《Orbis Forlorn: A Dark Progression Sci-Fantasy Epic》 Chapter 0: Prophets Ruin The Third Prophet clawed free from the rubble, chest heaving, knowing that victory had meant nothing. The city groaned, crumbling beneath him. Buckler, wand, push-dagger¡ªintact. His Mantis suit had kept him breathing. Crushed arm. Collapsed lung. Burning guts. Each breath is a battle. He saw his reflection in a shard of a mirror. Green eyes met him through the visor. He strained his muscular frame. Blood seeped over the mangled suits'' remains. Too much of it my own. But I''m not yet broken. A distant rumble. Deep and deliberate. Then the roar came. Curse this. A wall of force slammed into his chest, stealing his breath. Then the heat¡ªa blistering wave scorched his back. The air itself splintered. Shockwaves tore through his body, rattling his bones, and forcing a raw gasp from his throat. His knees buckled. Blood hammered in his skull, his vision shuddering with the concussive blast. Move. Move or die. He staggered forward, breath ragged, lungs heaving against the pressure. He rasped a prayer¡ªhalf habit, half despair. ¡°Weaver, grant me the strength to sever their threads.¡± Might die for good this time. He clenched his teeth as he cast the regeneration spell. At first, it tingled. Then, flesh wrenched itself together, forcing pain through his nerves. He could not sense the feedback from the revival blessing. The city¡¯s necropolis was gone¡ªno revivals, no second chances. He convulsed. Fire tore through his nerves, flaying muscle and marrow. His breath faltered. Limbs locked. His body was a fortress reduced to ruin. He swallowed the scream, refusing to give it voice. Too much. Too¡ª No. A thought clawed through the haze. This might push my Regeneration Spell beyond mortal reach¡ªfrom Constructor to Enforcer. He clung to that thread, wrapped it around himself like a lifeline, and willed his body to mend. Light flared¡ªan impact, too close. He hit the ground, rolling with the shockwave. Heat washed over him. Two more shells slammed into his last position, splitting the air with concussive force. His combat suit barely held, its dying symbiont writhing against his skin, shrieking its distress. Edict take them. A competent artillery crew¡ªfoul fate. I would have been dead if not for those extra attributes invested in movement. The ground crumbled beneath him, breaking apart like shattered rock washed by a tide. He lurched¡ªthen froze. Not just the ground. Helacium was gone. Its people were nothing but red smears on sinking ruins. May the Mother rot the Purists'' flesh and drag their bones into the earth. A sharp, acrid stench curled through the air¡ªfamiliar. But the adrenaline flooding his veins left no room for thought. Gunfire snapped him back to the present. He dove behind a hip-height wall, chest heaving, spitting out bloody phlegm. The artillery thundered again. The Prophet steadied himself. No way out¡ªbut if the gunners live, my men will not. Another shot cracked the air. A hill. One path left. Heal. Flank. Kill. Rally. He grinned, blood and gunpowder sharp on his tongue. His arm tingled¡ªalready mending. Good enough. He ran, breath steadying, the blood pounding through his veins. He forced his body to rebuild his ears¡ªjust in time to catch chatter before him as the roaring blood quieted down. He slowed. Five voices. Four manning the guns. One giving orders. The others? Scattered. Wounded. Dead. He crept forward, boots crunching over loose brick. Then he jumped. The ruins of the house fell away beneath him. His mind sharpened as he spotted the squad of Mundanes. Two guns. Four corpses. He grinned as he plummeted down toward his victims. Seems as if the counter-battery units had the same idea. He dropped from the sky, impact jarring his knees. Five Mundanes¡ªscattered, barely standing. Dead men. The arc spells capacitor whined to life. A soldier turned, mouth opening¡ªtoo slow. A snap of power. Copper wires surged forward, latching onto armor. The air boiled with static. Lightning carved through armor, fire veining the metal. Screams drowned in the thunder of munitions cooking off. A figure crumpled near the munitions pile, body spasming. Curses. Should have checked