𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

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This story contains mature and intense content that may be disturbing or unsettling for some readers. The following warnings are provided to ensure that readers are aware of the potential themes and elements that could trigger discomfort or distress:

1. Graphic Violence and Gore: Explicit descriptions of violence, including the brutal deaths and mutilations of characters, as well as bloodshed and gruesome imagery.
2. Mental and Physical Abuse: The narrative explores themes of manipulation, control, and exploitation, with characters subjected to oppressive conditions and psychological torment.
3. Body Horror and Perverse Transformations: There are grotesque and unnatural physical changes to characters, as well as twisted depictions of creatures and mutations.
4. Death and Loss of Identity: The story delves into existential themes, where characters lose their sense of self or are consumed by their environment, leading to a complete erasure of identity.
5. Disturbing Power Dynamics: The relationships between characters, particularly the rulers and their subordinates, are marked by extreme power imbalances, control, and ruthless authority.
6. Torture and Experimentation: Characters endure physical and psychological torment as part of a larger system of cruelty and exploitation, including dangerous experiments.
7. Dark Themes of Ambition and Corruption: The narrative explores the destructive effects of ambition, where individuals are willing to sacrifice their humanity to rise in power, leading to moral decay.
8. Despair and Hopelessness: The setting and tone of the story evoke a constant atmosphere of dread, hopelessness, and a sense of inevitable doom.
9. Child Abuse and Neglect: Children are subjected to severe physical and psychological abuse, including neglect, torture, and life-threatening conditions from a very young age. The abuse is systemic and unrelenting.
10. Murder and Betrayal: The story involves characters engaging in murder as a form of survival, with betrayal and assassination being commonplace among those vying for power. Deaths are often inflicted by close family members or peers.
11. Psychological Trauma: The characters experience immense psychological torment, including trauma from constant betrayal, paranoia, and the pressure to kill or be killed, leading to severe mental and emotional suffering.
12. Body Horror and Cruel Scientific Experiments: There are disturbing elements of genetic manipulation, forced mutations, and artificial creation of life. Some characters are physically altered or subjected to unnatural experiments, with harrowing consequences.
13. Parental and Familial Exploitation: Parents and caretakers treat their children as tools for power rather than as human beings, with no regard for the well-being or safety of the children. The concept of family is warped, with survival taking precedence over love or care.
14. Torture and Cruel Training: The story features scenes of cruel and sadistic training, where children are forced to endure physical pain, participate in deadly competitions, and face life-threatening hazards designed to break them.
15. Loss of Humanity: The themes of identity loss and dehumanization run throughout the story. Characters are pushed to their limits and stripped of their humanity, often becoming monsters in their quest for power and survival.
16. Existential Despair: There are heavy themes of hopelessness, with characters trapped in a cycle of violence, suffering, and ambition. The characters experience a constant struggle for power that offers no real escape or reprieve from their grim reality.
17. Psychological Abuse and Manipulation: Characters experience severe psychological manipulation and abuse, often designed to break them down mentally and emotionally. The manipulation comes from those closest to them, including family members and caretakers, creating a toxic environment where trust is nonexistent.
18. Intense Power Struggles and Ambition: The plot revolves around the ruthless competition for power, where characters must sacrifice everything, including their humanity, to ascend the ranks. The constant violence and conflict over power are central to the story’s tone and atmosphere.
19. Cannibalism and Body Horror: There are unsettling references to the consumption of human and possibly altered remains, including descriptions of bodies being used as ingredients for food. The practice of turning corpses into dishes is presented with clinical detachment, emphasizing the horror of the Methuselah’s brutal reality.
20. Torture and Mutilation: Several characters are subjected to physical abuse, with specific references to dismemberment, mutilation, and the aftermath of such acts. The torture is described without empathy, focusing on the cold efficiency with which it is carried out.
21. Disregard for Life and Morality: The narrative showcases an environment where life is cheap, and morality is non-existent. Characters casually discuss violence and suffering, reflecting a society that has normalized brutality and the exploitation of others for personal gain.
22. Casual Cruelty and Sadism: Characters engage in and discuss sadistic acts without remorse. The atmosphere is one of cold detachment toward suffering, as individuals in positions of power perpetuate an endless cycle of cruelty with no emotional investment in their actions.
23. Cynicism and Nihilism: The story explores themes of hopelessness and despair, where characters seem to live in a world devoid of compassion, with no sense of redemption or escape. The normalization of violence and destruction reinforces the nihilistic tone of the narrative.
24. Explicit Foul Language: The dialogue contains strong language, often laced with vulgarity, reflecting the harsh and brutal nature of the world in which these characters exist.
25. Suicidal and Self-Harm Themes: Mentions of characters considering or engaging in violent self-destructive behavior.
26. Dark Themes of Loyalty and Control: There are recurring themes of coercion, the loss of autonomy, and the idea of loyalty being equated with servitude, often presented in a threatening context.

This is a grim and violent narrative that dives into the horrors of absolute power and the dehumanizing effects of ambition. Reader discretion is advised due to the severe and explicit nature of the content.

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Status: Draft #1

Last Edited: November 26, 2024

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In District 13, people lost their humanity first.

In District 10, they lost hope.

But in District 1, they lost themselves.

Everything here glittered, and everything devoured. Those who lived among the Methuselah didn’t die—they disappeared, their identities dissolved into the estate’s very architecture. And yet, for all the horrors whispered in the lower Districts, there were always fools willing to risk everything for the chance to rise.

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No one chose to come to Eternity’s Edge. Whether dragged in chains or swept up in the violent swirl of the Methuselah’s ambitions, entry was an irrevocable curse. Eternity’s Edge: a name whispered like a death sentence, the edge of sanity, of survival. To outsiders, it was a place where death did not come, a realm immune to mortal decay. But inside, they knew better.

Death existed. It was just unrecognizable.

Beneath the eternal gray sky, District 13 seethed with chaos, the outermost layer of this nightmarish world. A realm of monstrous gardens where the Methuselah sowed horrors like seeds, its beasts roamed free, each one a grotesque tapestry of nature’s cruelty and scientific perversion. Those who lived here—if survival could be called living—were transient creatures, fodder for the Methuselah’s amusements or experiments. This was the outer rim, the garden of horrors, where screams punctuated the constant growls and hisses of creatures too twisted for any sane mind to comprehend.

Further inward, District 12 seemed deceptively human. The cities bustled with life—if that’s what one called the scrabbling, desperate motion of beings trying to find meaning in their imprisonment. The streets were littered with barterers and thieves, their faces gaunt from hunger yet bright with cunning. District 12’s beauty was in its facade of normalcy, but behind every smiling merchant’s eyes lurked the silent understanding that here, everyone was for sale. District 11 mirrored this dynamic, with freer movement but more crushing poverty, where “freedom” was nothing but the lack of chains and where survival stripped dignity from even the strongest.

Above these districts, the gradient of power and control steepened like a jagged cliff. The air itself grew heavier, the walls of the cities higher, the rules stricter. To ascend meant to exchange chaos for suffocating order. District 10 was the first taste of this shift, a brutal meritocracy where one mistake could mean a public punishment so grotesque that the memory of it would scar the district’s collective psyche. By the time one reached District 5, individuality was nothing but a faded dream, crushed under the weight of enforced precision. Every step forward brought danger more cunning than the raw wildness of the lower districts, each breath taken in a world engineered to bend and break those who dared rise higher.

And at the center of it all, the Methuselah in their kingdom of District 1.

No one could describe District 1 without their voice trembling. Those who had seen it and lived could never articulate its paradoxical splendor. The streets gleamed as if they were carved from liquid moonlight. Towering spires kissed the sky, each a masterpiece of architecture so alien and intricate that to gaze at them too long was to risk madness. The air itself shimmered with an intoxicating sharpness, thick with the scent of burning ambition and the faint coppery tang of blood. Everywhere you looked, innovation and decay intertwined, beauty draped over violence like a silk veil hiding a corpse.

The Methuselah called this their home, but “house” was far too humble a word. The Methuselah Estate was an impossible structure, more alive than mere stone and metal had any right to be. Its walls pulsed faintly as if breathing, and its halls whispered with voices no one dared acknowledge. Rumor held that every inch of the Estate was steeped in blood—some of it from sacrifices, the rest from the Methuselah themselves, as though the structure demanded its creators’ lifeblood to sustain its terrible grandeur.

“Move up,” they said. “Move closer to the beating heart of power.”

But those who reached District 1 found no heart, only an abyss.

“I saw them,” a voice rasped in the shadows of District 10, barely a whisper. The speaker—a young man with trembling hands and eyes sunk deep into his skull—hugged his knees as he spoke. Around him, the audience huddled, too enthralled by terror to mock him. “I saw them. Their eyes…they don’t see you. They see through you, as if you’re just another piece on their board.”

“You’re lying,” another hissed, though his voice was hollow. “The Methuselah don’t leave District 1. Why would they come down to where we are?”

