Far from the tomb-black valley, under a dome of glass and filtered sunlight, another world feasted.
Noon light poured through the arched windows of the Ashbourne estate—
one of the last Pure Lands, a preserved bubble of paradise where the air still carried the scent of flowers instead of rot.
To the dying world outside, this place was holy.
To those who lived within, it was nothing more than a cage gilded by survival.
The dining hall was a relic from the age before fire.
Its long table was carved from ancient redwood, inlaid with veins of lapis and amber, polished until every reflection seemed alive.
The chairs were monuments of excess—old-world mahogany fused with gemstone mosaics, armrests cold as bone, cushions faded to a ghost of crimson.
At the head sat Lord Aurelian Ashbourne, patriarch of the house.
White hair, white beard, and eyes shimmering faint silver—the unmistakable mark of an A-rank Psionic, intellect honed to a blade that could cut through thought itself.
He wore a high-collared coat of black silk trimmed with starlight thread, sleeves fastened with sapphire shards that caught and fractured the light.
Every gesture was deliberate, elegant, predatory.
Before him lay a porcelain plate of white, luminescent meat—flesh from a rare mountain beast stabilized by psychic refinement.
Its glow pulsed faintly with energy.
Only a mind strong enough to tame the surge could consume it and live.
Across from him sat Commander Garrick Vale, the family's last S-rank Combatant—a monster in human skin.
His once-golden hair had dulled to iron; the lines on his face etched deep by two centuries of war.
He had outlived kings, cities, and half the human race.
He wore no finery—only a dark combat uniform, sleeves rolled to his elbows.
Before him, a bowl overflowed with nearly raw meat, its blood seeping down the table's gem-lined edge.
He tore into it like a beast, muscles flexing under scarred skin.
The sound of tearing sinew broke the hall's silence.
Blood ran down his arm, thick and steaming.
Lord Aurelian's lips twitched.
He dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin, tone glacial.
"Commander, that particular cut costs more than some cities earn in a month. You might consider savoring it."
Garrick didn't look up.
"Without me, you'd have nothing to savor. That meat's bought with blood, not manners."
Aurelian's faint smile cut like a knife.
"And yet, blood stains fade. Vulgarity does not."
Garrick laughed once, low and rough.
"Keep your silk words, old man. When I'm gone, which of your porcelain heirs will kill for your dinner?"
The air thickened. Silence pressed against their lungs.
Aurelian lifted his glass, its contents glowing faintly with psionic light—wine distilled from vines that only grew on soil rich with corpses.
He turned toward the window, where the wasteland shimmered beyond the dome.
"Do you know why the world still fights for the so-called Pure Lands?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"Because the weak still think purity can save them. Because ordinary men still dream that clean soil and safe crops will keep them human."
He smiled, slow and cruel.
"But purity feeds no one. The Pure Lands are for the powerless—to trickle life into fragile bodies that cannot bear energy.
We have long surpassed such needs."
He gestured toward the table—toward the raw, glowing meat.
"These beasts, these plants, even the dead—each one carries a fraction of the world's last fury. The ignorant eat it and die.
The wise refine it and ascend."
Generations ago, while the rest of humanity starved, the Ashbournes had dissected, tested, and catalogued every form of life that survived the Cataclysm.
They mapped energy resonance, recorded which elements could fuse, which would destroy.
They no longer relied on soil or light.
They had mastered the science of devouring the end of the world.
"Knowledge," Aurelian murmured, "is the only harvest left to reap.
The rest eat by instinct. We, by design."
He raised his glass again, light sliding over the silver in his eyes.
"The ancients once worshiped a god for this—the bringer of seed and law.
The Greeks called him Triptolemus, pupil of Demeter, the one who taught men which roots to eat and which beasts to tame."
Aurelian's tone darkened, his smile spreading slow and terrible.
"But there are no gods left now."
He leaned back, eyes gleaming like polished metal.
"So we became them."
His voice was soft, almost tender—like a confession and a curse.
"We are the gods of the apocalypse.
The world dies, and we feast on its corpse."
Across from him, Garrick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Then pray your divinity eats fast, old man. Because when I die, your heaven goes hungry."
Aurelian chuckled, deep and cold.
"Perhaps," he said, setting the glass down.
"But until then—"
his lips curved like the edge of a blade,
"—we dine."