"If you're afraid - don't do it, - if you're doing it - don't be afraid!"
- Genghis Khan (1162-1227 CE).
It was a world that was partly terror, there were piles of meat everywhere, angry demonic gods and other terrible things but other parts of the world looked normal, beautiful forests etc. He doesn't look at it, doesn't think like one, and if he caught a whiff of a human heart beating nearby, he'd probably rip it out before you could finish blinking. Born with a single, glowing eye and rows of serrated teeth packed into a gaping jaw, Faribus was a true son of the Wound. The Wound — that's the Demon Realm, if you're feeling fancy. It's less a world and more a never-healing gash torn into the fabric of reality itself. Constant storms of ash and raw magic carve the skies. Flesh-colored plains stretch endlessly, dotted by towering citadels built from bone, sinew, and dark steel. Life here thrives on brutality and cleverness. Faribus attends Sanctum Maledictus, the top-tier Demonic University, funded and overseen by the Holy Catholic (Universal) Demon Church — a perverse mirror of other faiths. In the Wound, "holiness" means supreme dominance over lesser beings, particularly mortals and especially humans. Worship isn't about love; it's about enforcing obedience through terror and miracles fueled by soul energy. Faribus was not human. He didn't look at it, he doesn't think like one, and if he caught a whiff of a human heart beating nearby, he'd probably rip it out before you could finish blinking. Born with a single, glowering eye and rows of serrated teeth packed into a gaping jaw, Faribus is a true son of the Wound. Human beings are cargo in this world (e.g. the Wound or the Void). They're bred in pens, traded like cattle, and auctioned off at Flesh Markets. High-grade humans — unspoiled, defiant ones — fetch the best prices because their fear and pain produce the richest "soul wine." Humans are food, playthings, and ritual fuel. Their suffering is an industry. Demons take part in murders, slaughter, rapes, etc. of human beings. Demonic culture venerates cunning and cruelty. Beauty is measured by one's ability to warp the world around them to their will. Mercy is considered a sin; it's actually a cardinal sin; compassion, a mental illness. Success means subjugating others or building something so dangerous no one dares challenge you.
The Holy Catholic Demon Church preaches "Sacrosanct Predation" — the belief that devouring weaker beings is a sacred act, ordained by the Primordials (ancient abyssal gods). Ritual cannibalism, soul-forging, slaughter, incense, charity, good works, and pilgrimages are holy ceremonies. There are many similarities to Alien religions like the religion of the Arcturians (a mystical blue-skinned Alien race), as well as similarities of the religions of humans like those from Tibetan Buddhism, Eastern Orthodox Christianity, the Roman Catholic Church, Sunni Islam, Shia Islam, Zoroastrianism, European Paganism, Taoism, Jainism, Mutazilite Islam, Sikhism, Ancient-Greek Polytheism, Samaritanism, Judaism, Nestorian Christianity, Manichaeism, Ash'arism i.e. the Ash'ari school of Kalam in Islam, Sufism, Japanese Buddhism, Shinto, the faith of the Druids, Hinduism, etc. as well as different ideologies like Neo-Platonism, Confucianism, Hermeticism, Capitalism, Communism and Fascism. Demonic priests (" known as Confessors") often double as warlords, and mass "Communions" can wipe out entire human settlements in a single feast. There is an ancient philosophical tradition of divine inquiry known as Tatarian Kalam - or the speech of the Divine or the Speech of the Gods. Different factions of the Church either follow a Monotheistic branch of the Demonic religion or a Polytheistic branch of the Demonic religion these two major branches or schools are practiced by the common people or the common demons and in some regions are at odds while in others co-exist in harmony, but the elite of the Church and the society practice a form of Autotheism, the belief that one can become a god or a god-like being themself. There are many different ideologies practiced by the Demons of the Wound. There are three prevailing schools of thought: 1). Dominism: the belief that might make right. The Rule of the strong is just. And strength is truth. 2). Soul Aesthetics - An ideal often Atheistic and thus considered heterodox to the Church that believes a demon's worth is measured by their ability to corrupt other living beings or to benefit other demons in a positive selfless way. And finally the 3). Anti-Entropy Doctrine - the belief that since the Wound or the Void exists in defiance of natural law, maintaining and expanding its chaos is a divine duty.
