The world was a fiery, apocalyptic burn. Entire planets had been violently colliding with each other, the shattered remnants of the Accord fleet falling from the sky like dying fireflies. The villain who had orchestrated all of this horrific destruction lay defeated and bleeding on the scorched earth in front of Dorian.
Dorian stood over them, his chest heaving with exhaustion and rage. "Is it not enough?!" he screamed into the burning wind. "You just killed ninety percent of the galaxy! For what?!"
The villain slowly looked up at him, his eyes impossibly tender amidst the slaughter. "Because I love you, Dorian."
Dorian immediately dropped to his knees, his rage instantly evaporating into a soft, romantic smile. "Really? Let's get married right now."
Jolt!
Dorian's eyes snapped open. He shot up in bed, his chest heaving as he gasped for air, his body completely drenched in cold sweat.
He sat there for a few seconds, staring blankly at the far wall. "What kind of absolute garbage nightmare was that?" he muttered, rubbing his face.
He looked around, his vision slightly blurry. This was definitely not his bedroom on Friton, nor was it the sterile quarters of the Millennium Falcon. The room was massive, decorated in deep, earthy greens and rich woods, seamlessly integrated with high-end, discreet technological systems. It gave off an incredibly relaxing, grounded vibe.
But Dorian wasn't relaxed.
The moment his brain fully booted up, the hangover hit him like a physical freight train. His stomach violently churned. His head began banging with a relentless, thumping migraine, and his entire body felt listless and incredibly heavy.
A sudden, overwhelming urge to throw up seized him. He slapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes frantically scanning the large bedroom. He didn't see a bathroom door.
He scrambled out of the plush bed, still wearing his undershirt and slacks from the gala, and hurried toward the main sliding door. It hissed open automatically.
He stumbled out into a massive, sunlit open-plan living area. Standing in the state-of-the-art kitchen, wearing a very comfortable, oversized sweater and sweatpants, was Briane Taleini.
She looked up from a datapad, a bright, morning smile on her face. "Good morning, Composer–"
She stopped instantly. One look at his pale, sweating face and the hand clamped over his mouth was all she needed.
"The bathroom is straight down the hall, second door on the left!" Briane pointed urgently.
Dorian didn't even say thank you. He bolted down the hallway as fast as his trembling legs could carry him.
From the adjacent dining area, Ratik walked out, holding a cup of black coffee. She looked completely exhausted but sharply professional in a fresh blouse. She watched Dorian disappear down the hall and let out a long, long sigh.
"Briane," Ratik called out wearily, setting her coffee down. "Can you make that hangover remedy I told you about earlier?"
"Sure thing," Briane nodded sympathetically, turning toward the automatic cooker to start boiling water and measuring out the specific herbal powders Ratik had requested.
Ratik walked down the hall, pushing the bathroom door open just as Dorian hunched over the pristine porcelain toilet. She calmly walked up behind him and began to firmly, rhythmically tap his back.
"I swear to the stars," Dorian groaned miserably between bouts of throwing up. "I will never, ever drink alcohol again."
"Uh-huh," Ratik replied dryly, not missing a beat in her rhythmic tapping. "You said that exact same thing before."
Dorian tried to turn his head to offer a defensive retort, but another violent wave of nausea caught up to him, forcing him back over the bowl.
A few minutes later, Briane appeared in the bathroom doorway, holding a steaming mug of dark, pungent liquid. She leaned against the doorframe, watching the most famous composer in the galaxy currently fighting for his life.
"You really should listen to me next time, Dorian," Briane teased gently. "I did warn you to slow down."
…
Half an hour later, the atmosphere had significantly calmed down.
Dorian was sitting at the massive, modern dining table, wearing a borrowed, oversized hoodie. He was slowly, cautiously eating a bowl of plain, clear soup. The warmth of the broth finally settled his stomach.
As he ate, he looked around the sprawling penthouse, finally realizing exactly where he was. He was in Briane Taleini's private residence in Sela.
Dorian reached for a glass of iced water sitting nearby.
"Ah, ah, ah," Briane immediately scolded from across the table, waving her spoon at him. "Don't drink anything cold right now. Otherwise, you'll shock your already irritated stomach. Stick to the soup."
Dorian slowly pulled his hand back from the glass. "Alright, Doc. Thanks."
Ratik, sitting at the head of the table, let out another heavy sigh. She set her datapad down and crossed her arms, looking directly at Dorian. The protective manager mode had fully engaged.
"We need to talk about who gave you that mysterious drink," Ratik stated flatly.
Dorian looked up from his soup, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "What mysterious drink?"
