..
He continued down the corridor, mind already racing ahead to where he'd find food—or at least someone who could spare some.
And above all, in the back of his mind, a constant echo remained.
He had to keep moving, even if his sore body protested.
Because even after a month, the world outside these walls was still falling apart.
..
---
Location: Fort Sentinel – Barrack Outskirts, Under the Oak Tree.
Year: 2026.
Date: April 1st.
Time: 5:35 AM.
POV: Third Person.
--
As Damian moved through the dimly lit intersection on his way back to Room HT-43, the muffled clamor of early risers and shuffling boots echoed faintly through the corridors. He was in no rush—still tired, still hungry, but alert enough to notice when something wasn't right.
At a nearby cross-section, a commotion caught his eye.
A girl—petite and unmistakably familiar—stood encircled by three rugged-looking men. Though no one had raised their voice, the air was thick with implication. Passersby stole glances before briskly moving along, pretending not to see. A few lingered just far enough to spectate without being involved.
Damian narrowed his eyes, stepping into the shadow of the corridor wall, uncertain.
'Should I step in? Or keep walking?' He wouldn't usually meddle. But this time was different.
It was Riko.
Her short, messy blonde hair was unmistakable, even in the low light, and so were those sharp, ocean-blue eyes. She wore her usual black and crimson tactical armor—though noticeably, she was without her bow or quiver.
'She must have left them in the room' Damian lingered, choosing to observe.
One of the guys, a tall youth with slick black hair and a forced smile, stepped in a little closer.
??? "Come on, Riko. Why don't we take this to my bunk?" He said, voice calm, tone greasy. "We could... discuss how to split the crystal cores from the last expedition." His eyes flickered downward, clearly not referencing minerals.
Riko was short, sure—but what she lacked in height, she more than compensated for in physical presence. Her compact frame radiated quiet power, though her abundant chest said something else.
The smile that usually painted her face was gone. Instead, her expression was stone cold.
Hanabira Riko "Johnny," she said, voice low and cutting, "I'll say this one last time. Move. Out. Of. My. Way."
Johnny and his cronies chuckled as if she had told a joke. His blue eyes shimmered with predatory intent. "Relax, Riko. We're just trying to be fair. Don't be so aggressive..."
Then it happened.
A sharp crack echoed as her knee shot upward—clean and precise—into Johnny's groin. He collapsed with a howl, clutching himself in agony.
Before the other two could react, Riko twisted on her heel. Her fist slammed into the gut of the man on her left, doubling him over instantly. The third guy lunged, panicked and sloppy. But Riko moved like lightning—sidestepping and driving two fingers directly into his eyes.
Three seconds. Three bodies down.
Gasps followed. A couple of men nearby instinctively winced, hands brushing their own groins in shared sympathy.
"You go, girl!" someone shouted from the sideline.
Riko stood in the middle, brushing her hands together like she'd just taken out the trash. She turned—and her eyes landed on Damian, watching quietly from the next hallway.
Her posture froze, surprised. Her expression twisted. She marched over, fire in her stride.
Damian Derulo 'Is she mad that I didn't step in?' Damian thought with furrowed brows.
She stopped just two feet away, glaring up at him with eyes sharp enough to cut steel.
Hanabira Riko "If you breathe a word of this to Amy or Lana," she said icily, "I will end you."
With that, she turned sharply on her heel and marched off, leaving Damian blinking in confusion.
Damian Derulo 'What the hell just happened?'
He trailed after her silently, reaching Room HT-43 less than a minute later. Riko paused, took a steadying breath, then burst through the door with energy that didn't match what just happened.
Hanabira Riko "Lanaaa!" she yelled as she tackled the unsuspecting girl on the bunk bed, voice bubbly once again.
Damian paused at the doorway, still blinking.
Damian Derulo 'What kind of emotional rollercoaster...?'
He stepped inside and quietly shut the door behind him.