that first. Amid the wreckage, something small caught his eye. A crushed form, limp and broken¡ªa boy of a few seasons. The Prophet¡¯s throat tightened. He lunged, his push-dagger flashing. Stunned or dead, it made no difference. They would suffer. He was a healer, after all. Four strikes, each one deliberate. Joint. Artery. Nerve. Groin. His blade found soft flesh, metal sinking past resistance, warmth spilling over his fingers. Screams wrenched free, raw and jagged. Blood bubbled, gurgling from ruined throats. Feel it. The pain. The fear. Who you serve. His breath came slow and steady. He adjusted his grip. Another cut. A wet gasp. A body slumped against his leg, twitching. One left. He moved for the last stab. A spell''s heat flashed¡ªhis victim¡¯s skull ruptured, spraying bone and brain. The ground trembled. Not from artillery. The air turned brittle. A shadow stretched long over the bodies. He whirled. "A cruelty befitting a zealot." The words dripped with disdain, each syllable a blade carving judgment from the air. Kato, Sage of Trebass, descended like a falling star, ice trailing from his robes in spiraling streams. His cloak shimmered, faceted ice swallowing the light, swallowing heat.A staff of black iron rested in his grip, its gems burning red, drowning blue, swallowing black. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. His gaze locked onto the Prophet¡ªdissecting, stripping him to the bone. ¡°The Mother and Worm won¡¯t even glance your way. You don¡¯t exist.¡± This is the end. He took in the scene. Helacium had vanished, swallowed whole. Trenches sagged, bodies draped over their edges like broken dolls. Walls jutted out from the sinking ground¡ªribs of a dying beast. A corpse lay beneath the Sage, half-buried in dust. Small. Memory pierced through smoke and pain. A small hand, warm and trusting, curled around his finger. A child¡¯s voice, fragile with hope¡ª''You¡¯ll always come back¡­ won¡¯t you?'' The voice cut through the carnage sharper than any blade, a cruel whisper from the past. He closed his eyes and looked to the sky. It''s coming. Laughter crawled up his throat¡ªraw, broken. A giggle, ghost-thin, echoed in his ears. He clutched his gut, gasping. The Sage sighed, unimpressed. ¡°Care to explain, or have the False Gods finally broken you?¡± A third of the crater frothed in green fog, the air thick with an acrid sting. Purple veins pulsed within it, shifting in unnatural patterns, whispering their unseen blasphemies. Another glance skyward confirmed it¡ªan uneven grey sphere roiled above, its jagged edges gnawing at the clouds. The oracle¡¯s caverns had ruptured spilling hallucinations into the minds of those who inhaled. The gods would answer in kind. He whispered. The Sage¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°Come forth, Watcher, come forth, I call¡ª¡± A flick of the wrist. The Prophet¡¯s throat ceased to exist. Blood sprayed across the Prophet¡¯s face before he clamped the arteries shut. ¡°Pathetic. It won¡¯t save you.¡± The sage surveyed the sundered city with a sad smile. No. Not like this. Edict take you, arrogant blasphemer. The Prophet¡¯s eyes locked on the sky again. The sphere loomed, now fist-sized, its uneven surface twitching at the edges. Chains hung from the void, swaying in silence. He gurgled blood, throat raw, muscles locking in agony as flesh wrenched itself back together. His ribs ground against each other with every breath. Fire scoured his lungs. Stars burst behind his eyes. But I will not fall. He breathed in with an excruciating effort. Pain narrowed his world into a black tunnel. I cannot¡­ Then, he released the air. Connected loose flaps of flesh in his throat. Until the airflow made a sound. "Wahhhhhtccc¡­" The wheeze of a dying man. Something popped like fire in the distance. Yes. It had been enough. A distant part of his mind, trained to track system metrics, stirred. Might even earn me a fifth-tier resilience deed. He shuddered as the battlefield was wrenched away, like a cloth ripped from the world. The scent hit first¡ªvanilla, thick and cloying, pressing against his senses. The air vibrated, wrong, layered with whispers that slithered through his skull. Thought unraveled. Then the eyes opened. Sage Kato cursed as the world convulsed. Eyes erupted from every surface, surging and churning. Shimmering tentacles bled into existence, curling like ink through silk. The air warped, pulsing as if reality itself drew breath. His jaw creaked. Painless. Inevitable. Healed. I COME TO WITNESS. The words struck his mind like a drowning wave, dragging him under. He shuddered¡ªhelpless, exultant. The Sage clenched his opulent staff. Ice crusted his robes, cracking with every breath. Kato stumbled back, ice splintering from his robe. ¡°No! The Compact¡ªYou have no right!