Of Mistians and Men
Ovid laid sprawled on the cold, damp floor of the Eastern Mist Sea. The ground beneath him wasn’t natural earth but a macabre mixture of crushed bones and congealed blood—centuries of carnivorous evolution compacted into a sinister foundation. In this ecosystem, only the ruthless survived, and those who faltered often ended their days facedown in the scarlet mire. Ovid was no exception. Yet, unlike the countless others who perished before him, he stirred once more—a defiance against the impossible.
Ovid had breathed his final, tortured breath. The breach in his submistial armor had allowed the mist to flood in, choking the life from his lungs as it seared his flesh with its caustic touch. Death claimed him in agony, alone and abandoned in the vast abyss. Yet, against all odds, no mistian descended to devour his lifeless corpse. Instead, the mist claimed him entirely, enveloping him like a shroud. It seeped into every crack and hollow of his armor, coursing through his veins, and saturating his blood with cruxium’s eerie radiance.
Hours passed before his eyes snapped open. He gasped for air, expecting agony but finding none. He inhaled deeply, and though his lungs filled with mist instead of air, it didn’t matter. The mist no longer harmed him; it coursed through him, healing and sustaining him. Yet his memories were fragmented, clouded as heavily as the depths around him.
The last memory he could piece together was returning home to Ivrea after eight long years of military service. He was 23 then, fresh out of the Aenean Navy. His transport ship had soared over the horizon toward Grus, where he’d spotted his parents waiting for him at the Ivrean docks. His father stood proudly beside their gleaming automobile—one of the first of its kind to grace this side of the Empire. Ovid had known what awaited him: the expectation to take over Monstrum, the family’s storied mistian-hunting empire.
Once, the idea had thrilled him. As a boy, he’d dreamed of stepping into his ancestor Gallus of Melia’s footsteps, inheriting the legacy of one of the Empire’s most renowned oil producers. But the war had changed him. Years aboard the Decan XII-X, defending the Empire’s northern frontiers from Zhang raiders and smuggler ships, had left his body intact but his mind weary. By the time his transport ship neared Grus, Ovid wanted no part of Monstrum. He longed for a quiet life—family, simplicity, peace. He had prepared himself to tell his father as much.
But that memory now felt distant, dreamlike. Standing at the bottom of the Great Mist Sea, his last clear recollection was stepping off that transport ship. How had he ended up here?
Ovid staggered to his feet, dazed, his legs trembling beneath him. He instinctively drew the short sword sheathed at his side—the only piece of equipment still intact after whatever calamity had befallen him. The mist around him was an impenetrable veil, painted in muted shades of bone and blush, its soft taupe glow emanating an eerie warmth that offered no comfort. He could see no more than a meter ahead.
In the distance, the howls and screeches of mistians echoed through the gloom, the guttural roars of predators stalking unseen prey. Among them, the ambrogs were at work, scurrying about to tend to their eternal flames—pale, flickering bastions of light kept alive by consuming the bones and scraps fallen from the surface. The flames were more than illumination; they were survival. Without them, even the ambrogs’ keen eyesight was rendered useless in the endless mist.
Ovid stumbled forward, driven by instinct to find one of these flames. He knew the risks: flames attracted predators, but staying adrift in the darkness was a death sentence. The thick, viscous mist clung to his armor, and though it no longer burned his flesh, its weight pressed on him with oppressive force.
As he moved, the snarls and hisses of unseen creatures grew louder, echoing through the dense mist. Shadows writhed at the edges of his vision, their distorted shapes clawing at his fraying nerves. Every step forward felt like a gamble, but Ovid gritted his teeth and kept moving. The sliver of steel in his hand felt pitiful against the monstrous silhouettes lurking in the haze. His knuckles were white beneath his gauntlets, and his breaths came shallow and sharp.
Ahead, the faint glow of an eternal flame pierced through the murky expanse, distorted and haloed by the ever-shifting mist. It wasn’t salvation—not yet—but it was a start, a goal to fixate on. Survival demanded momentum, and for Ovid, survival also demanded clarity.
He advanced cautiously, his boots crunching against the grotesque floor. Then, the noises changed. Footsteps—too many, too close. Low grunts and guttural snarls surrounded him, coming from every direction. His instincts screamed of an ambush.
Panic surged, but Ovid pushed it down. Move. Adapt. Survive. He bolted toward the fire, shedding pieces of his damaged submistial suit and the armor atop of it as he ran, discarding anything that weighed him down. His broad shoulders and towering frame became a weapon unto themselves as he barreled through the ambrogs that lunged to intercept him. A sharp upward slash caught one across its grotesque face, spraying dark ichor into the mist. Another ambrog, smaller but fast, lunged at his side. Ovid swung a gauntleted fist, connecting with a sickening crack that sent the creature sprawling.
At last, he broke free and reached the eternal flame. He turned, chest heaving, and raised his sword with renewed determination. The fire danced behind him, casting long shadows of both mistians and man as Ovid planted his boots firmly on the mist-choked ground. His eyes burned with defiance.
“Come on, then, you fuckers!” he roared, the words tearing out of him like a battle cry.
The flickering light revealed his adversaries. Sixteen ambrogs surrounded him, their emaciated forms half-hidden by the mist. Their ribs pressed against their pale, leathery skin, and their elongated limbs twitched with predatory intent. But it was the alpha that drew Ovid’s focus. Over three meters tall, it loomed above the others, its eyes gleaming with cruel intelligence as it bared rows of serrated teeth.
The pack hesitated. These creatures were scavengers by nature, opportunistic and cunning, but not built for prolonged combat. Still, the alpha’s roar cut through the air like a whip, spurring the others into action. One lunged first, propelled by its long legs with terrifying speed. Ovid pivoted, his sword arcing in a deadly sweep. Steel met flesh, severing the ambrog’s outstretched arm. It collapsed with a screech, writhing in agony.
Three more rushed him, emboldened by the first attack. Ovid moved with a fluidity he didn’t know he possessed, sidestepping one while driving his blade into the chest of another. He pulled the sword free in a spray of ichor and spun to meet the third, cleaving it down with a brutal overhand strike. His breaths came in ragged gasps, but the mist pouring into his lungs didn’t choke him—it invigorated him. Power coursed through his veins, sharp and primal, heightening his senses and amplifying his strength.
The surviving ambrogs paused, their malformed heads tilting as they studied him. This was not the prey they had expected. The alpha let out another guttural roar, its clawed feet scraping against the ground as it charged. The earth trembled beneath its weight, and the remaining ambrogs followed in its wake, a wave of gaunt, ravenous bodies.
Ovid didn’t wait. He sprinted forward, closing the gap between himself and the alpha. The creature swung a massive arm, claws slicing through the mist like scythes. Ovid ducked low, feeling the rush of air as the claws passed just above his head. With a feral shout, he drove his sword upward, aiming for the creature’s exposed abdomen. The blade sank deep, and the alpha howled in pain, staggering back.
The other ambrogs seized the moment, swarming Ovid with frantic, jerking movements. He lashed out wildly, cutting down two in quick succession, but their sheer numbers overwhelmed him. Claws raked against his armor, tearing at the remaining pieces. He felt their weight pressing him down, their foul breath hot against his neck as their dirty nails sunk into his flesh.
Desperation ignited something deep within him. The mist around him seemed to respond, coiling and swirling like a living thing. With a roar that rivaled the alpha’s, Ovid thrust his arms outward. The mist exploded in a violent surge, throwing the ambrogs back as if they were weightless. For a moment, silence reigned.
The alpha rose again, bloodied but undeterred, its massive frame heaving as its pale, luminous eyes locked onto Ovid. With a roar that shook the mist around them, it charged. Ovid stood his ground, his veins now glowing faintly with an otherworldly hue—the soft, brownish-pink light of the mist coursing through him, filling him with raw, primal energy.
They collided with earth-shaking force, the alpha’s claws raking against Ovid’s gauntlet as he caught its arm and twisted violently, eliciting a guttural howl of pain. Ovid drove his fist into the creature’s gut with enough force to make it stagger back, clutching its midsection. But there was no time to revel in the small victory. The remaining ambrogs, sensing their alpha’s struggle, began to circle.
