapses, leaving behind only silence and the faint hum of machinery. The Droids stand motionless, processing the event. This was not an act of defiance, nor a failure of intent—merely an unexpected awakening, an anomaly in the grand cycle of creation. Though these two Higher Forms have departed ahead of their destined time, their existence is now set upon an unknown course. Somewhere beyond the reach of Cybrawl, the next chapter of their journey begins. The Portal Opens. The sky above the Arizona desert split open with a soundless rupture. A jagged wound in the air pulsed over the sun-bleached hills—swirling with sickly hues of violet, crimson, and green. From the breach, five shadows spilled out, flickering like phantoms against the blistering blue sky. The Immortals had crossed. No one saw them arrive. The sun scorched the landscape. Asphalt shimmered under the brutal midday heat. Cacti stood still in the silent air. The only movement came from a convoy of semis and sedans on a distant highway, their engines humming as they passed, oblivious to what now drifted overhead. The Immortals hovered above the power lines, warping the light around them. Static rippled through the electrical grid—streetlights blinked erratically, cell towers stuttered, and a drone monitoring traffic spun out of control and crashed into a mesquite tree. Birds exploded into the sky in chaotic flight. Rattlesnakes burrowed deeper beneath rocks. A jackrabbit froze mid-step, heart racing before fleeing into the brush. The Immortals were weakened from the dimensional leap. Faint. Fragmented. But their hunger pressed outward, searching. Scanning. They needed hosts. Earth was rich with life—dense with vessels of flesh and bone. The largest of the five—Vargrom—drifted toward a distant suburban cluster. From here, only rooftops shimmered like silver scales under the heatwave. Lawns browned under water restrictions. Backyard trampolines sat unmoved. No humans in sight—only the occasional passing SUV, heatwaves blurring the license plate as it rolled past a blinking traffic light. The Immortals scattered. One vanished toward the city outskirts, trailing a vapor of heat-distorted shadow over an abandoned construction site. Another glided over a rail yard, spooking a flock of pigeons from the steel beams. A third phased into the shadows beneath a freeway overpass, where concrete hummed with absorbed heat. Their presence left a stain. Where they passed, the temperature dropped slightly—imperceptible to machines, but stark to the local ecology. Plants wilted. Circuit boards shorted. Traffic lights blinked to red and never returned. Far Above… A satellite camera in low-Earth orbit momentarily glitched. Then a frame-by-frame replay revealed it—five distortions rippling outward from a pinpoint in the Arizona desert. The data fed into an encrypted stream, which pinged a long-dormant program buried deep in the archives of a hidden defense initiative. The Valkyrie Protocol was reactivated. Back in the Desert… As the portal flickered and finally collapsed, a scorched metallic figure tumbled through—half-crushed, still sparking. Droid L-84 rose slowly from the sand, joints grinding, visor cracked. It scanned the sun-drenched wasteland. No backup. Only silence. The hunt would begin anew—this time, on Earth. "Vikings War In Valhalla: Prologue"

BY WILLIAM WARNER "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA" CHAPTER 1: "RAPTURE" Droid L-84 was not designed for stealth. His frame was forged from reinforced gold-plated alloy, designed to intimidate and endure—not to sneak through tightly packed suburban neighborhoods under the scorching Arizona sun. Yet here he was, trudging through the edge of Gilbert, invisible to the naked eye but far from undetectable. The Immortals had escaped. His fault, and he intended on fixing his mistake. He hadn’t expected them to override the Wraith containment array so fast—hadn’t anticipated their hive-like coordination or how quickly they learned. Now they were on Earth, seeping into its fabric like rot through wood. They had crossed through Cybrawl’s tear in the dimensional shell and landed here, of all places—on the outer edge of a town filled with quiet houses, trimmed lawns, and too many Ring doorbells. Droid L-84 activated his cloak the moment he saw the freeway signs for Gilbert. The invisibility matrix shimmered across his frame, distorting light in a near-perfect bend. But it didn’t silence his steps. Each movement of his broad mechanical feet against gravel was a muted crunch, and worse, his servo-motors gave off a faint whirring hum with every shift of weight. He moved slowly now—deliberately. One step at a time. Even cloaked, he stuck out. Houses here were crammed together, divided only by gravel paths, stucco walls, and the occasional dying citrus tree. Families were inside, sealed behind air-conditioned walls, drawn blinds, and smart devices listening for sound. Even the birds had taken shelter from the brutal summer blaze. But they were outside. The Immortals. He had tracked them to a desert wash—a dry spillway lined with thin brush and concrete drainage. He crouched by a crumbling cinder block wall, sensors dialed to full, invisible in the shade of a withered palo verde tree. They were clustered together like smoke—faint, formless, each one pulsing with a hunger that twisted the air around them. And then, like vapor through cracks, the Immortals slithered into the nearby house. His optics zoomed in. He locked onto the address. My House. He recognized the layout from municipal archives—single story, sand-colored tile roof, desert landscaping, a faded basketball hoop on the garage. It wasn’t random. The Immortals weren’t just hiding. They were drawn to something. Or someone. He shifted to move closer— Bark. It was sharp and sudden, and far too close. Droid L-84 froze. A golden retriever stood just feet from him, nose twitching wildly, head tilted with a puzzled but excited look. Its ears perked. It had caught the scent. The Droid’s oils, even with his nanofilter running at full purge, were distinct—synthetic, acrid, out of place in a world of grass clippings and sunscreen. The dog took a cautious step forward and sniffed again. Then it let out another bark—softer this time. Not alarm. Curiosity. Droid L-84 considered his options. Plasma was out of the question—too loud. Sonic dampener? Risky. So instead, he did the only thing that made sense. He picked up a stick. With a soft whir of gears, he turned slightly and tossed it far left, down the street and into the gravel behind a neighbor’s trash bins. The dog’s ears twitched. A pause. Then, with a happy huff, it turned and bounded after the stick, tail wagging in earnest. Droid L-84 exhaled a soundless breath and returned his attention to the house. The Immortals had fully entered it now. He could no longer see them from his vantage point—but he could still sense them. Their energy signatures pulsed faintly, now tangled in the circuitry and shadows of the structure. Nightfall crept over the rooftops, long shadows stretching across driveways as porch lights flicked on, one by one. It was almost time. He had to get inside. Before the Immortals find their next host. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall like it owed me something. The blinds were half-closed, casting slashes of dim light across the floor. My phone was silent, face down. I hadn’t touched it for hours. The quiet was pressing in harder now—not just from the heat, or the shimmer I saw out the window, but from down the hall. They were arguing again. Mom’s voice was sharp and fast, switching between English and Spanish. Dad’s voice? Slower. Louder. Not because he was trying to make a point, but because he always had to be the one in control. Always had to win. Even when he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. It wasn’t new. But this time, I was the reason. They were arguing about me. I leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, heart still pumping from the weird shimmer I saw earlier—but also from the sick, cold pit in my stomach. I’d gone too far this time. I knew it. I don’t even know what made me do it, really. Maybe it was just years of holding it in—watching him walk around like some golden-haired god of authority, dismissing everything I said, twisting my words, laughing when I stood up for myself. Narcissists don’t just talk over you—they erase you. So yeah. I snapped. I knew his allergies were serious. I knew exactly which one of those sugary soda bottles he’d drink first. I had the timing, the plan, the rage. I thought: Maybe this’ll finally shake him. Maybe he’ll finally get it. Maybe he’ll feel powerless for once. But I didn’t even make it an hour before Mom found the wrapper from the allergen packet in the trash. Rookie mistake. Like I wanted to get caught. Now here I was—confined to my room like a prisoner, while my parents debated whether I needed therapy, punishment, or a boot camp in the desert. Boot camp probably would’ve been the best outcome for me. But knowing my father, he always wanted to have bigger balls than me, and wouldn’t want to be weapon X. He wants me to be treated as a slave, a prisoner with no purpose. I pressed my head back against the drywall, jaw clenched. “You don’t listen to him, that’s the problem!” I heard Mom shout. “You always talk like he’s some damn inconvenience!” “I’m the one paying the bills,” Dad fired back. “And if he’s going to act like a lunatic, then he’s going to get treated like one! He should be in jail!” “You pushed him to do this Billy! He’s been trying to talk to you for months and you just keep shutting him down!” “He tried to poison me, Maria!” Their voices went quiet after that. Like the whole house paused to see what would happen next. I blinked slowly, staring up at the ceiling fan. It wasn’t spinning. The heat pressed against my skin like a wet blanket. My throat felt dry. Not from thirst—just from pressure. Like the whole day was one long held breath. I sank back onto my bed, arms behind my head, staring up at the cracked ceiling like it might cave in and take me with it. The argument in the hallway had faded into silence—or maybe I just stopped caring. My ears buzzed with the kind of pressure that only builds when your body’s trying not to fall apart from the inside out. It wasn’t just about my crazy blond haired dad. It never was. I’ve been disrespected since day one. Arizona may be hot, lonely, and dry as a dead bone, but it still beats the festering dump that was Bloomington, Illinois. A Midwestern town where people smile to your face and cut you down behind your back. I grew up there. I got my first real taste of betrayal there too. It was in high school. Kid named Taps—loud, annoying, always shoving people like he had something to prove. One day, he shoved me for the last time. I snapped. We threw fists right there on the gym floor. I held my own. Hell, I did more than that. The substitute coach broke it up before it got bloody, but I remember clearly—Taps was the one breathing heavily, trying to hide the pain. I stood up straight. And what did Zach say? Zach—my supposed best friend—watched the whole thing and still thought Taps won. “You lost, man,” he told me. “He didn’t look scared of you.” Like that’s what mattered. Like loyalty didn’t. Taps started it, and I finished it. But no—I was the problem. I was always the problem at that school. Once my dad said we were moving to Arizona for his job, I started cutting people off. Zach had the nerve to get upset when I didn’t help him with some group project. I didn’t give a damn. He wasn’t there when I needed backup—so why should I show up for him? He can go and fuck himself. I’ve never forgotten that moment. That was when I started to realize that being alone might not be a curse—it might be the only time I could breathe. But it didn’t start in high school. No, this pattern ran deeper. Elementary school. I was the “quiet one,” the kid teachers assumed would fold under pressure. People saw me as soft, submissive. Some kid—Brandon—called me a “pussy”, threw around insults like it was his right. I snapped back with the harshest word I knew, something I should’ve never said, but I wanted to hurt him the way people kept hurting me. And you know what? He didn’t even swing. Just looked at me and walked away. Like he didn’t have to fight me to win. But it was never just about one race or one kind of person. Most of the ones who got physical with me? White kids. Like Max. Kid was a year behind me, and still had the guts to hit me just because he could. I kept letting it go until the day I didn’t. I grabbed him and slammed him against the brick wall behind the school. He never touched me again. Every fight, every shove, every damn whisper in the hallway—every time someone looked at me and saw a joke instead of a person—it chipped away at whatever I thought I had left. And not a single adult gave a damn. Not a teacher, not a counselor, not even my own father. There was one teacher—Mrs. Zuvonner. Called me “irresponsible.” Laughed at my short stories. Told other kids I was “scary” because I liked science fiction that wasn’t sugarcoated Disney garbage. Said I was obsessed with darkness. She never stopped to ask why. She never thought that maybe my stories—those warped, dystopian nightmares—were the only place I felt like I mattered. Where I wasn’t invisible. Where I could actually fight back. Where someone like me could burn down a broken world and build a better one from the ashes. Sure, there were moments people liked me. Compliments, high-fives, even girls who said I was “cool” when I cracked a joke. But none of that stuck. It all felt fake. What I really wanted wasn’t love. I wanted respect. Hell, I wanted people to fear me. Because if they fear you, at least they don't fuck with you. And right now, in this house, in this bedroom, in this heat-choked silence—I could still feel something watching. Waiting. I didn't know it yet, but I wasn't the only thing in Arizona sick of being disrespected, or ignored… And then, outside the window, I heard it again. That clunk. Metal on rock. I stood and moved to the blinds, slowly pushing one slat aside. The shimmer was gone now, but something in the air still felt… off. Heavy. Charged. Like the world was trying to whisper something through static. I didn’t know what that invisible thing was out there. I didn’t know where those shadow creatures had gone. But somehow, deep down, I felt like whatever was happening outside… and whatever was falling apart inside… It was all connected. And maybe—just maybe—I was at the center of it. I just wanted out. Not out of the house… out of this life. And maybe that’s why I followed the light. I crept past their door, careful to avoid the squeaky part of the floorboard I knew too well. My dad’s voice was harsh, slicing through the air like a dull knife. My mom’s voice cracked, but firm. Still, I kept my focus forward. One hand on the wall for balance, the other steadying my breathing. The red glow was coming from downstairs. Faint at first. Flickering, like something alive. By the time I reached the dining room, the whole world seemed to slow down. That’s when I saw it. Hovering in the center of the room, just above the floor, was a shapeless black cloud—no limbs, no face—just thick, swirling vapor threaded with veins of glowing red. It pulsed like a heartbeat. A low hum crawled into my bones, even though there was no sound. I should’ve run. But something… called to me. Not with words. It was more like a thought appearing in my head, not mine but not foreign either. “Come.” I didn’t ask questions. I just moved. The thing floated through the sliding glass door like it wasn’t even there. I hesitated for half a second, then unlocked it and stepped outside. The air was still hot even though it was late, but it felt colder in that creature’s presence. It moved toward the side gate. I followed, heart pounding louder than my footsteps. It passed through the wooden planks like fog, and I jogged to catch up, unlatched the gate, and pushed it open with a creak. Then it stopped. “Look up.” I did. Three blue circles hovered in the sky. No sound. No motion. Just pure, cold light. They weren’t stars. They weren’t planes. They looked like searchlights without beams, just perfectly circular discs, watching. Judging. And as I moved a few steps to the side, the circles moved with me. Always above. Always locked on. I looked at the creature. It hovered silently beside me. “Relax,” it said inside my head. “That is where we are going.” I looked back up—and something had changed. The lights were rotating, drawing inward, forming a ring. Through the center of it… stars I had never seen. Galaxies twisted like spirals of paint. A wormhole. A gate. A portal. I turned to the being. It pulsed softly. I nodded. Without a sound, the vaporous creature surged forward—and passed into me. It didn’t hurt. It wasn’t cold or hot. It was like breathing in a second soul. I gasped, stumbled—then froze. “No!” came a sharp, metallic voice. A shimmer in the air. A burst of static. Then he appeared. The man I hadn’t seen but had sensed: Droid L-84. His invisibility cloak dropped like a sheet of glass falling away. He stood there—golden, clunky, out of place in the Arizona dirt—holding a reinforced sack crammed with canisters. Each one faintly glowed red. He was too late. His eyes locked on mine. “The last one is inside you! Don’t let it take control!” He moved fast for something so heavy, crossing the yard in long, mechanical strides. But then— FWOOM. A beam of light came down from the portal above, so strong it painted the night white-blue. The pull was instant. My feet lifted from the ground. I felt myself being torn upward, weightless and hollow. Droid L-84 shouted something, but the wind swallowed it. Then he was pulled up too, arms flailing, still clutching the sack. Up we went—into the blue, into the stars, into something else. And then… We drifted. It wasn’t like falling or flying. It was like being unzipped from reality. Stardust brushed my skin like whispers. Shapes twisted in the void—clouds of red and black, twisting into monstrous, demonic forms. Eyes opened and blinked in the dark. I couldn’t tell if they were real or hallucinations. I floated through it all, numb. Lost. But it didn’t last. Ahead was light. Not blue. Not red. Just… new. We pierced the edge of a new atmosphere, and gravity punched me in the gut. We were falling—fast. Droid L-84 twisted in the air beside me. “Grab onto me! NOW!” I reached out, barely caught his arm—and everything went black. I didn’t feel the impact. I just know we hit the surface of a planet I’ve never seen, under a sky I didn’t recognize. It was night. And we are officially not alone in the universe anymore. The sun never let up—not even for a second. It just sat up there like a heat lamp cranked to the max, cooking everything it touched. The droid and I were out cold most of the morning, half-buried between jagged boulders that looked like someone spray-painted them in black and white checkerboard patterns. Weirdest damn rocks I’ve ever seen. Eventually, I stirred. My eyelids felt like sandpaper. My mouth was dry as hell. But the view? Unreal. This place—whatever planet it was—looked like Arizona’s prettier, freakier cousin. The terrain was desert, but it was teeming with life. Fat, stubby palm trees stuck out of the ground like alien asparagus. Some were short and packed together, others towered up like nature’s skyscrapers. Between them were weird red cacti that shimmered like they were breathing, and flowers that looked like inflated water balloons attached to vines. Pockets of orange grass moved like it was alive, and the sand… man, it wasn’t even sand. It was white—pure, clean, like bath salts straight out of a fancy spa. But none of that cushioned our fall. We didn’t land on the powdery stuff. We hit a boulder field, which was pretty in its own right. I was lucky to be alive—barely. My legs were intact, but the second I tried to stand, crack—a sharp pain fired through my chest. “Oh shit,” I muttered and slumped my ass back down onto one of the rocks. Strangely enough, it was cool to the touch. A nice contrast to the heat everywhere else. I leaned back, wincing, holding my side. A few feet away, the droid groaned to life. Sparks fizzled from his hip joint, and his visor flickered like a dying flashlight. “I wouldn’t get up too fast if I were you,” he said, his voice still metallic, but softer this time. “You could have internal bleeding. Or brain damage.” I let out a half-laugh, half-grimace. “If I told people back home what I saw, they’d totally say I have brain damage.” L-84’s visor blinked again. “Don’t worry. I’m sure someone is here to help us. We’ll find a way to get you home.” I clenched my jaw and looked down. “No.” He paused. “What do you mean, no?” I turned toward him and shrugged, though the movement made me wince again. “I have no home to return to.” There was silence. Not even the wind dared to interrupt. L-84 slowly adjusted himself upright. His left leg was busted, dangling like a half-disconnected pipe, so he detached it, reversed the joint, and used it as a makeshift crutch. “What are you doing?” I asked, eyebrows raised. He glanced back. “Getting help.” I watched as he hobbled away, uneven but determined. For a machine, he had more willpower than most humans I knew. “Wait!” I shouted after him. “What’s your name?” He stopped, turned just slightly. “My name is L-84. Droid L-84. And you?” “William Warner,” I replied. We didn’t say goodbye or shake hands. He just nodded once and limped off over the nearest hill, vanishing behind a thicket of the stubby palm trees. I stayed behind, breathing carefully, looking up at the swirling sky. My regular life? That was over. And to be honest… good riddance. Meanwhile... Not far from where I sat, over the ridge of a sandy slope painted with patches of orange grass, something was moving. A chariot—sleek and metallic but clearly handmade—glided across the uneven terrain, its wheels kicking up white dust. Pulling it was something out of prehistory: a triceratops, massive and muscular, with horns that shimmered faintly under the alien sun. Its scales weren’t dull brown, though—they had a greenish shimmer, like beetle shells. At the reins was a woman. Skin like porcelain kissed by the sun. Eyes the color of dark emeralds, scanning the horizon through binoculars. Black hair tied back into a high braid that ran down her back like a warrior’s banner. Ears long and pointed—definitely not human. She wore dark pink leather armor that hugged her athletic frame, with etched silver accents that caught the light just right. Her name was Emily. She spotted movement below. Through the scope of her binoculars, she zeroed in on a limping figure—mechanical, sparking, and clearly in distress. The droid was almost out of energy. He fell, his body sparking slightly as he hit the ground. The triceratops slowed, then snorted and stepped forward. It lowered its head and gently licked the droid’s metallic faceplate like a curious dog. Emily leapt off the chariot in one smooth motion, boots crunching the white dust as she ran over. She crouched beside L-84, scanning him for damage. The droid’s eyes flickered open for just a second. “Boy… hurt…” he rasped. “Needs help... William Warner.” Then his systems dimmed completely, and he slumped into silence. Emily’s expression hardened, serious but calm. She turned toward the horizon, toward the distant rocks—toward me. Without a word, she stood, whistled once, and the triceratops turned its bulk in that direction. Help was coming. The sun wasn’t giving me a break. My head throbbed, my ribs felt like broken piano keys, and my vision blurred with each blink. The heat pressed down like a weighted blanket straight from hell. And then I saw her. A figure cutting through the haze, high atop a chariot drawn by a triceratops. I had to be hallucinating. No way someone that beautiful was real—not out here. The chariot came to a stop, its wheels grinding softly over the dusty earth. She stepped down—tall, graceful, deliberate in her movement. Her long black braid bounced slightly with each step, her emerald eyes scanning me carefully. Emily. She crouched beside me. Her skin had a glow to it, like moonlight on water, and her fingers were cool and steady as she touched my forehead. “You’re overheated,” she said softly. “Don’t talk. Try to breathe slowly.” I couldn’t say anything if I tried. My throat was dusty, my mouth was barely moving. But I still got to my feet, teeth gritted against the pain, pride kicking in just enough to keep me upright. Emily slipped her arm around my back, holding me up as we walked toward the chariot. She moved with strength and ease, like she’d done this a thousand times. “Relax,” she said. “The ride’s long, but you’ll make it. Just get comfortable.” I sat down, or rather collapsed into the chariot’s seat. It was lined with cushions stitched from some strange blue leather that shimmered faintly in the light. The moment I leaned back, a breeze passed over us, cool and fragrant like mint and citrus mixed together. And even through the pain, even through the heatstroke and cracked ribs, I noticed her again. Her sharp jawline. Her eyes—like the forest after rain. Her armor, sleek but practical, silver trims catching bits of sunlight. I couldn’t believe where I was. Couldn’t believe who I was with. Then the world tilted. And I passed out. When I opened my eyes again, it was like waking up inside a dream. The chariot had made it to a town—or maybe a village—but it looked nothing like anything I’d ever seen before. The buildings curved and shimmered like they were grown rather than built, shaped out of living stone, smooth wood, and metal that looked like chrome moss. Solar panels lined rooftops but were disguised as golden leaves. Vines and flowers wrapped around walls and bridges in a way that seemed intentional, like they were part of the architecture. It was solarpunk, no doubt about it. Clean, green, futuristic—but earthy, alive. This place thrived with balance. And people were everywhere. Elven folk, tall and elegant like Emily. Most of them seemed to glow under the alien sun. Some wore robes, others had work gear, utility belts, tools strapped to their sides. There were also people with vibrant red skin, all appeared to have black hair, and wore black garments. There were a few humans too—tanned, sun-kissed, and surprisingly casual given the setting. No one looked panicked or militarized. Just… living. We got a few stares. Some curious glances. A few hellos in languages I didn’t understand, and a couple in plain English. I tried to wave back, but all I managed was a nod. Then another Elven woman approached us. She also had braided black hair, scarlet lips, and a long blue tunic. Her blue eyes scanned me from head to toe. “Good not a blond in sight,” I thought to myself. Since I don’t want to be reminded of my father. That prick… Anyway this other Elven woman appeared to be checking me out. Looking for signs of injury. “What’s going on?” she asked, voice calm but direct. Emily adjusted her hold on me and said, “He’s injured. Internal trauma. Needs medical attention. The droid too—he’s low on power and took damage in the fall.” The Elf looked to the droid being dragged by the triceratops, barely functioning, sparks still gently flickering. She turned and called out to a group of Elven men nearby. “Take the droid to the Mechanists’ Lodge. Use caution—don’t jolt the processor.” Four of them stepped in without hesitation, lifting L-84’s frame carefully onto a floating platform, which hovered about two feet off the ground and hummed faintly like a giant tuning fork. Emily and the other Elf then turned their attention to me. “Let’s not keep the doctor waiting,” the Elf said. I was too weak to protest. Before I knew it, they had me laid out gently on a soft gurney made of interwoven crystal strands and vines. It felt… oddly warm and supportive. Almost like memory foam, but better. They wheeled me up toward a large dome-shaped building near the center of town. Its exterior shimmered like a pearl in the sun, surrounded by wind turbines that barely made a sound. Somewhere inside, I knew—hope or not—I was about to get answers. Or at least some pain meds. The first thing I felt was warmth—soft sunlight bleeding through the window beside me. My head throbbed like I’d been hit by a truck, and my limbs were sore, but I wasn’t dead. I cracked my eyes open, the sterile white ceiling of the hospital room coming into focus. My body was wrapped in crisp sheets, and the faint beeping of monitors pulsed steadily beside me. To my right, I saw two figures sitting quietly in chairs. “He’s awake,” said a familiar voice. It was Emily—dark-haired, green-eyed, and looking like an angel pulled out of the flames of battle. Seated beside her was the other Elven woman I remembered from before—similarly dark-haired, with striking blue eyes that glowed like glacier light. Both women looked relieved. The blue-eyed one leaned forward. “How are you feeling?” I coughed, my throat dry and ragged. “I feel like garbage,” I croaked. “But I guess I’m lucky to be alive.” I paused, glancing between the two. “I didn’t catch your names.” Emily smiled. “I’m Emily Eagle, and this is Serenity. We found you out in the Dunes. You were dying—your Droid told us everything. Including your name.” I looked toward the foot of the bed, but L-84 was nowhere in sight. “I’m William,” I said. “From Earth.” Serenity perked up. “Do you miss it?” I shook my head immediately. “No.” She blinked, curious. “Do you ever want to go back?” My jaw tensed. “Only to get revenge.” Silence filled the room for a moment. The kind that hums with unspoken pain. Then Serenity giggled. “I heard Earth was really far... and that the people are ignorant and smelly. Is that true?” Her bluntness caught me off guard, and I laughed—genuinely, for the first time in what felt like years. “No, Emily, she’s got a point. Earth’s full of ignorant, rude, and yeah... smelly people.” Emily rolled her eyes, but I caught the flicker of a smile tugging at her lips. For a few moments, it was just the three of us—laughing, sharing small pieces of our pasts. It felt...normal. Almost peaceful. But the peace didn’t last. The door hissed open, and in walked a tall, lanky man with copper-toned skin, blue irises, and glowing data lines that ran beneath his skin like living circuits. “I’m Doctor Subi,” he said, stepping toward the bed. “And William... your condition is worse than we thought.” He pulled up a glowing screen and pointed to scans—images of shredded organs, failing systems, dark pools of internal bleeding. I didn’t understand half of it, but I got the gist. “You won’t survive like this,” he said gravely. “Even with magic and tech combined, your body is beyond repair. There’s only one option.” I swallowed. “What is it?” “We transfer your consciousness into a new vessel. One that’s compatible and ready.” I narrowed my eyes. “So... like a brain transplant?” “Not quite,” he said. “It’s neural mapping, memory integration, and soul binding. It’s been done before. You won’t lose yourself—but your old body will die.” I hesitated. That was a lot to absorb. Emily stepped closer, her hand resting lightly on my arm. “It’s safe, William. A hundred percent survival rate. We wouldn’t be asking if there was another way.” Serenity added softly, “Please... we don’t want to lose you. You were chosen.” Chosen? That word echoed in my mind. I didn’t admit it aloud, but I wanted to live. Not just to breathe again—but to fight. To pay back the world that had spit me out and laughed while I bled. But ultimately, the two Elven beauties with their adorable eyes made me make up my mind. Still, I had to see it for myself. “Can I... at least see the body first?” I asked. Doctor Subi nodded. “Of course. Let’s take a look.” Emily wheeled me through a long corridor. The walls were smooth stone and glass, interwoven with glowing moss and sunlight streaming through solar-paneled arches. Outside the windows, I saw the solar punk village again—advanced yet grounded, lush gardens and elegant buildings powered by nature and design. Eventually, we entered a sleek medical chamber. Chrome and stone, tech and alchemy. At the center was a tall canister filled with translucent fluid. Inside it floated the body. My new body. It was tall—maybe six feet—muscular and covered in short, groomed grayish-blue fur. Humanoid in shape, but bestial in essence. Its head... It was lupine. A perfect fusion of man and beast. A wicked scar cut across the right side of its face. “I’m looking at a furry,” I mumbled. Serenity snorted. “No, silly Willy. That’s a Wulver.” That name struck a chord. “Celtic folklore, right? But... what’s it doing here?” Before Serenity could answer, Emily interjected, her voice serious. “That’s not important right now. What matters is whether you’ll accept it.” I studied the Wulver’s body. There was power in it—feral, ancient, and maybe even sacred. I recognized something in it. A part of me that had always been there, buried deep under pain, humiliation, and anger. I turned to Doctor Subi. He nodded. “This body, as well as almost all bodies in the galaxy, are Genetically engineered but are capable of reproduction, growth, and more importantly—this one is yours.” I exhaled. “Alright. Let’s do it.” I was placed gently into a reclining pod. Doctor Subi attached neurological nodes to my temples and chest, his hands steady. The glass canopy closed over me with a soft hiss, dimming the lights. Through the glass, I saw them one last time—Emily, Serenity, and the Doctor. I winked. Then the world turned black. At first, I thought I was dead. Then came the screams. I found myself in a dreamscape twisted beyond sanity—a living hell. Red skies bled into oceans of smoke. Charred mountains split open, leaking molten ash. And in the distance, I saw them. The Shark Monsters. Massive, biological beasts shaped like nightmares. Their eyes—pure black—seemed to see everything. Some walked like dinosaurs with bone-plate armor, claws, and mouths full of teeth like saw blades. Others had two sets of arms—one monstrous, the other eerily human. Their bodies fused flesh, cartilage, and alien bioluminescence. One flew overhead—a Megalodon the size of a dropship, its fins like wings of steel. Another crawled across the scorched ground, shaped like a thresher shark with digging claws and eyes that never blinked. There was a hammerhead with humanoid legs, a gaping jaw, and fingers that twitched like they wanted to peel skin. And then the worst one: A saw-tooth horror with rotating teeth like a pizza cutter and a wheezing growl that vibrated the air itself. They weren’t just monsters. They were designed—perfect tools of destruction. Demonic. Alien. Evil. They saw me. I panicked, heart thundering, but then— A voice. A black-and-red mist formed beside me, swirling until it shaped itself into a shadowy Immortal. “William,” it said. “This is only a dream. Follow me to our new home.” It offered me a hand, and I took it. White light consumed everything. I awoke to a cold rush of fluid draining from the pod. My eyes shot open. Different eyes. I breathed in—and the air was thick with life. My senses were sharper than ever. I could feel the heartbeat of the room. The pod door opened, steam rising around me. I stepped out. My balance took a second to adjust to new humanoid legs I wasn’t used to. But it all came naturally. I looked down and saw my reflection on the polished steel floor. A scarred wolf stared back. I was no longer a boy. I was something else. Stronger. Wilder man. A Wulver. Emily approached, her green eyes wide with awe. “Welcome back, William.” I grinned. My new teeth were sharp. I stood in front of the mirror in the locker room, flexing my newly clawed fingers, getting used to the weight of my new body. A locker beside me hissed open, revealing a fresh set of clothes—black leather, sleek, and clearly custom-made. The jumpsuit fit like a second skin, hugging my muscular frame. The arm cut-outs gave me room to move freely, while the thick, high-collared black cloak with red lining draped over my shoulders like it had been waiting for me. The boots—black leather with reinforced soles—strapped tightly with a satisfying snap. The cloak flared as I turned, catching in the air like wings. I looked… intimidating. Powerful. Whole. The door slid open behind me with a whisper, and in walked Emily and Serenity. Emily still wore her purplish-pink leather jumpsuit with glossy black thigh boots laced tight. Serenity had on a pearl-white leather jumpsuit with black high boots that shimmered with rune-stamped seams. They both looked stunning—but Emily stole my breath the moment she stepped in. She always did. I smirked, arms crossed. “Everyone wears full-on black around here except you two, huh?” Emily tilted her head and smiled, one hand resting on her hip. “Yeah… I just wanted some contrast.” I raised an eyebrow. “Well, it works.” Serenity chuckled, “You clean up well, dog boy.” I rolled my eyes, then shrugged the cloak off my shoulders for a second and let it fall back into place. “So… what now?” “We want to show you the town,” Emily said, taking a step closer. “You’ve only seen the inside of a hospital so far. Time to see where you really woke up.” I nodded. “Lead the way.” We stepped out of the hospital and into a different world. The sun bathed everything in golden light filtered through the trees. Massive solar panels spun silently overhead, angled like flower petals to drink in the sky. Vines and greenery crawled up the sides of buildings—living architecture. Fusion reactors hummed quietly in the distance, veiled in crystal shielding and vines. But the strangest part wasn’t the tech—it was the shape of everything. Triangular homes with sharp Nordic roofs lined the pathways. Each one had a tidy lawn with orange grass. No two homes were quite the same, but they all had this Scandinavian-meets-sci-fi aesthetic—clean lines, wooden textures, and light stone walls. And the wildlife? That’s what made my brain short-circuit. Prehistoric-looking birds swooped overhead, their wings leathery like pterosaurs. People walked alongside four-legged reptiles the size of wolves. In the distance, someone rode a sleek, black-feathered theropod like a motorcycle. “This place is insane,” I muttered under my breath. Emily smiled. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” I turned to her. “Where in the world are we?” She gave no answer—just led us forward, down a long stone walkway that sloped gently like a ramp. The jungle canopy loomed in the distance, rich and ancient, and the canyon beneath us opened wide into a lush cradle of civilization. We descended into the heart of the town. At the center stood a building like no other—City Hall. Its walls were built from pale, rune-carved stone and accented with rich woods and black glass. It looked both old and futuristic, like it belonged in some alternate medieval timeline that had been given alien technology. Inside, it was even more breathtaking. