The compound's heavy doors groaned open as Michelle’s father—James—waved them through with a crooked grin and the vague air of a man who hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in months.

“I swear, the place runs itself,” he muttered, brushing crumbs from his bathrobe and leading the group down a dim corridor. “Solar, geothermal backup, decades of rations. Some weirdos on the crew? Sure. But they work. 300 strong, every one of ’em handpicked—ex-military, engineers, survivalists. We call ourselves the ‘Stillwater Bastion.’ Not bad, huh?”

“You got all these people to hole up here before the world ended?” Milo asked, eyebrows raised.

James smirked. “Only took twenty years of paranoia and all my ex-wife’s settlement money.”

Natalya whistled. “Guess crazy’s a good investment.”

They passed through checkpoint after checkpoint, each deeper and more fortified than the last. Concrete hallways stretched into engineering wings, hydroponic gardens, even a water treatment plant glowing with algae-lit tanks. The crew nodded as they passed—grizzled faces, custom gear, weapons slung casually.

James patted a nearby steel bulkhead. “Levels go twelve deep. We got airlocks, gun nests, armories, archives—hell, even an indoor firing range. It’s a fortress. You kids finally made it to a place where you can breathe easy.”

Martina glanced at the ceiling. “Feels like something’s breathing under us.”

Taylor grunted. “It’s probably the pipes.”

James snapped his fingers. “Right—Michelle, you should show your boy around. Gussa, is it? Got the look of a war priest about you.”

Michelle rolled her eyes. “Come on. I’ll show you the sub-levels. The cool stuff.”

“Not too far down,” her father warned, suddenly more serious. “Level Twelve’s sealed. Old fault line down there. Gives me bad readings sometimes.”

Michelle waved him off. “Just the labs. Don’t worry.”

Gussa followed Michelle deeper through private corridors, past decontamination chambers and reinforced vaults. Faint lights buzzed above, and the air grew thick with pressure—like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

“This place is insane,” Gussa murmured.

Michelle gave a small smile. “Dad used to say if the world burns, we’ll be the last ones laughing. He didn’t expect company, but... it’s good he has some.”

She led him through a final door and into a massive observation deck overlooking a cavernous chamber lined with servers and research equipment.

Gussa followed Michelle through the dimly lit lower levels of the Stillwater bunker, the flickering lights above casting long, nervous shadows against the concrete walls. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the distant hum of failing generators and the echo of their footsteps.

“I don’t remember this being here,” Michelle said quietly, stopping at a rusted metal door marked with faded hazard symbols. “Dad never mentioned… this.”

Her voice trailed off. There was something uneasy about the way the hallway sloped downward, the walls damp and cracked, as if the earth itself had been trying to swallow this place whole.

She forced the door open. A burst of stale, cold air met them, carrying a scent of dust, metal, and something fouler beneath it — old blood or rotten earth.

“Come on,” she said.

They moved carefully into the chamber beyond. It was larger than Gussa expected, a circular space cut deep into bedrock. Faint markings clung to the walls — symbols, old and half-erased by time, their meaning lost. In the center of the room, a collapsed section of flooring exposed jagged stone and loose earth. Whatever this room had been, it wasn’t designed for visitors.

Then, without warning, the floor gave out beneath them.

The world tipped. Gussa grabbed for Michelle’s arm but missed as the ground cracked and crumbled, sending both of them crashing down into darkness.

The fall wasn’t long, but the impact drove the wind from his lungs. Dirt and stone showered down, the earth groaning like something alive. Gussa pushed himself upright, wincing as pain flared in his ribs.

Michelle coughed nearby, half-buried in dust and debris. “I’m okay,” she muttered, brushing dirt from her face. “I think we… I think we just found something.”

Gussa’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, and what he saw made his skin crawl.

A second bunker. Older, deeper, built directly beneath Stillwater — but this wasn’t part of any military plan. Thick slabs of stone, blackened with age, formed crude walls around a wide, circular pit. And within that pit… something glowed.

A faint, sickly red light pulsed beneath the rocks. The ground around it was cracked and stained, the rock discolored like old bruises.

Gussa moved closer, crouching by the pit’s edge. He reached out, steadying himself, and his hand scraped against a jagged stone. Pain flared as it cut his palm, blood welling quickly.

A single drop fell into the glowing fissure.

The earth trembled.

“Oh no,” Michelle whispered.

Crimson light erupted from the pit, a heatless, unnatural glow that turned the shadows into shifting shapes. A deep, thrumming sound rose from the earth — like a heartbeat, slow and heavy, growing louder with every passing moment.

Then the ground split open.

A pillar of burning red light shot into the air as the fissure yawned wide. Demonic shapes clawed their way from the depths, twisted forms of bone and charred flesh. Lesser demons first — hunched, fanged things with shriveled wings and burning eyes. And behind them came something worse.

