Chapter 83
No survivors (2)
Some distant time in the future...
A man trudged across the battlefield—once a city, now a scar etched deep into the earth. His boots pressed into scorched soil, the ground cracked and uneven beneath him. It was damp, slick with coagulated blood and viscous, unidentifiable residue that clung to his soles like tar. The air buzzed with the low hum of ruin.
Around him, his companions moved in silence, eyes sweeping across the devastation. They searched for something—anything—that might breathe. But even that hope felt foolish now.
Ash drifted like snow through the smoke-choked sky. Ruined buildings, reduced to jagged stumps of concrete and steel, jutted upward like broken teeth. Once-grand towers had collapsed inward, now nothing more than craters and skeletal frameworks. Fires still burned quietly in pockets—crimson glows pulsing beneath slabs of rubble like open wounds.
Crushed vehicles lay in twisted heaps, metal frames still smoldering. Some had melted completely, their forms unrecognizable, fused into the ground. Oil slicks shimmered black across shattered roads, and streaks of strange fluid painted long trails along collapsed walls and shattered pillars.
There were no bodies.
No corpses.
Just stains—dark and wide, some scorched into the stone like shadows burned into existence. Places where something had been, but wasn't anymore. The blood remained, thick in patches, caked into the cracks of concrete. The smell of it—copper, hot and thick—still lingered like a ghost refusing to leave.
And above all, the silence.
It wasn't peaceful.
It was suffocating.
As if the world itself was holding its breath, unsure whether to mourn or scream.
Then, his eyes caught it.
A tattered flag.
Once pristine, now torn and blackened. It lay skewered into a fallen dome wall, its pole snapped, the fabric trailing limply in the smoke-laced wind. The red dye had darkened, streaked and smeared, but the insignia remained faintly visible: an H, outlined in black, now nearly indistinguishable from the bloodstains around it.
His jaw tightened.
The symbol of the Hold.
What had once stood as a beacon. A fortress. A legend.
Now reduced to rubble and echoes.
Suddenly, a shrill ringing broke the quiet. He reached into his coat and answered the call.
A voice on the other end asked, softly, uncertain:
"How is the situation?"
His voice was low. Gravelled. Hollow.
"Bad... no. Worse. Worse than we ever could've imagined."
He paused, taking in the ruined horizon. The miles of devastation.
The voice came again, smaller this time:
"How many survivors?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Only the wind spoke—moving through the bent steel beams like a whisper.
"...How many?"
He closed his eyes.
"...None."
Then, more firmly—because someone had to say it:
"The Hold—one of the greatest strongholds in Hope's military command... is gone. There are no survivors."
And it was true.
Every soul was gone.
They hadn't left behind corpses to mourn or bury.
They had simply vanished.
Disappeared into the ash and dust.
No survivors.
Indeed.
Indeed. Everybody was dead... Or so it seemed.
As he ended the call, he ran a hand through his short, blond hair. His frontal gaze rested on the devastation—isolation stretching in every direction, the charred remains of structures, the creeping tendrils of smoke spiraling into the greysky. He clicked his tongue, grim.
From the pattern of destruction, he deduced the truth: the strike had come from within. The blast's epicenter was deep inside the Hold, not from outside. That meant betrayal, not invasion.
His heart turned cold.
The implications were terrifying. If the attack originated internally, it meant betrayal at the highest levels. Military, government, intelligence—none could be trusted. Sleepers could lurk anywhere. Accusations would ripple through society, factions would emerge, and the country would fracture. Darkness lurked in corners no one thought to check.
He knew chaos was coming. False accusations. Secret investigations. Subtle purges. Riots. Political factions sharpening knives in the shadows.
He rubbed his head in frustration. They needed leads. Identifiers. A clue. But there was none. No weapons, no orders, and disturbingly, no corpses.
Who had done this? What kind of entity? If only there were a clue—something, anything—that could shed light on who their enemies truly were and what their purpose had been. Some fragment of truth to help them make sense of the chaos. If they had that, even the unimaginable destruction might be easier to face.
But with so little evidence and not a single corpse left behind, they were left grasping at shadows. They couldn't even tell who had betrayed them and who had simply died. How had all the bodies vanished? How had the attackers managed to erase every trace?
He sighed. Thoughts buzzed in his brain. They needed data—name, face, voice. Without any corpse, how did they even begin?
He looked toward his companion.
Just then, the radio tracker scrambled.
"THOR!!"
The call had urgency, wide-eyed panic.
He looked up sharply. One of his squad waved him toward the center of the shattered dome. He leveled his gaze back, motionless… then quickened his pace, instinct kicking in.
The floor beneath his boots was cracked, ash-covered, slick with blood away from bodies. Steps echoed in the silence. Light flickered from scattered fires along the walls.
In the center of the dome, he paused.
A flag stood tall, a few meters high, though not Hope's flag. Instead, it bore an alien, abstract symbol—the image of a single eye pierced by a thin stripe, supported by two hands reaching upward.
That alone was unsettling enough.
But what made him freeze was the body.
It hung from the flagpole. The pole skewered it—piercing wrists tied together above, sinking through roped ankles a few meters off the ground. Head slumped forward, matted in thick dreadlocks, obscuring the face. The corpse dangled like a macabre idol, suspended in tribute.
It looked like a sacrifice—something unholy to an unknowable god.
His instincts screamed. He advanced carefully, every muscle tight with readiness.
Yet the body didn't shift. It hung still, swaying slightly in the smoky breeze.
Thor stood before the hanging body, his eyes narrowed with caution and unease. Slowly, he reached out and lifted the figure's chin, brushing aside the locs that hung like a curtain over its face. What stared back was barely human—its features mangled beyond recognition. The skin was caked with layers of dried blood, grime, and ash. Jagged cuts ran across the cheeks and forehead, with bits of concrete and debris embedded deep into the flesh. One eye was swollen shut; the other barely open, glazed and lifeless. The jaw hung slack, cracked and bruised, with dried streaks of blood clinging to the lips. It was the face of someone who had suffered not just death—but something far worse before it.
He scoped the face—it wasn't someone he knew.
He lowered the head.
Still tense, he gave an order: "This is a message—document the symbol. Run it through intel. Then let's burn the body. It deserves rest."
His voice was solemn.
Another voice stuttered behind him in shock:
"Sir… I think… it's alive."
He stepped forward, eyes narrowing.
"I can feel it."
Thor turned sharply, confusion etched into his face. "Feel what?"
The man took a deep breath, then closed his eyes. He placed a hand gently toward the flag, fingers trembling slightly.
"It's faint," he whispered. "Almost nonexistent. But I'm certain."
He paused, stare drifting back to the corpse.
He spoke slowly: "It's faint…"
He took a breath, looking back at the swaying form.
"he's not dead."
Thor looked at his companion, perplexed.
"Not dead?" he echoed flatly.
He turned back to the mangled figure hanging like an offering above the rubble.
"…He still lives."
Silence fell.
A body, sacrificed and cruelly displayed—yet still alive, trembling with a faint heartbeat. Not propelled by hope. Not revived. But alive. Defying expectations.
That revelation hung in the air like an incantation.
No survivors.
…except one.