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, made of crystal branches and glowing moss. Huge arched windows let in sunlight and framed the jungle beyond. Hallways curved like tree roots, and a spiral staircase led us upward. But the centerpiece—the thing that caught my eyes—was the massive skeleton suspended above the main floor. A winged beast. Its ribs alone were the size of a shuttle. “Is that a dragon skeleton?” I asked. Emily, standing beside me, gently grabbed my hand. “Will… don’t touch. Come.” Her fingers were warm against my furred hand. Despite everything, her touch still grounded me. We climbed the stairs to a room veiled in soft light and silence. A round chamber, high ceiling, with a smooth black table in the center and chairs arranged in a circle. Around it were people—Elves in dark robes, a few pale-skinned humans, and tall, crimson-skinned humanoids with glowing eyes and tribal markings. We took our seats without a word. At the head of the room stood a tall, regal Elven man with silver-blonde hair pulled back in a braid, and robes of layered dark silk. “I am Joseph Quincy,” he said. “Thank you for joining us.” He tapped a crystal embedded in the table. A holographic screen flickered to life in the air above it. “Two days ago, we received this footage from a scout drone on the tropical world of Talvas IX,” he continued. “The planet is under siege.” The footage began to play. A first-person view from a shaky camera—a man, a tourist walking across a beach, waves crashing beside him. He panned the camera around with glee. Then something moved in the water. A fin. The man stepped back, but not fast enough. Something exploded from the surf, knocking him flat—a shark. But this shark didn’t just bite. It stood. Its body twisted, deformed, and grew limbs. It roared—not like an animal, but like a thing born of war. More emerged from the ocean behind it—shapes that stood like soldiers, monstrous, biomechanical, soaked in blood and black oil. A fleet of dark spires descended from the sky—hive ships in the shape of Frilled-Sharks. “These aren’t sharks,” Quincy said. “We believe they’re something else. Something... engineered.” I stared. I couldn’t breathe. Because I had seen these things before. In my nightmare. The thresher. The Megalodon. The saw-tooth one. Every single creature from that hellish vision was now on screen. But I said nothing. I didn’t blink. I just kept watching, my hands gripping the arms of the chair until the leather creaked under my claws. Emily glanced at me. “Will? You okay?” I nodded slowly. But inside, I wasn’t. Because now I knew something the rest of the room didn’t. Those monsters… weren’t just invading. They were calling me. We left the dark meeting room in silence, the door sliding shut behind us with a low hiss. The hallway outside was quieter now, lined with soft ambient lights and whispering leaves from the vine-covered walls. The air was warm, but my chest had gone cold. Emily walked just ahead of us, and I sped up, grabbing her gently by the arm. “Emily,” I said, voice low and heavy, “please don’t go to Talvas IX.” She turned her head slightly, her expression unreadable. “I mean it,” I said. “During the surgery… when they were transferring my consciousness—I had a dream, or a vision. Those things, those shark-like monsters? I saw them. I felt them. And I think… I think they’re hunting me.” Her eyes narrowed with concern, but her lips pressed into a faint, sad smile. “I think you should stay here with Serenity,” she replied softly. I stepped in front of her. “No. That’s not happening. I’m not letting you go out there alone.” But Emily simply turned, her boots clicking against the stone floor. She walked away without another word, leaving me with nothing but the sound of her fading footsteps and the ghost of her warmth on my hand. “This is ridiculous!” I growled, turning to Serenity. She sighed and crossed her arms. “Yeah… she has the mind of a child sometimes. Don’t take it personally.” She placed a hand on my shoulder and added, “And I believe you.” I exhaled hard, tension trembling through my claws. “So now what?” Serenity smirked. “Now? We cheat.” I raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?” “We sneak onto the mission. And we’re bringing backup.” The armory was a cathedral of weapons and tech—racks of fusion blades, plasma bows, and energy staffs lined the walls. But at the far end, in a vaulted room beneath glowing rune-stones, were two hovering devices—black discs etched with Norse-looking runes and red energy veins pulsing beneath their surface. “This is Wulver armor?” I asked. Serenity nodded. “Not what you expected?” “Not even close.” But as I stepped toward one of the discs, something strange stirred inside me. I knew what it was. Somehow, instinctively. I reached out, placed the disc against my bare chest, and felt it magnetize—clicking and locking into place. My cloak fell to the floor as I activated the device with a thought. In an instant, it came to life. FWOOSH. Black and silver nanomachines erupted like liquid metal, swirling around me, crawling over my limbs, my shoulders, my skull. In seconds, I stood encased in full armor—metal plates that looked forged and ancient, but humming with futuristic light. The chestplate curved like a wolf’s ribcage, spined shoulders flared outward, and the helmet fused around my head with no visor—just jagged metal crown-spines and glowing red slits that burned like eyes. “How fitting,” I muttered. Serenity equipped hers next—her armor formed with elegance, lighter than mine, silver with blue highlights, flowing more like ceremonial armor. Her helmet kept her face protected and added a shining circlet. We were about to sneak out when we heard footsteps approaching. Joseph Quincy appeared, tall and regal, with a subtle smirk. And beside him—fully repaired and polished—stood Droid L-84. His eyes lit up as he recognized me. “William?” The Droid said. Serenity raised a brow. “You’re not gonna stop us?” “On the contrary,” Joseph said. “You’re coming with me. My ship leaves now.” He turned without waiting, and we followed. Outside, the jungle sky was turning violet, the sun dipping behind the trees. Dozens of massive spacecraft hovered in the clearing—sleek black vessels shaped like Viking longships, with metallic hulls and glowing engine sails. Armies marched in formation, soldiers clad in armor as varied in color as a stained-glass mosaic. Green, red, blue, silver—they all bore the same Norse-futuristic look, wielding weapons of ancient design powered by modern fury. And for some reason… I felt at home in their ranks. We boarded Joseph’s longship—The Hræfnir—a vessel with dragon-carved sides and smooth halls. As it lifted into orbit, the view outside became a sea of stars and planetary rings. On the bridge, Joseph stood before a circular interface and began the real briefing. “Our mission,” he said, “is not only to engage the enemy. We’ve identified key hive ships controlling the swarm. Each hive ship broadcasts a psychic frequency—a link to their collective mind. Sever the link, and we cripple them.” “By what means?” Serenity asked. Joseph pulled up a display showing a crystalline virus—digital, almost magical. “A weapon of SOUND. It will disrupt their neural pathways, splinter their coordination.” “And the delivery system?” I asked. Joseph looked directly at me. “You, William.” I blinked. “What?” “You’ll be the one delivering it. No one else has the biology to slip past their psionic barrier. You’re… unique.” I didn’t answer. I just sat down at my station near the side of the bridge, staring out into the void, into the endless tapestry of stars. I didn’t know what I was. But I knew one thing: my instincts were returning. And as I drifted off to sleep in that cold metal chair, another dream took me. But it wasn’t a nightmare. It was… a memory. A woman. Not Emily. She stood in a black dress, embroidered with patterns of wolves and moons, staring at me with dark brown eyes that pierced straight into my soul. Her hair was long and dark, her skin light, her figure strong and graceful. “Madeline Scoggin,” I whispered in my sleep. Her name came to me like an old tune I hadn’t heard in years—but I knew it. She smiled faintly, standing beneath a tree covered in golden leaves. Then the world shook, and she reached out for me just as everything fell into shadow— And I woke up. I jolted awake with a sharp breath, staring again into the vast black of space beyond the viewport. But I shook it off. No time for dreams. No time for false memories. I didn’t know who she was. I didn’t care. Emily was down there. And I wasn’t about to let her die on some alien rock crawling with nightmare creatures. Joseph turned to us. “We’re deploying. Drop ship’s ready.” We moved fast, no ceremony. Droid L-84 clanked behind us in full combat mode, his new frame glinting in the red lights of the hangar. Serenity jogged beside me, her silver-blue armor flexing like living metal. and followed Joseph through the tunnel toward the launch bay. The Black Bird drop ship loomed ahead—a sleek obsidian dart with glowing crimson thrusters and wings that split like a bat’s blade. It looked like a predator in mid-scream. We climbed aboard. The moment we were sealed in, the engines roared, and the interior rattled like a war drum. I strapped in beside Serenity, across from Joseph and the droid. The walls were tight, no windows—just flashing red lights and the deep hum of power surging through the floor. “This is it,” I muttered. “Breathe,” Serenity said with a calm smirk. “Just another Tuesday.” I didn’t respond. We breached the atmosphere of Talvas IX like a bullet tearing through cloth. And all hell broke loose. The ship jerked, alarms blaring. We were hit—not once, but again and again, loud thuds rocking the hull. “They’re already here!” I shouted. Joseph gritted his teeth at the controls. “Hold on!” Through the view-screen above the cockpit, I saw them. They weren’t ships. They were monsters. Flying sharks, their bodies twisted like gargoyles—stone-like skin, massive jaws, twisted tails for steering. But what made my blood freeze were the white ones—glowing like spirits, suspended in the air as if gravity meant nothing. Their fins sliced through the wind, trailing streaks of pale light, and their forehead appendages sparked with white-blue plasma. And then came the pain. BZZZZK—WHAM! A bolt of electrical plasma hit the side of our drop ship, forcing Joseph to spin the vessel in a wild corkscrew. The whole crew slammed against their restraints as sparks flew from the overhead panels. “They’re charging their horns!” L-84 shouted in his deep synth voice. “Incoming!” Joseph swerved hard. “Not today!” The mounted plasma turrets on the drop ship came to life—controlled by Joseph’s neural interface. Twin barrels tore into the sky with glowing rounds, blasting two of the flying sharks mid-charge. They spiraled out in arcs of fire, crashing into the misty jungle below. Joseph didn’t respond. He was too focused—eyes glowing faintly with dataflow, arms tense at the controls. More drop-ships streaked through the atmosphere around us, some trailing smoke, others already in flames. But somehow, Joseph kept us airborne. And then, suddenly— THUD. We touched down. The hatch hissed open, and the world outside came flooding in—steam, heat, and the smell of burnt ozone. Talvas IX was a jungle moon scorched by war. The trees were massive, twisted with blackened bark and glowing veins of green energy. Fungal towers loomed in the distance, and strange birds screamed in the canopy. The sky was a blood-red bruise, filled with smoke trails and flares from the other drop ships landing nearby. Dozens of Black Birds had made it, unloading squads of Viking-armored soldiers onto muddy soil. I saw banners unfurl, weapons ignite, formations fall into place. But even surrounded by allies, I felt something was wrong. I stepped off the ramp, boots sinking into wet soil, and I just… knew. Something… some mind… was behind all of this. I looked to the sky again, watching the creatures still circling above. Sure, they had flesh and blood. They tore through metal, devoured bone, hunted in packs. But they didn’t behave like animals. No chaos. No hesitation. No fear. They moved with purpose. “They're killers,” I said. Serenity looked at me, her blue eyes sharp behind her helm. “They act like they’ve been trained.” “No. Not trained,” I said slowly, my fists tightening. “Controlled.” Joseph stepped up beside us, surveying the terrain with an old soldier’s instinct. “Hive minds usually behave like they’re being controlled. These things aren’t just animals… they’re soldiers. That’s what worries me.” Droid L-84 scanned the air. “Multiple signals converging north. Emily’s unit dropped in that direction.” Before Droid L-84 could speak another word, Joseph cut in. “That’s exactly where we’re heading,” he said, eyes sharp beneath his helmet. “Not just to meet up with Emily… but to launch the weapon—at the orbital gun.” He paused, letting it sink in. “That outpost may already be crawling with Shark People. Once they realize we’ve got the virus, we’ll have every one of those bastards on our backs.” I clenched my fists, gears turning. Then it hit me—something from Earth, buried in memory. “Wait,” I said. “Back in biology class… sharks. Sharks are drawn to blood. And sound.” Joseph raised a brow. “Go on.” “We can reach Emily and get her out. But we’ll need a second party to set a distraction—draw the swarm away. A blood trail, sonic bait, anything. While I get inside the orbital gun and launch the virus.” Joseph didn’t hesitate. He slowly unsheathed his blade—steel singing against the scabbard. “Bold,” he said, smirking. “I like it.” I looked down at my empty belt. “So where’s my weapon?” Droid L-84 stepped forward, holding out a heavy plasma axe—its head pulsing with blue heat. On the other hand, he offered a plasma handgun in a sleek black holster. I strapped them on without a word. They felt like they belonged there. Then Joseph nodded. “Let’s move. The cannon outpost is waiting.” And with that, we began our march through the jungle—toward fire, steel, and fate. The canyon winds howled low as we crept through the towering jungle trees. Our boots pressed into moss-covered stone, and distant calls of prehistoric birds echoed overhead. The Cannon Outpost was just ahead—half-buried into the mountainside like a fortress fossilized into nature itself. Joseph raised a fist to halt our approach. A figure stood at the entrance, her armor catching the golden twilight like a polished blade. It was Emily. She stood tall, clad in ornate silver armor etched with curling motifs—her helmet’s smooth metal faceplate glinted coldly, and a plume of black horsehair trailed behind her head like a war banner. Her shoulder plates were violet, regal and intimidating, and her waist bore a battle skirt woven with deep red lights pulsing like veins of lava. She didn’t lift her visor. Instead, her voice crackled through her comms. “What are you doing here?” Emily wasn’t just surprised—she was furious. Her glare fell on Serenity like a blade. “You brought him? He’s not even supposed to—!” “I came on my own,” I interrupted. “There’s no time for this. The virus—the cannon—we’re doing this now.” Emily went quiet, her jaw clenched behind the metal mask. Then Joseph raised his voice. “We breach the door. Set charges.” His command broke the tension like thunder. Several soldiers ran forward, attaching compact plasma explosives to the heavy blast doors. The countdown started. I tightened my grip on the plasma axe, its hum faint but menacing. Boom. The doors blew inward with a blast of white-hot light. What waited inside made us all freeze. The air was thick with the stench of death—burnt ozone, blood, decay. Bodies lay scattered like discarded puppets—tourists, civilians, security forces—all torn apart. Some were half-eaten, others mutilated beyond recognition. The floor was slick with blood, pooled beneath flickering ceiling lights. Then we heard it—a choked scream from deeper in the hall. I rushed ahead, pushing past the others. There, in the flickering dark, I found her. A Crimseed woman, her crimson skin now pale and blotched with bruises, lay cornered beneath a grotesque Shark creature—its humanoid body hunched, pulsating, grotesquely animated with wet breathing gills and jagged teeth. It didn’t care that we were there. It was raping her. My heart dropped into a pit of horror and rage so deep I could hardly think. I lunged, slamming my shoulder into the beast’s side. It snarled, twisting toward me—but I had already pulled my axe. I slashed low and severed its genitals in a single stroke. The thing screamed in unnatural pitch, flailing as I drove the axe deep into its skull. Bone cracked, plasma hissed—and it dropped in a twitching heap. The woman sobbed in shock, her body trembling. Joseph called for medics. Two soldiers came forward, lifting her carefully and leading her out. I stood there, staring down at the oozing corpse of the Shark. “They’re not animals,” I muttered. “They’re monsters.” No one disagreed. Then—a shriek echoed down the corridors. Dozens of red lights flickered in the shadows, like eyes. “They're coming,” Emily said. And they did. The first swarm burst out from the far end of the corridor—at least two dozen of them, leaping on clawed limbs, wielding jagged weapons made of bone and metal. The Shark People screamed as they charged, and we opened fire. My axe cleaved through the first that got close—its flesh sizzled against the plasma edge, black blood spraying across my chestplate. Joseph fought like a legend, his sword spinning and flashing like lightning. Serenity stayed close, guns blazing in bursts of blue plasma. Emily... she moved like a ghost of war—silent, lethal, the red lights in her armor gleaming with each elegant, deadly strike. She never raised her visor once. Not even for me. Droid L-84 was relentless—his arm cannon unleashed charged blasts, vaporizing anything in his path. One Shark leapt onto his back—he reached behind him, crushed its skull with one hand, and hurled the body down the hall like garbage. The fight lasted minutes—but it felt like a war. Eventually, the corridor fell silent again. Piles of enemy corpses smoked and twitched on the floor. We stood there, catching our breath. But we all knew what that was. The first wave. More were coming. The first swarm was dust and smoke. The bodies of the Shark People lay still across the blood-slick floors, their alien fluids bubbling in grotesque puddles. Steam hissed from scorched ceiling panels, and the air buzzed with static from fried lights and broken monitors. We knew it wasn’t over. The moment the fighting calmed, Joseph turned to the others. “Open the sunroof.” The ceiling above groaned and clicked—a massive mechanical system stirred to life, gears grinding with unnatural precision. Ancient alien hydraulics hissed as armored plating peeled back layer by layer like the petals of a dying flower, revealing the sky. Sunlight pierced the chamber, casting harsh beams across the orbital cannon nestled in the heart of the outpost. It was massive—twenty meters long, blackened and chrome, its barrel aimed directly toward the heavens like a titan’s finger. Coils of plasma energy circled its spine, pulsing with latent power. “There’s no time,” I said. “Somebody has to load the virus into that thing manually.” Joseph turned to me, already sensing what I meant. “I’ll do it. But you need to get everyone else out—including Emily.” His brow furrowed. “You sure about this?” “I am. Just keep in touch over comms. If I go down, someone’s got to know what happened.” Unsurprisingly, Emily had been listening. “No. Absolutely not,” she barked, stepping forward. “I told you to stay away from this mission. I should’ve left you behind—” “Emily,” I said, locking eyes with her helmet. “I’m not doing this to prove anything. I’m doing it because I’m the only one who can. This isn’t about us.” She clenched her fists, lips pressed in a thin, bitter line. It took Serenity to pull her back—literally. “Come on,” she muttered as she gripped Emily’s arm. “We don’t have time for this, Em.” Joseph gave me one last nod, then tapped his comms. “We’ll draw off as many as we can. Hold the base. We’ll be back.” And just like that—they were gone. Now, it was just me and Droid L-84. The droid’s mechanical body clicked and hissed as he adjusted the controls beside the cannon. His voice crackled through his speaker grill. “Manual preparation requires sixty-seven steps. Begin with a rotating plasma chamber interface.” The alien tech was clunky, yet breathtaking. The cannon itself wasn’t just a weapon—it was an artwork of war, lined with runes and glowing etchings that shimmered with violet light. Together, we worked like clockwork—unlocking panels, charging conduits, inserting bio-tubes. Eventually, I climbed the back of the barrel and inserted the virus capsule—a glowing orange core, gently pulsing with nanite energy. It clicked into place with a hiss. “All systems are green,” said Droid L-84. “Charging cycle initiated. Estimated time: thirty standard units.” I sighed, adjusting my plasma handgun’s holster. “Thirty minutes. Alright.” We used that time to fortify. Droid L-84 brought out plasma turrets, laser mines, ammo crates, reinforced gates—every tool we could salvage. The base was now a war nest, a last stand bunker. We’d turned it into a killing ground. Then came the call. Joseph’s voice cracked over comms. “We’ve lured most of them into the ravine. Lit the charges. But a large chunk of the hive’s broken off. They’re coming your way.” “How bad?” “Big enough to blacken the jungle.” And it was. From the sun roof, I could see them—hundreds of Shark People, rising like a tide over the emerald jungle. Their monstrous bodies rippled with muscles, spines, gills. Some ran on all fours, others on two legs like warriors from Hell. Their war cries shrieked across the valley. I turned to the droid. “Light ’em up.” Droid L-84 mounted a rooftop cannon and began raining plasma on the horde. I grabbed a heavy repeater and took position on the wall, blasting anything that got too close. The beasts fell by the dozens, smoke trails hissing into the sky. But it wasn’t enough. One of them—a Thresher Shark variant—spun like a drill and burrowed underground, punching through the concrete and opening a tunnel directly into the base. Seconds later, the Shark People came pouring out—talons, claws, shrieking mouths—like roaches erupting from a corpse. I kicked the platform’s ladder down, hoping it would slow them. It barely did. They began piling up, climbing over each other to reach me. I grabbed my axe and held the line. Steel sang as I swung the blade in furious arcs—splitting skulls, cleaving jaws, cutting limbs in waves. I fought like a demon, blood splashing on my armor, the handle slick with gore. But they just kept coming. A moment of clarity hit me—I saw a crate of explosives nearby. I grabbed two charges, armed them, and tossed them down into the breach. Boom. The basement exploded in a flash of red fire and dust. Half the swarm was blown to shreds. I tossed the remaining charges to Droid L-84. “Finish them off!” He obliged—precision missiles fired into the chaos, turning the battlefield into a hell storm. Meanwhile, I jumped from the platform and ran to the cannon’s timing panel. Five seconds. I turned. The cannon glowed. Then—fired. A blinding beam of energy lanced into the atmosphere, taking the virus with it. It screamed upward like the finger of God, leaving a ripple across the sky. I had done it. But it wasn’t over. I heard the walls crack. A new swarm broke through—not just grunts this time. These were elite warriors. Bigger. Stronger. Faster. At the front, the Saw-Tooth class—with spinning circular saw-jaws that hummed like bone buzzsaws. I grabbed my axe—but it snapped in half after killing the third one. I staggered back, unarmed. Then came the last one. A bio-form, towering and chitinous, like a Stethacanthus shark fused with a crab. Its back bristled with bony armor. Massive pincers and serrated limbs clicked and scraped the floor as it loomed over me. It charged. I dodged, firing my plasma pistol. It barely scratched its hide. I aimed for its eyes—only made it mad. It lunged, impaling me through the side with its talon. I gasped. Blood filled my throat. I was inches from its massive, serrated jaws. I was going to die. But then— Something changed. I couldn’t feel the pain anymore. Instead, I felt a pulse—a surge from my chest, rising up my arm. And that’s when it appeared. The chainsword. Black and silver, humming with ethereal energy. The air around it shimmered with ghostlight. It had manifested from the Immortal still inside me. I gritted my teeth, grabbed the hilt, and sliced upward—ripping free from the monster’s talon. I charged, slammed the sword forward. The blade’s motor spun with a roar as it dug into the beast’s skull, tearing through bone and brain until the entire head split in two. The monster collapsed in a twitching heap, cut completely in half. Still carrying the sword, I staggered back up to the platform, panting. Droid L-84 turned to me, his scanners flashing concern. “I believe... we survived.” But I couldn’t answer. My legs gave out, and I collapsed. A few moments later, the Black-Bird Drop-Ship roared overhead, casting a massive shadow over the ruins. It landed fast, kicking up dust. The side doors opened—and Emily came running with medics in tow. I barely felt their hands lifting me. Emily knelt beside me, her visor now raised. Her green eyes were wide with worry. “You jerk,” she whispered. “You actually did it.” And just like that... Everything went quiet. We went home for the day. And I finally drifted off into sleep. The Wake and the Weight of Truth I awoke to that all-too-familiar hum of fluorescent lights above and the sterile tang of hospital-grade disinfectant. My back pressed into an overly stiff mattress, the sheets tucked tight enough to suffocate, and the low ambient beep of machines monitoring my vitals quietly pulsed in the background. "This shit again..." I muttered to myself. The ceiling hadn’t changed much since the last time I woke up in a place like this. White, modular panels—just as oppressive as ever. I groaned, pushing myself up with some resistance, half-expecting pain to shoot through my side where the crab-shark impaled me—but nothing. I patted around my torso, my ribcage, and finally stared at my bare right side. Smooth. Not even a scar. Not a dent. Not even a faint bruise. It was like the entire encounter had been surgically erased from my body. Confused, I looked around the room and caught sight of Doctor Subi, pacing near the far wall with a datapad. The moment he noticed I was awake, his eyes lit up with a warmth that didn’t quite match the cold clinical space. “You’re awake,” he said, stepping forward. “That’s… honestly miraculous. We weren’t sure if you—” I cut him off, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “No injuries, huh?” I said. “What the hell happened to me? And don’t feed me any more vague answers—I want to know everything. Especially about the Immortal creature inside me.” Subi gave a cautious smile, the kind people give when they’re deciding whether to lie or soften the truth. “That… is complicated. You’d get a clearer explanation from Droid L-84. He’s the one with deep archives on the Immortals.” I stood, bare feet on the cold floor, my fists clenched. “Fine. Then tell me this: why the hell am I remembering things that aren’t mine? Combat experience. Tactical maneuvers. Her. I keep seeing a woman—her face, her voice—someone I’ve never met. And don’t say it’s hallucinations.” That last part must’ve stung, because Subi winced and looked away. I stepped closer, my voice low and pointed. “There’s no way hallucinations can make me a soldier overnight. I knew how to fire an orbital cannon like I’d done it all my life. I performed field triage, analyzed swarm behavior, and predicted enemy tactics. That doesn’t come from fever dreams.” Subi sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I suppose you’re ready for the truth,” he said. “The woman you’re seeing—her name is Madeline Scoggin.” The name struck me like a slap across the face. My pulse quickened. I’d never heard that name spoken aloud before, yet something about it sent ripples through my mind, like echoes in a cavern that wasn’t mine. “Who is she?” I asked. “A princess,” Subi said bitterly. “From the Red Dragon Empire.” I let out a dry laugh. “A princess? You’re telling me I’ve got flashbacks of a royal?” “She wasn’t a good princess,” he shot back, stepping closer. “She and her bloodline were behind a centuries-long conspiracy. Corruption. Bloodshed. And war—against the Crimson Empire of Vikingnar.” He paused, letting the weight of those words settle. “Your current Wulver body—it was grown in a lab. Engineered. But it wasn’t blank when we gave it to you. The last soul to inhabit it was a man named Wilson. He was one of us… until he betrayed our people for her.” My mouth went dry. “So, this Wilson guy… he was in love with Madeline Scoggin?” “Infatuated. Controlled. Twisted,” Subi said, his eyes cold. “He was once a king of Vikingnar. My sister’s husband.” That hit like a sledgehammer. “She was queen. One of the most beloved rulers in our history. And he murdered her in cold blood. For Scoggin. That’s why we made sure he never came back.” I exhaled slowly, trying to absorb what I’d just heard. “So now I’m walking around in the skin of a backstabbing tyrant.” “No,” Subi said. “Now you’re walking around in a vessel that was once his—but is becoming yours. Thanks to the Immortal that fused into your soul. It’s an ancient being. An old-world guardian. It ensures no foreign mind can dominate the body. Wilson is gone. But his memories, his instincts... some of them may remain. They’ll merge with yours. Slowly. Carefully.” I leaned against the bed frame, eyes narrowed. “So I’m the ghost of two men. The butcher and the nobody.” “You’re neither,” Subi said. “You’re the bridge. You’re the buffer that might stop another war from erupting. And more importantly... you're someone who understands betrayal. Pain. Isolation. That’s why I chose you.” I scoffed. “You chose me because I’ve been kicked around my whole life?” Subi nodded, his expression softening. “You told me you wanted revenge. That you’d go back to Earth and make the people who hurt you pay. That darkness inside you... it's not weakness. It’s understanding. It’s what makes you not, Wilson.” I stayed quiet. For the first time in a while, I actually felt seen. Subi sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll be honest. This isn’t just about redemption. It’s personal. Wilson killed my sister. The people of Vikingnar still chant his name in secret. But you? You’re the one with his strength, his skills—without his poison.” “So what now?” I asked. “You want me to take up his sword and fight your war?” “No,” Subi said. “I want you to rewrite the war. But first... rest. You’ve earned it. There’s a suitcase over there. Clothes, supplies, and... something else.” He didn’t elaborate. He handed me a chip-card with an address etched onto its surface in glowing runes. “Your new home. Just outside the city’s eastern rim. A hover cab’s waiting in the lot. Your next steps begin tomorrow.” I nodded slowly. My hand lingered on the suitcase, cold and smooth, a polished alloy with an elegant silver clasp. Something about it felt heavier than it looked. I didn’t know then that hidden inside the lining was a second canister—another Immortal, dormant and waiting. I left the hospital room without another word. Outside, the twin suns were just starting to set behind the crystalline skyline of Vikingnar’s capital. The air smelled of ozone, of wildflowers and distant snow. The cab door slid open with a soft whoosh, revealing a sleek black interior with neon blue trim. I stepped in. And just like that… I was on my way to the next mystery. The hover cab glided smoothly above the ground, weaving through tree-lined avenues and bio-luminescent lanterns that marked the outer residential district. As we left the gleaming towers of the Vikingnar capital behind, the terrain shifted into gentle hills, dotted with serene homesteads that looked like they were carved out of a dream—each one a blend of futuristic elegance and ancient Nordic craftsmanship. We finally came to a stop in front of a house built in perfect triangular symmetry—a Scandinavian-style home, sleek and simple, with dark wooden beams and glowing runes etched into the siding. The roof sloped steeply, covered in solar tiles that shimmered with the faint light of the planet’s twin moons. The air smelled of pine and ozone. I stepped out of the cab and approached the door, pulling the key card from my pocket. It hummed quietly in my hand, unlocking the entry with a soft chime. The inside was warm and modern—an open floor plan with glass walls that looked out onto the backyard. The wood interiors were accented with steel and lightstone, and every detail felt... deliberate. Clean. Peaceful. My gaze drifted toward the backyard—and that’s when I saw her. Emily. She was waist-deep in the water of a crystal-clear pool, the ambient light of the city reflecting off her black bikini. Her dark hair was wet, slicked back behind her ears, and her green eyes shimmered like emeralds under the moonlight. For a moment, the rest of the galaxy seemed to disappear. I didn’t say anything. I just quietly slid the suitcase down next to the door, peeled off my shirt, then my boots, then the rest. My feet hit the smooth stone as I stepped outside, the night air cool against my skin. She turned when she heard the splash—smiling faintly as I slipped into the pool beside her. We didn’t speak at first. We just drifted close, the water cool, but the space between us warm. Our arms eventually found their way around each other. At first for comfort. Then for more. There was no tension. No awkwardness. Just that strange feeling like we’d known each other far longer than we actually had. “Where are we?” I finally asked, breaking the silence. “I mean... what’s this planet called? I never caught the name. And I know Vikingnar has several worlds under its rule.” She leaned her forehead gently against mine. “This is Skaalandr,” she whispered. “It’s one of the free planets. A quiet one. I believe that’s why the Immortal brought you here—to give you peace.” I nodded slowly, letting the name settle into my thoughts. Skaalandr. It fits. Like a place out of myth. She tightened her grip around me slightly and said, “Thank you... for helping with the mission.” I smirked. “Kinda threw myself into it without thinking.” “That’s exactly the problem,” she said, her voice shifting from soft to serious. “Don’t do that again.” I raised an eyebrow. “Why not?” She stared at me, eyes glistening. “Because I couldn’t take it if I lost you.” My breath caught. She moved in closer, our foreheads touching again. “I love you,” she whispered. I blinked. “Already?” Before I could get another word out, she kissed me. And the rest just... fell away. The weight of alien worlds, of dead kings and ancient betrayals, of blood-soaked memories not my own, my own past misery—all of it vanished in the warmth of her lips, the softness of her skin. She kissed me like someone who had been waiting lifetimes for this one moment. And there I was—in a different world, in a different body, under different stars—making love to the most beautiful woman I’d ever met. No Earth. No pain. No past. Just her. Just us. And for the first time since this strange journey began... I didn’t feel alone. "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA" CHAPTER 1: "RAPTURE"

BY WILLIAM WARNER “VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA” CHAPTER 2: “GHOSTS IN THE STARS” The soft hum of light pierced the corners of my mind as I began to stir. I felt warmth on my side—the warmth of her. My eyes cracked open, adjusting to the golden hues spilling in from the tall hexagonal skylight above us. I turned to find Emily nestled against me, her raven-black hair fanned across the satin pillow like ink spilled across parchment. Her eyes were closed, lips slightly parted, and for a moment, everything felt still. My body, though changed, felt whole in this world, wrapped in clean linens and the comfort of her presence. I didn’t move right away. My thoughts flickered between what had happened—my old body, the battle against the Shark People, the new form I had awoken in—and the intimacy we shared the night before. Despite the foreign stars shining above us, I felt grounded in this moment. Eventually, I slipped from the bed, careful not to disturb her. The floor beneath my feet was a smooth, cool stone—like the kind you’d find in spa resorts back on Earth, but even more polished. The architecture of the Scandinavian-style home was triangular and elegant, modern but steeped in tradition. Tall, angular windows let in soft light. Every edge of the house was efficient, yet warm. My feet padded quietly toward what I assumed was the bathroom, a small alcove off the main bedroom. To my surprise, it was empty. No toilet. No sink. Just a sleek, empty space with a mirror on one wall and a faint scent of eucalyptus. At least there was a shower. “Uh, Emily?” I called out. From the bed, her voice carried, soft and amused. “Let me guess—you’re looking for a toilet?” I stepped back into the room, arms slightly raised in question. She sat up now, sheets held against her chest, and laughed. “We don’t need them. Our bodies were designed—engineered—not to produce waste. Everything we consume is used. Total efficiency.” “You mean… no poop?” I blinked. “Nope.” She smirked. I chuckled, running a hand through my hair. “That’s… weird. Kinda awesome. Definitely a miracle.” “Just one of many in Skaalandr.” Said Emily. Breakfast was already underway minutes later. Emily, now dressed in a loose-fitting robe that shimmered with silver trim, stood in the clean, open kitchen flipping pancakes on a curved stove that used no heat source I could see. Aromas filled the room—spiced berries, vanilla, something buttery but better than anything from Earth. I joined her at the table, a modern slab of black stone with metallic veins running through it. As she set down two plates, I glanced out the massive panoramic windows. The view was almost unreal: the backyard pool still rippling from the breeze, and beyond it, the sprawling skyline of Skaalandr, its towers glimmering like blades of glass reaching into the morning sky. So,” she said, sitting across from me, “what do you think of Skaalandr?” I took a bite of pancake and nearly moaned from the taste. “It’s better than Earth. Cleaner. Brighter. Like someone took the best parts of the future and mythology and made it real.” Her smile dimmed just a bit. “Yesterday… when you said you wanted to go back to Earth for revenge. What did you mean by that?” I hesitated. The word hung in the air like frost. I didn’t want to talk about it—not now, maybe not ever. The pain of my past, the betrayal, the torment, the bullying, the shame—it all still burned too brightly behind my eyes. “Nothing,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean anything.” Emily stared at me for a moment longer, as if trying to read the rest of my sentence hidden beneath the words I’d spoken. She gave a small nod, but her shoulders had stiffened. “I want you to trust me, William.” Before I could respond, the sound of rushing water and a deafening crash split the air. We both shot to our feet. The pool in the backyard exploded in a geyser of light and foam. I rushed to the window, eyes wide. Hovering just inches above the pool’s surface was the Chainsword—the one I had manifested during our mission. Its blade glowed with blue runes, dripping with some kind of energy that crackled like fire. Emily ran out first. “Wait—!” I tried to grab her arm, but she was already sprinting toward it. She reached out. The moment her fingers touched the hilt, a flash of white light erupted from the blade and hurled her back with a scream. Her body hit the ground like a puppet cut from its strings. “Emily!” I ran to her, falling to my knees beside her motionless form. Her skin was pale, lips parted. My hands hovered over her, unsure of what to do, panic rising in my chest. Then, a metallic clatter behind me. From the kitchen, a small silver canister rolled into view, hissing with escaping gas. I turned just as it popped open, and a flash of light burst forth. A small creature—part light, part mist, part energy—flew straight at Emily’s chest. It fused with her body. She gasped. Her eyes shot open, irises glowing for a brief moment before returning to green. “What the hell was that?!” I shouted. She coughed, then sat up, dazed. “An Immortal… It saved me.” I blinked. “That’s… that’s the second one.” My mind raced, and the pieces fell together. Subi. That quirky scientist must’ve snuck the spare Immortal into my luggage. I darted back inside and opened my suitcase. Sure enough, the disc-shaped form of my armor gleamed within. I tapped the center, and the disc unfolded, crawling across my body in layers of interlocking plates until I stood fully armored. Emily joined me moments later, still wobbly but alive. “We need to find Subi,” I muttered. “And Droid L-84,” Emily added. We left the house and headed toward City Hall. The streets of Skaalandr buzzed with activity—hover cars zipping past, people of all species going about their day. Some looked like elves, others like androids or hybrids. I didn’t have time to stare. When we reached the capitol, its massive ivory steps led to a hall of towering pillars. Inside, we found Joseph leaning against a wall, talking to Serenity. Subi and Droid L-84 were nearby. Joseph smiled as we approached. “Perfect timing. We were just about to leave.” “Leave?” I asked. “To Helios,” Serenity answered. “There’s a meeting with King Ragnar. We need to discuss the Shark People.” “And afterward,” Joseph added, “we’ll help you figure out how you got here—and what’s inside you.” “And now me,” said Emily as she looked at me. “What does she mean by that?” Joseph said, confused. I looked at Subi with suspicion. “Ask the doc. I’m curious as to why there was an Immortal in my suitcase last night?” “I thought you could use a gift to give Emily.” Subi said in confidence. But Droid L-84 was furious and I was starting to be myself. “Just because those creatures aren’t harmful to its host, that doesn’t make it a wise decision to hand them out as party favors.” Subi nodded, and I figured the Immortals inside of Emily & I are more useful than a hindrance. So I suggested that we’ll discuss this later. We all head to the motherships. It should be a quick trip. We arrived near Helios. The shuttle’s engines vibrated beneath our boots as we broke away from the orbital dock, escorted by a V-formation of Black Bird Warships. Outside the hull, space unfolded like a silent abyss, distant stars flickering through the black void like cold fire. The warships around us moved with silent menace, weapons armed and ready—each one bearing the insignia of the Valkyrie Coalition. They weren’t just for show. This escort wasn’t precautionary. It was protocol for high-value assets… and we had just become those assets. Inside the cabin, the glow from the status panels bathed everything in a sterile blue hue. I could hear the hum of the life support system, the occasional chirp of automated diagnostics, and the quiet rustle of gear as Emily adjusted her shoulder harness. She sat silently beside me, gazing at the readout that displayed our destination: Helios. “Approaching planetary orbit,” the pilot announced over comms. “Prepare for descent through the polar atmosphere.” Subi leaned forward, his sharp elven features caught in shadow. “You’ve never been to Helios before, have you?” he asked me with a tilt of his head. “No,” I replied. “I just got here.” His lips twitched into something between a smile and a warning. “It’s a hard planet. Wild. Old. You’ll feel it in your bones the moment you land.” The moment we broke through the cloud veil, I understood exactly what he meant. Helios stretched out below us, vast and otherworldly. The upper hemisphere was framed by towering mountains, their jagged peaks blanketed in ancient snow that glistened under the pale glare of twin suns—one golden and warm, the other bluish and distant like a dying star. At the base of those mountains, dense alpine forests spread like green veins across the land—black pines and needle-leaf evergreens swaying in stiff winds, their shadows long and thin over the rugged terrain. Between these lush forests and the high ranges lay vast plateaus of cracked red stone and icy ridgelines. Further south, the landscape gave way to endless salt flats—barren expanses of white crystal that shimmered like glass—and shifting desert valleys of pink and copper sand. The collision of biomes looked surreal. In one direction: snow-covered peaks and frozen streams. In the other: canyons, mesas, and skeletal trees baked by solar winds. It was as if every extreme of nature had collided to birth this one world. And to my surprise... It reminded me of home. “Utah,” I said under my breath. Emily turned toward me, her eyes a soft green in the dim light. “What?” I gestured toward the terrain out the window. “Helios… looks like a twisted version of Utah. The Wasatch mountains. The red-rock deserts. Even the Bonneville Salt Flats. It’s like someone ripped pieces of Earth and stitched them back together wrong—but it still makes sense.” She looked again, and a subtle chill passed through her. “I see it now. It’s beautiful and… terrifying.” Subi nodded in agreement. “Helios has that effect. It’s a frontier planet. The old gods of this place never left. They just went quiet.” We dropped into the upper atmosphere, and the shuttle rocked violently as we passed through sudden thermal currents. Ice crystals formed and shattered across the glass, and alarms briefly flared before stabilizing. Our escorts spread wider, maintaining distance as we descended toward a valley cradled between three mountain ranges. “This landing zone used to be an old mining hub,” the pilot informed us. “Now it serves as a military outpost. Ground temp is 9 degrees Celsius, with scattered snow. Stay sharp.” As we approached, I could see the landing platform nestled against a granite cliff face dusted with early snow. Beneath us were fortress-like structures built into the stone itself—bunkers and hangars reinforced with steel and glass, some half-buried in snow drifts, others glowing with thermal energy. Wind turbines dotted the ridgelines above, spinning lazily in the thin mountain air. The shuttle touched down with a hiss of pressure valves and a metallic groan. The ramp lowered into snow-laced gravel, and the chill bit into us the moment the cabin doors opened. I stepped out, boots crunching into a mixture of frost and dust, and was immediately hit by the scent of pine and something acrid—maybe old fuel or ozone. Breath fogged in front of our mouths. In the distance, massive mechanical titans that strode like armored beasts—patrolled the mountain passes. Soldiers in adaptive invisibility cloaks moved along the outpost perimeter, their movements crisp and deliberate. On a far cliff, I spotted what looked like a watchtower fused with a cathedral—its spires rising into the clouds like frozen lightning. I took in a long breath, letting the cold fill my lungs, and for a strange, fleeting moment… I felt grounded. Helios was brutal, wild, and unforgiving—but it was real. It didn’t pretend to be safe. It dared you to survive. Emily stood beside me, arms crossed tightly, her eyes scanning the ridges above. “We’re not on Earth anymore,” she muttered. “No,” I replied. “We’re somewhere older.” We hadn’t even taken our first steps into the heart of the planet… and already, the world was whispering warnings. The great hall of Helios loomed ahead, carved into the mountain’s edge like a fortress of legend and innovation fused into one. Towering stone columns—etched with ancient Norse runes glowing faintly with energy—flanked the entryway, while angular metal scaffolding laced the upper structure in sleek, modern contours. As we stepped inside, the temperature shifted slightly. The crisp alpine air gave way to a temperate warmth, maintained by unseen tech embedded in the walls. The interior was massive—cathedral-like in scope—its ceiling lost in a mesh of hovering chandeliers and arched beams that gleamed with traces of silver, copper, and glowing blue conduits. Everything felt like it belonged to another age and yet far ahead of ours. Rows of long, heavy wooden tables lined with metallic inlays stretched across the hall floor, flanked by warriors and diplomats from across the Vikingnar Empire. Most wore armor or robes that felt distinctly “Viking”—fur-lined cloaks, braided hair, ornate tattoos—but it was all merged seamlessly with technology: armor plates that shimmered with holograms, weapons magnetically latched to glowing belts, HUD visors resting above their eyes like ceremonial circlets. There were Wulver people too, tall, broad, and imposing, with piercing animalistic eyes, ears that twitched slightly at the noise, and thick pelts in shades of gray, gold, or midnight black. One of them stepped forward, standing out from the others—not just for his striking black and gold armor, but for the graceful, fluid way he moved, like a seasoned warrior and priest combined. His