Cosmic Crucible

The fractured earth stretched into countless crevices, black smoke blotting out the dying sun's light. Along the muddy path, a column of thousands shuffled forward, faces etched with despair and terror. Every so often, someone stumbled into a fissure, their cries merging into an unending chorus of anguish. Flanking the miles-long procession were enhanced warriors—Augurs—positioned at intervals, their augmented bodies shielding the desperate masses. Six months had passed since the Cataclysm reshaped Earth, and the Augurs had emerged from its ashes. At the rear, Lucien Vance lifted his gaze. The chilling wet, grinding chomp of gnawing bones reached his ears. A guttural roar shattered the air as a mutated Crimson Hound, eyes blazing crimson and body stretching two meters long, burst from behind a smoldering oak. Blood dripped from its jaws as it charged the column. Screams erupted. Lucien's hand flashed to his waist, wrenching free a weapon that resembled an iron rod—one edge honed to a razor's sharpness. He leaped, arm arcing downward. The hound's head severed cleanly, blood splattering across the grass like macabre paint. Silence reclaimed the column as the survivors, still trembling, pressed onward. Lucien examined his weapon; hairline fractures spiderwebbed its surface. "Not long for this world," he muttered. Darkness swallowed the land. Augurs ignited torches, flames snaking alongside the column—a fragile barrier against the horrors beyond. The procession halted; advancing blind was suicide. Static rasped from Lucien's hip radio: "Augur Three-Zero, scavenge rations. One-klick radius." Code 103. Lucien hauled the dead Crimson Hound to the front. "Eat. If you dare." A flurry of activity followed. Men butchered the carcass with practiced efficiency, indifferent to the human bone fragments in its teeth. The meat fed barely twenty. Lucien stepped beyond the firelight, grip tightening on his rod. Green eyes glinted in the shadows—mutated rats. Foul to behold, but edible. Lucien's rod became a blur, crushing a dozen rodents with sickening crunches. He flung their corpses toward the column. "That'll keep you." A scream pierced the night. An Augur had fallen. Lucien didn't turn. Could be venomous serpents, bloodsucking flies, or steel-crushing rats—all common hunters in the wild. The survivors huddled, shivering behind flames, thin shields against the abyss. Lucien's gaze swept over them, pity stirring, then lifted to the stars—now impossibly bright since the poisoned skies cleared half a year ago. That clarity birthed monstrosities: twisted beasts, and humans reduced to mindless flesh-eaters—Ghouls. The survivors grew stronger, though marginally. True power came from the Bio-Crystals within mutated creatures. Those who consumed them became Augurs. Earth had regressed to primal law: the strong devoured the weak. Humanity's weapons were ash. Lucien had watched his city's armory explode, as if modern firepower was anathema to this new age. Wind scraped over bloodstained newsprint pinned by rocks. Lucien grabbed it: "February 3, 2200: A Day for History. White Seraph soars to Neptune aboard Skyward V... First human on a gas giant..." He discarded the paper. A girl offered him a roasted haunch, ducking her head in a timid nod. "Thanks," Lucien said, forcing a smile. The meat clung rancid to the tongue, even with scavenged spices. He ate methodically. Strength demanded fuel. The torchlight guttered. Lucien's rod clanged down, impaling a mutated mantis mid-lunge. Its scythe-like arms gleamed crimson, sharp as his weapon. One breach could slaughter dozens. He snatched two hours of sleep that night, killing over a dozen creatures drawn to the flames. His section held. Others weren't so lucky—a giant Razorboar slaughtered scores, launching quills like ballista bolts until elite Augurs waded in. At dawn, the column snaked south toward Crimson Fortress—the region's largest bastion. Home to soldiers, Augurs, and Judicator Zane Shaw, one of the Seven Paragons. The Cataclysm birthed Augurs, and from them rose the Paragons. Communication was fractured, but Augur ranks were now codified: Striders: Newly Bio-Crystal-enhanced. Earthshakers: Could level blocks. Skyforgers: Masters of flight. Paragons. The Seven Paragons stood atop this pyramid. Survivors called them "Saints"—beacons of hope. Crimson Fortress had one: Judicator Zane. A hundred kilometers separated them from sanctuary—days of hell in this new world. Ghouls shambled toward the column from miles away, drawn by living scent. Augurs tensed. Slow but strong, Ghouls carried a necrotic plague; a scratch could rot flesh and shatter minds. Lucien hefted his rod. Ghouls were static threats, unlike evolving beasts. That was humanity's sole mercy. The horde paused—then lurched away. Bad sign. Earth trembled. Ahead, a colossal Bloodvine erupted, sinewy tendrils snatching survivors. Screams died abruptly as tendrils pulped bodies into fertilizer for its roots. Panic erupted. Augurs scattered, Lucien among them. This Bloodvine was an Earthshaker-class horror. Minutes later, it retracted, sated. Survivors broke down weeping. Then the radio sputtered: "Hold position. Judicator en route." Cheers erupted. To many, Paragons were gods. Lucien's lips curled. "Saint?" His left arm thrummed with phantom agony, an eternal reminder of the night his city burned—abandoned, scoured by firestorms. He'd glimpsed him then, hovering in golden radiance: Leon Shaw, the Lumen Paragon. I'll pay that back tenfold. As flames clawed at the darkness, a new commotion arose. Lucien turned. A hundred meters away, girls cowered as a dozen Augurs ringed them, their clothes reduced to rags. Typical. The Cataclysm had stripped morality bare. Protection demanded payment. Lucien closed his eyes. "Play nice, sweetheart!" barked an Augur, backhanding a girl to the ground. "That starlet begged for it last week!" Her eyes blazed defiance. The Augurs crowed. This was their era of impunity. Wind stirred. Lucien stood before the lead Augur, rod-edge kissing his throat. "Scram." Silence. Only stifled sobs. "This ain't your business, Vance! They're mine!" the man snarled. "You're in my light." Lucien pressed down. Blood welled. The Augur paled. "Fine! They're yours!" Lucien stalked back to his spot. Bystanders watched blankly. To them, he was an anomaly. The girls scurried to him, whispering thanks. He ignored them. They sat, trembling. Soon, a woman approached—striking, clad in tattered allure. Her glare sent the girls recoiling. Satisfied, she slid beside Lucien, breath hot against his ear. He snaked a hand around her throat. "Next time, you die." She forced a cold smile. "Still icy, Lucien?" "Speak." "Derek Thorne's gunning for you. Ten Augurs against you? Fool's gamble." "Understood."