Shadows danced across his mind. Worlds twisted upon themselves, devouring their own light. Universes winked out like coals in a winter wind. Nameless voices whispered ancient secrets that pierced sanity like burning needles.
Giotto floated, trapped within forms that defied all reason: living architectures stretching across galaxies, red ash deserts where suns died in silence.
Blood rites twisted floating gardens into festering swamps of flesh, sinking into wastelands of pus and sickness.
"—Agh!"
His scream choked mid-breath. The hospital light crashed over him in a blaze of sterile white, as if trying to scrub the lingering darkness from the edges of his vision. He bolted upright, gasping. A monitor's steady beep stabbed at his left ear.
He blinked, disoriented.
For a moment, he thought he saw a shadow slip behind the translucent curtain. Blinked again. Nothing.
"Sir?" A nurse appeared in the doorway. "Are you alright?"
Something on his wrist caught his eye. A dark mark, like a bruise, shaped into a strange symbol: three lines crossed by an incomplete circle. He rubbed at it, hard, but it didn't fade. It was beneath the skin, etched deep—like a brand.
Outside, a cold breeze stirred the curtains. He could've sworn he heard his name whispered from a corner where the light didn't reach.
"Sir…? Do you feel okay?"
Giotto took a slow breath, willing the tremor out of his hands. He scanned the nurse's face for any clue, any hint of distortion. But everything looked normal.
"Yeah… yes, I'm fine. Thank you."
She blinked, concern lining her brow.
"What happened?" he asked.
"An electrical accident. You were found unconscious in the street. Luckily someone called emergency services. You're very fortunate."
She offered a smile at the end.
"And the other guy? There was a man with me—he fell right beside me. Where is he?"
The nurse hesitated.
"Sir… you arrived alone."
The monitor beep shifted tempo.
"What about the cameras?! There must've been witnesses!" Giotto's voice spiked in disbelief. How could something like that go unnoticed?
"I really don't know… I'll call the doctor. He might have more information."
She turned and hurried out. Giotto exhaled sharply, staring at his wrist. The mark pulsed faintly. He slumped back onto the hospital bed, breath ragged.
This isn't normal.
"Giotto! Dio mio… thank God."
A man stepped into the room—slightly older, but unmistakably his brother. At a glance, he looked like Giotto's reflection: same lean build, same sharp jawline. His hair was darker, his eyebrows thicker, and his eyes flashed with a vivid electric blue that clashed with Giotto's green. He wore a suit and tie, cut like a magazine ad.
Oh, perfect. Just what I needed.
"Stefano. What are you doing here?" Giotto growled, not bothering to mask his irritation.
Stefano strode forward, concern plain on his face, though his furrowed brow hinted at anger.
"Ma per favore, Giotto…" he said, jaw clenched. "Mamma calls me at three in the morning, crying, telling me my little brother's unconscious in a hospital bed after an accident in the middle of the street. You think I could not show up?"
"I'm fine. You can leave now."
"Sure, totally fine," Stefano scoffed, pulling out his phone like he was checking the time. "Completely normal. You collapse in public, wake up with a satanic brand, and everyone's supposed to smile and move on."
Giotto glared at him.
Stefano walked over to the monitor, eyeing Giotto's vitals, then glanced at the doctor who had just entered.
"You're lucky I was in Naples. Otherwise, who knows how long you'd have stayed here without anyone claiming you."
Giotto looked away, hating how his brother always managed to own every situation. Even his accident.
"Gentlemen, please." The doctor's voice was soft, calm. He wore a crisp white coat and a practiced expression. "This is a hospital. Keep your voices down."
Stefano raised a hand in apology but didn't take his eyes off Giotto.
"Sorry. Got a little worked up," he muttered, tone easing. "What exactly happened?"
The doctor flipped through a folder.
"An electric shock from a loose cable. Miraculously, no serious injury. No burns, nothing. Except for that mark…"
"Then why is he still alive?" Stefano asked.
"Thanks, Stefano. Appreciate it," Giotto muttered through clenched teeth.
"Hey, I'm just asking."
The doctor frowned, lifting Giotto's wrist for a closer look.
"Honestly? It's unusual. With a mark like this, we'd expect internal damage or at least serious burns. But… nothing. It's strange."
He shrugged.
"Still, people have survived lightning strikes, and this discharge wasn't as intense. If all remains stable, you can go home in a couple of hours. Believe me, someone up there is watching over your brother."
At that, Stefano finally relaxed, his usual composure returning.
"Grazie mille, dottore. That's a relief."
"You're welcome. I'll leave you two alone for a moment. Still have rounds to finish."
Giotto watched his brother as the doctor left, the door clicking softly shut behind him. For a moment, silence weighed like a tombstone.
"So… mom called you?" he asked, not sure why.
Stefano gave a half-smile—the kind that always seemed smug to Giotto, whether it really was or not.
"Of course she did. She was worried sick," he replied, sitting on the edge of the bed without asking. "She knows you sometimes get into… weird things."
"Weird things? Me?" Giotto raised an eyebrow, almost offended. "Since when? If I remember right, you're the one who disappeared for two days in Sicily without telling anyone, and I had to cover for you."
"Hey! We promised never to talk about that."
An awkward silence followed before Giotto spoke again.
"So… what are you doing in Naples?"
"Business. Didn't think you'd miss me so much, little brother."
Before he could say more, his phone rang—the Star Wars theme.