There are several treaties with non-demonic races that live in or are adjacent to the Void though the number of treaties are rare. They include: 1). the Saurian Hegemonies (a treaty signed between the Demons of the Void and the ancient reptilian warlords beyond the Void's borders), 2). the Coven of Broken Stars (a treaty signed with a collective of magical wood-elves), 3). and the Clockwork Accord - (a treaty signed with a race of mechanical entities that trade tech for living batteries, i.e. in the case of demons they buy human flesh from the demons and add it to their machinery). Of course, demons rarely keep treaties. They often just buy time until betrayal is profitable for them.
Demons or more specifically the demons of the Void are magi-technologists. They fuse spellcraft with machinery: siege engines powered by bottled souls, self-replicating plagues stitched together in alchemical labs, and communication arrays that broadcast psychic terror over entire continents and dimensions. Faribus, like most young demons, is expected to master both disciplines. At Sanctum Maledictus, his coursework includes Flesh Weaving (genetic manipulation by claw and magic), Advanced Curses, and Mortal Economics (how to best "harvest" humans for maximum spiritual yield). Faribus dreams of one day becoming a Confessor himself, leading crusades into mortal realms, dragging back whole populations to feed the endless hunger of the Wound. For Faribus, hunger isn't personal; it's cultural. It's sacred. It's survival. It's everything for him, but that's all about to change.
Faribus is a contradiction wrapped in blood-soaked ambition and raw intellect. In a world where brutality is law and cruelty is currency, he stands out not because he's kinder or gentler — he's not — but because he asks why. He's curious in a place that punishes curiosity unless it produces power. He pokes at boundaries others fear to even name, not out of rebellion, but because he genuinely wants to understand. Faribus doesn't question the way of the Wound to tear it down — at least not yet — but to perfect it. Why does soul wine ferment best with fear? Why do certain curses unravel under specific lunar alignments? Why do humans pray, even when their gods never answer? These are the kinds of things that keep him up during the Wound's sleepless nights, while the sky splits and moans outside his dormitory window. He has a scholar's mind hidden behind a predator's face. That single, blazing eye of his isn't just for intimidation — it's always scanning, calculating, analyzing. Faribus doesn't take things at face value, which makes him dangerous in a different way than his peers. They destroy because they can. He destroys to see what happens next. At Sanctum Maledictus, where most students aim to dominate, enslave, or consume their way to the top, Faribus dissects theology, experiments with heretical soul-engineering methods, and occasionally debates visiting Arch Priests in long-forbidden dialects of the Tatarian Kalam. He treats philosophy the same way he treats mortals: something to be stripped down, dissected, and understood — if only to figure out how to use it better. And yet, that spark — that insatiable need to know — might be his undoing. Because you can't ask questions forever without eventually running into an answer that changes you.
