Chapter 1
The Perfect World
The air in prosper city tasted of fresh-cut grass and the sweet scent of hydroponic gardens. Everything was clean, quiet, and efficient. I stood on the corner of what used to be a busy intersection, now a serene pedestrian thoroughfare, watching the world move with a grace I could never seem to muster. People strolled by with genuine smiles, their faces illuminated by the gentle glow of the city's smart-grid. It had been decades since the world had known conflict, since Light had unified the globe and promised an era of unprecedented peace. For my younger brother, Edwin, this was a world he was born to thrive in.
Edwin glided to a stop beside me on a personal transport unit. He wore the crisp, unwrinkled uniform of a high-ranking city planner, a position he had earned with his brilliant mind and charismatic personality. Edwin was a favorite of the local governance committee, a shining example of what Light's perfect world could produce. He was rich, handsome, smart, and universally admired. I, by contrast, was a quiet anomaly. I had just come from my third failed attempt at a horticultural certification, a role I couldn't seem to master despite my tireless efforts.
"Another long day, Thomas?" Edwin asked, his voice smooth and genuinely concerned. He didn't mean it to be condescending; that wasn't in his nature. He truly couldn't understand why I struggled so much in a world built for success.
"The hydroponics are great," I muttered, pulling at the frayed cuff of my jacket. "The plants just don't seem to listen to me."
Edwin chuckled lightly, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "You'll figure it out. Persistence is your strong suit, after all." He said it like a compliment, but to me, it felt like a gentle dismissal of my failures. In a world of effortless success, persistence was a synonym for stubborn futility.
As we walked towards the central plaza, where a large holographic monument to Light shimmered in the afternoon sun, my gaze wandered. I saw a homeless man sitting on a park bench, an impossibility in this society, yet there he was—shaking, shivering, and looking terrified. No one else seemed to notice. I nudged Edwin.
"Did you see that?"
Edwin glanced over, a flicker of confusion crossing his face before it smoothed out. "See what?"
"The man on the bench. He looked… terrified. Like he was in a war zone."
Edwin laughed again, but this time it was laced with unease. "Thomas, there are no war zones. Not anymore. The man probably just needs to be taken to a wellness center. They'll help him. That's what Light's world is all about."
But the questions continued to gnaw at me. I'd seen other things, too. Small cracks in the perfect facade. The way the sky, once a brilliant blue, had begun to take on a strange, subtle purplish hue in the last few months. I'd heard whispers, dismissed by the media as "conspiracy theories," of a global leader named Lucifer whose power Light had somehow usurped. It all felt off.
"Why did it take so long?" I asked, looking up at the holographic image of Light. "Why did he wait to solve world hunger, to bring peace? He was so rich and powerful. Why did he only do it in the last decade? What was he doing before?"
Edwin just shook his head. "You worry too much, Tom. It doesn't matter what happened before. The only thing that matters is that it's paradise now. We're safe. We're finally happy."
As Edwin finished his sentence, a low, guttural rumble shook the ground. I instinctively braced myself. The holographic monument of Light began to flicker violently, distorting into a grotesque, jagged image. The purplish hue in the sky intensified, blooming like a bruise until it was a vibrant, sickening magenta. The air, once so clean, now filled with the acrid, coppery scent of blood and decay. A deafening crack split the sky, and from a great, dark fissure that had ripped open in the fabric of reality, a monstrous, six-limbed creature descended, its eyes burning with malevolent fire.
The world of peace and prosperity evaporated in a single, terrified scream. And I, the quiet failure, knew with a chilling certainty that the questions I had been asking were finally about to be answered.
Chapter 2
The Fall from Grace. The world wasn't supposed to scream. Not like this. Not a dozen different screams all at once, each one a different shade of raw, uncontained panic.
My personal transport unit, a marvel of clean energy and frictionless motion, shuddered to a halt. The air filled with the acrid, coppery scent of blood, a smell that had no place in this perfect world. Just a moment ago, I had been enjoying the familiar comfort of my brother's quiet company. The sun was setting perfectly. The city was glowing. This had to be a malfunction, a system-wide glitch that would be corrected any moment.
The holographic monument to Light, our creator, our guide, our world's golden architect, had just flickered out of existence, replaced by a grotesque, jagged image. My mind, trained for efficiency and flawless logic, immediately began running diagnostics. This was a system-wide failure, a total corruption of the public display network. The sight of that six-limbed creature descending from the sky was surely a large-scale prank. I couldn't understand why people were panicking. Their lack of discipline was frankly an embarrassment.
A high-pitched shriek sliced through the plaza. People were no longer strolling. They were scattering, running into each other, a chaotic mess of primal, unthinking terror. I, an all-American athlete, an Olympian in my prime, was disgusted by their lack of form, their flailing arms and stumbling feet. A woman with a child slammed into my shoulder, her face a mask of irrational fear. I had to sidestep her clumsy movement. My uniform, once a symbol of authority and success, now felt sticky with the grime of the unwashed masses. I needed to get somewhere clean. Somewhere with order.
"Edwin! We have to go!" Thomas yelled, his voice cutting through the noise.
I watched as a well-dressed man, a colleague of mine, was trampled. It was a shame, but also a clear example of what happens when people abandon reason. He hadn't used his physical conditioning to assess the situation.
"This is clearly a mass-hysteria event," I said, analyzing the problem with the calm logic of a professional. "The system will be back online shortly. There's no need for this irrational behavior."
Thomas grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly strong. "Let go, Thomas! I can manage myself!" I snapped. His actions were crude, clumsy, and completely unnecessary. I would have moved on my own. The purplish sky above us throbbed with a sickening, vibrant light. The fissure in the sky seemed to ripple and expand, and a new, smaller creature, all sharp angles and unsettling grace, landed on the roof of a nearby building. Its gaze, a pair of burning embers, swept over the fleeing crowd.
Everything I had ever believed in, every system, every rule, every bit of logic I had ever trusted, seemed to be breaking down around me. Light's flawless design, his promise of peace, his unified world—it all seemed to be failing at once. It was a massive, unprecedented bug. But even as the world fell apart, my core belief remained: I was the one who could fix it. I was a genius. I had always been the most successful, the most beloved. That hadn't changed.
My gaze fell on Thomas. He wasn't panicking. He wasn't yelling or trying to make sense of the chaos. He was simply moving, pulling me along. He was like an animal, running on instinct. His quiet persistence, the trait that had made him so mediocre in a world of perfection, might have been useful in this moment. But I was the one with the intellect. The one with the ability to see the bigger picture. The one who could still fix this.
My perfect life was gone. But a new world was being born from the ashes, and I, the one who had always mastered every challenge, would be the one to master this. I would be the one to lead my brother.
Chapter 3
The Oration of Serenity
The roar of the crowd was a symphony to my ears, a testament to the carefully cultivated devotion that bloomed wherever I spoke. Tonight, it was paradise city , a mid-sized city in what they still quaintly referred to as Lights world. The holographic banners depicting my image, radiating benevolence and wisdom, fluttered in the manufactured breeze above the vast plaza. They saw what I allowed them to see: the architect of a new Eden, a beacon of hope in a world weary of strife.