Ovid turned on them, the glow in his veins intensifying. His breaths were shallow but steady, and his blood-soaked clothes glistened faintly in the eternal flame’s light. With a snarl, he leapt toward the nearest ambrog, moving faster than he thought possible. His hand plunged into its brittle ribcage, tearing out its innards in one fluid motion. The creature crumpled with a shriek as Ovid spun to the next, his sword forgotten in favor of his bare hands.
Another ambrog lunged at him, its claws outstretched, but Ovid intercepted it mid-air, grabbing it by the neck. With a sickening crack, he wrenched its head to the side, flinging its limp body into another approaching creature. His newfound strength was overwhelming, intoxicating. The mist seeped into his skin with every breath, dulling the searing burn of the blood that covered him. Instead of weakening him, the ichor only seemed to fuel his unrelenting power.
The alpha, now recovered, let out an ungodly roar that sent the remaining ambrogs scattering into the darkness. The lesser creatures disappeared, their howls fading into the distance, leaving only Ovid and the alpha in the circle of flickering light.
The beast charged again, its immense hands clenched into fists. Ovid, soaked in mistian blood and trembling with energy, answered with a battle cry of his own. His roar was human but carried a primal, guttural edge, reverberating through the mist as he met the alpha’s charge head-on.
The alpha raised both massive arms high, intending to crush Ovid beneath its weight, but Ovid was faster. He slid under the crushing blow, feeling the rush of air as the ground behind him cracked under the impact. In one fluid motion, he sprang up and leapt into the air, his fist connecting with the alpha’s jaw in a devastating uppercut. The sheer force of the blow sent the creature reeling, crashing onto its back with a thunderous impact that shook the ground.
Before the alpha could recover, Ovid was on it. He climbed onto its massive chest, his glowing veins casting an eerie light over the creature’s battered face. With every ounce of his newfound strength, he drove his fists into its skull. The alpha roared and thrashed, but Ovid was relentless. Blow after blow, his fists cracked through bone and cartilage until the alpha’s head was a pulpy, unrecognizable mess.
When it was finally still, Ovid remained on top of the lifeless body, his chest heaving. The mist around him seemed to quiet, its oppressive weight lifting for the briefest of moments as though it, too, acknowledged his victory. Blood, dark and viscous, dripped from his bare hands, pooling onto the cracked ground beneath him. His breath came in steady gasps, and though his body screamed for rest, he refused to yield to the weakness.
The other ambrogs had scattered, their cowardly retreat ensuring they would not return. Ovid staggered to his feet, the glow of his veins beginning to dim as the mist’s power within him waned, like an ember cooling after the fire. Yet, even now, his body trembled—not with fear, not even with exhaustion, but with the raw, overwhelming sensation of what just occurred.
Ovid had not merely survived. He had conquered. The mist had tried to consume him, and instead, he had bent it to his will. That wasn’t just a fight for survival. It was a declaration. Ovid was no prey, no scavenger’s meal. He was a Grusian Hunter, reborn in the depths of the Great Gas Sea—and he would not fall again.
Ovid moved toward the eternal flame, its unwavering glow cutting through the mist’s thick gloom. Bloodied but unbroken, he crouched and retrieved his sword from the ground, its once-sharp edge now dulled and pitted from the battle. He carried it to the fire and thrust it into the flames, watching as sparks erupted into the air, the blade turning orange from the heat. The weapon had served him well, but it was no longer enough.
He looked at his hands, stained with the ambrogs’ blood—an almost black ichor with hints of brown and dark red. The substance seeped into his skin, a sensation both alien and exhilarating. His body had changed. There was no denying it now. Whatever had happened when he awoke in the mist, his very being had become something new. His flesh, once so vulnerable, now thrived on the mist’s energy. Each drop of cruxium coursing through his veins was intoxicating, empowering him with strength beyond anything he had ever known.
Ovid remembered reading about Epithets as a child in the Crux—the ancient blessings said to be gifts from the gods. As someone who had never fully believed in the Poly-Cruxist teachings, he had dismissed them as myths, stories told to inspire faith. But now, standing here, he could no longer deny their truth. He felt the power of Crux within him, as if some divine force had granted him a second chance. And he would not waste it. He would not die again—not here, not now.
As the blood of the ambrogs evaporated from his skin, his wounds healed with unnatural speed. The pain subsided, replaced by an eerie calm. But peace was short-lived in this hostile world.
A shrill, piercing cry split the air, followed by another. Ovid’s head snapped up, his glowing eyes scanning the misty void above. Winged shadows began to emerge, descending in tight spirals toward the eternal flame. Harpies. They had smelled the carnage, drawn by the promise of flesh to feast on. Their jagged wings sliced through the air, and their screeching calls echoed like the wails of the damned.
As they neared the ground, their cruel forms became clear. Thin, sinewy bodies with elongated limbs and razor-sharp talons, their faces were twisted mockeries of humanity—eyes sunken, mouths filled with needle-like teeth. The harpies were also scavengers by nature, but they were far deadlier than the ambrogs in flight.
Ovid’s knuckles whitened. His veins reignited with the eerie glow of the mist. He wasn’t sure he could withstand the onslaught, but it didn’t matter. He had no choice but to fight.
The first harpy dove, talons outstretched, aiming to rip him apart in a single, brutal strike. Ovid sidestepped at the last moment, grabbing it by its leg. He swung the harpy, sending it crashing to the ground with a guttural shriek. He tore its leg off with its razor sharp talons, using the limb as a new makeshift weapon.
Before he could catch his breath, two more harpies descended, attacking in tandem. One clawed at his left side, raking his armor and tearing through the exposed fabric beneath, while the other slashed at his head. Ovid ducked, grabbing the first harpy by its leg and slamming it into the ground with enough force to shatter bone. The second swerved, its claws just grazing his shoulder as it veered upward for another attack.
The mist surged into him again, fueling his movements. He spun, faster than any human should have been able to, and hurled his mistian weapon at the retreating harpy. The talons speared through its chest, pinning it to the ground.
Another screech filled the air as three more harpies dove toward him. Ovid roared, his voice raw and guttural, as he leapt to meet them mid-air. His glowing veins pulsed brighter as he drove his fist into one’s torso, crushing it on impact. The others swarmed, talons slashing at his back and arms, but he tore through them with his bare hands, ripping wings from sockets and hurling bodies into the eternal flame.
When the last harpy fell, its charred remains smoldering in the firelight, Ovid stood amidst the carnage, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. Blood—both his own and that of his enemies—coated him like a second skin. The mist seemed to swirl around him, both watching and waiting.
He was alone again, but not for long. The mist was never truly still. Something else would come, something stronger. Ovid could feel it in his bones.
Ovid wiped the blood from his face, his chest rising and falling with exhaustion, and turned his gaze back toward the eternal flame. “If this is my rebirth,” he muttered, his voice hoarse but resolute, “then let the mist send its worst. I’ll tear it all down.”
The eternal flame flickered, as if answering his challenge. In the distance, the howls of mistians echoed through the dense haze, the scent of fresh blood and burning flesh drawing them like moths to a flame. He knew it wouldn’t be long before another horde descended upon him. Even with his newfound abilities, exhaustion clawed at his limbs, threatening to overtake him.
His vision, however, had sharpened. The mist that once shrouded everything in obscurity now seemed almost transparent to him. He could see further into the haze than ever before, catching glimpses of shapes darting in the distance. Shadows danced at the edges of his perception, and he realized with grim clarity that the eternal flame was no longer a sanctuary—it was a beacon, exposing him to every predator in the mist.
Before something worse than ambrogs or harpies appeared, Ovid made his decision. He turned and ran, leaving the carnage behind as he disappeared into the mist. After putting a good distance between himself and the flame, he paused and glanced back. A new battle was brewing as larger mistians converged on the corpses he had left behind. They snarled and sized each other up, vying for dominance over the spoils. Ovid exhaled in relief and turned forward, his steps steady but cautious as he searched for shelter.