Ratik's eyes narrowed. "Right before you passed out backstage, you explicitly told me that a server near the entrance handed you a drink that was 'more bubbly than the usual ones.' Do you remember what they looked like?"
Dorian closed his eyes, trying to force a flash of memory through the pounding headache. He remembered the red carpet. He remembered the Eternal Rose aura, the crowd, Briane, Nico, the piano... but the server? The face was completely blank.
"I really can't recall it," Dorian admitted apologetically, rubbing his temples. "It's just a blur."
Briane set her spoon down, her summer-sky eyes flashing with sudden, protective anger. "It's okay if you can't recall it right now, Composer. I'll personally talk to Mar Raila today and get to the bottom of this. She was the one who personally invited you. It's her gala, her security, and she let this happen to you."
"No," Dorian said immediately, holding a hand up to stop her. "It's okay, Briane. You are still an artist under the EMG umbrella. You can't just throw a tantrum at the CEO of your own label like that over a bad hangover. Besides, I'm fine now. It was probably just an extra-strong mix."
"No," Ratik interrupted, her voice leaving absolutely no room for argument. "You are not fine until a medical professional says you are fine. We are going to a private hospital immediately after you finish that soup to get your blood checked for sedatives."
"But–" Dorian started to protest, hating hospitals.
"No buts," Ratik and Briane said in perfect, terrifying unison.
…
Several hours later, the heavy metal door of Dorian's bedroom on Friton hissed shut with a definitive, comforting click.
He was finally home.
The private Selanian doctor Ratik had practically dragged him to had run a full panel of tests. She had ultimately declared Dorian completely healthy, confirming that the only thing wrong with his blood was an alcohol level that perfectly aligned with a catastrophic, galaxy-class hangover. No sedatives. No poison. Just extremely potent champagne.
Dorian let out a long, exhausted sigh, dropping his travel bag onto the floor. "If only I had managed to pull a Dionysus boon," he mumbled to himself, unbuttoning his wrinkled shirt. "I bet I could have drunk and partied all night long."
He immediately slapped his own cheek, wincing at the sting. 'Stop it. Now is not the time to be thinking about drinking ever again.'
He shook his head, clearing the lingering fog, and focused his mind.
'System,' Dorian commanded silently.
The familiar, semi-translucent blue panel of the creator system popped up in the air in front of him. His eyes scanned the interface. He had amassed a massive amount of system currency from the recent, explosive sales of his previous songs following the gala name-drop, as well as the income from The Sun-Drenched Soul streams.
He navigated to the Hades gacha banner. 'Let's do 100 pulls,' he decided, confirming the transaction.
The system interface blurred. The usual dark, purple-black miasma of the Underworld flooded out of the screen, swirling around his bedroom in a spectacular, holographic display. A flurry of common items, nectar, and minor darkness drops flashed by.
Then, two distinct, high-tier items materialized.
The first was a glowing, winged icon; a Hermes Boon. Excellent for speed.
But the second item made his breath catch in his throat. It was a massive, structural upgrade.
The Mirror of Night.
Dorian immediately straightened up, his fatigue vanishing. He selected the item and commanded it to materialize.
The air in the corner of his Friton bedroom shimmered. A massive, three-meter-tall, intricately carved obsidian mirror leaned itself heavily against the wall. Its dark surface didn't reflect the room; it reflected a swirling, shadowy abyss.
Dorian walked closer, his heart pounding in his chest. He reached out and placed his palm flat against the cold, dark pane.
Instantly, the reflection shifted. Glowing red Greek words began to bleed onto the surface, shifting and moving until they translated into the familiar, recognizable red talents of the Hades upgrade tree.
Dorian broke into a massive, excited smile. "Let's go! Time to upgrade–"
He stopped mid-sentence, his brow furrowing in sudden realization. He looked down at his hands, then back at the mirror.
'Wait,' he thought, his mind racing. 'I'm not currently using the 'Zagreus' profile. I'm just me right now. Why can I see and interact with this mirror in my base form?'
The gears in his brain began turning rapidly. If he could interact with the Mirror of Night as Dorian, did that mean he could permanently apply the Hades passive talents to his actual, physical body outside of the specific combat profile?
He quickly opened his Hades inventory tab. He scrolled past the boons and checked his resources. He had two Chthonic Keys.
Just like in the game, he needed these specific keys to unlock the different tiers of talents on the mirror. Once unlocked, each talent could then be upgraded using the raw 'Darkness' currency he had accumulated from his gacha pulls. He had hundreds of Darkness crystals stockpiled, but only two keys.
He sighed, realizing he had to choose carefully. He looked at the available tier-one talents on the glowing red surface.