From the elevated stage, bathed in a soft, unifying light (a touch I always insisted upon), I surveyed the faces before me. Their eyes, filled with a mixture of awe and trust, were mirrors reflecting the carefully crafted narrative I had woven over the decade. World hunger, a stain on their history, was eradicated. Wars, those barbaric relics of a less enlightened age, were a distant memory. The disparate nations had finally, willingly, surrendered their petty squabbles to the singular, guiding hand of the Global Unity Council – a council, of course, whose every decision subtly, elegantly, aligned with my long-term objectives.
Tonight's rally was a celebration, a reaffirmation of our collective triumph. My words, honed and polished over countless speeches, flowed effortlessly, each syllable resonating with the deepest longings of their hearts.
"Look around you," I intoned, my voice amplified to a comforting resonance that filled every corner of the plaza. "See the faces of your neighbors. No longer divided by borders or burdened by scarcity. We are one. We are united. We are the future."
A wave of enthusiastic cheers erupted, washing over the stage. They believed it. They truly believed in the paradise I had so meticulously constructed. They had no idea the foundations of their serenity were built upon a carefully concealed truth, a truth that would soon bloom in a way they could never imagine.
Earlier that day, the air in the private chambers beneath the Unity Council headquarters in Geneva was far less euphoric. The assembled leaders, the former presidents and prime ministers who now held ceremonial roles, sat around the polished obsidian table, their expressions a mixture of deference and a subtle, underlying unease that I always found amusing.
"The final integration protocols are nearing completion," I announced, my tone firm but reassuring. "The last vestiges of national identity will be seamlessly woven into the fabric of global citizenship within the next quarter-cycle."
A portly man who had once led a small European nation cleared his throat. "Light, with all due respect, there are still… murmurs. Concerns among certain factions. They speak of old prophecies, of a darkness that will rise."
I offered him a patient smile. "My dear Minister Dubois, such anxieties are the echoes of a less enlightened past. Fear thrives in ignorance. Our role is to illuminate the path forward, to assure them that the shadows have been banished forever." My gaze swept across the room, catching the eye of a sharp-featured woman who had once commanded a powerful military. "Our security forces, now unified under a single command, are more than capable of quelling any lingering dissent. Remind them of the stability we have achieved, the prosperity we all now share."
The meetings were always the same. A few hesitant questions, a touch of lingering nationalism, easily quelled by the undeniable reality of the peace and abundance I had delivered. They couldn't see the strings I was pulling, the subtle manipulations that ensured their continued compliance. They believed I was one of them, a uniquely gifted human who had dedicated his life to their betterment.
Sometimes, a flicker of guilt, a ghost of the humanity I had long suppressed, would try to surface. But then I would remember my true purpose, the grand design, the promise I had made long ago in the shadowed realm. This world, this fragile sphere of fleeting beauty, was a necessary stepping stone. Their peace, their tranquility, was merely the fertile ground upon which a new order would bloom.
Back on the stage in paradise city, I raised my hands, silencing the cheering crowd with a practiced gesture. "The future is bright," I declared, my voice ringing with conviction. "A future of unity, of prosperity, of unprecedented peace for all generations to come."
They cheered again, louder this time, their faces radiant with hope. They had no idea that the darkness they feared was not something to be banished, but something I was carefully nurturing, waiting for the perfect moment to unleash. The seeds of chaos were sown. The stage was set. And very soon, the final act would begin.
Chapter 4
The Hand of the Betrayer
The ruined city was a labyrinth of shadows and broken glass, each shattered window a black, hollow eye watching our frantic movements. We had been running for what felt like an eternity, the symphony of screams from the plaza now a distant, terrible memory. The purplish sky, now a permanent feature of our new world, cast a sickly light on the concrete landscape. I, the all-American athlete, was still in top form. My breathing was controlled, my stride was even, and I could feel my physical endurance carrying us both through the urban wasteland.
"This way," I said, my voice steady. "The remains of that pharmacy. It should be structurally sound. We can hole up there for the night."
Thomas, breathing heavily, simply nodded and followed my lead. We ducked inside, the dust on the floor stirring into a choking cloud. We collapsed in the center of the room, our backs against a display counter. The quiet was a relief, but it felt temporary.
"Are you okay?" Thomas asked, looking at me. My suit was torn and grimy, but I felt none of the weakness I saw in him. He was tired, but I was not. I was annoyed by the filth, but I was ready to go on.
"I'm fine," I said, my voice strong. "This is just a temporary setback. We'll find a way out of this."
My words died in my throat as a shadow fell across the doorway. A figure stood silhouetted against the magenta sky, not a demon, but a person. A man. He was dressed in the same type of utilitarian clothing as us, but something was terribly wrong. His eyes were a solid, inky black, and on the back of his hand, a crude, three-lined mark looked like a grotesque bar code burned into his flesh.
"Refugees," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Light is looking for you. He wants to know why you refuse his gift."
This was one of them. A sympathizer. My body tensed, my athletic training kicking in. This was a physical threat I understood. I would handle this.
Before he could react, I launched myself forward, a blur of motion honed by years of training. My fist flew towards his face, a perfect strike that would have taken any man down. But he simply caught my arm, his grip impossibly strong. I struggled, feeling his strength overpower mine, a terrifying experience I had never known. He twisted my arm, and I felt a bolt of white-hot agony as my shoulder dislocated. I cried out, the pain a foreign sensation I had never truly experienced.
"An athlete," he sneered, his black eyes mocking me. "Your pathetic physical abilities mean nothing here." He then threw me into a wall, the impact a jarring, humiliating shock.
I lay on the floor, gasping for air, the muscles I had worked my entire life to perfect now useless. I could hear Thomas groaning in pain, having been caught in the crossfire. The sympathizer walked calmly towards me which i lay crumpled against the wall, his guard completely down. The man knelt over me, a cold, predatory glint in his black eyes. "A failure in a perfect world," he said, and raised his hand to deliver a final blow.
Something inside me snapped. The world shifted. My physical superiority had just been proven utterly useless. The man's strength was not of this world. My confidence, my arrogance, my lifetime of success, all of it crumbled into dust. I was about to be die, and my perfect body could do nothing to stop it. I was useless.
But as I watched, something else happened. Thomas, my quiet, persistent, perpetually failing brother, began to get up. A soft, white glow emanated from his body, and a new voice, deeper and cooler than my own, a voice I had never heard before but felt I had known my entire life, spoke from his chest.
"Leave him be."
Chapter 5
The Council of Princes
The view from my office was a tapestry of shimmering light, a masterpiece I had orchestrated myself. Below, the new world capital, once a patchwork of warring nations, now hummed with a singular, unified energy. The air was clean, the night sky unmarred by the soot of industry. I inhaled the rich, complex smoke of my favorite cigar, the earthy scent a reminder of a victory savored over decades. This office, a perfect replica of the antiquated American "Oval Office" they all revered, was the perfect throne room. The large, bulletproof window showed a world that was mine, a toy I had so painstakingly constructed and was now in the process of dismantling.