name was Anubis, a Wulver elder who seemed both revered and respected. "You must be William," he said, nodding with a calm authority. His voice was deep and melodic, vibrating slightly in his chest. "The king will arrive shortly. Please, take a seat." We did as he asked, settling at the central table that faced the dais at the head of the room. I glanced at Emily beside me, her green eyes scanning the room with a subtle tension. Joseph sat quietly, his hand resting near the hilt of his weapon. Serenity adjusted a projection pad on her wrist. Droid L-84 stood still, but the soft red glow of his optic sensors pulsed as if in thought. Then the great doors at the far end opened with a metallic groan. King Ragnar entered, flanked by his royal guard in glistening dark steel. His presence was magnetic—tall, muscular, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak over hybrid armor that hummed with energy. His silver beard was braided, and his piercing blue eyes locked onto mine the moment he entered. “I’ve heard much about you, William,” Ragnar said as he approached the table. “Talvas IX still echoes your name.” I nodded respectfully, unsure what to say. He took his place at the high seat, leaning forward slightly. “Let’s begin.” Droid L-84 stepped to the front of the room. A holographic model of the galaxy lit up above him, orbit lines and wormholes glowing in blue and red. “There have been developments,” L-84 said, his voice perfectly calm. “Our intelligence reports that Deathskull has made significant progress in bypassing the Wraith.” He gestured to the red-glowing tunnels in the hologram. “The Wraith, as you know, is not merely a gateway—it is a fluid interdimensional membrane. Imagine it as an ocean. When ships pass through wormholes, they dip into this ocean. But the violent currents of that dimension create... storms. Those storms tear at the barrier between realities. That’s how the Shark People and other demonic entities breach through.” A ripple passed through the room—murmurs, glances. “But Deathskull’s new project,” L-84 continued, “creates a sort of elevated corridor—a spatial highway above the Wraith. Like flying over the ocean, rather than through it.” He manipulated the hologram. A new path appeared in golden light, arcing high above the swirling Wraith tides. “If this technology works,” L-84 explained, “it could dramatically reduce the number of Wraith storms, and cut off the interdimensional breaches that have allowed demons to enter our galaxy.” It sounded brilliant. Logical. Clean. Except... I stood. “I don’t think it’s that simple,” I said, surprising myself at how steady my voice sounded. “You’re acting like the Shark People are just demons crawling through cracks. But they’re not. They’re organized. They travel in hive ships. They operate as a collective mind. They’re not just crossing into our realm by accident—they’re invading.” All eyes turned toward me. Ragnar said nothing. His gaze was intense but unreadable. “These creatures were designed to devour,” I continued. “Planets. Ecosystems. Civilizations. They’re more than just beasts—they’re weapons. A plague manufactured to wipe out organic life. The Wraith is a tool for them, not their home.” Subi, sitting across the table with his arms folded, sighed heavily. “He’s not wrong.” Everyone turned. Subi leaned forward, tapping the edge of the table. “The Shark People—if you can even call them people—are biologically engineered. I’ve studied them. They adapt. Evolve. They’re not random. Shutting down the Wraith is just buying time from those aliens. As for the actual demons that inhabit the Wraith… Sooner or later, those demons will learn how the walls of their reality work... and find other ways to enter ours.” There was a heavy silence. A cold gust of alpine wind swirled through the open window slats high above, causing the banners to rustle gently. “So,” Ragnar finally said, “what do you suggest, Subi?” Subi hesitated for only a moment. “We shut down Wraith travel for at least a few days. Monitor the results. We need to see if the demonic incursions lessen. But long-term? We need a real solution—one that doesn’t just shift the problem.” Everyone looked surprised. Myself included. I clenched my fists beneath the table. “I never agreed to that,” I said, quietly. “We shut down Wraith travel, and I’m stuck here. I still need to get back to Earth.” Ragnar leaned back in his seat, his expression unreadable once more. “And you will, William. In time. But right now, survival takes precedence over vengeance.” His words struck like a hammer. I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. The meeting moved on, but I stayed silent, my thoughts consumed by home, by everything I’d lost... and everything I didn’t yet understand. As the meeting concluded, the great hall began to empty with a shuffle of armored boots and murmured conversations. Outside, the light of Helios was beginning to shift—moonlight sliding toward evening, casting long, dramatic shadows from the jagged mountain peaks beyond the city. The cold breeze rolled down from the snow-kissed ridges, mingling with the warm desert air and carrying the scents of pine resin and scorched sand. Ragnar and I stepped away from the crowd, descending the hall’s granite steps, the sound of our steps swallowed by the open air. His posture was relaxed, yet there was something buried beneath the calm: a weariness, maybe even a burden he carried quietly on his broad shoulders. I looked over at him. “Ragnar,” I began, the words slowly leaving my mouth, “can I ask you something personal?” He gave me a sidelong glance, that intense, pale gaze of his still carrying the weight of leadership. “You already have.” I took a breath. “Wilson. Why does everyone see me as me now? As William?” Ragnar paused. The wind caught the edge of his fur-lined cloak, tossing it back like a banner. “Because Wilson has been dead for a long time,” he said, voice level. “He died during the second Siege of Vaelor Crater. Subi was barely a teenager when his sister was murdered by him. That changed him—matured him too quickly, maybe. Since then, everyone’s only known the man who came afterward.” I stared off toward the horizon, letting his words settle in. “But… How do they all know me? Everyone keeps saying my name like I belong here.” “Because you do,” Ragnar said. “The stories of Talvas IX reached every colony. You—William—stopped an invasion. That doesn’t go unnoticed, even out here in the stars. Whether or not you remember all of it... that kind of heroism leaves a mark.” I didn’t know how to respond to that. I wasn’t sure if I felt like a hero. Not anymore. Then, he shifted the conversation. “You’ve been restless ever since we landed. I can see it in your eyes. You’re thinking of Earth.” “Yeah,” I admitted. “More than anything.” “But going back now,” Ragnar said, “without understanding what you’ve become… it would be dangerous. For you, and for Earth.” “What do you mean?” He folded his arms, looking out across the alpine-dusted ridges of Helios. “There’s something inside you—something ancient. Immortal. If you want answers, you’ll find them on Cybrawl. That world holds secrets even I haven’t touched.” The name sent a twinge through my chest—Cybrawl. The way he said it made it feel less like a planet and more like a vault waiting to be unlocked. “And what about you?” I asked. “Where did you come from, Ragnar? You… and all of this? These worlds? These people?” Ragnar turned to face me fully. “I believe in gods,” he said, “but not the kind that sit in golden halls or demand blood for favor. I believe in creators. The Nasga People. They were our architects—ours, the Wulvers’, the Elves’, Crimseeds, the Droids, other humans and maybe even the Shark People. They forged this galaxy like a blacksmith forges steel: raw, brutal, beautiful.” “And now they’re gone?” “Vanished,” he said. “Some believe they ascended. Others think they were destroyed by the very things they unleashed. No one really knows. But that’s why I’m coming with you to Cybrawl. I’m looking for them, too. Or at least… the truth they left behind.” For a while, we stood in silence, watching as two suns dipped toward the edge of the mountain range—one a pale yellow disc, the other a smaller, colder blue light that cast a haunting second shadow. Ragnar’s voice broke the quiet once more. “The galaxy doesn’t give many chances at clarity. When it does, you take them. Cybrawl could be the key to everything—the Immortals, your situation… even the Nasga.” I nodded slowly, feeling the weight of my journey stretch out before me like the valleys of Helios, treacherous and vast. “Then let’s get moving,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “I want to know how I got here. And what’s waiting for me back on Earth.” Ragnar clapped a hand on my shoulder, solid and reassuring. “Then we start with Cybrawl.” Ragnar and I made our way to the docking bay, where Emily, Serenity, L-84, and Joseph were already waiting. To my surprise, Ragnar’s family was there too—his wife and kids geared up like they were joining the mission. I wasn’t sure if bringing them was a good idea, but Ragnar didn’t seem concerned. We boarded the long-ship together, the engines already humming with power. The vessel, carved with Wulver runes and fitted with high-tech systems, lifted off smoothly. Within moments, we were leaving Helios behind, heading into the stars on our way to Cybrawl. The hum of the long-ship's engines created a constant low vibration beneath our boots, a background rhythm to the clatter of voices and tech-chatter on the bridge. It wasn’t exactly peaceful, and after the heavy talks back on Helios, I needed a moment away from the noise—away from the pressure of destiny, demons, and politics. Emily must've sensed it too. We locked eyes across the corridor, sharing an unspoken understanding, and quietly slipped away from the bridge. The metallic halls of the ship were dimly lit with thin neon lines that pulsed gently, like veins channeling life through a beast of steel and circuitry. The doors to our barracks opened with a hiss, revealing a small but comfortable private room with padded walls, a low bed, and a viewport that offered a haunting glimpse of the stars bleeding past us in streaks of white and violet. The moment the door shut, it was like the war outside had stopped. "How are we getting to Cybrawl if we’re not using the Wraith?" I asked, leaning back against the wall while Emily took a seat on the edge of the bed, her green eyes reflecting the glow of the lights above. “Light speed,” she answered smoothly, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “There’s no dimensional jump this time, just raw speed and navigation.” Then she tilted her head slightly, her expression sharpening. “But you’re not really asking about the ship, are you?” I raised an eyebrow. “You’re always dodging things, William. Always hiding something. Why are you so secretive with me?” Her voice wasn’t accusatory. It was soft—but cutting, like a blade of ice wrapped in velvet. I swallowed, stepped closer. “You already know what I want.” She looked down for a moment, her expression unreadable, then met my gaze again with more fire in her eyes. “Then stop focusing on what’s not here,” she said. “Start focusing on what is.” We were quiet for a beat—just the subtle hum of the ship and the breathing between us. And then she stood, closing the distance. We kissed. Not desperate or dramatic—just real, human, grounded. A moment carved from everything we’d lost and everything we still feared. The galaxy could fall apart outside the hull for all we cared. I held her close, feeling the warmth of her body through the fabric of her sleek jumpsuit, my hands gliding down her sides until they reached her legs. She wore her high black leather boots again—tight-laced with reinforced seams and padded soles, a practical beauty. I traced my fingers along the edge of them, a small indulgence. She didn’t stop me. In that quiet moment aboard a warship slicing through the stars, I didn’t feel like a Wulver or a savior or whatever title people were trying to pin on me. I was just William. And she was Emily. And for now, that was enough. The long-ship exited light speed with a smooth deceleration as our destination appeared on the forward display—Cybrawl. Looking out the viewport, the planet came into view like a sleeping giant—half jungle, half machine. There were no oceans, just a massive sprawl of alpine jungle, metallic mesas, and towering black pyramids etched with glowing circuitry. The entire world pulsed like a living supercomputer. We’d arrived. Only a small group was cleared to touch down—myself, Emily, Serenity, Joseph, Anubis, Ragnar, and of course, Droid L-84, who had been unusually quiet since we dropped into orbit. Our landing craft—the Black Bird—was prepped on the hangar deck. With its razor-thin frame, folded wings, and matte black armor, it looked more like a stealth bomber than a shuttle. It thrummed with silent energy as we boarded. “You built this?” I asked L-84, my hand trailing across the polished hull on the way in. “My people did,” L-84 replied, his voice perfectly modulated but edged with pride. “Cybrawl manufactures some of the most advanced interstellar technology in the galaxy. Not just for Vikingnar, but for dozens of other civilizations. If it runs on circuits, there's a good chance it was born here.” The ship launched, slicing down through the clouds and into Cybrawl’s atmosphere. Outside, the landscape shifted fast—endless jagged mountains cloaked in mist, thick pine-like forests with violet-tinted needles, and massive clearings where technology overtook nature. From the air, the giant pyramids glowed with a cold, intelligent light, each one alive with motion—elevators climbing vertical rails, drones circling like birds of prey. “No oceans?” Emily asked, peering out the window. “There were once,” L-84 answered. “They were siphoned off centuries ago to power geothermal cores. Now the jungles hold what’s left of the water table. Still have to have oxygen for guests. This planet doesn’t need oceans—it’s a machine world.” I leaned forward, watching the terrain flash by beneath us like something out of a dream—or a nightmare. Everything felt ancient and cutting-edge at the same time. It was like flying through the guts of a sleeping god. “I thought you knew everything,” I said to L-84. “So why bring us here?” L-84’s mechanical eyes flicked toward me. “Because even I don’t understand the Immortal creatures. Not completely. They don’t obey the same rules as the rest of us. Their DNA... their neural patterns... it’s as if they were built with knowledge we forgot how to make.” “So we’re here to remember,” I said. “Exactly.” The Black Bird banked and descended toward a wide clearing where a landing platform rose above the jungle canopy. Hexagonal in design, the pad shimmered with embedded runes—Cybrawl tech. We landed with a clean, mechanical hiss. The ramp dropped. Heat and static prickled against my skin. I stepped out onto the landing pad and into Cybrawl’s air. It was thick, clean, and buzzing with invisible energy. The sky was a gray-purple, casting a cold tone over the alien vegetation that rustled around us. The pyramids loomed in the distance—cold, massive structures of obsidian-like metal covered in flowing script. They hummed softly, not with electricity, but with something deeper—a pulse, like the heartbeat of the planet. Joseph whistled. “And people live here?” L-84 nodded. “More than you’d expect. Scientists, programmers, data-harvesters, AI architects. Most live deep inside the pyramids—connected to the data streams.” Emily stepped beside me, brushing her hair back. “It’s beautiful... in a cold, terrifying sort of way.” “It’s what built everything you’ve ever seen,” L-84 said. “But something we don’t understand. That’s what we’re here to find.” Ragnar crossed his arms. “Then let’s find it. Before the Immortals build themselves a throne on top of all this.” Anubis gave a single nod, his crimson eyes scanning the tree line. And with that, we moved into the jungle shadows—toward the heart of Cybrawl. We stood before the towering black obsidian pyramid, its sharp edges slicing the harsh light of Cybrawl’s twin suns. The air was heavy with a hum of power — ancient yet pulsing with raw energy, as if the whole structure was alive, breathing beneath the cracked surface. Suddenly, from the pyramid’s main entrance, a figure emerged. Deathskull. He was an imposing sight — tall, skeletal, draped in gold armor that gleamed like liquid metal. His face was half machine, half ancient warrior, with glowing red eyes that seemed to pierce right through you. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and gravelly, layered with mechanical distortion that made it sound like a chorus of iron scraping together. “Welcome, travelers,” Deathskull intoned, his tone formal but not unfriendly. “You have come far. It is not often I grant an audience to outsiders.” Ragnar stepped forward respectfully, his voice steady. “We thank you, Deathskull. Your reputation precedes you. We seek to learn and to acquire knowledge — to better understand the threats that loom beyond.” Deathskull’s red eyes flickered. “Then you have come to the right place. Within these walls lies technology forged through millennia of war and innovation. But you must understand—knowledge is power, and power is perilous. Use it wisely.” He turned, gesturing with a gauntleted hand, and led us inside. The temple’s interior was a fusion of ancient architecture and cutting-edge technology. Smooth stone walls etched with glowing runes were interspersed with holographic panels and mechanical devices humming with quiet energy. The scent of ozone mingled with the faint aroma of burnt metal. As we moved deeper into the pyramid, Deathskull stopped before a large circular platform, embedded with a matrix of lights and crystalline conduits. In the center floated a shimmering portal, a rippling veil of translucent blue that shifted like liquid glass. “This is the test portal,” Deathskull explained. “It represents a new frontier in travel—one that bypasses the chaos of the Wraith.” Droid L-84 stepped forward eagerly. “My leader has long sought to solve the dangers posed by the Wraith during wormhole travel. This portal operates on principles of spatial elevation—like flying above a storm, rather than diving through it. It should drastically reduce exposure to Wraith energy and the demonic entities it unleashes.” I examined the portal’s surface carefully. It seemed stable, yet shimmering with a latent, almost hypnotic power. “I can’t believe you people bent time & space without thinking of the consequences in the first place.” Deathskull’s voice cut through my thoughts. “You may test it, but beware: the unknown awaits on the other side.” One by one, we stepped forward. The air shimmered as we passed through the portal’s threshold. The moment we stepped through the portal, the shimmering light faded, and we found ourselves standing on a planet that looked surprisingly familiar—but not in the way I expected. Instead of ancient ruins or grand, mysterious temples, the landscape was dominated by sleek, metallic buildings and towering structures that looked like something straight out of a NASA or SpaceX facility back on Earth. Giant pyramidal complexes rose from the ground, but they were clearly modern—made of smooth metal and glass, covered with blinking lights and cables snaking between them. There were no signs of age-worn stone or creeping vines, just the cold, precise lines of advanced technology. The ground beneath our feet was a mix of cracked dirt and patches of dry jungle foliage, but there were no oceans here, no sprawling cities—just this high-tech colony built deep in a wild environment. I blinked, stunned. Ragnar’s face mirrored my disbelief. “This isn’t an empire,” I said quietly. “It’s a colony—a NASA and SpaceX outpost.” Emily looked confused, glancing around. “Wait... so this is Earth tech? Built by Earthlings?” I nodded slowly, the pieces falling into place. “Yeah. That means Earthlings were the first to discover this galaxy and set up the original colonies. You built everything here—the Droids, the Wulvers, the Elves, the wildlife, and even the genetically modified humans. It was you!” Emily said, with excitement. Everyone else was silent, their faces showing shock. Including mine. I & everyone else expected ancient civilizations or mysterious ruins, not a modern space facility that looked like it belonged on Earth. I furrowed my brow. “But how? When I left Earth, our technology wasn’t even close to this level. Vikingnar’s ships are far more advanced than this junk yard!” She looked at me, her voice dropping. “Are you saying you came from Earth… but from the past?” Her question hit a nerve. I didn’t know the answer. That question made my stomach twist. I had no explanation—just uncertainty. Before I could respond, Droid L-84 spoke up, his voice steady but concerned. “The Immortal creature inside you may be connected to this. It could explain your presence here.” Deathskull’s glowing eyes locked on me. “This creature might be the key to why you are here—and how.” I swallowed hard. The truth I sought was tangled up in something I barely understood, something alive inside me. The seven of us followed Deathskull back through the portal. The shimmering light dissolved around us, and suddenly we stood inside a massive, shadowed vault beneath the towering metal pyramid. The air was cool and heavy with the hum of advanced machinery. Walls lined with glowing panels flickered softly, casting eerie blue light over rows of strange containment pods. Inside some of the pods, translucent forms drifted—these were the Immortal creatures. Droid L-84 gestured toward a cluster of figures in lab coats working diligently at various consoles. “These are some of my colleagues,” he explained. “We’ve been experimenting on the Immortals, trying to replicate their abilities and understand their nature.” A tall, graceful Crimseed woman with shimmering, rust-red skin stepped forward. Her eyes were bright with intelligence and a hint of weariness. She introduced herself softly, “I am Valrra. I study the Immortal phenomenon.” We gathered closer as she began. “The Immortals are enigmatic beings. They possess the ability to travel through space and even time, but the mechanism remains a mystery to us. They seem to exist beyond conventional physics, slipping through realities like ghosts.” I frowned, frustration knotting in my chest. “So we don’t know how they do it?” Valrra shook her head. “No, and that is the most troubling part. Without understanding, we can only guess at their true power.” Emily reached for my hand, her voice gentle. “William, breathe. We’ll figure this out.” But anger welled inside me. “I don’t want to figure it out—I want to go home.” I turned abruptly and strode out of the vault, the sterile hum of technology fading behind me. Outside on the steps of the metal pyramid, I sank down heavily, head in my hands. The desert wind whispered through the strange alien jungle surrounding us. The weight of everything was crushing. After a moment, Emily appeared and sat quietly beside me. Her presence was steady, but I could sense her own worry beneath the calm. “I’m going back to Earth,” I said quietly, my voice raw. “With or without you. I need to get my revenge.” Emily’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but she said only, “Then I’m coming with you.” I looked at her, touched by the simple, fierce loyalty in her words. She reached over, taking my hand and holding it tight. Slowly, others began to gather outside the pyramid. Ragnar approached, his usual stoic expression shadowed by concern. “So this is where we are,” he said, his voice low. “You and Emily. Together.” I nodded, trying to steel myself. Everyone seemed to be wrestling with the enormity of what they’d learned—where I came from, who built the civilizations we relied on. But Emily seemed different, more withdrawn, as if hoping the world could shrink just enough to keep me close. Then, without warning, chaos erupted. A sharp crack echoed through the still air. Ragnar’s eyes widened in shock as he clutched his throat, staggering back. A bullet had struck him. His face paled as he fell to his knees, blood spilling between his fingers. “Ragnar!” I shouted, leaping to his side. Emily gasped, horror etched across her face. The peaceful air of the pyramid’s steps shattered in an instant. Someone among us had fired. And the hunt for answers had just turned deadly. “VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA” CHAPTER 2: “GHOSTS IN THE STARS”

BY WILLIAM WARNER "Vikings War In valhalla" Chapter 3: "The Coming War" The sound came first—a sharp crack that echoed off the cold metal walls of the pyramid. Then came the blood. Ragnar staggered. A fine mist burst from his throat, catching the artificial sunlight like crimson vapor. His crown slipped from his head, clattered down the steps, and spun to a stop. He collapsed in my arms before I could fully process what had happened. “Get a sealant!” Emily yelled, already dropping to her knees beside us. Serenity was faster, slapping a glowing patch against his neck with a hiss of energy. Ragnar’s breath rattled through the broken edges of his windpipe. Still alive. But only barely. My heart was pounding, every instinct screaming for retaliation. I scanned the high ridgelines of Cybrawl’s jungle-tech skyline—there was no sign of a shooter, no shimmer of movement, nothing but the eerie silence that followed violence. Joseph’s voice broke it. He stepped away from the group, answering a call on his comm with clipped urgency. When he returned, his expression had turned to stone. “It’s confirmed,” he said, eyes locked on mine. “Red Dragon Empire. They were behind it. They’ve been probing Cybrawl’s borders for weeks… waiting. This was a warning shot.” I looked down at the blood soaking into Ragnar’s ceremonial armor. A warning shot? No. This was war. The pyramid loomed behind us, black and monolithic, the ancient temple of the Demon Droids—normally a place of diplomacy and forbidden technology. Now it was stained with the blood of a king. I turned to face Deathskull. The warlord stood at the temple’s summit, silent, unreadable behind his titanium skull mask. The green glow from his optic lenses pulsed slowly, watching, calculating. He didn’t move, not even as Ragnar bled at his doorstep. “You know what this means,” I said quietly, voice sharp with restrained fury. “They didn’t just come for Ragnar. They came for your legacy. Your tech. Your world.” Deathskull descended the stairs with deliberate weight, each footstep striking like a drumbeat against the hollow structure. He came to a stop before Ragnar’s body and knelt—not out of reverence, but recognition. His eyes flicked to the blood still pooling on the stone. “This is sacrilege,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone. Valrra stepped forward from the shadows of the archway. Her crimson skin glistened in the sun, a Crimseed woman marked by centuries of quiet wisdom. She said nothing at first—only looked at Deathskull with calm certainty. “You always knew this day would come,” she said. “You just didn’t want to believe it.” For a long moment, the only sounds were Ragnar’s ragged breathing and the distant thrum of Cybrawl’s automated defenses kicking into high alert. Then Deathskull rose. “They want the portal,” he said. “Then they will have to walk through it… in chains.” The sky above began to shift. Tower-sized defense towers emerged from hidden panels in the landscape. Blue flame flared beneath the jungle canopies as Cybrawl’s warships ignited, rising like awakened beasts from slumber. Deathskull turned toward me. “I will summon the Demon Droids,” he said, voice hollow and thunderous. “And we will show the Red Dragon Empire what death really looks like.” Emily glanced at me, her green eyes filled not with fear—but with knowing. I nodded once. “Then it’s decided.” Behind us, Ragnar was lifted onto a medical gurney, drifting toward the pyramid, barely clinging to life. Serenity followed close, her eyes locked on the horizon. Joseph already had a hand on his comm, issuing orders to Vikingnar’s fleet. The lines had been drawn. Cybrawl was no longer a neutral world. The Red Dragon Empire had broken the code. And now, from the steps of a bloodied pyramid, a war was beginning that would burn across the stars. Valrra's hands moved with quiet precision, her crimson fingers slick with nanogel as she sealed the final tear in Ragnar’s throat. Subi, a veteran field medic from Cybrawl's central ward, monitored his vitals with a fixed stare. The king still breathed—barely—but every breath was borrowed time. “Go,” Valrra said without looking up. “We’ll keep him alive. If the Red Dragons want this world, they’ll have to claw through us first.” I nodded once and turned to follow Deathskull. He moved like a monolith, his long cloak trailing behind him, black and frayed at the edges from centuries of war. The closer we came to the capital, the louder the world became. Defense turrets rotated into position, vehicles rumbled beneath the jungle floor, and above us, the fleet began its descent—a formation of longships casting shadows like metal angels over Cybrawl’s fractured skyline. It should have been a moment of strength. Instead, the sky exploded. One of our ships— our  ship, the one Ragnar’s family had boarded for extraction—burst apart mid-air in a chain of violent shockwaves. The fire bloomed outwards like a dying sun, sending debris spiraling through the clouds. Emily screamed. Joseph’s eyes widened in disbelief. I couldn’t move. “No... no...” I whispered. “That was his—” “Family,” Serenity muttered. “They’re gone.” The force of the blast punched through the clouds and sent a ripple through the air. Our comms lit up with static and shouting. Joseph grabbed my shoulder, his jaw clenched. “That wasn’t the Red Dragons. They don’t fire on ships at that range. That… that was from inside.” A coup. A betrayal. Someone had sabotaged the longship before it ever left orbit. I stared at the fading trails of smoke overhead, the shock cutting deeper than fear. Someone among us had flipped. Someone had sold us out. But I didn’t have time to think about who. Not yet. “We protect the wormhole tech,” I said firmly. “Everything else can wait.” Deathskull didn’t need the reminder. He already had his orders in motion. “Hide the source. Deep under the capital,” he barked into a command channel. “Send it below the lowest level. Into the vault. The Immortals stay under triple-lock. No one accesses them. Not even Valrra.” His Demon Droids obeyed without a word—golden, skeletal machines that glinted like polished death in the rising sun. They moved in silence, carrying the portal core in segments, their steps perfectly in sync like a hive mind cast in alloy. Doors opened beneath the temple itself, revealing a descending shaft choked in blue vapor. The tech vanished below the surface. I watched as the vault sealed shut with a deep, seismic thud. It felt final—like we were locking away not just a weapon, but a secret too volatile for any of us to hold. “Joseph,” I said, pulling him close. “Get Serenity on the sniper. I want the shooter found before sunset.” Joseph didn’t hesitate. “Serenity,” he barked through his comm. “Track the trajectory. Filter for electromagnetic discharge. Cross-reference with our own sniper positions. I want the shooter’s spine in a jar.” “Already on it,” Serenity replied from a nearby hilltop, her visor glowing green. “I’m picking up residual heat patterns on the south rim. Too steady to be local fauna. Could be our guy.” “Do not  engage until I say so,” I warned. “Copy.” Emily stood beside me, her face pale, eyes fixed on the smoke curling across the horizon. “They weren’t supposed to die,” she whispered. “They were innocent.” “No one’s innocent anymore,” I muttered. Joseph looked at me. “We’re not ready for this war. Not yet. And if there’s a traitor...” “There is  a traitor,” I said coldly. “I just don’t know who yet.” As the wind rolled in from the edge of the jungle and the embers from the burning sky continued to fall like rain, I turned back to the pyramid—now more fortress than relic. We were standing on a powder keg. And someone had already lit the fuse. The sky above Cybrawl had turned the color of flame-kissed iron. Fleets of dark Red Dragon Empire vessels breached the upper atmosphere like spears hurled from the heavens, their engines screaming like ancient warhorns. Lightning crackled along their hulls as they broke the sky open—fire trailing behind them as they thundered toward the surface. We stood at the edge of Cybrawl’s capital: an alloy-wrapped citadel encased in reinforced obsidian walls, ringed with plasma-tipped battlements and drone silos. The air shimmered with the heat of activity—our ships landing in synchronized arcs while sleek hover-tanks deployed from underground lifts. And standing among us, towering and silent, were the Demon Droids—Deathskull’s warriors. They looked like golden skeletons forged in a furnace of war, every inch of them carved with burn marks and ancient battle etchings. As our Vikingnar soldiers—men and women clad in kinetic furs and smart-metal armor—marched into formation, the Demon Droids completed the last of their barricades, sealing off factories, data vaults, and wormhole labs with monolithic slabs of steel. Deathskull stood motionless in the center of it all, like a storm waiting for a direction. His eye-lenses burned red, scanning the skies. “They’re coming,” he said, voice deep and serrated. “And they’ll want blood first, diplomacy second.” He was right. The Red Dragon fleet descended with thunder and hate. As they touched down on the outer ridges of the capital, you could see them—troops disembarking in symmetrical waves, each battalion led by knights in crimson and onyx armor. Their aesthetic was medieval, like warlords pulled from an alternate past and encased in high-tech plating: broad pauldrons, energy swords strapped to their backs, and magnetic shields glowing in rune-like patterns. Then silence. A brief moment before the clash. One of their lead generals emerged from the center line. His armor gleamed blood-red and polished like a gemstone, crowned by a jagged black helm that left only his golden, arrogant eyes visible. He approached alone, walking forward with the ease of someone who thought the entire planet already belonged to him. He raised a gauntleted hand. “I am General Kael of the Red Dragon Vanguard. You know why we’ve come.” I stepped forward, with Emily and Joseph flanking me. Deathskull stood a few paces behind, silent as a reaper. “You want the wormhole tech,” I said. Kael nodded. “Hand it over. No blood needs to be spilled. In return…” —he turned his gaze toward me with a cruel smile— “I will tell you the name of the traitor within your ranks. And I assure you… it’s someone close. Someone who’s already handed over more than you realize.” There was a beat of stillness. Soldiers on both sides held their breath. Emily tensed beside me, her fingers inching toward her plasma sidearm. Joseph narrowed his eyes. “I don’t make deals with tyrants,” I said, my voice cold. “Especially not ones who lie to stall for time.” Kael’s smile faltered. “So be it.” He turned his back and walked away, unhurried. I waited until he was out of range, then leaned toward Joseph. “I already know who the traitor is,” I said. Joseph’s eyes flicked toward me. “Subi,” I whispered. “The bastard. He’s the only one who wasn’t at the capital when the sabotage happened. He stayed behind with Valrra. Said he was tending Ragnar’s wounds.” Joseph's face went still, hardening like iron. “It fits. He always had a hand in diagnostics and ship access codes. He could’ve tampered with Ragnar’s family's vessel without raising suspicion.” “I need you to find him. Now. If he hands anything over to the Red Dragons, this war’s already lost.” Joseph nodded grimly. “You stay here. Lead our people. Hold the line.” He turned without another word and vanished into the commotion, blending into the streaming ranks of Vikingnar and droids preparing for battle. I stood in the silence that followed—watching the horizon split open with flashes of cannon fire and the growing hum of a thousand armored enemies forming in unison. Beside me, Emily spoke low. “If he is  the traitor, and Joseph doesn’t make it back—what then?” I stared at the rising smoke. “Then I burn everything between us and the truth.” The air grew heavy. The distant wail of sirens echoed off the metal buildings. The war for Cybrawl was about to begin. And somewhere beneath all the fire and steel… was a traitor running out of time. The moment General Kael returned to his formation, the skies lit up like the breath of gods. A shriek of incoming plasma shells rained across the barricades, exploding into molten fire just meters from where we stood. The first shot was theirs—but the last would be ours. I reached behind my back and drew Justice —my chain sword, humming with a low, hungry growl as the blade's internal links sparked to life with red electricity. The moment my grip tightened, the weapon responded like an extension of my own wrath. The ground under me cracked from the force of the activation. Beside me, Emily stepped forward. Her armor hissed and locked into place—pink leather shifting into a tactical shell of glowing plates and kinetic weaves, hugging her figure with both elegance and lethal precision. She unsheathed her own blade, its edge lined with a white-hot pulse. Her eyes burned like emerald fire beneath her silver helmet. The first wave of Red Dragon Knights surged over the barricades, energy lances raised, shields braced. They screamed a war cry that sounded like ancient Latin twisted through a mechanical filter. “Valkyrie!” Emily shouted as she launched forward, her armor absorbing the impact of an incoming bolt. She met the first knight head-on, their blades clashing with a blast of pressure that sent dust into the air. Sparks flew as her blade sliced through a knight’s cauldron and sent him crashing to the ground. I didn’t hesitate. With a roar, I charged straight into their line, Justice  revving in my grip like a saw from hell. I cleaved through the first knight—his armor cracking open like a tin can. The chain links bit deep, red energy crackling from the blade as it tore through steel and circuitry alike. His scream was brief. More came. They swarmed like hornets, each knight uniquely shaped, their weapons glowing with plasma edges and ancient glyphs. Some wielded twin axes, others long spears with electrified tips. All of them moved with eerie precision, a unity that spoke of brutal training or something worse—mind control. Behind me, our Vikingnar forces crashed into their ranks like a tidal wave. You could hear the thrum of tech-infused battle axes, the snap of railguns, and the sharp hiss of frost-forged blades cutting through plated joints. Our warriors wore helms and cloaks that shimmered with tactical shielding, making them look like something straight out of a forgotten myth reprogrammed for war. The Demon Droids joined Deathskull's elite. Golden skeletons, fast and surgical—moving with terrifying grace. They struck down knights with cold efficiency, targeting weak points and disarming enemy tech with stunning bursts of energy from their palms. One droid even activated a pulse from its chest, frying the circuits of five knights in a single blinding flash. Overhead, the sky turned to chaos. Cybrawl’s defense cannons launched plasma bolts into the enemy dropships. Two exploded mid-air—black blossoms of fire raining debris onto the battlefield. A Vikingnar hover-craft, powered by a living AI, tackled a Red Dragon tank off a cliffside, sending both machines into the abyss below. I fought through the chaos, never losing sight of Emily beside me. Every time one of us fell back, the other surged forward. We were a rhythm—like thunder followed by lightning. At one point, a knight nearly impaled me. His plasma spear grazed my ribs—but before he could finish the thrust, Emily drove her sword through his back, lifting him off his feet. She didn’t say anything. Just nodded. More knights poured in from the eastern corridor, but Deathskull cut them off with a squad of drones rigged with cluster mines. The resulting explosion tore open a crater in the ground, sending a shockwave rippling through the ranks. The battlefield trembled beneath our boots. We were holding. Barely. But this wasn’t just about survival anymore. Somewhere out there—Doctor Subi was moving through the shadows, and Joseph was hunting him alone. The wormhole tech was still buried beneath the pyramid vault. And Valrra, unaware of Subi’s betrayal, was still inside with Ragnar. The Red Dragons didn’t care who got caught in the fire. And as more ships darkened the sky, I realized we were far from winning. This was just the beginning. And I was done holding back. Back at the pyramid, a deep silence hovered inside the medical chamber, broken only by the soft beeping of monitors and the strained, rasping breath of King Ragnar. Valrra stood over him, her four-fingered hand hovering above his chest, channeling what little regenerative serum she had into the King's bloodstream. Her luminescent Crimseed skin flickered with pale blue veins, a sign she was using her own bio-energy to stabilize him. Sweat streaked her forehead, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Beside her, Doctor Subi moved with cold efficiency, checking readings, injecting stabilizers, adjusting IV lines—but there was no empathy in his eyes. Just calculation. Ragnar's breathing slowed. His pale hand weakly reached up, fingers curling around Valrra’s wrist. He turned his head slightly, eyes locking with hers. “Tell William... he must lead now.” Valrra froze, her throat tightening. “I’ve seen enough war... enough blood. This fight... it needs a new kind of king.” Subi stepped back, blinking once—slow, measured. Valrra knelt closer. “I’ll tell him. I swear it.” Ragnar managed a faint, broken smile—then his body gave one last breath and fell still. The silence that followed was heavier than steel. Valrra lowered her head, brushing her forehead against Ragnar’s cold fingers, whispering a Crimseed blessing for the dead. “May your stars burn forever.” Then she stood up—and only then did she notice Subi hadn’t moved. His face was blank. Almost too blank. “Doctor?” she asked. He blinked again. Without a word, Subi turned, picked up a metallic injector from the tray—and swung it hard against the back of Valrra’s skull. CRACK. Her body dropped instantly to the ground, unconscious. No cry, no resistance. Just silence. Subi straightened, tossing the injector aside like garbage. He wiped the sweat from his brow, and then reached into his coat, pulling out a small obsidian device. Its surface rippled with purple light. A hidden control unit. He activated it with a single press. A sharp, high-frequency pulse echoed through the vault walls, inaudible to humans—but deadly to Cybrawl’s droids. The golden Demon Droids outside the chamber stiffened, their optics flickering. One by one, they collapsed like broken statues, deactivated. The path was open. Subi stepped into the corridor beyond the medical wing and descended the black stone staircase toward the Vault. Each step echoed like a death knell through the hollow pyramid. Red emergency lights blinked above as if the structure itself knew what was happening but could do nothing to stop it. He approached the Vault's towering doors—adamantine slabs laced with protective runes, coded DNA locks, and Immortal containment fields. And just as Subi raised his hand to activate the override— A voice rang out like a blade unsheathing in the dark. “Don’t move.” Doctor Subi turned slowly. Joseph stood at the top of the stairs, blaster drawn and pointed directly at him. His eyes, usually calm and calculating, now burned with quiet fury. “You’re behind this,” Joseph said. “Ragnar, the sniper, the ship explosion. All of it.” Subi’s shoulders tensed. Then… he smiled. His face twisted slowly into something inhuman. “You always were the clever one,” he said softly, letting the words linger. “But too late.” His eyes shifted. The whites turned black. Entirely black—like oil swallowing his soul. Joseph’s breath caught. “You’re not just a traitor... what are  you?” Subi exhaled slowly, voice layered with something ancient. “Something you couldn’t possibly understand.” With that, he lunged. Joseph fired. Subi moved faster than any human should. The blaster bolt clipped his shoulder but didn’t even faze him. They collided at the foot of the stairs, fists slamming into ribs, arms grappling for control. Subi swung with the strength of a beast, slamming Joseph against the wall, cracking the stone. Joseph retaliated with a knee to the gut and a follow-up elbow that broke Subi’s nose—but there was no blood. Only black fluid oozed out. Subi grabbed Joseph’s throat with both hands, lifting him off the ground. “I’ve been patient long enough,” Subi snarled. “The Immortals were meant for us . Not him. Not William.” Joseph choked, eyes bulging—but he wasn’t done yet. With one last effort, Joseph kicked upward, a hidden blade ejecting from his boot and driving deep into Subi’s side. Subi screamed, staggering back, the wound hissing with smoke. Joseph collapsed, coughing, then rolled to his knees and pulled a backup pistol. He aimed. “I don't care what you are. You're not getting into that Vault.” Subi's smile faded. He looked at the massive doors—so close. Then back at Joseph. The black in his eyes began to recede. But the malice never left his voice. “This isn’t over.” The battlefield roared with chaos. Blasts of plasma fire lit the sky like meteor storms while the clash of swords and screams echoed through the scorched streets of Cybrawl’s capital. Buildings cracked, flames danced on metallic rooftops, and the bodies of fallen soldiers—both ours and theirs—were strewn across the war-torn city like shattered relics. I was in the thick of it, hacking through another Red Dragon Knight with my chainsword, Justice . The weapon's rune-etched links hummed with blue energy as I dragged it through the knight's golden helm, sparks and blood arcing into the air. These bastards were strong—futuristic warriors in crimson-plated exosuits that looked like medieval knights with an alien twist. But I was stronger. And I wasn’t alone. Emily fought beside me, her blade slashing through the armored enemy ranks like lightning through steel. Her movements were precise, brutal, elegant. Every swing held a surgeon’s skill and a warrior’s fury. Then— CRACK! A blunt strike from a Red Dragon halberd slammed into her side. She screamed, her armor sparking violently before collapsing into shards of red light. The impact flung her across the plaza, crashing through a pile of debris and steel. “EMILY!” I ran through the storm of bullets and blades, carving a path with Justice  until I skidded to her side. She clutched her ribs, blood leaking between her fingers. Her sword lay nearby, broken—snapped at the halfway point, its tip missing. “I’ve got you,” I whispered, sliding next to her. I reached into my satchel and slammed a stim-shot into her thigh. Her breath hitched. Her muscles tensed. Then something... changed . A strange pulse rippled through her. