At first, the picture on the live broadcast seemed ordinary.
A quiet town stretched out under the pale light, lined with modest shops and gas stations. Inside a convenience store, the cashier smiled politely as she handed a plastic bag to a customer. It was the kind of normal, mundane scene that made people lower their guard.
But in the very next heartbeat, normality shattered.
A thunderous bang ripped through the shopfront. The windows burst apart, glass raining down in glittering shards. The cashier froze, her plastic bag dangling in the air. The customer blinked in confusion. Neither of them had time to react before the horror came.
Something squeezed through the broken window.
It was monstrous—twisted, vile, and grotesque beyond comprehension. Its fanged jaws gaped open, releasing a nauseating roar that vibrated through the speakers of the live stream. The creature's body was the size of an adult human, but filth clung to it like a second skin. Fleshy tentacles sprouted from its torso, twitching and curling in obscene motions.
The cashier's lips parted in a trembling scream. The customer stumbled back, paralyzed. For a split second, the audience watching the feed across the Marvel world held their breath.
And then came the screams.
"Ahhh!!!"
The sound cut like knives into the minds of everyone watching.
This twisted flesh-beast had an impact more visceral than dismembered bodies or bloodied corpses. Its sheer unnaturalness—the way its tentacles writhed with mindless hunger—rattled even hardened souls. The audience gasped in horror as the creature began to move.
The customer was the first to act. Shaking off paralysis, he turned and bolted for the door. He almost made it.
Swish!
A tentacle lashed out. Flesh tore with a sickening rip. In a single strike, the monster cleaved the man in two. His head shot across the screen like a basketball hurled with brutal force, vanishing beyond the camera's frame. His body collapsed, blood spraying in a crimson arc.
The shop became a slaughterhouse in seconds.
The cashier ducked behind the counter, sobbing and trembling. But the monster climbed effortlessly over the counter, dragging its tentacles across the floor. The camera lens tilted, showing only flashes of red and writhing limbs as the attack continued. The cashier's screams filled the broadcast at first—piercing, helpless. Then came only the grisly sounds of tearing flesh, splattering blood, and bone cracking.
For thirty long seconds, the screen was drenched in nothing but scarlet. To the viewers, that half-minute stretched like a century.
By the time silence fell, the store was no longer recognizable. It was nothing but gore.
Inside S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, the agents watching were pale as ghosts.
Every spurt of blood on the screen made temples throb. Even the battle-hardened Natasha Romanoff turned away, retching as she muttered:
"Ugh! Damn it… this thing—it has to be the work of the Sarkic Cult. Those lunatics should burn in hell."
Nick Fury, who had seen the worst horrors the world had to offer, clenched his jaw. His expression was grim. He realized now what Sarkicism truly meant—its horror wasn't just ritual or ideology, it was raw, unrestrained cruelty. The creature wasn't contained like an SCP; it was wild, savage, and merciless.
But then—something stranger happened.
From the edge of the footage, a man appeared.
He strolled into the frame like a figure out of time—an older gentleman in a bowler hat and waistcoat, carrying himself with the poise of another century. His calm demeanor clashed grotesquely with the carnage around him. Yet the moment he appeared, the video began to distort. The screen flickered, static bled in, and his face blurred until the camera could not capture it. At one point, his features were replaced entirely by a geometric triangle embedded in skin.
Inside S.H.I.E.L.D., whispers erupted.
"Who… who is that?" one agent stammered.
Nick Fury's single eye widened. A familiar name flickered in his mind. Dr. Clef, the enigmatic operative known for his ability to escape recognition on any recording. But Fury quickly shook his head. No—it wasn't Clef. This was someone else. Perhaps… a Sarkic priest?
The creature reacted violently. It abandoned its mutilated prey, its tentacles snapping in alarm. The air thickened with tension as the monster turned toward the stranger.
And then, impossibly, the man's body warped. Several articulated appendages burst from his form, gleaming in the half-light. He wasn't helpless at all.
He was a mutant.
The fight began.
The flesh monster lashed forward, its tentacles crashing against the man's appendages. Instead of retreating, the man advanced a step. The moment his jointed limbs touched the monster, the creature shrieked in unbearable agony. Its roar shook the walls. Blood boiled off its skin.
Then—shockingly—it tried to flee.
The mutant didn't let it. He seized the abomination and hurled it into a wall with thunderous force. Plaster shattered, stone crumbled, and the monster was blasted straight through the shop wall and out into the street.