“To look,” the man whispered back. “To see what breaks us. To see if we’re worth their attention.”

No one replied. The man’s words hung in the air, a chilling weight pressing down on them all.

District 1 was beautiful, yes, but only in the way a blade glinting in the dark was beautiful. No one wanted to go closer to the Methuselah unless ambition or madness blinded them to the danger. Those creatures, those absolutes, cared for nothing but power. They provided, yes—District 1 sent resources rippling downward, the richest spoils to those who followed their rules and bent to their will. But the price was too high. The Methuselah protected their domain, their subjects, not out of benevolence but because they were theirs.

Their control was absolute, and their ambition infinite.

And yet, despite the layers of fear and hatred, people still climbed. Not willingly, perhaps, but even the unwilling ascended, driven by criteria no one could decipher. Every promotion was a death sentence wrapped in gold. Once you moved up, you never went back down.

And no one escaped the gaze of the Methuselah.

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Eternity’s Edge was a mausoleum of undying flesh, an unending purgatory for the cursed. But beneath its surface, within the shimmering perfection of District 1, death reigned supreme. It did not come with screams of mercy or the rattle of despair; it arrived silently, a whisper in the dark, a needle slipping into a vein, or the deliberate step of a blade carving through bone.

The Methuselah—those beings of unmatched ambition and power—were not invincible. They bled. They perished. And no one died more often, more violently, than their own children.

The capital was a marvel, a glistening sprawl of impossible beauty. Spires twisted like crystalline vines, reflecting a million fractured rainbows under a sky forever locked in twilight. Streets paved with obsidian glass seemed to stretch endlessly, their surfaces slick as if freshly washed with rain—but it wasn’t rain. It was blood, evaporating into the chokingly sweet scent that permeated the air.

Servants moved like phantoms, their faces masked in perfect calm, eyes glittering with dangerous intelligence. They were janitors, messengers, and maids, but no one outside District 1 could grasp the depth of their loyalty or their lethality. A servant trained in the Methuselah Household was not merely efficient—they were perfection incarnate. Any of them could crush empires or unweave the fabric of civilizations with a flick of their wrist, yet here they scrubbed floors and polished silver. Not out of servitude, but devotion to the crown.

These subordinates knew better than to question the carnage that stained the household. They wiped bloodstains from silk curtains, cleared shattered bone fragments from banquet halls, and fed the rotting remains of failures to the Methuselah’s pets without so much as a flinch. Every corpse removed meant another rival eliminated. The Methuselah were monsters, but their children—those who aspired to inherit their impossible legacy—were monsters in the making.

In District 1, the servants whispered the truth to one another in hushed voices. Even they, bred for loyalty and precision, did not envy the Methuselah children. Every maid and butler, every gardener who tended the living horrors of the Methuselah gardens, was a prodigy in their own right, capable of reshaping worlds if set free. Yet even they pitied the heirs.

Because no one truly survived District 1.

In this gilded hell, death was the closest thing to mercy.

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In District 1, death whispered beneath every breath, soaked into every polished surface, and lingered in the pristine air. The streets shone with a brilliance that defied the laws of nature, reflecting the warped perfection of its masters, the Methuselah. The capital of Eternity’s Edge was an illusion of immortal grandeur, a place where beauty and power danced hand-in-hand, hiding the ceaseless carnage beneath.

Here, the Methuselah ruled, the undisputed apex of existence. They were the architects of Eternity’s Edge, the monsters who bent reality to their will, and the assassins who reigned with their blades and ambitions. Outside District 1, their name was synonymous with terror, but few understood the full extent of their cruelty. No one dared to ask what it truly meant to be Methuselah, what price was paid to wear that crown.

The truth? The most common deaths in Eternity’s Edge did not occur in the chaos of District 13 or the desperation of District 12. They happened here, in the immaculate halls of the Methuselah Estate, where blood spilled more freely than wine and murder was as routine as breathing.

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The Methuselah children were bred, not born. They came into existence through experiments that blurred the line between life and abomination, forged in artificial wombs or pieced together by forbidden sciences. Their earliest memories were not of warmth or love but of the sharp sting of discipline and the chilling realization that their parents viewed them as tools—blades to be honed or discarded.

“Name,” the head caretaker demanded of a child who couldn’t have been older than six. The boy, trembling but silent, didn’t answer fast enough. A whip of shimmering liquid metal struck his cheek, cutting deep. The caretaker didn’t blink as the boy crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath him.

“Next,” they called, stepping over the dying child’s twitching form.

The rest of the line stood straighter, the youngest clutching their names to their chests like shields, terrified of dropping them.

Death was not a punishment in District 1. It was simply the cost of existence.

The Methuselah children lived and died in silence, their deaths unmarked, their struggles unseen. These were no innocent youths. They were bred, not born, crafted from the genetic perfection of their ancestors and plunged into a crucible of suffering from the moment they drew their first breath. Each child was a potential heir, a fragment of potential shaped into a weapon. But weapons could break, and in the Estate, broken things were discarded without hesitation.

The Methuselah were monsters, the kind even nightmares feared to dream of, but it was their children who bore the heaviest weight of all.

No one saw their suffering. From the outside, the Methuselah children seemed invincible—prodigies born into power, inheritors of the strongest lineage in the universe. The rulers of District 1 projected an image of cold perfection, but beneath the facade was a crucible where ambition burned brightest and where weakness, no matter how fleeting, was eradicated without hesitation.

Every Methuselah child was born into murder. Not as victims, but as participants.

The nursery of the Methuselah Estate was a battlefield masquerading as a cradle. Infants were left in vast, echoing chambers filled with hazards crafted to maim or kill. Razor-sharp edges jutted from the walls; venom dripped from the fangs of engineered beasts. They learned to crawl while avoiding traps, to walk while enduring the weight of chains, and to speak while watching their words, knowing one wrong syllable could mean their throat slit by a sibling.

The training began early. Their days were consumed by impossible tasks—memorizing ancient languages while dodging poisoned needles, mastering the art of assassination by gutting one another under the cold eyes of their overseers. There was no kindness, no reprieve. Failure meant death, often delivered by the very siblings they shared their meals with. The Methuselah did not believe in second chances. Weakness had no place in their ranks.

By the time they were old enough to hold a blade, they had already tasted blood—usually their own.

The Methuselah did not raise their children. They forged them.

In this realm, morality was a weakness, an infection to be cut out before it could take root. The Methuselah creed was simple: only power matters. The children were not siblings in the traditional sense but rivals, competitors. Every lesson was a test, and every test carried the risk of death. They learned the arts of assassination before they learned compassion. How to kill silently, how to manipulate shadows and poisons, how to dismantle a body so thoroughly that it disappeared into the void. The strongest would be praised, but only until another overtook them.

The Methuselah Estate devoured its children.

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Within the glittering halls of the Methuselah Estate, murder was an artform. Every Methuselah child understood from the moment they could walk that their survival depended on their ability to eliminate competition. Meals were laced with poison, bedsheets rigged with hidden blades. A favorite sibling today could be an assassin tomorrow, their betrayal swift and absolute.

The unworthy were disposed of efficiently, their bodies fed to the carnivorous plants cultivated in District 13 or to the monstrosities prowling the Methuselah’s private menageries. But the strong did not go unscarred. They bore the marks of their victories in jagged scars and missing limbs, their bodies and minds warped by a lifetime of paranoia.

Each Methuselah child knew the truth: the title of “family” was a lie. They were enemies dressed as kin, competitors in an endless game where the only prize was survival. There was no safety, no refuge. Even the youngest learned to sleep with one eye open, to hold a dagger under their pillow.

“Why do they kill each other?” a servant whispered once, a rare slip of weakness that earned a sharp glance from their superior.

“Because weakness has no place here,” came the cold reply. “The Methuselah are not like you or me. To be a Methuselah is to be the embodiment of ambition. And ambition is sharpest when it cuts itself.”

The Methuselah children played in blood-soaked arenas, honing their skills on each other. Sometimes, they faced their parents, sparring in duels that left them shattered, their limbs twisted and broken as their creators assessed them with clinical detachment. Those who rose to power—the Twelve Methuselah who bore the family name—did so by climbing a mountain of corpses, their siblings and rivals buried beneath their feet.

The Methuselah’s throne was not passed down. It was taken, stolen through betrayal, murder, and cunning. To stand among the Twelve was to prove you were not only the strongest but also the most ruthless.

And those who failed? Their names were erased. Their existence scrubbed clean as if they had never been.

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Of the thousands born into the Methuselah line, only twelve would rise. The Twelve Methuselah: the apex of their kind, the crown-bearers who would carry the weight of their family’s name. To achieve this title, they would kill their siblings, their mentors, and anyone else who stood in their way. They would sever every bond, discard every trace of humanity, and transform themselves into beings of pure ambition. Love and morality were chains, and the Methuselah despised chains.

