"ARCHIVES"

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”

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 11: "JERICHO" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA" The black-and-gold pyramid loomed against Cybrawl’s eternally darkened sky—an angular colossus of obsidian steel and humming plasma veins, its silhouette glowing faintly under flickering red lights that had recently become standard across the droid empire’s infrastructure. The air shimmered with electromagnetic tension, as if the very atmosphere was waiting to collapse under the pressure of coming war. Inside, the pyramid’s polished corridors pulsed with energy. Deathskull walked in long, deliberate strides, his golden skeletal frame clicking softly with each motion. Beside him, Droid L-84 marched in lockstep, his digital optics flickering in shades of crimson and cobalt—an outward symptom of the emotional subroutines struggling to override his logic-based core. “I still say we should have contained Valrra,” L-84 stated coldly, his voice synthesizer layered with bitterness. “Letting her escape will only escalate future hostilities.” Deathskull said nothing at first. The corridor opened into a tall, silent atrium—the vault once sealed by energy barriers, now reduced to ruin. Shattered canisters lined the black floor, their curved glass husks still glowing faintly with residual ether. The Immortals that had once been kept dormant here had scattered, their incorporeal forms now free to haunt the dimensions beyond the physical realm. Finally, Deathskull spoke. “I don’t blame you,” he said simply, voice metallic but devoid of mockery. “She used you. Manipulated you. Turned your trust into a mask for her own agenda. But I don’t hold it against you, L-84. You acted as you thought best. The damage is done.” The droid paused mid-step. “She nearly had me decommissioned for treason,” L-84 muttered, staring out over the ruined vault. “She falsified records, rerouted command codes… It took everything I had to clear my processor. And you… you forgave her.” Deathskull’s skull-like face rotated slightly to regard him. “Forgiveness isn’t the same as trust. She’s a variable—wild, powerful, and potentially useful. But she’ll be dealt with later.” The air buzzed sharply as the internal transporter platform activated. A second later, they were carried down in a pulse of RED light to the base levels of Cybrawl—the old sector of the city where a separate pyramid, once used for raw material processing, stood dormant. This pyramid was far quieter. Lifeless. Cold. But that was about to change. As they approached its armored gates, their biometric signatures triggered the ancient entry systems. With a thunderous groan of shifting titanium plates, the doors parted, revealing the cavernous interior. It was an empty cathedral of industry—bare walls lined with dormant consoles, rows of deactivated assembly arms curled in stasis like sleeping giants, and a high ceiling lost in misty shadows. “We’ll start here,” Deathskull announced, stepping into the silence. “All systems, online.” The room lit with sequential flashes of RED and WHITE. Systems activated. Machinery stirred. Dozens of assembly arms unfolded with a hiss of steam and hum of magnetic locks disengaging. Data streams flowed down the walls like code-rivers, feeding directly into the factory’s operating matrix. The main AI recognized Deathskull’s authority and adjusted parameters instantly. Droid L-84 inserted the first replicated shard of Shungite into the input terminal. Its oily black surface glimmered like obsidian dipped in stars, radiating unnatural cold. The system accepted the sample. Almost immediately, robotic arms began scanning, breaking down its density, molecular lattice, and etheric signature. Moments later, the first replication units began humming. One by one, slabs of synthetic Shungite formed on reinforced plates. The raw chunks were lifted and carried down the line by magnetic levitation arms, each piece beginning its journey through the crucibles, ethereal infusers, and resonance stampers that would make them viable cores for the Wraith Device. “Mass production confirmed,” L-84 said flatly. “We can hit two thousand units by nightfall.” “Make it four,” Deathskull replied. “This isn’t just containment. It's a fortification. The next breach will be worse.” The golden skeletal droids began pouring into the factory in response to system-wide alerts. Some were construction units, refitting stations to increase efficiency. Others brought in power cells, tools, and massive crates of quantum alloys necessary for the device housings. Assembly lines came online with astonishing speed. Orders were coded, distributed, followed. The pyramid, once abandoned, now pulsed like a living organism. Each droid moved with perfect synchronization—recycling materials, charging capacitor cores, imprinting control sigils into the Shungite with micro-lasers. Soon, banks of Wraith Devices would be constructed—each one a beacon of defiance against the invisible entities that clawed through the dimensional veil. As more replicated Shungite began piling up on the conveyors, Deathskull stepped to the main operations terminal. Its console was ancient—integrated into the pyramid’s core systems, lined with carved alloy inscriptions in the old droid tongue. He extended his metallic fingers and keyed in a sequence only known to those who had once walked alongside the Builders. Above him, a circular array of emitters activated—one of the original Wraith Device schematics pulsed into existence, spinning in mid-air. A triple-layered ring device hovered within the projection, anchored by a shungite core suspended at its center. Engravings of containment runes and anti-dimensional glyphs were embedded into the outer casing. The design was old—salvaged from wrecks of war, and adapted using forbidden tech. “This will hold them,” Deathskull muttered, watching the projection cycle through its phases. “Not forever… but long enough.” Outside, Cybrawl’s skyline flared. Storms of corrupted light spun briefly on the horizon. Somewhere beyond the surface, in dimensions that cracked like mirror glass, shadows were shifting—watching. Inside the factory pyramid, the machines continued their rhythmic work, forging the only barrier between worlds. And time was running out. Deep within the humming, ever-expanding factory pyramid, the golden skeletal droids worked like a hive—each movement precise, mechanical, without waste or hesitation. The air shimmered with thermal signatures and microstatic discharges, while overhead, the neon glow of tracking lasers sliced across the ceiling beams as drones monitored construction efficiency in real-time. Deathskull stood at the elevated command platform—an obsidian tier raised above the main floor—his skeletal fingers moving through the layers of data suspended before him. Bright crimson holographic screens fanned out in a half-dome, each one displaying a different phase of the Wraith Device's internal structure. Some diagrams rotated with high-detail 3D renderings; others pulsed with schematics encoded in the Builder language—an archaic tongue only preserved in old pyramid