..
Riko "This and that are different things. Humph."
She folded her arms defiantly, chin raised.
Hustin, who'd been quietly watching the chaos unfold, slowly turned toward Damian.
Hustin Bright "She's… not gonna attack us again, right?"
He gave Nyxi a sidelong glance, clearly still a little spooked.
Damian "No, it's fine. You can relax."
He scratched his head, the headache finally settling in like an old friend.
'This is going to be a long night.'
---
Location: Fort Sentinel – Sector A, Room HT-43.
Year: 2026.
Date: March 31st.
Time: 9:00 PM.
POV: Third Person.
--
The room was still, illuminated only by a single hanging light bulb. Nine figures sat in uneasy silence—"comfortably" was too generous a word—tension lingering in the air after a small, adorable snake had tried to attack them minutes earlier.
Damian sat with Nyxi coiled snugly around his neck. Beside him on the bed sat Riko, her gaze locked on the snake since the moment she sat down. Above them, in the top bunk, Hannah lay on her side facing the wall, lost in a flurry of thoughts.
Across from Damian sat Amy, Hustin, and Marcus, all lined up on the lower bunk opposite. To their right, on another bunk bed, Lana leaned silently against the concrete wall. And to his left, Kai and Sofia listened quietly from their shared bunk.
Damian sat stiffly, the weight of everyone's attention pressing down on him. He was still trying to figure out how to answer their inevitable questions when a sharp annoyance prickled in his chest—and then a cold, intrusive thought surfaced.
Damian Derulo 'Why the fuck do I have to answer their damn questions? I don't owe them shit.'
That thought grounded him. His breath steadied.
"Three," he said at last, his voice calm but colder than intended. "I'll answer only three questions."
The room stiffened at his tone. Riko blinked, slightly startled, before quickly gathering herself.
Hanabira Riko "What's her name?" she asked immediately, pointing at the snake curled around his neck.
Damian Derulo "Nyxi. Next," he replied shortly, turning to the others.
Marcus scowled at Riko, clearly annoyed that she'd burned one of "his" questions.
Marcus Hale "What kind of dungeon were you in?" he asked—the question that had been on everyone's mind.
Damian Derulo "Sigh... It was called The Eclipsed Labyrinth. A dungeon where the walls and ground shift every day. We were pulled in—forcefully—and found ourselves trapped. Inside, we faced monsters: blood hounds—"
'Still tender... even now. They tore into me like I was nothing. Just meat. And I screamed like I was.'
He paused, memory clawing at him. He instinctively clutched his left shoulder, the phantom pain returning from where a chunk of flesh had once been torn away. He had seen the nasty scar earlier while changing clothes.
"—a towering Wraith Sentinel..." he continued, remembering how it had phased through their attacks, unrelenting. "...Towering Minotaurs wielding massive hammers. Winged, celestial Harbingers attacking from above. A monstrous Chimera..."
Each name came with a vivid recollection, the battles replaying in his mind like a cursed film reel.
"...And then, finally... the dungeon's boss. The Gilded Behemoth."
A heavy silence descended.
"It was a monster," Damian said, his voice distant. "A titan, bigger than giants have any right to be. Its attacks tore through the dungeon ground... and through us."
His eyes swept the room. No one said a word.
"Next question," he added flatly, as if his story hadn't shaken the room to its core.
It took a moment for anyone to find their voice. Then, the last person anyone expected spoke.
Sofia Hayes "You said you and the others were forcefully pulled in... How did that happen?"
All eyes turned to her. Some were annoyed. She ignored them, gaze fixed on Damian.
Damian looked at her with a flicker of disgust but held back. He sighed.
Damian Derulo "I'm not entirely sure... but I have a theory," he said, reaching up to stroke his face out of habit—only to touch his mask instead.
"I think it was because we were in the vicinity of the Dungeon when it was making its appearance... the ground rumbled first. Then we were just... gone."
As soon as he finished, Damian bent down and pulled Luna Fang from beneath the bed. He grabbed his duffel bag and stood.
Marcus Hale "Where are you going?" Marcus asked, watching him gather his things.
Damian Derulo: "Out. For some fresh air. The room's a little stuffy," he said before heading to the door.
Marcus Hale "But we've got more ques—Ummph!"
Hustin quickly covered Marcus's mouth.