---
Amy was lacing up her fingerless gloves when she looked up at him with a warm smile.
Amy Williams "Good morning, Damian. I see Riko found you."
Damian nodded slowly, his voice low. "Morning," he said, glancing around.
Everyone seemed to be mid-prep for the day. Fresh clothes, different energy, subtle shifts since yesterday.
Hannah sat next to Marcus on the bottom bunk, dressed in a sunflower-orange dress that fell just past her knees, a faded blue denim jacket layered on top. Her matching blue boots tapped quietly against the floor. She looked a little better—her conversation with Marcus seemed light, though her smile looked... practiced.
Marcus wore a black T-shirt threaded with jagged blue lightning designs and matching blue pants. His shoes were navy and white. He looked well-rested.
Kai sat with Sofia on a nearby cot. He still wore his tactical shirt and pants from yesterday, but they were freshly laundered—somehow. He looked drained, with heavy shadows under his eyes. Probably hadn't slept much.
Sofia, beside him, wore a loose olive-green jacket with sleeves rolled up and dark grey cargo pants. Her black combat boots were half-laced, like she got up in a hurry.
On the far side, Hustin leaned against his bunker's ladder. He had a plain white shirt tucked into fitted black pants and clean white sneakers. Neat, simple, efficient.
Lana looked like she hadn't changed at all—her oversized black hoodie still covering most of her frame, black joggers and matching mask hiding everything else. Still silent. Still unreadable.
Hustin glanced at Damian, squinting.
Hustin Bright "Dude… where did you sleep last night?"
Damian Derulo. "Outside. Under the Oak Tree."
The room froze.
Several heads turned in unison, eyes wide. He could almost hear the mental 'what?!'
Marcus Hale "Wait, when you say 'outside,' you mean in a tent… right?"
Damian shook his head. "No tent."
Marcus Hale "Bro… it gets freezing out there this early. I thought we agreed you'd share my bunk. Why didn't you come back?"
Damian opened his mouth to answer, but Amy stepped in, her brow furrowed.
Amy Williams "Are you okay? Your shirt's soaked…"
She moved toward him slightly. Reflexively, Damian stepped back.
Realizing it, he stiffened.
Damian Derulo "Where can I get a bath?"
Marcus Hale "Uh—there's a bunch of bath stalls down the left wing, but they're usually packed at this hour. Best to wait a bit. I can loan you some clothes if you want—"
He bent down, reaching for a duffel.
Damian Derulo "I'm fine. What time does the cafeteria open?"
Marcus Hale "Uh… it's open. Always open. I can show yo—"
*BAM!*
Damian turned and walked out, slamming the door shut behind him.
Silence followed.
Hustin Bright "…Is it just me, or is he extra frosty today?"
Marcus Hale "Maybe it's the cold?"
Everyone turned and stared at him.
"…What?" Marcus blinked innocently.
In the edge of her bed held by Riko, Lana sat in silence, eyes fixed on the closed door.
Still. Watching.
-/-
Time: 5:58 AM
-/-
Damian's boots echoed faintly against the steel floor of the hallway as he stepped away from room HT-43, the door shutting behind him with a soft mechanical click. The early morning air inside the bunker was still and heavy, filled with the distant hum of industrial fans and far-off murmurs of early risers. The lighting overhead cast a dull bluish hue that flickered occasionally, offering little in terms of warmth or comfort.
He wandered through the winding corridors of the underground facility, searching for the cafeteria. The deeper he ventured into Sector A, the more activity he encountered. People of all types filled the hallways — tall feline people with golden fur and slitted pupils; people with scale-lined jaws muttering in sharp, weird tones; cloaked individuals with flickering auras.
Each glance toward him lingered a second too long.
Some curious-others were guarded.
A tall figure wearing a mask and walking alone-though not uncommon was a red flag in most survival zones.