systems and in Deathskull’s internal processor. Droid L-84 stood opposite him, arms folded, optics narrowed in cautious calculation. His processors buzzed with dozens of calculations at once—magnetic field vectors, dispersion patterns, activation timing protocols, pressure feedback. Deathskull pulled one of the central diagrams forward and tapped a red sigil at the device’s core. “This is the dispersal point,” he said, voice metallic but calm. “Once deployed, the device will elevate on an anti-grav column, spin at 1200 RPM, and release a spiral cloud of vaporized shungite through its embedded lattice. The cloud will rise like a pillar of celestial smoke—harmless to the eye, invisible to most sensors, but deadly to Wraith-based entities.” “Beautiful,” L-84 admitted, but his tone soured as he scrolled through the dispersal specs. “But what about civilian populations? This powder you’re releasing—it’s not inert.” Deathskull didn’t turn from the screen. Instead, he minimized the core structure and pulled up a chemical analysis chart. An elegant red sine wave rotated slowly against a black backdrop, depicting the mineral structure of shungite. “Incorrect,” Deathskull replied. “Shungite has been used by Earthlings for centuries. Water purification, EMF absorption, even holistic health. Ingestible in small quantities. When micronized, it behaves like atmospheric carbon—present, but unnoticed.” He enlarged a sub-screen showing animated particles swirling through a simulated human respiratory system. The shungite powder passed harmlessly through the virtual lungs, flagged only by immune responses that filed it under ‘non-threatening environmental particles.’ “People breathe in microbes all the time without realizing it,” Deathskull added. “Air isn’t clean. It’s never been clean.” L-84’s optics flickered. “But that’s Earth. What about alien physiology?” Deathskull spun the screen, drawing open a hexagonal graph displaying comparative results: Nasgan lungs, Vikingnar bloodstreams, Dragotarian air sacs, even Wulver respiratory fusion lines. All displayed green or neutral readings. Only the Wraith species showed a collapse in cellular integrity upon contact. “Cross-species viability confirmed,” Deathskull said. “It only kills what it was built to kill.” L-84’s shoulders relaxed slightly, but his tone remained cautious. “Still. That’s a lot of trust to put in a substance nobody can see.” Deathskull turned to face him finally, red optic lenses burning behind his metallic skull. “That’s the nature of power,” he said. “Invisible. Omnipresent. Misunderstood.” Below them, the first finished Wraith Devices were being moved into containment vaults. Sleek, cylindrical constructs—about the size of ancient Greek columns—each with three magnetic rings rotating around the core. The shungite containment chamber pulsed softly at their centers, resonating with silent anti-dimensional signatures. Each one had an engraving: the Eye of the Wraith, carved deep into the central spine. A reminder of who they were fighting. Outside, thunder rolled across Cybrawl’s upper atmosphere. The sky cracked with purple light. A flare of interdimensional energy shimmered near the horizon. The Wraith veil was weakening. Deathskull raised another screen. It displayed global markers—hot zones where the fabric of reality had begun to shear. Some were mere anomalies: time skips, impossible echoes, shadows with no source. Others had grown violent. Entities clawing their way through abandoned research stations, dimensional rifts over war-torn colonies, haunting signals detected from submerged satellites thought long lost to planetary implosions. “They’re getting closer,” Deathskull muttered. “Every hour we wait, they adapt.” L-84 stepped forward, pulling up a simulation: a deployment map of York, Earth, and the Red Dragon territories. The red-tinted celestial pillars would be dispersed in sequence—each one creating a temporary “exclusion zone” where Wraith energies would falter, recoil, or be temporarily pushed back into dormant space. “And what happens when we run out of shungite?” L-84 asked. Deathskull nodded. “We can’t. We’ll simply replicate more.” From the upper platform of the Cybrawl pyramid, Deathskull’s optic lenses pulsed as he uploaded the finalized redprints. The data transferred like liquid lightning—each design schematic encoded in encrypted pulses of plasma-coded language. The signal beamed upward through the tip of the black-and-gold pyramidal spire, cutting through the clouds like a red lightning bolt. Far above, in low orbit, the dormant construction droids anchored to the Wraith Dockyard received the command. The Wraith Dockyard—an artificial ring stretching across the dark side of Cybrawl’s moon—activated with mechanical precision. Gigantic mechanical arms hissed and unfurled like awakened serpents. Dock lights shimmered in red and gold. Segmented cranes rotated into position. Assembly pods opened. Massive containment tubes of pre-processed shungite were slotted into position, while quantum welders and gravitic compressors began shaping the first orbital batch of Wraith Devices. Each one would be a weapon of myth—towering, intelligent, and reactive to hostile fourth-dimensional signatures. Not only would they prevent further Wraith entry points... they might become the first weapons in recorded galactic history to erase a Demon from existence entirely. Down below, inside the command balcony of the pyramid, Droid L-84 stood silent for a moment, watching the orbital feed flicker across the curved wall of holo-screens. His golden skeletal frame tensed. “L-84,” Deathskull said finally, voice hollow but laced with unease, “you do realize what this means.” Droid L-84 didn’t turn. “We’re building weapons of mass destruction,” Deathskull continued, stepping forward. “Not containment fields. Not deterrents. I’m proposing annihilation—an extinction mechanism for creatures we barely understand.” Deathskull lifted one hand, and conjured another holographic diagram. It displayed a Wraith Demon at the molecular level—its structure was a chaos of EMF radiation, phasing particles, and fourth-dimensional folding. Lines of ancient Builder text ran along the side, denoting EMF resonance frequencies and dark energy harmonics. Then L-84 stepped closer to the central command console, arms folded. “You’re certain shungite is enough? That it can induce... an absolute death?” Deathskull nodded once. “I have a theory. Shungite exists at a resonance below fourth-dimensional noise. It absorbs electromagnetic fields—it consumes the very frequency Wraith entities use to maintain cohesion.” He brought up a new simulation. In it, a holographic Wraith Demon surged through a dimensional rift, claws raised, only to be struck by a blossoming sphere of shungite dust released from a nearby Wraith Device. Within seconds, the Demon’s form began to collapse—its limbs breaking apart, its dark matter evaporating like most exposed to fire. The simulation rendered a blinding white implosion at the center. Residual energy: zero. “Not banished,” Deathskull said. “Not scattered. Erased.” L-84’s optics narrowed. “If you’re wrong... we’ll provoke them. If they realize