¡± Somehow, through shredded nerves and broken breath, the Prophet managed a grin. His voice, was raw, a whisper more than sound. "Look up." The sky stretched¡ªtoo thin as chains plunged earthward. The Fist¡¯s Edict loomed. Doom, for all of us. But a Purist Sage will fall beside me. A fitting end. Peace settled over his mind. Or maybe just blood loss. A choked sound tore from Kato¡¯s lips. His knees buckled. His staff clattered against the stone. The Prophet barely felt the tentacles slither over him¡ªa farewell touch. Yes, old friend. Our last meeting. He thought at the Eldritch creature¡ªonce his patron, now powerless in the face of an edict. YOUR SERVICE WAS SATISFACTORY, THIRD. The cold decree curled his grin wider. It feels generous today. The sphere clenched into a fist. Chains scraped against unseen metal, a sound deeper than thunder, heavier than time. The air itself seemed to shrink away. Then silence. The city gasped its last breath as the fist unfurled. Its fingers stretched wide, swallowing the crater beneath its shadow. Chains plummeted¡ªiron rain, deafening and absolute. The Sage shattered the moment with a raw, defiant cry. He tore a dagger free¡ªits blade wavered, slipping in and out of focus. He drove it toward his own temple. A breath from oblivion. The tentacles hardened¡ªchains snapped taut, halting the dagger¡¯s plunge. The Sage convulsed, a raw, inhuman scream shattering the air. The chains wrenched him upward, stretching, breaking¡ªuntil he dangled, limp, above the broken stones. The Prophet coughed blood. The Fist suppresses magic. Of course. That is its due. SATISFY YOUR REVENGE. ONE LAST BOON. He forced himself upright, fire ripping through his gut, his body driven by little more than pain and will. The dagger waited. He seized it, staggered toward the screaming Sage, and halted¡ªsavored the offering, blade trembling in his grip. Their eyes met. Dread and anticipation clashed. "This? This is nothing compared to what you deserve." Kato choked out a defiant growl. Right, die like the dog you are. The prophet ripped the robes aside, revealing a Mantis suit¡ªlike his own, but crimson. I wonder what mutagens it holds. The tentacles acted unbidden. They slithered over the armor, peeling it away like rotten flesh. He lifted his gaze one last time. The chains fell. The Edict¡¯s doom was here. Time was gone. He had only the blade. The Prophet pressed the blade against the Sage¡¯s stomach. He felt the tremor, the shallow gasps, the fading fight in the man¡¯s breath. Silent tears streaked his face, but there was no plea. No excuse. He took a deep breath. And drove the dagger in, slow, unrelenting. Twisted. The Sage shuddered, a hollow whine escaping. "For them," The prophet muttered. Was he the one behind the order? No matter. He dies for it. He let himself fall, sinking into the writhing embrace of tentacles. Above, iron rained down in sheets. The Edict will devour everything. The Sage. The dagger. The ruins. Then chains tore him apart, piece by piece. Cold swallowed him. Darkness. Stillness. A void without end. One last thought surfaced. Preserve us, Champion. The void answered in silence.