Twelve names would echo across Eternity’s Edge, spoken with fear and reverence. The rest? They were forgotten. The Methuselah did not tolerate mediocrity. A failed child might have been strong enough to rule empires outside of District 1, but within its walls, strength meant nothing without perfection.

The crown was not inherited. It was seized with bloodied hands.

For the Methuselah children, there was no escape. No one mourned their deaths. No one even remembered their names. They were ghosts long before they took their last breaths, their lives consumed by the insatiable hunger for power that defined their family. The world beyond District 1 would never know their suffering, never see the truth of what it took to bear the Methuselah name.

To be Methuselah was to kill, to conquer, to endure.

To be Methuselah was to die, again and again, until there was nothing left of you but ambition.

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In the kingdom of Eternity’s Edge, power was the currency, and the Methuselah were the richest, their hands dripping with the wealth of destruction. No other being, no force in existence, could match their hunger, their ambition. They reigned as the apex of the multiverse, the very embodiment of tyranny, ruling not just with strength, but with an overwhelming, insatiable drive for absolute control. Their brutality was not a means to an end—it was the end itself. They were monsters of the highest order, feared even by those who were themselves monsters, for the Methuselah knew no bounds, no morals. Nothing could hold them back. They were kings, emperors of time, and they ruled as if the universe was nothing but their playground.

Yet their reign was not without its dark intricacies, its own twisted system. A system as brutal and savage as the Methuselah themselves. The Twelve Ranks, their blood-soaked hierarchy, where only the strong survived and the weak were discarded like worthless refuse. Only twelve would ever rise to the top—Ranks 1 through 12—the highest of the highest, the elite of the elite. Rank 1, the leader, the one who stood at the apex of it all, was the Methuselah who wielded the greatest power, but even that was not absolute. To rule the Methuselah, one had to overthrow the one who held Rank 1. No loyalty, no bonds, no alliances were sacred. Ambition ruled all.

And yet, the ranks were not easily attained. Only the fiercest, the most cunning, the most ruthlessly driven could claim a seat at this infernal table. To rise in the ranks, one must kill, one must betray, and one must sacrifice anything and everything. To kill another Methuselah—especially one with a rank—was to ascend to that position. To replace them, to become the new ruler of a District, to claim their privileges, their wealth, their status. It was a game of survival played by those who never hesitated to spill blood. Even the children of the Methuselah, bred and forged in the fires of constant conflict, knew this truth. They were born to climb, born to fight, born to kill. Failure was not an option.

And what did it mean to hold one of these coveted ranks?

To be Rank 12 alone was to possess power beyond imagination. To be a Methuselah at the bottom of the ranks, a mere twelve steps away from the ultimate throne, was to be a destroyer. One could obliterate universes, ravage entire realms, reduce entire civilizations to ash. They were so powerful, so utterly godlike, that the mere thought of crossing them sent ripples of terror across the multiverse. With this power came the privilege of running a District in Eternity’s Edge—District 12, ruled by the Rank 12 Methuselah, was their domain, their playground. Each District was a fortress, a piece of land that was as much a battlefield as it was a kingdom, and only the most ruthless could stand at its head.

But power came with a cost. The higher you ranked, the heavier the burden became. The responsibilities grew ever more monstrous. A Methuselah in the lower ranks might rule their District with an iron fist, but the higher ranks were called upon to command entire worlds, to conquer realms beyond the Edge, to bring entire universes to their knees. Rank 11 ruled District 11, and so on, each level of power bringing with it a growing sea of demands, duties, and dangers.

As one ascended, they became more than mere killers. They became architects of destruction, strategists of annihilation. To hold these ranks was to bear the weight of eternity itself, to have the power to shape the cosmos, and the curse to never rest. But the rewards—oh, the rewards—were unparalleled. Infinite wealth, unimaginable resources, access to the deepest secrets of the multiverse. Every Methuselah of Rank 12 and above brought with it access to the most coveted privileges: the right to leave Eternity’s Edge, to travel the vastness of space and time, to conquer, to destroy, to bend reality to one’s will. Only the Methuselah of Rank 12 and above were allowed to venture beyond the Edge—to step out into a universe that feared them, that trembled beneath their might.

And yet, it was in District 1, the very heart of this empire, that the true horror of the Methuselah was most acutely felt. Here, in the deepest chambers of the Estate, where the true rulers of Eternity’s Edge held their court, the competition was fiercer than anywhere else. The Rank 1 Methuselah—the leader of all—sat upon a throne of blood, surrounded by those who would gladly spill it to take their place. The children, the heirs, the assassins, all driven by a singular ambition: to claim the crown, to become the one who stood above all others.

This was a place where death was not feared, but desired. Every day was a battle, a test of who could endure the most pain, who could spill the most blood, who could emerge victorious in a game where the stakes were nothing less than the universe itself. It was a place of twisted elegance, where beauty and brutality intertwined like a lover’s embrace. The Methuselah, with their cold eyes and sharpened minds, saw each other not as siblings, but as enemies—rivals, obstacles to be eliminated.

For those who held the lower ranks, the promise of ascension was an intoxicating allure. To rise through the ranks meant to claim more power, more influence, more control. It meant that the universe itself bent beneath your will. But the higher one rose, the more dangerous the game became. Only the strongest survived. Only those willing to shed every shred of humanity could claim the crown.

And yet, as they climbed, as they killed, as they consumed one another in their pursuit of power, the truth was clear to those who saw it: the Methuselah were not just the rulers of Eternity’s Edge. They were its embodiment—its disease, its curse, its eternal darkness. Power, once tasted, could never be relinquished. They were kings, but their kingdom was a prison of their own making, a cycle of bloodshed and ambition that would never end.

The Methuselah ruled because they had nothing left to lose. Nothing but the thirst for more, the endless, unquenchable hunger for absolute dominion over all. And the world beyond Eternity’s Edge? It was merely a playground—a universe of universes—waiting to be consumed by their insatiable need for control.

In the end, they were not just the rulers of Eternity’s Edge. They were the destroyers of worlds. And none dared stop them.

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The Methuselah were not just the rulers of Eternity’s Edge—they were the embodiment of a twisted, iron-clad system of control. A system so precise, so brutally efficient, that it could not be questioned, not even by the highest among them. And yet, for all their chaos, for all the blood that stained their hands, for the suffering and death that echoed through every hall of their estate, there was one rule, one absolute that no Methuselah could escape: Family is absolute.

At first glance, it seemed almost warm, even noble. The word “family” brought with it echoes of warmth, of unity, of a bond that transcended the cold, calculated calculations of those who ruled the multiverse. To outsiders, it might have appeared like the Methuselah, despite their monstrous nature, were simply a clan bound by loyalty, strength, and unyielding devotion to one another. But it was a lie as old as the Methuselah themselves, for the true meaning of Family was far more sinister, far more suffocating.

Family was a weapon.

A weapon forged in the fires of cold ambition, a system designed not to nurture but to consume. The Methuselah did not love; they did not care for one another in any meaningful, human way. There was no compassion, no tenderness—there was only a need for absolute loyalty, absolute obedience, and above all, the relentless drive to serve the Family at all costs.

In truth, Family was the machine that unified them, the purpose that allowed them to function as a singular force, a monstrous entity that could bend the very fabric of reality to its will. They strengthened the individual not for the sake of the individual, but for the prosperity of the whole—so that each Methuselah, whether Rank 12 or Rank 1, could contribute to the greater glory of the Methuselah Assassins. They were not meant to be separate, independent beings; they were a part of a monstrous unit, each one an indispensable cog in an endless wheel of destruction.

But in this unit, there was no room for weakness. There was no space for selfishness. There was no forgiveness for disloyalty, not even in the face of unparalleled power. The Methuselah were bound by a single, uncompromising rule: Absolute Loyalty.

To break that rule was to invite certain death, no matter who you were or what rank you held. Treason was an unforgivable sin. To use one’s vast power for selfish purposes, to act outside the interests of the Family—whether in a moment of madness, pride, or desperation—was to sign your own death warrant. Even the Rank 1 Methuselah, the highest and most revered among them all, was not above this. In fact, they were the first to understand the absolute weight of this rule. Should they falter, should they betray the Family, they would be eradicated in the blink of an eye. It was the same for all, from the lowliest servant to the most powerful among them. Power meant nothing. Loyalty was everything.

It was a harsh, relentless doctrine. The Methuselah did not need to explain it—they didn’t have to justify themselves to anyone, especially not to the outside world. The world outside Eternity’s Edge could only look upon them in terror, never fully understanding the depths of what it meant to serve under such an absolute law. They were merely the watchers, the observers, left to wonder at the darkness behind the gleaming walls of the Methuselah’s kingdom.