what these devices are truly capable of—” “They’ll retaliate either way,” Deathskull interrupted. “But at least now, they won’t reincarnate in the dark.” The air inside the command platform vibrated slightly as a new construction status pinged on the upper left screen. Within the molten heart of the secondary factory pyramid, the golden skeletal droids worked without pause or breath. The facility was now humming with purpose—each tiered platform illuminated by crimson lighting, streaked by the golden reflection of polished steel and liquid alloys. Conveyor arms clicked into rhythm. Cranes rotated. Sparks erupted from plasma welders and molecular fusion forges. The chamber was a living cathedral of industry—one dedicated to war, precision, and the unmaking of darkness. Deathskull and Droid L-84 had personally calibrated the forge protocols. Graphene—the strongest synthetic carbon structure known in the galaxy—was also replicated. The harvested graphene was melted and molded through atomic-scale print-heads, creating sleek, obsidian-black weapon cores. Their shapes varied—some elongated into wide-bladed axes, others into serrated hammers, or tapering plasma-forged swords. Each weapon wasn’t merely solid. The blades were hollowed with microscopic veins, through which specially formulated plasma would surge on activation. This was no ordinary plasma—it was ionized and carefully laced with powdered shungite, kept in stasis through gravitic containment fields until the moment of release. Upon contact, this plasma would flare with blue-white arcs, discharging bursts that were both electromagnetic and molecularly corrosive to fourth-dimensional energy. If a Wraith Demon was struck with such a weapon, the result would be catastrophic. Not only would the body be ripped apart by the force of the impact, but its energy structure—its soul—would be shattered, scattered into anti-signal radiation, untraceable and un-resurrectable. There would be no return. No phasing. No second chance. The prototypes—six in total—rested now on a central platform, each one mounted upright on polished pedestals. They glowed faintly, humming with silent menace. The Void Cleaver, a broad executioner’s blade with geometric etching in Builder code. The Tempest Fang, a double-headed axe with a central core reactor that pulsated like a second heart. The Hammer of Mourn, a massive rectangular warhammer that vibrated subtly with subsonic force, made for shattering bone and breaking barriers. Three more weapons followed: two energy-laced glaives and a lightweight sword named Echothorn, forged for speed and flickering through matter with ghostlike efficiency. Above the chamber, a separate set of screens displayed simulations: holographic demon constructs being bisected, disintegrated, collapsed into red-black smoke under the blows of these weapons. Each test showed a complete breakdown of the target’s cohesion—no residual energy readings. Just absolute stillness. As the simulations concluded, the redprints were compiled, encoded, and launched via laser pulse to the assembly droid mainframe. Below, the assembly line roared into motion. Mechanical arms pulled carbon sheeting, graphene tubing, and condensed plasma cores into precise locations. Micro-welders soldered nerve-like threads of shungite lattice into each weapon’s frame. Holographic projectors overlaid target coordinates for the gravitic stabilizers. Final detailing was completed by spider-like auto-carvers, engraving each weapon with the crest of Cybrawl—an eye within a hexagon, ringed in Builder runes. The first rack of twelve melee weapons slid out from the output vault. The weapons glowed softly in the dim light—no longer prototypes, but instruments of extinction, ready for the frontline. Around the pyramid, the atmosphere shifted. As though the Wraith Demons themselves had sensed the birth of something meant to end them. Static interference began to creep into nearby communication channels. Electromagnetic pressure swelled in the upper atmosphere. Some of the golden droids paused, their systems reacting momentarily to the surge. Deathskull noticed it in the telemetry reports: a brief drop in quantum coherence across the factory’s outer field. The Wraith Demons were watching. That meant the weapons worked. Back inside the control platform, Droid L-84 reviewed the production rates. The first wave—fifty units—would be ready in three hours. A second wave of heavy weapons and custom variants would follow in seven. They were preparing for open confrontation now, not isolated skirmishes. Not border defenses. This was war. The weapons would be distributed to all Viking warriors stationed across the Vikingnar Sectors—York, Helios, even the frontier world of Aerix. Deathskull had already sent a transmission to William’s command, marking the devices as “Phase Red—Authorized.” They would arrive by stealth drop modules within a day. Down below, the factory's light dimmed momentarily as the mass production process moved into full acceleration. The war against the Wraith was entering a new phase. It would no longer be about resistance or defense. It would be about purging the unclean. An end, forged in black carbon and spiritual fire. Outside the factory pyramid, under the electric lavender sky of Cybrawl, Deathskull and Droid L-84 stood motionless for a moment on the wide, elevated platform that overlooked the complex. A soft artificial breeze hummed through the metallic corridor vents—an engineered version of "fresh air" that the skeletal droids didn’t technically need, but had come to associate with clarity and contemplation. They took a stroll, their golden-plated limbs gleaming in the pyramid’s shifting light, casting long skeletal shadows across the hex-patterned floor beneath them. Inside the halls, cleanup crews were hard at work. Utility droids pushed carts filled with torn, scorched, or deliberately discarded remnants of Red Dragon iconography. Imperial banners, once hanging like sacred shrouds, now dragged along the floor, their fabric fraying. The red-and-gold standard of the Red Dragon Empire—featuring the symbol of a red dragon impaled by a downward sword—was unceremoniously heaped into incineration bins. The symbolism, once menacing and imperial, evoked strong religious overtones—a dragon crucified like an ancient martyr, weaponized propaganda for the ruling class. In their place, newly programmed drones unfurled fresh banners, unrolling with mechanical precision. The stark black fabric shimmered in the hallway lights, threaded with thin red architectural lines that mimicked circuitry and old Viking knotwork. In the center of each was a forward-facing white wolf skull, crowned in white bone, regal and timeless. Beneath it: the silhouette of William’s chainsword, its distinct spine of jagged teeth rendered in clean, minimalist style. Along the bottom hem, in bold white font, the words United Kingdom Of Vikingnar declared a new era. Deathskull paused mid-stride as he took in the banner. His optic sensors adjusted subtly, glowing a faint ruby-red. For a droid who rarely displayed sentiment, his silence suggested internal hesitation. He leaned slightly toward Droid L-84. “I’m