On another day of school the demon student Farabius is speaking to his longtime female friend Zelanius in the school library. Zelanius smirked: "Tch. You're always brooding up here like some tragic anti-hero. What is it this time, One-Eye? Another soul theory rattling around your skull?" Farabius laughed: "Do you know why every demon seeks to become god? Do you ever wonder why the gods need us to eat them?" said Farabius. Zelanius blinked quickly: "You're asking why the sky is made of screams and meat? That's rich." Farabius laughed: "Wow your ambitions are boundless. I'm glad I asked you such a question. But in truth it shows your limited intelligence, for to ask such a question is to answer." Zelanius got annoyed shouting: "What was that?!" Farabius responded: "It's not enough to follow the old rites. Anyone can chant and slaughter. But understanding... That is power. Theology is just warfare disguised as worship. And I want to master both. Every demon has dreamt about becoming god for trillions of years, but I will become the first." Zelanius grew angrier: "There it is! The Scholar of Slaughter speaks! You sound like one of those heretics from the Soul Aesthetics clubs. Want me to report to you?" Farabius began to laugh out loud: "It's only heresy for the peons, for the elites it's orthodoxy, and that's what I want to be. The first step is to join the ruling class." Zelanius was intrigued: "Alright go on, you've won my attention." Farabius laughed again: "Autotheism, the right of the gods is the passion of all the elite of demonkind. The Mozaku and all of the Demon Clan thrive on achieving such a thing, such an honor. It's a long and winding road, in truth it will take me millions of years but at the end of it I will become the master of all creation." Zelanius was taken aback: "You're serious. You're actually trying to think your way to godhood. You're either a genius... or suicidal." Once again Farabius laughed: "In the Wound, there's no difference. There are only the victors and the fallen."
Meanwhile back in the Citadel, Hermes was going shopping with the other girls and the three boys, it was Hermes, Mark, Nelly, Kazan, Yadala, Mamara and Ebisu. Lupus was escorting all of them. "Dammit. I can't believe it, that Prophet, that child she's no more than 22 years old, she's become stronger than I am. How is that possible?! I must find a way to restore my honor. My honor has been stripped from me, if I continue to go through I will not have enough value to live." Mark asked Hermes a question: "So how on earth do you keep getting so freaking strong, honestly it's insane, I know I'm your partner and everything but you're starting to become my idol." Hermes began to blush: "I don't know if I deserve that." Nelly smiled and glibbly said: "Yeah that's Hermes for you. I haven't known her for long, but she's as strong as it gets. She can be kinda cold I guess, but she's a sweetheart at her core," said Nelly. Hermes got annoyed: "I'm cold, Nelly I'll remind you I'm standing right here! I didn't have to be nice to your younger sister at the tower!" Ebisu laughed: "Wow you get flustered don't ya. You should have a goal you know besides just being a Prophet and all." Yadala said: "I've never asked this to you before but what's your goal Ebisu?" Ebisu smiled innocently with his eyes closed and his hands behind his head: "I want to rule over the clouds, to become King of the Gods, but a noble king not a tyrant who rules through divine justice." Kazan, slightly annoyed, said: "Tch. All this chatter about strength and dreams. If talking made you strong, half this city would be gods already." Mark laughed: "You sound just like your father." Mamara laughed: "Aw, don't be a buzzkill, Kazan! Some of us are allowed to dream, you know. Even if your dream is just to scowl your way into legend." "But what is it you're fighting for, Hermes? You've never actually said." The group was walking through a market as the background faded like a muffled drumbeat. Hermes turned to face them, her eyes were striking. "I don't know what I'm fighting for honestly. I've been wondering about that for a while." Everyone sighed but Ebisu jumped in: "You should be fighting to make me the king of the gods." Everyone laughed except for Lupus who thought to himself: "I must grow stronger, there must be a way to grow even stronger."
The group walked past a stall dripping with dyed silks, the fabric catching the sun in waves of crimson and gold. The air had that late-day warmth that made the stone paths radiate underfoot, and for a moment, things slowed—like even the market was taking a breath. "Look at this." Nelly held up a swatch of cloth to the light, letting it catch the sun. "This'd make a great cloak. Hermes, you'd look deadly in red." Hermes raised a brow, but said nothing. Kazan muttered, "She already looks deadly. Red would just be showing off." "Right?" Nelly grinned, elbowing him lightly. "Finally, something we agree on." As they moved on, Mark lingered behind, fiddling with a silver pendant he'd picked up off a merchant's tray. It was shaped like a feather wrapped in a ring of fire. He glanced at Hermes again, his usual smirk softening. She walked like someone used to moving ahead of the group—shoulders tense, head up, always looking, scanning, calculating. Like relaxing might mean missing something important. "Hey," Mark said, catching up again. "That thing you said back there... about not knowing. That's okay, you know? You don't have to have a noble reason to fight. Sometimes you just have to move until the reason finds you."