And yet, those who lived within the walls knew it all too well. They understood the cost of disobedience, the brutal consequences of straying from the path of devotion to the Family. They knew that the Methuselah had no need for feelings, no need for the foolishness of love or compassion. They were not human—they were something else entirely, something darker, something without mercy. Their only desire was power, the unyielding thirst for dominance, and they would not let anything—or anyone—stand in their way.

The rule was a cage that wrapped around their hearts and minds. It was the thread that wove them together, a thread made of iron and cruelty, a thread that choked the very life out of any hope of rebellion. The Methuselah lived under this rule as they did under every other aspect of their brutal world—with no question, no hesitation. It was the heart of their existence, the bedrock upon which their empire was built.

If a Methuselah were to betray the Family, if they were to use their immeasurable power for personal gain, they would be hunted down and destroyed. There would be no pity, no mercy, no respite. It didn’t matter if you were the lowest-ranked child or the great and terrible Rank 1—betrayal was a death sentence. This was the price of their strength, the price of their immortality, the price of being the undisputed rulers of the multiverse.

In the end, the Methuselah were not bound by family in the way the outside world might imagine. They were not bound by love, or loyalty, or the softness of kinship. They were bound by power. And family was simply the system that allowed them to wield that power without question. It was the thing that united them, that kept them together, not out of any emotional connection, but out of cold, calculated necessity. It was a tool, a mechanism of control that kept them functioning as a single, unstoppable force.

And so, each day in Eternity’s Edge was another day of suffering, another day of bloodshed, another day of calculation. The Methuselah were monsters, but they were monsters forged in the fires of Absolute Loyalty—and nothing, not even the universe itself, could ever break that chain.

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The air in District 1 was heavy, thick with the scent of fresh blood and decay, yet those who worked here never seemed to mind. It was nothing new. The Methuselah Estate, impossibly beautiful, gleamed under a soft, artificial light, casting long, twisted shadows across its grand halls. The marble floors were pristine, the walls adorned with grotesque statues that mocked the very concept of life. But beneath the beauty, behind the gilded walls, death was as natural as breathing.

In the heart of this estate, the servants moved like clockwork—silent, efficient, detached. A butler with a neat white shirt and perfectly pressed trousers wiped down a blood-slicked surface, the red stain only a fleeting mark on the otherwise flawless table. A maid swept across the floor, her broom brushing against the once-vibrant tapestries now stained with the remnants of a dead body, the corpse discarded and already forgotten in another part of the estate. The servants of District 1, far removed from the chaos of the lower districts, worked with a calmness that would be unnerving to anyone who wasn’t already used to it. They chatted, their voices soft and unhurried, discussing the most mundane of topics—like old friends having a coffee break in the middle of their daily tasks.

“You heard Rank 5 got another one today?” The butler, his face impassive, but with a glint in his eyes, wiped a streak of crimson from his sleeve. “Another useless one tried to cross them. Didn’t even get a scream out.”

“Yeah, you know how it is,” said the maid, sweeping up the last remnants of the corpse’s shattered skull, “They always think they’re above it. The rest of them learned the hard way. Rank 5 does love their work, doesn’t he? Perfect precision.”

The butler chuckled darkly, moving to discard a pool of blood that had seeped from a freshly scrubbed floor. “One day, that kid’s gonna end up with the same fate. The Rank 5’s pride’s gonna get the best of them, mark my words. Still, better to go out like that than how most do, all weak and slow—no fight left in them.”

The maid smirked, her gaze trailing over to a dismembered arm hanging from the ceiling like a macabre chandelier, where the shadows shifted unnaturally. “True, but it’s funny watching them struggle. Sometimes I wonder why they don’t just stay out of the family business. They’re just wasting their time. But then again, when you’re born into something like this, you don’t get to choose your fate.”

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, a head chef, face hidden behind a spotless apron, carefully tended to a large pot, its contents bubbling violently. The thick, stinking broth was a mix of remnants—animal, human, and something else, something darker, perhaps the offspring of a failed Methuselah experiment. It wasn’t the first time such things had been turned into a dish. It wasn’t even the first time this week. The chef stirred the pot methodically, without hesitation.

“Any good meat come in today?” one of the kitchen assistants asked nonchalantly, their hands moving to chop up some unidentifiable organs on the counter.

“Same as usual,” the chef replied, glancing over with a sardonic smile, “Bits of Rank 7’s latest failure. Not bad, though. A bit more tender than last time. The fat on the belly’s got a nice, marbled texture.”

The assistant paused, raising an eyebrow as they slid the knife down a gut, the thick, fatty substance spilling out in a wet, sickening squelch. “I heard the Rank 8’s been making a mess again. Apparently, the last guy they tried to take down was a little too much for them. Too… resistant. Rank 8 almost lost it.”

The chef’s lips curled into something like a grin. “Well, nothing wrong with a little challenge now and then. Keeps things exciting, don’t you think? Gets the adrenaline pumping.”

“True,” the assistant said, tossing a piece of flesh into the pot, watching it curl and blacken as it hit the surface. “I guess it’s not all bad. At least there’s always a fresh supply of… ingredients.“

Down the hall, a guard stationed by the surveillance room gazed absently at the screens flashing before them. They weren’t there to protect the estate—protection was unnecessary for those who resided within these walls. No, their purpose was far simpler: to watch. To make sure nothing too out of place happened. To monitor the relentless cycle of violence and chaos that unfolded in every corner of the estate.

“Anything interesting today?” another guard asked, leaning casually against the wall, his tone lazy, as if the very concept of danger was an alien idea to him.

“Same old,” the first guard replied, his voice flat, indifferent. “Another failed assassin trying to step out of line. Rank 6 took care of it. Clean kill. No blood spilled outside the usual mess. It’s like clockwork around here. They go, they die, someone else takes their place. I almost wish they’d throw a real challenge our way once in a while. Wouldn’t mind some action for a change.”

“You’re one of the weird ones, you know that?” The second guard laughed, a hollow sound. “I’d rather have a nice quiet shift. You’ve seen what happens when the Methuselah get riled up. Last thing I need is to be in the middle of a Rank 4 tantrum.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. But don’t act like you haven’t had fun with the spillage on the lower floors, huh?” The first guard chuckled, his fingers tracing patterns in the bloodstained table in front of him. “That Rank 4 mess last week? Classic.”

“Ah, right. What a sight that was. Blood, guts, and screams,” the second guard mused. “Almost like art, you know? It’s sickening how normal it all feels now.”

As they continued to converse, the quiet, empty corridors of the Methuselah Estate echoed with the sound of boots against stone and the scent of death in the air. No one flinched. No one batted an eye.

For them, it was just another day in paradise.

═════════════════

The air in the grand halls was thick with the smell of antiseptic, of blood scrubbed away too many times to count. It clung to the walls, to the servants’ clothes, to their skin. But no one seemed bothered by it. In fact, they hardly noticed it anymore. Death, destruction, and despair were just part of the decor here. One didn’t need to be told that blood stained the floors of the Methuselah Estate—it was so ingrained in the fabric of the place that it almost felt like a natural color for the stone.

“I’m telling you, Mikhail, I saw Rank 8 up close yesterday,” a young maid, her uniform a pristine white that contrasted with the bloodstains on her apron, said as she wiped down the gleaming countertops. “He had that look again—like he’s not sure if he wants to kill everyone in the room, or just his own reflection. It’s getting harder to tell these days.”

Mikhail, a tall, wiry figure with sharp eyes that always seemed to flicker nervously, chuckled from his position in the kitchen, scraping the remnants of a bloody stew into the trash. “Oh, I know that look. It’s the ‘I might have killed you already but I’m too tired’ look. Comes with the rank, I guess.”

The kitchen smelled like charred meat, the kind that only comes from something that once had a face, but no one in the room even blinked. The chef, a heavy-set man with a scar across his throat, set down the butcher’s cleaver with a practiced ease. “Rank 6 threw a tantrum again,” he muttered, as if it were the most casual of observations. “This time, he tried to strangle his personal guard—said they were breathing too loudly. The guard’s dead now, obviously. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already been replaced. Rank 6’s a picky one.”

One of the messengers, a gangly teenager with crooked glasses and a voice that still cracked from his age, leaned back against the counter, letting out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Yeah, the Rank 6’s have it rough, don’t they? I mean, you saw his last attempt at cooking, right? They were calling it ‘Blood Stew,’ and I swear it wasn’t even part of the family recipe.” He smirked, twisting his wrist in mock exasperation. “Didn’t even season it right, all that blood, and still tasted like shit.”

A sharp, mirthless laugh broke the silence. It came from the corner of the room where the cleaner, a gaunt woman with hollow cheeks and eyes too old for her face, was meticulously scrubbing a patch of bloodstained floor. Her voice was soft, like a knife slipping through flesh. “I’ve cleaned up more bodies than I care to remember. Some of them were even alive when I started mopping.” She ran the rag over a dark spot, leaning in close. “It’s nothing new. You get used to it.”