not sure he’ll approve of the ‘kingdom’ reference,” he said, voice low, modulated to avoid echoing through the corridor. “Sounds more monarchist than he’s comfortable with.” But Droid L-84 merely shrugged, his tone practical and even. “He doesn’t want to be treated like royalty, but he already leads like a king. The symbolism isn’t about ego—it’s about unity. Clarity. People rally behind symbols more than systems.” The thought lingered in Deathskull’s circuitry as they continued walking, their footsteps ringing metallic across the floor. Then, without warning, Deathskull stopped and turned. From his internal storage system, a red-hued holographic interface projected between his hands, glowing like an ember held in the dark. Complex geometry spun to life—an unstable sphere, surrounded by containment arms, energy rings, and lattice structures designed to bend gravitational laws. It wasn’t just a weapon. It was a tethered gateway, designed to manipulate the very foundation of space and dimensional alignment. It was a black hole—artificial and anchored to the surface of Earth, a precision design to target the Grey-engineered Wraith portal hidden beneath the planet’s crust. Deathskull’s optic lights flickered as the projection stabilized. It would act as a cosmic drain—pulling demons and interdimensional entities back into the Wraith, sealing the wound between realities. The device was dangerous. It would require unprecedented containment systems, and it would need to be hidden during construction. If revealed too early, it could trigger panic or opposition from factions across the galaxy. Droid L-84 examined the design carefully, scanning the schematics. He was quiet for several seconds, calculating probabilities, energy thresholds, failure risks. Then he nodded. “This,” L-84 said, “isn’t just containment. It's an absolution. You’ve built a failsafe to end this war… from Earth itself.” Deathskull closed the holographic design with a wave of his hand. “It must be built in secret. Far from the others. If they see what we’re doing, they may try to stop it.” L-84’s gaze shifted toward the horizon, the towers of Cybrawl city glittering beyond the pyramids. He knew the stakes. Every factory, every forge, every Wraith device being produced—they were buying time. The black hole was the last card. It would either save their world or rip the fabric of reality apart. They continued their walk in silence, under the new banners of Vikingnar, as the sounds of shungite-forged weaponry echoed in the background—hammers striking energy anvils, plasma welding with microscopic precision, and celestial weapons born for a war that few outside their alliance truly understood. When they reached the final chamber before the launch bay, Deathskull paused once more. He looked toward the stars, knowing that soon, Earth would once again become the center of cosmic interference—a fragile world caught between dimensions, destined to face either salvation or destruction. And they would be the architects of its fate. The sun was dipping low in the sky over York’s capital, but the air was electric—not with threat, but with transformation. Behind us, our longships continued to land, each boarding more Vikingnar warriors who marched through the gates, determined to secure the city as our stronghold. Emily and I were escorted into a private alcove by Serenity, offering a rare moment of calm amid the unfolding storm. Tall glass walls curved around us, revealing the city’s gothic architecture quietly shifting from battleground to headquarters. A holographic map hovered above a glass table, tracking troop movements and civilian sectors. Serenity stood between us, her presence serene but resolute. She had just shared the details of her ethereal merge with an Immortal—an event that had lit the skies in a jolt of cerulean power, sending shockwaves through friend and foe alike. “Everything’s more complicated now,” Serenity said softly, her voice low enough that only Emily and I could hear. “When that Immortal bonded with me, I felt… something ancient. I felt Valrra’s spiritual teachings. It wasn’t random.” I frowned. “Valrra. She believed in spiritual Alchemy, didn’t she?” Emily nodded, her expression darkening. “Yes. Things have shifted in Vikingnar. Many people—kings, queens, priests—don’t worship the old gods anymore. They follow Alchemy: transforming spirit, merging soul and matter. Not praying to deities, but practicing inner transformation.” I let the silence linger. My frustration built like thunder. “Why didn’t anyone tell me this before?” Emily’s eyes glistened with hurt. “William—I didn’t want to burden you. You were gone for so long. I figured…” I couldn’t stop the words that came next. “Feel free to keep important shit from me.” Her lip trembled with the threat of tears. “Willy—” But I cut away, heading outside the capitol. The courtyard outside the capitol was cool and hushed beneath York’s gray atmosphere. A light breeze swept over the stone tiles as I stepped out alone, needing distance from the conversation I had left behind. The city around me was stabilizing—warriors unloading drop pods, technicians assembling beacon towers, and temporary barracks rising in the empty courtyards. The skies above still carried a burnt-orange haze from earlier bombardments, but the capital building was secure. I raised my wrist gauntlet and called Droid L‑84. A red holo-interface flared to life, and the skeletal figures of L‑84 and Deathskull materialized in front of me, their environment cast in crimson ambient lighting—an eerie glow that pulsed from within the great production pyramid at Cybrawl. “We’re proceeding at full pace,” said Deathskull. “The Wraith devices are being assembled in orbital foundries. We’ve already sent a vanguard shipment toward Earth. If we can complete distribution in the next few cycles, we’ll have early suppression fields surrounding all major portals.” I nodded, silently impressed. “Good. We’ll need them.” “I also sent you something else,” Deathskull added. “A cluster of e-manuscripts. You’ll find them under the encrypted file labeled Aether_Keys.” The interface on my gauntlet blinked as the transfer completed. “What are they?” “Valrra’s last contribution before she disappeared. Writings on what she called ‘Spiritual Alchemy.’ I believe you’ll find them relevant.” He wasn’t wrong. After the call ended, I stood still for a long moment, then opened the manuscript files on my gauntlet. Streams of glowing runes, rotating diagrams, and holographic parchment unfurled before me. The imagery alone was staggering: silhouettes of individuals ascending through metaphysical layers, bodies dissolving into light, spirals of sacred geometry stretching into astral realms. Energy flows were mapped with such precision it felt less like mysticism and more like quantum science. Ascension, I read silently. The unification of body, soul, and “higher self.” A being no longer bound by physical laws. I began to piece together the implications—the way Serenity had become a force of nature on the battlefield, her body radiating with energy after merging with an Immortal. The documents implied that such entities—Immortals—weren’t gods or aliens… but projections of the self, grown from within by mastery over spiritual energy. I clenched my jaw. Was this why the gods had faded? Had humanity—had Vikingnar—simply stopped needing them? That thought was cut short by a light poke on my arm. I turned, not irritated, but expectant. It was Emily, standing close, her expression uncertain. She hesitated. “Are you still mad at me?” I sighed. “No.” She relaxed and stepped beside me. “I thought you’d want to see this.” She lifted her wrist and opened a red holoscreen. A galaxy map appeared, dots and arrows tracing movements across sectors. She zoomed in on a formation of red icons. “The Shark fleet,” she said. “The ones I lured to the Red Dragon Empire’s outer zone... they’re gone. Packed up and left.” I leaned in as the probe footage played. Their hive ships—serpentine, pulsating vessels that devoured everything in their path—were seen backing away from contested territory. But they weren’t retreating to known sectors or returning to their home nebula. They were moving out—toward the edge of the galaxy. “Where are they going?” I muttered. Emily pointed to the black space on the edge of the map. “There’s nothing out there. No trade routes, no planets. Just… void.” My eyes narrowed. Something in my gut twisted. “Then why are the great beasts running? What could be worse than Shark People?” She was quiet. Then, reluctantly: “ Please tell me you don’t think it’s demons.” My shoulders sagged as I looked back toward the digital map. “Really,” I muttered. “Why do I even bother telling you things if you don’t believe me?” “Hey,” she snapped, “don’t yell at me! I believe you. I just don’t want to.” We stood in silence. I stared out past the walls of York, past the scattered lights of drop ships and warrior beacons, and into the murky horizon where the sky bled into space. “Who can blame you,” I finally said. “No one wants to believe it.” Emily didn’t respond right away. She stood beside me, gaze fixed on the same distant point, her expression turning solemn. Beneath our feet, York had been secured. Above our heads, Deathskull and his skeletal engineers were building salvation out of darkness and ancient rock. And somewhere in the vast outer sector of the galaxy… something worse than nightmares had awakened. And it was hunting. Then, out of nowhere, Serenity’s voice came from behind us. “You should trust his instincts, Emily. He’s been right before.” Her tone was casual, almost too calm, but her words landed with weight. Emily flinched, annoyed by her presence. “Please don’t sneak up on us like that,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “I’ll kill you next time.” I didn’t intervene. I could feel Emily’s irritation ripple through her posture, but I also knew Serenity’s point wasn’t without value. The conversation we’d had moments earlier about the Shark People abandoning their feeding habits, and the possibility of something worse lurking in the galaxy’s outer rim, was still gnawing at the edge of my mind. I was ready to walk away, gently tugging Emily’s hand to lead her from the tension, when Serenity added, “Before you go—there’s something else. A few Red Dragon Nobles are asking to negotiate peace.” We both stopped. Emily looked at me. I looked at her. Her expression twisted with disdain. “Peace? Now?” I could see the disbelief in her eyes. The idea was insulting. The Red Dragons had burned too many colonies, assassinated too many of our leaders, and hunted our species like vermin. Peace wasn’t an option—not after Joseph. Serenity saw the change in our expressions and took a step back, as if preparing for resistance. “I’m not saying we accept. I’m just saying… maybe we hear what they want.” I stared out over the capital as the wind picked up. Scorched banners fluttered below. I imagined Joseph’s face for a moment—his calm presence, his sense of diplomacy, and his belief that every war had to end somehow. But he was gone. And they made sure of it. “They can speak,” I said flatly. “But it’ll be from chains and behind a shield wall. No more chances.” Neither of us said anything else. We just watched the haze settle over the city as the night fully fell. The twilight sky over York's capital rippled with an otherworldly violet hue, the orange glow of the distant Wraith flickering through heavy clouds. Emily and I waited atop the spire, our silhouettes etched against the swirling dusk. Serenity stood behind us, silent. Our warriors, shielded by red plasma barriers, formed a protective ring at the base of the walls, ready for anything. At last, a single Imperial Lander descended from the cloudy sky, its engines humming against the roar of the wind. It came to a gentle landing on the far side of the restored shield wall. One by one, red plasma doors folded outward, revealing a delegation of Red Dragon Empire nobles. The nobles disembarked in stiff, ceremonial formation. Their armor glinted in the dim light, matching the gothic stylings of the capital. I could sense Emily tense beside me. Moving down the spiraling stairwell, Emily and I came to stand at the fortress gate. Our elite warriors—spears pointed skyward, shields reflecting the spire's fading glow—surrounded the delegation. A tense silence settled. The lead noble, his voice ceremonious and cold, spoke first: “An offer of peace in exchange for your abandonment of Spiritual Alchemy—and devotion to “the angel goddess Madeline.”” A hush fell. I barely concealed the rage building in my chest. Without hesitation, I drew my gauntlet blade—a honed plasma-edged weapon—its projection light carving lines of red across the stone as I pressed its tip to the noble’s throat. “Peace,” I spat, voice low, filled with contempt, “on terms like that? I’ve heard this before—you degenerate.” Confusion and fear flashed across his face. “We aren’t degenerates… we are holy,” he stammered. I recognized his mistake—equating their worship for malicious devotion. “You think worshipping a demon goddess is holy,” I replied, voice cold and unwavering. “Those statues”—I nodded toward the Noble’s retinue, gesturing at their icons—“are of Maladrie, not an angel.” The look on his face confirmed my suspicion. I had him where I wanted—bluff and fear. As he pleaded for mercy, I lost patience. With a flick of my wrist, my chainsword swallowed the flicker of twilight rays as it severed his head from his shoulders. The body went limp; red plasma hissed down his chest while blood pooled in the dust. The rest of his delegation gasped in shock. Emily acted in unison. Her sword, already humming softly, cut a swift arc through the dusk as she dispatched the remaining nobles. The clash of steel was decisive and final. When the blood-soaked silence reclaimed the courtyard, I stood still. The weapons sheathe again. The air was heavy with dust and the smell of ionized blood. Emily's hand found mine—tight, unwavering. The glance we shared said it all: Mercy could come later. For now, the message was clear. We would never bow to false gods or hollow treaties. We watched as the shield doors hissed shut behind the dead. The implied treaty—broken. The capital’s spire crackled with violet light, and the never‑ending twilight