He finally found the cafeteria. The scent of overcooked protein and reheated starch hit him like a dull punch to the face. The room buzzed with low conversations, metal trays clanking, and the occasional burst of laughter. Soldiers sat in groups at worn-down tables, clustered by affiliation or species. One table of people feathers growing out of random places in their body— sharp-eyed and perched with uncanny posture — talked softly among themselves. Another hosted a gang of rough-skinned group, their booming voices cutting across the noise.
Damian, unnoticed at first, grabbed a tray.
The moment he approached the serving station, the chef squinted at him. "Masked-face, you lost?" he grunted.
"No. Just hungry," Damian replied simply.
"Hungry, huh?"
Damian took as many sandwiches as the tray could hold — stacked high with processed meat, hardboiled eggs, a glop of synthetic mustard, and dry wheat bread. He ignored the way the chef's lips curled, ignored the mutters that rose behind him.
He walked to an empty corner table and sat.
He sat and began eating, before he could bite into the third sandwich, Nyxi uncoiled from his neck. She slithered down his arm and to the edge of the table, her serpentine eyes narrowing at the eggs.
He offered her one. "Want to try?"
She gave him a look of royal betrayal, hissed sharply, then turned her head with exaggerated revulsion. "Repugnant! Poultry spawn are not nourishment — they are crimes!"
Before anyone could notice, she twirled back slithered and vanished into the tattoo wrapped along Damian's left forearm.
Unfazed, Damian continued eating under a growing storm of judgmental stares. Words like "glutton," and "Check that guy out, he eating like an animal" passed between hushed voices.
His stomach filled but for some reason he was not satisfied. Not really.
--
Time: 6:21 AM
--
Backtracking from the cafeteria, Damian walked the dim halls past HT-43 and toward the left wing. The stale scent of rust and wet clothes intensified. Soon, he reached the communal bathing stalls Marcus had mentioned.
It was worse than he expected.
Steam clouded the air, but not from warmth — it was the sweat of too many bodies crammed into a space built for half as many. Dozens of people yelled over each other in frustration. Half-naked soldiers shoved past others, a centaur looking guy argued with a horned woman over who cut in line, and a harried woman kept screaming, "One at a time!" with diminishing authority.
From where he stood he heard silent words passing by: "It's like this everyday in this place"
A scuffle broke out between a scaled man and furry man that ended in a fistfight. Within moments, two soldiers stormed in, shouting for peace. It took over an hour and a half for the crowd to thin.
While he waited, he looked at the chaotic crowd filled with different races and wondered what actions they made to have gotten those type of titles.
--
[Time: 7:59 AM]
--
Finally, it was Damian's turn.
Still masked by his Hollow Veil, he entered a stall and stepped under the rusting spout, still wearing his underwear. Icy water hit him like a blade. He gritted his teeth as goosebumps formed instantly across his skin.
No hot water. No privacy. Just cold, recycled water and echoing noise.
He washed himself quickly, methodically, then stripped off his clothes. A plain, white baggy shirt. Baggy black pants, stained from mud and grime. A belt. White sneakers more brown and black than white now. His duffle bag met the same fate after it's previous job of being used as a pillow. He scrubbed them all with just water and his hands, then wrung them until they dripped no more.
He walked barefoot through the halls- wearing dripping wet clothes, attracting fresh stares from lingering bathers.
--
[Time: 8:24 AM]
[ Outside The Bunker ]
--
The first breath of surface air hit him like freedom.
The bunker's reinforced doors stayed open behind him, and he walked a short distance beyond the structure's perimeter. The ground was dry and cracked in places, dotted with patches of stubborn grass. A wide, solitary oak tree stood near the outskirts, branches like gnarled fingers stretched against the pale morning sky.
He undressed and draped his shirt and pants over a thick branch, laying his sneakers and belt on a nearby rock. The sun was more than high enough to begin warming the earth. He stood silently, arms crossed, the mask ever-present on his face, the Hollow Veil hiding his features and — more importantly — his expressions.