Relying on his enhanced senses, he avoided further confrontations, eventually stumbling upon the wreckage of a recent airship crash. It was a Grusian vessel, unmistakably one of his father’s Monstrum ships. The damage told a grim tale: the balloon had been shredded, likely by harpies, while the hull bore the scars of a leviathan’s wrath. Grusian Hunters were among the wealthiest in the Empire, but their work came at a steep cost—this wreckage was a stark reminder of that.
The ship smoldered in the mist, its engines hissing and crackling. The stern had crumpled under the impact, but the midsection and bow remained mostly intact. Ovid climbed inside through a gaping hole in the hull. The interior was a chaotic mess: debris, weapons, and shattered equipment littered the floor. Flickering lights cast eerie shadows that lingered longer with each cycle.
Five corpses were strewn across the wreck, their bodies broken and lifeless. Three had managed to don their submistial suits before the crash, but none had survived—or so Ovid thought. A faint sound caught his attention: a moan, barely audible over the crackling of the flames. He spotted movement beneath a collapsed bunk, a hand twitching weakly.
Ovid rushed over, shoving aside the debris. Beneath it, a Grusian Hunter laid dazed, his submistial suit battered but intact. The man blinked, disoriented but alive.
“Where… am I?” he rasped.
“You crashed,” Ovid replied, quickly checking him for injuries. “Do you remember what happened?”
The man’s gaze drifted past Ovid, his mind struggling to piece things together. “We harpooned a leviathan… a big one. Then harpies swarmed us—tore the balloon to shreds before we could fight back. I just remember putting on my suit and hiding like the others.”
“Where were you when you went down?” Ovid pressed.
“Off the edge of Grus,” the man said, his confusion giving way to wariness as he studied Ovid. “Wait… who are you? How are you alive without a submistial suit?”
Ovid hesitated before answering. “I woke up down here a few hours ago. My suit was punctured, but somehow, I’m still breathing. My name is Ovid.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Ovid? The heir to Monstrum?”
Ovid’s jaw tightened. “My father already named me? When?”
“Over a year ago,” the man replied, frowning. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know!” Frustration welled up in Ovid as he slammed his foot into the wall, creating a jagged hole that exposed the outside. His veins began to glow faintly, a surge of power coursing through him. He glanced at his arms, his frustration mingling with unease.
The man recoiled in shock. “Your veins! What—what are you?”
“I told you, something happened to me,” Ovid growled.
Before the man could respond, an eerie chirping sound echoed from outside the ship, followed by heavy, thunderous footsteps. Both men froze, their eyes snapping to the hole in the wall. A single glowing red eye peered through, its gaze locking onto them with terrifying intensity.
The creature let out a guttural screech, the sound reverberating through the ship and rattling loose metal panels.
“A cyclops,” the man whispered, his voice trembling.
This was no mere mistian—it was an apex predator of the mist. Towering nearly six meters tall, its elongated limbs ended in razor-sharp claws that flexed with anticipation. Its massive jaw unhinged to reveal rows of jagged, razor-like teeth, while eight sinewy tentacles writhed and coiled from its back, testing the air. The creature’s glowing red eye burned with primal hunger.
Ovid’s glowing veins pulsed with renewed energy, his knuckles whitening. “Stay behind me,” Ovid growled, his voice low and dangerous.
The cyclops didn’t wait. It thrusted a clawed hand through the jagged opening, tearing at the steel hull like paper. The ship groaned in protest as the massive beast widened the breach, its screech filling the air as it forced its way inside.
The other man bolted into the main cabin, scrambling to grab a rifle and spare weapons. “Ovid!” he shouted, tossing him a spear.
Ovid caught it just as the cyclops lunged, its tentacles whipping through the air with deadly speed. One of the appendages coiled around his torso, lifting him off the ground and crushing the breath from his lungs. He struggled, bracing the spear against the creature’s slick, muscular grip, but the beast’s strength was overwhelming.
The man fired his rifle, a sharp crack echoing in the tight space. The bullet struck the cyclops in the torso, forcing it to release Ovid as it howled in pain. Its glowing eye snapped toward the shooter, and with a rage-filled roar, it lunged toward him, tentacles reaching out.
Ovid reacted in a blur. With a roar, he drove his spear into the creature’s massive foot, the impact pinning it to the ship’s floor. The cyclops stumbled, its bulk crashing into the ground with a sickening thud. Ovid didn’t relent. He grabbed one of its thrashing tentacles, using its own momentum to drag it back toward him.
The cyclops thrashed, its remaining limbs tearing at the walls and floor, but Ovid was relentless. He slammed the creature’s head against the doorway with a feral snarl. Tentacles lashed out in desperation, wrapping around his arms and legs, but Ovid’s glowing veins pulsed brighter, his strength surging.
Like a wild animal, he sank his teeth into one of the tentacles. The cyclops’ blood, thick and viscous, flooded his senses, igniting something primal within him. His eyes burned brighter, the cruxium in his veins surging like molten fire. Invigorated and drunk with power, Ovid roared, tearing himself free of the cyclops’ grasp with brute force.
What followed was a savage frenzy. He clawed at the creature’s body, his hands hammering down with terrifying strength, shattering ribs and cracking its tough hide. The cyclops screeched in agony, thrashing wildly, but Ovid was unstoppable. He dragged the creature closer, his fists pounding into its flesh with relentless ferocity.
The other man stood frozen in horror, rifle trembling in his hands. “Ovid…” he whispered, but his voice was drowned out by the sounds of the brutal assault.
The cyclops, once one of the apex predators of the mist, was reduced to prey. In a final act of desperation, it clawed at Ovid, its tentacles flailing weakly. But it was no match for his monstrous strength. Ovid’s glowing eyes locked onto its singular red eye as he delivered the final blow, silencing its screeches forever.
Even after the mistian had fallen limp, Ovid didn’t stop. Consumed by a primal bloodlust, he tore into its flesh, devouring it with savage, animalistic hunger. Cruxium coursed through his veins like molten fire, fueling his rage and amplifying his strength. His glowing veins pulsed with an otherworldly light, illuminating the gory scene.
The man stood frozen in horror, his rifle trembling in his hands. “Ovid… stop!” he shouted, his voice cracking with panic. But Ovid didn’t hear him. He was lost—lost to the blood, to the power, to the monster within.
A guttural screech echoed from the mist outside, vibrating through the wreck. The man’s stomach twisted in terror. He recognized that sound.
Cyclops never hunted alone.
A second cyclops barreled through the hole in the hull, its glowing red eye blazing with rage. It froze for a split second as it took in the scene: the mutilated corpse of its mate, and the glowing, feral creature feasting on its remains. Letting out a soul-shaking roar of fury, it charged into the room, tentacles thrashing violently, shaking the shipwreck as it moved.
The man pivoted, raising his rifle and firing off a series of rapid shots. The bullets struck the creature’s torso and shoulders, causing it to stagger but not stop. It roared in fury, its focus solely on Ovid. Even as the man emptied his rifle, the cyclops pressed forward, its massive form closing the distance with terrifying speed.
Ovid didn’t flinch. He remained crouched over the corpse of the first cyclops, tearing into its flesh as if the new threat didn’t exist. The second cyclops reached him, its tentacles lashing out to grab him. But as soon as they touched his skin, the creature let out a screech of pain and recoiled.
Ovid rose slowly, his body radiating an intense, almost blinding glow. His veins shone brighter than ever, cruxium coursing through them in thick, fiery streams. His eyes were no longer human—entirely filled with the molten glow of cruxium, his pupils drowned in its unnatural light. His muscles swelled, his form becoming monstrous as his remaining clothes stretched and tore from his physical growth.
The man stumbled back, dropping his empty rifle. “What… what are you?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Ovid let out a guttural growl, a sound that was no longer entirely human. He dropped to all fours like a beast, his movements unnervingly fluid, his glowing eyes locked on the second cyclops. The creature hesitated for a brief moment, confused by the transformation of its prey. Then, with a roar, it lashed out with its tentacles, each strike fast enough to slice through steel.