deepened further. We turned our backs on the fallen nobles and walked in silence back toward the armory—and the uncertain steps of a war yet to come. Inside the stone-and-metal heart of the York Capitol, the briefing room was lit by overhead beams of synthetic daylight. The walls were layered in matte black steel, etched with traces of old Imperial circuitry still humming beneath Vikingnar modifications. The room had once served as a war chamber for Red Dragon officers; now it was ours—repurposed, reclaimed, and surrounded by the scent of new unity & loyalty. Emily stood to my right, her arms crossed, her posture relaxed but alert. Serenity paced the room with noticeable agitation, her sleek boots tapping across the obsidian floor. The holographic table in the center flickered between sectors, projecting various maps of the empire—each glowing red dot representing an enemy world, each green one a newly liberated stronghold. “I still think killing the nobles was excessive,” Serenity said, her tone more weary than judgmental. “They came unarmed. At least… outwardly.” Emily rolled her eyes. “They came preaching submission and spiritual sterilization. That’s war, Serenity—not peace.” I leaned over the holo-table, rotating the projection with a flick of my gauntlet. The model of the Red Dragon Empire shifted until it centered on a mid-tier world marked in ivory text: Jericho. A religious planet. A world of massive cathedrals, chant domes, floating basilicas suspended by anti-grav anchors. I tapped the glowing image. “I’ve made up my mind.” Serenity stopped pacing. “About what?” I looked up at her, my voice calm but unyielding. “King Aelle lied to me about Madeline’s existence. And after what we saw today—after hearing them demand we abandon our alchemy and kneel to their ‘angel goddess’—I want to know what’s really going on.” Serenity frowned, crossing her arms. “So you’re suggesting… what? Occupation?” “Jericho is a religious core world,” I said. “If we take it, we weaken their influence. We learn more about Madeline—or Maladrie, whatever she really is to the Imperialists. And we strike a blow before they decide to come for our sectors.” “I think it’s smart,” Emily chimed in, stepping up beside me. “We don’t wait for them to strike. We move forward. We hit them in their souls.” Serenity blinked, clearly surprised. “Do you agree with him?” Emily gave a smug smile. “You’re the one who said I should trust my man more often.” Serenity looked between us, conflicted. “I just think… we’re running thin on time. Another battle, another raid—it’ll eat up resources. We’re still cleaning up the capital. There’s no guarantee Jericho even holds answers.” I shook my head slowly. “There’s no guarantee anywhere. But sitting here waiting while they regroup isn’t an option. Jericho is symbolic. If we burn their symbol, the empire will feel it.” A long silence passed between us. Serenity’s brow furrowed. She wasn’t convinced, but she wasn’t going to argue anymore either. Finally, I said, “You’ll stay behind. Guard York. Secure the new territories. Emily and I will lead the Jericho raid ourselves.” Serenity sighed and turned toward the viewing port, looking out over the smoky skyline of York. “Fine,” she said at last, barely audible. “But don’t let this become personal revenge, William.” I responded, “too late for that.” Emily tugged on my hand with playful warmth and said, “Let’s go, silly Willy.” I smirked despite myself, and we walked out of the room together, past banners of the Red Dragon Empire still being stripped from the walls—replaced by the stark, forward-facing white wolf skull of Vikingnar, crowned and defiant. The halls echoed with movement. Engineers, scouts, and builders worked seamlessly alongside skeletal golden droids. Outside the spire, the light of York's twin moons painted the newly raised banners in silver. Emily and I headed for the docking bay. Ahead of us was Jericho—unknown, defiant, holy in its lies. But we would show them that no god, false or real, could save an empire built on control. The sky above York roared with controlled chaos, as multiple fleets spiraled upward into the upper atmosphere, each formation marked with the white skull banner of Vikingnar. One fleet curved toward the east to reinforce new sectors near the Ring Nebula colonies, while the fleet assigned to Jericho arced on a more direct trajectory. The transition from atmosphere to orbit bathed the vessels in shimmering hues—crimson heat trails and glinting solar panels streaked against the backdrop of distant stars. Emily and I, leading this assault, brought more than warriors—we brought strategy. This wasn’t a campaign for conquest or tribute. This was a mission of revelation and disruption. Inside the primary hangar of the Long Ship Völundr’s Howl, docking crews fastened rows of pod mechanisms with magnetic clasps. Drop pods lined the floor like iron sarcophagi, each one loaded with two Vikingnar warriors clad in reinforced chainmail and graphene armor. Our unit was compact—elite. The objective was infiltration, and domination. Jericho, being a religious world, was supposedly light on heavy artillery. The challenge lay in breaching its sanctified heart without killing off a mass amount of our warriors like in the previous battle. Emily and I boarded our pod, the interior aglow with faint red lights and the steady blink of status signals. As the hangar decompressed and the bay doors parted, gravity shifted violently, and the launch sirens wailed through the chamber. A final magnetic thump launched us into the void. The moment of descent was pure kinetic aggression. Dozens of pods ejected into the cold blackness, aligning in a formation that streaked toward Jericho’s upper stratosphere like a meteor storm. The planet loomed below, a dull gray orb mottled with dense clouds and webbed with deep urban scars. Jericho was not a planet of rivers or trees—it was a world of monolithic cities, eternal overcast, and exhaust-belching spires. Inside our pod, I opened a red holographic map projected from my wrist gauntlet, fine-tuning our trajectory. Target indicators flared across the screen—our goal was a controlled crash within the fortified perimeter of Jericho’s capital, avoiding its outdated, still-functional orbital railguns. Our pod, outfitted with atmospheric fins and partial steering thrusters, responded to the manual corrections as we locked onto the city’s center. Within seconds, we pierced the upper cloud cover. Lightning skated across the sky around us as streaks of other drop pods broke through beside us. The impact came like a thunderclap. Our pod drilled straight through the paved courtyard of a cathedral square, kicking up a wave of molten slag and dust. Seconds later, the hatch burst open. We emerged in controlled violence. Jericho’s Knights—devotees of Madeline, garbed in white-laced, gold-encrusted armor—were already scrambling. The confusion was immediate. They weren’t expecting an assault on this planet. Defensive garrisons were minimal. And those who responded to the incursion were slow, misinformed, or burdened by antiquated ceremonial weapons. Their mistake cost them everything. Our warriors fanned out into