He looked around and saw a few puddles left from the earlier fog, there were lesser than before the sun rose.
For a while, he listened.
To the rustling breeze. The birds. The silence between moments.
And in that silence, a question surfaced.
'Am I ready to kill?'
It haunted him like an echo from a place he hadn't acknowledged yet. He hadn't killed yet — but not killing wasn't the same as not being willing.
He had survived. He had fought and killed different monster both inside and outside the dungeon.
But to kill a person? Deliberately end someone?
He stared out at the horizon.
Just because he hadn't yet... didn't mean he wouldn't.
And if it came down to him or them... he wasn't sure what answer he wanted to give.
He had wished death on people that have done him wrong, but wishing and actually performing the action were different things.
The wind blew gently against the drying fabric.
He waited.
He didn't know if the sun could dry guilt.
But at least it would dry his clothes.
--
[ Location: Fort Sentinel – Sector A, Administrator's Office ]
POV: Third Person.
Time: 9:09 AM.
--
Damian stood in the heart of Sector A's Administrator's Office, a small, dust-scented room tucked away in the bowels of Fort Sentinel. The air was tinged with a faint musk, the kind that clung to closed spaces too long lived in. A beat-up oscillating fan hummed faintly in the corner, barely pushing the stale air around. Overhead, a flickering fluorescent bulb provided a cold white light that cast soft shadows over the stacked shelves of paperwork, folders, and data slips.
His clothes were dry—well, dry enough not to raise eyebrows. They still clung slightly to his skin, stiff from sun and wind, but they served. The desk before him, surprisingly, was cleaner than yesterday. Neat piles of documents and an untouched tray of assignments waited in an eerily calm silence, a stark contrast to the chaotic pile-up he remembered. He had a creeping suspicion that by day's end, the desk would return to its natural, cluttered state.
Across the room, the Sector Manager took a slow sip of coffee from a chipped ceramic mug. Damian waited, giving her space, allowing her that moment of morning peace. She set her cup down gently near the desk's edge, her fingers tracing the handle as she looked up.
"Good morning, Ma'am," Damian said with a respectful nod.
The woman, sharp-eyed and unfazed, gave a small smile. "Morning, Mr. Derulo. What can I help you with?" Her voice was smooth, composed—she was clearly a person who needed coffee before speaking.
"I came to ask if there's a map available. One that could guide me to the settlement up north." His words were clear and direct.
She raised a brow, then closed her eyes for a brief second, perhaps sorting through mental files. "There is," she said, nodding slowly. "But it's not for free."
Without another word, she stood and walked toward the tallest shelf. Reaching up, she retrieved a flat cardboard file buried among stacks of clutter and carried it over. With practiced ease, she unfolded the sheet across the desk, revealing a richly detailed map of post-Rapture Africa.
Damian stepped closer, eyes tracing the lines and markings. Settlements were categorized in three colors—green, blue, and red. The majority were red, warnings of danger or ruin. A scattered few were blue, marked as neutral or safe zones, and fewer still were green—likely military outposts or advanced shelters.
She pointed to one near the Angola border shared with Zambia. A green dot, surrounded by terrain lines and annotations, bore the label:
[Fort Nyoka]
Before Damian could digest the information, she folded the map sharply and looked him dead in the eye.
He blinked, then reached into his duffle bag and pulled out a glimmering, prismatic crystal. "Is this enough?"
The woman's expression changed instantly. Her pupils widened, and her breath hitched as she gently took the crystal from him. As her fingers made contact, a translucent blue screen blinked into existence before her:
//
____________________________________
[ Relic Identified ]
---
Name : Oblivion Shard [Lesser Grade]
Type : Currency / Energy Core.
Rarity : Uncommon.
Uses : ???
▸ Emits residual void energy—often used as universal currency within ???.
▸ Can be consumed by specific altars, systems, or beings to awaken dormant power.
▸ Unknown reaction when gathered in higher quality and quantities.