Humanity. They were so predictable in their desires. They craved peace, unity, and a sense of belonging. I gave them all of it, and they ate it up like hungry puppies. They called me Light, their savior, their benevolent leader who solved world hunger and ended all conflict. They had no idea that their perfect world was nothing more than a field I had prepared, a rich soil ready to receive a darker, more beautiful seed.
A soft, deferential knock came from the heavy mahogany door. I took a final puff from my cigar, the ember a brilliant orange in the darkness, and placed it in an obsidian ashtray.
"Enter," I commanded.
My chief advisor, a man named Arthur whose mind was as sharp as his suits, slipped into the room. He kept his eyes lowered, a sign of respect that had become a natural part of his demeanor.
"My lord," he said, his voice a quiet reverence. "The Third Kind is on the secure line. They are requesting your immediate presence."
I felt a subtle flicker of something akin to amusement. The Third Kind. The Demon Council. They were so formal in their ancient customs, even in this new age. Arthur, of course, believed them to be a clandestine group of world leaders, the final seven who held true power. He had no idea he was talking about my brothers.
"Tell them I'll be with them shortly," I replied, my voice calm.
Arthur hesitated, a small wrinkle of concern on his brow. "They were rather insistent, my lord. They said it was a matter of… great consequence. They mentioned the 'failures' in prosper city."
Ah. The two. The ones who had refused my gift. I had been made aware of their stubborn resistance. My human collaborators had reported on their movements. I was curious to see what my brothers would make of it.
I smiled, a slow, genuine smile that did not reach my eyes. "It seems my little project has finally captured their attention."
Arthur's face remained a mask of polite incomprehension. He had no idea what I was talking about. He couldn't possibly understand the games we played, the millennia-long chess match with humanity as the board.
"Very well, Arthur," I said, rising from my chair. "Let's not keep them waiting."
I walked towards the secure terminal in the corner of the room, my reflection a perfect, untroubled image in the darkened glass. My brothers were calling. The time had come to report on the state of the world, and to prepare for the grand finale.
Chapter 6
The Unconscious Hero
My world was already gone, but now my reality was shattering into a million sharp, incomprehensible pieces. The man, the collaborator with the black eyes, laughed. "You haven't had enough, scrub? I'll get to you in a minute." His cocky arrogance was infuriating, but my body, my finely-tuned athlete's body, was useless against whatever he was. My dislocated shoulder was a constant, searing pain.
Then Thomas moved. He moved like nothing I had ever seen. Not like an athlete, not like a machine, but like a force of nature. In the blink of an eye, he was on the other side of the room. The man's laugh died in his throat as Thomas's glowing fist connected with his jaw. The crack was sickeningly loud, like a tree snapping in half. The man's teeth, most of them, flew from his mouth, and his body slammed into the concrete floor.
I stared in disbelief. Was this a trick? An illusion? The man got up, a snarl twisting his face, and charged Thomas. But Thomas was faster. He was a blur of motion, his white aura a trail of pure light. The man tried to land a punch, a kick, but Thomas evaded every attack with an effortless grace that was a hundred times more elegant than my own Olympic-level reflexes. This wasn't skill; this was something else entirely. Thomas was clearly dominant, his movements powerful and precise.
The man, furious and humiliated, let out a sinister shriek. The sound was so loud, so raw with evil, that it made my ears ring, a high-pitched whine that drowned out the world. But in the middle of his monstrous cry, Thomas's fist shot out, a clean punch to the face. A second later, a kick sent the man stumbling backward. Then, with a chilling calmness, Thomas grabbed the man's head and, with a final, decisive snap, twisted it.
The man's body fell to the floor, dead.
I couldn't breathe. My mind, which prided itself on logic and order, had no box to put this in. It was a miracle. A nightmare. I finally found my voice.
"Thomas!" I yelled.
He didn't respond. He just stood there, his eyes still a brilliant white, the soft aura still glowing around his body. He stared down at the dead man, a statue of pure light.
Then I heard it. A chorus of guttural growls in the distance. They were coming. A lot of them. I looked out the ruined doorway and saw shadows moving in the streets, getting closer.
"Thomas! We have to get out of here!" I screamed, but he just crumpled to the floor, the light and the aura vanishing as he fell unconscious.
My mind reeled. The hero, my brother, the answer to all my questions, was taking a nap. Now? With demons on their way? A wave of pure fury washed over me. I wanted to shake him awake, to yell at him, to tell him that this was no time for his usual ineptitude. But I knew this wasn't like him. He was truly out.
The growls were louder now. Closer. I had no choice. My life had been defined by grace and effortless strength. I had always been the one to carry the team, the one to lead, the one to put my burdens on others when I needed to. For the first time, it was my body that mattered more than my mind. I gritted my teeth against the pain in my shoulder, hoisted Thomas's surprisingly heavy body onto my shoulder, and began to run.
Chapter 7
The Third Kind the Rolls Royce glided through the night, its engine a silent purr against the backdrop of the ruined world. The journey up the mountain had been smooth, the winding roads once used by ancient Greek shepherds now a perfectly paved route to my true home. Below, the new world capital I had built was a distant constellation of lights, a testament to a grand deception. Above, a sprawling black mansion sat perched on the mountain's peak, its walls the color of midnight and a sinister silhouette against the purplish sky. An old, wrought-iron gate, adorned with elegant bat symbols, marked the entrance to a place that had served my family for millennia.
As the Rolls Royce approached the gate, my driver honked the horn. No one was in sight, but a mild, chilling fog began to curl around the car, bringing with it the familiar, heavy scent of the old world—the world of true power. The gate groaned open, seemingly of its own accord. We drove through the entrance and into a courtyard. I stepped out of the car, adjusting my suit jacket as a figure emerged from the shadows of the mansion's entrance.
The butler, a man who looked no older than forty, was the very picture of normalcy, a stark contrast to the mansion and the purpose for which I had come. His face was kind, his eyes clear and intelligent, but he was a loyal servant to our cause, bound by an oath far older than humanity itself.
"Welcome, Lord Light," he said, bowing low. "Your brothers have been expecting you."
"Thank you, Bartholomew," I said with a respectful nod. "Have they waited long?"
"Just arrived themselves," he replied, a faint, knowing smile on his face. "They are in the great hall. I will lead you."
I followed him into the mansion, the heavy doors closing behind us. The marble floors gleamed under the soft candlelight, and the air, unlike the city below, was thick with the scent of ancient dust and a faint, ethereal musk. Bartholomew led me through a series of cavernous halls until we arrived at a massive, ornate door carved with symbols that no human could ever hope to comprehend. Bartholomew pushed the door open, revealing a large, circular chamber.
Inside, five figures sat around a large table made of what appeared to be solid bone. I surveyed them, a smirk playing on my lips. My brothers. Lord of Flies, Lord of Greed and Money, Lord of Laziness, Lord of Fertility, and Lord of Violence. They were all there, cloaked in their true forms, their eyes glowing with a wicked, malevolent energy that was so much more honest than the human façade I wore.