He decided to unlock the first two: Shadow Presence and Greater Reflex.
The obsidian surface pulsed as he spent his two keys. Both talents appeared on the mirror, currently sitting at 0%, effectively inactive.
Without hesitation, Dorian decided to rank both of them up immediately.
He tapped the Shadow Presence node. A system prompt appeared: Upgrade Cost: 300 Darkness.
Dorian blinked, his jaw dropping slightly. It was a terrifyingly steep price. In the actual game, the first rank of Shadow Presence only cost 10 Darkness, and Greater Reflex cost 50. Somehow, the physical mirror standing right in front of him in the real world had exponentially inflated the cost, demanding 300 Darkness for a single rank.
The system is balancing it for reality, Dorian realized, grimacing as he confirmed the expenditure.
He spent 600 Darkness in total, activating the first rank of both talents.
The moment the transaction was complete, a surge of cold, shadowy energy rushed from the mirror, traveling up his arm and directly into his chest. Dorian gasped, stumbling back a step.
He felt it instantly. His physical body felt noticeably lighter. The lingering, sluggish weight of the hangover was completely eradicated, replaced by a thrumming, dark power humming quietly in his veins.
Dorian smiled, rolling his shoulders. He stepped into the center of his bedroom and threw a sharp, test shadow-jab to feel the effects of Shadow Presence; which offered a +10% increase to his physical attack power.
As his fist snapped forward, the air whooshed around his knuckles with significantly greater force than before. He could physically feel the density of the strike. It was sharper, heavier.
He grinned, adrenaline spiking. Next, he tested Greater Reflex, which in the game added an extra 'dash' to Zagreus's movement.
Dorian focused on the space near his door. He bent his knees and pushed off.
Fwoosh! A faint, spectral trail of orange fire ignited from the soles of his feet as he instantly closed the distance, his speed defying standard human physics. He didn't stop there. He immediately chained the momentum, pushing off again before his feet fully planted.
Fwoosh! A double dash.
Dorian landed smoothly near his vanity, his smile widening into an expression of pure, unadulterated awe. He had never truly craved immense physical power. The day the Accord Channeller had officially announced he didn't possess the genetic markers to become a Solar, he had buried those childhood fantasies of being a warrior.
But here he was, starting his incredibly late, entirely unorthodox journey to power.
Granted, he knew this physical enhancement was currently just a mere fraction of what an actual, trained Solar warrior like Juno or any Solar operative could do. They could shatter durasteel with a punch. But the terrifying beauty of his system was that he was not limited to just the powers of Hades or the agricultural skills of Stardew Valley.
His mind began to race with the possibilities. Should he try to develop a game like Katana Zero, where the main character had a literal one-hit-kill mechanic and time-manipulation abilities? Or maybe something like Doom for sheer, unstoppable resilience?
He looked back at the towering Mirror of Night.
There was clearly a massive, deliberate tweak in the power scaling. The fact that an upgrade costing 10 Darkness in the game cost 300 in real life was a warning. The system was actively balancing reality. What if he tried to bring an overpowered character profile into the real world, and the system tweaked the power cost so high that it became practically impossible to maintain or upgrade, rendering it a complete waste of development time and resources?
He couldn't afford to be reckless.
Dorian hurried over to his heavy wooden desk. He pulled out his physical notebook and clicked his pen. He began to furiously continue his detailed journal, cataloging his newly acquired passive powers, the specific cost multipliers, and listing potential future game concepts that balanced utility with realistic system costs.
This mysterious creator system... time. That was all he needed. He just needed enough time to uncover exactly what this power was, and how far he could push it before the galaxy noticed the farm boy from Friton wasn't just making games anymore.
…
Deep within the choked, blockaded planet of Dagma, the main settlement of the survivors had rapidly transformed. It no longer looked or felt like a ragtag, desperate survivor camp. It looked permanent. It looked divine.
Incredible, sturdy buildings and defensive walls had been erected, entirely constructed from stone and gleaming veins of precious metals; pure gold and a strange, iridescent purple metal they had come to revere as Iridium. It was all thanks to Atum. With his Mining Mastery, every swing of his pickaxe and every tunnel he dug yielded these impossibly durable, magically imbued ores. They didn't fully understand the physics behind the purple metal, but they knew it was far stronger than Accord durasteel.
Running beneath the gleaming pathways were fresh, crystal-clear underground rivers and stone aqueducts. Hapi's Fishing Mastery had miraculously connected their isolated basin to the distant oceans and deep-crust rivers, ensuring their waters were perpetually teeming with nutrient-rich fish.
Their hidden city was becoming whole.