Another servant, this one a guard—though his presence was more for observation than protection—nodded, his eyes distant as he scrolled through data on his tablet. “I’ve seen Ranks 7 and 5 together, not fighting for once. I thought maybe they had finally killed each other. Nah, turns out they were just playing a game. I didn’t ask what kind of game. Whatever it is, it’s probably a game where you kill someone by the end, I bet.”

They all nodded, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. No one here questioned the violence, the madness, the insanity. They just accepted it, like they accepted the laws of physics or the ticking of a clock.

“It’s weird, though,” Mikhail mused, flipping a shard of bone in his hand as he wiped his fingers on his apron. “Everyone talks about Rank 1 like they’re some kind of god. But I’ve seen them. I’ve watched them destroy their own children. You’d think someone that powerful would be above that, right? But no. No one’s safe.”

The maid, who had been working silently for most of the conversation, looked up. Her eyes, dark and calm, met Mikhail’s. “Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? Rank 1 wants them to fear. Wants them to be nothing more than tools, no matter how much power they have. Rank 1’s just another one of them, really. Doesn’t matter what rank you are. You rise, or you fall. If you fall… it’s just another day to clean up.”

The guard, a sharp-eyed girl who looked like she was barely past her sixteenth year, spoke up again, her voice low and amused. “You’re all too soft. Rank 2’s the one I’m watching. I mean, not literally watching, obviously. But the way they eat… just like a regular person. No blood, no gore, no thing… Just sits there like they’re at a tea party. It’s unsettling, honestly.”

Another laugh, this one bitter, rasped from the cleaner’s throat. “You think that’s unsettling? Rank 3 spends hours in the garden talking to plants. Sometimes, I hear them ask the plants for advice on how to kill people.” She paused, looking over at the fresh body bags stacked up in the corner. “Can’t say it doesn’t work. Everything in this place is about killing. Don’t matter what you do, whether you’re slinging food or scrubbing bloodstains, it all boils down to making sure the Family keeps going. And for that, you need to kill.”

The young messenger nodded solemnly. “Just another day.”

Silence hung heavy in the air for a moment, punctuated only by the sound of a dish shattering in the back room, followed by a slow, measured voice shouting orders to the staff to clean it up.

“Guess so,” the cleaner muttered as she leaned back, wiping her hands dry. “It’s all just part of the Family business, after all.” She smiled a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, flicking a streak of blood from her fingertip onto the polished floor. “We all do our part.”

═════════════════

The air in the surveillance tower was thick with an oppressive stillness, a suffocating silence that seemed to make every breath feel heavier than the last. The guards sat in their chairs, relaxed in their uniforms that were pristine and unmarked, the blood of others always wiped clean before they could sit in these seats. The walls, though decorated with tapestries of breathtaking beauty and grotesque magnificence, felt cold. The silence was only interrupted by the occasional hum of the technology they monitored. It was a strange irony that these guards, who wore the insignia of protection, did nothing but watch.

A guard named Orin, his thin lips stretched into a bored smile, sat propped up against the high tower’s glass window, his feet dangling over the ledge. His sharp eyes, ever-watchful, stared into the streets below, where the flickering of lamps cast long, jagged shadows that seemed to writhe like living things. His fingers tapped rhythmically on the armrest of his chair, a nervous tick—maybe from the boredom, or maybe from the last few weeks of doing nothing but keeping an eye on things.

“Slow day,” Orin said, his voice a monotone that hardly masked his growing impatience. His eyes didn’t leave the view outside, though he saw nothing new. It was all routine—just the shadows of death shifting in the streets below, the occasional scream too distant to care about.

A fellow guard, Mia, slouched in her own chair across the room. She flipped through a tablet, clicking through the usual reports, her eyes glazed, detached from the world around her. “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she muttered, her fingers flicking lazily. “I’d rather be bored than… you know, dealing with another Rank 10 tantrum.”

Orin snorted, a dry, humorless sound. “Don’t remind me. You remember last week when Rank 10 got all excited about that little hunt they sent him on? Ended up slaughtering half the family’s hunting grounds just to catch a few rats.” His voice turned mockingly high-pitched, imitating Rank 10’s shrill screech. “‘It wasn’t challenging enough, I could’ve just killed the staff and been done with it!’ Honestly, I think he just likes watching them squirm.”

Mia rolled her eyes, the faintest hint of a smirk curling at the corner of her lips. “Yeah, and they still let him out to ‘practice.’ Don’t get me started on those fucking ‘training exercises.’ You’d think after all these years, they’d let the kids play with something sharper than their own egos.”

Orin chuckled darkly, leaning back in his seat, eyes fixed on the empty streets below. “Speaking of kids, did you hear about Rank 3 and their little ‘session’ last night?” He paused for effect, letting the anticipation hang in the air. “Apparently, Rank 3 was trying to ‘interview’ a few of the older staff. You know, ask them about their childhoods, their goals, their ‘trauma.’ Turns out, the ones who didn’t have answers were ‘disqualified’… permanently.”

Mia raised an eyebrow, not looking up from her tablet. “Please don’t tell me they fed them to the monsters again.”

“Worse,” Orin grinned, his sharp teeth flashing under the sterile lights. “They fed them to themselves.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Not sure what it was, but the last thing the poor bastard saw was his own hands choking the life out of him.”

“Rank 3 always did love their little ‘psychological evaluations,’” Mia muttered, as if it were just another daily inconvenience. “And don’t even get me started on Rank 7. They’re always in that damn garden, talking to the plants like they’re fucking therapists. Last time I checked, they weren’t asking the plants for life advice. They were asking if they should kill Rank 4 yet.”

Orin smirked, his eyes narrowing. “I’d say that would be a step up for Rank 4. Last I saw, they were sneaking off to the Hall of Records to try and find some embarrassing secrets. Nothing like a little family drama to spice things up, right?”

Mia’s lips twisted into something close to a smile. “Ah, yes, the Methuselah Family tradition: Every little shit trying to stab the other in the back, but with style.“

The two shared a moment of sick, twisted amusement. The laughter was light, but it felt jagged, raw—like a knife scraping across bone. It was a sound that echoed in the emptiness of the room, swallowed by the vast estate, and yet felt like it was cutting through the very air they breathed.

Orin stretched, cracking his knuckles with an almost musical precision. “Do you ever wonder how they get away with it? The whole damn place. I mean, sure, we’re just watchers, right? We’re here to observe, monitor, and make sure none of the weaklings make a break for it. But the family? The shit they get away with…” He trailed off, shaking his head in mock disbelief.

Mia’s fingers paused in mid-air, hovering over her tablet’s screen. “You think we’re any different?” she asked, her voice soft, as though the words had lost their meaning long ago. “We’re all just pieces of the same puzzle. You and I, we’re just the ones lucky enough to not get our necks snapped today.”

The silence stretched between them, a thick, oppressive weight that hung in the air, unspoken but undeniable. A scream echoed distantly from one of the lower districts. Orin didn’t even flinch. Mia didn’t look up.

“Yeah, we’re all just waiting for the day the Methuselah decide we’re not needed anymore,” Orin said, his voice almost casual now, as if it was an inevitability. “But until then, we watch. We wait. And maybe… maybe we get to watch the next Rank 9 meltdown.” He grinned, but it was a twisted thing. “That kid’s been a mess ever since they killed their brother.”

Mia’s lips curled again, this time more out of reflex than humor. “Maybe one day, one of us will snap too. Just take a knife to whoever’s sitting across from us, you know? Just… because. It would be kind of nice, don’t you think?”

“Probably.” Orin’s voice was steady, but something in his eyes—something dark, a flicker of something sharp—betrayed the emptiness beneath the calm facade. “Maybe we’ll get a promotion after it all settles down. Rank 8’s been needing a replacement for months. You know they can’t hold their shit together.”

Mia chuckled bitterly, leaning back in her chair. “If that’s the case, Orin, you better make sure to get the right kind of knife.”

Silence fell again, but this time it wasn’t oppressive. It was the silence of people who had long since accepted the inevitability of death—of the world they lived in. They weren’t waiting for the end. They were living in it, one blood-soaked step at a time.

═════════════════

The faint flicker of lantern light cast eerie shadows across the high ceilings of District 1’s grand administrative hall. The floor gleamed with the reflection of an ornate chandelier, its crystal prisms catching the dim glow, though no light could ever reach the darker corners where the real work took place. The air was thick with the scent of polished wood, oil, and the faint tang of iron—a reminder that even the most beautiful of surroundings could not escape the taint of blood.

The veterans stood by as the newest batch of subordinates from District 2 entered the hall. Their faces were a mix of awe, trepidation, and an almost reverent excitement, as if they were finally in the holy sanctuary they’d only heard whispered rumors about. They weren’t weak—no one ever got here without the strength to endure the horrors that came with their loyalty—but the gleam in their eyes told the veterans they were still untested. They had no idea what they were about to endure.