_____________________________________
//
She stared at the display as if struggling to believe it. Then, lowering the shard slowly, she looked at Damian, urgency now bleeding through her composed tone.
Sector Manager "Where did you get this?" she asked, tone laced with both awe and urgency.
Damian's eyes narrowed behind his Hollow Veil mask. "Is that important?"
"Yes," she replied firmly.
He hesitated before answering. "…From a dungeon."
Her breath caught, just briefly, before her eyes glimmered with something more than curiosity—excitement, maybe even envy.
"Were there more?" she asked quickly, though she caught herself from asking the obvious follow-up: Where? She knew Fort Sentinel's own dungeon was of a rare classification—and if Damian had accessed something more...
Damian deflected again. "Will that be enough for the map?"
She looked at the shard once more, as though holding a diamond plucked from the void.
"It's more than enough, actually," she said, tone still measured. Her eyes briefly flicked toward the duffle bag on his back, instinctively weighing what else he might be carrying.
Damian noticed and shifted the strap slightly. He took the folded map from her hand.
"Mr. Derulo, do you have any idea what this is?" she asked again, gripping his arm.
He paused, debating what to say, he only knew what the system said it was. "...No, What is it?"
"This is a Lesser grade Oblivion Shard," she said, holding it up like a relic. "Until now, only Lower grade ones have ever been seen, this one's a tier above... and much, much rarer."
She met his gaze. "My advice? Don't show this to anyone else. Not unless you know exactly what you're doing."
Damian nodded.
"Noted. If I come across more, I'll remember your advice."
With that, he turned and exited.
"Have a good day, Mr. Derulo," she said, eyes never leaving him until the door shut behind him.
---
Outside, Damian walked through the steel corridors of Fort Sentinel with a heavy feeling in his gut. He passed a squad of heavily armed soldiers—most wore tactical gear, others adorned with exosuit plating. A few beastkin hybrids mingled in, One of them, a lion-headed warrior, nodded at him silently.
Damian kept walking, head low, mind racing.
'I have such a bad feeling… ,' he thought.
Minutes later, he arrived at a crossroad within the bunker—two paths diverging into different wings. He stopped and leaned back against the wall. The chill of the concrete pressed through his still-damp clothes.
"Now what do I do?" he muttered under his breath. "Back to that weird, tension-filled room?" he scoffed under his breath. "No thanks."
He reached for his duffle bag and brought it around to the front, unzipping it slowly. Sitting neatly at the top was the map—its folds still clean, its paper surprisingly delicate.
"I need a copy of this," he mumbled, frustration simmering. "Would've taken a picture if my phone wasn't busted…"
His hand instinctively reached into his pocket and closed around the broken device. The cold, familiar disappointment of a dead, broken phone greeted him, the screen was cracked beyond repair.
Then, an idea lit up in his mind.
"That's it." He stood straighter, determination flaring behind his tired eyes. "I'll use this downtime to fix my phone."
With renewed purpose, he zipped the bag shut and headed for the main exit of the bunker, the map secured, a shard has used to get it, and now the weight of something bigger was gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.
Something was up ahead in the horizon.
--
Location: Johannesburg - Fort Sentinel - Main Entrance.
POV: Third Person.
Time: 9:41 AM.
--
The main entrance of Fort Sentinel loomed before Damian like the mouth of some slumbering titan. It wasn't just a gate—it was a behemoth of reinforced steel and unspoken authority, a towering barrier that exuded both power and finality. Yesterday, he had only seen it from afar, half-obscured by the dust and the chaos of the fort's perimeter. But now, standing right before it, he realized that the previous gate he had once passed through during his first entrance into Fort sentinel had been nothing but a child's toy in comparison.
This one was a true monster of a construct—at least six inches thick at its thinnest point, with grooves and seams that looked capable of crushing bone should it ever close on a person. Pulsating cyan runes—glowing softly but ominously—were etched across the steel surface in a language that resembled Chinese, though the script seemed altered, twisted, written in a way that one could almost read it in English if they tilted their head and squinted just right. It was bizarre… otherworldly.