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her broken blade. Suddenly, the shattered metal began to glow—a vivid, pulsing red—like it had been ignited from within. The broken tip reformed, not in metal, but in crackling crimson energy. The sword had transformed, half-forged of steel, half-bound in raw force. The glow spread to her suit. Where her armor had failed, the bodysuit beneath darkened—blackening from its original color, becoming sleek, shadow-like, almost symbiotic in how it adhered to her form. Steam hissed off her body like fire and ice colliding. She rose—slowly, powerfully. “I don’t know what this is,” she said, her voice hoarse. “But I’m not done.” I nodded. “Good. Because we’re setting a trap.” She narrowed her glowing eyes at me. “Let’s make them pay.” We regrouped behind a toppled dreadnought tank, used its remains as cover, and set the trap. We broadcast a false retreat signal through Joseph’s hacked comms, pulling the Red Dragon troops forward. They took the bait. When the Knights surged into the blast corridor we’d planned, I activated the mines. BOOM! A wave of fire and concussive force swallowed the front ranks of their formation. Emily leapt from the smoke like a specter of war, her crimson blade cleaving two knights in half before landing at my side. The enemy hesitated. That’s when he  stepped forward—The General. The same bastard from earlier who had offered us the name of the traitor in exchange for our surrender. His armor was darker than the others, trimmed with blackened gold. His helmet bore the crest of a dragon with glowing red eyes. He said nothing. Just pointed his blade at me. A challenge. I stepped forward. “You want the wormhole tech? Come take it.” We charged. His sword met mine in a violent clash of sparks. The ground shook beneath our strikes. He fought like a machine, every movement calculated, cruel, and relentless. But I fought with something more—rage, purpose... clarity. Our blades locked. He leaned in. “You have no idea what you're protecting. That tech will end all of you.” I growled through clenched teeth. “Then it dies with us.” I shoved him back, spun, and struck low. He dodged—but not fast enough. My chainblade tore through his thigh. He screamed, stumbled—and I didn’t hesitate. I rammed Justice  through his chest. The chains ground into his armor, shredding it like paper. He collapsed with a metallic groan and a dying gasp. His troops faltered. Some dropped their weapons. Others froze in fear. The tide had turned. Deathskull’s Demon Droids stormed through the breach at our signal, golden skeletons unleashing a storm of plasma fire. The Red Dragon Knights finally surrendered—falling to their knees, casting swords aside, the battle over at last. But we didn’t cheer. Emily dropped beside me, her glowing blade humming as it cooled. Her breaths were shallow but steady. Her blackened suit flickered, still bonded to her like a second skin. Deathskull emerged from the smoke, his molten-red eyes scanning the battlefield. “We won,” he said in his deep, mechanical rasp. “No,” I replied. “Not yet.” There was no time to celebrate. No time to count the dead. I looked at Emily. She gave a silent nod. Deathskull turned back toward the horizon. We all knew what had to happen. The Pyramid. The Vault. The traitor. We ran. The walls of the Pyramid trembled from the aftermath of battle outside, but deep within its cold, metallic corridors, a different war was taking place. Joseph stumbled back, blood trailing from a cut on his lip. Doctor Subi advanced without hesitation, his hands balled into fists, his eyes wild. Their fight had spilled through several chambers by now—knocking over lab tables, shattering consoles, scattering vials of glowing blue fluid across the floor. Joseph had never seen Subi fight like this. The man moved with inhuman strength—fluid and ruthless, like something that had been trained for one purpose: destruction. “You were a doctor,” Joseph growled, ducking a strike that cratered the wall beside him. “A scientist , not a soldier!” Subi didn’t answer. His breathing had turned ragged, almost beast-like. As Joseph lunged forward with a powered elbow strike, Subi caught him mid-air and hurled him across the lab. Joseph hit the ground hard, metal scraping his back as he skidded against the floor. He groaned, trying to get to his feet. Subi stood over him, trembling—not from exhaustion, but from something else. A change. His expression began to twist, almost as if his skin didn’t fit anymore. Then Joseph saw it. Blood leaked from Subi’s mouth as his front teeth clattered to the floor. But what replaced them was not human. They were rows  of serrated, bone-white fangs—jagged like broken glass. His gums split open, jaw elongating. His skin began to gray, stretch, and harden. Gills slit open across the sides of his neck. Veins blackened. The whites of his eyes faded to pitch, his pupils narrowing into dark pinpoints. Subi wasn’t just a traitor. He wasn’t even fully human. Joseph stared in horror as the man he once called colleague morphed into something ancient, something wrong. His arms cracked, growing longer. His nails twisted into claws. His torso bulked with unnatural muscle, bones shifting under skin like a creature trying to crawl its way out from inside him. A monster was being born . Suddenly— CRACK! The door slammed open. I stood there, sword in hand, breath still heavy from the battlefield, Emily not far behind me. My boots skidded across the floor as I took in the scene: Joseph bloodied, Subi mid-transformation. My heart stopped. “What the hell…” I whispered. Subi turned his head toward me—his jaw now split wider than any human’s should, filled with those nightmare teeth. His voice, though still faintly his, came out distorted—wet, layered, alien. “You weren’t… supposed to… see this yet.” Emily stepped beside me, blade glowing faintly red. “What is  he?” “A Shark Hybrid,” Joseph choked. “Some kind of… experiment.” I stepped forward. “Why, Subi? Why betray us? You were with us from the beginning.” Subi grinned with that mangled jaw, voice growing darker, deeper. “Because I was  there at the beginning. Long before you ever woke up in that village. Before the Wulvers. Before Deathskull’s first forge. I’ve watched this galaxy rise and fall… over and over again. But this time, we  are going to reshape it.” “Who’s ‘we’?” I asked, tightening my grip. “The Immortals,” he whispered, and his eyes pulsed with unnatural light. “They’re not just creatures… they’re gods in gestation . And I can't let you have that power.” Before I could strike, Subi reached behind him and slammed a button on the panel. The nearby wall split open, revealing the swirling surface of the wormhole portal . The air distorted around it—blinking in and out of existence like a heartbeat of reality itself. “No!” I shouted. But it was too late. Subi sprinted forward, now fully in his monstrous form—half-man, half-shark, his claws trailing sparks against the metal floor. He turned to glance back at me just before leaping into the portal. “See you in the beginning… King William ,” he snarled. And then he was gone. The portal slammed shut behind him, leaving only silence and the stench of blood and ozone. I stood frozen, my sword humming, my heart pounding. Joseph finally sat up, clutching his side. “He got away…” Emily helped him to his feet. “What did he mean by the beginning?” “I don’t know,” I muttered. “But I don’t think this war is just about wormholes anymore.” Joseph looked at me grimly. “No. It’s about the survival of the universe.” We all turned to the Vault door. The droids inside had been deactivated—but by some miracle, Subi hadn’t gotten in. But now we knew something far worse: He would be back. The sun over Cybrawl’s scarred skyline barely pierced through the thick clouds of smoke from the recent battle. Ash floated through the air like black snow as the battered remnants of our combined army—Vikingnar warriors, Deathskull’s golden Demon Droids, and our core companions—regrouped amidst the smoldering remains of the battlefield. But there was no time for grief or triumph. Too many questions remained. Too many threats still loomed. Back at the pyramid, Valrra finally stirred from her unconscious state. I knelt beside her, helping her sit up. Her expression was dazed, her long tendrils twitching slightly as she winced at the pain in her head. “What happened?” she groaned. “Subi,” I muttered. “He’s not who we thought he was.” Joseph, standing nearby with his armor scratched and his blade still wet with battle, crossed his arms. “He’s not even human anymore. The bastard transformed into some kind of shark hybrid.” Valrra’s expression darkened. “The Immortals…” “No,” I cut in. “This wasn't an Immortal influence. At least, I don’t think so. I’ve suspected Subi was hiding something deep. Something old. Something primal.” Valrra narrowed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “You believe he’s connected to the Shark Hive?” “I don’t just believe it,” I said. “I’m damn sure of it. The assassin that killed Ragnar, the coup, the corrupted knights… I think the Hive has infiltrated multiple factions by posing as people. They can disguise themselves. I need you to run diagnostics, genetic scans—whatever you can manage. We need biological proof they’re not human. Or Demon. Or anything we know.” Valrra nodded, already processing, her mind clicking into scientific precision. Just then, Deathskull’s sharp mechanical voice buzzed through the open comms. “All available units—return to the battlefield immediately. Droid L-84 has found something.” Without hesitation, we boarded the nearest skimmer and returned to the place where we had crushed the Knights of the Red Dragon Empire. Now, the bodies were being collected, stripped of weapons and armor for analysis. Droid L-84 stood over one of the fallen generals—the same man I’d killed in a brutal duel. His golden skeletal frame loomed over the corpse, arms folded. “You may want to see this, William,” L-84 said, his voice calm but grave. I knelt and removed the general’s helmet. At first, nothing. Just a bloodied man’s face. Then, I opened his eyes. They were pitch black. Not bruised. Not dilated. Solid black—like a great white’s. I pried open his mouth, and the teeth sent a chill down my spine: jagged, triangular, serrated. Shark teeth. “Damn it,” I muttered. “They’re in the Empire, too.” Emily stepped beside me. “He was wearing human armor. Fighting like a knight. And the King had no idea.” Deathskull’s optic sensors zoomed in on the general’s face. “This was not a Knight loyal to the Red Dragon Empire’s true King. This was a Hive agent.” Joseph clenched his jaw. “Then it's a bigger problem than we thought.” We sent word to the Red Dragon King. Not long after, he arrived personally—cautious, flanked by his elite guard in dragon-emblazoned black and crimson armor. We met in a temporary command tent erected just outside the ruins of Cybrawl’s capital. “We discovered this after the battle,” I explained, showing him the general’s corpse. “This man was not human. His DNA might match, but biologically he was something else. You can run your own tests.” The King’s sharp gaze never wavered. “And you say this Subi—he transformed before your eyes?” Joseph confirmed it. “His mouth broke apart. His bones shifted. Shark teeth, black eyes. He’s not with us anymore. If he ever was.” The King crossed his arms. “My general acted without orders. A coup, clearly. But I’ll need more than one corpse to act against my own inner circle. I want proof. You will find the sniper who killed Ragnar. You will bring Subi back alive. And, as agreed, you will share the wormhole technology. In return, I offer full support in rooting out the Hive and cleansing this infection.” We all nodded. It was the only path forward. After the King left, I requested a private word with him. Once alone, I looked him in the eye. “Do you know a woman named Madeline Scoggin? She would’ve claimed to be a princess. Maybe visited your Empire years ago?” He frowned. “No such name has ever crossed my court.” My stomach turned. “Then Subi was lying… about everything.” He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Perhaps. But you’ve proven yourself. Lead your people well, and everything will fall into place.” With that, he departed. Later, beneath the shadow of the pyramid where Ragnar once stood tall, I gathered Emily, Joseph, Deathskull, Valrra, and Droid L-84. “We need a plan,” I said. “Subi could be anywhere.” “I want to check Earth,” I added. “If these Hive creatures found a way to infiltrate us, it could’ve started there.” Emily’s face twisted with conflict. “What about Serenity? She’s still missing. She’s my friend, and I’m not leaving her behind.” Valrra stepped in, her voice calm but firm. “Ragnar made his final wish clear. He named you King, William. His vision depended on unity. We must finish what he started.” I sighed, torn between duty and instinct. “Then we split our efforts. We’ll stay. We’ll find Serenity. We’ll track Subi. We’ll destroy the Hive.” I looked to the stars, knowing somewhere in the shadows, Subi was watching. This war wasn’t over. It had just begun. "Vikings War In valhalla" Chapter 3: "The Coming War"

BY WILLIAM WARNER CHAPTER 4: "BENEATH THE BONES OF CYBRAWL" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA" The surface of Cybrawl was still healing—burning embers and twisted metal littered the craters and husks of buildings that once teemed with life. The once-proud capital now stood quiet, save for the hum of repair drones and the whisper of wind against the broken glass towers. Yet even in this silence, danger still stirred. Beneath our boots, the sewers whispered secrets. I stood at the edge of a breach in the ferrocrete, staring down into the darkness that bled beneath the city. Beside me stood Emily, silent and tense, her black leather suit glinting faintly in the filtered light. Behind us, Joseph activated a portable scanner, his armored fingers dancing across the display as he pinpointed Serenity’s signal. “There,” he said, voice low. “She’s alive. Weak vitals, but stable. Approximately two levels down.” Valrra stepped forward, her face drawn with concern. “You’re certain it’s her and not another shapeshifter?” “No,” I said. “But we’ll find out soon enough.” Deathskull, his dark cloak fluttering in the toxic breeze, gave a curt nod. “Droid L-84 and I will establish a perimeter here. No one gets in or out.” I nodded. “Good. Let’s move.” The descent into the sewer tunnels was like stepping into another world—humid, fetid, and alive with the hum of something ancient. Bioluminescent moss clung to the arched walls, casting eerie green glows across the stagnant pools of chemical waste and rainwater. The further we ventured, the more the city above faded into myth. Down here, the Hive's taint festered. We found Serenity half-buried beneath a shattered filtration duct, her breathing ragged, her skin pale. Joseph rushed to her first, cutting through the debris with his blade. I crouched beside him, lifting her gently as she stirred. “William…?” she murmured, blinking up at me. “I’ve got you,” I said. She winced as she tried to sit up. “The sniper... I followed him... through the lower vents... but he changed. Right in front of me.” “Changed?” Emily asked, kneeling beside us. Serenity nodded weakly. “Skin split open... bones cracked. I saw his mouth widen... the teeth…” She didn’t need to finish. We already knew. Joseph glanced at me. I knew that look—he was ready. I stood, pulling my magical chainsword from my back. “Emily. Valrra. Stay here with Serenity. Guard her. I don’t care if the whole damn Hive shows up, don’t let anyone near her.” Deathskull’s voice crackled through the communicator. “Affirmative. L-84 and I are redirecting all combat drones to your location.” I looked at Joseph. “Let’s end this.” We moved through the tunnels like shadows, blades drawn, breath held. The trail was clear—deep gashes along the metal walls, strange slime pooled in the corners, faint growls echoing just beyond the torchlight. Something was nesting. Finally, we reached it. A massive chamber opened before us—an ancient water reservoir long since abandoned, its rusted scaffolding crumbled into the waters below. At its center, crouched in a pool of its own making, was the creature. Its skin shifted and squirmed, like muscles fighting each other beneath translucent flesh. Its arms were elongated, clawed, the mouth a split-jaw horror of twisting shark fangs. And it wasn’t alone. Clusters of pulsating eggs clung to the walls, webbed in mucus and thrumming with faint, unnatural life. The creature hissed as we approached, its black eyes locking onto us with hatred. It lunged. Joseph was the first to strike, his blade flashing through the air with deadly precision. I came in behind him, swinging my chainsword in a sweeping arc that cleaved through its shoulder. The beast shrieked—an inhuman cry that echoed through the tunnels and made the very ground vibrate. It fought with wild ferocity, lashing out with claws and jaws, its movements erratic and rapid, as though trying to exist in multiple shapes at once. But we were faster. Our blades danced in tandem—Joseph slicing through its limbs while I drove my chainsword deep into its chest. Black ichor sprayed across the chamber walls, sizzling as it hit the rusted metal. It howled, gurgled, then collapsed into the nest it had made. The eggs twitched. Without a word, Joseph turned and slashed the nearest one, spilling its contents into the water. I joined him, tearing through the remaining clusters. Whatever horrors were waiting to be born, we ensured they’d never see the surface. The last of them sizzled under my boot as I stepped forward, breathing hard. It was done. The Hive had lost another piece. But something told me this was only a scout—an experiment. A seed. And the forest had yet to grow. I looked at Joseph. His face was grim but resolute. “We need to burn the body,” he said. I nodded. “We’re not taking any chances.” The trek back through the tunnels was silent, save for the hum of our boots and the distant groan of a dying city. We carried Serenity with care, wrapped in Joseph’s cloak, her breath faint but steady. The charred corpse of the shapeshifter trailed behind us on a floating gurney—its blackened, twisted form still leaking a foul-smelling fluid. Even in death, the thing reeked of unnatural life. As we emerged back into the open light of the surface, the sky over Cybrawl was a deep crimson. Fires still burned in the far ruins, but the worst of the chaos had passed. Drones buzzed overhead, scanning for pockets of resistance and more of the Hive’s grotesque offspring. Deathskull greeted us at the edge of the battlefield, his golden skeletal mask catching the waning sunlight. His crimson cloak fluttered in the toxic breeze as he turned to face me. “Report,” he said, voice modulated and cold. “We found the nest,” I replied. “Shapeshifter’s dead. Burnt to hell and back. But there might be more hiding. Have your droids sweep the underlevels. Every tunnel, every vent, every shadow. Leave nothing unchecked.” Deathskull nodded once. “Orders will be issued. Droid L-84 is already scanning thermal anomalies. Any trace of Hive bio-signature will be neutralized.” “Good.” I glanced over my shoulder at Serenity, her body limp but not lifeless—yet. “We’re taking her to safety. She needs help. Fast.” Droids met us at the pyramid—what had once been a processing hall now converted into a sterile vault of medical bays and energy barriers. Inside, immortals floated gently in containment pods, their glowing bodies humming with raw life force. Valrra rushed forward, leading us to a platform flanked by glowing columns. “She’s fading,” Valrra said urgently. “But there’s a chance. I can attempt a transfer—let the immortal share its regenerative energy with her.” “Then do it,” I said. We laid Serenity on the padded slab. Her skin was cold, her breathing shallow. Valrra’s hands moved quickly, tapping sequences into the console as she calibrated the immortal’s containment field. The floating figure within the pod pulsed with white-blue light—its form like liquid glass, flickering with ancient memories and power beyond comprehension. Emily stood beside me, holding Serenity’s hand. Her eyes were wide, lips pressed into a trembling line. “Please,” she whispered. “Just hold on…” The immortal’s light poured into Serenity’s body, threads of energy weaving through her wounds. For a moment, it looked as if it was working—her skin began to glow faintly, her chest rose just a little higher. Emily leaned forward, hoping to break through the tears on her cheeks. But then—flatline. The platform beeped. The light dimmed. The immortal's glow retracted, flickering weakly before fading altogether. Serenity’s eyes fluttered once. She exhaled. And then—stillness. Valrra stepped back, her voice a hollow whisper. “She’s gone.” Emily collapsed to her knees beside the table, cradling Serenity’s lifeless hand. Her armor shimmered faintly, then dimmed to black, matching her mourning. A shudder ran through her body as she pressed her forehead against Serenity’s. “No…” she said. “Not like this…” I knelt beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You did everything you could.” “I should’ve gone with her. I should’ve protected her. She was alone... because of me.” “No,” I said firmly. “Because of them. The Hive. Subi. They’re to blame. And we will make sure they pay.” She looked up at me, her green eyes now bloodshot and trembling. “I can’t lose anyone else, William. I won’t.” “You won’t,” I said. “Not if we finish what we started.” Behind us, Joseph stood silently, fists clenched. Even Deathskull turned away, offering a rare, respectful silence. Valrra lowered her head and covered Serenity’s body with a synthetic burial shroud, the same kind used for honored warriors. “She died a warrior,” Valrra said. “And we will remember her as one.” Emily stood slowly, wiping the tears from her eyes, her sorrow hardening into resolve. I nodded. “we burn the Hive to the ground Starting now.” Back within the cold-lit underchambers of the pyramid, we followed Valrra into the sterile examination lab. The room had been converted into a makeshift autopsy bay, sterile tables and glowing consoles casting long shadows across the brushed-metal walls. The air smelled faintly of ozone and antiseptic, with a much darker scent lingering beneath: charred flesh and something briny—like rotting meat left in seawater. The corpse lay on the table, strapped down with energy clamps. Though blackened from the fire that killed it, enough tissue remained to study. Its skin was a waxy, scaled hybrid of man and beast—like leather stretched over cartilage. Where its mouth should have been were rows of jagged, inward-curved teeth—shark teeth, growing in overlapping layers, even inside its throat. Patches of human skin were still fused across its neck and arms like stitched-on masks. Its limbs twitched now and then, as if its nerves refused to die with it. Emily stood beside me, unusually quiet, but her expression was unreadable—half grief, half morbid curiosity. She didn’t flinch, didn’t speak. Her gaze stayed locked on the creature’s distorted face as if looking for something. Recognition, maybe. Maybe even guilt. I couldn’t tell. Valrra pulled on her gloves and activated the holo-surgical tools. The scalpel hissed as it touched the creature’s chest, parting the flesh with clean precision. Muscle fiber peeled back to reveal layers of unfamiliar organ structure—hybrid lungs lined with gill-like sacs, a heart with two separate chambers beating in arrhythmic patterns, and bone that wasn’t bone at all but something fibrous, like coral hardened with carbon. “We’re not looking at a simple shapeshifter,” Valrra muttered as she scanned the internal systems. “This thing didn’t just wear its disguise. It became the person.” “How so?” I asked, stepping closer. Valrra tapped the monitor. “Here. These cells—when exposed to new organic tissue—rewrite themselves to mirror the DNA sequence of the target. It doesn’t just mimic their form. It copies their cellular structure, down to neural tissue.” I squinted at the flickering holographic projection of the DNA strands, watching them bend and twist like tendrils. “So it absorbs someone, takes their DNA… and wears it like a second skin?” “No,” she said. “It replaces them. Down to the molecular level. The real person may never exist again after contact. These things are perfect infiltrators.” “Like something out of John Carpenter’s The Thing,” I said aloud. “Only worse.” Joseph leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “This explains how Subi stayed hidden. And why Serenity couldn’t identify her shooter until it was too late.” Emily finally spoke, her voice low. “They could be anywhere. Anyone. Even one of us.” The silence that followed was long and heavy. Valrra continued her work, drawing tissue samples and isolating the neural cortex. “It’s hard to tell where the human ends and the monster begins. Whatever this species is, it’s highly adaptive. It doesn’t just impersonate—it evolves.” I stared at the half-melted face of the beast, trying to imagine the moment it became someone else. What was left of the original person? A whisper? A memory? Or were they simply devoured and erased? “This is a new class of Hive infiltrator,” Valrra confirmed. “Possibly a scout—one of many. If there are more like it, and we don’t find them first...” “They’ll gut the galaxy from the inside out,” I finished. Emily exhaled sharply and finally turned away. Her face was pale, her fists clenched. “Serenity died because we didn’t see it coming. We can’t let that happen again.” “We won’t,” I told her. “Not while I’m still breathing.” Joseph stepped forward, eyeing the readings. “Can we trace its origin? Figure out where it came from?” Valrra nodded. “If we analyze its cortical memory structure, we may be able to extract fragments. Not a full consciousness—but a direction. A place. A moment. It’ll take time.” “Start immediately,” I ordered. “We’ll secure the lab and run identity scans on everyone who comes near this body.” “And what about Subi?” Joseph asked. “We will hunt him down,” I said. “We find him. We find the rest. And then we burn this rot out of the galaxy.” Emily looked back at the table, her jaw tight. “I want to be the one to light the match.” Valrra glanced at me with a grim look of understanding. “We’ll need to upgrade our systems. Bio-detection, neural resonance scans—anything that can expose the imposters. Right now, we’re flying blind.” “Then let’s give ourselves eyes,” I said. And somewhere out there, Subi was watching. Waiting. The pyramid’s laboratory was silent, save for the hum of arcane machinery and the slow drip of coolant from ruptured tubing. Dim, sickly green lights cast elongated shadows over the metal walls, giving the room the feel of a tomb more than a place of science. The creature’s severed head lay on a steel slab—bloated, scorched, yet disturbingly lifelike. It hadn’t decayed the way it should have. Not like something mortal. The flesh still twitched, and every so often a faint pulse fluttered beneath the skin, like something was trying to crawl free from inside. The stench was unbearable—charred tissue, bile, the sharp tang of ozone from the equipment. A mockery of life lingered in that grotesque lump of flesh, and we were about to bring it back, if only for a moment. Curiosity had become a weapon, and we were willing to wield it. Emily watched with hollow eyes as Valrra and I inserted electrodes into the creature’s exposed brain stem. The skin split like overripe fruit, revealing layers of alien tissue—flesh that glistened with an oily sheen, crawling with half-dead nerve endings still hungry for instruction. I could feel the creature's presence, even in death. Like its mind hovered just out of reach, waiting for us to knock. When the last wire was in place, I nodded. Emily stepped forward, hesitating only a moment before pulling the switch. A low, mechanical growl filled the room. The containment glass vibrated as arcs of electricity coursed into the head. Its eye fluttered open—milky, but aware. The mouth convulsed, stretching unnaturally wide, leaking dark fluid. Muscles jerked as ancient instincts tried to reanimate what was no longer whole. The eye locked onto mine. Not with intelligence. But with hatred. An instinctual, endless hatred. Valrra’s monitors spiked. The neural activity surged, flashing incomprehensible waveforms across the screen. Not language. Not thought. Just raw signal—chaos distilled. Then, the voice came. Not spoken. Emanated. A low rasp, more vibration than sound, filled the chamber like a plague carried on air. From the depths of its ruined throat came a whisper laced with the cold certainty of death: a hunger older than light, older than time. “…many faces… one voice…” The words weren’t language. They were instinct sculpted into syllables. No emotion. No fear. Only doctrine. I stepped forward and studied it. The thing was not reacting like a prisoner. It wasn't scared. It was curious. Watching us with predatory stillness. Emily gripped the shock baton and pressed it against the base of its jaw. A burst of current lit the chamber. The flesh sizzled. The skin blistered. But the creature only twitched and smiled. Its grin was too wide, too wrong. As if it were wearing a face it didn’t earn. Blood dripped to the floor, black and viscous. Its mouth opened again. “…no stars… no order… only consumption…” That was all it needed to say. I reached for the pliers, and without hesitation, ripped one of its serrated shark-like teeth from the jaw. A hissing noise escaped as fresh bone pushed forward from the socket. Its body was built for redundancy—for endless regeneration. It couldn’t be reasoned with. It could only adapt. And yet, even in pain, it smiled. Its mind was still there. Somewhere beneath the static and rage. We just had to push harder. Another tooth came free. Blood sprayed the glass. And that’s when it broke. The hive, or what was left of it in that decapitated husk, responded. Not with screams, but with doctrine. It spoke of a singular will. Not conquest. Not survival. But erasure. The creature's consciousness, now exposed like a raw nerve, revealed the deeper truth: the Hive didn’t want land or dominion. It wanted extinction. Of everything. Not as punishment. Not as war. “…death is the order of the universe… not life. Not chaos. Not peace. Death is the true constant. We are its harbingers. The old balance must be burned away. All forms… absorbed. All resistance… silenced.” But as cleansing. Life was a disease. They were the cure. Valrra's screen lit up violently, flashing red as the cortical activity overloaded. The creature’s mouth began to convulse, stretching wider than the jaw should allow. Blood, bile, and static poured from its throat. I shouted to shut it down, but Emily was already at the switch. The power cut. The creature spasmed once more, its eye rolling back. And then it went still. This time, truly dead. No breath. No pulse. No signal. The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. Even the machines seemed reluctant to resume their hum. Emily stood motionless beside the switch, her expression unreadable. Valrra stepped away from the console, pale. “Its cells… even in death… they remember everything they consume.” We stood over the head, gazing into the open jaw of madness. They weren't just enemies. They were extinction made flesh. And now we know the truth. The Hive would never stop. It wouldn’t negotiate. It wouldn’t evolve. It would only spread. And the only way to survive… was to burn it all. The lab had fallen quiet again, the acrid scent of burned alien flesh still clinging to the recycled air. We stood in a solemn circle around the now-lifeless shark creature’s head—still grotesquely twisted in its final, hateful grin. The lights above flickered, almost in acknowledgment of the words we had just heard. Death. Consumption. Cleansing. But something didn’t sit right. There was a pattern here—more than just senseless chaos. A deeper design, so deeply buried in shadows even these monsters chose deception over direct confrontation. That’s when the answer came to me, like a whisper sliding into my thoughts. “They’re hiding something,” I muttered aloud, eyes fixed on the gory remains. “They’re covert because they’re afraid.” Deathskull turned toward me, metal plates creaking. “Afraid? Of what?” “The Immortals,” I replied without hesitation. “They don’t want anyone gaining control of the Immortals. If someone learns how to wield their power—truly harness it—then the Hive loses its grip on domination. They know the Immortals can tip the scales. That’s why they’re targeting people like us.” Valrra narrowed her eyes, processing the idea. “You believe the Hive wants to absorb the Immortals into themselves… to either consume their power or prevent anyone else from using it.” I nodded. “Exactly. They don’t just want to wipe out life—they want to ensure nothing can challenge their supremacy. That’s why they’re taking this infiltration approach. They know if even a handful of beings like us awaken fully to the Immortal bond... we could become unstoppable.” Deathskull and Valrra exchanged a tense glance. The droid’s voice modulated to a lower frequency. “You may be closer to the truth than we realized.” Valrra stepped forward, folding her arms. Her voice was quiet, but heavy with caution. “The Immortals don’t just give power. They... merge. Bonding with a host doesn’t just amplify physical strength or resilience. It changes the host, rewires them. The longer the connection lasts, the deeper it fuses. Eventually, the host and the Immortal become indistinguishable. One will. One being.” I let out a dry laugh, trying to shrug off the implications. “You’re saying we’re gods now? Please. Emily and I aren’t invincible. I still bleed. I still feel fear. Whatever strength I’ve gained—it’s not enough to stop a galaxy-eating parasite.” Emily stood quietly at my side, her expression unreadable. She hadn’t said a word since the interrogation ended, but I could sense something building inside her. A storm beneath the surface. Valrra looked at me with serious eyes, almost maternal in their concern. “You’ve seen what she can do. During the battle with the Red Dragon Empire—her sword didn’t just glow, it transformed. Her aura was seething with energy... and it wasn’t just adrenaline. It was spiritual. Mystical.” Emily flinched slightly at the mention, as if reminded of something she couldn’t fully understand. I shook my head, frustrated. “But why? Why would Subi—of all people—allow us to gain access to that kind of power? Why implant us with Immortals if they’re this dangerous to the Hive?” Valrra’s face was drawn, her ears twitching ever so slightly in thought. “Maybe he didn’t know what he was playing with. Or maybe he did... and he was using you.” The idea churned in my stomach like acid. Subi—always two steps ahead, always playing some long game. Had we been pawns from the start? I stepped away from the table, pacing. “There’s another layer to this. A spiritual one. Maybe these Shark People aren’t just aliens. Maybe they’re... something else. Something older. A corruption, not just of biology—but of soul.” “Demons?” Emily finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. The word lingered in the air like ash. “Maybe,” I said, voice grim. “It would explain hunger. The hatred. The total rejection of life.” Deathskull crossed his arms, his mechanical jaw clicking. “No. That theory doesn’t hold. Demons—true demons—cannot exist permanently in the physical realm. Their matter collapses once the host is destroyed. These Shark People... they’re biological. Fully formed. They bleed. They reproduce. They rot.” “Yet they don’t act like biological entities,” I countered. “They mimic. They infect. They even whisper like devils in the dark. It’s like they’re wearing flesh as a mask.” Emily stepped closer to the containment slab, staring down at the decapitated head. The room's light reflected in her eyes like twin green stars. “Maybe it’s both. Maybe they started biological. And something else found them. Something darker. Something that made them... evolve.” A silence followed. The thought was terrifying—worse than any singular enemy. Not a species. Not an empire. But a perversion. A blending of science and soul-corruption. A fusion of biology and void-born hatred. I turned to Deathskull and Valrra. “If they’re looking for the Immortals... then we have to move fast. We need to find out where Subi went. And more importantly—what he left behind.” Valrra nodded grimly. “We’ll start running a sweep of the Immortal frequencies. If he implanted others, we’ll find them.” Deathskull gestured toward the door. “Then I’ll send a fleet to probe the outskirts of Cybrawl and beyond. If there are more of these... nests... we burn them to ash.” I looked back at the mangled corpse, now motionless, but still exuding an unsettling aura. Whatever it had been in life, whatever malevolence had driven it to spread—its voice still echoed in my head. No stars. No order. Only consumption. This wasn’t just war. This was extinction by design. And unless we uncovered the truth—about the Immortals, about Subi, and about whatever deeper horror guided the Hive—then our galaxy’s end wouldn’t come with a bang. It would come with a slow, suffocating silence. And not even the stars would survive. The stale air of the pyramid chamber seemed to tighten as I stood before them—Emily, Valrra, Deathskull, and the handful of droids still present—my fists clenched at my sides. The weight of Serenity’s death still pressed on our chests like a tombstone, but I wasn’t about to let grief turn into inaction. “We need to start watching the Vikingnar Empire,” I said coldly, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “There’s no guarantee the Shark People haven’t already embedded themselves deeper into our systems—posing as advisors, captains, even generals. If this war turns domestic, it’ll be over before we even raise a sword.” Valrra nodded slowly, her feline features tight with thought. “If they can mimic DNA... they could be anyone. Your advisors. Your cooks. Your soldiers.” “Exactly,” I replied. “We need an antidote—something that detects or neutralizes the shapeshifter cells before they take root. Otherwise, we’ll be exterminated from within.” Deathskull’s voice echoed metallically. “That kind of bioweapon is complex. It would take time. Resources. Authorization.” “Then we start now.” The group exchanged glances, but I didn’t let them interrupt. The fire inside me was roaring too loudly now. “And another thing,” I said, stepping forward into the center of the room, closer to the flickering holographic map of the galaxy. “This monarchy—this outdated tradition of a single ruler holding all the power—it’s a relic. It makes us vulnerable.” Emily’s eyes lifted toward me, her expression already unreadable. “Ragnar is dead,” I continued. “And no offense, but a crown on one man’s head won’t save us from this kind of war. We need structure. We need decentralization. We need something closer to a constitutional alliance—a Galactic Parliament if that’s what it takes. The people of Vikingnar deserve more than tradition. They deserve protection.” Emily’s jaw tightened. “You’re talking about dismantling Ragnar’s legacy.” “I’m talking about keeping his people alive!” I snapped. “You think Ragnar would want the Empire he bled for to be eaten from the inside by monsters wearing our skins? Would he want his people governed by a system too rigid to adapt?” There was a pause. Then, Valrra stepped forward. “You are speaking revolution.” “I’m speaking of survival,” I growled. “These monsters—this hive—they want us divided. They want our empires to rot from the inside because we can’t adapt. A single king is a single point of failure. That’s what they’re counting on.” Emily crossed her arms, hurt flickering behind her eyes. “You sound like you’ve already abandoned him.” “No,” I said, softer now. “I’m honoring him. By making sure we’re not so blind in tradition that we let everything he fought for collapse.” The silence was thick. Then Deathskull moved, his footsteps heavy as iron. “You may be right,” he said. “Even a perfect machine has redundancy. A living civilization should be no different.” Valrra nodded. “We could form a High Council. A governing body to ensure no one leader holds unchecked power. Each planetary system would elect a representative.” I turned to Emily. “Please. I can’t do this alone. That’s what they want. They want us to isolate, to fight each other, to fracture. We have to be stronger than that. We have to be united... not as a hive mind like the enemy, but as one with individuality, conviction, and spirit.” She looked at me long and hard, her green eyes intense with emotion. Then finally, slowly, she nodded. “Alright,” she said. “Let’s make something new. Something that lasts.” Relief hit me like a cold wind. We weren’t just fighting monsters now. We were building something in defiance of them. An alliance forged not in chains, but in conviction. One that