Chapter o1: The Hopeless Firstborn
The sky was covered in black clouds, roiling and churning like a cauldron of darkness, with glimmers of crimson streaks painting jagged red lines across the obsidian canvas.
RUMBLE!
The sound of thunder rumbled and echoed loudly over the battle below, each resonant boom vibrating through bone and sinew, where countless pale beings—their forms alabaster shadows in the crimson-tinged darkness—surrounded a single imposing figure.
"Your reign ended long ago, my Lord. You should be asleep by now, instead of playing a little empire game with those foolish mortals," said a wary voice that carried centuries of bitterness beneath its controlled tone.
Red eyes squinted beneath delicately arched brows, fangs glinted wetly from a half-open mouth.
Anxiety flashed across the speaker's gaze, his slender fingers curling into half-formed fists at his sides, nails elongating instinctively into talons.
He looked toward the figure—tall as a tower, mighty as a tiger, who stood impaled by countless silver weapons that gleamed with unholy light, their hilts protruding from his body like a grotesque metal forest.
"Sleep?" The word was spoken with a hint of mockery, a single syllable dripping with condescension that seemed to drop the temperature around them.
It was followed by laughter from the towering figure's mouth—a sound like stones grinding against each other after centuries of silence—lips curled in a mocking smile that never reached his ancient, fathomless eyes.
Those eyes, once perhaps capable of warmth, now glared with wild anger, burning like twin supernovas in the darkness of his gaunt face.
Then, with a sickening series of pops and cracks, his mouth stretched even wider, the jaw unhinging unnaturally, exposing yellowed fangs longer than those of any creature present, "SINCE when do I! Need to heed commands from YOU?!"
A final roar echoed from the towering figure's mouth, caused the very air to vibrate with its power.
The sound shattered the resolve of the younger ones, who stepped back instinctively, their bodies betraying ancient instincts of submission.
From the depths of his maw came a darkness that moved and writhed with independent life—unleashing a massive surge of bats that erupted outward like a living hurricane, their leathery wings beating a deafening cacophony as they swarmed across the entire area, their tiny eyes glowing red with reflected bloodlust, their needle-like teeth bared.
SKREEEEEECH!
Those present raised their long, pale-skinned palms, tinged with a reddish hue that seemed to pulse with each unneeded heartbeat, toward the massive swarm of bats.
Their faces contorted with concentration, some with fear flashing across immortal features unused to vulnerability, fingers splayed as if to catch or repel the onslaught through sheer will, but—
"Dammit! That old man is really annoying!" The speaker, a blonde woman with reddish eyes like smoldering embers and protruding fangs that dimpled her full bottom lip, narrowed her gaze and shielded herself from the swarming bats.
Her silken dress whipped around her form as she crouched defensively, one arm raised to protect her face, the other extended with claws fully extended.
Suddenly, among the gathered beings, the bats were torn apart with savage efficiency, blood splattering and detonating in the air like crimson fireworks.
GRRRAAARRRIP!
"What are you guys waiting for? A final show of respect for this TRAITOR?!" growled a bulky figure, his red eyes glaring in a deep frown that carved trenches into his granite-like features.
Fresh blood trickled down his square jaw in rivulets, dripping onto his bare chest, and bits of tattered bat wing stuck between his teeth like macabre confetti.
His massive hands, each finger tipped with a talon that could rend steel, flexed and unfurled repeatedly with barely contained rage.
His body was as muscular and towering as the central figure, matching him in stature, cords of inhuman muscle rippling beneath skin.
"Hehehe…" A sinister smile, devilish in its intent, formed on the lips of the towering figure surrounded by enemies. His cracked, ancient lips peeled back over yellowed fangs as he watched his bats being torn apart by the assembled beings, their shrieks of death creating a macabre symphony that seemed to please him.
Yet despite his outward confidence, the sound of his own pulse echoed loudly from within, each labored thud reverberating through his hollow chest like thunder in an empty cathedral.
The slow reactions and stiffness in his joints—once fluid and deadly as a striking viper—betrayed just how thoroughly these adversaries had drained his power.
His fingers trembled almost imperceptibly, and beads of dark sweat formed along his pallid brow, glinting like black pearls in the crimson light.
But then, a thick, blood-red, bubbling light erupted from his body, pulsating with hypnotic intensity and casting grotesque shadows across the battlefield.
The air around him seemed to warp and distort.
The swarm of bats that had been slaughtered, scattered, or burned—their tiny corpses littering the ground like fallen leaves—instantly shot back toward him, their broken bodies streaking through the air like dark comets.