The feed crackled. The ceiling itself began to bulge unnaturally, as though something colossal pressed from above… and then the video abruptly cut to black.
The audience reeled. Marvel heroes, S.H.I.E.L.D., and even the mystics of Kamar-Taj sat in silence. Their thoughts were torn between dread and hope.
Twisted monsters walked the earth now.
But at least—someone was fighting them.
"Who is he?" became the dominant question flooding the live chat. Some speculated this was the prophesied figure who could "end everything." Others scoffed, saying his power didn't seem enough. No one knew for sure.
Meanwhile, in the ruined town itself, Lois and James stood over the blackened screen.
Lois's face was drenched in sweat. His voice shook as he muttered, "Damn… what the hell is this?"
James, his skin glistening under the setting sun, forced a grim smile. "At least we know someone's resisting. That's something."
Lois laughed bitterly. His eyes swept across the nightmarish town—its buildings transformed into grotesque flesh and sinew. "If that man succeeded, this place wouldn't look like this. They failed, James. They all failed."
James placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Not yet. We're close to the truth. I can feel it."
Together, they pressed on.
Their path led them across a blood-stained street and into the shadow of the old Johnson Public Library. There, James spotted a memory card tucked near the collapsed security camera. He slid it into their device. The next recording began.
The timestamp: 1940.
Onscreen, a car swerved into frame at reckless speed. It slammed into a light pole outside the library. Sparks burst, the lamp shattering. And then—something impossible emerged.
A ghostly, translucent entity drifted out of the broken lamp.
The car's passengers scrambled out, running for their lives. The entity hovered in mid-air and pursued. For minutes, the chase went on, the phantom gliding but never quite catching them.
Until it changed color.
Until the sound came—a sonic boom, a blue shockwave.
The wave surged outward, striking the fleeing survivors. One by one, their bodies shimmered… turned transparent… and vanished into nothingness. Their screams echoed long after their forms were gone.
In Stark Tower, Tony Stark spat an expletive.
"You've got to be kidding me. Ghosts in the street lamps? How many nightmares are we supposed to deal with?"
Even Colonel Rhodes stiffened. "These Sarkic freaks aren't just dangerous—they're chaotic. They've got no limits."
Back in the recording, the phantom dissolved, leaving silence. Lois's throat was dry. He lit a cigarette with trembling hands, muttered a curse, and stared at James. "Where to next?"
James's eyes shifted to the horizon. There, bathed in the unsettling red glow of sunset, stood a church. Its silhouette was painted in colors that should have been beautiful, but here looked grotesque—its flesh-coated walls twisting in the light.
James's voice was calm but heavy. "The church. Whatever truth we're looking for, it's there."
Lois gripped his gun tightly. "Then let's finish this."
The two approached carefully, avoiding the streetlamps where ghosts might lurk. Strangely, the path remained clear—no monsters barred their way. At the church doors, they halted. A corpse sprawled on the steps.
The body was grotesquely swollen. The head and arm were three times their normal size, black veins bulging like worms beneath the skin. Its garments marked it as a priest.
James crouched, rifling through the pockets. He pulled out a note. The list it contained began innocuously:
**[We need to:]
Two trouts
A bottle of milk**
The audience frowned. Natasha Romanoff squinted. "What the hell? A shopping list?"
But new lines soon appeared, scrawled beneath in madness:
[Virgin blood (where can I find this stuff?) mixed with milk (the dream walker is trapped)]
[Various souls, willing to sell (the head waiting on the horizon is crucial)]
[At least two hundred beetles]
Natasha's eyes widened. "Virgin blood? Souls? Oh God. This wasn't a priest. This was a Sarkic ritualist!"
More followed:
[A lot of ice (no, I'm not sculpting for the Shiver Mist)
[Two corpses, must be dead at least one year]
[Several human eyeballs (blind eyes are useless, but I'll take them anyway)]
[Marky, Dan, Laura preparing other materials. Hawshore stuck reading books, damn fool.]
The chat exploded.
"They're preparing a ritual!"
"No wonder the town became this nightmare!"
"Souls, blood, corpses… these monsters are insane!"
James closed the note slowly. His eyes fell on the priest's badge. The words gleamed faintly: Victory Society.
Lois spat on the corpse. "Victory Society? More like twisted lunatics." He kicked the body twice for good measure.
"Wait," James interrupted. His gaze sharpened. He tore open the priest's bloody robes.
Inside the corpse's abdomen lay a burnt book, resting in gore—its pages faintly glowing.
The audience watching went utterly silent.
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