Hustin Bright: "Sure, man. Lights out in a couple minutes," he said smoothly. Damian nodded and stepped out, shutting the door behind him.
Marcus Hale "Dude! What was that for?" he complained, prying Hustin's hand off.
Hustin Bright "Marcus, he said three questions. He answered three. He clearly didn't want to answer more," Hustin replied, wiping his hand with a grimace.
But Marcus wasn't ready to let it go. "Yeah, but I've got more questions," he muttered, glancing toward the door.
Riko "Yeah! We wanna know more about Nyxi!" she added.
Marcus "What? No! I wanted to hear more about the dungeon. You wasted a question on the snake's name. And for the record, when he said 'three questions,' he was talking to me."
He shot a glare at Sofia, who ignored it and quietly climbed into the top bunk.
Riko "What?! He was obviously talking to me. I was closest to him!"
As the bickering grew, someone decided to put a stop to it.
Amy Williams "Alright, children. Time for bed."
She immediately regretted it.
Riko "Okay, Mum," Riko teased, smirking as she walked away from Marcus's bed to her own.
Amy flushed, about to bury her face in her hands when she noticed Lana staring blankly at the door. Concerned, she stepped closer.
Amy Williams "Hey, are you okay?" she asked softly, taking her sister's hand.
Lana Williams "Huh? Y-Yeah, I'm good," Lana said with a small smile behind her mask.
Amy "You sure?"
Lana "Mmhmm."
Amy stared a little longer before nodding and whispering in Spanish:
Amy "Alright. Buenas noches, Lana."
Lana "Goodnight, Big Sis." She replied, smiling faintly beneath the mask.
Amy smiled, then turned, she stared at Hannah for a few seconds before she sighed and climbed up to the top bunk above Hustin. Marcus returned to his bed and flicked off the light.
Darkness swallowed the room.
---
Location: Fort Sentinel – Barrack Outskirts, Beneath the Old Oak Tree.
POV: Third Person.
Time: 9:52 PM
--
Outside the Bunker, beneath the watchful gaze of a fractured moon that bled silver light across the earth like a shattered mirror in the sky, Fort Sentinel was alive in muted tension. The cold night air clung to everything it touched, dampening sound and thought alike. Soldiers moved in cautious patterns, their boots crunching softly on gravel and grass, rifles slung over their shoulders like burdens they'd grown too familiar with.
A short distance away from the main entrance to the Bunker, beneath the skeletal canopy of an ancient oak tree whose leaves barely stirred in the windless night, lay a solitary figure.
Damian Derulo.
He rested on the dew-kissed grass, head propped on his makeshift pillow—his duffle bag placed in the best possible angle. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, not for comfort but as though he were bracing himself against the world. Beside him, nestled in the curve of his arm, was Lunar Fang, his sheathed blade. The sword glinted faintly in the moonlight, reflecting not just steel but the weariness of the one who bore it.
Curled like a cat atop Damian's chest was Nyxi, her small serpentine body coiled tightly as she slumbered. Her slow, rhythmic breathing gave him a strange sense of calm, like the ticking of a quiet clock marking the moments between past pain and the unknown future.
His eyes were wide open, staring through the tangle of oak leaves above him. The moon, broken into uneven halves, loomed like a painting unfinished—like an artist had tried to convey a message in light and shadow but had grown weary halfway through. Damian stared at it as though the answer to every question he had ever asked was hidden in its craters.
'If I had lived differently... better,' he thought, the words echoing through the caverns of his mind. 'If I had chosen kindness instead of bitterness... if I had loved instead of hated, forgiven instead of cursed. If I had walked away from the things that crushed me, instead of letting them bury me... Would I be up there now? With You?'
His pupils trembled as unshed emotions bubbled beneath his weary exterior.
'So what happens now? The false prophet? You never mentioned there being zombies or Dungeons in the bible, Is what we-I know really the truth?'
His gaze drifted to the organized chaos surrounding him. Countless tents sprawled across the outskirts of Fort Sentinel like a colony of broken dreams. Some people sat by fires, their voices soft murmurs in the dark; others lay curled in sleeping bags, too tired to hope, too scared to grieve.
'What happens to all of them?' he wondered, his chest tightening. 'When the next wave comes? When the Dungeons burst open or when the monsters slip past the walls?'