Walking side-by-side through the bustling central plaza were Horus and Nehsy. As they passed, the native Dagmani; their dark, rich skin contrasting beautifully with the shining gold of the city, their long hair flowing freely, stopped to bow deeply in reverence to the High Priests of Asgard.
Horus offered a gentle, reassuring smile, nodding in return as Nehsy waved warmly to a group of running children.
"It still feels completely surreal," Nehsy murmured, her dark eyes sweeping over the thriving plaza.
"What is?" Horus asked, his deep voice carrying a quiet strength.
"This town," Nehsy gestured to the sprawling settlement. "We made all of this from nothing. Those crops in the eastern sector... they grow from seeds to full harvest in a matter of days. We are feeding thousands. It's all because of you, Horus. You brought us Bepoo's light."
Horus shook his head firmly, his expression turning solemn. "No, Nehsy. It is all because of us."
Nehsy smiled softly, looking up at the shielded canopy of the valley. "I'm happy with this. With what we've built."
"I'm not," Horus replied instantly.
Nehsy blinked, looking at him in surprise. His face had hardened into an unyielding mask of stone.
"I still remember the smell of burning flesh in the capital," Horus said quietly, his voice tightly controlled. "I still hear the screams of innocent children echoing from the tip of those weapons, their voices pleading for mercy. I still remember the absolute terror I felt when I was hiding in the cave, praying they wouldn't find me."
Horus tightened his fist, his obsidian claws digging slightly into his own palm. "Never again."
Nehsy hesitated, her nurturing heart aching at the immense burden of hatred he carried. She opened her mouth to speak, but a sudden rustle from the dense, untamed forest at the edge of the city caught their attention.
Stepping out from the thick foliage was Bennu, the Foraging Master.
"Horus," Bennu called out, his sharp eyes intensely focused. "You have to see this."
Horus nodded immediately. He and Nehsy followed Bennu away from the gleaming city and deep into the treacherous, overgrown ravines of the outer valley.
After a tense, rapid trek, they arrived at a massive, freshly carved scar in the earth. It was the crash landing site of a heavy transport ship.
Surrounding the smoking wreckage were a handful of elite Dagmani warriors. They were clad in scavenged Accord Legion armor, but they had fundamentally altered it. Wherever the white plastoid had been cracked or shattered in battle, Atum had reforged the gaps with veins of pure, shining gold. The kintsugi-style armor made the rebel warriors look incredibly regal, far more intimidating than the original Legion troopers themselves.
Bennu stepped forward, pointing down toward a massive crater near the ship's torn hull. "He is still breathing. I think."
Horus stepped up to the edge. Lying in the dirt, completely unresponsive, was an absolute giant of a man. It was a Neman.
From the sheer, hulking look of him, standing easily over three meters tall even while sprawled on the ground, he did not look or feel like standard Accord military.
Nehsy immediately walked closer, her innate, nurturing nature overriding her caution. She wanted to heal him.
"Stay back, Nehsy," Horus commanded sharply, holding his arm out to block her path. "I will check."
Horus approached the massive, unconscious figure carefully. He nudged the Neman's heavy boot with his own. No response. Horus crouched down, keeping his hand hovering near the hilt of his forged iridium blade, and pressed two fingers against the giant's thick neck.
There was a faint, steady thumping.
"He is still alive," Horus announced, standing back up.
One of the gold-forged warriors tightened his grip on his spear. "We should kill him now, High Priest. He fell from an Accord ship. He is the enemy."
Slowly, a dark ripple of agreement spread through the surrounding warriors, their obsidian claws flexing with the desire for vengeance.
"No!" Nehsy argued, stepping forward with defiance in her eyes. "He hasn't done anything wrong to us yet! Look at him! he isn't wearing their uniform. He might be a prisoner. We should help him."
The warriors looked to Horus. The heavy, terrifying weight of the decision rested entirely on his shoulders. In the Cult of Asgard, it was his word that held the ultimate authority of life and death.
Horus looked down at his own dark hands. Even though they looked physically clean right now, he knew the absolute truth. He had spilled more blood with these hands than he currently had in his own body. The Combat Mastery demanded violence, and he had freely given it.
He let out a long, weary sigh, the anger bleeding out of his posture for just a moment.
"He can be of more use to us alive," Horus decided firmly, looking at his warriors. "We need information on the Accord blockade. Let's bring him to the outer town holding cells. Do not let him die."
…
The first thing Ula registered was the sharp, earthy scent of crushed herbs.
The massive Neman, who stood a full three meters tall, slowly opened his eyes. He found himself lying on a heavily reinforced cot, his chest and limbs wrapped tight in unfamiliar, woven bandages that had been slathered with a cooling, pungent green salve.