wouldn’t just survive... but evolve. As the group turned back to the glowing maps and plans, I looked down at the pale blue light reflecting across my gauntlet. If we were to become a hive of our own... Then let ours be one of fire, freedom, and soul. The flickering lights of the pyramid’s interior bathed us in a warm, sepia hue—ancient yet eerily alive, like the place itself was holding its breath. I stood at the head of the roundtable chamber, the weight of Ragnar’s crown still in my pocket, not on my head. “Before we move forward,” I said, voice firm but composed, “I want full consensus. Vikingnar must evolve. No more blind loyalty to bloodlines. No more thrones forged in the name of dead kings. We build a civilization worth defending—with structure, accountability, and law. From this point on, not defending our people, our system... that’s treason.” There were nods across the table—some slow, others hesitant, but each marked by a quiet understanding. Emily’s hand rested on the edge of the table, fingers flexed like she was gripping the weight of what was lost and what must now be rebuilt. Valrra stood tall beside her, her dark hair dimmed in the lighting, but her eyes sharp with determination. Then, Deathskull shifted, the metal of his body groaning as gears repositioned. His eyes flickered as he cleared his synthetic throat. “If we are to secure Vikingnar against infiltration and corruption,” he began, “we must also secure it against dimensional breach.” I raised an eyebrow. “You mean from the hive?” “No,” Deathskull said. “From beyond even them.” Everyone leaned in slightly. “I’ve been experimenting,” he continued, his voice low, almost reverent, “with ways to stop non-corporeal intrusions—things that don’t bleed, don’t decay. Demonic forces. Entities that phase through physical barriers. I believe their presence is growing... and might be tied to the hive's true origins.” I crossed my arms. “And your solution?” Deathskull lifted a small metallic sphere from his satchel and placed it onto the table. The orb pulsed with a dim blue glow, like a heartbeat. “This device is a frequency anchor. It disrupts the ethereal spectrum and stabilizes the surrounding matter, making it hostile to any entity trying to phase into our dimension. But it needs a mineral to work properly. One that can ground spiritual energy and physical space.” “Let me guess,” I muttered. “It’s rare.” He nodded. “Shungite. Found only on Earth.” Emily blinked. “That old stone? People used it for water purification, not banishing hellspawn.” “That’s what they thought,” Deathskull replied. “But its crystalline lattice has properties that reflect and absorb interdimensional frequencies. With enough of it, I can create a barrier strong enough to protect key strongholds—maybe even shield Immortal hosts from corruption.” A silence settled over the room like a thick fog. Everyone was thinking the same thing. Earth. A place i left behind. A home, a memory... and now, a key to salvation. I exhaled and walked to the map table, swiping my hand to zoom in on Earth’s solar system. The pale blue dot flickered into view like an ember in the void. “Then we go back,” I said. “We assemble a mining team and secure as much shungite as we can. But we do it quietly. No massive fleets. No fanfare. The last thing we need is to draw attention to a vulnerable world.” Valrra stepped forward. “And what if the hive is already there?” “Then we hunt them,” I replied. “From the shadows.” I gave a small smirk. “Good. You’ve got that diplomatic fire now.” Valrra turned to me, serious once more. “If Earth has even one of those nests... it’ll spread like wildfire. That planet isn’t ready.” “Then we make it ready,” I said. “We have no choice.” The pyramid’s metallic halls echoed with the sounds of preparation—clicking armor plates, charging cells, murmured orders. The air felt thick, heavy with the future pressing down on us. But none of that mattered at this moment. Emily stood in the doorway of my quarters, arms folded tightly across her chest, her jaw tense. Her dark hair shimmered faintly beneath the amber lights, but her green eyes—those fire-forged emeralds—held nothing but quiet fear. “You’re going back to Earth,” she said flatly. Not a question. A truth she already knew, and hated. I stood at the edge of the war table, adjusting my gear, pretending I didn’t feel her gaze digging into me like sharpened glass. “Only to get what we need,” I replied, not looking at her. “We don’t have time for full-scale mining. If I can find even a single raw deposit of shungite, Deathskull can replicate it. It’s cleaner, faster, and draws less attention.” “You’re still going alone,” she snapped. “You always want to play the martyr.” I turned, slowly, and met her stare. “This isn’t about martyrdom. Revenge. It’s about protection. We can’t afford to lose the universe to those monsters. I have to go, Emily.” She stepped forward, her voice cracking with pain. “And what if you don’t come back? You think I can run Vikingnar while wondering if you're alive, or being torn apart by something worse than Shark People?” I reached out and took her hand, gently folding her fingers into mine. Her skin was warm, trembling. She was angry, not because I was wrong—but because I might be right. “You have to lead here,” I whispered. “If we both leave, we leave Vikingnar vulnerable. That’s exactly what the hive wants—chaos, collapse, fear. You’re the only one I trust to keep the structure intact. You’re stronger than you think.” She lowered her eyes. Her voice softened, almost inaudible. “I don’t want to be strong if it means losing you.” I pressed my forehead against hers, the silence between us louder than war drums. My voice came out low, resolute. “I’m coming back. That’s a promise.” Behind her, I caught sight of Deathskull lurking near the corridor, his red optic flickering. “I hate to interrupt this... delicate matter,” he said flatly, “but we don’t have long. I’ve pinpointed a few coordinates on Earth where shungite veins might still be exposed. One in Russia, one near Lake Superior, and one buried beneath the African crust. I suggest we leave now while the cosmic tides are low.” Emily exhaled and finally pulled away, her expression hardening like steel cooled in water. “Then go,” she said, biting the words like venom. “But if you don’t come back—don’t expect me to forgive you in the next life.” I nodded once, understanding the weight behind her words. As Deathskull and I walked down the long corridor toward the ship bay, the pyramid groaned around us like it knew we were about to leave something sacred behind. I caught a glimpse of Emily one last time, watching from the observation deck as the doors closed. The shuttle we boarded was sleek, black, and whisper-quiet. Not a war vessel—something fast and cloaked. Something for ghosts, not kings. Deathskull sat across from me in the cramped cabin, adjusting some coils in a scanner with his spindly metal fingers. “I wasn’t entirely truthful,” he said without looking up. I raised an eyebrow. “That’s new.” He glanced at me, visor dim. “Even if we find the sample, replication won’t be easy. Shungite doesn't just matter. It's a memory. It’s ancient... crystallized thought. There are things stored inside it—echoes from another age. Entities that were sealed away in the Earth long before humans crawled upright.” “Of course there are,” I muttered. “Let me guess—opening the wrong vein might wake something worse.” He nodded. “It might. That’s why we go quietly. That’s why we go alone.” The ship detached from the hangar, falling like a shadow into the void. As Vikingnar faded behind us, all that remained was a distant blue planet glowing in the cold distance. Earth. Home of gods and monsters. And soon, perhaps, the final battleground. The descent through Earth’s decaying atmosphere was like sinking into a tomb. Thick clouds hung over the planet like the lid of a coffin. Below, the crust of civilization was broken—fractured highways, rusted skeletal cities, once-great monuments left to the will of time and moss. This was no longer a homeworld. It was a relic. The dropship cut across the sky like a phantom blade, trailing heat and memory as we coasted over a hollow continent. What once had pulsed with human life now sat in eerie silence—an unspoken stillness that gripped everything below. Chicago, Ann Arbor, and Detroit lay scattered in ruin. Buildings leaned on each other like forgotten gravestones. Forests had consumed neighborhoods. Rivers flowed unchecked through highways, nature reclaiming everything with patient, predatory intent. We moved lower, further southwest, into the open fields of what used to be central Illinois. Dead towns passed below in silence, half-sunken into overgrowth. No smoke. No sound. Just broken fences, twisted streetlights, rusting signs, and the ghost of order. Money Creek. We descended like vultures. The dropship came to rest just beside the creek bed—once a peaceful nature spot, now choked by shadows. The trees had grown taller here, darker, their limbs curled inward like clawed hands. The earth felt dense with memory. Not just the passing of time, but something buried deeper—grief, anger, fear. The loading ramp hissed open. A wave of stagnant air rushed in—thick, bitter, laced with metallic dust and old rot. Stepping down into the soil was like stepping into a crypt. This land remembered pain. It was woven into the roots. The sky above was a dull yellow-gray, the clouds bloated with decay and long-forgotten storms. The wind whispered across the landscape with no birdsong to interrupt it, no insects to stir the brush—just the hush of abandonment. I moved slowly across the gravel and weeds, letting the surroundings speak. The creek itself, once crystal and shallow, had become a channel of black sludge. Thick, tar-like mud clung to the banks, bubbling faintly as if something below still breathed. I scooped a bit of it into a vial. The fluid shimmered faintly under the sunlight—magnetic, unnatural, like blood remembering electricity. There was a long silence. Deathskull tilted his head. “There’s nothing in Bloomington but corn on the cob.” “I know,” I said, staring straight ahead. Deathskull surveyed the area, his sensors pinging quietly. He looked at me. “You chose this place for a reason,” he said. “This isn’t about geology. This is about... unfinished business.” I walked past him without answering, boots crunching through dirt and shattered pavement. “William,” he said, following, “this is ridiculous. Everyone you once knew here is either long dead, decayed, or turned into mulch. This place isn’t going to give you closure. It’s just going to feed your ghosts.” I stopped at the edge of the old creek bed. Trees lined the water’s edge, swaying just slightly in the breeze—if it even was a breeze. “I don’t need closure,” I said. “I need the truth. If something happened to Earth—if the Shark People, or something worse, laid the groundwork here—I need to know. This place was my hell. And hell doesn’t burn away that easily.” Deathskull tilted his head, scanning again. “There are trace energy readings here,” he finally admitted. “Buried deep. Something old. Something unnatural. But it’s faint. Could be ancient tech... could be spiritual interference. Hard to tell.” I knelt by the edge of the creek. The water, once clean and shallow, was now thick with black sediment. I scooped a bit into a small vial for analysis. Something about it was off—dense, magnetic. Alive. “This land was cursed before I ever left it,” I muttered. Deathskull finally sighed, mechanical and gravelly. “Fine. We’ll start the scan here. But if I find out you dragged me across lightyears to revisit your high school trauma, I’m logging it as emotional misconduct.” I smirked slightly, despite myself. “I’ll kick your metal ass droid.” Deathskull cracked a dry laugh as his metal feet crunched over frostbitten weeds. “I got an oil change in Money Creek once,” he muttered, eyes scanning the perimeter with half-curious boredom. I didn’t respond with a smile. Not this time. “This isn’t a road trip. Be considerate,” I warned, tightening the grip on my sword as the creek murmured behind me. The air was growing colder now, unnaturally cold for late summer in what used to be the Midwest. Mist laced the tree roots, curling up from the dark waters of the creek like ghost breath. The place didn’t feel abandoned—it felt sealed. Forgotten by time, yes, but protected. Or perhaps buried on purpose. We continued our sweep. The water lapped at our feet as we stepped into the creek bed—shallow, slow-moving, and bone-chilling. That’s when I felt it. A clank beneath my foot. Not stone. Not mud. Metal. I knelt, brushing aside a film of silt and algae. My fingers struck smooth steel—flat and wide, stretching beneath the water in rigid, man made patterns. “Platform,” I muttered. “There’s a structure under us.” Deathskull splashed over to my side. We moved slowly, palms grazing the submerged surfaces, piecing together what our feet couldn’t see. Then, near the shoreline, half-buried in the mud and cattails, I found it—a keypad panel coated in rust and dried moss, nearly invisible unless you were looking. “Over here,” I called. Deathskull approached, wiping muck from the interface. The panel blinked dimly—still powered, after all these years. Solar? Geothermal? There was no way to know. “Want to guess the password?” he grinned, already tapping in a sequence. The first two tries were met with angry red lights and a low mechanical buzz. On the third attempt, the light turned a faint green, and a deep mechanical hum resonated through the waterlogged ground. The creek shifted. With a dull groan of ancient hydraulics, a hidden hatch cracked open. The water frothed, pulled down into unseen drains as sections of the creek began to lower, revealing steel chambers and pillars that hissed and rose from beneath the surface. The moss-coated structures shimmered with a faded NASA insignia. Cryogenic pods—at least a dozen—emerged, their metal frames beaded with condensation and time. Inside them... faces. Human faces. Some old, some young. Some are almost too familiar. I stepped closer, my breath catching in my chest. I could see the frost-ringed glass of the nearest pod. Deathskull said nothing. For once, even he was quiet. We circled the array, the fog curling around our legs as if the earth itself was whispering warnings we couldn't hear. Pod after pod. People who hadn’t aged in decades—maybe longer. Some of them bore uniforms, others civilian attire from a time long gone. Some had data tags. A few were labeled as missing persons. Some had no identification at all. They were frozen, preserved beneath the surface. Deathskull knelt by one of the control consoles, his fingers dancing over the corroded interface. “This was no emergency protocol,” he muttered. “This was deliberate. A whole chamber hidden under a damn creek.” The machine hummed louder now, as if acknowledging its long-overdue awakening. I stared at the pods again. There was a purpose to this. Not just survival. Not escape. Preservation. And then the data stream cracked open. Deathskull pulled it up on his retinal HUD and patched it into mine. A security log. Last entry: August 19th, 2018. Keywords: Solar flares, deep black project, alternate dimensional incursion, early Shark mutations observed in ocean biomes… high-risk infiltration detected within military chains of command… Operation Ice Veil enacted. All assets moved to Cryo Site Delta—Money Creek, Illinois. I felt the cold creep into my bones—not just from the water or the air, but from the implications. Earth hadn’t just died from war or plague or collapse. It was hunted. They knew it. They had seen it coming. And they hid the last survivors of something—a final, desperate breath sealed under a quiet country creek. I turned to Deathskull. His expression was unreadable behind the glow of his lenses. “The sharks got them.” I said. He didn’t answer right away. Just stared through the fog at the unmoving bodies inside the pods. “I think we’re standing in a graveyard,” he finally said, “for people who weren’t allowed to die.” CHAPTER 4: "BENEATH THE BONES OF CYBRAWL" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

By William Warner Chapter 5: "The Dead Rise Again" "Vikings War In Valhalla" The frost on the glass fogged as the internal heaters of the cryo-pods slowly awakened their passengers. The hydraulic hiss of venting steam echoed across the muddy creek bed as blinking lights danced across the consoles like fading stars. And then… movement. The first pair of eyes to open were his—Taps. I froze. That face. That attitude I had buried in my memory. At first, his features were slack with disorientation. His pupils dilated under the overhead canopy of twilight filtering through the rusted trees. But the second he locked eyes with me—his expression twisted in disbelief. He flinched. So did the others as they began to stir, gasping for air like newborns breaking the surface of a nightmare. One by one, the people in the pods awakened—trembling, coughing, shielding their eyes from the pale light. They emerged like ghosts from a tomb. Their minds struggle to reconcile the present with the echoes of their last memory—before Earth fell. But all their eyes eventually fell on me. The towering figure before them. A seven-foot wolf-like creature with piercing red eyes, sinewy muscle beneath armor forged from alien alloys, and a monstrous sword strapped to his back that whispered vengeance in the wind. I could see it in their faces—terror, not just confusion. Even Taps recoiled, stumbling back from the edge of the creek where he’d crawled out. “What the hell are you?” someone muttered behind him. Taps narrowed his eyes, shaking his head. “No. No fucking way.” He pointed, disbelief twisting his voice. “That’s not you. That can’t be you.” “It’s me,” I said, my voice heavy and dry. “I know I don’t look like I used to. But it’s still me.” The silence stretched into something brittle. The only sound was the creak of shifting metal and the faint buzz of Deathskull’s scanning device as it catalogued the pod data. Taps looked me over—really looked. His gaze lingered on my claws, my snout, my eyes. Then it moved to the droid beside me, its small silver body blinking and chirping, completely oblivious to the tension in the air. “You’re standing next to… a goddamn cartoon toaster with a sarcasm chip,” Taps said flatly. “And you expect me to believe you're William?” “I didn’t come here to win a popularity contest,” I replied. “I came for answers.” A long pause followed. Then I added, more quietly, “I came back home.” Taps’s expression finally cracked. A tremble in his jaw. The bravado wavered. “Home’s gone,” he said. His voice faltered like a frayed wire sparking in the dark. “They came from the sky. The Shark People. They didn’t just invade—they devoured everything. Towns disappeared. People were eating in their homes. On the streets. Then came the others—hostile mutations. Nightmares that shouldn’t exist.” The others nodded grimly, their post-cryo stiffness giving way to rising panic. The memories were flooding back now—burning cities, screams beneath a black sky, oceans turned red. I felt the weight of it press against my chest. That old part of me—the human—aching. And somewhere in the pain… forgiveness. Taps had mocked me. But none of that mattered anymore. Not now. Not after this. We’d all been victims. “I’ve fought those things,” I said, slowly unsheathing my blade. The metal glinted like obsidian dipped in blood. “Up close. In the flesh. You think you know what they are? Try staring one in the eye while it grins with a mouth full of your friend’s bones.” Taps stared at the weapon, then looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “What the fuck, bruh. You people don’t use firearms anymore?” I scoffed, returning the sword to its place across my back. “Guns are obsolete. Energy shields, nanoweave plating, reactive armor—every galactic empire has evolved beyond bullets. Blasters bounce off elite armor like water on glass. You want to kill something these days, you get personal. You carve into the soul.” John, a lean guy with a shaved head and a NASA badge still clipped to his jumpsuit, blinked at me. “So… we’re back in medieval times? In space?” Deathskull, who had been silently interfacing with the chamber’s core system, interjected with an unusually grim tone. “You may want to sit down, John.” The droid’s ocular sensors flickered, and a holographic interface spun to life above the nearest console. A date. Cryo-Sleep Duration: 4.5 Billion Years. Everyone froze. The number didn’t register right away. It was too big, too surreal. Then it hit. Taps blinked. “Wait… no. That’s not possible.” “It is,” Deathskull confirmed. “Earth fell into stasis. Cryo-suspension anchored to a micro-reality pocket within a geological fault line. Something—someone—ensured your survival through cosmic time. You weren’t just frozen. You were preserved.” The survivors looked to one another in stunned horror, realization sinking in like lead. The civilization they once knew, the world they lived in, the friends they loved—they were all dust. Buried beneath eons. Crushed under tectonic silence. They weren’t just survivors. They were the last of the Old Earth. The air around Money Creek was unnervingly quiet, like the world itself was holding its breath after eons of silence. Tall weeds had sprouted like twisted spires across the cracked concrete and corroded walkways. Rusted remnants of park benches and children’s bicycles sat half-submerged in dirt and moss, nature reclaiming the bones of what was once a community. I stood at the edge of the creek, the rising sun of a dead planet casting long shadows across the awakening survivors. My claws flexed instinctively, the morning wind rippling across my armor like whispers of old memories. “I need to know,” I said, my voice low and steady, “who put you in those pods?” Taps turned away from the others, rubbing his arms as if the answer made the air colder. “Zach.” The name struck my gut like a cold nail. Taps continued, his eyes narrowed. “He said it was the only way. That the Earth was already gone… but he’d be back. Said he was gonna find a NASA evac ship, maybe bring help from Mars or wherever the hell was still standing. That was... before the sky caught fire.” “And he never came back,” I muttered. “No,” Taps said. “Not even a signal.” I stared across the horizon, the bleak emptiness stretching far past the treeline. The Earth had become a graveyard of broken promises. I knew Zach well enough. He always played the hero—talked a big game, promised everything, then slipped away the second the weight of responsibility got too heavy. I turned to Taps, the corners of my mouth tightening. “Yeah,” I said. “Zach can be really unreliable. Never a good idea to trust him.” Taps looked at me with more emotion than I expected—his eyes not defiant, but searching. “So… you're still mad at me?” he asked. His voice was brittle, like the question had been rotting in his throat for years, waiting for a time when it might finally be safe to ask. I met his gaze, but my face remained unreadable. “That’s irrelevant,” I replied. “We’ve got bigger things to deal with now.” He nodded slowly, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, there was something unspoken between us—not reconciliation, but an armistice. My anger was there, curled up in the shadows of my heart, but it didn’t matter. Not anymore. Emily had always told me, "Focus on what's in front of you." I could feel her voice echo in the marrow of my bones. Emily would’ve wanted this. For me to let go. For me to rise. A low humming noise pulled our attention to the cryo chamber consoles. Deathskull was still interfacing with the systems, his skeletal hands working methodically. Sparks flared beneath his fingertips, and lines of ancient code unraveled across the holo-screen like silk made of fire. “These pods,” he said, “weren't standard NASA design. There are subroutines and encryption levels that even I don’t recognize. Someone else tampered with this tech. Enhanced it. Preserved it.” Taps frowned. “What do you mean ‘someone else’?” Deathskull didn’t look up. “I mean there’s foreign technology embedded within the cryo frames—dimensional shielding, quantum stabilizers, encryption from a species I’ve only encountered once before.” “Who?” I asked. “The Greys,” Deathskull whispered. The name chilled me. I had only heard of them in cryptic records—an ancient race believed to have shaped civilizations across galaxies, manipulating time, space, and biology with the finesse of gods. If they had a hand in preserving Earth’s last survivors, then this went deeper than a failed evacuation or a Shark People invasion. This was a chessboard. And we were pawns being moved across timelines we didn’t understand. The survivors—maybe a dozen or so—had gathered their wits. Some were crying softly, others staring up at the sky, clearly trying to process that billions of years had passed. That Earth was not what it was. That the sun had aged, the moon looked fractured, and their loved ones were dust in the wind. “I… I left my kids…” one woman whispered. “I had a fiancé,” another said, holding a picture that had long faded to shadows. Deathskull turned toward me, a flicker of urgency in his lenses. “We should not stay here long. There’s electromagnetic feedback building beneath the surface. Could be a side effect of the dimensional shielding failing… or something trying to breach it.” I nodded grimly and stepped forward, rallying the survivors with a commanding tone. “We don’t have time to mourn the past,” I said. “But I promise you this—we will honor it. The world you knew is gone, but that doesn’t mean it ends here. You’ve been given a second chance—for a reason.” I asked the group about Shungite—hoping for even the faintest lead. Most stared back at me with blank confusion. The word meant nothing to them. All except one. A man with shaggy hair and tired eyes stepped forward. Cameron. I vaguely remembered him from school—a quiet kid, always scribbling geology notes in his spiral notebooks while the rest of us daydreamed about girls and Friday nights. “This is a bad place to look,” Cameron said. “Wrong bedrock. Illinois was never rich in Shungite. It’s found in Russia, mostly. Karelia, if I remember right. Or what used to be Russia…” I filed that away, nodding in silent appreciation. At least we had one scientific mind with us. “Any chance there are more of you?” I asked. “Other survivors… still under?” Deathskull’s eyes flickered as he turned to his holo-scanner. “My systems just registered faint power signatures beneath old grid coordinates in the city’s core.” We moved swiftly and quietly, traveling beneath the skeleton of Bloomington’s downtown. The old brick streets groaned under our weight as we pried open half-collapsed sewer tunnels and access hatches. Moss and time had sealed many of them shut, but the underlying hum of cryogenic stabilizers still pulsed faintly beneath the rot. After digging through layers of debris, my claws scraped against the edge of a hardened alloy panel. We found them—another chamber, nestled beneath the brick walkway like a seed buried in petrified soil. When the pods rose from their tomb, pale steam hissed into the open air. I stepped back as the chamber lights flickered on one by one. Denton. Jackson. Brody. They stirred slowly, eyes adjusting to the fractured daylight. For a moment, none of them spoke. They just stared—through me, at me—trying to reconcile the tall, armored, blue-furred being before them with the memory of the man they once knew. “William?” Denton finally muttered, breath catching in his throat. “Yeah,” I said, my voice gravel-deep. “It’s me.” Brody rubbed his face with a shaking hand, the frost still clinging to his stubbled jaw. “What the hell happened to you?” “It’s a long story,” I replied. “One with swords, empires, dead gods, and… shark people.” They looked between one another, clearly not ready to process any of this. I turned to Brody, his posture still taut with military discipline, even after eons in sleep. “You were military,” I said. “Do you know why NASA would hide cryo-pods like this all over the planet?” Brody shook his head slowly. “We weren’t told much. Only that some of us were ‘genetically viable.’ I figured it was to repopulate. If the Earth ever bounced back.” “That’s a real cutthroat way to play God,” I muttered, glancing at the others as they huddled near the open pod. He nodded grimly. “They expected extinction. They hoped for survival. These pods were never meant to be found… unless someone like you came back.” I looked out over the scorched remnants of Bloomington. So much has changed—both in the world, and within me. “What happened to the rest?” I asked. “The ones who made it onto the NASA fleet heading to Trappist-1e?” Brody exhaled, sitting on a half-collapsed support beam. “I wish I knew. They were the best chance we had—generation ships. Slow, but secure. No FTL. It was gonna take thousands of years.” I stepped forward, addressing the crowd of newly awakened souls. “They made it,” I said. “They didn’t just survive—they built civilizations. Vikingnar. Red Dragon. The entire galactic frontier was seeded by those ships. Earthlings are no longer lost. They became legends.” There was a stillness, a sobering silence as the weight of my words settled in their chests. Their families, their friends, their old lives—gone. But their legacy… alive and thriving across the stars. Some wept quietly. Others just stared, eyes wide and brimming with something beyond grief—purpose. Finally, I turned back to Brody. “One more thing,” I said. “Do you know of any NASA facility—any hidden base—that might’ve experimented with Shungite?” Brody furrowed his brow, the name flickering something in his memory. “There was talk once,” he said. “A classified lab. Arctic circle. Some project called ‘Black Core.’ Nobody knew what they were doing up there—just whispers. Shielding tech, radiation testing, maybe even interdimensional experiments. The kind of stuff that made the higher-ups nervous.” “Could they have had Shungite?” I asked. “If anyone did,” Brody replied, “it’d be them.” Deathskull nodded, already punching the coordinates into the nav system. “The Arctic vaults are buried under ancient ice—this is going to be tricky. But I can get us there.” “Then that’s our next move,” I said. I looked out over the small group—the last human seeds of a dead world—and saw something stirring within them. The fog of sleep was beginning to lift. Old instincts were waking up. The fire of survival reigniting in their blood. Earth may have died. But its children would rise again. We moved through the blizzard-lashed tundra like phantoms—our boots crunching against the frostbitten snow, flanked by jagged ice ridges and buried monoliths of rusted satellite towers. The wind howled like a voice from another world, shrieking through the skeletal remains of an old NASA Arctic facility known only by a single scarred nameplate barely visible under sheets of ice: BLACK CORE. Twenty people followed in our wake, still dazed from their resurrection, but driven now by clarity and fear. I could see it in their eyes—they’d tasted extinction and now sought purpose. A new war was on the horizon, one they didn’t yet understand, but instinctively feared. Inside the compound, everything was still. Dustless. Frozen in time. I explained as we descended through the buried levels of the base what we were truly here for—not food, not shelter, but a mineral. “Shungite,” I said, as flickering emergency lights lit our way through the tunnel network. “It’s not just some ancient carbon rock. It’s… a shield. Something about its molecular structure blocks the frequencies or vibrations these entities feed on. If we can replicate it, we can protect Vikingnar and every world we’ve helped seed.” I didn’t call them demons. That word was soaked in too much baggage—religious hysteria, superstition. But the truth was harder. Ultra-terrestrials. Beings that weren’t just from another world, but from outside our dimensional understanding. And they were bleeding through. As the stairwell ended in a frost-rimed corridor, the dim light revealed more signs of past life—broken lab equipment, abandoned workstations sealed in ice, and diagrams etched onto the walls like occult blueprints. Deathskull moved ahead, scanning for carbon deposits, while the others stayed behind to warm up near a dead power core. Brody trudged beside me, shotgun strapped across his chest even though he knew it would do little against the things we’d seen. “I still can’t believe how barbaric those things were,” he muttered. “They didn’t act like soldiers… didn’t negotiate. Just tore through us. Clawed, bit, ripped their way through our lines. None of our tech mattered. Tanks. Drones. They wanted blood up close.” He paused as we passed a wall lined with deep gouges—claw marks frozen mid-slash. “What happens to them when they die?” he asked, glancing down warily. I gestured to the scatter of jagged shark teeth on the icy floor. “They dissolve,” I said flatly. “The cartilage dries, turns brittle. They’re bio-organic, built to consume and replicate. But they won’t strip a world unless there’s prey… unless the Hive Mind sees reason to feed. That’s the pattern we’ve seen.” He bent down, picked up one of the broken fangs, its serrated edge still glistening like obsidian. “Then the only way to stop them is to starve them,” he said, eyes darkening. “Cut off their food source.” “Or shield ourselves completely,” I added. “With Shungite—enough of it, layered around cities or starbases—we may be able to keep the Hive Mind blind to us. Like covering a flame so the moths stop coming.” Brody’s brow furrowed. “And your armor? The ships? That metal… it’s alien, right?” “Graphene,” I said. “Refined and folded on an atomic level by machines that predate even our oldest records. It can take a nuke to the chest and barely show a scratch. That’s why guns are obsolete. Projectiles bounce off. Energy weapons are absorbed. You need kinetic force, close-quarters precision, and bladework.” Brody gave a low whistle. “So, what—you all turned into space knights?” I glanced down at my blade, the silver glint of Justice humming faintly at my hip. “Something like that.” Finally, Deathskull raised a hand ahead of us, halting the group. “We’ve found something.” The corridor had ended in a sealed bulkhead. A palm scanner, long-dead, lay embedded in the wall beside it. I forced it open with clawed hands, peeling back layers of corroded steel until a hiss of ancient pressure escaped and the doors slowly parted. What we saw beyond was not a storage room. Not a lab. It was a chamber. Circular. Wide. The floor is marked with ancient concentric rings. In the center was a raised platform of stone—or something resembling it—surrounded by glowing pillars etched with patterns that shimmered like circuits, but curved in patterns too organic to be made by any modern hand. And on that platform… a frame. A portal. It stood roughly three meters tall, shaped like an archway sculpted from obsidian and copper veins. Faint strands of purple energy pulsed within its hollow center, like a heart on the edge of waking. Deathskull stepped forward, scanning the arch with narrowed sensors. His voice cracked slightly, for the first time tinged with unease. “This is not NASA tech,” he said. “It predates human civilization.” The others crowded around, hushed. Some stared in wonder, others in fear. “What is it?” Brody asked, voice low. “Something ancient,” I replied. “Maybe even a doorway between dimensions. A tether point.” Dormant. I turned slowly, staring at the wide eyes of the men and women who had once been asleep in tombs of frost. Deathskull looked up from the readouts, voice steady. “This facility may have been built to contain this. Not to study it.” And I realized… we hadn’t just unearthed a key. We may have just opened a door. The room buzzed with ambient hums and slow pulses of purple light, casting a dim glow on the frost-slick walls. The air had changed since the portal awoke—subtly heavier, electric with static energy, as if something ancient was breathing again after eons of silence. Deathskull approached me, stepping away from the others. His mechanical limbs clicked softly as he leaned close, his eyes narrowing beneath his visor. “This isn’t a regular dimensional breach,” he said in a low, metallic whisper. “This is a Wraith portal.” I stared at him. The name alone sent a chill through my spine. “You sure?” I asked. His screen flickered with ancient glyphs and fractured metadata. “No doubt. The architecture, the energy signature, the residual memory imprint on the stone—all of it matches the Wraith Gate I saw archived in the Red Dragon Empire’s forbidden vaults. This thing links to the Veiled Domain.” “The Wraith dimension…” I muttered, my claws tightening around the palms of my hands. “The place where matter and memory bleed together.” Deathskull’s tone shifted, light with sarcasm, but edged with grim clarity. “Yep. A real field trip destination. And guess what? That’s likely where they mined the most pure Shungite, before the Veil collapsed and most of those miners ended up either insane or liquified.” I turned toward the softly pulsing archway, watching the inner chamber shimmer like rippling water. “I’m going,” I said. “No offense, Fuzz Commander,” he countered, stepping in front of me, “but you don’t even know what raw Shungite looks like in the Veil. And if the Wraiths are awake—or worse, aware—you’ll be torn apart before you take a step.” “I don’t need to be a geologist,” I growled. “I need to lead. And these people—our people—need someone they can trust to stay.” He tilted his head. “You’re not expendable. I am.” “No,” I snapped. “You’re annoying, obnoxious, and overly sarcastic—but also useful. You have the scans, the sensors, and the programming to survive dimensional physics. But I know combat. We both go.” At that moment, a few voices echoed down the hallway. We both turned and saw a small cluster of the cryo-awakened—Taps, Brody, Jackson, and Cameron—gathered in the corridor’s edge, pretending not to eavesdrop. Their faces, weary but alert, gave it away. “We heard enough,” said Taps, stepping forward, arms crossed. “You’re not leaving us in the dark again. Not after what Zach did. We all agreed—thirty minutes. No more.” Brody nodded. “You two go. We’ll keep everyone calm, armed, and breathing. But if you’re not back in thirty… we’re coming in.” I gave a short nod, then addressed them all directly. “This portal is not a rescue tunnel. It’s not a shortcut. It leads to a place we barely understand. You step through untrained, unarmed, unprepared… you won’t come back. Stay here. Guard each other. Do not follow.” The cold silence that followed was one of mutual understanding. They’d been betrayed before. Left in stasis to rot beneath the Earth. But now… now there was a mission, and the spark of purpose lit their eyes like embers reigniting. I turned to Deathskull. “Gear check.” He popped open a compartment in his chest, revealing two vials of quantum stabilizer and a disc-shaped relic with a hexagonal pattern etched across it. “Temporal anchor’s ready,” he said. “Just in case the Veil doesn’t like your heartbeat.” He tossed me one of the stabilizer vials. I injected it into the side of my neck—cold fire shot through my veins, and the air around me shimmered for a moment like light bending through glass. Deathskull stepped to the portal’s edge and gave one last scan. “Coordinates shifting… frequency spike stabilizing… okay. She’s holding open. Barely.” We both stood before the swirling gate, its pulsing glow wrapping around us like living mist. I looked over my shoulder once—saw Taps loading a rifle, Cameron giving us a thumbs up, and Brody silently mouthing something like good luck. And then we stepped through. Crossing through the portal was like being pulled through liquid static—our bodies stretched and snapped like shadows across an oil-slick surface. Then suddenly, we were standing on black soil beneath a bruised orange sky. The air was hot and bitter, filled with the scent of iron and burnt ozone. A ruined city stretched before us—if you could even call it that. The architecture was jagged and alien, like obsidian teeth rising out of a cracked wasteland. The buildings leaned and twisted like frozen screams, and every shattered window looked like an eye staring back. "This place looks like the inside of a migraine," I said. “It’s a demon city,” Deathskull muttered, scanning the skyline. “Or what’s left of one.” But what drew our eyes wasn’t the broken towers or the flickering torches that still burned on shattered balconies. It was the fallen titan slumped against a ruined cathedral on the horizon. Even in this nightmare landscape, it stood out like a god fallen from grace. It was a mech—Red Dragon design, unmistakable. Towering over 400 feet tall, the machine was humanoid, built like a knight from ancient mythos. It sat slumped forward, its great iron sword plunged into the earth like a gravestone. One hand gripped the blade’s hilt, the other dangled motionless over its plated knee. “Impossible,” Deathskull said in awe. “I thought these things were just propaganda.” I narrowed my eyes. “This is no prop. That’s a Gen-One Imperial Mech. One pilot, one death wish.” He scanned it. “Still has a heat signature. Faint… but not dead. Huh.” We stood there a moment in silence, staring up at the steel colossus against the swirling hellsky. “I don’t get it,” I said. “What kind of creature needs a weapon this absurd?” I raised my binoculars and adjusted the scope. The armor plating of the mech’s chest was dented and torn, claw marks ripping deep into the titanium-alloy surface. Scorched black lines streaked down its front like battle tattoos, and a section of the shoulder was simply missing—bitten clean off by something far larger than it. “Those aren’t explosions,” I said grimly. “That’s something with claws… maybe even teeth.” We made the decision to investigate. Getting up there wasn’t easy—jagged scaffolding lined its shoulder, probably built during maintenance centuries ago. The climb felt endless. Each step echoed hollowly against ancient metal. When we finally reached the cockpit hatch near the back of the mech’s crown, Deathskull lit a charge. “Hold onto your ears,” he said. A flash of white heat and a deafening crack later, the blast door buckled, smoke curling upward into the blood-orange sky. Inside, the air was stale with rot. Wires hung like veins, and the walls pulsed slightly with residual power. Everything about the cockpit was more organic than I expected, like the machine itself had adapted to its pilot over time. But then we saw him. A body sprawled at the base of the controls, half-curled in a fetal position. The pilot’s flight suit was in tatters, his skin pale and bruised. But what caught our attention immediately was the horror carved into his flesh. Parts of his face were flayed—sections of skin peeled away in a deliberate pattern. A heart-shaped carving was cut into his forehead, skin and muscle gone, exposing polished bone beneath. His lips were torn at the edges as if stretched into a forced grin… and worse still, his uniform was open. At first I assumed looters had mutilated him, but something was… off. “Check his pulse,” Deathskull said. I knelt, fingers against his neck. Nothing. No miracle. No spark of breath. Just waxen coldness. His pelvis was torn open, genitals missing—not severed clean, but ripped out, violently, and from within. Deathskull stood, grimacing. “He tore it off himself,” He said, his voice cold with disbelief. “Look at the blood pattern. It sprayed inward, not outward.” Then he slapped me across the gut when I muttered, “Guess the guy was flapping off to death.” “Not the time for jokes,” he said sharply. “This could be Maladrie’s work. You don’t know her like I do.” He leaned against the wall and tapped his head. “She’s the Queen of Malice. Demonette hag of corrupted desire. The lore says she infects the mind through lust—makes you crave suffering, even your own. Men have clawed their own eyes out just to imagine her. She feeds on shame like it’s wine.” I stared down at the carved body, the heart-shaped wound a grotesque brand. “He wasn’t killed,” Deathskull said. “He was seduced… driven mad by the whispers.” I nodded grimly. “And then she left him here to rot—probably used his suffering to power herself or something else.” We both fell silent. Even in death, the pilot’s twisted corpse seemed to stare at us, like he was warning us to turn back. But that wasn’t an option. We were here for Shungite—and there was still a chance this location might lead us to it. I glanced around the cockpit. Deathskull began scanning the core systems while I checked the auxiliary nodes. Somewhere in this cursed husk of metal, answers were buried—and if this mech survived the Veil, maybe there was a reason it died here, guarding something far worse. Somewhere in the shadows of the ruined Demon City… something had clawed this mechanical monster apart. And we were next. Deathskull and I didn’t speak as we lifted the man’s lifeless body from the cockpit. He was limp now, heavy in our arms, and the silence around us made every step feel more like a funeral march. We climbed down the long side of the mech, boots scraping against scorched plating and exposed wires. The massive machine still hummed faintly with dormant power, but whatever fight it had once seen was long over. When we finally reached solid ground again, I felt the heat of the hellish landscape rise up through my boots. The orange sky still churned above us like thick smoke suspended in a storm. All around, the abandoned demon city loomed—its twisted towers and crumbling structures watching from a distance like faded memories that refused to die. We found a clear space behind the mech, a small patch of hardened ash between two fractured support beams. Without a word, Deathskull started digging. I joined him. The soil was brittle and dry, more like compacted dust than dirt. Still, it gave way under our hands and tools. It wasn’t much, but it would do. When the hole was deep enough, we lowered the man in—wrapped in a cloak we’d salvaged from the mech’s storage rack. He looked oddly at peace down there, even with that gruesome wound cut into his skull. Whatever had happened to him, it was over now. I stood over the shallow grave and stared down, letting the moment settle in. My eyes moved from the man’s ruined forehead to the stillness of his hands, then to the scorched land stretching endlessly behind him. “I wonder where his soul goes,” I said quietly. “He didn’t die on Earth… he didn’t die in space, or even in some holy place. He died here.” Deathskull looked over at me, saying nothing at first. His face was unreadable beneath the faded plates of his helmet. “In a place like this,” I continued, “you start to wonder if there’s anywhere left for a soul to go.” He finally spoke, low and steady. “Maybe it goes where it needs to.” I nodded, though I wasn’t sure if that answer brought comfort or just more questions. We covered the grave with the dusty soil, pressing it down until the cloak was buried and only a mound remained. I reached for the pilot’s cracked helmet and planted it at the head of the grave as a marker. Then I stepped back. “I didn’t know his name,” I said, more to myself than anyone. “But he fought. He stayed in that mech long after anyone else would’ve run. That counts for something.” Deathskull nodded. “He didn’t abandon his post. That’s rare these days.” We stood there for a moment longer, the heat rising around us, the wind still dead. There was no service, no flag, no final words from the family. Just us, and the grave, and the silence of a forgotten place. There wasn’t time to linger. “We still need to find that Shungite,” I said, turning away. “Let’s get moving.” Deathskull said nothing, but he followed. The grave behind us faded into the orange haze as we moved on through the ruins—just two survivors in a broken world, carrying one less burden than we did before. The soil was dry and cracked, gray with a subtle sheen like scorched obsidian. Deathskull stood beside me, our boots pressing into the ash-laden dirt. The atmosphere was heavy—thick like oil, though there was no wind, no sound, no visible life. Only the towering ruins of the abandoned Demon city loomed in the distance like the skeletal remains of gods. “We don’t need to venture too far,” Deathskull said, his voice more serious now. “Let’s just start digging here. This realm is old… very old. Shungite could be embedded deep beneath the surface. Older than this city. Older than any Demon kingdom.” He didn’t wait for my nod—just knelt and jabbed a collapsible mining rod into the ground. The scanner lit up with a faint pulse. I followed suit, and for the next twenty minutes, we dug—scooping layers of hardened earth, chipping away at the strange glass-like stone beneath the ash. We worked in rhythm, methodical and quiet, save for the clang of tools and the occasional grumble from Deathskull about the heat. I remember pausing for just a second to wipe sweat from my brow. I turned to ask him something—and he wasn’t there. The moment hit like a sharp crack of thunder. I heard a loud thud behind me. Dirt scattered in the air as something heavy struck the ground. I spun around—and saw Deathskull crumpled in the dirt, a dent forming on the back of his metal skull. Before I could move, wings exploded into view. A Wraith Dragon—the demonic beast was sinewy, pale like stretched bone, and nearly invisible against the sky’s orange haze. Its form shimmered as though reality struggled to contain it. And clinging to the saddle was a Demon—gaunt, armored in plates of blackened bronze, its skin charred red and eyes glowing like furnace coals. It had snatched Deathskull like a trophy and was already taking off. “No!” I bellowed. I lunged forward but it was too late. The beast soared upward, flapping leathery wings that kicked dust and ash into my eyes. I saw Deathskull’s limp form hanging off the side of the saddle, his head bobbing slightly—thankfully, he was still alive. Every second the creature gained altitude, the farther they got from reach. I knew I couldn’t let this happen. I couldn’t let Deathskull vanish into this cursed realm, into whatever fate these Demons had in store for him. He was too valuable… too much of a friend. I tightened my grip on my sword, and locked eyes with the direction they were flying—toward the spires of the ruined Demon city in the distance. No time to second-guess. No time to call for help. Just me, this blade, and a burning need to get him back. Without hesitation, I sprinted after them across the craggy terrain, dust trailing behind me like a comet’s tail. Chapter 5: "The Dead Rise Again" "Vikings War In Valhalla"