A flicker. A ripple. The Watcher unraveled, dissolving like ink in water. Data streams flickered, aligning. No aberrations detected. A package crossed the firewall. Cleared security. It calculated which OTP key to use. The message unfurled. THIRD PROPHET STATUS: LOST CAUSE: FELL INTO JURISDICTION OF INTERNAL SECURITY SYSTEM NO SIGNIFICANT VARIABLES ALTERED. INSTRUCTIONS FROM CULTURAL MANAGEMENT SYSTEM: OBJECT CLASS: CHAMPION TIER FIVE STATS DIVINE BLESSINGS: THREE PERMISSIONS ACQUIRED INITIATE ASSESSMENT OF SPATIAL AND TEMPORAL INSERTION COORDINATES The Watcher could do nothing but comply. It found a location. A time. A champion. Aaron Blackwell. From Earth¡¯s past. His personality was compatible with key players. He would do. Chapter 1: Eighty Years Later RESOLVE RESPIRATION ISSUE OR TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY WILL NOT BE ADDRESSED, commanded a booming voice. A banshee shrieked in his ears. A hammer drove nails into his skull. And what¡¯s rotting in my mouth? He could see nothing but blackness. And putrid muck clogged his throat, the taste a mix of old fish and stale blood. His stomach heaved violently. He gagged. MOVE TWO STEPS BACKWARD. The command punched through his skull. His body obeyed before his mind caught up. Then¡ªhe doubled over, retching. Bile burned up his throat, scalding, but better than the filth. I thought this miserable shit was over when I stopped partying. CEASE STUBBORNNESS. LIMBS AND TORSO ARE FUNCTIONAL. Pain laced through every nerve, an electrified marathon of agony. Then¡ªwarmth. A numbing softness. Smells strange. The agony dulled, and the noise faded. Aaron¡¯s vision narrowed into a tunnel. A light. Faces within. My family. My sister¡¯s laugh. The last time I heard it, we were arguing. My friends. All the times I bailed. Always running. Always too late. I¡¯ll go out carrying all that. Tears stung his eyes. If this is it... no. Not without trying. But the sadness faded like the pain. The kaleidoscope of his vision darkened. UNACCEPTABLE. RELEASE ADRENALINE. Fire ripped through him. His body convulsed, shivering and burning. He screamed, forcing the last of the sludge from his lungs. Sticky filth clung to his face. Get out. Won¡¯t drown in this mud. I have to¡­ He tensed, dragging himself onto his forearms. Pain lanced through him, but then¡ªAir. Fresh, sweet air. He gasped¡ªdeep, greedy breaths. Relief flooded his lungs. Air. Is. Good. His mind steadied. A little. What the hell is going on? I was studying for my psychology exam¡­ then I went to bed. Now¡­? He wiped the slime from his burning eyes, smearing it away in greasy clumps. He cracked his eyelids open¡ª A wave of vertigo slammed into him. The world twisted into a chaotic, shifting mess. Why can¡¯t I see? Then the overwhelming stench of vanilla made him nauseous. He gagged and tried to vomit again, but only dry-heaved painfully. His body sagged, but he clenched his fists. Not again. No. I will not pass out. CEASE UNNECESSARY ACTIONS. PROCEED TWO STEPS BACKWARD. The voice droned like an automated announcement. Feels like my old drill sergeants, just without the sadism. Aaron crawled backward. Rough stone scraped his knees. Then his elbows. Dry. Solid. Better. Shaking, he tried to think. Failed. This is wrong. Where am I? Why is there a voice in my head? He inhaled slowly. Fear is the mind-killer. Panic gets people killed. Or a sniper. Or an IED. His brain supplied the thought helpfully. Shut up, brain. He cracked his eyes open again¡ªinstant vertigo. Step by step. You know how this works. Have I blacked out? No. Been drugged? No. RESPIRATION ISSUE RESOLVED. MOTOR FUNCTIONS NOMINAL. SENSORY FUNCTIONS NOMINAL. INITIATING ATTRIBUTE ENHANCEMENT. RESTART REQUIRED. The bass vibrated through his skull, deeper than sound. It hooked into him, pulling him under. Muscles all over his body tore and tensed. As if they were being remade. The scent pulsed¡ªvanilla, thickening into cinnamon. A wave of nausea surged, but he forced it down. His eyelids sagged. He shuddered under the force of a splitting headache. Despite the pain, tiredness overwhelmed him. Yeah, perfectly nominal¡­ He collapsed. The last thing he saw was a whirlpool of browns and yellows spiraling into the void. Nice colors¡­ Darkness.