Sitting nearby were two people with strikingly rich, dark skin and long hair. The moment they saw the giant stir, they were visibly startled. They scrambled to their feet and immediately rushed out of the tent, their obsidian claws clicking softly against the floor.
Ula grunted, sitting up slowly as a dull ache pulsed behind his eyes. His mind was fractured, but the memories of his final, desperate flight quickly began to bleed back in.
He remembered the mission. He had been transporting highly sensitive, stolen cargo to supply the Resistance. But his luck had finally run out. He had been cornered in the outer rim by an Accord Navy patrol fleet. They had ordered him to cut his sub-light engines and prepare to be boarded.
Knowing what the Accord did to captured operatives, Ula had decided to play a suicidal hand. He had complied, powering down his main engines to buy himself a few precious seconds while secretly spooling up the hyperdrive. It was incredibly dangerous to initiate a jump without the main thrusters stabilizing the ship's trajectory, but there was no other way.
As the Accord Navy interceptors drew closer to board, one of their thermal scanners had detected the massive heat build-up. But it was too late.
Fwooosh!
The Starcrest had violently torn a hole in space, jumping uncontrollably into the hyper-lane. Ula had desperately tried to reroute power back to the main engines to stabilize the flight, but it took too long.
The hyperdrive couldn't hold the chaotic trajectory. He was violently ripped out of hyperspace, dropping right into the turbulent atmosphere of an unknown planet. He was coming in far too hot.
The last thing he remembered was frantically slamming his hand onto the ignition to fire the launch engines, trying to counter the catastrophic fall before the impact knocked him completely unconscious.
Ula rubbed his bearded face and swung his heavy legs off the cot. As his feet touched the ground, he realized he was stepping on a carpet made of incredibly soft, thick animal fur.
He looked around. The interior felt like a luxurious, high-end pavilion, yet it maintained an undeniably raw, traditional aesthetic. It was a bizarre contradiction.
Suddenly, the heavy tent flap swept open.
Decades of surviving the lower levels and running from the BSO kicked in. Ula immediately dropped into a low, defensive combat stance, ignoring the burning ache in his ribs.
Five figures walked into the tent. They were Dagmani, bearing the same dark skin and sharp claws as the medics.
The one leading them; a tall, heavily muscled warrior with a commanding presence, looked at the giant Neman.
"Good morning," the leader, Horus, said. He spoke Accord Basic, though it carried a thick, unfamiliar accent. "You are good enough to stand?"
Ula kept his fists raised, his eyes darting between the five figures, ready to counter whatever they threw at him. "I've been in worse shape," Ula rumbled, his deep voice carrying the memory of past plasma burns and fractured ribs.
Before Horus could reply, the tent flap opened again. Two Dagmani guards stepped inside to flank the five figures.
Ula's eyes widened. He recognized the pristine white armor of the Accord Legion. Even though the armor was heavily battle-scarred and meticulously reforged with veins of pure, shining gold, the silhouette was undeniable.
"You're Accord Navy," Ula growled, his muscles tensing for a fight to the death.
Horus didn't raise a weapon. He simply tilted his head, a dry, humorless smile touching his lips. "Does the Accord have Dagmani serving under them?"
Ula paused. His mind raced, pulling up old intel reports. He had heard of the Dagmani. He knew about Planet Dagma, it was one of the most recent, brutal subjugation points of the Stellar Accord.
Realization washed over the giant. He wasn't in an Accord black site. He was deep inside another Accord's survivors. Slowly, cautiously, Ula lowered his fists, though he remained standing.
Horus let out a soft sigh, the tension in the room diffusing slightly. "You have been unconscious for an entire week, traveler. How about you eat first?"
Horus looked to his side, nodding to the woman standing next to him.
Ula watched as Nehsy took a step forward. She simply reached her empty hand out into thin air.
Pop.
A large, wooden bowl filled with steaming, rich soup instantly materialized out of absolutely nowhere, resting perfectly in her palm.
Ula stumbled back a half-step, his jaw dropping in genuine, unfiltered shock. As a smuggler who had transported untraceable quantum processors, he knew technology. This wasn't a teleportation matrix. This wasn't a hard-light hologram. This defied the fundamental laws of physics.
"What... what was that?! Irregular solar!!" Ula stammered, staring at the steaming bowl.
Horus smiled, a look of profound, zealous reverence lighting up his dark eyes.
"It is our god, Bepoo's blessing," Horus proclaimed smoothly, gesturing for Nehsy to hand the giant the bowl. "Go on. It will rejuvenate your health."
**A/N**
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~🧣KujoW
**A/N**