I walked into the center of the room, my voice light with a casual disdain. "Where is everyone? I was under the impression this was a full house."
Lord Violence, a hulking figure with skin the color of rust and eyes like molten lava, was the first to speak. "One and two are not going to be present," he rumbled, his voice a low growl that shook the very air. "They send their regards and condolences for their lack of… enthusiasm. We all know the plan that lies ahead. Shall we begin, Lords?"
He looked at me, a gleam in his fiery eyes. I simply gave a short nod.
The lords spoke with a terrifying enthusiasm, their words a chilling prophecy. They spoke of the plagues they would spread, of the continents they would claim for their own, a horrific distribution of chaos and misery.
"Give me my legion," Lord Violence roared, slamming a massive fist onto the table. "And I will destroy them all in one sweep! No one will be left."
Lord Fertility, a beautiful but terrifying creature, her voice a seductive purr that could charm any mortal into submission, laughed, her eyes glittering with cruel delight. "Oh, my dear brother, you'd take all the fun away from us. Where would be the sport in that? We must take our time with our prey."
"There's enough for all of us," Lord of Flies buzzed, his voice a dry, rasping drone that made my skin crawl. He floated a few feet above his chair, a cloud of insects constantly swirling around him.
"Yes, there is enough for all of us," Lord of Greed chimed in, his voice a sharp, eager whisper. "That is why we are here, to get a continent for our own legion. We will all live as lords of this world."
The silence in the grand hall was thick with unspoken tension. The lords of the new world, my brothers, were eager to carve up their spoils. But Lord of Flies' question hung in the air like a bitter mist. "But for how long?"
Lord of Fertility, her seductive voice now edged with impatience, was the first to break the stillness. "What do you mean by that, brother? The human kingdoms have fallen. Our legions stand ready. We are victorious."
Lord of Flies, Number 3, did not reply directly. Instead, he simply sighed, a dry, buzzing sound that grated on my ears. The swarm of insects around his head thickened, their movements erratic. "You are all so quick to forget," he rasped, his voice a low drone. "So focused on your new playthings. You do know we still have one threat left, don't you?"
A collective low rumble of discontent rippled through the room. Lord of Greed, Number 5, fidgeted with a golden scepter. Lord of sloth, Number 6, reclined further into his chair, looking bored. Lord of Violence, Number 4, simply clenched his massive fists, his eyes burning with a cruel impatience.
They knew who he meant. They always did. they called Lucifer. The supreme ruler. The ultimate victim. My own thoughts returned to him, to the one who had so often thwarted our schemes. He had always been an anathema to our cause, a being of immense power who, for reasons we could never comprehend, felt a strange attachment to humanity.
"He's been silent," Lord of Greed whined. "A victim to his own pathetic moral code. He's a prisoner of his own making."
"A victim, indeed," Lord of Flies countered, his voice taking on a sharper edge. "But silence is not absence. His presence is a cancer upon this world, a shadow that still clings to the minds of the strongest. He is the reason we must act swiftly. He is the reason this victory is not yet assured."
I watched them, a smirk playing on my lips. They were so predictable in their fear. Their victory was incomplete because they could not bring themselves to truly extinguish the light of what their "victim" had created. They were so concerned with carving up the planet, they failed to realize that the most potent force in this war was not their legions, but the hope and resilience that my enemy, their brother, had instilled in the minds of the humans.
"What do you propose, then, my brother?" I asked, my voice calm and authoritative, bringing the meeting back to order. "You speak of a threat. Do you have a solution?"
"We would all be naive," Lord of Flies rasped, "if we don't know who the opposition truly is."
Lord of Greed, Number 5, scoffed, his face twisting into a sneer. "Who is the opposition? The mortals? The ones we so easily crushed?"
A wave of cruel laughter erupted around the table. Lord of Violence, Number 4, slammed a monstrous fist onto the polished bone, a sound like thunder, and roared with amusement. Even Lord of Fertility, Number 7, let out a delicate, mocking titter that was colder than a grave.
Their hubris was a familiar, pathetic thing. They were intoxicated by the sheer scale of their victory, blind to the quiet, resilient nature of humanity. They saw only prey, not a true adversary. Lord of sloth, Number 6, was the only one who remained silent, his true form a a sloth with a crown, his gaze unreadable. He and Lord of Flies shared a quiet, knowing understanding that the others lacked.
"I will kill any human with my arms tied behind my back," Lord of Greed boasted, his voice dripping with condescending arrogance.
Lord of Flies's laughter died, and his voice took on a sharp, biting edge. "Be careful what you sow, brother," he said, his tone low and filled with a sinister warning. "Their pathetic physical form is nothing. But their true weapon... it lies in their spirit."
The laughter in the room died. Lord of Flies, the Lord of flies, never spoke without a hidden purpose. The others, in their arrogance, knew he spoke a truth they did not want to hear. The conversation had taken a turn they were not prepared for.
Chapter 10
The Unseen Wound
The cafeteria doors sighed shut behind me, the sound a soft echo in the oppressive silence. The stench of stale food and fear was thick in the air. I had carried Thomas for what felt like miles, his dead weight on my shoulder an unyielding, bitter burden. My all-American physique was pushed to its limits, but my physical exhaustion was nothing compared to the shock. The sheer, incomprehensible insanity of what I had just witnessed left me reeling.
I stumbled toward a set of tables, gently laying Thomas on the floor. His head was a mess of scrapes and bruises, his breathing shallow. I knelt over him, my mind racing. I needed to find a safe place, somewhere to treat his wounds. My gaze darted around the cavernous room, searching for a sign, an exit, a way to the nurse's office.
That's when I noticed them. About ten people were huddled in the corner. There were three children, no older than twelve or thirteen, their eyes wide with terror. Four women, three mothers and a younger one who looked about twenty-five. And three men: two older, in their forties, and one about thirty-two. They were all staring at me, a mixture of fear and suspicion in their eyes. My torn clothes and the blood on my hands—both my own and Thomas's—must have made me look like a monster.
"Are you human?" the oldest man asked, his voice shaking.
My composure, already frayed, snapped. The audacity of the question. After what I had just gone through, what my brother had just done… it was an insult. I stood up, my gaze fierce. "Of course we are! If we weren't, I would have killed you all already. Now help my brother!"
My words silenced them. They looked shocked, and the older man, the one who had spoken, stepped forward. "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "My name is Ben, and these folks are my family." He started to introduce the others, but I cut him off. My patience was gone. There was no time for pleasantries.
"We don't have time," I said, my voice sharp. "Just tell me. Where is the nurse's office?"
Ben paused, a flicker of genuine pity crossing his face. "We can't. The demons… they've taken over this whole wing. To get to the nurse's office is suicide."
A cold wave of dread washed over me. I knew the situation was dire, but this… this was an impossibility. I felt the fury rising again. The world had gone mad, but my brother, my only remaining family, was fading. "Damn it!" I hissed, the frustration boiling over.
