Among the survivors
The battlefield was quiet, but it felt anything but peaceful. Smoke drifted over the broken streets, clinging to ruined walls and blackened debris like a stubborn ghost. The sharp smell of ash and blood hung in the air, stinging the throat. Survivors moved carefully among the ruins. Some bent over the wounded, wrapping cuts with torn cloth, while others laid the dead aside. There was no time to bury them yet—they could only mark the bodies and wait for the danger to pass. Soft prayers mixed with quiet sobs, whispered to any god who might still be listening.
Marko and Ara walked slowly through the wreckage, their steps cautious, their senses sharp. Their eyes swept every corner and alley—not seeking comfort, but bracing for the threat that too often came after silence.
It was then that a tall man walked toward them. His police jacket was scuffed, slashed, and dust-stained, yet the authority it once carried clung to him still. His steps were measured, his gaze calm but sharp, as though weighing every soul who crossed his path.
"You two…" His voice was steady and controlled despite the weariness etched into it. "You're not from around here, are you?"
Marko straightened, meeting the man's eyes. "No. I just arrived—and got caught in the chaos."
Ara added, her tone softer but no less firm, "I came last night. Just one night, I thought. Then… all this happened."
The man studied them for a long moment, then gave a single nod. "I'm Rolly. Police officer. Or was, before the world turned on its head." He gestured toward the gymnasium in the distance. "Been keeping the place standing with what's left of us. Survivors gather here—we hold the line as best we can."
Marko inclined his head. "Marko."
"Ara," she said.
Their names hung briefly in the smoke before being carried off by the wind.
Rolly's eyes narrowed, though not in suspicion—rather, in recognition. "I saw how you handled yourself out there. You're awakened, aren't you?" He lifted his hand, letting a shimmer of energy ripple down his arm. For an instant, the dull light caught a blade-like aura along his fingers before fading back into nothing. "Same here. It happened when this all began. But the rest…" He exhaled, shaking his head. "They're just people doing their best. Tony was military once, still steady with a blade. Lena's a nurse—she patches us up when the fights get rough. Raul, farmer, stubborn as stone. Not fighters. Just survivors who refuse to quit."
Ara's gaze softened. "And you've kept them alive."
Rolly's lips tugged into a weary half-smile. "For now. But supplies are thinning, and the mobs keep testing our walls. Every day costs us more." His eyes settled back on them, steady and firm. "Still, thank you for stepping in out there. Fewer lives lost because of you."
He drew a slow breath, then continued, his tone shifting back to command. "We could use people like you. If you don't have a place to stay, come to the camp. At least for tonight. Rest. Eat. Tomorrow, we'll figure out what's next… figure out the gates."
Marko's head tilted slightly, his voice barely audible. "Gates…" His eyes lingered on the faint pulse of light far on the horizon.
Rolly followed his gaze, his jaw tightening. "We need to check that one. Otherwise, none of us will sleep tonight."
To the Pulsating Gate
They set out soon after: Marko, Ara, Rolly, and a handful of able survivors—those willing to hold a weapon despite lacking any awakening. The path was scarred with battle, broken trees, and collapsed houses jutting like skeletal remains against the horizon. The glow of the pulsating gate throbbed faintly ahead, a heart beating in the distance, unnatural and steady.
"Stay close," Rolly murmured, his eyes sweeping the terrain. "Even scraps can kill when you're tired."
It didn't take long for trouble to find them. From the shadows of a half-toppled building, a crawling ghoul dragged itself forward, its eyes burning faintly. Rolly moved before the others could react. His arm flicked outward, and energy coalesced into a sharp edge that cut cleanly through the creature. It fell in silence, bisected neatly.
Another broke from cover, a twisted beast lunging at Ara. Marko shifted instinctively, pulling her behind him, but Rolly was already there. His hand sliced through the air, and the monster dropped in two pieces, lifeless before it hit the ground.
Ara exhaled, wide-eyed. "He makes it look… effortless."
Marko nodded but kept his stance ready, unwilling to relax. Watching Rolly, he tried to mirror that same calm control, though the unease inside him refused to settle.
They pressed onward. A few more stragglers came, but none lasted long. The minor mobs dissipated like smoke under Rolly's precise strikes until only the gate's strange glow remained, pulsing faintly in the distance.
When they finally arrived, their relief was tempered by unease. The gate pulsed rhythmically, radiating power—but nothing came through. No monsters, no chaos. Just that steady, unnatural light.
"It's… quiet," Tony muttered, tightening his grip on a battered machete.
"Too quiet," Lena added under her breath.
Rolly's brow furrowed. "This isn't normal. But quiet's a mercy. We'll take it."
Unseen, from the crumbling remains of an old wall nearby, a cloaked figure observed. His presence seemed to bend the air, shadows clinging unnaturally close to him. Even from a distance, Marko felt a strange tug—an awareness that someone was watching, measuring.
But when he turned, there was nothing. Only the faint rustle of wind and the lingering weight in the air.
Finding no immediate threat, Rolly made the call. "We head back. Survivors need rest. Supplies need to be counted. Whatever that gate's doing—it can wait until morning."
The Camp at Night
Back at the gymnasium, the survivors greeted them with cautious relief. Fires burned low, casting flickering light over the wounded, and the groans of the injured filled the air. Smoke, sweat, and blood mixed into a heavy scent. In one corner, a few quietly marked the newly fallen, placing makeshift crosses and whispering prayers for those who would not rise again. Grief hung over the room, but so did resilience—small conversations, children sleeping under worn blankets, and the soft clatter of bowls being filled with the little food left. Every scar, every body cared for, and every whispered name reminded them of the heavy price the monsters had taken.
Marko and Ara took their place quietly, sharing the meal Rolly offered. Around them, voices told stories of why they had gone out—for food, for medicine, for scraps of hope. Wounds were counted, names spoken, and casualties acknowledged in silence. Survival, they realized, was a war fought in dozens of small, desperate acts.
Later, Marko and Ara found a quiet corner away from the camp's noise. For a moment, the world softened, and the chaos outside seemed distant.
"Do you ever wonder… if this is happening everywhere around the country?" Ara's voice was barely above the crackle of the nearby fire. "Or is it just here, in our place?"
Marko's fingers brushed the amulet beneath his shirt, his gaze distant. Memories of his Lolo's voice echoed in his mind, heavy with both warning and hope: "The flame in our blood is not just for one place, Marko. One day, it will call you to unite the clans… to protect more than just your home."
"I don't know," he admitted softly, the weight of those words pressing on him. "That's why I need to go south. If there are others… if this is spreading… I have to find out. I have to protect as many as I can."
Memories drifted between them—riverbanks, barefoot races, laughter carried on the wind. Childhood moments now carried the weight of destiny.
The Mysterious Watcher
From the darkness, the cloaked figure emerged, stepping silently into the firelight. Marko tensed, but the presence radiated calm authority.
"The flame you carry… it will draw others," the figure said, voice low and deliberate. "Bangui will soon notice, and the islands are stirring. Be ready, though you do not yet understand why."
Marko opened his mouth, but before words could form, the figure vanished back into the shadows, leaving only a cold shiver and the lingering sense of something vast and unknowable.
Later that night, the same figure appeared once more—this time at the pulsating gate. Without hesitation, he stepped inside. Hours passed before he returned, his cloak torn, his hands stained with blood, faint cuts marking his face. He emerged in silence, his presence as steady as before. Then the gate shuddered once, twice, and collapsed into nothing, leaving only darkness and a lingering aura of unease.
The islands, it seemed, were only just beginning to stir.