the plaza, red plasma blades and shock-forged spears cutting through the surprised defenders. Emily led the charge alongside me, her obsidian longsword blazing with a white-hot current. The battlefield was pure one-sided carnage. A slaughter. And yet, our warriors maintained control. I made my order clear, “Don’t kill the weak! I’ll hang you myself, if you do!” Any warrior who dared harm an unarmed civilian would answer to me personally. My voice barked through the comms like thunder in a canyon: clear, cold, final. No mistakes. We cut down only the armored and armed. Priests, monks, and civilian bystanders were left untouched, many fleeing in confusion or dropping to their knees in fear or prayer. The old empire had lied to them too, after all. And they would learn that Vikingnar were not the monsters the Red Dragons had warned about. But something broke the rhythm of the battle. A group of nobles—cloaked in crimson robes and carrying primitive flammables and high-yield detonators—slipped through the chaos, making their way down one of the metal-paved alleys leading toward the central cathedral. They weren’t running to escape. They were running to destroy. Emily and I broke from the formation, navigating the industrial maze of the city’s inner sanctum. Jericho's architecture was brutalist and gothic—mismatched slabs of rusted alloy, baroque detailing corroded by smog, stained-glass windows blackened by centuries of pollution. The alleys reeked of machine oil and old incense. We flanked them quickly. Emily charged from behind, her footfalls ringing loud against the metallic flooring, while I looped around through an auxiliary conduit path. My chainsword howled to life, vibrating with burning edge particles. The nobles never saw me coming. With a single arc of my blade, I decapitated two of them mid-step. Their heads fell to the grated floor, bouncing with dull thuds as the detonators clattered from their robes. Emily kicked one device down a drainage shaft, and I disabled the others by stomping their timers into scrap. The threat was over—but the questions had only begun. We turned toward the towering cathedral ahead. The building dominated the skyline—an industrial monstrosity with spires shaped like dagger tips and pipes lining every exterior wall like the veins of a dying giant. Its upper steeples belched soft vapor from unknown furnaces deep within. Massive iron doors marked the entrance. We breached them together. What we expected was a last stand—Knights ready to make a suicidal defense of their sacred site. What we found was silence. The cathedral was empty. Pillars of tarnished bronze reached toward a vaulted ceiling cloaked in shadows. Holographic stained-glass projections hovered in mid-air, images of the angel goddess Madeline etched in loops of divine battle, endless light, and redemption. But there were inconsistencies—angular distortions in the projections, strange flickers, glyphs in unknown dialects layered behind the main images. No priests. No guards. No congregation. It was as if the building had been evacuated well before our drop. As if they knew we were coming—not in a tactical sense, but in a prophetic one. A holy panic. A cleansing. In reality the Imperialists weren’t expecting an attack on their holy land & instead on a resource rich planet. I thought to myself, “how insulting of them to think I was just some schmuck looking to pillage.” I was genuinely curious what these imperialists were hiding. Emily and I stepped further inside, the echo of our boots swallowed by the sheer size of the hall. The deeper we ventured, the colder it became. Not physically—but spiritually. Like a void had been carved into the soul of the place. This wasn’t just a holy site. This was a vault. A mask. A machine. The Empire wasn’t hiding relics here—they were hiding the truth. And I was going to rip it out by the roots. Emily and I moved deeper into the shadowed interior of Jericho’s capital cathedral. The deeper we stepped, the more distorted the architecture became—less divine, more sinister. The high-vaulted ceilings once meant to inspire awe now hung like oppressive jaws. The stained-glass windows shimmered faintly in the gloom, casting refracted colors across the floor in twisted, asymmetrical patterns. Many of the images were all too familiar—crosses, angels, halos, even depictions of a figure bearing wounds eerily similar to Christ. But something was off. The other figure in these windows, robed and holy-seeming, is female. Long dark hair. Arms outstretched in a motherly posture. Wings of radiant light. A face that was soft, beautiful, alluring—but too perfect. Artificial. She was depicted on thrones, with slaves at her feet. In others, she floated above cities, bathed in golden digital clouds. Below her, masses worshipped not out of love, but out of fear, shame… or addiction. Emily tilted her head slightly as we paused in front of one especially large window showing the so-called angel Madeline cradling a crying man while priests looked on with satisfied smiles. The man's wrists were bound, and his eyes were hollow. It didn't feel like salvation. It looked like submission. “This doesn’t make sense,” I muttered, squinting at the image. “I thought the Christians were monotheistic. Worshipping anyone but God was supposed to be heresy.” Emily crossed her arms and scanned the cathedral’s eerie quiet. “It is. Or it was. Maybe that’s the point—Madeline was never meant to be another saint. They made her into a goddess to change the rules.” She turned toward the altar. A flickering red Holoscreen sat embedded into the metal structure like a cursed relic. “Let’s see if the archives can give us some answers.” We approached it, and with a gesture of my gauntlet, the Holoscreen flared to life, casting a crimson hue across the cathedral walls. Emily stood beside me as I typed into the command module. The machine recognized my authority instantly—Jericho's defense systems had already been overridden by our breach. The Empire’s once-restricted databases lay open like a bleeding wound. At first, the content seemed standard: royal decrees, war reports, census updates. But as Emily scrolled down the search parameters and selected the "Religious Development" tab, the tone changed—darkened. A hidden layer of files unlocked, and with it came truth. Emily began reading aloud. “‘Following the collapse of holy morale among the outer colonies, and the growing dissent among our Christ-worshipping populations, the Office of Holy Reform under direct command of King Aelle has created a new figure of comfort and obedience: the angel Madeline.’” I stared at the screen. Lines of text scrolled like damning scripture. Emily continued, “‘Madeline is a psychological response—designed not to contradict Christ, but to soften the grip of doctrine. She is indulgence wrapped in spiritual permission. Her image, carefully selected by artificial consensus from the dreams of lonely men and overworked laborers, gives the illusion of hope. Her sermons focus on earned rewards through hard labor, artistic creation, and discipline.’” “Discipline?” I scoffed. She scrolled further. “‘People are allowed to indulge in the rewards