Achilles stood in a black void, his body formless as if he was a vapour. He couldn't speak, move or do anything really. Gradually a world began to take form, an odour of grease and dust flooded his senses as a room began to take on a dystopian form. Walls, a dull gunmetal grey as large as an auditorium.
Achilles took notice of his own appearance, his form donning an orange hazmat suit; a large grey visor dulling the already dark environment he was in. There were more like him in this room, drones of orange hazmats lined up for a roll call. At the forefront was a raised platform where three lanky figures stood.
Scratch that.
There was no platform, they were in fact levitating. Dressed in long onyx robes with accents of gold dripping off the rough fabric. Their faces weren't visible, Achilles could only make out 3 unblinking glowing eyes from each figure. All of them looking down on the men in orange.
At the room's walls stood brutish men covered in layers of combat gear, each of them holding weapons Achilles had never seen before. He thought to himself.
'How much would that sell for…'
Besides that, Achilles only felt relief for not having to feel the agonising sensation of nausea he felt moments prior entering the Dread. 'I can still taste my vomit' he mused quietly as he let his gaze wander bored as he took in the grandeur of the room.
Gold sigils of a golden half-skull, adorned with a macabre crown of crow beaks plastered all over the walls with the letters scrawled underneath.
'All Hail Our Divine Lord!'
"Cultists… of course… I'm in a room of cultists…" Achilles soured under his breath.
An elbow nudged against his own, startling Achilles from the sudden interaction.
"Shut up #239. Do you want to turn into a sacrifice!"
Glancing to the right, a blank grey visor stared right into him. Achilles then noticed everyone had their own numbers, as in bold black text the man's read '#109'. Achilles then nodded as he retorted in a hushed tone.
"My bad… #109."
#109 shook his head sighing before facing back at the front, his grip on his jackhammer tightening. Achilles glanced down at his own number realising it was as #109 said. His number read in bold black text '#239'.
Abruptly his train of thought came to a grinding halt as one of the three floating cloaked men took out a conch-like object and blew into it. A loud roar bellowed, the already silent room died even more. The sounds of breathing itself were barely audible.
The cloaked-man in the centre rose even higher, Achilles locked eyes with his three burning eyes.
"Servants of the Styxian Lagoon. It is as our Lordship foretold, the temple of our great God lays hidden in this moon. Rejoice as we're aiding our Saviour in returning Him back to this pathetic plane of existence and attaining salvation. OH PRAISE THE DARKNESS BEHIND THE STARS!"
A chorus rang out, repeating the words like scripture 'Oh praise the darkness behind the stars!'. Achilles didn't understand any of this yet he joined on as he did not want to find out the consequences for not taking part.
The man then descended back to the level of his brethren, holding hands with them. In an instant they disappeared into a billow of grey smoke. Its plumes slowly withering away into nothing; guards began escorting the orange hazmats out of the hall as one guard with a blood-red helmet roared.
"EXCAVATION OF THE EASTERN SECTOR BEGINS IN T-30 MINUTES! GET YOUR ASSES READY!"
Achillees followed en suit, clueless to what this excavation was. He was pushed out into a hallway and he fell into a line of orange suits, all marching with their jackhammers. Glancing to his left, Achilles froze as his gaze locked on to a window revealing where he truly was.
He was in a spaceship, outside stars littered the inky black vacuum—more than he'd ever seen in the polluted skies of his home. Not only stars were visible, even through the dull grey visor, he could see the blinding ferocious streaks of light.
An accretion disk.
A Black Hole.
A planetary object of pure annihilation, the 'thing' that breaks the laws of physics itself. Achilles stood in awe as its light left a faint glow on his visor. A butt of a rifle slammed against his back, shoving Achilles ahead, he almost lost balance but kept himself steady.
"Get a move on #239!" A burly armoured guard rasped at him, his helmet that of a gas mask. Crimson red visor staring into Achilles' grey. Achilles nodded, muttering bitterly.
"Aye aye…"
Achilles trudged on as he held in his sour thoughts, 'I'll get him for that.' Following the line, he made his way into a room—its walls lined with pods with room for 5 men in each of them.
Autonomously orange hazmats began filling up these pods, as one was filled its doors would clamp shut as the pod itself would be dropped. Only for an empty one to fall in its place. Achilles made his way into pod #002. He made himself comfortable in the corner sitting against the rough leathery seats, a scent of grease and oil grew stronger here—now much worse due to the lack of ventilation in the pod. Quietly gagging, Achilles buckled his seatbelt, the nylon yellow fabric strapping his torso against the rough leather.
Four more men walked in, all deathly silent as they took their seats like clockwork. Achilles took note of their numbers: #192, #543, #453, #002 and a familiar string of digits #109. #109's visor briefly faced Achilles before blankly strapping himself to the leathery seat.
The pod's door clamped shut. Just then Achilles remembered why he was here—he'd been distracted by this new environment, he forgot to check his quest in this Dread.
'Let's see… how do I do this?'
Remembering popular webtoons he read as a child, Achilles concentrated and thought about phrases like "status", "system" and "information". Indeed, as soon as he focused, shimmering runes appeared in the air in front of him. Alabaster text on an onyx tablet only visible to him.
Although he did not know this runic alphabet, the meaning behind it was somehow translated into english—allowing him to understand its contents.
He quickly found the rune describing his Armaments and Constellation, proceeding to lose his composure.
'What?! What the?! I fucking hate my life!'
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[ NAME ] Achilles
[ GRADE ] Nebula
[ ARMAMENT ] UnLuck
[ CONSTELLATION ] A Bright Torch
[ QUEST ] Survive 24 Hours
[ REMAINING TIME ] 23 Hours, 29 Minutes, 10 Seconds
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