Hermes looked at him, really looked this time. "You're not as much of an idiot as you act." Mark grinned. "Don't ruin my image." Meanwhile, at the back, Lupus trailed further behind. He stopped briefly at a booth selling old relics and talismans, pretending to browse. His eyes flicked over each item like they might whisper secrets if he stared hard enough. An old woman at the stall caught his gaze. Her eyes were clouded, but sharp beneath. "You're looking for a shortcut," she said without prompting. "But power without direction is just fire without a hearth." He blinked. "What did you say?" But she had already turned away, muttering to herself, arranging her trinkets. Lupus stood there a beat longer before following the others. Up ahead, Ebisu was juggling apples now, chatting with a kid selling honey sticks. "I'm just saying," he told the boy, "if I had a flying lion, half of these fights would be over before they started."
"Do you have a flying lion?" the kid asked, eyes wide. Ebisu leaned in conspiratorially. "Not yet." Mamara rolled her eyes and slipped the kid a coin, taking a honey stick for herself. "He's been saying that for a year. Still walks everywhere." "Yeah, well," Ebisu said, pointing a finger in the air dramatically, "destiny takes time. And flair!" Yadala, quiet till now, ran her fingers along a hanging charm carved with runes. "You all talk like you know where you're going. I wonder if any of us do." "Nope," said Kazan flatly. "But if we're gonna wander, might as well do it together." The group kept moving, the laughter fading but the warmth lingering. And though no one said it, each one felt it: they weren't just traveling together. They were starting to belong to something. Something bigger than a quest or a cause. Even Hermes, who kept her gaze ahead but let the silence sit with her a little longer this time. Would you like to keep the story grounded in this market-day vibe, or shift to a conflict or twist next?
Later Lupus returned to the old woman, "what did you mean woman?! What did you mean by obtaining a short-cut?" The old woman took a deep breath: "There exists to the north or northeast of the Citadel a large tower, its unclear but near the base of it or somewhere else possibly at the top of it there is something called the Philosopher's Stone. Once the Philosopher Stone has been wished on several times when found, the being inside can make someone incredibly strong and though very powerful and can be used anytime, what you desire can only be done once every 1,000 years." Lupus growled: "I have no time for your games woman what happens every 1,000 years?" The woman replied: "Every 1,000 years a person may make one wish on the Philosopher's Stone a creature with a giant eye and black essence will come out and like a Genie grant anywish the great possible wish it can grant is make someone the most powerful being in the universe." Lupus staggered and stepped back: "What did you say?" The old woman took a deep breath: "Did I stutter?! Look I am a mage, that's how I knew what you were thinking. I have no interest in such desires, once you're the strongest you will have finally reached your place at the top of the totem pole. I'm merely being a good Samaritan." Lupus was over the moon: "Finally, as soon as I get to the tower I can find this stone and kill all of these fools including this so-called Prophet, I'll spare my daughter, I can't kill her but what's she going to do to stop me pout, I'll be the strongest in the cosmos. Nothing will be a threat. The others will pay for the humiliation they put me through. Yes I started a family in their world, yes I have worked as one of their allies, but if these fools thought I was one of their naive friends they're sorely mistaken. All of you, you're going to pray. The emperor and God of the universe has returned." The old woman didn't even flinch. She just went back to polishing a small brass mirror, her gnarled fingers working with the steady rhythm of someone who'd seen too many like him before.