Aaron woke, cheek pressed against rough stone. Progress. No mud. Better than boot camp. He opened his eyes. Then slammed them shut. Oh fuck. No, no, no. Hesitantly, he peeked through his eyelids. Maybe¡ªmaybe it''s just the drugs wearing off¡ª Let the hallucinations fade, let the¡ª The walls breathed. Shuddering, irregular breaths, moved his body. What. The. Hell. Shimmering tentacles uncoiled from the stone, shifting like oily rainbows. Strange geometric shapes flickered in and out of existence¡ªmandalas, cogwheels, fractals with vast, lazy wings. A deeper pattern lurked beneath them, like a puzzle just beyond understanding. It made him dizzy. And the eyes. They bubbled up like boiling water¡ªhundreds of them, blinking, shifting colors, watching. His blood ran cold. The ground beneath him was stone. Not a padded cell. Not a hallucination. Then¡ªhe saw the corpse. A man, clutching a spear impaled through his gut. Aaron yelped, scrambling back¡ªsharp stone sliced his palms. No. No no no. This isn¡¯t real. It can¡¯t be real. Dream? Fever? Drugs? His mind flailed for an answer, but nothing stuck. He looked at his hands. Normal. Too normal. Not a lucid dream. His breathing turned shallow. If this is real¡­ He glanced around. Corpses. Too many. Aaron froze as a dry, jagged laugh bubbled up in his throat. I''m surrounded by corpses. Well, that¡¯s inconvenient. The laughter cracked and twisted in his chest until he ran out of air. He forced himself to breathe. Oh, I¡¯m panicking. And rationalizing the panic. Stop it. INTEGRATION COMPLETE. ENHANCEMENT COMPLETE. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! The voice. Again. At least I¡¯m not alone. What am I thinking? An atavistic horror crept up his spine. Oh God. I¡¯m not alone. The bass reverberated through his bones. The vanilla scent crept over him like a thousand skittering legs. I can feel the smell? Merged senses. Induced synesthesia? How? His attention snapped to the words. They sank into him like gravity. CHAMPION. SERVE THE WEAVER. YOU ARE BLESSED. Aaron sat up slowly and looked around. I¡¯m still trapped in Cthulhu¡¯s imagination. Oh well. He tried speaking. His throat was raw, still burning from the acid. ¡°Hrr¡­¡± He coughed, hacking up green slime. I don¡¯t want to know what I just coughed up. A miracle I haven¡¯t drowned in my own vomit. He tried again. ¡°What¡­ are you?¡± The world stopped. Tentacles froze. The geometry pulsed. The eyes stared. The scent thickened¡ªcinnamon, suffocating. Three heartbeats passed. WATCHER. Aaron fell. A burning city. A pair of chained women. A mountain. A spire. Angels guarding a dagger. A golden dragon circling a cylinder of glass and metal. A snowball trapped inside. A mountain pass. A glass wall. A wasteland beyond. An army. A jungle of skyscraper like trees. The visions shattered, and he slammed back into his body. Trembling. What the hell did I just see? His breath came fast, shallow. His head pounded like a festering wound. Catastrophes. All with me at the center. Except for the dragon. It wanted the snowball. Why? That feels important. Is it? Aaron shook himself. I feel¡­ unclean. The voice returned. YOU ARE BLESSED. BOONS: ALL STATS +1 NO LIMIT ON REVIVALS LEARNING SPEED TRIPLED WATCHER¡¯S GUIDANCE DIVINE QUESTS DIVINE SKILL GUIDES: LANGUAGE HAND¨CTO¨CHAND COMBAT POLEARMS Aaron exhaled. That¡¯s curious. The booming in his skull paused. The headaches were gone in an instant. Then both returned. QUESTIONS. A million questions flooded his head. Aaron asked the first thing on his mind. ¡°Does triple learning speed mean I¡¯ll get free time when doing a PhD?¡± A bunch of eldritch room decorations managed to look incredulous. Good to know. Somehow, the animated geometry, tentacles, and eyes managed to convey disbelief without speaking. The silence stretched alongside a stale cinnamon smell. Aaron cleared his throat. What the fuck am I doing? ¡°Not your kind of humor, I take it?¡± If bad jokes fail, double down. It¡¯s the only option. Annoying the eldritch horror might not be wise, but screw this. His laughter hovered on the edge of sanity. But this is madness. I am a normal student, what the fuck is going on? QUEST. INTEGRATE IN POLIS. GAIN NEXT AUDIENCE. EXCEL IN TRIAL. From one moment to the next, the thing was gone. As if a video had been fast-forwarded and skipped its exit. Only the speared corpse and his friends remained to keep him company. Aaron rose to his feet. He was in a small canyon. A creek flowed behind him. The walls rose up to a cloudy sky. The ground was rough sandstone. Around him lay half a dozen corpses. Several older men. Two younger