"My brother is a doctor,"
Ben offered, his voice low and calm, trying to soothe me. "Maybe he can help."
Relief, sharp and sudden, flooded me. "Yes, of course, please," I said, the words a desperate plea.
The second older man, Mark, stepped forward. He looked at me for a moment before his gaze fell to Thomas. Mark knelt down, his fingers gently probing Thomas's head. His expression hardened. "He took several blows to the head," he said, his voice grave. "He has a concussion. It's pretty bad."
I watched him, my heart pounding in my chest. "When will he be better?" I demanded, my voice raw with a fear I had never felt before.
Mark stood up, shaking his head slowly. "His condition looks real dire. He might fall into a coma."
The words hit me like a physical blow. The impossible hero, the one who had finally done what I, could not, was just... gone. "No!" I yelled, grabbing Thomas's body and shaking him. "No, we can't afford that! Wake up!"
Ben put a hand on my shoulder. "Edwin, please," he said. "The demons might hear you."
His calm voice was a cold splash of water. I forced myself to take a breath, my body trembling with a mixture of rage and terror. I had to compose myself. I had to think.
"How long?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "How long will he be in a coma?"
Mark's reply was a simple, brutal truth. "It could be forever."
Chapter 11
The Broadcast
The meeting in the great hall concluded, the lords of the Third Kind rising from the table to disperse into the night. Their true forms, flickering and monstrous in the candlelight, passed by me with a series of nods and guttural grunts. My brothers. So full of arrogance, yet so blind to the true nature of the enemy. I had no patience for their petty squabbles. The real work was just beginning.
As I turned to leave, Lord of Flies, Number 3, stopped me with a dry, buzzing sound. He floated a few feet in the air, his cloud of insects a frantic, humming vortex. "A moment, Lord Light," he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly drone. "A word, if you will."
I stopped and faced him. His eyes, two brilliant pinpricks of light in the insect cloud, held a cold, unwavering intelligence that separated him from the others. He was the one who saw the bigger picture, the one who understood the true threat.
"You have done a great job in your role for everything," he said, and for a moment, his voice was free of the buzzing. "You've proven your worth. But your father will need you to continue performing well. There is more to do."
I felt a familiar wave of unease at the mention of my father, the one they called Lucifer. The supreme ruler. The victim. I hated the term, hated the weakness it implied. But Lord of Flies' next words brought me back to the present.
"We need to put in place the system," he continued, the buzzing returning to his voice.
I understood. The next phase. The one that would secure our final victory. I simply gave a cold nod. "I understand."
Without another word, he and his swarm of insects vanished into the darkness. I returned to my Rolls Royce, the feeling of purpose replacing my earlier distaste. The car moved silently down the mountain, leaving the mansion behind. I was in my element now. The planning, the orchestration, the grand manipulation—this was what I had been born to do.
I arrived back at the world capital, the grand new White House I had built. I walked through the quiet, pristine halls, my mind racing. I found my agents in the command center, their faces pale from the events of the last few hours.
"Set up an emergency broadcast," I commanded, my voice cold and calm. "Connect every speaker, every radio, every phone, every television screen. Global broadcast. I need to be seen and heard by everyone, everywhere, at the same time."
My agents moved without hesitation, the command center coming to life with a frantic energy. A few minutes later, I was on the main stage, the bright lights shining down on me. I looked directly into the camera, knowing my image was being beamed to every corner of the world.
"Hello, people of the world," I began, my voice clear and reassuring, the very voice that had promised them peace and unity. "We are in a dire situation. We are under attack by forces unknown, and our unified military has been unable to stop this catastrophe. But I have found a way to save mankind."
Light held his hand up to the camera, a small, dark tattoo visible on the back of it—a symbol of my loyalty to my brothers. "To stop these creatures, you must get a mark on your hand. It will indicate that you are not a threat, and the creatures will leave you be. Any and all institutions, hospitals, public offices, will provide the tools you need to receive the mark. As you can see, I already have it, and I have been left alone by the beasts, as have many of my staff. It works. It is crucial for mankind's survival."
My image was calm, my words a balm to a terrified world. I gave them what they craved most: a lie wrapped in the comforting blanket of hope. I looked into the cameras, my gaze unwavering, and knew they would believe me. They always did.
Chapter 12
The New Normal
The news anchor, a perfectly coiffed man with a forced smile, looked directly into the camera. "Well, it has been three months since Light's message once again saved mankind. His solution, once feared as a possible betrayal, has instead brought a new kind of peace to our fractured world."
The scene cut to a shot of a busy street in what was once London. People walked calmly, going about their lives. The purplish sky remained, a perpetual bruise over the city, but the fear was gone. Billions of people, the anchor continued, had been saved by the tattoo. The mark, as everyone had come to call it. A simple barcode design that did not hurt and took only five minutes to apply. The mark, he explained, had tamed and locked away the "unknown species," the demons that had descended upon the world.
A different graphic appeared on screen, a clean, modern building with a stark, brutalist design. "The creatures now await trial at the world-famous Gaulet," the anchor said, his tone one of hushed awe. "A place where Light has held them for months. He has not yet given a verdict, but it should be in the near future. Back to you, Tom."
The broadcast shifted back to the news studio, where another anchor, a woman with a kind but serious face, took over. She spoke of the mark as a miracle, a gift from Light to his people. She spoke of the new world order, where the human collaborators had been pardoned and were now working to rebuild the world alongside those who had refused to take the mark. The demons, now powerless, were held captive. The world, it seemed, was safe again.
Chapter 13
The New World
I woke up to a soft, humming sound. The world was blurry at the edges, and my head felt like a drum being hit with a hammer. I was lying in a bed, a clean, white sheet pulled up to my chin. The room felt familiar, but I couldn't place it. The walls were a muted, sterile color, and a small monitor with flashing green lines sat on a table next to me. Where was I? The question was a dull ache behind my eyes.
I tried to sit up, but the headache intensified, a wave of nausea rolling over me. I fell back against the pillow, my mind reeling. I looked down at my arm and saw that I was hooked up to a machine with a series of wires. I had to get out of here.
The door opened, and I flinched, my heart pounding in my chest. But it wasn't Edwin. It was a woman. She was young, maybe twenty-five, and she was beautiful, with kind eyes and a warm smile. She looked at me, her eyes lighting up.
"Oh, hello," she said, her voice soft and gentle. "You finally woke up."
"Who are you?" I asked, my voice a dry, rasping whisper.
"Sorry," she said, stepping closer. "My name is Sophie."
My mind raced, trying to put the pieces together. "Where's Edwin?"
A sad smile touched her lips. "Sgt. Edwin is out on a classified mission," she said. "He put me in charge of taking care of you while he's away."
Sgt. Edwin? That couldn't be right. "Wait, he's in the army?"
She laughed, a small, pleasant sound that brought a sense of calm to the room. "No, not the army. Well, kind of. It's a long story." She shrugged. "A lot can happen in a day, right?"
"A day?" She looked at me, puzzled. "Yeah, a day," I insisted, my panic rising. "I was only out for a day. I can't have missed much. Plus, what happened to the demons? It's too quiet for the end of the world."
