THE LAST SECRET OF ROSHAM

The Weight of Power

Bradford’s army tore down the worshipping places with a fury unmatched by any other force. These were not ordinary soldiers, nor even men in the truest sense. Unlike those who once marched with Mark in solemn procession, Bradford’s legions were forged in the crucible of dark magic—creations of his absolute and unrelenting evil that had ruled for decades.

They were grotesque figures, each a nightmare given form. Some bore skeleton frames, their bones clattering as they moved with unnatural precision. Others carried the semblance of human bodies, but incomplete—faces without eyes, torsos split clean down the middle, heads absent where they should have been. They were abominations, yet they carried with them a dreadful advantage: immortality. They did not bleed, they did not feel pain, and they could not die.

Wherever they spread—across Europe, North and South America, from the Middle East to the Far East—they left only silence and ruin. Entire cities fell into shadow, their people retreating into their homes, too terrified to resist. Only the island nations of Asia, the vast stretches of Africa, and the northern and western reaches of Australia remained untouched, though even there, fear lingered like a storm on the horizon.

The wealthy alone found refuge in the last safe havens, with the Philippines becoming the most coveted sanctuary. Yet this safety came at a cost. The native people were driven from their homeland, forced onto massive ships and scattered across the world—into lands far more dangerous than the one they had been made to abandon. From the Philippines, the Menas, the last great organization of resistance, established its base of power.

The Menas knew that survival alone was not enough. To end Bradford’s reign, they needed to uncover the final secret of Rosham—a truth so potent it could shatter his fortresses and unravel the otherworldly horrors that stalked the earth. The great migration of peoples had not been a desperate reaction to chaos, but a calculated move. Long before Bradford’s forces struck at Rosham, the Menas had already set their darkness.

The Menas headquarters in the Philippines rose like a shard of crystal into the sky, a towering monument of glass and steel. Its sixty-three floors shimmered in the sunlight, reflecting the city below in fractured brilliance. The structure was not merely a building but a declaration—an emblem of power, wealth, and ambition. Its design was unlike any other, a fusion of elegance and severity, as though it had been carved from the very air to remind the world of who ruled it.

On the second floor, behind walls of tinted glass, a conference was underway. The chamber was vast, its ceiling high, its walls lined with screens that pulsed faintly with shifting data. The men and women gathered there were not ordinary figures. They were the architects of influence, the titans of industry, the owners of sprawling empires that stretched across continents. Many had begun as political influencers, voices that swayed nations, before ascending into the ranks of Menas. Now, they were the faces behind the largest corporations, the unseen hands that shaped the flow of information, commerce, and power.

Yet even among them, one place remained untamed. Rosham.

A city that had resisted every attempt at transformation, a place that stood like a relic of defiance against the tide of modern conquest. For decades, it had endured, unyielding, and now it had become the obsession of Menas.

At the head of the table sat James Baldwin. Fifty-two years old, his presence filled the room with a gravity that silenced even the most restless. He was the pioneer of Menas, the man whose brands had become household names, whose influence in politics was whispered about in corridors of power across the globe. His voice was deliberate, each word measured, heavy, as though it carried the weight of inevitability.

“We have been setting plans for years,” Baldwin began, his tone low but resonant, “since a decade ago, when we first sent one of our own into the dwarf city. We thought time would bend to us, that Rosham would crumble as all others have. And yet, despite our efforts, the city resists. It still stands.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the room, his eyes sharp as glass.

“And worse,” he continued, “there are the immortals. Bradford’s army. They have spread beyond Rosham, into the world itself. They are not myths, not shadows. They are real. And they are making our people suffer. This was never foreseen, not in all our years of planning. But here it is—an undeniable truth we must face.”

The room was silent, the air thick with unease. Baldwin leaned forward, his voice tightening, his words striking like iron.

“Each of us needs them—the people. The ones suffering in the danger zones. They are the consumers. Without them, we are nothing. Without them, our empires collapse into dust. Even the presidents of nations look to us now, desperate for us to restore order. They need people to rule, just as we need people to lead. Power is meaningless without subjects. Development is a hollow word without lives to shape it.”

He let the silence linger, his words sinking deep into the minds of those present.

“This is not a matter for debate,” Baldwin said finally, his voice like a blade. “Every one of you knows it. In the positions you hold, in the power you wield—you cannot afford to lose it. None of us can.”

The chamber remained still, the weight of his words pressing down like the glass walls around them. Outside, the city glittered in the sun, unaware of the storm gathering within the Menas tower.

The chamber was dimly lit, the glow of a single chandelier casting long, trembling shadows across the walls. At the head of the long oval table, James Baldwin rose, his voice carrying the weight of both desperation and command.

“The only hope we have now,” he began, his tone sharp enough to cut through the silence, “is Dawn Thurber. She is inside Rosham, and it is through her that we will find the key—the shattering of that cursed city. As this unfolds, every one of us must pour our strength into the fight. No hesitation. No retreat. Each of you, as members of this organization, must do what you can, with all that you have.”

His eyes swept across the table, pausing on faces that shifted uneasily under his gaze. Some of them had joined for survival, for wages, for the promise of belonging. Others had come with fire in their hearts. But now, doubt lingered in the room like a ghost. Baldwin’s voice grew harder, his words striking like hammer blows.

“Some of you think we are cruel for what we do in Rosham. But you have seen them—the demonic figures, the immortal soldiers of Bradford’s army. They are not myths. They are here, in our world, sent beyond Rosham’s walls to hunt us down. They are the true danger. Immortal creatures walking among mortals, bound not to us, but to the enemy. Tell me—would you rather bow to them? Or fight?”

The silence deepened, pressing against the walls. Baldwin leaned forward, his hands gripping the table, his voice lowering into something almost intimate, almost dangerous.

“All I ask is this: work together. Push harder. Give more. I will do the same. The end of Rosham is near, and when Dawn Thurber reveals the final secret—the one that will unravel the city—we must be ready. Ready to strike. Ready to end this.”

When his words fell away, the silence that followed was suffocating. It stretched, long and brittle, as though the room itself was holding its breath. The men and women seated around the table shifted in their chairs, some with eyes half-closed from exhaustion, others staring down at their hands, unwilling to meet the weight of Baldwin’s gaze.

Then, from the far side of the table, a sound broke the stillness. Sean Malik, seated close to Baldwin, began to clap. The sound was sharp, deliberate, echoing in the chamber like the crack of a whip. Heads turned. The others hesitated, caught between fear and fatigue, before a few hands joined in, the applause spreading slowly, unevenly, until it filled the room with a reluctant rhythm.

But beneath the clapping, the unease remained. The faces around the table were pale, their eyes shadowed with doubt. Some clapped because they believed. Others clapped because they feared not to. And in the flickering light of the chandelier, Baldwin stood tall, his expression unreadable, as though he already knew which of them would falter when the time came