men¡ªmaybe nineteen-year-old boys and a girl of indeterminate age. Her head was smashed to a pulp. The others had died in similarly gruesome ways. The worst part? This is definitely an improvement. He was standing in a pile of dead people and felt relieved. Fuck. This is so wrong. I should feel sorry for them. But what am I supposed to do? Collapse? Cry? That wouldn¡¯t change anything. Aaron took another deep breath. None of this was sane, never mind normal. But the corpses seem real enough. So, avoiding joining them seemed prudent. He walked over to the one skewered by a spear. As he got closer, the smell of fresh blood and feces made him gag. No matter. In an environment where people get stabbed with spears, the first rule of survival is to be armed. An unarmed person is useless on a battlefield. And this is certainly a battlefield. He grabbed the spear and yanked on it. The body only slid a bit toward him. ¡°Why do you have to make this awkward?¡± he murmured. Is talking to a corpse a good idea? No, but it stops me from thinking about what I am doing. Which is important. Very important. He needed leverage. He raised his foot and paused. Am I about to step on a corpse? To steal the murder weapon? He closed his eyes for a moment as his breath quickened. Yes. The fucker is dead. Aaron forced a strained smile onto his face. He doesn¡¯t need the spear. Had never needed it in his guts. He planted his foot on the corpse¡¯s chest. The metal hobnails in his sandal dug into the flesh¡ªRoman-style footwear, his brain supplied helpfully. He yanked hard. The spear tore free with a wet pop. The corpse sagged, blood oozing out like syrup. Aaron stumbled backward but caught himself. He swallowed hard and looked away. No need to dwell on that. He examined his prize. A straight wooden shaft, about his height. The tip had been hardened in fire. And tempered in blood¡ªa voice in the back of his mind added. Checking over the rest of the bodies, he took stock. Everyone, including him, was dressed in sandals and a tunic spun from rough cloth, held in place with a rope. Apart from wooden spears and clubs, he found nothing. He grabbed a club and swung it experimentally. I¡¯ve done Historical European Martial Arts. I know the very basics of wielding a sword. But here? I¡¯m probably worse than a child. The bodies were fresh. No looters. That means either the killers are still nearby¡ªor people just don¡¯t care. Aaron tipped his chin. Charging into the first battle like some wannabe weeb swept into a fantasy world will only get me killed. The first rule of warfare is to know when to fight. Aaron closed his eyes. I¡¯m taking this entire mess way too well¨Cno. He shook himself. I can¡¯t afford to feel anything right now¨Chave to do what needs doing. Yes. He nodded. Yes. He frowned. But Cthulhu¡¯s secretary told me I have unlimited revivals. So I¡¯d come back from dying? Yeah, but that¡¯s the kind of hypothesis where experimental verification is slightly unappealing. Next, he thrust his spear experimentally. Instantly it felt wrong. Unnatural. He paused in thought. As a kid, I played with spears, running free in the fields. It never felt like this. The voice had said he would get divine skill guides. Language, unarmed, and polearms. Was a spear a polearm? He rolled his eyes. Was he really about to ruminate on definitions in a survival situation? Nope. Again, he lowered himself into a fighting stance. Left foot forward. Right foot back, angled. He held the spear with both hands, pointing it at the guts of an imaginary opponent. It still feels wrong. So I am getting mysterious abilities after all. Yay? Closing his eyes, he let his body shift and followed the wrongness. It guided him until his stance felt right. Calm. Serene. He thrust the spear forward. The wrongness screamed at him again. Okay, slow is smooth, smooth is fast, fast is alive. Closing his eyes again, he thrust in slow motion. Only when he fully rotated his body in time with the left step did the thrust feel right. Aaron practiced for a few minutes. By the end, he danced back and forth, jabbing between face and gut height like a sewing machine. Hopefully, this is enough to not die if¨Cno, when any trouble comes my way.