of partying, drinking, fucking or jerking off to online strippers, ect. In fact, the Empire promotes such activities, especially internet strippers or hook ups, but there’s a catch… Those who choose to indulge uncontrolled pleasure or unsanctioned vice will be monitored by Ministry Spies through holographic mirrors and digital archives. Repeat offenders will experience manufactured guilt campaigns using social harassment, economic punishment, or public shaming—until they surrender to clerical rehabilitation or priest-led therapy, both of which are financially incentivized.’” Emily glanced over at me, her expression tightening. The next file showed footage: workers in deep-space factories masturbating in isolated cubicles while a voiceover praised them for “burning off bad urges.” Others showed artificial pleasure dens, laced with scripture, monitored by hidden drones. And behind all of it—transactions, credits, priesthood commissions. Emily spoke again, but her voice trembled with disgust. “‘In some cases, chronic sinners may opt for voluntary slavery—public confessions, branded servitude, or economic binding to churches or nobles to alleviate personal guilt. Their servitude is seen as holy repentance and is incentivized by social status improvements and reduced mental health fees.’” It was religious capitalism at its most vile. A system of engineered sin, followed by engineered redemption. And the cycle repeats. I stared at the lines of data blinking across the screen, my fists clenched. “So the people get to drink, screw, binge on digital filth—then get eaten alive by guilt and manipulated into becoming obedient workers or slaves. The priests get their tithes. The Empire maintains control. Everybody wins, huh?” “Except the people,” Emily said. I shook my head. “No. The people get tricked into thinking it’s their fault for being broken. That it’s their failure to resist pleasure that made them unworthy. Not the system that sold them addiction in the first place.” We scrolled further down. The final line in the file was labeled simply: MAD-GENESIS We tapped into it. This file was corrupted—missing sections, but still revealing. “Madeline is not a god. She is a Wraith construct filtered through holy programming. Her essence was found in a dead god-zone on the outer fringes. A parasite of pleasure. One of the last unbound spirits from the destroyed pantheon. Rituals around her were originally meant to banish her. But then came the Empire’s decision… to market her instead.” Emily went still. I whispered, “That’s why it all feels fake. That’s why everything’s rotten from the core. They took a Wraith Demon… and turned her into a goddess.” And now the Empire worshipped her willingly. Or at least pretended to. I turned toward Emily, my mind piecing together the final truth. “And the hag goddess of pleasure… Maladrie… gets to kill off all the gods in the Wraith. Christ included. And gains more unsuspecting followers every day. Followers who never gave real consent. Only addiction. Only despair.” Emily looked down at the ground. “I think we just found out what Jericho really is.” “A siphon,” I said. “An emotional battery for Maladrie.” Emily’s face hardened, then softened. She wrapped her arms around me suddenly, pressing her cheek against my chest. “It makes sense now. Why they hate Vikingnar so much? Why they kill and enslave.” I nodded slowly, returning the embrace. “Spiritual Alchemy is about being free from religious control. We fight. We remember who we are. And that terrifies King Aelle more than any demon.” The cathedral around us felt darker now. Not just empty—but poisoned. The angels in the stained glass were not angels. The prayers in the air were not holy. The silence wasn’t peace—it was a scream, smothered beneath steel and doctrine. But I wasn’t scared. I was furious. And this holy war wasn’t over. The dim glow of Emily’s helmet light revealed the damp, bone-white walls of the secret stairwell before us. We paused at the foot of the steps, the distant echoes of suffering growing louder with each step downward. The altar had swung free, leaving behind dust and stale incense, and we descended into the building’s forgotten underbelly. Below, we discovered a vast, subterranean chamber—half-prison, half-madhouse. Rows upon rows of emaciated sleepers lay on tattered mats, many lifeless and broken. The air was thick with rot and despair. Some bodies had begun to liquefy, and the floors were slippery with bodily fluids. The stench was overwhelming—a mixture of decay, urine, and the copper tang of blood pooled in dark corners. A single, faint scream cut through the air, drawing our attention to a corner where a woman clutched the wall. Her thighs were scabbed, rib bones visible beneath her stained, torn dress. Bruises darkened her arms and torso. At the sound of our approach, she barely lifted her haggard head, mouth parted in struggle. Emily stepped forward, gently guiding her into a seated position, slipping off her helmet to provide soft light. I leaned close and whispered, “We’re here to help. Do you… can you tell us your name?” Her lips shook. “Help… gods hate me.” I turned to Emily, voice low: “Record this. I want no one to say we did this—we’re here to save her.” Emily nodded and activated her asynchronous camera, the small light blinking. The woman looked at me with terror in her eyes, as though any hope was a lie. “They… they tortured us for worship. We failed. Now they left us.” I knelt beside her and placed a steady hand on her shoulder. “Listen, there's hope—real hope. You have free will. Reject their false gods, reject their demands. You have the power to choose.” Her eyes flickered with pain and confusion. She tried to form words, but only gasped. Emily passed her a cup of water, and I spoke again, softly: “Let go of what they made you believe. Let me guide you to truth—something outside their lies.” She closed her eyes as though in prayer. One slow breath. Another. Then, in a frail voice: “I see… a dragon… guiding me.” Her eyes slipped shut, and she lay still. Her murmur faded into silence. I covered her gently with a piece of fabric, honoring her final escape from suffering. Emily placed a comforting hand on my arm. I stood and looked at the horrors surrounding us—the rows of despair, the skulls peeking through warped walls. The narrow stairway creaked beneath our weight as we climbed back toward the cathedral’s ruined sanctum. At the altar’s broken stone, I turned to Emily. “We need to kill King Aelle,” I said quietly, letting the words hang heavy in the stale air. A long silence followed—thick and suffocating. Emily’s breath caught. Her voice trembled: “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t believe you—didn’t think mere emotions could birth a Wraith demon so powerful.” I looked away, jaw tight against rising anguish. “I wish I was wrong,” I murmured. “Sometimes wishing you were wrong isn’t enough. You just have to believe… believe we can stop this demon before it consumes everything.” Emily drew in a shaky breath. The cathedral above faded around us, replaced by a world on fire. CHAPTER 11: "JERICHO" "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"