Ovid moved faster.
He darted across the floor with inhuman speed, dodging the tentacles with uncanny precision. His movements were erratic, like a predator of the mist, weaving and darting closer to his target. Before the cyclops could react, Ovid lunged, leaping onto its shoulders. His claws—now long and sharp—dug into its flesh as he bit into its throat with savage ferocity.
The cyclops howled in pain, its massive hands gripping Ovid and ripping him away. It hurled him to the ground with bone-crushing force, the impact shaking the wreck. But Ovid didn’t stay down. He sprang to his feet with an animalistic snarl, his glowing veins pulsing brighter with every passing second.
The cyclops staggered back, its hand clutching its bleeding throat. Ovid didn’t give it a chance to recover. He lunged again, this time aiming low. He tackled the beast at its legs, his claws ripping into its flesh, tearing tendons and muscle with brutal efficiency. The cyclops fell to its knees, roaring in agony as its strength began to fail.
Ovid climbed its body like a predator scaling its prey, his claws anchoring him as he ascended. Reaching its shoulders once more, he wrapped his arms around its massive neck, using his unnatural strength to wrench it downward. The cyclops toppled forward, crashing face-first into the floor beside its fallen mate. It thrashed weakly, its tentacles flailing in desperation, but it was no match for Ovid’s relentless assault.
With a final, guttural roar, Ovid drove his claws into the back of the cyclops’ head, piercing its skull. The creature let out one last screech before going still, its body collapsing in a lifeless heap.
Ovid didn’t pause. He tore into the second cyclops with the same savage hunger, ripping flesh and devouring it piece by piece. The man could only watch in paralyzed terror, the glow of Ovid’s veins casting the scene in a hellish light. Blood coated the walls and floor, the metallic scent mingling with the acrid stench of death.
The man stumbled backward, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. His hand trembled as he retrieved his rifle, fumbling to reload it. His gaze darted between Ovid and the two dead cyclops, the realization dawning on him that Ovid was no longer human—at least, not entirely.
“Ovid…” he called out, his voice weak and trembling. “Stop… please.”
But Ovid didn’t respond. He was consumed, lost in the unrelenting power of the cruxium coursing through him. The savage glow of his veins was the only illumination in the darkness, casting monstrous shadows that danced across the ruined barracks.
The man—Giorgi of Grus—steeled himself, his survival instincts finally kicking in. After more than a decade as a Grusian Hunter, he thought he had seen it all. Mistians of all kinds—he’d faced death countless times. But this… this was beyond anything he had ever imagined.
Giorgi headed toward the entrance of the barracks, careful not to make any sudden movements. Reaching the door, he pushed it shut as quietly as possible, turning the lock with shaking fingers. He piled debris against it—chairs, steel beams, anything he could move to reinforce the barricade. It wouldn’t hold Ovid if he decided to attack, but it might buy him a little time.
He couldn’t leave the airship—there was nowhere to go in the mist—but Ovid was as much of a threat as any mistian. Giorgi’s breathing grew shallower, the limited air in his tank beginning to weigh on him. Time was running out.
Once the door was secured, Giorgi turned his focus to the radio. The main room of the wreck was dimly lit, the flickering light of a dying bulb casting eerie shadows on the walls. Giorgi frantically worked to reroute what little power remained to the radio, his hands moving with practiced urgency. Grabbing the transmitter, he muttered a desperate prayer to Crux under his breath before pressing the button.
“Please… someone, send help. This is Monstrum CDXII. We were attacked by mistians and crashed in the mist, about ten kilometers east of Grus. Please…” His voice cracked, the weight of his desperation seeping into every word.
He released the button, the static on the other end deafening in its silence. Giorgi’s head dropped, his gas mask fogging as tears swelled in his eyes. His hands clenched the transmitter, knuckles white as he tried again.
“Please, is anyone out there? I’m the only survivor of a ship crash. I need a submistial ship to come get me. I’m running out of air,” he pleaded, his voice quivering.
He waited, straining to hear even the faintest response. But the radio crackled with nothing but static. He tried again over and over, but heard nothing but static in response. Giorgi glanced at the gauge on his air tank. His heart sank—it was almost empty. He let the transmitter fall from his hands, the hope for rescue slipping away.
Realizing there was nothing else he could do, Giorgi turned to the small shelf bolted to the wall. He grabbed an old leather-bound book and a pen, his movements frantic yet purposeful. Sitting down at a battered metal table, he flipped the book open and began to write.
Today is 34 Pluto 1032 AE. My name is Giorgi of Grus. I was a member aboard the Monstrum CDXII. It was a hunt gone wrong. To whoever finds if the ambrogs don’t burn please tell Cass—
His hand faltered, the pen dragging across the page. The room felt heavier, his vision blurring as drowsiness crept over him. The air in his tank had nearly run out, and his mind grew foggy. His writing became illegible, the words trailing off into incomprehensible lines before the pen slipped from his fingers.
Giorgi slumped forward, his head resting on the bloodstained table. The weight of exhaustion and the dwindling oxygen pulled him into an eternal stillness. His labored breathing slowed, then ceased altogether. The chaos of his final moments gave way to an eerie silence, broken only by the flickering hum of the dying light and the faint, guttural growls emanating from beyond the barricade.
In the barracks, Ovid remained in the grip of madness, crouched over the skeletal remains of the second cyclops. Flesh and sinew had been stripped from the creature’s torso, leaving only its lower half intact. Ovid’s body had swelled grotesquely, twice its original size, his skin pulsating with the sickly glow of cruxium. The barracks were bathed in a haunting brownish-pink light, emanating from his cruxium-engorged veins. His tattered clothing clung to his blood-soaked form, barely concealing the monstrous figure he had become.
The mist had claimed him, transforming him into something far worse than the mistians he had fought. Ovid was no longer prey—he was a predator incarnate, a beast driven by unrelenting hunger and the ferocity of the mist.
A noise from the main room jolted him. Movement, accompanied by confused growls, reached his ears. He dropped the chunk of meat he had been devouring, crouching low like a feral animal. His head tilted, listening. Something was alive beyond the door. Rising to a high crouch, he crept toward the barricaded door on all fours.
He tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. A snarl escaped his lips, and he slammed his shoulder into the door. The metal crumpled under his strength, splintering at the hinges, but the debris piled behind it held firm. Through the gap, he saw shadows flickering in the dim light. Something moved in there. Something alive.
Ovid backed away and turned toward the hole in the barracks wall, crawling through it with unsettling agility. He circled the airship wreckage, his glowing eyes scanning for another way in. When he reached the main entrance, he launched himself at the door, the frame exploding as he burst into the room.
The scene inside made him pause. Two of the corpses—former crewmates—twitched unnaturally, their limbs contorting and swelling. The mist had claimed them, reshaping their dead flesh into new horrors: ambrogs. Their leathery skin shimmered in the dim light, their grotesque forms a mockery of humanity.
The cruxium-fueled rage flared within Ovid, and a guttural growl erupted from his throat. The ambrogs froze at the sight of him, their primal instincts recoiling in fear. Ovid darted toward the nearest one with terrifying speed, pouncing on it like a predator on its prey. His claws tore through its flesh in a savage frenzy, blood spraying across the room as the creature’s shrieks were silenced.
The second ambrog hesitated only for a moment before bolting toward the exit, its gangly limbs carrying it in an awkward, desperate sprint. Ovid’s head snapped toward it, his glowing eyes locking onto the fleeing creature. Without hesitation, he dropped to all fours and gave chase. His movements were fluid, almost inhuman, faster than anything that should have been possible.
Within moments, he overtook the ambrog, launching himself into the air and slamming onto its back with bone-crushing force. The creature let out a shriek, a mix of pain and terror, as Ovid’s claws sank into its spine. It thrashed beneath him, but Ovid’s grip was unyielding. He tore into its flesh with relentless brutality, silencing it within seconds. The ambrog’s lifeless body slumped to the ground, its blood pooling in the mist-soaked earth.