“What’s the first rule here, kids?” Old Rona’s voice, hoarse from years of training newcomers, echoed through the cold, quiet room. Her eyes were dark, empty pits of experience, and her hands, once graceful, were now hardened with the scars of years of service. She was dressed in a finely tailored black uniform that spoke of status, yet there was nothing kind in the way she carried herself.

“Family is absolute,” a young recruit responded, his voice cracking just slightly with the weight of the words. His name was Korrin, and he stood rigid, his posture perfect, though his hands trembled imperceptibly. He was still learning how to suppress his fear, but it was obvious from the sheen of sweat on his forehead that his excitement was being buried by something else—an instinctual, primal recognition of the dangerous game they were all part of.

Rona’s mouth curled up in a cruel smile. “You’re damn right. You keep that in your head and in your gut at all times. The Methuselah don’t care about anything else. Anything. Loyalty doesn’t mean ‘respect,’ it means obedience. Disobey and you’ll find yourself as the next ‘lesson’ in the training room. And trust me, the Methuselah are very creative when it comes to their lessons.”

She leaned in, her voice dropping low, the words like a knife slicing through the air. “Now listen closely, because I’ll only say this once. We are here to serve. And when you serve the Methuselah, you must remember that there are no excuses. Not for failure. Not for hesitation. You mess up, you’re gone. And you don’t want to be the one they decide needs to be disposed of. Trust me.”

Korrin swallowed hard, and his knuckles turned white as he clenched his fists. He hadn’t seen it yet, the punishment, the inevitable “disposal” of those who failed. He’d only heard the rumors—the whispers about the people who disappeared after failing to meet the Methuselah’s impossible standards. No one came back from those “disposals.” Not once. Not ever.

A younger recruit, barely more than a teenager, spoke up, his voice trembling with the weight of his question. “What happens if… if we do fail?”

Rona’s eyes darkened, the smile never leaving her lips. “Oh, it’s not a question of if,” she said, the coldness in her tone matching the chill that suddenly filled the room. “It’s when. And when it happens, you’ll either beg for mercy or be too far gone to even think about it. You’ll be the lesson, the one they use to show the others what happens when weakness breeds.”

The recruits shifted uneasily, but the truth hit them like a wave. The stories they’d heard were true—there was no mercy here, no reprieve for mistakes. The Methuselah didn’t believe in second chances. They only believed in results.

Rona nodded to one of the other veterans, Kace, who had been silent until now. His eyes were lifeless, like an old predator who’d seen too much, done too much. He had no patience left for pretense, but the way he looked at the recruits made it clear: he was watching them for the slightest mistake, the smallest crack in their loyalty.

“Alright, kids,” Kace said, breaking the tension with a bored drawl. “The Methuselah don’t care if you’re a genius, if you’re skilled with knives, or if you can tear through a hundred soldiers in a day. That’s just the baseline.” His grin was dark, twisted. “You’re here because you’ve proven you can take life. Now you have to prove you can preserve it—for the family. The Methuselah don’t want to see their toys getting ruined.”

One of the recruits, a tall girl with short-cropped hair, frowned, confused. “Toys?”

Rona answered for him, her voice turning icy as she gave the girl a cold stare. “Everything here is a tool. The Methuselah don’t care about anything except what serves them. Your loyalty is a tool. Your blood is a tool. Your life is a tool. If you can’t keep up, you’re a broken tool. And broken tools? Well, they don’t get to hang around.”

She snapped her fingers, and a nearby door opened. A cold, clammy breeze swept in, accompanied by the scent of something iron-tinged—blood, fresh and still warm. Korrin’s stomach churned, but he forced himself to stay still. Rona raised an eyebrow at him.

“You’re going to see the Hall of Records. It’s where the Methuselah keep their… history. It’s a place of learning. You’ll learn there what happens when someone fails. Just don’t be too curious, alright? The last guy who asked questions got more than he bargained for.”

Korrin’s eyes darted toward the door, where shadowed figures moved about, carrying something—no, someone. The outline of a body wrapped in a black sheet, blood staining the fabric. The man had failed, it seemed, and his body was already being sent for “preservation.” The sight of it made Korrin’s heart race. This was no ordinary business, no noble court like the ones he’d dreamed about. This was a warzone in a gilded cage.

A sudden, eerie silence fell as the recruits, now pale and sweating, took their first steps into the cold chamber. Rona followed, her voice calm, even soothing in its monotony, yet carrying a weight that made their feet feel like they were dragging through tar.

“Remember this,” she said, as she began to walk down the darkened hall, “The Methuselah reward those who follow orders. But you’ll learn quickly, if you don’t impress them, they won’t even waste time breaking you. They’ll break you down into something unrecognizable. Then, they’ll kill you. And when you’re dead, you’re forgotten. The family will move on without you, like you were never there.“

The recruits nodded, some with determination, others with the faintest flicker of fear in their eyes. The weight of their new lives settled over them, and even in the dark, even surrounded by death, they knew they had no choice but to move forward.

They had become part of the Methuselah Family now.

And there was no going back.

═════════════════

The low murmur of conversation echoed through the dimly lit dining hall of District 1, a rare moment of respite from the ceaseless bloodshed and terror that defined their days. The long, polished table gleamed under the faint flicker of candlelight, stretching across the room like the horizon of a forgotten world. Rows of glass bottles, thick and murky, lined the table, reflecting the faces of veterans who had seen more than their fair share of darkness. The meal laid out before them was rich and excessive—meats and wines that would have been considered lavish in any other place, but here it was nothing more than routine.

Rona, her face an unsettling blend of youthful energy and ancient sorrow, poured herself another glass of the thick red liquid that stained their teeth and tongues with its bitter sweetness. She was the first to speak, her voice low but carrying the weight of years.

“So, how’s it feel, being the real deal now, huh?” She gestured toward the new blood in the corner, a group of young recruits freshly risen from the depths of District 2, still wet behind the ears but eager to prove themselves. “You’re in District 1 now, baby. The real shit.”

A young man named Olan, eyes wide with a mixture of awe and dread, leaned back in his chair and chuckled nervously. His hands trembled just enough to spill some of his drink onto the smooth surface of the table.

“It’s everything they said it would be,” he replied, his voice a little too shaky for his own liking. “Better than I thought, really. I mean… everything is here. The food, the power. And I don’t have to worry about the other people anymore.”

“The people outside, you mean?” Kace, who had been silent up until that point, broke in. He was a man whose face was carved from centuries of grim service, but his voice had an almost soothing cadence, like a lullaby sung to the dead. He wasn’t looking at Olan—his eyes were far away, lost in some distant memory. “Yeah, those poor bastards. Think they know what power is. They don’t understand what it means to be at the top.”

The rest of the table let out a collective snort of amusement, the sound rolling around like a rumbling thundercloud. For all the horror of their daily lives, for all the bloodshed they caused and witnessed, there was something about the camaraderie of this strange family that gave them comfort. It was dark humor that connected them, the shared understanding that they were both blessed and cursed to be part of the Methuselah.

“You think the family’s generous now, Olan?” Rona raised an eyebrow, tapping her wine glass. “Wait ‘til you’re here long enough to learn how generous they can be when they decide they like you. They take care of you. Better than anyone else. A little power, a little blood, a little loyalty? They’ll keep you fed, keep you warm, and keep you at the top, right next to ‘em.”

A loud, boisterous laugh broke out from the other side of the table. An older woman, Leira, slapped her palm against the table with a noise that sounded like thunder in the hollow room. She leaned in, eyes glittering darkly.

“Take care of you, huh? Just don’t misunderstand it, though, kid,” she said, her voice taking on an almost mocking tone. “Yeah, they’ll protect you. They’ll give you everything you need to survive. The food, the drink, the power, the status. But you’ll owe them everything, even your soul, by the time they’re done with you. You think you’re free? Think again.”

The new blood shifted uncomfortably, though they couldn’t help but laugh along, the tension in the air thickening as they realized the truth in Leira’s words. They were still too fresh to know just how deeply the Methuselah’s grip went, but they were learning.

Another veteran, a tall, gaunt figure named Kas, grinned from the far end of the table, his teeth too sharp to be entirely human. His hand was steady as he picked up a hunk of meat—well, a chunk of meat, really—and gnawed on it with dark satisfaction.

“‘Take care of you,’ she says,” Kas muttered between bites, blood dripping from his lips. “Kid, it’s not about what they give you. It’s about what they take. You give them your loyalty. You give them your time. You give them your future. You give them your life if they want it. And if they don’t need you anymore? You won’t even be a memory. They’re not taking care of you—they’re making sure you’re a tool, a tool they keep sharp enough to use. And when they’re done using you, you’re gone.”

“Sounds like a good deal,” Olan said, his voice flat, a hint of disbelief in his tone.

