The world had become a vast, strange crucible: dangerous, overcrowded with sinners and warriors, a place where violence and survival writhed like a second sun. In a decision that would cleave history in two, God descended and split the world in half. The bottom half — a hellish landscape of monstrous creatures, impossible phenomena, and landmarks that turned living into a daily struggle — fell away from the upper tier. The upper half rose, distant and luminous, a different realm entirely where mortals who had proven their worth lived under God's protection, in peace and plenty.
Over time, more births and fewer blessings filled the lower half. It earned a name: The Hadean Tier. Its population swelled until it dwarfed the land above. Though suffering rippled through the Hadean Tier, God felt no guilt. The higher land, meanwhile, came to resemble a pristine wasteland that nevertheless offered perfect utopia. So God struck a bargain: if a chosen few could prove themselves worthy, they might be permitted to dwell in that blessed upper-world. Thus the Faulty Tilt was born — a savage battle-tower where contenders fought for the right to leave misery behind. Over eons, as the chosen few trickled upward in each cycle, the people below began to call that sanctified place The Promise — a heaven dangled before them, a hope that immortality and peace might be earned by blood and grit.
And that brought the story to now.
In the Trip Sector — a bog where filthy water pooled thousands of meters deep and only the colossal trees that pierced the clouds provided passage — life clung to improbable ledges. The world tree loomed there, taller than The Promise and the Hadean Tier combined; within a hollow of that titanic trunk, a village of huts clustered like barnacles. Music and dances and the scent of cooking drifted through the branches, but in one hut the mood had gone tense and hushed.
Villagers gathered by the door, eyes wide and breaths held. Inside, elders — both women and men — ringed a woman gripped by labor. Her eyes were a sharp, memorable green. Beside her stood her husband, tall, brown-haired, hand trembling on the edge of the cot.
"I-It'll be ok—" the husband stammered, voice thin with fear.
The woman's scream ripped the air, a raw note of pain and determination that dragged the villagers closer.
"Don't say that," a woman elder hissed, sharp and fearful.
"I've never done anything like this before! Give me a break," the husband protested, panic flaring in his throat.
Two elders murmured between themselves.
"The woman has been in labor for an entire day now," the bearded elder said quietly, eyes shadowed. "This could mean two things…"
"I know exactly what you mean," the bald elder replied, voice heavy with dread. "That baby could be one of the children of the prophecy…"
Outside, the crowd pressed forward, hands clasping luck and prayer. Children were hugged close; the air tasted of expectation and old rites.
"Or it could just be a baby that's taking a long time to be born," the bearded elder tried to temper, though his words did little to calm the tension.
"J-just push—" the husband urged, breath coming in quick, useless bursts.
"I AM!!!" the woman screamed back, the sound jagged with effort.
"Ok," the husband said, hollowly obedient.
The bald elder's voice trembled with what-ifs. "What would we do if it is a child of prophecy? How will we know which one it is? What if… we're too late?"
"We can't be sure," the bearded elder said. "We'll have to take the baby immediately after birth—"
Then the labor fell suddenly, bone-deep silent.
"It's— It's a boy!" the husband gasped. He lifted the infant awkwardly, then with hands grown steady by an animal surge of love, he held the child to his chest. The baby lay as if listening to the world, unnaturally still. His eyes — startling and unnatural — were the same sharp green as his mother's.
"Don't—" the bearded elder began, but the word fractured before it could finish.
Outside, breath halted across the crowd; the hush pinned everyone to the ground. Then the sound changed — the woman's labor cries had ceased entirely. A handful of villagers surged into the hut, curiosity overriding caution. In the next instant, the air was ripped by a gut-wrenching scream — a scream so raw and terrified that it sent the first people scrambling back out of the hut as if something monstrous had stepped over the threshold. They ran not because they wanted to run but because something in that scream told them they must flee.
The village fell into stunned, awful silence that carried like smoke.
A few more villagers pressed into the cramped hut, only for their faces to instantly pale with horror. Their eyes widened, their bodies stiffened, and a collective chill rippled through the room.
Laid out before them was a nightmare.