She just stared at me for a long moment, her beautiful face a mask of concern. "Sir," she said, her voice hushed. "You have been in a coma for three months."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Three months? My heart leaped into my throat. The questions I had fought so hard to answer, the horrors I had witnessed, the moment I had found my strength—all of it had happened so long ago? I started to talk, a torrent of words pouring out of me. "What? Three months? What happened? Where was I? What about the demons? Are they gone?"
My mind was a whirlwind of panic and stress, a chaotic storm of unanswered questions. She must have seen the fear in my eyes. She grabbed my shoulders, her hands firm, and looked at me with a steady, unflinching gaze.
"Look at me," she said.
I stared into her eyes, full of a life and a peace I had never seen before. Her presence was a calming balm to my panic. All the fear and anxiety that had been building inside me for the last three months, everything I had witnessed, every question I had asked, seemed to quiet down in her gaze. I fell silent, my rapid breathing slowing to a steady rhythm.
"It's okay," she said, her voice a soft, gentle whisper. "You're okay. And Edwin is okay. Everything is okay."
She pulled me into a gentle hug, her arms a comforting embrace. I held onto her, my mind reeling, the world an even greater mystery than it had been before.
now. It was a silence filled with the weight of that message. A threat veiled in the language of a public service announcement. The mark wasn't a gift of salvation. It was a brand. And the "Third Kind," the demons that had so recently been a terrifying, world-ending plague, were now a tool of social control. A private security force for a world that had willingly given up its soul for a semblance of peace. My heart sank.
The world wasn't saved. It was owned. And I, without a mark on my hand, was now an different.
Chapter 15
The Stray
My stomach rumbled with an ache that had been my constant companion for the last three months. I still had some money on me, old currency from the world before, and the urge for a real meal, a simple sandwich, was overwhelming. The new world might be strange, but at least the markets were open. I walked into a small deli, the bell above the door chiming with a familiar, pleasant sound. The air inside smelled of bread and cured meat, a scent so normal it almost brought a tear to my eyes.
I approached the counter and pointed to a turkey club. "I'll take that one," I said, pulling a ten-dollar bill from my pocket.
The young woman behind the counter gave me a polite, practiced smile. "Certainly, sir. That will be three credits."
I offered her the bill, and her smile vanished. Her eyes, once kind, hardened into a cold, suspicious glare. She didn't look at the money; she looked at my hand. My unmarked hand. My stomach dropped. I had heard the broadcast, but I hadn't truly grasped it. I hadn't realized the mark was a requirement, not a choice.
"I'm sorry, sir," she said, her voice now sharp and cold. "I can't take this. And I can't serve you."
My mind raced. "I don't understand. I have money. What's wrong?" I asked, my voice low and confused.
Her eyes flickered to the broadcast on a screen above her head. "It's policy," she said, a finality in her voice that sent a shiver down my spine. "Now you need to leave. We don't want any trouble."
I didn't have time to process her words before I heard the whispers. My presence, a quiet, innocuous thing just moments ago, was now a loud, glaring threat. I looked up and saw that everyone in the store, from a young couple in the corner to an old man drinking coffee, was staring at me. Their eyes held a mixture of fear and outright hatred.
"He's a stray," a man in the back hissed, his voice full of menace.
"Get out of here, stray!" someone else yelled.
The word "stray" hit me like a physical blow. It was a word for a dog, a wild, dangerous animal that didn't belong. I looked from face to face, bewildered by their sudden hostility. I didn't mean any harm. I just wanted a sandwich. I held my hands up in a placating gesture.
"I'm not looking for trouble," I said, trying to be calm. "I just... I'll go."
The tension in the room, however, only grew. The mob mentality was palpable. I backed out of the deli, the sound of their menacing shouts following me out the door. Once I was on the sidewalk, a group of people from a nearby cafe pointed at me.
"A stray! Get him out of here!"
I didn't wait to see if they would throw anything at me. My legs, which had felt like lead for the past three months, suddenly felt light. I started to run. The shouts grew louder, a chorus of angry voices chasing me down the street. I heard footsteps behind me, a pounding rhythm of pursuit. I was no longer a person to them; I was an intruder, a contamination in their perfect, sterile world.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I turned a corner, my lungs burning with every desperate gasp. The shouts were a wave of pure hatred that washed over me, a chilling confirmation that the world had not been saved, but had simply chosen a new master. And in that new world, I was an outsider. I was an enemy.
Then, from the distance, I heard a new sound. The wail of sirens, getting closer, getting louder. My body, exhausted and bruised, ran faster, driven by a fear more profound than anything I had felt before. The system was hunting me. The world had branded me a fugitive, and I had nowhere to go.
Chapter 16
The Artist and the Fugitive
The sirens wailed a frantic, shrill anthem of authority, a sound Luke had come to despise. His squad car, a sleek, silent unit of the World Police, cut through the now-calm streets. The dispatch crackled over the radio, the report as routine as it was nauseating: "Suspect, male, identified as a stray. Last seen terrorizing civilians on 9th Street. All close patrols report to the scene." Luke hated this part of his job. He hated the word "stray." It was clinical and cold, a label for an unbranded human who hadn't taken the mark. It was a word meant to dehumanize.
He wasn't a good cop. He hated the sterile conformity of his life, the flawless logic of Light's world that left no room for the chaos of creativity. His true passion was painting. He spent his off-duty hours in a small, hidden studio, letting vibrant colors spill onto canvases, the only place he felt truly alive. He was a great artist and a loyal companion to the few people he trusted. But right now, he was just a cog in the machine.
Luke arrived on 9th Street and saw the scene unfold like a painting in motion. A young man, a "stray," was running, a blur of frantic energy against the pastel backdrop of the city. Behind him, a mob of people, their faces twisted into masks of self-righteous fury, chased him, a dark, primal wave of conformity.
He drove his car forward and cut the engine, the vehicle gliding silently to a stop right in front of the running man. He threw open his door and stepped out, his hand instinctively on his sidearm.
"Stop!" Luke yelled. "Put your hands up!"
The running man, Thomas, skidded to a stop, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and utter confusion. "I didn't do anything," he pleaded, his voice raw with exhaustion.
"Don't move! I'll shoot you!" Luke's voice was sharp, a tone he had to adopt to be taken seriously. He hated that it worked.
Thomas's eyes, however, weren't focused on Luke's weapon. They were on the mob of angry faces behind him. The sound of their shouting was getting closer. The fear in Thomas's eyes was a living thing. He looked at Luke for a split second, and in that moment, a silent message passed between them. Thomas chose the unknown.
He turned and bolted, running in the other direction.
"Stop! I said stop!" Luke yelled, his voice laced with frustration and a hint of something else—a strange sense of admiration. He raised his sidearm, taking aim. His training was flawless, his hand steady. Thomas was in his sights, a perfect, clear shot. He just had to pull the trigger.
But a moment passed, and then another. Thomas was gone, a blur of a figure disappearing into the maze of the city. The mob reached Luke, their anger now directed at him.