"You'll find the tower eventually," she muttered. "You seem the type. Just remember—power never comes without debt. Even gods owe someone." But Lupus was already gone. Back at the Citadel, the golden haze of evening was deepening into twilight. The group had wandered into one of the quieter parts of the market—an open plaza near the outer ring, where vendors were closing up and music drifted in from a nearby tavern. Hermes leaned against a stone railing, overlooking the lower city. "Do you ever think," she said quietly, mostly to herself, "what would it take to just stop?" Mark, chewing on the end of a honey stick, stepped beside her. "You mean stop fighting?" She gave a half-nod. He considered. "Honestly, no. Not for long. I think people like us… we keep moving because the minute we stop, everything catches up." She didn't respond, just stared down at the flickering lanterns below. But something in her posture softened. Behind them, Mamara and Yadala sat cross-legged near a fountain, comparing the runes on their charms. Kazan stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching nothing in particular but always scanning. Nelly was bartering with a vendor still stubbornly open, and Ebisu was sketching something into the dust with a stick—some symbol no one recognized.
Then something cracked in the air. A low pulse, like thunder—but not from the sky. Hermes' head snapped up. Everyone paused. "What the hell was that?" Kazan asked, straightening. Lupus appeared, walking slowly toward them from the far end of the plaza. His cloak was damp with sweat, his eyes unfocused. But his stride was calm, even, like he'd just made peace with something. Hermes tensed immediately. "Where were you?" Lupus didn't answer right away. His eyes passed over each of them—Ebisu, Mark, Yadala, Mamara, Nelly… then finally to Hermes. "There are things moving in the north," he said. "Things I need to deal with." "Alone?" Mark asked, frowning. "Alone," Lupus repeated. "Some roads can't be walked with company." "You're not making sense," Nelly said. "What roads?" But Lupus was already turning away, the pulse of strange thunder still echoing in the air like a distant drum. Hermes didn't move. She just watched him go, the unease in her chest settling deeper. Lupus had received a map from a local merchant included on the map was the Myriad Tower of Mirrors, "Yes it shouldn't take that long to reach it by flight, and soon I will receive ultimate power."
But little did Lupus know Hermes was already headed in that direction; the Architect had already informed her the tower was the only way to reach the Emerald Green World. But there was more the Architect had told Hermes something else: "the Demon King has 4 Guardians, they are the four dragon gods, the Fire Dragon, the Earth Dragon, the Water Dragon, and the Wind Dragon." Hermes was intrigued, "they're gods?" Ungar butted in: "They're immortal, but they can be defeated, if you defeat them in battle they'll give you an ounce of their 'Qadar' or power, this will make killing the Demon King much easier, although the Demon King can be killed and the Dragon Gods cannot die of old age or by being killed they still are far weaker than he is, and thus every ounce of power will be necessary to defeat this beast, before the Archon can kill him and Ebisu and change the course of history." Hermes smirked: "Is that all, just defeat four dragon gods, no problem."
Ungar didn't laugh. He just stared out toward the northern sky, where clouds hung unnaturally still. "Don't underestimate them," he said. "Each guards a fragment of reality. Fire watches over Time. Earth over Memory. Water over Emotion. And Wind… Wind hides the Path. You fight them, you don't just risk your life. You risk who you are." Hermes looked at him for a long moment, then turned back to the plaza where the others had begun gathering. Ebisu was still sketching—only now, his symbol had grown into a full circle of runes, and the dust shimmered faintly. "What are you drawing?" Yadala asked, kneeling beside him. "Not sure yet," he said. "It came to me when that sound hit. Like it was already in my head." He glanced at her, eyes uncertain. "It feels… old." Kazan stepped closer. "Is it a ward? A sigil?" Ebisu shook his head. "It's not meant to keep anything out. It's a gate." At that, Hermes stiffened. "A gate to what?" Before he could answer, the air around the circle twisted, just slightly—like heat rising from stone. Mark dropped the honey stick. "Okay. What the hell is happening now?" A soft breeze picked up. Then a whisper. Not in any one voice, but many, overlapping—some in tongues they didn't know, others that curled like memories at the edges of their minds. The runes flared once, then went dark. "Someone just opened a window," Mamara said. "We should close it." "It's too late," Yadala murmured. "Something already saw us."