Ovid stood over his kill, panting heavily, his form radiating the eerie glow of cruxium. The creatures he had once feared were now nothing more than prey—faint echoes of his former terror reduced to sport. Drunk on power, he raised his bloodstained face to the mist, inhaling deeply. His senses had sharpened, and the mist itself seemed to speak to him. He caught a scent—new prey.
Without a second glance at the airship wreckage or the lifeless body of Giorgi inside, Ovid bounded into the mist, his monstrous silhouette disappearing into the dense haze. The predator was unleashed, and the mist would soon learn to fear him.
What Ovid’s primal, cruxium-fueled instincts failed to remember—but the man he once was had known since childhood—was that the mist always welcomed new competitors to its hellish ecosystem. No matter how powerful a mistian became, there was always something lurking in the gloom, bigger and deadlier, to punish its hubris.
Yet, none of that mattered to Ovid in this form. He charged toward the scent he was tracking, moving with blinding speed through the mist. The airship wreckage faded behind him, swallowed by the dense fog. He was unstoppable, a glowing predator of flesh and fury, every motion fueled by insatiable hunger.
His glowing veins illuminated his path like a beacon, attracting mistians from all directions. Shapes flickered at the edge of the haze—ambrogs and lesser beasts drawn by his light. They followed, clawing and scrambling to catch up, but they could not match his speed. He left them behind, their growls and screeches fading as he tore forward. His prey was close.
The scent was pungent now—thick, acrid, and reeking of decay. It was the smell of death and pestilence, an unmistakable promise of a true adversary. Ovid’s lips curled back into a feral snarl as he bounded toward it, the cruxium coursing through his veins intensifying his bloodlust. His glowing eyes darted ahead, scanning the mist as he closed the distance.
But when he arrived, there was nothing.
Ovid skidded to a halt, crouching low like a predator ready to pounce. His glowing body cast eerie shadows on the skeletal remains of trees and jagged rocks. The area was silent, unnaturally so, as if even the mist itself held its breath. His enhanced senses prickled. The scent was here—overwhelming and omnipresent—but there was no sign of movement.
His growl rumbled low and menacing. He sniffed the air again, his glowing eyes narrowing as he turned in slow circles. The predator within him demanded action, but something deeper, something almost human, sent a shiver of unease through him.
The silence broke.
A shadow streaked out of the mist, moving faster than even Ovid could react. Razor-sharp claws slashed at him, carving deep gashes into his shoulder before vanishing into the fog. Ovid roared in pain and fury, spinning to face his attacker, but the creature was gone, swallowed by the mist as quickly as it had appeared.
It wasn’t a typical mistian. This was something far worse.
The air grew colder, heavy with an oppressive aura that made the cruxium within Ovid’s veins pulse erratically. The shadows around him shifted, twisting unnaturally as a chilling laugh echoed from the depths of the fog.
A reaper.
Ovid’s glowing form tensed, his muscles coiling like steel springs as he scanned the mist. The reaper stepped into view, its form towering and skeletal, with elongated limbs and a cloak of writhing black mist that seemed to devour light itself. Its face was a hollow, eyeless skull, glowing with faint, sinister embers. In its skeletal hands, it clutched a massive staff, with a blade on the end made of the mist itself, dripping with the blood of its last victim.
The mist reaper tilted its head, its hollow sockets locking onto Ovid. For a moment, the predator in Ovid’s mind faltered. The reaper wasn’t just hunting him—it was toying with him.
Then it lunged.
The mist reaper moved like a phantom, darting forward in a blur of shadow. Ovid barely had time to dodge as the blade slammed into the ground where he had stood, cleaving through stone like paper. He leapt backward, snarling, his glowing fists raised. But the Reaper was relentless, striking again and again with inhuman speed and precision.
Ovid roared, his cruxium-fueled strength surging. He dodged one of the reaper’s strikes and lunged forward, his claws sinking into its mist-wreathed torso. For a moment, he felt triumph—until the reaper’s body dissolved into shadow. It reappeared behind him in an instant, its blade slicing across his back, sending him crashing to the ground.
The impact shook the earth, but Ovid didn’t stay down. Fueled by rage and hunger, he sprang to his feet, slamming his fist into the ground and sending a shockwave of energy through the area. The reaper was pushed back momentarily, its cloak of mist flickering, but it didn’t falter.
The fight became a savage dance of claws and blades as much as it was strength versus speed and shadow. Ovid’s glowing form lit up the battlefield, every strike of his fists shaking the ground, but the Reaper was faster, always one step ahead. Its attacks were brutal and calculated, aiming for his vital points with merciless precision. Ovid’s wounds multiplied, but so too did his fury.
As the battle raged on, lesser mistians began to emerge from the fog, drawn by the chaos. Ambrogs circled the edges of the fight, snarling and snapping, but none dared approach. The reaper’s presence was too overwhelming, even for them.
But Ovid didn’t notice. He was locked in a primal struggle, his glowing eyes locked on the reaper as he lunged again and again, each strike more ferocious than the last. The cruxium within him burned brighter, pushing him to the brink of his limits.
The mist reaper, sensing its prey’s desperation, let out a bone-chilling screech. The sound reverberated through the mist, freezing the ambrogs in place and sending a wave of dread through Ovid’s core. It raised its scythe-like blade, preparing to deliver a killing blow.
But Ovid wasn’t finished yet. With a roar that shook the air, he leapt into the reaper’s path, catching its staff mid-swing. The impact sent a shockwave through his body, but he held firm, his glowing veins pulsing with raw energy. He twisted the staff with all his strength, snapping it in half before slamming his other fist into the reaper’s skull.
The reaper staggered, its shadowy form flickering, but it didn’t fall. Instead, it let out another screech, its misty cloak expanding and engulfing the area. Ovid was blinded, his glowing form swallowed by the darkness as the reaper circled him like a shark.
For the first time, Ovid felt a flicker of doubt. The roles once again changed. This wasn’t a fight for dominance anymore—it was a battle for survival.
The reaper picked up the broken pieces of his staff, creating two new blades of mist, one for each hand. Ovid used his hearing to follow the reapers movements as he was blinded by the black haze. He waited and listened as the reaper made an attack. With a split second left, Ovid dodged the reaper’s blow, ducking under its swing and rolling out of the way. The reaper followed up with an upper swing, just catching Ovid’s arm, creating a shallow cut which burned with a searing pain.
Ovid yelped like a dog, jumping back away from the reaper’s last known position. He began to panic, realizing he bit off far more than he could chew.
The mist reaper advanced through its swirling black haze, each step exuding a predatory intent that sent shivers down Ovid’s spine. His glowing form was a beacon amidst the darkness, betraying every movement as he struggled to adapt to his foe’s inhuman speed and deadly precision.
Ovid clenched his fists, forcing himself to focus. The reaper’s dual mist blades hissed as they sliced through the air, their edges sharp enough to carve through even his enhanced flesh. The shallow wound on his arm burned as if acid had been poured into it, the cruxium in his blood fighting to repair the damage. But the pain was relentless, gnawing at his resolve.
The reaper struck again, its movements a blur. Ovid managed to parry one blade with his claws, but the second weapon slashed across his chest, cutting deep. He staggered back, his glowing veins flickering as his strength waned. The cruxium that had once fueled his ferocity now felt like a curse, pushing him forward even as his body cried out for rest.
From the edges of the battlefield, the lesser mistians began to encroach. Ambrogs and mirelings snarled and hissed, emboldened by the sight of Ovid faltering. The reaper’s chilling screech seemed to rally them, turning the fight into a chaotic swarm of shadows and teeth.
Ovid lashed out wildly, his claws tearing through the closest ambrogs. Their blood splattered across the mist, but for every creature he felled, two more took its place. He fought with desperate fury, his primal instincts screaming at him to keep moving, to keep fighting. Yet, the reaper was relentless, stalking him through the chaos and striking with surgical precision.
A sharp pain shot through his side as the reaper’s blade caught him again, this time slicing through his ribs. He howled in agony, his glowing form flickering dangerously. Blood dripped from his wounds, mingling with the mist as his vision blurred. He was surrounded—outnumbered, outmatched, and out of options.