A thousand questions clawed at his soul. But then, like a tide receding, the whirlwind of doubt and fear withdrew. A cold clarity washed over him.
'I don't blame anyone for my predicament,' he realized. 'I am still on earth because of the way I led my life, I will face whatever comes next with my head held high.'
His brows furrowed with quiet resolve. The soft beat of his heart echoed louder now, not with fear, but with purpose.
'And if You're out there, God... I'll see You one day. Even if I have to tear through the seven heavens to reach You." He clenched his jaw. "When I do, I'll ask You... why? why you didn't heed my plea 'that day'.'
With a long exhale, he let the final shreds of those burdens dissolve into the night. He closed his eyes, trying to surrender to sleep despite the muffled murmurs, despite the aching weight of the world pressing down on him.
..
.
Meanwhile, Within the Mindspace of Damian Derulo...
Far beyond the boundaries of flesh and bone, deep within Damian's consciousness, existed a realm untethered from reality—a mindspace of impossible beauty and unfathomable terror. A cosmic abyss. Vast and formless. Endless.
Darkness reigned here, not as absence, but as presence. Nebulas swirled like sleeping gods, painting the sky in spectral hues. Stars flickered like ancient memories. And drifting endlessly in this expanse was a floating island of jagged stone, barely large enough to hold the massive obsidian throne that stood at its center.
Upon it sat a being that did not belong—should not exist—yet somehow was.
He was an echo from a shattered timeline. A fractured destiny that had clawed its way back into existence.
He had many names.
Malzion: The Hollowed Echo of the End.
Noctyrous: The Forgotten Heir.
Ashkariel: The Pale Crown of Ruin.
And more but now, he wore a simpler name.
Alter.
His form shimmered with paradox—his presence both radiant and void, his silhouette wrapped in shadow that whispered like smoke. His face was shrouded in divine obscurity, unreadable as the stars, with eyes that =flickered like dying galaxies.
He sat in silence, arms rested loosely on the throne's arms, listening.
Not to the world.
But to Damian.
To himself.
He could hear every thought Damian had spoken beneath the tree. Could feel the flicker of sorrow, the crackle of defiance, the warmth of conviction returning like a forgotten fire.
Alter tilted his head ever so slightly, his gaze drifting from the boy's thoughts to the fragile human vessel in which those thoughts stirred. His gaze pierced beyond the veil, analyzing the subtle shifts in Damian's body.
A faint glow stirred in his chest. A pulse.
Alter 'So it has begun,' Alter thought silently. 'The First Stage of the Transformation... it is irreversible now.'
He leaned back against the throne, and for a moment, his eyes—void-black and infinite—scanned the horizon of his mindspace. Nebulas churned, storms of memory and possibility colliding beyond the reach of comprehension.
And then, softly—almost tenderly—he closed his eyes.
'Don't let them break you, Damian,' Alter thought, his voice a whisper to the stars. 'Don't become... what I did.'
As silence returned to the throne, and darkness enveloped all, the only thing left was the weight of the battles yet to come—and a flickering hope buried in the heart of a boy who still believed, even if he didn't know it yet.
**
| At The same Time |
**
---
[ Location: The 7th Heaven – The Throne Of GOD ]
POV: Third Person.
Time: 10:04 PM
--
The 7th Heaven—final among the celestial realms—was a place no mortal tongue could rightly describe and no human soul could fully comprehend. It was glory made manifest, eternity woven into light. Time dared not tick here; it bowed its head and waited patiently in reverence.
A divine silence enveloped the plane, yet it was not empty. It was rich, filled with the presence of all that was good, pure, and incorruptible. Every breeze carried the weight of ancient songs sung by choirs of seraphim whose wings shimmered like woven sapphire and fire. The very air hummed with creation's original vibration—the Word that once spoke the universe into being.
The skies above shimmered with hues no mortal spectrum had ever known—colors that could only be described as truth incarnate. A million suns lit the heavens, yet none burned nor cast shadow. Instead, their light comforted, embraced, and whispered, "You are home."
Rivers of crystal flowed through meadows of starlight, parting around gardens older than galaxies. Mountains floated midair, crowned in halos of thunder and glory. Structures of impossible architecture—glimmering palaces, golden ziggurats, pillars of translucent energy—rose from divine soil, sustained not by physics, but by purpose. Here, the souls of the Raptured walked in peace, their burdens undone, their songs of sorrow transformed into hymns of joy.