Giotto blinked. "Wow. The man in the suit is still mortal. Incredible."
Stefano chuckled, checking the caller ID.
"Look, Giotto, sorry. It's important. Here—" he said, placing a twenty on the table. "I wanted to take you home, but I'm out of time. Call Mom more often, alright?"
A couple of hours later, the doctor returned. Giotto was staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.
"Oh, Signor Giotto, where's your brother?"
"He had to leave. Work stuff."
"I see. Well, I must say—you've got a good brother. He asked about you the moment he arrived," the doctor said, as Giotto sat up straighter.
"Thanks…"
"Your final tests are in. Everything looks good. You're free to go. Need us to call someone?"
"No. I'm fine. I already booked a Kuber, so no worries."
"Very well. Exit's to the right. If you need anything, just speak to one of the nurses."
Once the doctor was gone, Giotto changed quickly, ignoring most of the medical advice, and left early. The morning air tasted different.
He glanced again at the mark on his wrist. Aside from a faint itch, it looked more like a tattoo than a scar. His phone buzzed. The ride had arrived.
The Void Between RealitiesObservation Station, Greater Order
The halls shimmered like freshly forged steel. Footsteps echoed, energy buzzed, and alien murmurs filled the air.
Em'rakis hovered just millimeters above the polished floor, his limbs moving in a choreography as natural as breathing. The cobalt-blue chitin across his body pulsed faintly with each flicker of accelerated thought. The report was pressed tightly against his vital core.
He moved fast. Eight limbs weaving through crowded corridors with invertebrate precision. Tiny stress gases hissed from his joints in barely audible streams.
At the teleportation chamber, he hesitated. Just for a second. As if some part of his mind wanted to resist.
He knew he was walking into something worse than a trap.
A deep breath. He aligned over the access pad and spoke the coordinates:
"Aisle B. Floor 72-50012. Office 32S."
Instantly, his body unraveled into particles and reformed inside a vast office—almost human in its design.
Dark, porous wood—arcian, no doubt—lined the walls, which bore shelves crammed with trophies, relics, and commendations. At the center, a whitewood desk stood with commanding presence.
"You're early."
The voice came from the right. Smooth, syrupy, sexless. More vibration than sound. Em'rakis turned.
The figure looked human—at least in outline. Hair black as obsidian. Skin just as dark. Eyes the color of violet stars. Their smile didn't move, as if painted on.
"Grand Commander, the vibration of my core submits to your judgment…"
"Leave the formalities outside," the figure said, gesturing to a perch designed for Em'rakis's species. It had always been there. And yet, had just appeared. "Come on, dear. Sit."
Em'rakis settled awkwardly, folding his legs over the structure. Silence thickened. The air tasted like ozone and synthetic perfume.
"You've come to brief me."
He nodded, suppressing the stress-gas trying to escape from his forward limbs.
"Oh, Great Commander, my core—"
"No formalities," came the sharp reply. Their iris sharpened like a serpent's eye before softening again. "You can speak freely, little Aztamar. I don't bite… You may call me Ari."
"Commander Ari, we've just received an intelligence report from one of our territories and—"
"And? Don't keep me in suspense, or I'll get excited."
"The report confirms the death of the Traveler."
"Well. That relief took its sweet time."
A brief clap. Polite, almost celebratory. As if commemorating the end of an ancient debt.
"But…" Em'rakis hesitated, trembling slightly. "There was a complication."
"Oh, I do love complications. Go on."
"The execution was carried out by the Stalker," he said, pausing, "but during the attempt to escape, the Traveler fell into one of our worlds. An… unfortunate diplomatic accident, I suppose."
Ari's smile didn't change. But their skin began to ooze darkness. Liquid pitch. It slid down their cheeks, their nails. The walls.
"Continue."
"Well… apparently," Em'rakis stammered, releasing a puff of stress gas, "the Traveler had ties to the Sacred Empire of the Lords of Flesh. They believe it was a direct attack on them. They've responded."
Ari didn't speak. Didn't breathe.
All light in the room dimmed. The pitch wasn't limited to their body—it dripped from the furniture, the walls… from Em'rakis himself.
The Aztamar felt his core quake. Still, he finished:
"The Lords of Flesh have declared war. They've already invaded five thousand of our dimensions."
For a moment, the universe held its breath.
"And the High Council?"
"They ordered us to hold position and report immediately if the war reached this realm."
Ari closed their eyes.
And everything broke.
The office dissolved like a projection on glass. Only darkness remained. Not shadow. Not black. Absence. The void between realities.
Em'rakis floated, unanchored, formless. The secrets of existence poured over him like a waterfall. Knowledge burned out his eyes and flayed his soul.
He died, molecule by molecule. In reverse.
When only Ari remained—no longer a shape, but a mass, a node of hunger and night—they spoke a single name, laced with the deepest contempt words could hold. And in memory, saw the face of that human man:
"Aranad… even in death, you remain a thorn in my side."
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Chapter reedited, not much was changed, only more volume was given because before I was not satisfied with the way it was. I hope you enjoy this reedited.
Alright, chapter 1 was a lot of fun to write. We've now seen a glimpse of Giotto's family life, a hint of what lies ahead as the story progresses, and a taste of the dangers lurking in the multiverse. I have to say, it was quite entertaining to write the interaction between Estéfano and Giotto.
Thank you all for reading.
— The Author