For a moment, Ovid faltered, his mind racing. If he stayed, he’d be torn apart. The cruxium-fueled rage within him roared in protest, demanding he fight to the bitter end. But a deeper instinct—the instinct to survive—pushed him toward escape.
With a guttural snarl, Ovid turned and lunged toward the nearest opening in the mistian horde. He tore through the ambrogs, his claws and fists breaking bones and snapping jaws as he forced his way forward. The mistians swarmed him, clawing and biting, but his sheer determination drove him on.
The reaper shrieked in fury, its misty form surging forward to block his path. Ovid acted on pure instinct, ramming into a mireling and throwing its writhing body at the reaper. The distraction bought him precious seconds, and he seized the opportunity to sprint.
Pushing through the hordes, Ovid moved with desperate speed, his glowing form a streak of light cutting through the dark. He didn’t stop, didn’t look back, even as the reaper’s screeches echoed behind him. The lesser mistians gave chase, but they couldn’t match his pace. His wounds screamed in protest, and his body teetered on the edge of collapse, but he refused to slow down.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the mist began to thin. The oppressive darkness lifted slightly, revealing the jagged remains of a ruined structure in the distance. Ovid stumbled toward it, collapsing against a crumbling wall as his strength gave out. His glowing veins pulsed weakly, the cruxium within him struggling to keep him alive.
Behind him, the reaper’s silhouette lingered in the mist, its skeletal form watching him with cold, unyielding malice. But it didn’t follow. For now, Ovid had escaped, though his body was battered, his mind fractured, and his spirit shaken.
Panting heavily, he looked down at his bloodied hands, his glowing veins casting an eerie light on the ground. The hunger still gnawed at him, but for the first time since his transformation, a cold realization crept in. He wasn’t invincible. And in the mist, even the strongest predators could be hunted.
The fleeting sense of safety melted away as the adrenaline in Ovid’s body ebbed, leaving behind searing pain and bone-deep exhaustion. His side throbbed with every step as he limped into the ruins, his monstrous feet crunching against debris scattered across the floor. He stumbled into a room still partially intact, its walls leaning precariously but providing a momentary sanctuary.
His legs gave out beneath him. He collapsed, the cold ground greeting him as darkness overtook his vision. Ovid drifted into unconsciousness before his body hit the floor, lying motionless for hours as his wounds healed and his body began to recover from his frenzied rampage.
When he woke, it wasn’t to the silence of solitude but to the sound of a crash echoing through the structure. The noise jolted him upright, his heart racing. Instinctively, his hand went to his side, but the pain was gone. His glowing veins had faded, and his claws had retreated into dull, human nails. The power coursing through him had dissipated, leaving him not with relief but with a hollow fear—a fear of himself and the creatures around him.
The low growls and padded footsteps that followed froze him in place. The mist outside stirred like a living thing, rippling as shadows darted through its veil. Ovid crept to the doorway and leaned against the wall, his breath shallow as he peeked into the hallway. Wolf-like shapes moved with predatory precision, their luminous eyes glowing faintly in the mist. His blood ran cold.
Mistfangs.
He knew them well. Pack hunters, lethal and cunning. Their howls were a death knell for those who wandered too far from safety. Yesterday, in his cruxium-fueled rage, he might have torn through them with ease. But now, weaponless and weary, he felt more like prey again.
They were hunting him.
Ovid ducked back behind the wall, his breaths shallow and silent. He scanned the room, his fingers grazing the debris-strewn floor for anything that could serve as a weapon. His hand closed around a jagged rock, its weight reassuring but pitifully inadequate. He hefted it above his shoulder, muscles tensing as the growls grew closer.
The mistfangs moved methodically, their claws clicking softly against the ruined floor as they sniffed and snarled at each doorway. Ovid’s pulse thundered in his ears, the anticipation sapping the strength from his legs. Each footstep brought them closer, the pack moving as one lethal unit.
A snarl echoed from the hallway, the sound sharper and more focused. One of the mistfangs had picked up his scent. Its growl deepened, and its glowing eyes flicked toward the entrance to his hiding place.
Ovid tightened his grip on the rock, his knuckles white. He braced himself, his body coiled like a spring, ready to strike the moment the mistfang crossed the threshold.
But just as the creature began to prowl toward the doorway, a distant shout pierced the oppressive silence.
The mistfang froze, its ears swiveling toward the sound. Then came more voices—human-like voices—followed by the unmistakable clash of steel and a chorus of snarls and yelps.
The mistfang spun on its heels, abandoning Ovid’s hiding place as it dashed to rejoin the pack. The hallway erupted into chaos, filled with the sounds of battle: howls of pain, snarls of fury, and the metallic ring of weapons cutting through mistian flesh.
Ovid remained rooted in place, his body frozen with shock and confusion. Who could be out there? Grusian hunters, perhaps? He remembered the survivor he’d left behind. Had he somehow called for help?
The noise of the battle grew more intense, and Ovid’s pulse quickened with a mix of hope and dread. Whoever these people were, they had just saved his life. But as the sounds of the fight drew closer, Ovid couldn’t shake the feeling that salvation might come at a price he wasn’t yet ready to pay.
Gathering his resolve, he lowered the rock in his hand, took a deep breath, and prepared to find out who—or what—had arrived in the ruins.
He stepped into the hallway, his gaze falling on a group of fifty or so humanoids in heavy, steel-plated armor. They stood in a disciplined phalanx just beyond a crumbled section of the ruins, their large round shields locked together to form an impenetrable, circular wall. From every angle, spears jutted outward like the quills of a deadly creature, ready to repel any threat.
Their formation wasn’t just for show—it was effective. Ovid watched as the last mistfang lunged at the phalanx, only to impale itself on a waiting spear. The creature let out a strangled yelp before collapsing, its lifeless body crumpling to the ground. One of the soldiers released the spear, letting the corpse fall.
For a moment, the group held their position, shields braced, their discipline unshaken. Then, with calculated precision, they shifted slightly, creating narrow slits between their shields to survey the surroundings. Their collective focus landed on Ovid, who stood at the edge of the hall, watching them with a mix of awe and confusion.
The soldiers looked human in form, but their helmets were unusual—smooth and domed, with multiple holes perforating the front and sides. Unlike traditional helms with narrow slits for vision, these offered no clear way to see out of them for a human. More importantly, they seemed incompatible with any kind of gas mask.
One of them spoke, a language that struck Ovid as utterly alien. “Fufma fi opf?!”
Another voice followed. “Fufma?”
“Opf foe frayfor,” a third soldier said with a clipped tone, his voice reverberating through the mist.
Ovid’s brows furrowed. He had never heard anything like it before—not even in stories. The concept of a different language was foreign to him, and their words felt more like static than speech.
“Um… excuse me?” Ovid ventured, his voice cracking slightly.
The soldiers visibly reacted, their stances loosening as they exchanged glances. Though they didn’t understand his words, the coherence of his speech seemed to intrigue them. Slowly, they lowered their shields, breaking formation as they turned their full attention to him.
One soldier stepped forward, setting his spear and shield down before reaching for his helmet. The others remained still, their posture tense but not immediately hostile.
Ovid braced himself as the figure removed his helm, revealing a face that was anything but human.
Bluish-green skin, smooth and glistening, stretched over his hairless skull. Twenty-four small, glowing eyes dotted the front and sides of his head, their lime-green sclera and sharp yellow pupils flickering like embers. From where his nose should have been, bluish-green tentacles slithered down past his chin, writhing with an eerie, serpentine grace.
The creature tilted his head, the tentacles twitching as he observed Ovid. “Fef frum wuft?”
Ovid stood frozen, caught between fear and morbid curiosity, his mind racing to comprehend the monstrous yet strangely intelligent being before him.
When he didn’t respond, the soldier glanced back at his companions, his tentacles swaying as though tasting the air. “Fef foe wuft Faffer?”
“I’m sorry,” Ovid stammered, shaking his head as he lowered the rock in his hand. “I don’t understand you.” He rubbed his temple, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. “What the fuck is going on?”