And at the center of it all…
[The Throne.]
Massive. Eternal. Transcendent.
Forged before the beginning of beginnings, it sat at the highest elevation of Heaven—a seat not built, but declared into being. Its foundation was eternity, and its pillars were justice, mercy, and unshakable truth. Light poured from it like a waterfall of radiance, and no darkness dared exist in its presence.
Upon it sat The Being of Light.
HE is the LIVING GOD.
The GOD of Heaven And Earth.
The Eternal Father.
The I AM THAT I AM.
[YWHW]
His form was too radiant to behold, and yet it didn't blind—it illuminated. He radiated power beyond comprehension, holiness beyond the reach of words, and love so infinite that even angels trembled with awe. His very essence sang reality into continued motion. And yet…
…on the Throne's right armrest sat a simple ceramic mug. A soft, earthen brown in color. Humble, almost comically so, juxtaposed with the majesty around it. And within it, a transparent liquid—clear as glass yet filled with softly twinkling stars, miniature galaxies spinning in playful serenity.
He raised the mug with grace that made universes bow, and sipped.
Stillness. Silence.
He lowered the mug gently back to its place—unchanged. Not a single drop less than before. For what can be depleted from That Which Has No Lack?
And then, He heard it.
A whisper in the endless sea of thoughts.
A voice not spoken aloud, but carved in soul, raw and defiant.
|>'And if You're out there, God... I'll see You one day. Even if I have to tear through the seven heavens to reach You. When I do, I'll ask You... why? why you didn't heed my plea 'that day'.'<|
There was a pause. Not in time—but in something deeper. The whole of Heaven seemed to lean in, as if reality itself held its breath.
Then, a sigh.
Low. Gentle. Like thunder softened by grace.
HE focused HIS gaze in front of HIM as if HE was looking at 'someone', before HE shot HIS eyes.
GOD—the Eternal Father—closed His eyes, not in sorrow, nor frustration, but in knowing. He, who is unbound by time, reached out—not physically, but through His sovereign will—and turned His gaze toward the Rivers of Time. They flowed like silver threads woven through the fabric of causality, stretching from Genesis to the Omega, past all endings, into realms even angels feared to tread.
Timelines bloomed before Him like petals of a cosmic lotus—each one a possibility, a reality that could be, had been, or would never come to pass. None of them hid from Him, yet one in particular… called.
A timeline veiled. Hidden from [ALL]
Only He could see it—Well 'someone' let Him see it.
A thread touched not by inevitability… but by freedom.
And in that single, concealed river of fate… He saw it all.
He saw the boy—the one named Damian. He saw him rise, fall, break, build, and bleed. He saw his rage, his sorrow, his love, his hate. And He saw the day… the day he would arrive.
The day the young man would not kneel.
Not beg.
Not even ask.
But storm the gates of Heaven—
—and barge into His presence.
He would come wounded. Unyielding. Eyes filled with tears not of weakness, but of defiance.
And he would stand before the Throne, and demand an answer.
[YHWH] opened His eyes.
Stars trembled. The angels nearby turned away, for none could endure His gaze when it was so focused.
He stared forward now… as if looking past the curtain of time and matter… and directly at someone.
{"This child…"} He muttered softly, His voice gentle thunder.
He smiled.
Not with amusement. Not with mockery.
But with the subtle, aching fondness of a Father who knows what is coming.
Who knows the pain that will forge the man.
And who knows… that one day…
That very man would stand before Him—
—and God would not turn away.
HE looked 'forward', looking at 'someone'.
---
--
-/-
-
Location: Fort Sentinel – Barrack Outskirts, Under the Oak Tree.
Year: 2026.
Date: April 1st.
Time: 5:21 AM.
POV: Third Person.
--
The early morning sky was painted in hues of cold gray and waning blue. The moon and it's fragments, still lingering like a reluctant guardian, slowly retreated beyond the clouds, casting faint silver light upon the rugged grounds of Fort Sentinel. The air was crisp and damp, thick with the earthy scent of morning dew and lingering fog.