Hermes cursed under her breath and turned to Kazan. We can let the Archon have any more time we need to finish this quest as soon as possible. "They won't," Kazan said. "We'll beat it there." "You're not coming," Hermes said. "The hell I'm not." "This isn't just a fight. It's a reckoning. And some of you—" she hesitated, "some of you won't come back from this." Ebisu stood, brushing dust from his coat. "None of us ever do. Not the same, anyway." Hermes gave a tight nod. "Then we leave tonight. Those who stay, stay. But if you're coming, pack light. We go north. And we don't stop." The Architect continued: "If you go down to the Train Station at the Citadel it will take you all the way to the Kingdom of Asus, that's in the crystalline Ocean realm, the abode of the Water Dragon, if you took the roads it would take you over a month to reach there, but with the train it should only take a few days at most to reach the Water Dragon's abode." Hermes nodded: "Thank you so much, you've been an incredible help. Welp I guess we'll head out tomorrow." Shortly after that they entered the marketplace and they met a fleeing Lupas though they didn't know what he desired. The following days our heroes boarded the train. Talus grimace: "This is the life. Do they cater food on this train." Ungar nodded: "The Architect gave us a cabin in first class, they cater all meals." Ebisu smiled and giggled like a monkey: "Oh boy! I can't wait to dig in!" Three days into their journey, the train was deep within the stormlit ravines of the Sapphire Range. Thunder rolled like distant war drums, and a gray mist curled around the mountains as if trying to choke the sun. Inside their cabin, the group sat in tense silence, the air thick with anticipation.
Suddenly—CRACK! A tremor jolted the train. Lights flickered. The cabin pitched left, then right. Outside, a screeching howl sliced through the mountain wind. Kazan stood first, eyes narrowing. "That's not a landslide," he muttered. Hermes was already on her feet, hand at her blade.
"No. That's something riding the storm." They burst out of the cabin, racing toward the roof ladder. Nelly shouted after them, "What about a plan?!" Hermes didn't stop. "Kill whatever's on the roof. That's the plan." "Some plan," Talus sarcastically remarked.
TOP OF THE TRAIN – NIGHTFALL
The roof was slick with rain. Mist streaked past them as the train tore through the mountain pass. Then, through the haze— They saw them. Four figures. Gaunt, jagged, wrong. Claws like broken glass. Eyes like hollow lanterns. They stood on the roof like they belonged there—Demons, but not just any. Ebisu, climbing up behind them, gasped. "Those are the Kōrai. Spirits that serve the Water Dragon. Dream-feeders. Memory-eaters." Mamara's hands flared with green light. "They shouldn't be this far inland, I read about them when I was at the University." Hermes didn't wait for more lore. "Move!" She launched forward—blades flashing. The first Kōrai lunged, its face splitting into a scream that shattered the rain around them. She met it mid-leap, sword biting deep into its ribcage. But instead of blood, mist poured out. The creature grinned, unphased. Mark leapt to her side, driving a lance of fire from his palm into the beast's skull. This made it howl. "They hate fire!" he yelled. "Then burn them all!" Kazan roared, launching a flurry of red talismans. Explosions lit the night, painting the rain in violent orange flashes. Another demon skittered behind Ebisu. Yadala shouted a warning—too late. It lunged— CLANG! Talus's claws caught it mid-air, sending it flying. "Nobody touches the boy!" Ebisu squeaked. "Not helping, Talus! I'm not a boy." Behind them, the fourth demon raised its arms. The mist surged like a wave—not fog, but stolen dreams—memories sucked from the air. Hermes faltered, visions of the Citadel flooding her head. Daniel's last words to Talus. Mark's fire. The Architect's warning. Everything slowed. Ungar stepped forward, eyes glowing silver instead of the normal red. "Enough." He slammed his fist into the roof. A pulse of sheer will ripped through the mist—shattering the illusion, exposing the demon's core. Hermes didn't hesitate. She surged forward and— SLICE. One stroke. The creature evaporated into steam. The others followed suit—Mark and Talus combining flame and brute strength to melt another. Kazan caught one in a snare circle, and Mamara flooded it with pure rune-light until it shrieked and exploded. Only one remained—torn, desperate. It darted toward the conductor's car. "Not happening," Hermes said. She blurred forward, moving faster than sight. One final flash of steel— Silence. The demon fell.