Luke lowered his weapon, his breath catching in his throat. The fugitive was gone, and Luke knew with a cold certainty that he had blown it. He had a clear shot, a direct order, and a moment of quiet, rebellious thought had kept him from pulling the trigger. The artist in him, the one who saw the world not in black and white but in shades of complex emotion, had chosen not to paint a final, bloody picture. And for the first time in a long time, he felt a spark of something he hadn't known was still inside him: hope.
Chapter 17
A Marked Man
The crisp scent of clean clothes filled the small room, a temporary, mundane comfort in a world that had lost all semblance of normalcy. I stood by the table, methodically folding a stack of medical scrubs, my mind a million miles away. All I could think about was Thomas and the look on his face when he woke up. The sheer terror and confusion in his eyes, the rapid-fire questions he'd thrown at me. He was still living in the world before, a world of peace and predictable chaos. He had no idea what had happened.
Oh, my God.
The thought hit me like a physical blow, a sudden, cold panic that froze the blood in my veins. Thomas didn't have the mark. He was a stray.
My hands trembled, dropping a half-folded shirt. I ran to the living room, grabbing my phone from the small end table. I dialed the secure line to the safe house where Edwin had insisted Thomas stay. It rang once, twice, three times, and then went to a dead signal. My heart sank. Edwin wouldn't have left him alone without telling me. Where was he?
I dialed Edwin's private comms line, a number I had been given for emergencies only. It rang once, twice...
"Hello?" Edwin's voice was crisp, but there was a deep weariness beneath it.
"Edwin! Thank God," I said, my voice fast and breathless with relief. "Thomas… he doesn't have the mark."
"Yeah, I know," he said, his tone flat. "He's been unconscious. I was gonna…"
"Well, he woke up!" I interrupted, the words tumbling over each other. "And now he's gone. I don't know where he went."
A beat of silence hung on the line, heavy with disbelief. "He's what?" Edwin's voice was no longer tired. It was sharp with panic. "Sophie, he's what?!"
"Gone!" I said, my voice cracking.
"Find him!" Edwin yelled into the phone, the sound echoing through the speaker. "Go find him now! If the police find him without a mark, they'll take him straight to Gaulet!"
My eyes, wide with fear, fell on the small television screen in the corner of the room. The news broadcast was playing on a loop, the anchor's face cold and professional. The chyron beneath him read: STRAY WANTED. SEEN RUNNING OUT OF TOWN BUT STILL ON THE LOOSE. ALL RESIDENTS KEEP AN EYE OUT. CONTACT LOCAL POLICE IF SEEN.
The image on the screen was a grainy, low-quality picture of a bewildered man, his face a perfect match for the man I had just met. Thomas.
The phone slipped from my trembling fingers and clattered to the floor, the static from the line a high-pitched scream. I didn't think. I didn't hesitate. I just ran out the door, the laundry forgotten, the only thought in my mind to find him before they did.
Chapter 18
The Minotaur
The sirens faded behind me, their mournful wail swallowed by the city's labyrinth of streets and alleys. My lungs burned with every desperate gasp for air, my legs ached with a pain that felt older than I was. My mind was a whirlwind of fear and disbelief. A stray. They had branded me a stray. I had just tried to buy a sandwich, and now the entire city was hunting me.
I ran until the neat, orderly streets of perfect city gave way to a desolate, industrial wasteland. Rusting hulks of machinery stood like forgotten titans against the purplish sky, their silent forms a stark contrast to the perfect city I had just fled. A lone, abandoned factory loomed in the distance, its skeletal frame a promise of temporary sanctuary. I sprinted toward it, the pounding of my feet on the cracked pavement the only sound in the terrifying quiet.
I ducked inside, the heavy, metal door groaning shut behind me. The air was thick with the scent of dust and decay, a welcome change from the sterile air of the city. I was in a vast, empty space, a place where people had once worked. I saw old, rusting machinery, a faded sign on the wall that read ALMOND PACKING, and a sense of profound loneliness washed over me. This was a ghost town, a relic of the world that was.
I walked deeper into the factory, my footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. I was alone, and for a fleeting moment, I felt a sense of peace.
Then I heard it. A deep, guttural grunt, followed by the heavy, deliberate scrape of something massive being dragged across a concrete floor. I froze, every nerve in my body screaming a warning. It wasn't the sound of an animal. It was too intelligent. Too menacing.
I backed away slowly, my eyes wide, scanning the shadows. The sound came from around a corner, a low, menacing rumble that seemed to shake the very floor. I took another step back, my foot landing on an empty can someone had left behind. The can rolled, making a loud, clattering noise that shattered the silence.
The grunting stopped. The silence that followed was a thousand times more terrifying than the noise.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I had to run. Now. I turned, my hand reaching for the doorknob, but it was too late. From around the corner, a figure emerged, its silhouette a terrifying parody of a man.
It had the head of a bull, with two massive, curved horns that jutted out from a thick, muscled neck. Its chest was covered in a makeshift golden breastplate, and a war skirt made of what looked like human bones hung from its waist. It stood upright, its arms and legs thick with muscle, its eyes two pools of burning, malevolent fire.
It was a Minotaur. A creature of myth, and it was standing right in front of me.
The beast gave a deafening war cry, a sound that was a mixture of a bull's roar and a man's scream, and a single, chilling phrase echoed in my mind.
You're going to die if you continue on your journey.
The child's words. I understood them now. The beast charged, its massive form a blur of pure, unadulterated violence. There was nowhere to run. My journey had led me here, to this moment. And now, it was over.
Chapter 19
The Silent Master
The air in my secluded estate was cool and crisp, a welcome relief from the controlled, sterile atmosphere of the city. I stood on the balcony, a glass of fine vintage in my hand, and looked out at the perfect, unblemished night. Three years and three months. It was a bizarre thought, a chilling truth that settled in my mind like a heavy stone. Just over three years ago, this level of control, this absolute power, was impossible.
But now, it was a reality.
The plan was proceeding step by step, a meticulous grand design that was unfolding exactly as it should. The mortals, blinded by the promise of safety, had willingly branded themselves, their freedom for a lie. My brothers, the princes of the Third Kind, were reveling in their newfound power, ignorant of the fragile nature of their victory. It was all going as planned, and even if some of the princes resented my father, and I questioned him time to time, he always knew what to do next.
I was quite impressed, honestly. The detailed planning was genius. The way he had foreseen every move, every counter-move, every moment of chaos that would lead to this serene, perfect conclusion. But what got me curious, what bothered me, was why he continued to be off the grid. He was the supreme ruler of us all, the one who held absolute authority. Yet, he hid out, a ghost in the shadows. I hadn't spoken to him in months, not since the last council meeting.
What was my father planning?
The question gnawed at me, a constant, irritating itch I couldn't scratch. My own power, my position as the architect of this new world, was a testament to his trust in me. But a new, cold fury began to simmer beneath my calm exterior. Whatever he was doing, whatever new scheme he was hatching, it better include me. I was his most loyal son, the one who had made his vision a reality.