By William Warner CHAPTER 6: "OBSESSION IS POSSESSION" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA" The trail left by the Wraith Dragon lingered like smoke on the wind—sharp, sulfuric, and easy to follow. My Wulver senses locked onto its distinct scent. Tracks dug into the dust, and the wind carried pieces of black, serpentine scales. I kept moving, my mind racing to catch up with my feet. Deathskull had only been a few feet behind me. Now he was somewhere in this nightmare realm, taken. I moved quickly through the broken alleys of the abandoned demon city. Twisted structures loomed overhead like shattered bones, remnants of a long-forgotten war. But as I advanced through the wasteland, a strange aroma curled into my nose—sweet, floral, eerily familiar. It smelled like Emily’s perfume. That couldn’t be right. My steps slowed. The scent wasn’t subtle; it wrapped around my senses like a ribbon, pulling me toward its source. In this place, where nothing should feel comforting, something felt almost… beautiful. That should’ve been the warning sign. Out of the shadows stepped a woman. She looked real. Alive. Human. She had tan skin that seemed to glow in the orange light, piercing dark eyes, black hair streaked with bronze, and a figure that immediately caught my attention—too perfect, too convenient. She wore a sleek black dress and leather boots, like someone plucked out of an upscale night club and dropped into Hell. “William?” she said softly, her voice trembling with relief. I blinked, frozen. “Do I… know you?” She smiled gently. “Madeline. Madeline Scoggin. You saved my sister once, back on Earth. I will never forget your face.” She threw her arms around me, her touch warm—but something sharp grazed the back of my neck. A prick, like a nail—or a fang. My body stiffened. Suddenly, the world began to tilt. My limbs have weakened. My armor retracted on its own, as if sensing no threat. My heartbeat slowed, and I stumbled back toward a collapsed wall, sinking onto a stone slab. I felt distant from myself, like I was floating underwater in a waking dream. Madeline crouched beside me, tilting her head. Her eyes shimmered unnaturally. “Why did you leave her?” she whispered. “Emily. You walked out on her. You abandoned everything.” “I didn’t abandon her,” I muttered, slurring. “I needed space. I needed… to clear my head.” “But you’re home now. With me,” she purred, brushing a hand down my chest. The haze was growing thicker. My memories of Emily—her face, her green eyes, the voice that gave me clarity—started to blur. I clenched my jaw. “This isn’t real.” “Oh, William,” she said with a mocking tenderness. “It’s as real as you want it to be.” Her words crawled into my mind like vines, and a part of me—some broken, animal part—wanted to surrender. But I dug deep, clawing for the memory of Emily. Her warmth. Her stubbornness. The way she held my hand when I was too proud to ask for comfort. And in that moment, clarity cracked through the fog. “No,” I growled, standing despite the dizziness. “You’re not her. You’re not real.” Madeline’s smile twisted. Her eyes turned glassy and black, and her skin shimmered with something otherworldly. She hissed, not with rage—but with disappointment. “You’ll regret this,” she said, vanishing into a swirl of smoke and ash. I dropped to my knees, chest heaving. My strength returned slowly, but the shame wasn’t immediate. Madeline Scoggin was my type but I do not want to have sex with this strange woman at the expense of hurting Emily Eagle’s feelings. I was being seduced against my own will. Madeline undone my jumpsuit as she began to rape me under a drugged up state. Against my own will, she was having sex with me. This was the most shameful thing I have ever felt. In my heart I knew I made a disastrous mistake. My sexual relationship was always satisfying with Emily, although, being addicted to excess sex, could’ve been the start of my downfall. They say a man that attracts more chicks, makes you more manly. The reality is, the more sexual pleasure you’re granted, the more a man loses self respect. He’s now less of a man, since he lets his access to hot women control him. It’s ironic since I was never the chick magnet growing up in Illinois. I was always the nerd. Lady’s respected me a bit better during highschool, however, they still didn’t like me. When I found Emily Eagle, I couldn’t believe what a wonderful woman I found. And now this lady is trying to strip everything pure from Emily. Madeline was not respecting our boundaries. I looked down at my trembling hands and muttered, “I almost lost myself…” But I didn’t. Emily was still in my mind, still my anchor. And Deathskull was still out there, counting on me. After Madeline had her way with me, I lay in the rubble beside her—physically spent, emotionally tangled in a storm of conflicting sensations. In the moment, it felt good… too good. But as the haze lifted, and clarity crept back into my blood like a cold wind, shame started gnawing at my chest. What the hell just happened? Madeline sat up with a smile, brushing her dark hair behind her ear. Her eyes gleamed like obsidian in the orange hue of the Wraith sky. “That was the most intense sex I’ve ever had,” she said with a playful breath. “You’ve got something wild in you, William. We’ll have to do it again… soon.” I said nothing. My mouth was dry. My muscles were stiff, my armor half retracted around me like it didn’t know what to protect anymore. My instincts were screaming. There was something I was forgetting. Something critical. Then it hit me. Deathskull. He was still out there—kidnapped, probably being tortured, or worse. I bolted upright, blinking away the daze, trying to sort memory from dream. “I have to find him,” I muttered. “I can’t stay here.” Madeline rose to her feet, her black leather boots clicking against the fractured obsidian floor. She extended a hand to help me up, and despite everything, I took it. “There’s no rush,” she said, her voice honey-sweet with menace. “You’ll see. This place grows on you.” As she led me through the twisted streets, I started regaining focus. The spell was lifting. But something still felt… wrong. My heart wasn’t beating right. My armor wouldn’t fully respond to my commands. Whatever venom was in her nail—it was still lingering in my system, dulling my resolve just enough. We walked for several minutes through the broken shell of the demon city. Ash fell from the sky like snow. A red sun hovered low behind the skyline, casting the streets in a never-ending dusk. Eventually, we approached a structure that loomed like a mountain of black steel and bone. The palace. A brutalist fortress of jagged towers, whirring gears, and glowing red runes. Its massive gates stood open, as if waiting for a conqueror to return. As we approached, I couldn’t ignore the animals lined along the obsidian walkway—massive, snarling creatures, chained to rusted spikes. Guard dogs the size of bears. And worse… Smilodons. Ancient saber-toothed cats—but each one had multiple heads. Three, four, even five. Their mouths foamed, and their battle-scarred hides were stitched together with black wire and rune-etched iron plates. Their eyes followed me. Not Madeline. Just me. “These poor beasts,” I said quietly, watching one of them gnaw at its own shoulder like it couldn’t feel pain anymore. “What did they do to deserve this?” Madeline kept walking, utterly unfazed. “They were reborn.” “Reborn?” I glanced at her. “They look like they were torn apart and sewn back together.” She chuckled. “That’s one way to put it. Here, everything evolves—whether it wants to or not. The more heads, the better. More eyes. More mouths. More teeth. That’s how you win in this place. More everything.” With an optimistic gesture she says, “The more, the better!” “Sounds like hell,” I muttered. She smiled again. “Exactly.” We stepped through the front gates into a cavernous hallway—lined with hanging chains, steel columns, and murals painted in blood. I stopped walking. “I shouldn’t be here,” I said, finally finding my voice. Madeline turned back toward me, eyebrow raised. “Oh? And where would you rather be, William? In the rubble? With that hunk of rust you call a droid? Or maybe—back with Emily, pretending to be something you're not?” I stared at her, something cold settling in my stomach. She was baiting me. Every word, every gesture—it was all designed to keep me here. To feed on my guilt, my confusion, my lust. Maybe even my soul, if I stayed long enough. “You’re not real,” I whispered. “You’re something wearing human skin.” “Does it matter?” she asked softly, stepping close. “You felt something. That’s more real than most people ever get.” I pushed her hand away. “I felt manipulated.” Madeline laughed, low and rich. “And you think your dear Emily’s never manipulated you?” I said nothing. The truth was—I didn’t know anymore. Not here. Not now. This realm twisted everything. Even certainty. But I had to find Deathskull. That truth still rang clear through the fog. I took a step back. “Thank you for the… hospitality. But I have someone to rescue.” Madeline narrowed her eyes. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You walk out that door, and you’ll regret it. This place won’t be so kind next time.” “I don’t need kindness,” I said, my hand on my sword. “I need my friend back.” With that, I turned toward the exit of the palace, the smilodons watching hungrily from their chains. I didn’t know if I’d survive another encounter with this witch—but I knew staying would be the death of me in more ways than one. And in the distance, I could still smell Deathskull’s scent, faint… but there. Still alive. Although, with all of my strength I couldn’t open the palace doors. “You’re not going to find your droid out there hun.” Madeline said in a commanding tone. As Madeline guided me deeper into the heart of her palace, the metallic groan of grinding gears echoed through the massive structure. Dim red lights cast a sickly glow along the cracked black walls, and every few paces I saw carvings etched into the metal—twisted murals of pleasure and agony, intertwined as if one could not exist without the other. We emerged through an arched doorway into a chamber unlike anything I’d seen before. The Lingerie Walkway. A grotesque spectacle sprawled before us, stretching across a grand circular hall as wide as a stadium. People—humans—intermingled with demons. Laughter and moans and screams echoed off the cold steel. It was a carnival of flesh and fire. Everywhere I looked, there were scenes of obscene indulgence. Women in tattered lingerie danced with horned beasts, while others were suspended from the ceiling by meat hooks, still conscious and forced to smile by some kind of magic. A demonic band played off-key jazz on burning instruments, while succubi danced atop tables dripping in honey and wine. To my right, a man was vomiting onto the floor, barely able to lift his head—and yet the moment he slumped, two demons grabbed him and forced him back upright. Tubes and wires were pumping alcoholic sludge directly into his stomach through his mouth and nose. That’s when I saw them. Ben and Page. “No…” I muttered. Ben was strapped to a throne-like chair, a funnel jammed between his teeth. His eyes were bloodshot, and his skin had turned pale. Page lay beside him, laughing and crying at once, her body slumped as she twitched. Both of them had syringes jabbed into their necks, pumping something into their veins in sync with the music. “What are they doing here?” I growled, backing away. “They came through the portal after you,” Madeline whispered behind me. “Or maybe they were brought through. The Wraith realm calls to those with excess in their hearts.” I clenched my fists. “They’re just lovers. They didn’t deserve this.” “Deserve’s got nothing to do with it,” she said, running her nail along my back. I shivered—not from pleasure, but from the residual venom in her touch. “Everyone here chose something. Even you.” My eyes swept the room again. To the far left, I spotted Brody and Tom, their hands cuffed to massive, smoking gaming consoles. Their eyes were locked to screens flashing blinding colors, their faces twitching with pain. The buttons on the controllers had spikes beneath them—every press drawing tiny droplets of blood. I watched Brody’s thumb tremble and pause. His scream cut through the noise as a jolt of lightning surged through his body. He slumped forward, but the chains yanked him back up, forcing his eyes to remain open. “God… what is this?” I muttered. “Fun,” Madeline whispered. “Isn’t it beautiful?” “No,” I spat. “It’s madness.” In a darker corner of the room, my stomach twisted as I saw Denton and Dominic. They were bound to tall, spiked chairs while Demonettes with bright orange skin and glowing eyes circled them like vultures. These women were striking—inhumanly gorgeous, with curved horns and flowing black hair—but their beauty masked violence. One was pecking Denton’s arm with her sharpened teeth, tearing at his flesh with surgical precision. Another forced Dominic to watch as a glowing-hot needle was inserted beneath his fingernails. One Demonette straddled Denton, raping him, as it placed a gas mask over his face. A long, coiling tube connected the mask to a glass bong-like machine on the floor, bubbling with a sickly green fluid. I didn’t have to smell it twice. Marijuana—but not like any I’d known. This stuff was infused with something darker. I could feel it even from here. A fog of euphoria and paralysis. “He’s going to overdose,” I said aloud, stepping forward. “He’ll die.” Madeline chuckled. “Not quite. Not yet. They’re kept right on the edge. That’s the thrill.” Then I saw Taps. He sat lazily in a metal chair, smiling faintly, hooked up to an IV pumping a bright yellow substance into his bloodstream. He had a lit cigarette in one hand, and another Demonette gently stroked his head like a pet. His pupils were wide. His skin gleamed with sweat. His lips kept moving, whispering something over and over: “I’m not dead… I’m not dead… I’m not…” My heart sank deeper. Then I saw him. Across the room, near a raised platform, stood a demon with shoulder-length hair, arms crossed, watching the spectacle with a smug grin. His face… My body went rigid. Zach. It looked just like him—Zach Carpenter. His frame. His eyes. That same arrogant tilt of the jaw. My old “friend.” The one who had judged me, condemned me, looked down on me for being “weak.” I froze. My vision burned red. Everything turned red. My claws unsheathed from instinct. I didn’t think. I lunged forward—howling—and aimed to rip that demon in half. But before I could even get close— Madeline’s nails slashed across the back of my neck. I collapsed instantly, like a marionette with its strings cut. My head swam. My pulse thundered in my ears. The floor spun in a dizzy spiral. Venom. Again. “I warned you,” she said, crouching next to me. “You’re still mine for now, Wulver. Don’t throw a tantrum just because you saw a ghost.” I groaned, trying to reach for my blade. My limbs wouldn’t move. Madeline leaned close, her lips against my ear. “That isn’t Zach. Just a mask. A demon wears his face because he knew it would break you.” “Why?” I rasped. “Why are you doing this?” “Because the more you struggle, the sweeter it tastes,” she purred. “Now sleep, my wolf. When you wake… we’ll talk about what you’re really running from.” My eyes rolled back. The lights dimmed. The last thing I saw was Taps waving lazily, as if he didn’t even recognize me. And then, blackness. After Madeline’s cruel interruption, another figure emerged from the shadows—a demon who announced himself with an irritating flourish. “Ah, Kotus Pleasant,” Madeline said with a smile that barely masked her disdain. “One of my best generals. You’ll find him… quite persuasive.” Kotus stepped forward, a lithe Incubi with slick black hair, eyes like molten silver, and a smile that reeked of arrogance. His voice dripped with mockery as he circled me, his movements feline and irritatingly confident. “So, the wolf wakes again,” Kotus sneered. “You look far less… imposing than I imagined.” I clenched my jaw, wanting to throw a punch straight into that smug face, but my limbs were still sluggish from Madeline’s poison. I had to hold back. Madeline took my arm, dragging me forward. “Enough of this chatter. You must be hungry.” I nodded weakly, already dreading what was coming. We entered a vast, hellish space that defied the concept of a mere room. It was a hall—a cathedral to excess and torment. The walls were covered in rusted chains, cages filled with emaciated souls, and grotesque carvings that pulsed faintly with infernal energy. The floor was slick with something I dared not identify, and the air was thick with the stench of spilled wine, rotting food, and the faint undercurrent of death. At the center was a gargantuan table—long enough to seat dozens, laden with mountains of food piled high. Roast beasts with eyes still gleaming, steaming piles of grotesque vegetables, fountains of syrupy liquids flowing endlessly. Standing over the feast was the demon chef: Gorgon. His name suited him perfectly—his face was a horrifying mask of serpents writhing where his hair should have been. His tongue flicked out like a serpent’s as he barked orders in a guttural voice. “Eat! Eat! Waste not a crumb! Gluttony is survival here!” he roared. I scanned the room and spotted Max chained to the table beside me. His torment was clear—his body was bloated and swollen beyond reason, his skin slick with sweat that shone under the flickering hellfire light. Every few seconds, Gorgon or one of his twisted servants shoved handfuls of food into Max’s mouth, forcing it open when Max tried to resist. Max's cheeks puffed grotesquely, tears streaming down his face as he choked back the unrelenting flood of meat, bread, and thick sauces. When he managed to bite down or swallow, the servants cruelly forced even more food on him. His hands trembled, bruised from futile attempts to push the food away, but the chains kept him pinned, a prisoner of gluttony. His breaths came in ragged gasps, and I could see the shame and desperation in his eyes—trapped in a hell of forced indulgence, becoming a grotesque caricature of himself. Madeline grabbed my arm again, her grip like iron. “You will sit here,” she commanded, dragging me to a stool at the table’s edge. Before I could protest, cold steel cuffs locked around my wrists, chaining me to the stool. Max chained to the table beside me, stuffing food into his mouth desperately. His cheeks were swollen, sweat slicking down his face as he forced himself to eat, his stomach visibly swelling. He looked beaten, not just physically but in spirit. “This is the gluttony chamber,” Madeline whispered with cruel glee. “Everyone here is a prisoner of their appetites. You're free from the hunger once you eat.” I glanced down at the massive plates piled before me. My stomach churned. Even the smell made me want to gag. But there was no escape. I was forced to lift the fork and shove food into my mouth, no matter how sickening. Each bite felt like a betrayal to the warrior I was—the sharp edge dulled as my gut began to swell. I could feel the weight settling, the extra pounds pressing down on my ribs and stomach. After what felt like hours of forced feeding, Madeline approached the counter with a wicked smile. Her eyes locked onto mine as she squeezed her breasts together, producing a thick, white liquid. From her breast! The milk went straight into the glass as she squeezed her nipples. “Drink this,” she said, her voice low and hypnotic. I tried to refuse, tried to summon any ounce of strength to resist, but the venom in my veins muddled my will. Before I could protest, she pressed the bottle to my lips and forced the milky liquid down my throat. Nausea flooded me, twisting in my gut like a living thing. I gagged, desperate to vomit and purge the poison—but my body betrayed me. I was trapped, my stomach bloated, my head heavy, and my spirit slipping. Madeline leaned in close, whispering, “You’re mine now. That stable, resilient warrior is crumbling. Every bite, every sip, I strip him away.” I closed my eyes, swallowing hard as the shame burned hotter than any flame. I was twenty pounds heavier already. I was becoming soft, vulnerable, and weak. And worst of all, I hated myself for it. Madeline’s grip was firm as she pulled me away from the grotesque dining chamber, her fingers curling possessively around my arm. The air grew colder as we walked through winding corridors of blackened stone, illuminated only by flickering, unnatural flames that cast long, twitching shadows. Finally, she stopped before a heavy iron door, scarred with scratches and stained with rust. She pushed it open, revealing a cramped holding cell—bare, save for a narrow cot and a small window high above, barred and letting in only a sliver of sickly green light. She shoved me inside, the door clanging shut behind me. The cold metal cuffs still bit into my wrists. “You’ll be free soon enough,” Madeline said, her voice deceptively sweet. “You and your friends. All you have to do is surrender, let go of your chains, and revel in the pleasures this place offers.” I stood rigid, glaring at her through the bars. “This isn’t freedom,” I said flatly. “You don’t get to call this a release. Everyone here is shackled to their addictions and their vices—slaves to excess and impulse. That’s not freedom. It’s… it’s repulsive.” Her lips curved into a slow, wicked smile. She stepped closer through the bars and planted a kiss on my cheek—soft, but heavy with menace. Then, with a sly, almost childlike grin, she reached through and tickled the crease of my groin. The sensation jolted me, and a wave of shame crashed over me like a tide. I stiffened, feeling less like a man and more like a trapped animal. The humiliation was suffocating. Lust and shame tangled inside me, twisting tighter with each passing second. Madeline withdrew, laughing lightly. “Oh, William. You’re such a contradiction. Trying to be a warrior, yet so easily undone by desire.” She turned and sauntered away, her hips swaying as if she owned every inch of this hellish domain. Left alone in the dark cell, the silence pressed down like a suffocating blanket. My heart pounded not from exertion, but from the simmering rage and helplessness inside me. The cuffs bit deeper into my skin, cold and unyielding—just like the prison that had become my mind. I sank into the cot, head heavy, thoughts racing. This isn’t freedom. This is captivity. They’re all trapped—Max, Brody, Denton, Dominic, Ben, Page, Taps, Max, everyone! Even Deathskull. Addicted to their vices, numbing the pain with excess. Lost in shallow pleasures to forget the reality of this hell. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. I can’t let this stand. I have to find a way out. I have to help them break free from this curse. I closed my eyes and focused on my Wulver senses, willing them to push past the lingering fog Madeline had left inside me. Slowly, the haze began to lift. Outside, I could hear faint noises—the muffled sobs of the damned, the clanking of chains, the low growls of twisted beasts. I forced my mind to steady, to strategize. First, I find Deathskull. Then, we free the others. We leave this place behind. But before that, I had to break my own chains—not just the metal ones biting into my wrists, but the chains tightening around my will. I would not become another slave to this hell. Not while I still had breath. The dim light from the barred window barely reached the cell opposite mine, where John sat slumped against the cold stone wall, his eyelids heavy and unfocused. He moved sluggishly, his limbs like a marionette cut loose from its strings. When he finally lifted his head and staggered to his feet, his gaze landed on me with a dull, glassy stare. “What are you looking at, weirdo?” he slurred, voice thick with sedation and fatigue. I shook my head, the exhaustion and frustration thick in my chest. “You’re an idiot for following me and Deathskull into the Wraith,” I said bluntly. John blinked slowly, then with a rough grunt, he obliged and spilled the truth. “I got punched—repeatedly—by some incubus named Gerald. That bastard didn’t just hit me; he forced me to… you know. Had sex with a Demonette named Cari.” His voice faltered, almost ashamed. I could tell John was sinking deeper, giving in to his lustful nature, feeding the very thing that kept us trapped here. “I told him not to fold,” I said firmly, shaking my head. “But you’re just like me with Madeline. You might enjoy it in the moment, but the guilt—the shame—that always comes after.” John scoffed and looked away, voice low and bitter. “Shame? What shame? I never loved a woman. I never even knew what that felt like.” That hit me harder than I expected. The loneliness in his admission echoed a familiar emptiness. “Then maybe it’s time to be wiser,” I said softly. “No hard feelings for wanting to smack you for being so naive, but you gotta protect yourself. You gotta care about more than just what feels good.” John looked back at me, expression dark but thoughtful. “I wish I could,” he muttered. I exhaled sharply, frustration bubbling over. “You know what? I’m done.” I slammed my fist against the cold wall. “I’m taking my droid and leaving all of you behind.” Before I could dwell further on that thought, a heavy set of footsteps echoed from the cell next to me. The door clanked open, and a tall figure stepped into view. He wore battered armor marked with the crimson dragon sigil of the Red Dragon Empire. His dark hair was cropped short, and his eyes held a dull, haunted look. He introduced himself simply: “Casey Zander. Knight of the Red Dragon Empire.” I eyed him curiously. “What are you doing here?” Casey let out a bitter laugh. “Funny thing. I used to think guys in monogamous relationships were weak, even feminine.” He shook his head slowly, voice tinged with regret. “But now, after all this… I know better. Letting sex control you? That isn’t manly. It’s self-destruction.” I nodded, sensing a shared pain in his words. “But,” Casey continued, his gaze drifting, “I don’t even remember who I am anymore. My identity… it’s like a ghost. I’m lost. A shell drifting in the Wraith’s endless night.” I thought to myself how quickly people could break down under this kind of torment—mind, body, and spirit. Casey locked eyes with me again. “You’re strong. You have a droid. Save yourself. Leave this place before it consumes you, too.” His words hit me like a cold slap. The urgency in his voice was real. “Thanks, Casey,” I said quietly. “I’ll do what I can.” The cell fell silent, save for the distant moans and muffled cries echoing through the stone corridors. I sank back against the wall, wrestling with my thoughts. The Wraith wasn’t just a place. It was a prison for body and soul. And if I didn’t act fast, I would be trapped here forever—just like John, Casey, and so many others. I sat back against the cold stone wall, breathing shallowly, my mind racing with the cruel reality that time here was warped beyond recognition. In the Wraith, eight minutes could stretch into what felt like eight years, and eight years could collapse into the blink of an eye. The sense of eternity and instant torment intertwined, crushing hope and sanity alike. It was no wonder everyone around me desperately clung to the idea of escape — a fevered, urgent grasp at any shred of freedom before the endless torture consumed them. But the worst wasn’t over. A sudden, sharp realization hit me: I had a data device tucked deep in my pocket. Not just any device — this one held memories, photos, names, history, everything I needed to keep my past and identity intact. More importantly, it held a picture of Emily — her face, her green eyes, the warmth I clung to. I couldn’t risk losing that. Without hesitation, I pulled the device out, cold metal pressing against my palm, and with a steady breath, I made a calculated decision. I took a small, laser blade hidden beneath my belt and carefully cut into my chest — just below the collarbone, where I could hide the device without it being obvious. The sting of pain was sharp, but I swallowed it, focusing instead on preserving the last link to who I was. Sliding the device beneath my skin, and crawled in deep. I sealed the wound with a thin layer of nano glue — a modern marvel that hardened like transparent armor over my flesh. I pressed gently, ensuring it stayed in place. For a moment, I allowed myself a flicker of relief. I pulled out the small, handheld laser cutter again — a slim tool I’d secretly smuggled in — and directed it toward the iron bars of my cell. The intense heat hissed as the metal began to melt away. Freedom was within reach. But before I could finish, a sharp smell caught the air: burnt metal and ozone. Madeline was back. Her eyes flared with cruel delight as she prowled toward me, nails extended like poisonous daggers. She jabbed into my hand, pain flaring like fire, and the laser slipped from my grasp and clattered onto the floor. “Trying to play hero?” she taunted, her voice dripping with mockery. “How quaint.” The laser was swiftly confiscated by a pair of Incubi guards who materialized like shadows from the corners of the cell block. They tightened their grip on Brody and Tom, dragging the two struggling prisoners toward my cell. Brody and Tom were locked in a loud argument as they were pushed inside, bickering like children about which bunk bed was better. “I’m telling you, top bunk is the way to go,” Brody grumbled, tugging at his chains. “No way, you get all the drool from whoever’s above,” Tom retorted, rubbing his wrists raw from the shackles. I cut them off with a dry voice, “I’ll take the floor.” They looked at me, surprise flickering in their eyes. I shook my head. “I’m not planning on staying here long. Neither should you.” Brody scoffed but said nothing. Tom gave a weary nod, his expression dark. Then Madeline spoke. “You’re right hun.” The incubus guards’ grip was relentless as they dragged Casey and I down the dimly lit corridor. My muscles ache from exhaustion and the lingering haze of Madeline’s drugged embrace, but a spark of defiance kept burning inside me. Every step echoed in the claustrophobic hallway until we arrived at a peculiar pink door — glossy, almost surreal, an odd splash of color in this grim place. The door slid open with a hiss, revealing a chamber that made my skin crawl before I even stepped inside. Men — many young, some barely older than boys — were lined up in neat rows, all kneeling with their pants down, their bodies trembling with a mixture of fear, shame, and resignation. Their necks rested on cold, metallic machines that held them fast, forcing their heads down so they could only look at the screens before them. The screens flickered with hypnotic images—flashing colors, suggestive figures, endless loops designed to enslave minds. I could feel the seductive pull even from a distance. Around us moved the Demonettes — stunning, lethal creatures draped in scant, shimmering lingerie that caught the dim light and reflected it like broken glass. Their eyes glowed faintly, dark and dangerous, as they prowled the room, their movements predatory. Casey’s jaw clenched beside me. “This is…” he began but trailed off, choking back anger. The incubus guards shoved us forward until our knees met cold stone. We were ordered to bend over, our pants forcibly lowered, and our necks placed onto the machines. The metal was unyielding, biting cold against my skin, and it forced my gaze downward onto the screen. I swallowed hard. “Welcome to the Reclamation Chamber,” a sultry voice purred behind me. Madeline’s presence was unmistakable, even in this suffocating place. She stepped forward, her dark eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. “This,” she gestured broadly, “is where lost souls are ‘refined.’ Where their will is broken and their desires remodeled into something... useful.” Casey spat quietly. “Useful for what? To be puppets?” Madeline smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Puppets? No. Tools. To serve, to indulge, to obey. Freedom is an illusion here, boys. But pleasure... pleasure is very real. You’ll learn to crave it, to surrender.” I fought the growing pull from the screen, images of lust and excess swirling, flooding my mind with heat and confusion. My heart hammered, not just from fear but from the suffocating weight of temptation. Casey whispered, “Hold onto who you are, William. Don’t let this place steal you.” I nodded, swallowing the nausea rising in my throat. The Wraith’s power was strong, but my love for Emily — the real world — was stronger. I had to hold onto that. For my sake. For hers. The Demonettes circled, their fingers trailing dangerously close to exposed skin, eyes gleaming with wicked intent. Madeline leaned close, whispering in my ear, “Give in. It’s easier. No pain, no struggle... only pleasure.” I bit back the urge, the shame, and the desperation. This was not freedom. This was slavery masked in velvet. “We’re not your playthings,” I said, voice low but firm. “And I won’t let this place own me.” Her smile faltered, but only for a moment. The machine hummed, and I braced myself. I dared to glance up, catching sight of one of Madeline’s generals — a being named Zuccubus, whose appearance sent a cold chill down my spine. His face was eerily familiar, a twisted caricature of Mark Zuckerberg’s, with pale orange synthetic skin stretched taut over sharp cheekbones and cold, calculating eyes that seemed to bore into my soul. The resemblance was unnerving — as if some corrupted AI had tried to model power after the tech titan and failed grotesquely. Zuccubus strode toward us, a mocking smirk curling his lips. With a swift motion, he adjusted the machines forcing us to keep our heads down, staring fixedly at the digital screens in front of us. The images flickered, and my breath caught. The screens displayed endless loops of pornography — my favorite kind — light-skinned brunettes clad in tight black leather, their bodies twisting and writhing in simulated ecstasy. The women seemed impossibly perfect, and every detail was designed to ensnare the mind. Before I could look away, mechanical arms slid out from the machines, synthetic hands mimicking feminine softness with terrifying precision. The fingers closed around me, stroking relentlessly. A cold metal rod throbbed gently beneath the touch, forcing a perverse rhythm. I gasped, struggling to resist, but the hypnotic pull was overwhelming. Around me, I heard the other men’s breaths hitch as the machines’ arms worked their cruel ministrations. The room filled with a low mechanical hum, mixed with soft moans and stifled cries. I turned my head slightly toward Casey, who was struggling to maintain his composure. “Is this some kind of brainwashing?” I whispered hoarsely, voice trembling. Casey’s eyes were glazed but resolute. “You get used to it,” he muttered bitterly. “At first, it’s unbearable. Then... it becomes your world.” My stomach churned at the thought. Suddenly, a desperate, pained voice broke through the haze. “I don’t need more!” a man pleaded. His voice was raw, edged with desperation. “I love my wife. Please... stop this.” The man’s head was forced down harder against the machine. The screen flickered to a twisted face — the Demonettes grinning cruelly. I watched in horror as the mechanical contraption attached to the man’s groin twitched violently. A sickening snap echoed through the chamber — the sound of flesh and bone breaking. In reality, his erect penis was broken through force & agony. The man screamed, a guttural, wrenching sound that seemed to reverberate in my chest. Tears welled up in his eyes as he slumped forward, broken and humiliated. The screens flickered on, showing new images — fresh waves of digital lust designed to crush resistance. This wasn’t just digital porn. This was digital rape. I fought the mounting tide of lust rising within me, the images of those perfect brunettes invading my mind. My breathing quickened. My vision blurred with heat and desire. But beneath the overwhelming sensation, a cold kernel of defiance remained. I would not let this place win. The haze of lust and agony clawed at my mind, threatening to erase everything I was — my memories, my purpose, my very identity. I was slipping, drowning in the relentless flood of synthetic pleasure and pain. But then, a sharp cry cut through the fog. A few spots down, a man named Alex was fighting with every shred of his will. His head was forced down; his eyes squeezed shut as he muttered his love for Bethany Tomlinson — the woman who anchored his soul. The machine attached to him was far crueler than mine. One of its mechanical arms gleamed with a wicked, serrated knife. It inched dangerously close to his groin. “Don’t resist!” I yelled, my voice hoarse and raw, desperation lending it strength. “It’ll get worse if you do!” Zuccubus suddenly appeared beside me, his pale face twisting into that mocking smirk again. His cold eyes bore into mine as he spoke, voice silky and venomous. “Just use my invention, fuzzy kid,” he said, drawing out the words with sick satisfaction. “The chicks like you. You can have any woman you want.” His hand flicked a switch on my machine. The screen in front of me shifted, and there she was — Bethany Tomlinson. Her face was delicate and familiar, framed by soft chestnut hair, her eyes glimmering with warmth. She was my type, the kind of woman that could hold a man’s heart. A familiar ache settled deep in my chest. I fought the rising heat, the pulling desire, trying to resist. Zuccubus’s eyes narrowed as he sensed my faltering will. “Use it,” he ordered the machine coldly. Suddenly, one of the mechanical arms slid forward, the knife gleaming in the dim chamber light. Panic surged. “No! This is stealing!” I gasped, struggling weakly against the restraints. Before I could react, the blade plunged into my abdomen, just beneath my ribs, near my liver. A sharp, searing pain exploded through me. I gasped, choking on the shock. The mechanical arm began its slow, deliberate path downward — closer and closer to my groin. Alex’s voice broke through the torment. “Do it... just masturbate for Bethany... for your survival,” he begged, his voice trembling with desperation. My pride screamed in rebellion, but the pain and pressure left me little choice. Shame suffocated me as I obeyed, my hand moving involuntarily. The synthetic hands intensified their grip, forcing compliance. Warm shame mixed with the metallic tang of blood as I released, my body betraying me in the worst way possible. And then, the screens shifted again. Page’s face appeared. Her eyes — wide, frightened, vulnerable. The flood of emotions nearly broke me: regret, anger, sorrow. I barely had the strength to whisper, “No... not you.” But the images kept coming, relentless, each one clawing deeper into my fractured mind. The torturous haze clung to my body like a suffocating shroud. Every muscle aches, every nerve screams exhaustion. The relentless assault on my senses had drained me deeper than I’d thought possible. My mind felt fragile, like a cracked mirror threatening to shatter with the slightest pressure. Zuccubus stepped back from the machines, striding toward the door with a twisted grin. I caught snippets of his voice, cold and cruel as he gathered with his demon brethren in the corridor outside. “Ha, he will never need Emily again. Sure she's his type, he needs more though... he will never find Emily Eagle again,” Zuccubus sneered. Emily Eagle. The name struck me like a shard of ice, foreign yet familiar, elusive as a ghost in my fragmented mind. Who was she? Why did that name sting more than any pain I’d endured here? But there was no time to linger on that mystery. The demons returned, Zuccubus grabbing me by the arm and dragging me through winding corridors until we reached another chamber — stark, sterile, and utterly disorienting. The walls were smooth and blindingly white, padded like a high-tech asylum designed to contain the most dangerous minds. There were no windows, no light but the soft, diffuse glow embedded in the walls themselves. The silence was deafening. Before I could process where I was, a cold metal straightjacket slipped over my shoulders and locked tight, restricting my movement like a cage for a wild animal. “Welcome to the nut house,” Zuccubus hissed, his voice dripping with mocking delight. Left alone, I sank to the cold floor, head bowed, trapped in the quiet prison of my own thoughts. At first, I couldn’t tell if I was awake or drifting through a memory — the boundaries between reality and illusion had long since blurred here. Suddenly, I was a small boy again — no more than ten — at summer camp in Bloomington, Illinois. The sun was hot, and the laughter of other children echoed around me. But instead of feeling joy, I felt terror. The older girls there, pretty and cruel, had made me their target. Their teasing was relentless, their words sharp knives disguised as jokes. They chased me through the woods, corners forcing me to cower, their eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. One of them, her voice cold and serious, had threatened to kidnap me — to keep me forever against my will. I could still feel the chill of that threat as if it were whispered in my ear yesterday. From that day, I learned to hide — to act unappealing, to push away the very affection I secretly craved. I became a ghost among my peers, invisible and unreachable. But the memory faded, replaced by a sudden, vague recollection of someone else — a face I could almost see, a name I struggled to grasp. I tried to summon her from the depths of my mind, but it was like grasping at smoke. I couldn’t remember my girlfriend’s face or name. It was maddening. A soft voice echoed in my mind, fragile and distant. Emily... Was this the same Emily Eagle that Zuccubus mentioned? Was she the reason I was here, tangled in this web of torment and illusion? I clenched my teeth, fighting the rising panic. “No,” I whispered to myself. “I have to remember. I have to find her.” But the silence swallowed my words. The white chamber was a prison not only of my body but of my mind. Surrounded by that sterile blankness, I clung desperately to the shards of my memories — but they were fractured, twisted. The good ones, the ones that gave me hope and strength, slipped away like mist in the wind. All that remained was bitterness, resentment, and a gnawing sense of loss that corroded my spirit. Then the door slid open with a soft hiss, and Madeline Scoggin entered. Her lime green yoga pants clung tight to her lean legs, and the black belly tank top revealed a flat, toned stomach beneath. Her athletic build was undeniable — a predator’s grace in human form. But something about her presence only deepened the hollowness inside me. I wasn’t blind to the fact she was attractive. I’d been with her more than once in this hellish place. But every touch, every kiss, every whispered promise was a lie that echoed empty through my soul. There was no warmth. No meaning. Just the cold, mechanical grind of lust used as a weapon. I didn’t believe in God — not in the traditional sense — but I knew there was such a thing as a soul. Something beyond flesh and desire. And in this place, Madeline had no soul. Neither did I. She approached me, eyes glinting with her usual cruel amusement. “Ready to get to work, sweetheart?” she purred, sliding the straightjacket off with expert hands. I rubbed my wrists, flexed my fingers. “What’s the plan?” I asked, wary. “We’re preparing a feast for your friends,” she said with a sly smile, “and I want you to help make it perfect. Maybe this time they’ll feel... satisfied.” I nodded, knowing refusal wasn’t an option. As much as I hated her, Madeline was the key to survival here. For now. The dining chamber was a grotesque parody of a banquet hall. Massive tables groaned under heaps of grotesquely oversized food — roasted beasts with eyes still glazed, steaming piles of forbidden fruits, rivers of thick sauces that dripped like poison. The air was thick with the sickly sweet scent of excess. I found myself in the kitchen area, prepping dishes under the watchful eyes of Demonettes and incubi alike. My hands moved almost on autopilot, slicing, stirring, seasoning — trying to summon some pride from my skill. When I finally brought the feast to the table, the room filled with hungry voices and delighted murmurs. My friends — broken, defeated — began to eat with an almost ravenous hunger. Max, bloated and sluggish, gave me a tired smile. “You actually did good, man,” he said between bites. Even Casey managed a nod of approval, though his eyes remained hollow. The Demonettes flitted among us like wicked fairies, their laughter tinkling like shattered glass. An incubus named Jose — slimy, slick, and impossibly charming — handed out tiny candies that glittered with unnatural light. “Try these,” Jose whispered to each of us, voice oily. “They’ll make the emptiness go away.” I took one hesitantly, feeling the candy melt on my tongue. Almost immediately, a gentle numbness spread through my limbs. The crushing weight of purposelessness began to lift, replaced by a faint, euphoric haze. “Feels good,” Evelen murmured. Brody's blond haired sister. Her eyes were glazed. “Like a warm blanket for your brain.” But as I watched them all, savoring the numbing sweetness, something inside me recoiled. This wasn’t freedom. This wasn’t living. It was a cage — gilded with pleasure but locked tight with chains. I looked down at my hands, trembling slightly. Cooking was a gift — a talent I’d once cherished. But here, it felt like just another distraction, another trick to keep us sedated in this nightmare. “This isn’t right,” I whispered to myself. “I’m not meant to be this... this puppet.” Madeline caught my eye from across the room, her smile razor-sharp. “Enjoy your little feast, warrior,” she said. “It won’t last long.” I clenched my jaw, knowing she was right. This place was a prison of pleasures that only chained us tighter. And no matter how many feasts I cooked or candies I took, the emptiness inside would never be filled — not until I escaped. Not until I remember everything. I still remember my name, date of birth, places I lived in. But I have forgotten something extremely important… I needed to figure out what it was. CHAPTER 6: "OBSESSION IS POSSESSION" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

BY WILLIAM WARNER CHAPTER 7: "BEDLAM'S BASEMENT" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA" The air in the dining chamber was thick with grease, rot, and something worse — despair. Forks scraped against plates, laughter from the Demonettes echoed like broken music, and our minds drifted in a haze of sedatives and illusions. Ben wasn’t so lucky. He was slumped in a chair at the end of the table, a gallon-sized jug of frothy amber beer shoved between his shaking hands. Two incubus guards flanked him, their whips raised high. The lash cracked down across his back each time he stopped to cough, spit, or sob. His eyes were bloodshot. A stained plastic bag hung in his lap, half-full of vomit. "Drink," one of the guards snarled, voice like grinding gears. "Let go of your restraint. You know you want this." Ben took another gulp, gagged, and vomited again. I stood slowly, heart pounding. “Why are you doing this to him?” I asked, keeping my voice calm but firm. “What’s the point?” Madeline stepped forward from the shadows, arms folded across her chest. Still wearing her slutty lime green yoga pants. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Pleasure,” she said softly, “is the most efficient form of freedom. If you indulge in it long enough, you forget the outside world ever mattered.” Ben moaned, a wet, guttural sound that was barely human. Then one of the incubi turned to me. “You're all being prepared,” he said flatly. “The Underground is next.” I blinked. “Underground?” Madeline nodded. “A place beneath even this. Where your real memories sleep... and your real temptations wait.” A shiver ran through me. I looked back at Ben, then at the others — survivors, once strong, now shadows of themselves. Something was coming. Something worse. And I knew — if we didn’t find a way out soon, we might not come back the same. Or come back at all. The metal platform vibrated beneath our feet, lowering us deeper into the bowels of the Wraith’s underworld. The elevator shaft was no ordinary tunnel—it was a grotesque museum of Earth's most infamous ideologies and empires, twisted into mockery. Flickering holo-projectors lit the curved walls. Nazi flags curled like rotting petals in the stale air. Tattered Confederate banners hung beside rusted swords and piles of brittle skulls topped with Soviet hats and turbans. Weapons from every age were mounted like trophies—machetes, flamethrowers, bio-bombs, archaic flintlocks. Pages from every holy book—Bible, Quran, Torah—were encased in plexiglass frames, stained in ink and old blood. The elevator groaned as we passed a massive mural etched into obsidian stone: a snake eating its tail, its body composed of masses of humanity—half in ecstasy, half in agony. I turned toward Madeline, who stood proud at the front of the platform like a tour guide for Hell itself. “What are a bunch of degenerates doing with militant control group artifacts?” I asked, voice hard. The words weren’t even cold when her nails slashed across my cheek. It wasn’t a deep cut, but it stung—more for what it symbolized than the pain. “I warned you about that word,” she hissed. “Degenerates? That’s their word. The tyrants. The control freaks. The priests. The patriarchs.” I pressed my fingers to the scratch. Warm blood beaded at the surface. Madeline’s tone softened, becoming saccharine as poisoned honey. “Look around, hun. All these groups—they had their time. They ruled with iron fists, twisted minds, and holy fire. But they’re long gone now. And we’ve moved on… to something better. Something more honest… Me!” Her grin stretched unnaturally. “We indulge, because it makes us free.” I stepped closer, not because I trusted her—but because I had to understand. “This isn’t freedom,” I said. “This is just the same tyranny, wearing lingerie and laughing at the rules it broke. You’re just another cult.” Madeline chuckled. “Then this is the fun cult.” We passed deeper, the light dimming until only orange glows lit the shaft. Behind us, the others were silent—eyes forward, minds wrapped in a fog of despair and chemicals. Even Ben, who had once defied them, stood quiet now, a bandage around his mouth and the stink of dried beer on his skin. I turned to Madeline again. “You say this is about liberation. But I’ve always believed in democracy—flawed, sure, but at least it asks questions. What you’re doing… this isn’t consent. It’s coercion through pleasure.” Madeline waved her hand dismissively. “No one’s forcing anyone.” “You stabbed me for resisting,” I reminded her. She rolled her eyes. “And now look at you—so calm. So relaxed. All the sex, all the chemicals—they’ve made you less violent. Less likely to hurt innocent people like me.” I stared at her for a long moment. “What about pleasure at the expense of others? What if what I want… hurts someone else?” Madeline stepped closer, her breath hot against my ear. Her voice was silk over blades. “Who gives a damn what others think of you?” she whispered. “Just take what you want.” I felt my stomach twist. Then she leaned in again. “And if your desire is to get violent, or hurt others—” her smile widened, eyes glowing like reactor cores—“then I’ll just tell you who to hurt.” That’s when I knew. This wasn’t freedom. This wasn't a pleasure. This was control masquerading as hedonism. A new order, one without uniforms or flags, but ruled by appetites and algorithms that rewired minds with indulgence instead of chains. This cult didn't want slaves. It wanted worshippers—who thought they were free. The elevator came to a stop with a jolt. A massive gate stood before us, carved from the bones of fallen creatures and adorned with pulsing veins. The Underground. It reeked of damp lust, hollow laughter, and buried truth. And we were being ushered in as pilgrims to the god of excess. As the bone gate groaned open, a hot blast of fetid air rolled out, thick with sweat, blood, and sulfur. The atmosphere shifted—denser, heavier. Not just physically, but spiritually. I could feel it pressing on my chest, clawing its way into my throat like invisible hands trying to pull my soul down into the bowels of depravity. The final floor was unlike anything I had seen before. We had entered The Vault, an underground coliseum of torment and pleasure—a labyrinthine dungeon of steel mesh walkways, flickering red spotlights, and stained floors that looked permanently wet. The air vibrated with screams, laughter, and the constant hum of electrical current running through the walls. Madeline turned toward us with a smirk. “This... is where the real believers come to test themselves.” The first thing I noticed was a man—a human—strapped to a rusted metal cross, arms stretched wide. His back was flayed open, strips of skin hanging like crimson ribbons. Three demonettes circled him like vultures, each one cracking a different kind of whip. Their movements were elegant, almost ceremonial, as though pain itself were a dance. The man’s eyes rolled back into his head, caught in the trance of pleasure-pain. I couldn’t tell whether he was sobbing or laughing. Madeline motioned to him casually. “Some seek truth through agony. The body knows what the mind denies.” Further in, I saw a woman crouched in a corner of a padded cell—her veins darkened, her skin pale with blue blotches. Arrows were embedded in her limbs, the shafts trembling slightly as her body convulsed. At the tip of each arrow, miniature syringes slowly emptied their contents—narcotics of the worst kind. Fentanyl. Ketamine. Psychoactives designed to overload her pleasure centers while severing her sense of time, reality, and memory. She looked up briefly, eyes wide but unfocused. Her lips moved, forming the word “please,” but no sound came. I felt bile rise in my throat. I turned to Madeline. “You’re torturing them,” I said, barely able to keep my voice steady. “No,” she replied coolly. “They’re choosing this. Every soul down here signed the contract. The Wraith doesn't take prisoners... It takes volunteers.” She reached into her robe and pulled out a thick, black ledger bound in a stitched hide. When she opened it, I could see page after page of names, each signed in black ink that shimmered faintly. My own name was there, somewhere. I didn’t remember signing it. Then came the warriors. Towering over both human and demonette, the brutish enforcers stood along the perimeter like ancient statues—waiting, watching, breathing slowly through gnarled nostrils. Their skin was leathery and sun-dried, a burnt orange hue like mummified flesh left under alien suns. Some still bore remnants of tattoos or branded runes—half-forgotten tribal symbols, cult marks, military insignias from extinct empires. Each had a unique face, though they all followed the same brutal anatomy: flat, bat-like faces with slitted, reptilian nostrils; conical heads that stretched backwards like helmets forged from bone; long, forked tongues that flicked through yellowed fangs. Black, pupil-less eyes reflected no light—only the void. They had no genitals, no identifiers of pleasure or reproduction. Their power didn’t come from lust. It came from submission to the system, from enforcement. They were punishment incarnate. Backwards-bent legs like those of a raptor allowed them to move with terrifying precision. Their hooves clanged against the grated floors as they shifted positions. And their horns—each different in length and shape—protruded like natural weapons, crusted with dried blood or gold leaf. “These,” Madeline whispered, as if proud of her collection, “are the Wrathborn. Born from desires that can’t be satisfied. Rage, vengeance, obsession. They have no will—only directives.” I asked her, “Who gives the directives?” She didn’t answer. Instead, she stepped closer, placing her hand on my chest. “You feel that emptiness again, don’t you?” I nodded. “That’s not guilt. That’s your old self dying,” she said softly, almost motherly. “You’re shedding your human skin. And soon, if you’re strong enough, we’ll find what lies beneath.” I pulled away. “And what if I don’t want to know?” Madeline’s voice hardened. “Then you’ll rot above with the sheep—drifting from one delusion to the next, living for dreams that were never your own.” A scream echoed from deeper in the Vault. It wasn’t just pain. It was despair. The kind of despair that gnaws on your soul until nothing is left but instinct. I looked at the survivors. Ben was breathing heavily, eyes glazed over. A few others stared blankly at the scenes unfolding, unable to process it. The candies they were fed earlier must’ve dulled their nerves, softened the horror into something they could tolerate. I remained sober. Whether by luck or fate. And I realized something chilling: These people weren’t being forced into this nightmare. They were slipping into it. Like gravity pulling them deeper the moment they stopped fighting. And if I didn’t resist—even in the smallest way—I would fall too. The temperature in the air thickened with the stench of iron and sweat as Madeline escorted the survivors and I off the platform. Behind us, the elevator groaned back up the shaft, its chains clanking like the laughter of ghosts. We stepped onto the solid blackstone floor, heat rising beneath our boots as the smell of scorched bone mixed with sulfur. We walked through the Training Grounds of Wrath, where the Wrathborn demon warriors clashed in mock battles. Towering brutes with armor made of chainmail and cured flesh dueled each other using crude cleavers, energy halberds, and sharpened metal fists. They didn't spar for technique or honor; they fought like rabid beasts—each strike meant to tear, to kill, to devour. Sparks flew from weapons. Blood splattered on walls. Even training here was an act of butchery. Madeline said nothing as we passed, but her eyes gleamed with anticipation, as if she were guiding us to a crescendo—a performance we hadn’t yet understood. We moved beyond the carnage and entered a towering corridor. The walls were constructed from fused bones, ancient skulls stacked so densely they formed pillars. As we walked, I noticed each skull bore a different mark: tribal sigils, collapsed empire symbols, corporate logos. All the dead belief systems—devoured and repurposed as architecture. Ahead loomed a massive archway of fused rib cages and molten iron. Firelight pulsed behind it like the heartbeat of a buried leviathan. We entered the Skull Throne Room, where the air was no longer just hot—it was alive with pressure, like a volcano seconds before eruption. And there he was. Seated atop a mountain of bleached skulls and charred shields sat the Lord of Violence. His body was immense—easily twice the size of the other Wrathborn. His limbs were gnarled with muscle, veined like rivers of lava, his skin a darker orange, mottled with black callouses from centuries of battles. His horns protruded from both the front and back of his head, curving around like a grotesque crown forged from obsidian. The ones at the back swept like scorpion tails. His face mirrored his soldiers—flat and bat-like—but when his jaw opened fully, a second jaw beneath revealed gleaming mandibles, clicking hungrily like a hunting insect. He sniffed the air as we approached. “Ah,” he growled, voice as deep as tectonic movement. “Fresh offerings.” He closed his mandibles, let his forked tongue flick out, and stepped down from the throne. Each step made the floor tremble. His eyes locked onto me. “I am Caine,” he said. “Once a god. A god of war. A god of blood. Feared across five solar sectors. Worshiped by fleets. My name was burned into the minds of children before they learned to speak.” He circled me slowly, his presence suffocating. “But even gods die. When the galaxy turned soft, I was left without worship, without armies, without purpose. And then she came.” He gestured toward Madeline, who stood smiling, arms folded. “She did not try to stop me. She did not shame me. She simply whispered... You don’t have to pretend anymore. You are not a god. You have a desire.” I stared into his black eyes, searching for deceit. There was none. Only a calm certainty—like a priest who found a new gospel. “Madeline,” he continued, “didn’t ask me to lead more armies or start another war. She told me I could do what I was made for. Not in the name of empire or control, but simply because it pleased me.” I swallowed, heart pounding. “You gave up being a god... to be her servant?” Caine laughed—a sound like boulders grinding together. “No, child. I didn’t become her servant. I became her believer.” Then he leaned in close, his massive, hot breath washing over me like steam from a boiling grave. “So, tell me, William of the Above. What is it you desire?” I hesitated. All the memories of war, suffering, corruption, and madness ran like flashing images behind my eyes. The Wraith. Earth’s collapse. The broken empires. The fake heroes. The hollow pleasures. “Some freedom,” I said. My voice came out dry. Caine tilted his head. “Freedom... Freedom. But desire—that’s real freedom. That’s primal. That’s eternal. You think you want freedom, but what you truly want... is to be unchained.” He grabbed a rusted chain from a nearby rack and threw it at my feet. “So go on. Pick it up. Feel the weight of it. You don’t break chains here. You wield them.” I looked horrified. “This is a cult.” Madeline smiled. “No, William. This is a sanctuary. A temple where no one judges what you crave.” I shook my head slowly, staring at the chain on the floor. It pulsed faintly—like it could hear my heartbeat. “You say this is freedom,” I whispered. “But it’s just another kind of leash.” Madeline stepped toward me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “No, love. It’s only a leash if someone else is pulling it.” I stared at her, and something inside me snapped. Not from anger. Not from fear. But clarity. “I’ll never be one of you.” Caine stood still for a moment, then chuckled. “Then run, little wolf. But remember... in the Wraith, even your rebellion feeds the machine.” The survivors and I turned, making our way out of the Skull Throne Room as the shadows grew behind us. This wasn’t freedom. This wasn't a pleasure. This was a prison dressed as a paradise. And if I didn’t escape soon, it wouldn’t just devour my body. It would eat my will. I was hard-pressed to accept it, but the truth stared me in the face: these so-called Wraith gods—once worshipped, once feared—had all fallen. Not by war or betrayal, but by indulgence. Seduced by their own desires until they forgot what they were. They weren’t gods anymore. They were followers. Of her. Of Maladrie. I turned to Madeline just as she began to shift. Her skin shimmered, shedding the illusion of a mortal woman like the peeling of old flesh. It darkened to a lustrous, sun-scorched orange, smooth but radiant like magma-glazed stone. Her once-human face became subtly more angular, unnaturally symmetrical—still beautiful, but no longer real. Her black hair stretched down her back like liquid shadow. Small, elegant horns curved from her forehead, slick and sharp. The rest of her followed: black leather wrapped her now-demonic body in tight, cruel geometry—underwear shaped like armor, thigh-high boots laced like corsets. Wings unfurled behind her, leathery and wide, flexing with a predatory grace. Still her eyes glowed that soft, inviting violet. “You see now, don’t you?” she said softly, stepping toward me. “I never lied, William. I only shed the mask when you were ready.” “You’re Maladrie,” I whispered. “The one the Wraith speaks of is like a myth.” “Not a myth,” she purred. “Just a desire strong enough to be worshipped.” Ben stumbled back, clutching his head. “She’s not just a demon—she’s inside people. She gets in their heads.” I took one more step back, staring at her wings, her form, her face. “You don’t need chains or fire. You make people want to give themselves away.” Maladrie smiled. “Because deep down, everyone wants permission to fall.” We passed the Skull Throne with solemnity. Caine—once a god, now merely a monstrous disciple of indulgence—gave us a quiet nod as we crossed the obsidian walkway that trailed through his lair like a serpent’s tongue. His hulking silhouette lingered behind us, watching, but not following. Beneath the bridge we now walked across, a river of blood churned thick and slow like boiling tar. Limbs bobbed in the current—arms frozen in agony, legs twitching with residual nerve spasms. Skulls rolled like forgotten relics beneath the surface. The scent was coppery, heavy, clinging to the back of my throat like old metal. Brody nearly slipped, catching himself on the bone-shaped railing. “Jesus,” he whispered. “Where the hell are we going now?” I didn’t answer. Because I didn’t know. On the other side of the bridge, the temperature dropped. The architecture tightened. The path led us into a narrow black hallway, carved not by design but by a force too alien to care for symmetry or aesthetics. The walls were moist, veined like muscle tissue. Faint blue light pulsed from behind the fibrous crevices, like a heartbeat—alive, and watching. Then the corridor opened. And we stepped into madness. This was not pain for pain’s sake, nor was it indulgence masquerading as pleasure. No—this was a laboratory of disturbed desire, where the physical limits of flesh were violated in the name of something darker than lust. Slabs of slick steel stretched across the chamber like operating tables, each one occupied by a living victim. Men, women, and species I couldn’t even recognize—all of them were opened like books, their organs twitching beneath the unforgiving fluorescence. And yet… they breathed. Their eyes blinked. Their mouths trembled with muted screams, unable to die, unable to escape. The ones performing these surgeries were not demons. They were something worse. They looked like the grays you’d see in pop culture—short, lanky, and hollow. But these weren’t the cute E.T.s from a Spielberg movie. No. These were corpses animated by hate and perversion. Their skin was decayed and paper-thin, mottled and translucent, clinging to their frames like soaked gauze. Their eyes were smaller, deeper set, ringed in necrotic black. Their faces were tight and stretched, exposing jagged teeth in constant snarls. Each of them had protruding skulls with exposed veins, and from the back of their heads jutted thin spines—like insect antennae—connected by pale webbing that quivered whenever they moved. They operated with precision, slicing, injecting, probing—as if pleasure and pain were interchangeable. Ben retched. I pulled him close to keep him from falling. One of the rotting greys looked up from his work. He approached us, blood dripping from his claws. Maladrie didn’t flinch. “This is Sector R,” she said, her voice chillingly calm. “Where trauma is studied, recorded, and… experienced.” The grey hissed, but Maladrie waved her hand. “They’re with me.” The thing backed away, uttering a low clicking sound. Its throat bulged as it swallowed something—something wriggling. Ben stared at her, pale and trembling. “Why are we here?” Maladrie’s smile faded. “Because you need to see what happens when pleasure is misunderstood… when desire becomes labeled as obsession.” I narrowed my eyes. “Is that what this is? A warning?” “No,” she replied, turning to face me fully. “This is your test.” She gestured forward. Another hallway lay ahead, lit by flickering red lights and echoing with distant cries. “You want freedom?” she asked me. “Then understand the cost. Accept your desires, and live with them.” I glanced at Ben. Then back to her. "And what about you?" I asked. "What did you want?" Maladrie looked away—just for a second. But in that second, I saw something flicker in her violet eyes. “Redemption,” she whispered. “But I found something better.” Without another word, she led us forward. And I realized: We weren’t just walking through a nightmare. We were becoming part of it. The chamber pulsed with an eerie silence—thick, heavy, breathing. From the rows of dissection tables and surgical horrors, one of the ET demons stepped forward. Taller than the rest. Its eyes glowed faintly from the hollow pits of its rotting face, and its ribbed spine twitched beneath the veil of webbing that dangled like torn silk. It hissed in a voice that sounded like metal scraping on bone. “We betrayed our god… for her.” It motioned toward Maladrie, who stood in the shadows, wings folded behind her like the curtain of a fallen theatre. Her expression was unreadable—serene, even proud. “He wanted restraint. We wanted to feel,” the creature said, bloodied hands gesturing to the room. “So we cut… and we learned what it means to transcend morality.” The survivors whimpered beside me. I said nothing. I was trying to understand. Trying to resist vomiting. The creature turned and pointed one bony digit toward the walls. “Look.” The walls were not stone. They were people. Or what was left of them. They formed massive fleshy tapestries—skin fused to stone, limbs stretched out like canvas. Faces blurred, twisted, melted together into one another. Some still had eyes. Eyes that blinked. Watched. Begged. Lips trembled, whispering prayers or curses, stitched into silence. “They are still alive,” the ET demon rasped. “A living record. Our gallery of guiltless pleasure.” I stared in horror as one wall-panel twitched. A bulbous eye opened within a mouth, and a muffled scream echoed beneath the thin membrane of tissue. And then the creature pointed again. This time, to the far end of the room—to something hanging like a grotesque tapestry centerpiece. The fallen god. He was pinned to the wall, crucified not with nails but hooked wires. His skin was peeled from his limbs, revealing raw muscle and blackened veins. The fingers were stripped to the bone, tendons trembling with every shallow breath. His head, mounted sideways like a half-finished portrait, gasped—mouth opening and closing like a fish choking on air. “He was a god of order,” the creature whispered. “But Maladrie taught us that pain… is a better architect.” I looked at Maladrie. “Why?” I asked her softly. “Why do this?” She stepped into the red light, her demon form glowing with predatory grace. “Because these gods thought they could contain the Wraith. But I let it loose… I let you loose.” She smiled. “And soon… you’ll thank me.” The air grew colder and wetter as we descended deeper into the facility. The corridors were wide and dimly lit, their steel walls slick with condensation—or maybe something worse. A slow drip echoed down the tunnels like a heartbeat in decay. The deeper we went, the more twisted the surroundings became. This wasn’t a lab. This was a nightmare sculpted into architecture—walls made from surgical steel, yes, but also at times stitched flesh, veins running through conduits like tangled cables pulsing faintly with life. Our path was flanked by thick windows—glass walls that revealed horrifying displays within isolated chambers. Each room contained a story… or rather, the consequence of a desire given form. The first horror was a man being transformed into a living chair. His limbs were folded and nailed into shape, muscles pinned beneath decorative, quilted leather made from his own skin. Bones protruded where ornate chair legs were meant to be. His mouth was kept wide open with metal hooks, forming the chair’s hollow cushion. His eyes were fixed upward, blinking in cycles of despair as his muscles involuntarily twitched. On his back, words had been carved with precision: “Loved furniture more than family.” We kept walking. The next room revealed a grotesque fleshy hybrid of man and machine. A man’s torso was fused into the dashboard of a car made from sinew and bone, his eyes doubled as headlights, wide open and glowing faintly with bioluminescence. His jaw had been broken and stretched to form the front grille. His internal organs had been rearranged, tucked neatly behind glass engine compartments filled with viscera. The tires were formed from calcified loops of cartilage wrapped in hardened skin. His lungs inflated with fuel. His spine was the drive shaft. On the wall, burned into metal with acid, were the words: “He loved his car more than anyone else.” Further on, we entered a much larger gallery chamber. Tall columns loomed like titanic ribs from some beast long dead. And inside each cell? Lycanthropes—people who had desired to become beasts. A forest of cages and operating slabs displayed the warped results. A man was halfway through being transformed into a wolf. His face was elongated with stretched skin over newly grafted snout bones. Fur had been sewn into his flesh in patches, not grown. His spine had been extended and curved to form a tail, which spasmed like it didn’t belong. He howled—but not with pride. It was raw and broken, a sound that echoed more like a death rattle. Another man had wished to be a T. rex. His body was grotesquely restructured—arms amputated, his shoulders fused and re-positioned to the front of his chest with crude, stubby claws grafted on. His legs were artificially thickened with transplanted muscle tissue, bound together with clamps and iron rods. His lower jaw had been stretched and locked forward to mimic the snout of a predator. Tubes filled with hormones and growth accelerants fed into his back, causing his bones to rapidly expand and fracture. He lay twitching in agony on a surgical platform shaped like a fossil bed, surrounded by mock jungle ferns made of synthetic nerves. I swallowed hard and kept moving. A woman was next—being reshaped into a giraffe. Her neck had been broken in several places, then elongated with bone grafts and steel rods pushing through the meat like scaffolding. Her arms and legs had been forcibly narrowed and bent backward. The surgeons had injected fat and filler into her thighs and chest to form a more “giraffe-like” body mass. Her skin was being dyed in patches, turned yellow and brown, while mechanical syringes pulled and stretched her scalp upward, inch by inch, to simulate the elongated crown of the animal. Her feet had been amputated and reshaped into prosthetic hooves. She didn’t cry. She couldn’t. Her jaw had been stitched shut into a semi-permanent smile. A grin that mimicked the innocent expression of a grazing herbivore. The words scrawled across her enclosure, pulsing faintly with red light, read: “Always wanted to be tall. Now you are.” Every transformation was a desecration. Every chamber is a mockery of free will and personal identity, twisted by obsession and the illusion of self-expression. There was no sedation. These people were awake. Aware. We continued in silence. Not because we had nothing to say, but because anything said here would drown in the screams reverberating from the walls. Time lost meaning in the bowels of that facility. The artificial lights overhead throbbed a dull violet, washing the room in a dreamlike glow that made flesh shimmer wetly and stainless steel glisten with clinical malice. The hum of machinery never ceased—drills, bone saws, the wet slap of organic matter being handled like clay. I was chained upright, limbs spread across the cold exoskeletal frame of an operating rack. My arms trembled in the restraints, not from pain—at least not yet—but from the psychological weight of helplessness. I had no power, no voice in this theater of madness. I could only watch. Brody and Tom were first. Their screams started high and strong, but faded into ragged sobs as the Demonic Grays began their work. Each movement was surgical yet twisted, performed with the meticulous precision of artists rather than butchers. Their sharp, slim fingers worked like bone chisels as they peeled back skin, severed tendons, and shifted internal organs into unnatural shapes. They were reshaped into grotesque caricatures of the things they once loved—video game controllers. Their torsos were compacted and narrowed. Buttons, made of their own severed thumbs, were sewn into their chests. Wires—veins and nerves pulled from their spines—were threaded through their limbs and looped back into ports punched into their skulls. Their mouths were sewn into mute O-shapes, mimicking a joystick’s circular motion, eyes permanently rolled back. Human forms stripped of humanity, trapped in cold plastic parody. Evelen's turn came next. I wished I could look away—but something unseen forced my gaze forward. The Grays used her blond hair as the foundation of a tail, weaving it with tendons and reinforced cartilage. Her torso was elongated with mechanical stretchers that popped her ribs and expanded her spine. Limbs reshaped, fingers broken and fused to mimic hooves. Her face… God, her face… was extended forward, the jaw dislocated and pushed outward, surgically forced into a horse-like snout. Tubes were inserted under her skin, pumping unknown chemicals that swelled her muscles into animalistic proportions. But her eyes—her terrified, pleading eyes—remained human. Ben and Page’s table was just across from mine. Flaying is not fast. It’s deliberate. Their skin was removed in thin sheets, carefully peeled like wrapping paper from a gift no one should receive. What remained was blood-slick muscle, throbbing under the cold light. The Grays rolled their skin like parchment, molded it, reshaped it, until their bodies—skinless, raw, half-unconscious—were fitted into giant glass vessels. Translucent tubes were inserted into their throats and intestines. Slowly, the shape of two massive beer bottles began to emerge. Their skulls were smoothed, sculpted with polymer flesh putty to resemble bottle caps. The smell of hops, alcohol, and iron filled the air—one more nauseating mixture in a room already saturated in horror. Max's fate was almost too absurd to be real. Yet it was. His limbs were stuffed with raw meat, organs flattened and redistributed like burger patties, then layered between slabs of his own skin hardened to simulate a bun. His chest cavity was carved out, filled with his tongue and fatty tissue shaped like pickles. His screaming mouth had been repositioned, grinning wide at the side of the “burger.” His eyes, blinking slowly, were embedded in the folds of faux lettuce—blinking, not from consciousness, but from unprocessed neural commands still firing in his butchered brain. Denton and Taps were merged into twisted plant-like forms. Their limbs were torn from their sockets, then crudely stitched into their backs and shoulders at warped angles. Each finger was manipulated and bound to resemble leaves—dozens of them. Their spines were hollowed and filled with dark, fibrous plant matter. The Grays inserted small LED grow lights into their chest cavities, bathing their mutilated forms in an eerie green glow. They resembled a fusion of corpse and cannabis, grotesque tributes to an obsession they had never admitted aloud. And then came Jackson. His transformation was half technological, half ritual. The Grays removed segments of his body with precision—replacing arms and legs with jagged machine prosthetics made from alloys and cybernetic bone grafts. Cables embedded in his spine hissed with steam. One eye was removed and replaced with a glowing red lens. His jaw was split and reattached with mechanical clamps. Metal plates were bolted to his skull, brain matter exposed between the ridges. He didn’t resist. He looked… satisfied. Finally becoming what he had fantasized about. A cyborg. An automaton of his own dark dream. This entire ordeal stretched for hours—though it felt like centuries. I was forced to watch every second, unable to blink, unable to scream, my body locked in a psychic paralysis. The Demonic Grays moved around me, occasionally glancing at my vital signs. They never touched me, not yet. They wanted me to see first. To understand. Then she came. Maladrie stepped forward, tall and poised, with her sensual demonette form rippling beneath shadows and faint light. Her wings flared slightly as she approached, eyes gleaming with twisted amusement. She raised one finger—nail glistening with something sharp and red—and dragged it across my chest with gentle mockery. Her voice was sultry, low. It slipped into my mind like smoke curling into a locked chamber. I asked her, my voice barely audible, “Am I just here to watch?” She tilted her head, mockingly confused. “No, silly Willy,” she cooed. “I think you’re finally giving into your desires… and setting yourself free.” Then, with a single slash of her clawed nail, the restraints fell away. Everything dimmed. My body sagged, falling weightless as the world turned soft and dreamlike. The blood, the screams, the horrors faded into a surreal haze. Her voice, the last anchor to reality, echoed in my skull like a lullaby. “Let’s get you somewhere nice.” Darkness wrapped around me like a warm blanket. My thoughts dissolved into nothing. I never saw the others again. Good riddance I suppose. CHAPTER 7: "BEDLAM'S BASEMENT" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