The train sped on through the night. Below deck, the passengers had barely realized what happened. The heroes regrouped near the roof hatch, soaked and steaming in the cold. "Well," Talus panted, "That woke me up." Hermes looked to the mountains. The mists had cleared. Stars were visible again. "They were scouts," she said. Ebisu nodded grimly. "Testing us. Seeing who we are. If we're worthy of the Water Dragon." "And?" Mamara asked. Hermes sheathed her blades. "Let's make sure we give them a better answer next time." The train roared forward into the night—toward Asus, toward the Water Dragon, and toward whatever came next.
Back in the Wound, things we're going to take an interesting turn. Zelanius scoffed, arms folded, tail twitching. "So, One-Eye, what's next? You plan to philosophize your way into the inner sanctums of the Mozaku? You'll need more than metaphysics and ambition." But before Farabius could respond with another sharpened quip, the air in the room changed. It stilled. The usual chorus of wailing books and psychic static dissolved into silence. A figure emerged from between the rows of soul-bound tomes. His flesh was stitched and scorched, blackened as if scorched by holy fire, yet somehow alive. His horns were cracked, sigils of exile etched along his spine in glowing red ink. His voice was like gravel soaked in blood: "You two. If you want to live... follow me." Zelanius' eyes narrowed. "Another lunatic rebel? We should report him to the Confessors." But Farabius didn't speak. He studied the intruder's movements, the tremble of agony hidden beneath defiance. This wasn't a rogue. This was someone with truth.
"Who are you?" Farabius asked. The demon rebel stepped closer, revealing a shattered ecclesiastical collar — a former priest of the Church. His grin was jagged, hollow. "Name's Seregrin. I was a Confessor once. A faithful devourer. Until I learned what we really are." Zelanius spat. "Oh let me guess — more heretical whining about demonkind's 'true purpose'?" Seregrin raised a hand, and a projection of seething, squirming memory burst forth — a soul echo. Scenes flickered: writhing masses of weak-born demons herded like cattle into cathedrals. High Priests with golden masks feasting upon them during secret "Celestial Masses." Not just cannibalism — refinement. The elite filtered their vitality, extended their lives with sacramental slaughter. "They call it Sacrosanct Predation, but it's a lie. The elites say we feed on humans to honor the Primordials. But when supply runs low, they turn on us — the lowborn, the unremarkable. To them, we're meat too. We always were." Farabius stared, silent. Something clicked. "And you two?" Seregrin added. "You're next. I've seen the lists. You scored too high. The elite fear curiosity like yours — it's combustible. Dangerous. They'll devour you, not now, but soon. The feast has already been scheduled. You're to be 'consecrated' next cycle."
Zelanius paled. "Then what?" Farabius asked. "You want us to run?" "Not run. Escape. Outside the Wound. There's more out there than void and chaos. I've made contact with outsiders. There's a Prophet — hidden, scattered across timelines — a being fated to tear the elite apart and end their reign." Farabius raised an eyebrow. "You're saying this Prophet… will destroy the entire Church?" "In time. If we find them. It could take centuries. Maybe more. But you'll be free. And if the Prophet fulfills the prophecy... so will all of demonkind." Farabius' eye flared. A quiet grin slid across his face. He looked to Zelanius. "You wanted to know how I planned to think my way to godhood?" he said softly. "This... this is it. We won't just escape. We'll ride the prophecy to the top. The Prophet may be their end — but to me... they're the key." Zelanius hesitated, then clenched her fists. "You're insane." "No," Farabius said. "I'm strategic." He turned to Seregrin. "We'll go with you. But know this — I don't follow prophecies. I use them."