The soldier turned to his men again, speaking in their odd language. “Yo firp vof foe frum wuft Faffer?”
Some shrugged, their postures less tense but their gaze still fixed on Ovid with unyielding curiosity. The lead soldier turned back, his tentacles curling as he spoke once more. “Fef fuum firf fuff.” He gestured with his hand, clearly motioning for Ovid to follow.
“You want me to follow?” Ovid asked, motioning with his own hand.
The soldier nodded. “Fuh! Fuum!”
Ovid hesitated, but something in the creature’s movements seemed more commanding than threatening. Reluctantly, he stepped forward, allowing the soldier to guide him into the center of the phalanx.
The formation shifted seamlessly as the lead soldier retrieved his spear and shield, closing the gap behind Ovid. The metallic clank of shields locking together echoed through the ruins as the unit began marching, their formation tight and precise.
Encased in steel and surrounded by these alien warriors, Ovid moved with them into the mist, his mind teetering between dread and the faint hope of finding answers.
Before long, they arrived at another set of ruins. These were markedly different from the earlier ones. Unlike the weathered and crumbling structures they had passed, this building’s center looked almost pristine, as though time had only lightly touched it. Some of the stone walls appeared repaired, and pathways showed signs of deliberate upkeep.
As they approached a large archway, the phalanx shifted formation, breaking apart to file through in a disciplined single line.
The archway led to a vast, empty chamber. The main room was a stark contrast to the dilapidated exterior, its concrete walls standing flawlessly intact. It felt more like a bunker than a ruin, its solid construction isolating it from the crumbling remnants of the structure around it. At the far end of the room, a massive steel disk—flush with the concrete—dominated the wall. The disk was at least three meters in diameter, its surface smooth and cold under the dim lighting.
The soldiers guided Ovid toward the steel circle, their boots clacking against the floor in synchronized rhythm. The lead soldier stepped forward, holding up a thin, metallic card. As he held it near the steel surface, intricate etchings suddenly bloomed across the card, glowing with an icy blue light. The steel disk responded in kind, the same luminous blue patterns spreading across its surface. The quiet hum of machinery filled the room as pistons hissed and clicked behind the walls.
With a low, resonant rumble, the steel disk began to move. It receded into the wall, then smoothly sank into the floor, revealing a hidden mechanism beneath. In its place, a staircase spiraled downward, cutting deep into the earth, far below the reach of the Great Gas Sea.
Ovid stood frozen, his eyes wide as he took in the marvel before him. He couldn’t fathom experiencing something more surreal than the events of the day before. But the soldiers gave him no time to linger; the one behind him grunted and gave him a firm nudge, forcing him to descend with the rest of the group.
The stairs led them into another chamber, this one smaller but no less impressive. The ceiling hung low, made of meticulously polished stone bricks that gleamed under the dim lights in the ceiling. In the center of the room, embedded into the floor, was another steel circle—much larger than the first.
The soldiers gathered on the platform, their footsteps echoing faintly. Once again, the lead soldier raised his glowing card. The platform beneath them responded immediately, bathing the room in a cool blue light. With a gentle lurch, the massive circle began to descend like an ancient elevator.
As they sank lower, Ovid found himself encased in a cylindrical stone tunnel that seemed to stretch endlessly downward. The rhythmic hum of the mechanism was accompanied by the faint sound of rushing air. For what felt like minutes, they traveled deeper and deeper, the stone walls sliding past in a slow, hypnotic blur.
Then, the tunnel opened into a breathtaking expanse. Ovid’s breath caught in his throat as the elevator emerged into a cavern so vast it seemed to defy imagination. The cavern stretched for kilometers in every direction, its ceiling a kilometer above, dripping with bioluminescent vines that cascaded like living chandeliers. Their glowing bulbs bathed the entire space in a soft, ethereal light, illuminating a sprawling subterranean city below.
It was a world unto itself. Intricately crafted homes stood clustered together, their architecture alien yet harmonious. Fields of bizarre, glowing crops spread out on the cavern floor, where farmers worked diligently, harvesting luminous fruits and vegetables. Children with tentacled faces played games in the streets, their laughter echoing faintly through the cavern. Above the city, a sleek train glided effortlessly along suspended tracks, its metallic frame reflecting the soft glow of the cavern’s natural light.
Ovid could do nothing but stare in awe. His heart raced as the platform carried them steadily downward, descending into the heart of this fantastical city hidden far beneath the surface. Whatever fate awaited him here, it was beyond anything he could have ever imagined.
They reached the bottom of the descent, the platform coming to rest with a soft thud, flush with the surrounding stone floor. The moment the soldiers and Ovid stepped off, the massive steel disc rumbled and shot back up into the sky, leaving behind a towering steel column at the city’s heart. Its metallic surface gleamed under the bioluminescent light, a monument to the subterranean civilization’s engineering marvels.
The soldiers moved with ease, their rigid discipline melting away as they approached a sleek rack that emerged seamlessly from the stone floor. One by one, they placed their shields and spears onto it. As soon as the last weapon was secured, the rack sank back into the ground, vanishing as though it had never been there.
Relieved to be home, the soldiers removed their helmets, sighing and chuckling as they stretched their necks and rolled their shoulders. Laughter filled the air as they greeted each other like old friends reunited.
Ovid watched them closely, intrigued. Without their helmets, their similarities became even more striking. Their skin varied only slightly in tone, some leaning toward a mossy green, while others were a more muted gray. Their eyes ranged from burning red to a golden yellow, yet their shared facial features made them nearly indistinguishable to him.
The soldier who had first spoken to Ovid quickly made his presence known, jogging up to him with an enthusiastic wave. “Fef!” he called out, his eyes wide with excitement. As he stopped in front of Ovid, he pointed at him. “Fef hoomum?”
Ovid tilted his head and pointed to himself. “Hoomum? You mean human?”
The alien soldier nodded eagerly, his yellow pupils bright with recognition. “Fuh!” he exclaimed, pointing at Ovid. “Hoomum,” he then gestured to himself, “Faffer.”
Ovid chuckled, pointing back at him. “You’re a Faffer?”
The soldier beamed and nodded again. “Fuh!” He motioned for Ovid to follow him, speaking rapidly in his Faffer tongue. “Fef mef paef Farmofip!”
“Hey man, whatever you say,” Ovid said with a smirk, taking a step forward. “I’ve gotta see this place.”
The Faffer led him down from the platform and into the sprawling city. As they walked, the inhabitants stopped in their tracks, their alien faces twisting with expressions of curiosity and fear. Some whispered among themselves, pointing cautiously at the nearly naked human stranger in their midst. Others merely stared, their wide eyes reflecting the glowing lights of the city. A few, clearly unsettled, hurried away with quickened steps, clutching their children and belongings.
Despite the stares, the streets bustled with activity. Crowds moved purposefully, and many zipped past on sleek, electric bicycles, their faint hum blending with the ambient noise of the city. Ovid struggled to keep pace as the Faffer navigated the busy streets with practiced ease, weaving through throngs of people and darting across intersections. Occasionally, the Faffer glanced back to ensure Ovid was still following, but he never slowed, forcing Ovid to push through the crowd to keep up.
Their path led them away from the city center and into a quieter neighborhood. The streets here were narrower, lined with cozy two-story homes made of stone bricks and slate roofs. The houses shared a uniform design, with glass-paned windows and sturdy wooden doors, yet each bore subtle personal touches—a potted plant on a windowsill, a carved symbol above a doorframe, or colorful flags fluttering in the light breeze. Despite their simplicity, the homes exuded a sense of warmth and care, like they had been tended to lovingly for generations.
The Faffer stopped in front of one such house, a charming stone structure with a neatly trimmed vine climbing its facade. He rushed to the door and held it open for Ovid, waving him inside with an inviting smile.