“Oh, it is,” Kace replied. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out and flicking his wrist in a languid, careless gesture. “When you’re in the family, you get more than anyone else could imagine. You get everything. You get the highest power in the multiverse. You get to walk around like a god. Hell, sometimes you are a god—at least, that’s how the Methuselah like to make you feel.”

“Yeah,” Kas interjected, swallowing another mouthful of meat, blood staining his fingers, “and you get to wipe your ass with the corpses of the people who aren’t family.” He chuckled darkly, as though he found it amusing, even normal. His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, his gaze shifted to one of the new bloods, the ones who still hadn’t quite adjusted to the weight of it all. “But, remember, kid. You can have it all—but if you step out of line even for a second, they’ll make sure you’re no more than dust under their heel. You don’t get second chances here. You just get a lifetime of service.“

A moment of silence followed, a stillness that hung in the air like the calm before the storm. The veterans, though hardened and jaded, shared the same unspoken understanding. They had seen it all. The new blood? They hadn’t even begun to scrape the surface.

“What happens if we screw up?” another recruit, a wide-eyed young woman, asked hesitantly. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but the curiosity in her eyes was too obvious to ignore.

Rona’s grin widened, her eyes darkening as she leaned in, her voice thick with dangerous humor.

“Simple. You die. And not the way you think. The Methuselah don’t kill you like anyone else would. No, they’ll make you wish you were dead. And when you finally beg for mercy? They’ll make sure you understand that mercy is just a word to make you feel better. No, you’ll die slowly. But that’s only if you fail. If you succeed…” She paused, holding her drink aloft, her eyes flashing with a dangerous light. “If you succeed, you get everything. All the blood, all the power, all the resources. You get the family. You get it all.”

Kas leaned in, his grin stretching wide.

“Here’s to not screwing up, eh?”

The rest of the table raised their glasses, the sound of clinking glass ringing through the room like a symphony of death. The new blood joined in reluctantly, their faces pale, their laughter forced. The night carried on, filled with dark humor and the strange camaraderie that only comes from years of shared bloodshed.

It was just another night, just another evening spent in the service of the Methuselah.

And they were all too deep in it to ever leave.

═════════════════

The chamber was dimly lit, the flickering candles casting long, erratic shadows that danced like ghosts on the high, vaulted ceilings of District 1’s grand dining hall. The smell of roasted meats and sizzling oils hung in the air, mingling with the pungent tang of iron—like the residue of countless blood spilled, cleaned, and then spilled again. The table was set with a luxurious spread, but none of the servants here would call it ‘fine dining’—it was just another meal, just another night. The laughter and chatter flowed freely, low and comfortable, like an old song that was both sweet and dark in equal measure.

Rona, the once-new blood who had risen through the ranks with brutal efficiency, took a long sip from her goblet, the thick red liquid staining her lips and tongue. Her eyes—dark, unreadable—studied her companions as they settled around the table. A few were janitors, having scrubbed the bloodstained halls of the estate clean until they were practically pristine. Others were butlers and maids, ensuring the comfort of the Methuselah with their unwavering obedience. Each had a story to tell, a history of sacrifices and survival, bound by one thing alone: absolute loyalty to the Methuselah.

“So, how’s the blood-bath today, Rona?” Leira, the veteran butcher and meat handler, asked, her voice raspy from years of shouting orders in kitchens and preparing the bodies that would feed the estate. She let out a low chuckle, one that rattled like stones in a cage. “Anything that would make a mess? Or was it just the usual?”

Rona’s lips curled into a small smile as she casually swirled the wine in her glass. “Oh, the usual,” she replied, the faintest trace of humor in her voice. “Couple of bodies to mop up, couple of limbs to clean. You know, the typical Tuesday.”

Leira snorted, leaning back in her chair, making the wood creak beneath her. “Ah, that’s good. Nothing too exciting. I’d hate to have a ‘special event’ on my shift. Too much hassle, too much cleanup. I prefer it when everything’s calm.” She stabbed a fork into a hunk of meat, tearing off a piece with a satisfying snap.

Kas, a quiet figure with a pale, almost translucent face, laughed darkly. He hadn’t spoken much, but his presence was enough to make the others pause. “You know,” he said, his voice cold and even, “the only real fun I get anymore is when someone screws up and the Methuselah get involved. The cleanup from that? Beautiful. Like poetry. Blood everywhere, screams echoing in the halls—it’s like a symphony.”

“Oh, Kas, you’d probably kill for that,” Rona said with a grin. “But me? I don’t mind the quiet. It’s nice to just clean up a few corpses, scrub a few walls. Nothing too much. Peaceful. No big messes to deal with.”

Kace, the tall man with the calm demeanor, stretched in his chair, eyes narrowing as he reached for a bread roll. “You all think that’s relaxing? You’re just getting used to it. Let me tell you something about the Methuselah’s brand of relaxation. You’re never truly relaxed. There’s always the weight of the family on your shoulders. One wrong move, one slip-up, and boom—your life’s over. Gone. Cleaned up, just like one of the bodies we handle every day.”

“Oh, please,” Kas said with a grin that stretched far too wide. “I’ve been here centuries—never had a slip-up, never made a mistake. They’ve got me locked down so tight, they can’t get a scratch in. But the ones who slip up… Oh, now that’s entertainment.” His laugh was guttural, dark, and full of a sadistic joy.

“The thing is,” Leira chimed in, her voice growing softer, more conspiratorial, “you really don’t have to worry as long as you keep them happy. That’s the trick. Do your job. Don’t ever fail. The Methuselah don’t care what happens to the rest of us—so long as they get their blood, their sacrifices. And as long as we keep feeding them, cleaning up their messes…” She glanced around the table, her eyes glinting in the dim light. “They take care of us. Don’t ever forget that. They take care of us.”

The table fell silent for a moment, the weight of Leira’s words hanging in the air. For all the dark humor, for all the casual cruelty, there was one truth they all shared. They were all bound to the Methuselah, tied by loyalty and survival.

Kas leaned forward again, licking his lips. “You know what I like about working here? The perks. You know, I was in District 12 when I first got here. Took me years to get to District 1. Years. But I made it. And now, look at me. I get the best of everything. The best.” He paused for emphasis, his eyes glowing in the candlelight. “The food, the power, the blood—they give you what you need to survive, and more. But it’s all part of the game. Keep your loyalty in check, do your job right, and you’ll never have to worry.”

“Yeah,” Rona added, the smirk still lingering on her lips, “and if you don’t do it right? Well, they take care of that too. Just like every mistake we clean up. I’ve been cleaning up for centuries now—first it was the hallways, then it was the bodies, now it’s the messes from the higher-ups. You think I care about the blood anymore? Nah. It’s just another thing to deal with.” She raised her glass, the wine almost black in the candlelight. “But it’s a good life. Better than what I had before. Better than what I’d have if I hadn’t—you know—joined the family.”

The younger servants, those still fresh from District 2, watched and listened, their expressions a mix of reverence and unease. They had heard the stories, the rumors of what the Methuselah were capable of. But now, they were part of it. They were in District 1, where the Methuselah’s might was a living, breathing force that could topple universes.

Leira noticed their gazes, the wide eyes and nervous twitches of the new blood. “Relax,” she said, her tone soothing, almost motherly. “You’ll get used to it. The cleaning, the blood, the order. It’s just the way things are around here. We all have our parts to play.”

“Yeah,” Rona added with a grin, “and no matter what, you don’t cross them. Ever. But if you do your job, if you keep your head down, it’s like… it’s like having a family. A weird family, sure. But they take care of you. You’ll see.” She glanced at the younger ones, her eyes hardening with an unspoken warning. “Just remember: loyalty is everything. Fail them, and you won’t just be cleaning up the mess. You’ll be the mess.”

A few nervous chuckles escaped from the new blood, unsure of how to respond to the chilling laughter that filled the air. But as the hours stretched on, the laughter grew less strained. The dark humor was contagious, and soon enough, even they were laughing along, as if it were a matter of survival.

As the conversation continued, the veterans shared stories of days long past, of how they had risen through the ranks, how they had survived the impossible and thrived in the most horrific of circumstances. Each of them had their own story—of betrayal, of blood, of loyalty, of service.

But there was one thing that united them all.

They were family.

And as long as they kept serving, they would always be a part of it.

Even if that meant cleaning up the messes they made.

═════════════════

The moon hung low in the sky, casting a pale, silvery light over the estate, which sprawled endlessly like a forgotten temple to an ancient, bloodthirsty god. The scent of polished wood, the faint tang of iron, and the lingering whispers of death filled the air. Within this palace of twisted luxury, the new blood had finally made it to District 1—the prized realm of the Methuselah, where the rewards were endless and the rules, absolute.

Each of the subordinates had been given a space that could only be described as opulent by most standards. To the untrained eye, they appeared as if they had achieved some grand victory, rewarded for their loyalty and toil. The rooms, though rich in decoration, held a quiet, unnerving quality to them, each one built with meticulous care, with shadows lurking just behind the luxurious drapery. No one would ever call them homes; they were places to live, to serve, to exist.