Beneath a large ancient oak tree that stood like a silent sentinel on the outskirts of the barracks, Damian Derulo lay curled against the gnarled roots. His clothes were moist, clinging slightly to his frame, soaked from the dense fog that blanketed the fort's edges. His big, once-white shirt had darkened with grime and moisture, and his fingers frequently twitched in his sleep as if fending off the biting cold.
Coiled tightly against his chest, nestled beneath the folds of his shirt, was Nyxi—her small serpentine body absorbing his residual body heat. Her scales shimmered faintly in the dim light, catching moonlight in ripples. Damian had no idea why she hadn't returned to the mystical tattoo form she occupied. Perhaps, like him, she sought the faint comfort of shared warmth.
The sudden rustle of tent flaps and the low murmur of groggy voices stirred Damian from his shallow sleep. Someone nearby had exited their tent, and just like that, Fort Sentinel was beginning to stir. The clatter of armor, the murmur of conversation, and the shifting of weapons echoed softly in the background like an orchestra tuning before a performance.
Damian opened his eyes slowly, breath visible in the cold air. The sky overhead was lightening, the fog lifting, but the chill still clung to his damp clothing.
With a soft grunt, he sat upright.
That motion caused Nyxi to slide slightly down his torso, landing atop his stomach. Her cool body tickled his skin, and Damian flinched with a twitch, biting back a sleepy laugh.
Nyxi groggily peeked her small head out from beneath the shirt and blinked lazily at him with bleary eyes. She slithered out fully and coiled up atop his lap, flicking her tongue as if annoyed by the cold.
The sight made Damian smile behind his mask—a rare and unguarded moment.
'So cute,' he thought, eyes softening.
"Good morning, Nyxi," he said in a low, husky tone.
Nyxi responded with a half-hearted hiss and proceeded to crawl up his chest, coiling herself loosely around his neck like a living scarf. She nestled there, humming softly with her internal warmth, content to stay close to him for just a while longer.
Damian exhaled deeply and slowly stood, stretching his arms upward. The joints in his back and shoulders popped in protest, loosening stiff muscles from another night spent sleeping rough. He reached down and grabbed his makeshift pillow and slung it over his shoulder.
As he looked around, he noticed the rest of the fort slowly coming alive.
Soldiers and wanderers alike were emerging from tents and makeshift shelters, yawning and groaning as they rolled up sleeping mats or tended to small fires. A few muttered complaints carried on the wind, followed by laughter and the occasional clang of metal against metal.
Fort Sentinel was awake.
The smell of wet canvas, steel, and faint morning bread from the mess hall seeped into the air as Damian trudged forward. He weaved between tents, stepping over ropes and avoiding water puddles, his breath forming soft clouds in front of him. His clothes clung to him like cold rags—the once-white shirt now dirt-stained and gray, and his black pants lined with dust and dried mud.
It was uncomfortable, irritating even, but he ignored the discomfort. He had more pressing things on his mind.
His sharp eyes flicked to the distance, where a new watchtower was under construction—its skeletal frame rising defiantly into the morning mist. Nearby, a massive water tank sat securely fenced in, with pipes running along the ground. It was clear this place was built for self-sufficiency. Resourceful. Structured.
A fortress meant to survive chaos.
'This place has everything...' Damian thought, a pang of regret hitting him in the chest. A haven like this, where people were rebuilding, regrouping, holding on... It tempted him.
But he couldn't stay.
His family wouldn't find themselves.
He passed two guards stationed at the bunker's main entrance, nodding politely. They returned the gesture with stoic expressions, their eyes scanning beyond him.
Inside, the bunker's main hallway was already alive with movement. The air was warmer here, filled with noise and light. People moved with purpose—some carrying crates of rations, others inspecting weapons. The metallic scent of oil and the sharp tang of steel mixed with the comforting aroma of baked bread and boiled vegetables.
Damian maneuvered around them, his footsteps light despite his fatigue.
'I'm so hungry...' he groaned internally, his stomach rumbling in agreement. He placed a hand over it as if trying to calm it down.
He continued down the corridor, mind already racing ahead to where he'd find food—or at least someone who could spare some.
And above all, in the back of his mind, a constant echo remained.
He had to keep moving, even if his sore body protested.
Because even after a month, the world outside these walls was still falling apart.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
To Be Continued...
A/n: Any questions you may have, will be answered in discord.