I took a final sip of my wine, the glass feeling like a brittle, fragile thing in my hand. I turned and walked back into the estate, my gaze falling on one of my agents standing by the door.
"Get my car ready," I announced, my voice cold and hard.
My agent, accustomed to my sudden, unannounced departures, simply gave a quick nod and moved to obey. I had a feeling my father wouldn't appreciate this visit. He liked his privacy, his secrets. But I would not be left in the dark. Whatever he was doing, if he was doing something, I would find out.
Chapter 20
The Unbroken Spirit
The Minotaur's war cry was a sound ripped from a nightmare, and its charge was an unstoppable force of muscle and rage. I didn't think; I just acted. My body, a blur of battered and bruised reflexes, dove out of the way. The beast slammed into the metal door behind me, the sound of the impact a violent, echoing crack that left the thick steel bent and half-folded like a piece of paper.
I scrambled back, my heart pounding against my ribs, and tried to run for the exit. But the beast was impossibly fast. It turned on a dime, its massive form cutting off my path. My escape route, a wide, open corridor just seconds ago, was now blocked by a wall of golden armor and pure violence. I couldn't outrun it. There was no way to get past it. The only way out was through the beast.
The monster started to engage, its massive fists swinging, each blow a deadly wind that would have crushed my skull if it had connected. I moved like a cat, my instincts, so long dormant, now screaming in every nerve. I ducked and weaved, my body contorting to avoid the killing blows.
But my luck was running out.
I ducked under a wide right hook, and the beast's massive torso caught me with a glancing blow. The impact sent me flying, my body a rag doll tossed across the factory floor. I hit the ground hard, a fresh wave of pain searing through my ribs. I tried to get up, but before I could, a heavy boot connected with my stomach, sending me flopping like a fish. The beast did this two more times, each kick more powerful than the last, until I was a broken, bloodied mess on the floor.
I gasped for air, spitting up blood, the sharp, agonizing pain of broken ribs a constant reminder of my humanity. The beast stood over me, watching with a calm, predatory gaze. I struggled to my feet, my body trembling with the effort. I was beaten. My face was a mask of blood and sweat.
I held my ribs, my voice a broken whisper. "What are you?"
Chapter 21
The Glitch in the Grid
The chocolate bar was halfway to my mouth when I saw her.
A woman—barefoot, wild-eyed, and stunning in a way that made traffic part around her like she was Moses with better hair—was sprinting through the intersection, weaving between self-driving cars that honked in polite confusion. She didn't look back. She didn't slow down. She was heading straight for the woods.
I muttered, "Damn. I was just about to enjoy my favorite—simple chocolate, peanuts, no drama." I tossed the bar onto the passenger seat and hit the siren.
She didn't stop.
I pulled the squad car over and jumped out, boots crunching against the perfect pavement. Only in this flawless utopia, I thought, do you chase barefoot women into government-sanctioned wilderness zones.
The woods were quiet, curated, and supposedly empty. I ran for what felt like forever, the trees blurring past, until I saw her—finally stopped, breathing hard, staring at something in the distance.
I slowed my pace, catching my breath. "Lady," I said, "you better have a damn good excuse."
She didn't even turn. Just pointed.
"What's that?" she asked.
I followed her gaze. There, half-swallowed by vines and time, stood a building. Rusted steel, shattered windows, a faded sign barely legible in the moonlight.
A factory.
That was impossible.
Factories hadn't existed in years—not since Light's system replaced agriculture, manufacturing, and supply chains with engineered perfection. Every city was self-sustaining now. No farms. No factories. Just clean, efficient living. Light had solved every problem, and in return, we gave him the world.
He became emperor of Earth. One government. One system. One flawless reality.
And yet—here it was. A glitch in the grid.
The woman took off again, sprinting toward the factory like it held answers to questions no one was supposed to ask.
I sighed, watching her disappear into the shadows. "Damn. Why can't I just have a normal day?
Chapter 22
The Question That Lingers
The silence between us was so sharp, I could hear the dust settling.
The Minotaur and I locked eyes. My body was broken, my ribs screaming, blood dripping from my mouth—but I still had one question.
"What are you?" I rasped.
The air went still. You could've heard a pen drop.
Then it spoke.
Its voice was deep, slow, ancient—like stone grinding against stone. "I am a subordinate of the Lord of Flies. A soldier in his legion. My name is irrelevant. Only the mission matters."
I blinked, stunned. Maybe I was hallucinating. Maybe I'd taken another hit to the head. But the beast kept speaking, and the words were too clear to ignore.
"What's your mission?" I asked, snapping out of my daze.
"To investigate," it said, with a tone that made the word feel like a death sentence.
"Investigate what?" I demanded.
The beast chuckled—a low, dark sound that echoed through the factory like a curse. "Your species."
I stared, bewildered. "Why?"
The Minotaur tilted its head, eyes burning. "A good question. Most of your kind assume the mark is enough to stop us. That's… hilarious. If only you knew, mortal."
It took a step forward, muscles rippling beneath its armor. "But have you heard the saying—curiosity kills the cat?"
Then it charged.
Its right fist tore through the air with such force that the shockwave knocked me back a step. I dodged—barely. That punch would've shattered my skull.
I backpedaled, ducking and weaving, but the beast was relentless. Each strike came closer, faster, heavier. Then—bang. A clean hit to my jaw. My vision exploded into stars. I crumpled to the floor, knees buckling, ribs screaming.
A brutal kick followed, driving the breath from my lungs. I could only grunt, blood spilling from my mouth. The Minotaur grabbed me like a rag doll, lifting me off the ground.
"This is where you die, hero," it growled.
Then—
"Freeze! Hands up!"
The voice cut through the chaos like a blade. The Minotaur tossed me aside and turned toward the figures at the entrance.
A cop. And beside him—her.
Sophie.
Even through the haze of pain, I recognized her. She looked like salvation.
The beast didn't speak. It just sized up the officer, eyes narrowing.
"I have the mark!" the cop shouted, voice trembling. "Stand down!"
The Minotaur stepped forward.
The officer fired—his entire clip. Every bullet hit. None mattered.
The beast charged, grabbed him mid-dodge, and slammed him against the wall. The blows came fast, brutal, merciless. The Minotaur was enjoying it.
Sophie rushed to me, kneeling beside my broken body. "Are you okay?"
I tried to sound tough. "Yeah," I croaked, blood in my throat. "I'm good."
She smiled, brushing hair from my face. "I'm getting you out of here."
"Okay," I whispered, trying not to blush. Even now, I was admiring her—trying to play it cool.
Then, with a burst of will, the officer pulled out his pepper spray and unleashed it into the beast's eyes.
The Minotaur roared, blinded, stumbling back.
The officer collapsed, gasping for breath. Sophie helped me up, and together we reached him.
"Get up," she said.
He looked up, nodded silently, and rose to his feet.
This was our chance. Our only chance.
We ran—limping, bleeding, breathless—toward the woods. Behind us, the Minotaur's roars echoed, fading into the distance.
But one question wouldn't leave my mind.
What were they searching for?