The gate radiated energy, or something like it. Power hummed just beneath its cold metal skin, resonating with whatever arcane force had been poured into the rune-inscriptions. Damian could feel it. Everyone could. It was a warning, a challenge, and a promise all in one. This was a place you entered only if you belonged—or dared to.
And yet, despite the grand architecture, the scene playing out before it was a relatively mundane one—mundane, but laced with tension.
"Sir, please cooperate. Open your bag so I can check the contents within it," said the young soldier posted at the checkpoint, standing straight but speaking respectfully. He was moderately armed—standard issue rifle slung over his back—but what stood out was the thick, official-looking ledger he held in one hand and a sturdy pen in the other.
Damian eyed him calmly on the outside. Inside? His thoughts were sprinting.
"Is that a regulation I must follow?" Damian asked, tone measured. Cool. Unbothered.
The soldier didn't flinch. "No, sir. But as you must know, it's protocol that Fort Sentinel takes ten percent of any goods brought in, whether by an individual or a group. If I don't check your items now, then upon your return, ten percent will be deducted from everything—even the items you originally had with you."
His voice was polite, even patient, but his eyes watched Damian with subtle calculation.
Damian already knew this, of course. He wasn't stupid. But the reason for his hesitation was far from about fairness or compliance—it was about what was inside his bag.
Oblivion Shards.
Multiple ones.
And if the reaction from the Administrator earlier was anything to go by, then revealing that he had not just one, but nearly thirty… well, let's just say they wouldn't be "confiscated." They'd be seized, dissected, and locked away in vaults so deep even daylight would forget them.
And Damian? He'd be lucky to leave with his limbs still attached.
So, he inhaled slowly, clenching his jaw, and braced himself for whatever was coming.
Then, with deliberate calm, he unslung his duffle bag, unzipped it, and placed it on the ground. He didn't pour the contents out. Just left it open.
The soldier crouched, professional and precise, lifting each item gently, studying, noting, writing. No fumbling. No guesswork. Just quiet, dutiful inspection.
And he wrote everything.
..
N0: 632.
Date: 1/04/2026.
Time: 9:44 AM.
Name: Damian Derulo.
Appearance: Tall, light skinned, Black hair and eyes. Left forearm wrapped with a white cloth, wearing a strapless silver streaked mask, a white shirt, black pants and white sneakers.
..
Contents:
1 Sword.
1 Phone.
1 Map.
Torn hospital gown.
29 Similar crystals.
1 Unique crystal.
1 Powerbank.
1 Headphone.
1 USB cord.
..
Once done, the soldier tore off a corner of the page, scribbled N0 632 on it, and handed it over to Damian while zipping the duffle closed again.
"Alright, sir. You can go," he said simply, stepping back.
"He's clear," the soldier added, nodding to his partner who stood by a small pedestrian-sized segment of the massive gate.
The second soldier stepped forward and pulled open the people-sized door—a metal flap built into the behemoth that looked like it belonged on a nuclear bunker.
As Damian stepped through, he heard a low murmur behind him:
"I hope to see you again."
Damian turned, briefly meeting the soldier's gaze. He gave a curt nod.
Then the door slammed shut behind him, with a weighty clang that echoed like a judge's gavel.
And it was only then, as he stood outside, that Damian realized he'd been holding his breath the entire time.
"…Well. That went better than expected," he muttered, shaking off the adrenaline. "Maybe I should have more faith in people."
But a second later, he snorted under his breath.
"Yeah, right… like that'd ever happen."
The idea of him—Damian Derulo—trusting people? That was fantasy. Tall Tale-worthy.
And yet, as he walked away from Fort Sentinel, a part of him couldn't help but wonder… just maybe, he might change, eventually.
.
.
.
.
.
.
To Be Continued...