The sky above the Wound groaned like a tortured throat, split open with meat-colored stars. Beneath that nightmarish canopy, Seregrin led Farabius and Zelanius through winding service tunnels beneath the academy — ancient passages older than the Church itself, lined with dead glyphs and forbidden dialects. They stopped before a circular stone embedded with a thousand screaming faces. Seregrin slit his palm, letting his blood pour over the seal. It hissed as if waking from a coma. "This gate predates the Primordial Concords. Older than the Faith. It leads beyond the Wound. A fragment of space left untouched by Sacrosanct Law." Zelanius hesitated. "You mean… it's not under any Dominion?" "No Immortals, No Sages, No Demons, No spirits or nymphs, No gods, No aliens. No rules. Just freedom — and exile," said Seregrin. With a thunderous crack, the portal unfurled like an eye opening sideways — a vertical spiral of entropy, colorless and violent. They stepped through.
A Confessor loomed in the darkness, draped in robes woven from sorrow and tendon. His mask, gold and bone, bore the serene expression of divine hunger. He traced a claw across the pages of a floating tome: Farabius. Zelanius. Gone. "Impossible," he whispered. "All portals are surveilled. All energy signatures tagged." He summoned a host of Augurs, faceless prophets stitched to mechanical thrones. They wailed and bled, churning visions into the air — but no trace emerged. Only static. Silence. Another Confessor entered, eyes glowing with controlled madness. "The One-Eyed Scholar has vanished. Zelanius too." "Find them," the High Confessor said, voice calm as knives. "They have touched something outside our jurisdiction. This is… unacceptable. If they've gone beyond the Wound, then we have a crisis." The priest said: "One of our weaker soldiers will have to follow them as you know we can't leave the wound. Fuck me. If only we could deal with them. Damnit all. Those creatures are far more powerful than the common soldiers, the path ahead is so unclear."
[The Riftlands — Outside the Wound]
The portal spat them into a dimension that didn't obey physics — or magic. They landed on floating plates of rock, adrift in an endless twilight. Stars blinked below instead of above. Great tree-like machines grew from clouds. Rivers ran in reverse. There were cities made of memory, and beasts that fed on causality itself. The Riftlands — an extradimensional refuge known only to a dying few. Seregrin limped ahead, his aura fraying under the weight of betrayal and exile. "This place was once a prison for gods that refused obedience. Now it's a sanctuary for heretics, broken machines, rogue angels, failed demons… and now, you." Farabius stared out at the horizon: a shattered cathedral floating upside-down, chained to a black sun. He whispered: "This place… is perfect." Zelanius knelt to the ground, feeling it pulse beneath her. "How does this place exist without collapsing?" "It was built on a paradox. Preserved by belief. Maintained by fugitives like us." Farabius turned to Seregrin. "And the Prophet?" Seregrin looked at him grimly. "They are scattered — fragmented across time, reality, and dream. They don't know who they are yet sometimes they never know the ones who do don't know until much later in their life normally. They don't know what they'll become. But the prophecy says that when the Wound grows too gluttonous, when it begins devouring even itself… the Prophet will awaken." Farabius smirked. "Then we'll find them first. Nurture them. Guide them. And when the moment comes…" Zelanius finished the thought. "We'll be standing right behind them — with a knife or a crown." Seregrin shook his head in a negative which shocked the other two: "The prophet at this point the one who's prophecized to destroy the demon elite knows exactly who she is, everything has already been establish for her, you can't pull the wool over her eyes." Farabius was frustrated but stated: "Even still, I'll find another way. It's my birthright we're talking about after all."