Gussa steadied himself, breath ragged, the raw, sour taste of mana thick in his throat. The air stank of blood, burning flesh, and old stone. Around him, the world seemed to tilt — a cold, suffocating dread pressing against his chest like a weight, but he forced it down. He wasn’t a scared kid anymore.

The pit in the center of the chamber boiled with shadow, and from its depths, a figure emerged. Massive. Cloaked in folds of tattered bone, its face obscured save for a jagged grin and countless glimmering eyes that flickered within the void of its cowl.

“At last… the Saint’s blood,” the being spoke, voice layered in a chorus of agony — part whisper, part growl, part keening wail.

Gussa’s pulse hammered in his ears. His grip tightened on the war-spear scavenged from the armory, the worn weapon pulsing weakly with the lingering Radiance.

“You’ll have to crawl through me first,” Gussa growled, his mana flickering unevenly — wild bursts of pale gold, searing azure, and deep, living crimson. He felt unstable, the power inside him thrashing, untempered, like a wildfire in a storm.

The lesser demons surrounding the pit hissed and howled, surging toward him in a jagged wave of snarls and claws. Gussa moved, instincts sharpening to a blade’s edge. The spear cleaved through the first with a clean, sharp motion, dark ichor spraying in thick arcs. He pivoted, smashed the haft against another’s skull, caving it in with a sickening crunch.

A mana blast erupted from his palm, tearing through two more in a burst of light and flame.

But they kept coming.

And then — the towering figure stepped forward.

The air cracked and warped with every motion, pressure thickening until it felt like the air itself was weeping.

“You reek of her light,” it rumbled. “Of broken bloodlines and stolen power. The failed vessel.”

Gussa bared his teeth. “Talk big for a thing hiding in a hole.”

And then it moved — impossibly fast.

A blur of darkness, a bone-carved blade materializing in its clawed hand. Gussa raised his spear, their weapons colliding in a crash of blinding force. The impact jarred every bone in Gussa’s body, sending shockwaves through the floor.

But he held.

Snarling, he drove forward, thrusting the spear toward the figure’s chest — the point struck but deflected off some unseen barrier with a sound like cracking ice. The figure’s free hand lashed out, seizing Gussa by the throat, lifting him from the ground.

The world dimmed.

Panic flared in his chest — no, not panic… rage.

Mana surged through him in a chaotic, desperate burst, Radiance and something darker weaving together. A pulse of searing light exploded from his body, forcing the creature back, smoke rising from its scorched flesh.

Gussa hit the ground, rolling to his feet, vision swimming, but unwilling to stop. The fight pressed on, spear against blade, light against abyss. Every strike clashed with a shockwave, splitting stone, sending shards and dust into the air.

The room shook.

Gussa’s mana flared uncontrollably, flickering between colors — golden Radiance, crimson Life-Force, and a third force, unfamiliar and primal, a cold blue-black energy that made his skin crawl. The conflicting forces warred within him, threatening to tear him apart.

Still — he fought.

Driving forward.

“Who the hell are you!?” Gussa roared, deflecting a heavy strike and countering with a searing pulse of light that staggered the creature for half a heartbeat.

The being grinned wider, eyes like dying stars.

“I am Delirium, Archduke of Ruin,” it declared, voice rising like a cathedral collapsing in on itself. “And you, child of false blood, will be the first to fall.”

The name struck like a thunderclap.

Delirium.

One of the old names.

Gussa spat blood, narrowing his eyes. “Yeah? Try it.”

Delirium moved again, faster, heavier. Blow after blow. Gussa parried, dodged, countered, but each strike came closer, each impact chipped away at his strength. A final, brutal swing shattered Gussa’s spear.

Pain blossomed in his chest as Delirium’s massive hand slammed him to one knee, pressing him down. The power radiating from the demon was suffocating, ancient and overwhelming.

The ground trembled.

Then — a voice, sharp and furious, cut through the haze.

“GUSSA!”

Light surged into the chamber.

Michelle stood alone, radiant as a star, aura a blinding gold-white corona. Something in her had changed. It wasn’t the Radiance they knew. It wasn’t what John or Benjamin or the others wielded. It was older… deeper.

Gussa’s eyes widened.

Michelle’s mana flared, forming a spear of pure light in her grasp. Her eyes burned with unfamiliar, searing power.

Delirium paused.

Intrigued.

Gussa collapsed, the strain of conflicting mana and brutal combat finally taking its toll. His vision blurred, consciousness fading, the last thing he saw was Michelle stepping between them — no hesitation, no fear — her weapon pointed at Delirium’s heart.

“I’ll handle this.”

And then — darkness.