On the bed rested the lifeless mother, her neck caved in by tiny, newborn-sized handprints—a grotesque mockery of innocence. Beside her, the father's head lolled at an impossible angle, his neck twisted as though screwed into place. The elder woman sat slumped with her throat and eyes torn away, while the two male elders were nothing more than headless torsos.
And in the middle of it all… the baby.
Its glassy eyes were utterly devoid of emotion. Its cherubic face and fragile hands were drenched in blood, its bare body smeared crimson as it crawled across the bedding. The child's presence, so quiet yet so wrong, made the air thick with dread.
This was no ordinary birth.
The villagers knew well the prophecy. A child foretold—a child that would mark the collapse of their civilization. Neither good nor evil, yet born of human flesh, this being would mimic the appearance and essence of humanity: the same bones, the same organs, the same capacity for laughter and grief. But it would never be considered human.
It was a Fault.
A creation of God Himself, meant to test mankind—to see whether mortals were worthy of ascending as archangels, beings of immense power. A Fault was neither sinner nor saint at birth, but neutral—purely defined by the one trait God had granted them. That trait would be their essence, their power.
The cave drawings had warned them. A Fault would come. The villagers whispered of two possibilities: one who embodied the serenity of peace, or one who carried within them the embodiment of unrelenting, blood-soaked violence.
And there was one more truth. If a Fault were killed, their heart consumed by another… that mortal would rise as an archangel.
The knowledge alone was enough to ignite desperation.
One villager lunged for the child. Before his hands could close around it, a blade shot forward from behind—piercing through his eye. The killer shoved the corpse aside, straining toward the infant.
But then—a spear struck clean through his chest.
The hut erupted into pandemonium.
Bodies collided in a frenzy, shoving and grappling. Steel clashed, fists crushed throats, and screams split the air. Blood sprayed across the walls as weapons slashed through desperate flesh. The mob devolved into savagery, each villager clawing for the same goal.
One man managed to seize the baby, clutching its squirming body tight before bolting for the exit. A swarm of villagers surged after him, though others remained locked in vicious combat. He tore through the chaos, sprinting—until the sharp crack of a gunshot cut through the air.
The man collapsed. A neat hole drilled through his skull.
A woman stepped forward, revolver smoking in her hand. She calmly plucked the child from the corpse's grasp. Then, without hesitation, she unloaded the rest of her bullets into the frenzied crowd. A few villagers fell, writhing, as she turned and fled into the night with her prize.
That single moment ignited the Trip Sector Purge.
For ten long years, the Trip Sector drowned in blood. Brother butchered brother. Childhood friends slit each other's throats. Families collapsed under the weight of betrayal. The once-serene land rotted into a battlefield where trust had no place.
Every soul who touched the Fault shared one singular intent: kill the child, consume its heart, and ascend. But no one succeeded.
The first was Sister Lacey Smart, a devout nun. She kept the baby for two months before falling victim to her successor—Bruce Snyfield, a teacher and father of five. His thirst for power was so consuming that he slaughtered his entire family to claim the child. For three months he kept it, never daring to strike the killing blow, until his brother-in-law, Locke Preston, strangled him to death.
For a year, Locke bore the burden, until he himself was cut down by a humble baker, Jessica Brooks. The cycle persisted, each life snuffed out by the next seeker: Roger Kennedy, an artist; then Kris Utop, a politician.
It was under Kris's custody that the child learned to walk. And when he did, the first steps he took were to kill. With chilling precision, the child murdered Kris Utop before being discovered and taken by Dr. Sarah Smith.
She caged the child for a year—until, like all the others, she too was killed.
And so the blood-soaked cycle spun on. Holder after holder. Murder after murder. Until the infant grew into a child of ten—nameless, identity stripped away by the sins of others. He became a legend of horror, whispered about as "The Exit Ticket,""The Fault,""The Cause of the End,""The Unlucky Bastard."
But the child had been learning. Observing. Remembering. Every act of cruelty, every betrayal, every twisted ambition was etched into his mind. And instead of breaking him, it forged him. Violence became his instinct, his sustenance, his truth.
Now, at ten years old, he killed without hesitation. A wandering blight upon the land, he struck down anyone who dared approach. No mercy. No emotion. Only instinct.
And yet… even amidst the carnage, one soul did manage to reach him.