They merged with his form once more, their essence absorbed through his skin with a sickening series of squelches and pops, each one causing his frame to shudder and expand.
"Do you think you can kill ME? ME? THE ONE WHO RUL—" Just as he tried to invoke his last resort, his voice rising to a thunderous crescendo that made the very earth tremble beneath their feet, his words were cut off.
His narrowed eyes and triumphant smile froze in place, the confidence draining from his face like water through cupped fingers.
Looking down, his once-radiant, confident gaze clouded with exhaustion and dawning realization as he spotted a white, glinting blade piercing his heart.
The weapon hummed with a pure, terrible light that seemed to burn him from the inside out, causing tendrils of smoke to rise from where it entered his ancient flesh.
"I'm sorry…" A soft voice, its melody otherworldly—like crystal bells touched by morning dew—once capable of soothing his mind and calming his rage during the darkest nights of his long existence, now carried nothing but pain, like a sword driven through his soul.
"I'm sorry, master…" A sobbing followed. His towering body fell in slow motion, like an ancient redwood finally surrendering to time, his joints cracking and his limbs splaying outward.
His eyes remained wide open, now staring vacantly at a sky dyed bright red. But most of all, he stared at the one who had struck him down, his gaze filled with a complex mixture of betrayal, understanding, and something that might have been forgiveness.
It was a woman—a striking beauty whose pale face seemed to shine with an inner light even in this darkest of moments.
The horn that had once adorned her head was long gone, leaving only faint, silvery scars on her temples.
Her face was creased with tears that carved glistening paths down her alabaster cheeks, her shoulders shaking with each suppressed sob.
Yet her hands, delicate but strong, gripped the blazing sword tightly.
"So, they even managed to pursue you, my *****." The anger, resentment, and mocking laughter that had filled the towering figure moments before vanished like morning mist before the sun as he faced the one who stabbed him.
His voice grew soft, almost tender, a tone none of the others had ever heard from his cruel lips.
One trembling hand—once capable of crushing stone to dust—rose weakly to almost, but not quite, touch her tear-stained cheek. "Does that mean I really made a mistake, huh…?"
He managed a faint smile, the expression transforming his fearsome visage into something painfully human, feeling tears of blood slip down his cheeks like rubies, leaving crimson trails that glowed faintly in the dying light as his strength slowly faded, his ancient body beginning to crumble at the edges like a manuscript too long exposed to air.
The woman's lips were pressed tightly together, quivering with the effort of containing a universe of unspoken grief; no words came out, only blood trickling from the corner of her mouth—endlessly, flowing like a small brook of crimson tears.
The viscous liquid pooled at the hollow of her throat, staining the collar of her garment with expanding dark roses. Her eyes, wide and glistening with unshed tears, never left his face, as though memorizing every line and shadow for an eternity of remembrance.
Slowly, others gathered at her side: the blonde woman, the muscular man, his massive frame now still as stone, blood still drying on his chin; and many more shadowy figures whose red eyes gleamed like dying stars in the crimson twilight.
But then—
"May the Light shine over this WORLD!" The voice boomed from beyond their circle, resonant with righteous fervor, cutting through the heavy silence like a blade through silk.
"PURGE THIS HERETIC!" Another voice joined, then another, a chorus of judgment swelling from unseen throats.
The blood-red sky, seen through his squinting, increasingly blurred eyes, suddenly turned to golden light—not the gentle warmth of sunrise but the searing, merciless brilliance of divine judgment.
The light cascaded down in visible shafts, each beam piercing the darkness like molten spears driving into the earth.
The beings with red eyes instantly panicked—confused at first, their ancient faces contorting with dawning horror, then frowning as they scattered like autumn leaves in a gale, some dissolving into mist, others becoming bats that darted frantically for cover.
They looked back one final time at him, now lying motionless with his eyes closed, his imposing frame—once the embodiment of terrible power—now diminished, crumbling at the edges like ancient parchment, dark flakes carried away on an unseen wind.
…
In an unknown city, in an unfamiliar hospital…
Afternoon sunlight streamed through a large window, illuminating an elegant patient room with understated luxury.
The light fell in warm, honeyed rectangles across the spotless floor with its soft, gleaming vinyl that reflected the gentle glow.
The wide, fully adjustable hospital bed with brushed aluminum rails and digital controls hummed almost imperceptibly as it periodically shifted to prevent bedsores—all bespoke the finest care money could secure.
Every detail, from the tasteful decorations—abstract paintings in soothing blues and greens—to the small visitor's couch upholstered in buttery leather that had never creased under the weight of frequent visitors, exuded quiet wealth. Crystal vases stood empty, waiting for flowers that never came.
Yet all this stood in stark contrast to the patient lying on the bed.
A young man, dark brown hair in disheveled locks that caught the light like burnished mahogany, healthy skin with an almost preternatural smoothness, and an almost strikingly handsome face with features that seemed sculpted rather than grown.
His jaw was strong, his cheekbones high, his lips perfectly formed—beauty that belonged on magazine covers rather than hospital sheets.
He appeared healthy, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths, yet remained confined to the hospital bed, long fingers occasionally twitching against the Egyptian cotton sheets as he gazed silently out the window at the city sprawling beneath him—a tapestry of glass, steel, and concrete bathed in the golden hour light.
His dreams, the hopes people once placed in him—now reduced to something he could barely grasp. His basic function was gone.
No, I still have hope, he thought, eyes narrowing in determination, fist clenching until the knuckles whitened and the hospital bracelet dug into his wrist.
His name was Lucien. At twenty-five years old, he should have—at the very least—some savings, or perhaps a small business, or something to mark the beginning of his journey through this human life.
He did, in fact, once have a promising path ahead. His life had been mapped out in his mind with the precision of an architect's blueprint—each milestone carefully planned, each achievement a stepping stone to greater things.
But out of nowhere, like a thief in the night, he was diagnosed with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis—a terminal illness with no cure.
The words had fallen from the neurologist's lips like stones, each syllable echoing in the sudden hollow of his chest as the doctor explained how this disease attacks the motor neurons, methodically robbing him of function, cell by cell, muscle by muscle.
It would progress just as slow and relentless as the business he once envisioned building to achieve success—a cruel mirror image where decline replaced growth, loss replaced gain.
Ironic, isn't it? he thought, a bitter smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The universe's dark humor hadn't been lost on him—how his body was failing with the same meticulous attention to detail he'd once applied to his five-year business plans.
Then, Lucien's face tightened, brow furrowing as he felt something unusual in his lower body—a tingling sensation followed by an uncomfortable warmth that spread across his thighs.
He looked down, his heart accelerating as he reached for the button to call a nurse, fingers trembling as they sought the plastic remote tangled in his sheets.
But then stopped, his pride rising like a wall between necessity and dignity. The humiliation of being found wet, helpless as an infant, was still something he couldn't bear, even after months of progressive dependence.
As long as my brain is still intact, I'm still alive, he reassured himself, taking a calming breath that caught slightly in his throat.
Pressing his lips together until they blanched white, he gripped the bed rails, feeling the cool metal bite against his palms—one of the few sensations that still came through with perfect clarity.
His hands trembled as he tried to lift himself—ALS had already weakened his legs, transforming what were once powerful limbs that had carried him through morning jogs and weekend hikes into unresponsive appendages that felt increasingly like foreign objects attached to his body.
The muscles that remained flickered beneath his skin like dying candle flames, leaving him almost unable to walk without assistance.
Veins protruded in his arms like blue rivers beneath pale terrain as he groaned, "Ughhh," the sound scraping from his throat raw with effort and frustration.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, catching the afternoon light as he slowly forced his body upright, the hospital gown clinging to his back as he dragged his legs and nearly slid off the bed.
THUD!
The sound of his body hitting the floor seemed to echo in the pristine room, the impact sending shockwaves of pain through his hip and shoulder.
He had been a bright young man—the firstborn, the one who carried the weight of family expectations with the same ease he once carried his backpack full of textbooks.
At age twenty-two, he had earned his bachelor's degree with a 3.5 GPA, his diploma now gathering dust in his parents' home, almost guaranteeing him a job in his country where credentials still opened doors that remained closed to many.
Known as the "smart one" in college, always raising his hand first in seminars, and with his looks—dark eyes that crinkled at the corners when he laughed, a jawline that photographers would describe as "chiseled"—people expected him to become a successful man in the future.
Women had slipped him their numbers, professors had written glowing recommendations, the world had seemed designed to accommodate his ambitions.
If… If not for this ALS, Lucien thought, the familiar refrain echoing in his mind like a mournful chorus.
Now, he was sprawled on the spotless floor, one arm awkwardly trapped beneath him, staring at the ceiling as dizziness washed over him in nauseating waves.
The popcorn texture of the ceiling blurred and swam before his eyes, tiny shadows forming patterns that seemed to mock his helplessness.
CLICK!
At that moment, the patient room door opened.