Ovid stepped into the home and paused, taking in his surroundings. The interior was quaint but comfortable, exuding the lived-in feel of a family home. A cozy couch sat beneath a wall adorned with framed photographs of Faffers, likely family members and friends. Next to the couch was a tall bookshelf packed tightly with books, their spines showing wear from frequent reading. Through an open archway, Ovid could see a round wooden table surrounded by sturdy chairs, a gathering place for meals and conversation.
The scent of sizzling meat wafted through the air, mingling with the faint aroma of spiced vegetables. From the adjacent kitchen, the soft crackle of cooking and the rhythmic clatter of utensils hinted at a meal in the making. The warmth and quiet simplicity of the home were a stark contrast to the cold, gruesome journey that had brought him here.
For a brief moment, Ovid let his guard down, allowing himself to feel a sense of calm. Whatever lay ahead, this place already felt like a world apart from anything he had known above.
“Rupuruv? Fi opf fef?” a voice called from the kitchen. Moments later, another Faffer stepped into the room, his countless eyes shifting as he took in Ovid’s presence.
Rupuruv, the one who had brought Ovid, closed the door behind him. “Farmofip! Yo perk hoomum bimof fef hopf farea for.”
Farmofip, the older Faffer, froze, his wide eyes glinting with disbelief. “Yo foe frum fopro fef perk hoomum.” He turned his full attention to Ovid, studying him intently before asking, “Frum fef wuft?”
Ovid blinked, struggling to parse the garbled sounds. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“Oh! You peak Earf! I cam peak foo, bup if beem vong pime,” Farmofip said, his attempt at the ancient human language, Earf, stilted but earnest.
Ovid’s confusion eased as realization struck: the Faffers lacked tongues. Somehow, they made the sounds they were able to, crafting a language entirely their own.
“You can understand me?” Ovid asked, impressed by the effort.
Farmofip nodded. “Oh yef, I umberfam beffer fam I peak.”
The Faffer’s broken speech was strange, but far easier to follow than their native tongue. For the first time in what felt like ages, Ovid felt a flicker of hope—someone he could communicate with.
Questions flooded his mind, each more urgent than the last. “How do you speak my language?”
“I mew hoomumf wong abo, fore moom buff ro im air.”
“Moom?” Ovid frowned. “You mean the mist?”
Farmofip nodded slowly. “Fuh, miff.”
Ovid’s eyes widened. “You’re older than the mist?! Wait—are you Selenthians?”
Farmofip sighed, shaking his head. “Fuh, we are Faffers. Fat hoomum mame for uf.”
“The Crux said you all died in the Crux Wars.”
Farmofip’s twenty-four eyes narrowed, and his tentacles twitched in what seemed like irritation. “We mo bie. We move here. Croo mo hurf hiv Faffers.”
Ovid’s brow furrowed, the weight of everything he had learned since waking in the mist pressing down on him. “Are all of you that old?”
“Mo,” Farmofip replied, his tentacles swaying with each word. “Omy me. Croo make me rive forever. Keep Faffer hifory arive.”
Ovid leaned forward, trying to make sense of it all. “Is that what happened to me? Humans can’t survive in the mist, but I woke up there… I think two days ago. Completely fine. Well, better than fine.” He paused, recalling the overwhelming power he’d felt. “I felt stronger—almost unstoppable.”
Farmofip tilted his head before giving a slow nod. “Hoomumf mame em Epifef? Croo breff you.”
Ovid’s heart skipped. “How? I can’t remember anything. I was coming home from the war, and then… I ended up at the bottom of the Great Gas Sea.”
“Whap your mame?” Farmofip asked.
“My name—oh, right! Sorry for being so rude. I’m Ovid.”
“Ovip, I’m Farmofip.” He gestured toward Rupuruv. “And he my boy, Rupuruv.”
Rupuruv, who had been removing his armor during their conversation, perked up at the sound of his name.
Farmofip turned to his son. “Opf hoomum fi mum Ovip, voff frief, veep ro urp ee froro vofir hef.”
Rupuruv gave a curt nod, stowing his armor in a nearby closet before disappearing up a staircase.
“Where’s he going?” Ovid asked, glancing after him.
“Mo more vefiom mow,” Farmofip replied. His many eyes drifted over Ovid, taking in his tattered clothes and the dried blood and grime coating his skin. “Freep am eap. You meeb ref. We bok afer.”
Farmofip led him to a private bath, the kind Ovid had only seen in the homes of the ultra-wealthy Aeneans. The warm water was a luxury he hadn’t experienced in what felt like years.
Alone, Ovid sank into the bath, the heat soothing his battered body and easing his restless mind. He had more questions now than ever before, but for now, he allowed himself to let go. The Faffers’ unexpected kindness gave him a brief reprieve from the chaos, and in the stillness of the water, he found a fleeting sense of peace.
Just as Ovid settled into the bath, the weight of the last few days began to catch up with him. His body ached, but the warm water worked wonders, washing away the grime of the mist and the blood of battles he couldn’t fully remember. As he stared at the rippling water, the enormity of his situation sank in. He was surrounded by beings thought to be long-extinct—Selenthians, descendants of the ancient protectors of the Angel’s Egg, thriving beneath the mist for millennia.
The conversation with Farmofip replayed in his mind. He couldn’t shake the thought: What did the Crux lie about? The world above had declared the Selenthians extinct, yet here they were, living in a city hidden from time, untouched by the mist’s corruption. But why hide? And what did it mean for him, a human now imbued with an Epithet, alive in an environment that should have consumed him.
The scent of sizzling meat wafted through the house, drawing him out of his thoughts. His stomach growled fiercely, a stark reminder of how he hadn’t eaten since he awoke. He finished cleaning up and dressed in fresh clothes Farmofip had left by the bath—a simple tunic and trousers that fit surprisingly well. Though unfamiliar, the fabric was soft, sturdy, and comfortable.
When Ovid returned to the living room, Farmofip was setting the table. The round wooden table was laden with dishes—steaming plates of odd colored vegetables, fragrant meats, and bread that looked rustic yet inviting. Rupuruv returned from upstairs, his armor replaced by casual garb similar to his father’s. He carried a small, rectangular device and placed it on the table, tapping it to project a translucent map of the world below the mist.
Farmofip gestured to the map, his many eyes shifting as he spoke. “Ovip, thif our home.” His broken language was earnest. “Faffer hie here. Fafe from war. Fafe from hoomum.”
Ovid leaned closer, fascinated by the map. “This… this is incredible,” he muttered. “Why stay hidden? You could’ve—”
Farmofip cut him off, shaking his head. “Above worb… mo fafe for Faffer.”
The weight of those words settled heavily on Ovid’s chest. Before he could ask more, Farmofip handed him a plate, urging him to eat. “You eap, vem peek.”
Grateful for the hospitality, Ovid dug in, savoring the meal. The food was rich and flavorful, a stark contrast to the rations he survived on as a soldier. For the first time since he awoke in the mist, he felt truly alive, as though he belonged somewhere again.
As they ate, Farmofip began to tell stories, piecing together the fragmented language to explain. “Hoomumf… fear Croo power. Faffer roove home, furvive here. Bup mow Croo wamp more war.”
Ovid listened intently, his mind racing. He could feel the pieces of a larger puzzle falling into place. The Crux Wars, the role of the Faffers, the hidden history buried beneath layers of lies—all connected to the mist and its strange, transformative power. His own survival and newfound abilities were no coincidence.
Farmofip stood, placing a firm hand on Ovid’s shoulder. “You reff fomipe. Morrow… we peak of your paff.”
Ovid nodded, exhaustion washing over him anew. As Rupuruv showed him to a modest guest room, Ovid felt a flicker of hope. For the first time in days, he wasn’t running. He wasn’t lost. He had found allies, a place to start unraveling the mystery of his Epithet, his forgotten past, and the truth about the world above the mist.
He laid down on the soft bed, staring up at the stone ceiling. The warmth of the Faffers’ home soothed his weary spirit, but his resolve hardened. The path forward would not be easy, but he knew one thing for certain: he was no longer walking it alone.
And so, as the mist whispered its secrets in the distance, Ovid closed his eyes, ready to face whatever came next. The answers waited for him, and tomorrow, he would begin the journey to uncover them.