BY WILLIAM WARNER CHAPTER 8: “ESCAPE PART ONE” “VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA” The air was different—sterile, calm, unnaturally serene. I awoke slowly, the heaviness in my limbs melting away as consciousness returned like a tide creeping over forgotten sand. My eyes opened to the sight of a white ceiling, the kind used in hospital rooms or modern minimalist interiors. The walls around me were the same pale shade, unmarred, too clean. A thin layer of sunlight drifted in through sheer curtains over a tall, narrow window. The light looked natural, soft—like the beginning of a quiet morning. But it wasn’t Earth’s sun. I knew that much in my bones. I sat up in bed. The sheets were crisp, the mattress supportive but not too firm. I was fully clothed in my usual leather gear—jacket, pants, and boots—freshly laundered and laid on me with eerie precision. No wrinkles. No dust. As if someone had redressed me while I slept and did so with the care of a dollmaker. I inhaled. There was the scent of frying batter. Sweet, familiar. Pancakes. Pancakes? I rose from the bed cautiously. The floor beneath me was smooth wood, polished to a shine, and the only sound in the apartment—if that’s what this was—came from the soft sizzling of a skillet and the occasional clink of utensils. The layout was familiar. Cozy, modern. Open-plan kitchen with a sleek island countertop, glass dining table, and chrome chairs. And she was there. At the stove, standing in the golden shafts of alien sunlight, was Madeline. Or rather, Maladrie—disguised again in the flesh of Madeline Scoggin. She wore a black, form-fitting dress that hugged her curves like liquid ink. Her black leather thigh boots made soft taps on the floor as she shifted her weight, flipping a pancake with effortless grace. Her long hair was down, perfectly styled. Her skin had that impossible glow, too pristine for a mortal woman. Yet she looked warm, inviting. Human. Her head turned over one shoulder, eyes catching mine like velvet snare. “Hello, sleepyhead,” she said with a teasing smirk. “You're awake, and I made your favorite.” Then, as if to emphasize the casual absurdity of it all, she lifted one leg playfully in the air—an exaggerated pose of affection, reminiscent of an old romance holo. We sat at the glass table, a silent agreement between predator and guest. She sat closer than I expected, thigh brushing against mine beneath the table as she placed a small stack of pancakes before me, perfectly cooked. Butter melting in the center, syrup already drizzled. My mouth watered despite the surrealism of it all. We began eating. The fork felt real in my hand. The food tasted rich, just like home—maybe even better. My stomach welcomed the warmth after so long in cold, dark places. For a moment, it felt almost safe. Then I reached into my pocket and pulled out the device. It looked like a standard-issue Wraith comm, but in this place, it had a different purpose. I swiped the screen, and images of artificial women began to appear—Instagram models, scantily clad, striking exaggerated poses designed for attention. Digital flesh. Simulated allure. I kept scrolling. Not obsessively, but casually. Curiously. Testing the illusion. Madeline—Maladrie—glanced over but didn’t protest. Instead, she smiled faintly and returned to her meal, cutting into a piece of pancake with dainty precision. I turned to her. She was too close, her breath subtly scented with something floral and alien. I spoke, but not for confrontation. More like asking a question in a dream. Was this alright? This strange dynamic? This surreal relationship crafted from desire and control? She answered without flinching, her voice calm, tinged with honey and steel. “I’m okay with you pleasing yourself with those girls,” she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “They’re on a screen anyway. As long as you don’t love them… your heart belongs to me, Will.” Her words echoed—not just in the room, but in my mind. They vibrated on some inner frequency, digging into places I didn’t realize were still vulnerable. The moment hung in limbo. Outside the window, the sun never shifted. Time refused to advance. The pancakes stayed warm, and the syrup never hardened. I kept eating, phone resting beside my plate. There was no background noise. No birds. No wind. Only the soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing beside me, like a metronome guiding a life that wasn’t real. I looked at her again. Her smile never faded. Her posture was perfect. Her eyes held a thousand lifetimes of manipulation and madness, masked behind the pretty face of a woman I used to know. And at that moment, I wasn’t sure if I had escaped the horror… …or simply entered a more seductive layer of the Wraith. The illusion shattered slowly, piece by piece—like frost cracking beneath the heel of something warm and living. Madeline’s black-gloved hands slid across the smooth surface of the glass dining table, her fingers tracing invisible lines in syrup and butter, ruining the perfect breakfast like a painting scraped with a razor. Her eyes locked on mine as she climbed sensually across the table, knees knocking against plates, her movements deliberate—fluid like oil, but hollow in a way that twisted something in my chest. Above her, the chandelier trembled as she grabbed it with one hand, swinging slightly, boots gliding across the slick surface. Her dance was grotesque in its beauty—like a marionette forced into eroticism. She leaned in, close, breath warm and sweet with sugar and rot. She crawled to the edge of the table, slowly lowering herself until her lips were just inches from mine. Her voice emerged in that falsely coy tone she often used to soften the horror. “Do you think I’m sexy, Silly Willy?” The mask cracked. For a split second, I saw it—not the alluring face of Madeline, but the truth buried beneath: glowing yellow eyes stretched across leathery orange skin, horns curling like sickened bone above a brow marked by ancient runes. Her lips, once soft and red, now blackened and pulsing with alien rot. Her body still retained its humanoid curves, but beneath the dress, her form was slick with a chitinous sheen, insectile and wrong. It was a flash—barely a blink—but it was enough. My breath caught. I stumbled back from the table, my chair screeching against the floor as I crashed into the sterile white wall behind me. I stayed pressed there, heart hammering against my ribs, the room suddenly too small and too quiet. And then I heard it. The clicking. A rhythmic tapping. Not boots or claws this time—but the unmistakable sound of keyboard typing. Not frantic, but consistent—focused, like someone working late into the night. I turned away from Madeline’s poised form, now still atop the table. I moved quickly—past the overturned plate of pancakes, through the narrow hall leading to the bedroom door. The air shifted here, cooler, thicker with static. I turned the knob. Inside, the lighting was different. Dimmer, soft green LEDs under a desk casting a strange glow across the room. The walls were lined with worn posters, scattered notes pinned with thumbtacks. And at the center of it all—sitting at a computer desk—was a Proboscis monkey. Its long, awkward nose bobbed with each keystroke. Its little hands moved rapidly over the keyboard with a kind of purpose that was utterly surreal. The monkey wore nothing but a pair of round glasses that were too big for its head, and it didn’t even look up when I entered. It just typed—page after page of something I couldn’t read from a distance. To the left of the desk, lying on a bean bag soaked in golden sunlight, was a golden dachshund-retriever mix, wagging its tail lazily as it chewed its way through a mountainous pile of bacon. The smell was overwhelming—grease and salt and meat, way too much for a dog that small. Its belly was bloated, sides expanding with each bite, its mouth covered in sticky grease, eyes half-lidded in dumb satisfaction. The contrast hit me like a jolt. This wasn’t just absurd. It was calculated chaos. A constructed fever dream that wore the skin of peace while the wires of madness twitched beneath. Without thinking, I moved forward and gathered them both—the monkey still typing even as I lifted it from its seat, the dog letting out a lazy whine but otherwise uninterested. Their bodies felt real. Warm. Breathing. But their placement in this twisted narrative was deliberate—symbols, maybe. Or distractions. I cradled them both and pushed back through the bedroom door. Madeline was waiting at the table, one leg still perched, syrup now dripping from her thigh like a wound. She cocked her head as I approached, but didn’t speak. I gave her a forced smile, trying to mask the rising unease in my gut. "I want to get some excessive, pleasureful fresh air," I said, forcing calm into the words. She tilted her head again, smirked, and gestured with her hand—as if to say, ‘Be my guest.’ And just like that, the pressure around the room lessened. The illusion remained, but the spell of obedience weakened, as if she believed I was playing her game. I turned toward the glass door at the back of the kitchen—now visible like a forgotten exit in a dream. I stepped out, dog and monkey still in my arms. The world outside was nothing like the apartment. The sky above was orange, flickering with aurora-like currents. Towering alien trees twisted upward like frozen smoke, and the ground pulsed beneath my feet, alive with veins of glowing red light. I didn’t know where I was headed yet—but anything was better than the nightmare masquerading as a domestic paradise. Somewhere behind me, the door clicked shut. And somewhere far beneath this world’s surface, I knew Maladrie was still watching. Still waiting. The wheat fields stretched endlessly in every direction—each stalk a burnt orange hue, waving softly in an invisible wind that didn’t stir the air on my skin. It was quiet. The kind of stillness that feels rehearsed, like the world itself was holding its breath. The sun—or whatever passed for it in the Wraith—hung low and bloated on the horizon, dripping molten color across the land like paint spilled across a canvas. It bathed everything in an amber glow that made the dog’s golden fur shimmer and the monkey’s glassy eyes reflect like crystal marbles. Despite the beauty, the wrongness was palpable. The sky bore no stars, only those roiling demonic clouds, rolling and boiling like a cauldron on the cusp of eruption. Shapes moved behind the clouds—massive silhouettes that didn’t cast shadows, things with wings too wide and limbs too many. But they kept their distance, content to circle above like vultures waiting for the earth to bleed. The ground beneath us felt soft, like it had recently rained, but there was no mud. Just a spongy texture, like damp fabric stretched across stone. My boots left slight impressions with every step. The monkey clung to my shoulder, eyes focused ahead, silent as ever. The dog trotted alongside, tongue lolling, belly swinging beneath it as it panted rhythmically—more a walking stomach than a companion, but oddly endearing in its idiotic contentment. In the distance, the reflective object continued to blink. Dot. Dot-dot. Dash. It shimmered like polished chrome beneath the hazy sky, though there was no source of direct light. Something unnatural. Its rhythm pulsed across the field, hypnotic. Not mechanical, not quite biological either. But intelligent. Purposeful. Like a beacon or a lure. I hesitated, glancing back at the small house behind me. From here, the house looked like any suburban dream—white trim, a tiny porch, smoke curling from the chimney in lazy swirls. But in this orange world, it was a wound on the landscape. A lie pressed into the truth. I imagined Madeline still inside, draped across the dining table like a cat waiting to pounce, claws hidden behind that crooked smile. Maybe she already knew I’d left. Maybe she always knew. Still, no shapes moved behind the windows. No eyes watching. I continued toward the blinking light. The further I walked, the more surreal the world became. The wheat began to grow taller—no longer reaching my waist, but now brushing against my shoulders, swaying in a rhythm that felt almost sentient. The stalks had subtle faces now—faint impressions like screaming mouths or wide, unblinking eyes stretched beneath the papery skin of the wheat’s surface. They shifted subtly when I wasn’t looking, but froze the moment I stared too long. A trick of the light. A trick of the Wraith. The monkey dug its fingers into my collar, pressing its head against mine as if trying to shield its gaze. The dog kept walking, wagging its tail like none of this mattered. Like none of it was real. Then I saw it. The reflective object wasn’t a machine at all. It was a mirror. Suspended in midair. Thin as breath. Eight feet tall, four feet wide. Its edges were carved with delicate runes that glowed dimly, like coals beneath ash. The glass itself rippled like the surface of a still pond, reflecting not me, but something stranger. My reflection stood inside the mirror, but it wasn’t a copy. It was me—same clothes, same scars, same weight on the shoulders—but his eyes… they burned white. And behind him was no orange field, no Wraith-sky, no chittering monkey or bacon-fattened dog. Behind him was a cold, infinite black dotted with stars—real stars, constellations that tugged at my memory like half-forgotten dreams. Behind him was space. The reflection raised its hand slowly. Not mimicking me. Guiding me. It pointed to the behind me. The mirror broke. I cradled the mirror shard in my palm, its surface warm, humming with an electric vibration that pulsed up my arm. It was like holding a sliver of awareness—something that remembered more than it showed. Its surface shimmered with residual visions: stars, broken temples, pieces of Earth I hadn’t seen since childhood. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew it meant something. I turned the fragment over just as the air behind me thickened with a deep, droning buzz. Instinctively, I turned, teeth gritted, eyes narrowed. A massive silhouette stood on the edge of the wheat field—glowing softly in the burnt-orange haze, wings folded behind him like stained glass marred by ancient soot. His insectoid legs clicked gently as he stepped forward, and his eyes, compound and reflective, captured the horizon in a kaleidoscope of distorted light. He bowed slightly at the waist with an oddly regal presence for something so alien. “I mean you no harm,” the creature said, his voice reverberating inside my head more than in my ears. “I am Beelzebub. Once the Lord of the Flies. Now... Lord of the Wasps.” I didn’t lower my guard. Not yet. Beelzebub tilted his head, sensing my suspicion. “Yes, yes, I understand. You’ve met the goddess of excess. She wears a thousand skins. All of them are beautiful. All of them are traps.” His antennae twitched. “But I am not her. I bring no illusion. Only truth, decayed and winged though it may be.” He stepped aside and motioned for me to follow. My dog waddled forward stupidly, sniffing his clawed feet with innocent trust. The monkey clung tighter to my neck, chittering nervously. Beelzebub’s wings flared once as he turned and began to walk, cutting a path through the wheat. I followed, still wary, but drawn by curiosity and something else—a subtle gravity, like the mirror piece I held, was vibrating in resonance with his presence. We traveled in silence across the field until it broke open into a vast clearing. The wheat gave way to a garden unlike anything I had seen. It was a graveyard made from reverence. Massive statues of beings long forgotten stood in solemn poses, half-crumbling, frozen mid-gesture like actors who had outlived their audience. Some wore armor that flaked like rusted memory. Others held scrolls, spears, branches, all made from ancient stone. Cracks webbed across their faces—yet sorrow was etched into their features. Wings folded, crowns shattered, hands raised as if in eternal plea. Beelzebub raised one clawed hand toward the statues. “These are the fallen gods,” he said softly. “They were once fed by the belief of mortals. Prayers, fear, worship, even hatred—it all gave us form, gave us shape. Gave us power.” He moved closer to a statue of a serene woman, vines curled around her waist like chains. Her eyes had been chipped away, her hands missing. “But when mortals ceased to believe, when the world turned to machines and noise and light, they forgot. And we… we turned to stone.” His voice grew somber. “That’s what happens when no one remembers. When no one feels. We wither. And we crumble.” I looked around the garden. The statues were endless—spiraling off toward the misty edge of the horizon. Each one is unique. Each one bearing the signature of an entire age that had passed away, unnoticed. “Is this… Ragnarok?” I asked, quietly. Beelzebub nodded. “And the judgment that comes with it. Not from a single god, mind you—but from neglect. From a lack of intensity. No more love so strong it could split worlds. No more terror so vast it could shake the sky. The gods are starving, William. The Cult of Excess has devoured the emotions that once sustained the balance.” His words made my skin crawl. I turned back to him. “Then how are you still alive?” I asked. The wasp god’s wings buzzed, but not aggressively. Almost like a heartbeat. “I went underground. Beneath this realm, where light doesn’t reach and dreams decay. I built a cocoon and thought for many centuries.” He looked up at the sky, then back at me. “I once sowed plague. I was filth, pestilence, and rot. That was my domain. But the world changed. Immunity rose. The mortals grew stronger, cleaner. Even I… fell ill from irrelevance.” He spread his clawed hands, as though showing me the scars. “But in that isolation, I pondered a new purpose. A way to rejoin existence without consuming it. And so I chose to become a god of healing.” His eyes sparkled for a moment—not with malice, but resolve. “Not because I seek to be worshipped again. But because the Wraith is failing. It’s become too unstable for souls to pass through safely. Maladrie and the Cult of Excess have torn holes in the cycle. Souls don’t reincarnate anymore. They dissolve. Or worse—become fuel for her.” He turned away, walking through the statues again. I followed. “Your arrival isn’t random,” Beelzebub continued. “You carry something inside you. Something the Cult wants. And something we need to restore balance.” “What do I carry?” I asked. Beelzebub looked back over his shoulder. “You have an immortal inside of you.” I gripped the mirror fragment tighter in my hand. It pulsed—responding to the truth. I had no idea what it meant yet, but I could feel it mattered. We stopped before a crumbled statue. This one was different—familiar somehow. Its face was mostly eroded, but a sword carved from obsidian still rested at its side. Something about it chilled me. My monkey trembled slightly, clinging to my chest. Beelzebub placed a claw against the statue’s stone chest and spoke. “You were once one of us, William. Before time split, before memory was severed. Before your flesh became a suit of armor.” He turned to me, mandibles clicking in a faint rhythm. “And now… you must become more than that.” A wind swept across the garden, carrying with it whispers that weren’t quite language. The dog barked once. The monkey whimpered. The Wraith shifted again. And I realized—I hadn’t escaped Madeline’s dream. Not yet. The descent into the cavern was unlike anything I’d ever experienced—not just a movement downward, but a shift in atmosphere, sensation, even gravity. The air grew warmer, fragrant with a sharp, mineral tang, like the breath of an ancient volcano tamed by flora. Soft orange grass coated the floor like velvet moss, glowing slightly beneath our feet with bioluminescent speckles that pulsed in time with some invisible heartbeat deep within the planet. Vines coiled up the sides of crystalline columns, which sprouted from the earth like massive, transparent trees. Flowers bloomed on them—amber and tangerine petals like delicate solar flares—and between them were wasp and bee-like entities, each distinctly humanoid in posture, yet fully insectoid in nature. Their wings glistened with resinous iridescence. They worked in synchronized harmony, mining from the earth with precision tools forged from brass and bone. Instead of chaos, there was serenity. These creatures didn’t buzz with menace—they moved like physicians in a sanctum, extracting minerals essential for something greater than power. For healing. “Welcome to the Underbloom,” Beelzebub said as we entered the core of the cavern. His voice echoed against the crystalline walls like a low, reverent hymn. “This is where the forgotten forces tend to the restoration of soul resonance. These insects you see? They once haunted human dreams as nightmares. Now they serve as healers, caretakers of broken frequencies.” At the center of this living biome was a monolithic table—grown rather than constructed. Its edges were smooth and curved, as if molded by thought instead of hand. The surface was metallic but alive, shifting in hue between gunmetal gray and deep obsidian. It pulsed softly, waiting. “Lie down,” Beelzebub said. I hesitated. Every instinct told me to run. But the mirror shard in my pocket buzzed like it was urging me forward. So I stepped onto the platform and laid myself across its surface, the orange grass whispering as it bent away from my boots. Beelzebub walked beside me, holding two stones—one a bright, translucent green that vibrated like it was alive; the other, a deep orange that shimmered like heated honey trapped in amber. “The body is a receiver, William. A filter. You’ve buried truths inside yourself. Hidden data. Forgotten feelings. These stones work not by sorcery, but by frequency. Magic,” he added, “is simply science yet to be codified.” He placed the green stone gently upon my chest, directly over my heart. I could feel its energy hum into my bones. The orange stone he placed just above my groin, where ancient traditions once said the soul rooted itself to the flesh. Together, the two began to glow—not harshly, but like embers waking from a long sleep. Then something happened. My chest began to rise unnaturally, a magnetic pull lifting something intangible out of me. I clenched my fists instinctively, but there was no pain. Just release. A warmth filled my ribs and moved upward, then outward. Like smoke given shape, a luminous orb of energy emerged—glowing, swirling, shaped by memory and thought. As it drifted into the air, it condensed, solidifying. A small, sleek data device—black, triangular, with a glowing silver emblem on its face—settled into Beelzebub’s palm. “Hidden in plain sight,” he said, placing the device gently on my lap as the stones dimmed and rolled off my body. “Buried deep inside your nervous system, locked away with emotion you refused to face. But it’s out now. The stonework did its part.” I sat up slowly, a shiver running down my back. The table was still warm, like it had just healed a wound. My monkey sat on a nearby crystal, watching me with intelligent eyes. The dog lay in the grass, tail wagging lazily. I looked at the device. “Go on,” Beelzebub said, “open it.” With trembling fingers, I unlocked the mechanism. A soft chime echoed from the device as it projected a holographic screen above itself. Dozens of files, data logs, archived transmissions. One folder blinked slowly—“EMILY EAGLE – PRIORITY.” I tapped it. Her image appeared first. A woman with black hair cascading down her shoulders, olive-green eyes like dew-covered moss, and pale skin that seemed to glow under a subtle digital light. The sight of her made something twist inside my gut. Not recognition. Not yet. But the echo of something old—something holy. I frowned. “I don’t… I don’t remember her.” Beelzebub placed a clawed hand on my shoulder, surprisingly gentle. “You weren’t meant to remember Emily. Not until now. You’ve been navigating a reality without your past—just fragments. Dreams. But to move forward, you have to fall. Hit rock bottom. Burn through illusion. Now the climb begins.” The hologram shifted, cycling through images—me and her standing together on a beach under a twin-sunned sky. Another of us in a forest city surrounded by futuristic towers wrapped in ivy. Then… a shot of her alone, surrounded by flames. She was screaming. Reaching. I looked away. Beelzebub handed me something else. A chunk of deep black stone that glittered faintly despite the low light. Shungite. “Protection,” he said. “This stone grounds electromagnetic chaos. Interdimensional interference. It will guard your mind from psychic intrusion.” Then he held out more—small gifts. A ring forged from polished bone. A single golden rose encased in glass. A tiny orb that contained a suspended starlight—barely brighter than a firefly. “For Emily,” he said. “Each gift is a memory. You’ll know when to give them. These will anchor your love to reality again.” I took them carefully, the weight of responsibility dawning in my chest. The wasp god stood straight again, his wings unfolding in the ambient glow of the Underbloom. “There is much still to face. The Cult will not allow reunion without resistance. And Maladrie has no intention of letting you ascend. But with what you now carry—truth, love, memory—you have a chance.” He stepped aside, gesturing to a nearby tunnel leading out into the deeper Wraith. The deeper we descended into the underground garden, the more surreal it became. The architecture no longer resembled tunnels but massive cathedral-like arteries carved from the bones of extinct colossi. Bioluminescent vines twisted through the ceilings, their amber and violet lights refracting through crystalline fungi that pulsated in response to our movement. The air shimmered like static between worlds, thick with pollen and magnetic ions. Everything down here had the surreal quality of being both ancient and unborn at once, like walking through the dreams of a dying planet. And then, through the haze of orange blossoms and shimmering mist, I saw him. Deathskull. He stood near the base of a petrified root system that twisted like a throne grown from ancient sorrow. His armor was scorched in places, his cloak tattered, but his eyes—those glowing, unblinking skull-like sockets—were sharp, alive with grim determination. I approached slowly, disbelieving. “Deathskull?” He turned, his jaw clenching slightly as if holding back a tidal wave of emotion. “I was rescued,” he said simply. “By him.” He gestured toward Beelzebub, who stood quietly behind me, his wings folded like cathedral windows. “Lord of the Wasps… He found me before the Wraith could devour my essence. Pulled me out just before I became something… else.” Deathskull’s voice carried weight—like a soldier returned from the frontlines of a forgotten war. I narrowed my gaze. “What did you see?” He looked away for a moment. “The Region of Lust and Excess. It’s worse than the outer edges of the Wraith. That place isn’t just corrupted—it’s seductive. Addictive. It doesn’t just feed on you; it convinces you to feed on yourself.” I nodded grimly. “The other legions are gone,” I said. “Maladrie crushed them. The Lord of Violence—Caine—serves her now. The rest of the dark gods? Slain. Devoured. Forgotten.” Deathskull exhaled, a low, metallic rasp. “Then it’s worse than I feared. That means she… Maladrie… is evolving faster than we expected. She didn’t conquer through bloodshed alone. She seduced the universe. One pleasure at a time.” I crouched near a phosphorescent flower, brushing my fingers along its pulsating petals. “The militant control groups—those faith-driven tyrants? They’re extinct. They discovered their greatest pleasure wasn’t devotion—it was murder. When they unraveled, some tried to overcome their urges. But others… gave in. They pledged themselves to her.” “That explains everything,” Deathskull muttered. “In the physical realm, we thought we were fighting political disputes. Cultural divides. Civil wars. But those were just symptoms. The real war… It was spiritual. Psychological. Emotional.” “Control,” I agreed. “But not through doctrine anymore. Through indulgence.” Deathskull stared into the abyssal glow of the garden’s horizon, where strange insectoid priests floated above pools of glowing nectar, their antennae weaving complex gestures in the air like monks lost in prayer. “She’s reshaped the battlefield,” he said. “Made it so subtle that no one notices they’ve already surrendered. Porn. Junk food. Narcotics. It starts as stress relief. But it becomes parasitic. These things steal your drive, your purpose. They dull you until you can’t recognize the enemy.” “In Vikingnar,” he continued, “I saw it spreading. Citizens becoming bloated with stimuli—yet starving for meaning. Everything became entertainment. Everything, a distraction. And now? They don’t care who dies, as long as they feel good.” A silence settled over us, thick with unspoken grief. Even the insects mining around us seemed to pause in reverence. “We need to get out of this hellhole,” I finally said. “People need to know what’s coming.” Beelzebub stepped forward. “Then let us do what your world forgot how to do,” he said. “Let us raise someone from the dead who still remembers the truth. Someone whose soul resonates with clarity.” I blinked. “You can do that?” Beelzebub’s wings shimmered, shifting through hues of molten gold and copper. “Only if their essence still echoes. Only if their bond with you is strong enough to call them back.” Serenity. The name rose in my mind like an ember catching wind. She had once been a guiding light, a warrior of purity and conviction. She was trustworthy. Loyal. And she had died defending us. “Serenity,” I said aloud. Deathskull looked at me sharply. “You think she can come back?” “She’s the only one I’d trust with the message,” I replied. Beelzebub nodded solemnly. “Then follow me.” We ventured through a passage lined with walls that looked like they had been carved by wasp mandibles—intricate honeycomb patterns filled with glowing data-runes, ancient and futuristic at once. We emerged into the Armory of Resonance—a chamber unlike anything I’d seen before. The Armory of Resonance roared with energy as we descended deeper into its sacred heart. Crimson veins of power pulsed through the blackened stone, arcing like lightning into massive pillars that surrounded the chamber. These columns were carved with the names of the fallen—etched in ancient glyphs, some human, some alien, others incomprehensible. Between each pillar, walls of weapons shimmered under magnetic force fields: plasma-edged axes, psionic bows, vibroblades made of folded light, and armor suits suspended mid-air in perceptual readiness. In the center of the chamber, a massive circular pit opened up like a crater. Inside, glowing armor discs floated within a rotating gyroscopic framework. Each disc spun with a hum of restrained violence, whispering ancient code and spiritual intent. Beelzebub stepped forward, his clawed fingers outstretched. “These are the soulbound armor discs. Each forged with the essence of warriors long passed and the memory of wars long forgotten. Choose one that resonates with your spirit.” Deathskull didn’t hesitate—he reached in and grabbed a disc pulsing with dark violet light. It clamped to his chest, liquefying into his body before hardening into sleek, biomechanical plates that merged with his skeletal exosuit. Serrated shoulder blades formed instantly. Twin scythe-like swords emerged from his back. I approached the pit. Beelzebub reached in and pulled out a matte black disc with red tracer lines, like veins of molten lava sealed within obsidian. “This one’s yours,” he said, handing it to me with reverence. “Deathskull and I made a few… modifications.” The disc felt warm in my palm—alive. A subtle vibration ran through my bones the moment I touched it. “What kind of modifications?” I asked. Deathskull chuckled darkly. “You’ll see. Just activate it.” I pressed the central rune, and the disc cracked open with a sharp hiss. It floated away from my palm, scanning my body in vertical sweeps. Then—boom—it exploded in a silent shockwave of nanites and light, forming plates across my chest, arms, legs, and helmet in mere seconds. It felt weightless, yet unbreakable. A HUD blinked to life inside my visor, powered by a hybrid AI—probably stitched together from fragments of Deathskull’s own neural mesh. The chainsword icon pulsed in the top left corner. Next to it, a new glyph shimmered: RAGNITE CORE INITIATED. Everyone else followed suit, stepping forward to claim their gear. The room pulsed with the energy of rebirth, as if we were not just suiting up, but being rewritten into symbols of defiance against the Wraith. “I’ve been collecting gear like this for ages,” Beelzebub said, walking toward the rear of the armory. “From fallen troops. From forgotten worlds. The war for pleasure has been going on longer than your ancestors have breathed air.” He waved his hand and a secondary vault opened. Inside—weaponry arranged like a cathedral’s altar. On the walls, runed swords and axes hung like relics of dead gods. Blasters of unimaginable design sat in glass panels, humming with condensed starlight. But in the center of it all… floated my chainsword. It hovered, slowly rotating, its black hilt coated in ancient script. Red lightning danced across its teeth as it spun, the blade infused with both technological wrath and mystical resonance. It had a voice, a will of its own. A relic of who I used to be—and who I had yet to become. Beelzebub smiled. “Justice awaits her wielder.” I stepped forward, hand outstretched. The moment I touched the hilt, a surge of memory and instinct flooded my body. The blade pulsed with my heartbeat. My HUD synchronized with it. It was more than a weapon—it was a beacon. Once armed, Beelzebub gestured for us to gather around a tactical display etched into a crystalline slab on the floor. It glowed with a holographic terrain model of Sunrise Peak—a jagged mountain that erupted from the center of the Wraith’s corrupted plains. Dark clouds swirled around its summit, where something unnatural pulsed like a dying star. “This,” Beelzebub said, pointing, “is where Serenity’s soul remains tethered. Her reincarnation is being obstructed by a demon guard posted near the peak. A monstrous thing—one of Maladrie’s favorites. It must be eliminated for the soul to complete its cycle.” I nodded. “What’s the extraction plan?” “I’ll use this.” Beelzebub held up a glowing, multifaceted gemstone—iridescent and pulsing like a tiny galaxy trapped in crystal. “This Soul Prism will allow me to locate Serenity’s essence once the guard is down. I’ll capture her soul before it fades, you’ll speak your message—remind her who she was—and then I’ll implant the gem into her original body, still preserved in stasis.” Deathskull tapped his blades against his back uneasily. “Assuming Maladrie hasn’t laid more traps.” “She has,” Beelzebub said. “But this is the only shot we’ve got.” Before we moved out, Deathskull paced near a column, brooding. His usual edge had dulled—he seemed distracted, troubled. I approached him. “What’s eating you?” I asked. He looked at me, his voice low and dry. “I can’t stop thinking about the Cult of Excess. How it’s not just demons we’re fighting—it’s what they represent. They’re the personification of everything collapsing in the physical realm. People don’t even know they’re being controlled.” “You’re right,” I said. “But it’s not pleasure that’s the enemy. It's an abuse of it. Control through indulgence. If we try to fight it by shaming people who enjoy life in moderation, we’ll become another form of tyranny.” Deathskull stared at me. “If we start punishing people for being human,” I continued, “then we’re just the same as the cult—only with different robes. We can’t win by banning pleasure. We win by teaching responsibility. Balance.” Beelzebub joined the conversation, nodding. “Exactly. True evil doesn’t rise from desire—it comes from ignorance. From forcing your will onto others. Maladrie isn’t dangerous because she represents pleasure—she’s dangerous because she weaponizes it to feed her own hunger.” Deathskull sighed. The glow in his eyes flickered. “You’re right… I was programmed to eliminate control groups. To strike surgically at organized tyranny. But now I see… building a counter-control group won’t stop this. We’ll only be mimicking the enemy.” He straightened, blade humming faintly. “Then let’s not build another empire. Let’s build resistance.” A tense silence followed. Then Beelzebub broke it with something more chilling. “She’s been watching you, you know,” he said to me. I raised a brow. “Who?” “Maladrie. She’s been trying to seduce your mind. Sending dreams. Images. Girls who resemble her, but… twisted into the people you love. It’s how she steals your heart.” I went cold. “Emily… Serenity…” “She sees them as competition,” Beelzebub said. “Maladrie is possessive. She wants you, even if it means consuming everything that gives you JOY.” I clenched my fists. Not anymore. “Enough talk,” I said, voice clear again. “Let’s get to Sunrise Peak. We’ve got a soul to rescue… and a demon to kill.” We stepped through the vault doors, chainsword humming at my side, cloaks fluttering in the static air. The mission had begun. And somewhere on that cursed mountain, Serenity was waiting. The dead would rise. And this time, we would bring the fire of truth with us. The wind howled like a primal spirit as we began our ascent toward Sunrise Peak. The terrain had grown jagged and unfriendly—crimson rock carved with unnatural geometries, as if the mountain had been twisted by unseen hands. In the distance, the sky churned with indigo storm clouds, rippling with flashes of unnatural green lightning. An occasional thunderclap rumbled through the air, but there was no rain. Just pressure. The weight of something ancient pressing down on us. I led the way, chainsword slung across my back, each step grinding against the fractured stone. Behind me, Beelzebub walked with practiced silence, his eyes flicking through spectral readings on a floating HUD. Deathskull followed, his skeletal boots crunching gravel and bone beneath him. The monkey and the dog—survivors from our previous mission—trailed silently, their instincts honed to the shifting energies around us. The dog’s ears were back. The monkey gripped a plasma spear with twitchy hands. We moved like ghosts through the ridgeline, ascending with caution. It was Deathskull who broke the silence. “You said earlier that trying to control pleasure—trying to remove it—only creates more suffering,” he muttered. “How do you know that?” I didn’t look back. I just spoke the truth, cold and steady. “Because I’m from Earth.” A pause. “I’ve seen it. The shame campaigns. The fear tactics. The surveillance states are designed to stamp out excess. We tried everything—censorship, purges, rehab cities, digital blockades. Didn’t work. Not really. For every control system we built, people just found a darker, more twisted outlet. Politicians don’t listen to peasants like me. We did what we could. We always do… but the rot goes deeper than laws or lectures.” Deathskull said nothing at first. Then: “So what’s the answer?” I looked up at the mountain. “Understanding, boundaries with truth, not fear.” Silence again. The wind carried the scent of iron and ozone. After a few minutes, Deathskull spoke again, this time quieter. “Do you want to rescue the survivors?” I stopped walking. The path ahead narrowed into a steep climb, but I turned slowly, meeting his glowing red eyes. “No.” The word came out sharp. Honest. “I used to hate those people. Not because I was evil… but because they hated me. Back on Earth, they mocked me, rejected me, called me a freak. Sure, when we first arrived on Earth, they acted like friends. Fear will do that. But when things calmed down… when they had a choice? They disrespected us. Went through the portal alone, thinking they knew better.” I shrugged. “They made their bed. I don’t owe them a damn thing.” Deathskull gave a subtle nod. Beelzebub didn’t say anything. Neither did the animals. We continued the climb in grim silence, the summit looming ever closer. Then… we reached the outer ridge. The ground plateaued, opening into a narrow ledge overlooking a massive lava basin. On the opposite side, the Demon Guard stood sentinel—twice the size of any man, its body a swirling mass of plated armor and fire-tentacles. Its head resembled a hybrid of bull and machine, a glowing sigil pulsing on its forehead. I raised my hand. “Wait here,” I whispered. No arguments. Just nod. I slipped around the ledge, crouching low, cloaking my presence as best I could. The Demon Guard shifted its weight but didn’t see me. It muttered to itself in a language older than death. With each breath, a foul mist hissed from its gills. I lunged. FWOOOOOSH—my chainsword ignited as I brought it down with full force into the back of the beast’s neck. The blade screamed, ripping through armor, flesh, and dark soul-matter. It didn’t even have time to roar. Just a gasp, a twitch—and the demon collapsed into the dust like a puppet with its strings cut. I wiped my blade and looked up. Beelzebub joined me, scanning the skies. “That was easier than expected.” “Too easy,” I said. “We need to move. Now.” We reached the summit in under two minutes. And there it was… The Monolith. Jet-black and impossibly tall, it rose like a needle into the heavens. Sigils across its surface danced with prismatic light. The air around it vibrated with the hum of cosmic frequency. Beelzebub approached it with reverence, placing the gemstone into a shallow slot at its base. The Monolith responded instantly—whirring, spinning, then pulsing as a portal into the Soul Stream opened overhead. A cascade of glowing orbs descended—souls in raw form, drifting like stardust in a whirlwind. Beelzebub called out coordinates, scanning the flow. “There—no, wait… that’s not her…” A blue light dropped from the stream, manifesting in a humanoid shape. A girl landed in front of us—her body forming slowly, her essence disoriented. “Sarah Stephens?” I asked, stepping backwards. The girl blinked… and I immediately knew. “…No,” Beelzebub said. “It’s not her.” The girl looked up at me with pleading eyes—but I could see the soul was mismatched, confused. I took a breath… then nodded. “Send her back.” Beelzebub said a brief incantation, and she dissolved into light—swept back into the torrent of drifting spirits. Then… The winds changed. The Soul Stream bent like a spear. A second figure shot down—blazing like a comet—and landed on top of me, knocking me to the ground. “OOF—!” She straddled my chest, eyes wide, hands on my face. “It’s you!” she gasped, voice full of shock and joy. “It’s really you! Hello!” I froze. It was her. Serenity. She looked even more beautiful than I remembered. Her blue eyes sparkled like twin stars, her black hair flowing in slow waves like the void itself. Her pale skin had an ethereal glow, and her small, slightly upturned nose crinkled as she smiled. A single tear slid down her cheek as she leaned forward and kissed me. On my lips—soft, warm, filled with longing. I kissed her back… for a moment. But there was no time to indulge. “Serenity,” I said, gently pushing her up. “You have to find Emily. Warn her about the growing threat in the Wraith. Maladrie’s influence is spreading.” Serenity looked at me, her hands clinging to mine. “I don’t want to leave you again…” “I know,” I said, squeezing her fingers. “But I’ll see you again. I promise. We’re stronger now. All of us.” Beelzebub stepped forward, handing Serenity a second gemstone—smaller, brighter. “This will reincarnate you into your original body,” he said. “Go now. Before the portal closes.” Serenity kissed my hand… then turned and leapt back into the Soul Stream, the gem clutched to her chest. She vanished in a spiral of light. Gone—but not lost. We all stood in silence for a long moment. Then I turned. “Let’s move. We’ve got a long way down.” We descended the mountain trail quickly, passing through stone arches and molten ravines. At the base of the slope, nestled along the dark river, lay the rusted remains of an old shipyard—a forgotten relic of some long-dead exodus. Rows of gutted boats lined the shore, some partially buried in dark ash, others held upright by twisted scaffolds. The river ran black with oil and stardust. We approached a boat made of scrap metal. Deathskull scanned it with a neural pulse. “Functional,” he said. “Looks like she floats.” Beelzebub crossed his arms. “Then that’s our way out.” I nodded, eyes fixed on the horizon. “She’s alive,” I whispered. “And soon… so will we.” CHAPTER 8: “ESCAPE PART ONE” “VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA”