Hey, how are you doing~beautiful~
So I've been busy cause all of the college work I have written, so much essays and assignments, it's crazy and tiring, but anywheres i have been starting to rewrite chapters of this story which will much better and fix a problem in the beginning, which was mc going to heaven to early and have her and children she made going around the supernatural world
So, my question is do you want me to just rewrite the chapters here or just make a new novel so you can have both versions?
Day 5- I fall into the Warframe hole, I can't stop grinding for that frame ass I WANT TO DATE MY NYX AND WISP
Day-7 i just bought that Alienware gaming laptop. I'm so happy this old laptop cpu max out with just Google on and can barely handle Roblox. It has only 1 core, and its max ghz is 1.19 it sounded like my old ps4 fan dying
Day 10-ughhhh I still got writer's block for my Doctor Who fanfic, this one I'm starting to get an idea for
Day 18- I JUST GOT IT, AND IT IS SO MUCH BETTER. NO MORE LAG FROM GOOGLE OR ROBLOX, IT IS DOWN TO ONLY 12% OF MY CPU
I got to do one more essay, so I just put this in ChatGPT to fix the gammer so sorry if something sounds weird.
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They didn't call it a farm.
That word came later, after the machines were already running and the screams had a rhythm to them. In the beginning, it was just a facility. A repurposed underground research complex on the outskirts of Kyoto, built decades earlier for earthquake monitoring and quietly abandoned when funding dried up. Concrete corridors. Reinforced chambers. Power lines thick enough to survive a collapse.
Perfect.
The humans never saw the Khaos Brigade coming. They were taken in small groups, quietly, surgically. No mass abductions. No chaos in the streets. A subway platform here, a hospital corridor there, a night shift bus rerouted by a single wrong turn that never showed up on any map again. Devils with illusion cloaks and memory-scramblers worked in pairs, efficient and unemotional.
Fear didn't need spectacle. It needed intimacy.
The first chamber was already occupied when Crom arrived.
He stood at the observation window, arms folded, wings tucked tight against his back. The glass was one-way, layered with sigils and sound dampeners. On the other side, twenty-three humans sat in a wide circular room, each separated by waist-high partitions. They weren't restrained. That was intentional.
A middle-aged man paced in tight circles. A college-aged girl clutched her knees, rocking slightly. A mother whispered to her son, over and over, that it was going to be okay, even as her hands shook badly enough to betray the lie.
Above them, the ceiling pulsed faintly with red light.
"Baseline emotional read is steady," one of the engineers said from behind Crom. "Elevated anxiety, but nothing we can use yet."
Katerea stepped up beside him, heels clicking softly on the metal floor. She didn't look at the humans for long. She never did.
"Begin Phase One," she said.
The lights dimmed.
Not all at once. Slowly. Gradually. Like the world deciding to blink.
The room grew quiet in that specific way humans recognized from every bad instinct they'd ever ignored. The hum of ventilation deepened, shifting pitch just enough to make it noticeable. The walls didn't move, but something about them felt closer.
A voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once. Calm. Genderless. Artificially gentle.
"Please remain seated."
The humans reacted instantly.
"What is this?" someone shouted.
"Is this a drill?"
"I want to go home."
The fear monitors flickered from green to yellow.
Crom watched the readings climb. He didn't feel satisfaction. If anything, his scales itched.
"Don't rush it," he muttered.
Katerea glanced at him. "We're not."
Phase Two began with isolation.
The partitions rose higher, smoothly extending until no one could see anyone else. The room became a collection of narrow, individual spaces, each just wide enough to sit or stand. The ceiling lights over each pod turned on and off at random intervals.
The humans started calling out to each other.
No one answered.
That was when fear stopped being abstract.
One of the engineers adjusted a dial. "Cortisol levels are rising. Heart rates spiking. We're getting usable output."
Above the chamber, a massive ring-shaped apparatus began to glow. It was etched with runes—devil script layered over human engineering. Tubes ran from the ring down into the ceiling, invisible to the captives but very real to the system reading their terror.
Fear wasn't extracted directly. That never worked. It had to be processed.
The machine converted emotional output into a resonant field, compressing it, refining it, stripping away individuality until what remained was raw, potent essence. Not soul. Not magic. Something in between.
Something malleable.
A woman screamed.
It wasn't because anything touched her. It was because the lights went out over her pod and didn't come back on.
In the dark, her mind did the rest.
The first death came three hours later.
A man in his late sixties collapsed from cardiac arrest. The system logged it without comment. The engineers paused, adjusted parameters, and compensated by intensifying stimuli in the remaining pods.
"Remove the body," Katerea said flatly.
Crom didn't argue.
The second chamber was worse.
This one held fewer people, but the machines were closer. The walls were lined with reflective panels that distorted perception. No one could tell how big the room was. Or how close the others were. Or whether the figures they saw in the reflections were real.
Low-frequency vibrations pulsed through the floor, just below the threshold of hearing. Enough to unsettle the inner ear. Enough to make standing feel wrong.
A young man slammed his fists against the wall, shouting until his voice broke.
A woman laughed hysterically and couldn't stop.
Fear spiked faster here. Stronger. Less sustainable.
"Too volatile," one of the engineers said. "They'll burn out."
Shalba watched the readings with narrowed eyes. "We only need enough."
In the core chamber, the machine began to take shape.
It wasn't a weapon yet. It was a framework. A skeletal outline of what would become the Sacred Gear. Runes carved themselves into the forming core as fear-energy flowed in, guided by sigils older than the current devil hierarchy.
The shape was wrong.
Crom noticed it immediately.
Sacred Gears always had symmetry. Even the twisted ones. This thing didn't. It grew unevenly, like something trying to decide what it wanted to be.
"You seeing this?" he asked.
One of the engineers nodded nervously. "It's… responding. Adapting."
On the screens, the humans writhed in their pods, fear peaking and falling like a tide. The machine pulsed in time with their terror, not just drawing power but reacting to it.
Katerea leaned forward. "Is it stable?"
"For now."
That was the closest thing to reassurance anyone got.
By the third day, the humans were breaking.
Some stopped moving altogether, curled into themselves, minds retreating inward. The machine adjusted automatically, redirecting stimuli toward those still capable of fear.
Others begged.
They pleaded with voices hoarse from screaming, promising anything, offering money, loyalty, faith, anything that might make it stop.
The machine drank it all.
Crom left the observation deck once. He needed air.
In the hallway, he passed one of the guards escorting a new group of captives toward the chambers. A teenage boy looked up as Crom walked by, eyes wide with terror and something else.
That night, the first prototype came to life.
The core flared violently, fear-energy condensing into something dense enough to distort the air around it. Alarms blared. Sigils ignited. Engineers shouted over one another as readings spiked into the red.
"It's too much!" someone yelled.
"No," Shalba snapped. "Hold it. Lock the flow."
The machine screamed.
Several of the humans in the chambers collapsed simultaneously, minds overloaded by a surge of reflected terror. Blood leaked from noses and ears. One began to convulse.
The core stabilized.
In the center of the chamber, suspended by magnetic and magical fields, the first devil-forged Sacred Gear floated into view.
It looked unfinished. Raw. Like a weapon still being born.
Crom stared at it, a cold weight settling in his chest.
"This," Katerea said quietly, "is only the beginning."
He didn't answer.
Far above them, in the city that still didn't know what was happening beneath its feet, fear rippled outward subtly, unfocused, but growing.
And somewhere higher still, something ancient shifted its attention
The Gear didn't choose in a flash.
There was no surge of light, no voice, no moment anyone in the room could point to and say that was it. The engineers only noticed something was wrong because the readings stopped behaving the way they were supposed to.
Fear intake dropped across three chambers at once.
"Check the feeds," someone said.
Screens flickered as camera views shifted. In Chamber Four, most of the humans were either curled up or staring vacantly at the walls. One man sat upright, breathing slow and steady, hands resting on his knees like he was trying to remember how meditation worked.
That alone wasn't unusual. People adapted. Some shut down. Some dissociated.
What was unusual was that the machine was still pulling power from him.
"Subject 4–17," the engineer read off the tag. "Male. Twenty-six. No prior supernatural exposure. Average emotional baseline."
Crom leaned forward slightly. "Average doesn't feed that thing."
On the screen, the man lifted his head. His eyes weren't wide or panicked. They were focused, fixed somewhere just past the wall in front of him.
"What's his heart rate?" Katerea asked.
"Elevated, but controlled. He's scared," the engineer said slowly,
The Gear responded.
Not dramatically. It adjusted its orientation, drifting a few centimeters toward the intake conduit linked to Chamber Four. Runes along its surface rearranged, lines thinning, others deepening, like something narrowing its attention.
Shalba frowned. "That's not supposed to happen."
"No," another engineer said. "It's supposed to take fear. Not… align with it."
The man in the chamber exhaled. Long. Shaky. He pressed his palms against the floor, grounding himself, the way therapists taught panic patients. His lips moved. No sound carried through, but the microphones picked it up.
"I'm not dying here," he whispered. "I'm not."
Fear spiked not wild, not explosive, but sharp and sustained. The kind that didn't burn itself out.
The Gear pulsed once.
Power rerouted automatically. The machine didn't ask permission.
"Cut the feed," Katerea said.
"It's already bypassed," the engineer replied. "The Gear's drawing directly."
Crom felt it then. A pressure, subtle but unmistakable. The same feeling he'd had when Sacred Gears activated in the past—not the power itself, but the decision.
The man gasped.
In Chamber Four, the lights flickered, then stabilized. The walls seemed closer now, not because they moved, but because his perception did. His breathing hitched as something cold slid through his chest, not pain, not heat—just presence.
"What's happening to him?" someone asked.
The man doubled over, coughing once, hard. When he straightened, there was a thin line of blood at the corner of his mouth. His fear didn't vanish.
It changed.
The monitors showed it clearly. Same intensity. Different shape.
The Gear locked.
Runes flared briefly, then settled into a steady, muted glow. The intake conduits dimmed across the facility. Fear collection dropped everywhere else.
All of it was coming from one place now.
Chamber Four.
The man sat still, trembling, eyes unfocused. His fear was no longer feeding the machine like fuel. It was circulating—looping back into him, reinforced, structured.
"He's a conduit," the engineer said quietly. "Not a battery."
Crom straightened. "Can he survive it?"
A pause.
"Define survive."
In the chamber, the man swallowed hard. He pressed his hand against his chest, feeling something that hadn't been there before, something heavy and intimate, like a second heartbeat that didn't match his own.
"What did you do to me?" he whispered, voice cracking.
The Gear drifted closer to the containment field, stabilizing as if satisfied.
No one answered him.
No one needed to.
Crom looked at the screens, at the man whose fear hadn't broken him, only reshaped him, and felt a familiar, unpleasant certainty settle in his gut.
Whatever Heaven had taken from the world, whatever had made angels terrifying again
This was how the devils planned to answer it.
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