Orion, a young butler in training with wide, gleaming eyes and a voice that could fill the room with an energy so infectious it seemed almost out of place, was one of the most talkative of the new blood. He had been raised in District 12, a place where misery and hatred for the Methuselah ran so deep that it poisoned the air itself. He had seen and experienced things there that could twist the mind, but here, in District 1, he was finally in a place of luxury—or so it seemed.

He looked around at his companions—each one as diverse in their backgrounds as the blood in their veins—and smiled brightly. His lips parted as he spoke, and there was a childlike enthusiasm in his voice that could not be hidden, no matter how hard he tried to suppress it. “So, how’s it been for you all so far?” he asked, settling into a plush chair that felt almost too soft under him. He had expected an answer laced with equal parts awe and trepidation, but what he received was something far darker.

A veteran who had been working for the Methuselah for centuries leaned forward, her features set into a permanent frown. She was long past the stage of naive excitement. Her name was Lysandra, and she had once been a rising star in a distant kingdom before the Methuselah had taken her in. “It’s… it’s all a game, Orion,” she said, her voice low, almost a whisper, though the others had heard it a thousand times. “Everything here is orchestrated. The Methuselah—they give you just enough, just enough comfort to keep you loyal. But you’re never really free. Not even in District 1.”

Orion frowned, not fully understanding. “So… no matter how high we get, we’re just… cogs in a machine?”

Lysandra’s lips curled into a smile that lacked warmth. “Exactly. You get used to it. The rewards, the respect… it’s all part of their design. You belong to them. And you will belong to them for as long as they choose.”

Orion sat back, processing the information, and glanced at the others, eager for a new perspective. He turned to Thaddeus, a tall, brooding figure with eyes as cold and distant as the moonlit mountains surrounding the estate. Thaddeus had been in District 1 longer than most, and his voice, when he spoke, was like gravel sliding across stone.

“I’m guessing you don’t share Lysandra’s optimism?” Orion asked, trying to draw out a response.

Thaddeus chuckled, but it wasn’t a laugh so much as the sound of a razor blade scraping against bone. “Optimism? Nah. It’s not about that. It’s about survival. Absolute loyalty, that’s the key. They test you every step of the way. The higher you rise, the more you have to lose. But you also gain more. More comfort. More resources. Hell, you even get to watch the ones below you grind their teeth in frustration.” He leaned back, his gaze never leaving the flickering candle on the table. “You think it’s a game, but it’s not. It’s just the way things are.”

Orion frowned again, trying to reconcile what he had heard with his own experience. The stories of the Methuselah were filled with blood and horror, but there was something intoxicating about their power, something that made you want to be a part of it, to serve them, to rise above the ones who hated them. “But… how do you move up? I mean, what’s the actual criterion?” Orion asked, his voice full of genuine curiosity.

The room fell into a heavy silence as the veterans exchanged glances. Then, just as the tension was about to crack, Lysandra spoke again, her voice quieter, more contemplative. “No one really knows the answer to that, Orion,” she said softly. “Not for sure. The Methuselah never tell you anything. But…” She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with a knowledge that was both ancient and unsettling. “I think it’s about loyalty. Absolute loyalty. You’ll see. The farther you go, the more it becomes clear.”

“I agree,” Thaddeus added, his voice steady, unwavering. “When you get to District 12, you see a lot of hate. A lot of rebellion. Those people… they don’t get it. They don’t get how the game works. They don’t want to. But when you get up here, to District 1… you can’t fake loyalty. You either have it, or you don’t. And the Methuselah, they see it. They always see it.”

Orion blinked, still unsure of how to process what he was hearing. “So… District 12 people just don’t make it? Because they hate the Methuselah?”

“Exactly,” Lysandra said. “You can’t rise with hatred in your heart. The Methuselah know when you’re genuine, when you’re willing to serve them. And if you’re not? Well, you’ll stay stuck down there. Forever.”

A quiet pause settled over the table, broken only by the sound of cups being set down, the clink of silverware as it was placed on plates. It was a silence filled with the weight of unspoken truths, the shared understanding that the Methuselah were not to be trifled with. Their power, their control, their grip over their subordinates was absolute. It wasn’t just about survival, it was about obedience, about loyalty, about a cold and unyielding bond forged in the fires of Eternity’s Edge.

Orion looked around at the faces of the veterans, each one marked by the passage of time, the weight of their choices. They had given everything to the Methuselah, and in return, they had been given everything but freedom.

He was still so new to this world, so green, but in that moment, he realized that there was no going back. The Methuselah didn’t just demand loyalty—they demanded everything. They were more than just rulers. They were a force of nature. And once you entered their orbit, you could never leave.

As he looked around the table at the faces of those who had come before him, Orion finally understood.

He had made his choice.

And there was no turning back.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

Orion’s tiny frame sat perched on the edge of the high-backed chair, his eyes gleaming like sharp, shifting jewels as he grinned at Kasuga, who sat across from him, maintaining an air of calm that only someone as seasoned as Kasuga could manage. His youthful exuberance seemed at odds with the grim surroundings of the Methuselah Estate—polished walls, dark corners, the faint echo of past horrors that lingered in the air like a taste of copper. But Orion, despite being barely 10, had already become accustomed to the underlying tension of the place. His heart thrummed with excitement at the possibility of making a new friend, and Kasuga, with his mature aura and quiet intelligence, was the perfect target.

“You know, Kasuga,” Orion said with a mischievous gleam in his heterochromatic eyes, “you’re like, really quiet all the time. Are you like always like this? Doesn’t it get boring?” His voice, despite being light and childlike, had an unsettling sharpness to it as if he was studying every nuance of Kasuga’s expression. “It’s so dull, don’t you think? I mean, come on! We’re both butlers in training! We should be like… fun, right?”

Kasuga tilted his head slightly, his blue eyes flicking toward Orion, but his expression didn’t shift. He had always been the kind of person who spoke little and observed much, but he couldn’t help but find this child’s relentless energy—almost a mask—oddly endearing, though he’d never admit it. Orion was… unpredictable, that much was certain. And unpredictable people were never entirely safe.

“Fun?” Kasuga’s voice was low, barely above a whisper, though his words carried weight, each syllable slow and deliberate. “In this place? Fun is a luxury we can’t afford, Orion. We’ve already lost too much to fun.” He let his gaze drift around the lavish but sterile room they were in, the walls whispering of bloodshed and cold, calculating power. “In the end, it’s loyalty that matters here. Not joy. Not smiles.” He ran a hand through his shoulder-length blonde hair, his fingers brushing the strands that fell over his eyes. “The irony isn’t lost on me.”

Orion blinked, unbothered by Kasuga’s seriousness. He hadn’t yet learned to temper his enthusiasm, and so he pressed on, his tone sweet but with a sharp edge, “Yeah, but… like, how do you even live like that? It sounds boring! Sure, loyalty is important, but don’t you think it’s weird? I mean, we’ve all been brought here because they saw something in us, right? But who were we before? You, me, everyone—we’ve all had a past that the Methuselah took and turned into something else, something their way. All that death and destruction, and they made us loyal. It’s all kind of… messed up, don’t you think?”

Kasuga’s blue eyes narrowed slightly, his voice still as calm and even as ever. “Messed up?” he repeated, almost to himself. “Perhaps. But it’s the only truth I’ve come to know. Loyalty is their law, Orion. They don’t care about the past or the guilt. Once you step into their world, your history is irrelevant. You serve them or you die. That’s the way it’s always been. Loyalty is the currency here, and the only one that holds value.”

Orion’s eyes gleamed, the yellow and orange irises burning brightly in the dim room. “I guess you’re right,” he mused, spinning the words around like a playful game, “but… doesn’t it get to you, Kasuga? You sound so… calm about it, but deep down, don’t you just hate it? The fact that everything’s so… cold?” He leaned forward, his small body almost quivering with excitement, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You know, you’re kind of funny, you’ve got that look in your eyes, like you’ve seen everything and still haven’t gotten the punchline yet. You’re the perfect kind of serious, the kind that doesn’t let anything bother him. I wish I could be like that. But I don’t know, sometimes… don’t you want to punch the Methuselah in the face for making us feel all this, for putting us through all of it?”

The words floated in the air, hanging like poison, but Kasuga didn’t flinch. He simply stared back, his expression unreadable. His voice was just as soft, like a calm wind blowing over a field of long-forgotten graves. “I don’t need to punch anyone. I just need to serve. And that’s where you’re wrong. It’s not about hate. It’s about acceptance. The Methuselah gave me a place when no one else did. They rescued me from oblivion, and in return, all they ask for is loyalty. To them, it’s a transaction—no emotions involved. Just a bargain.”

Orion’s lips curled into a grin, his small face lighting up with that same gleam of unyielding curiosity. “A bargain… huh? So that’s how it is? You just give them everything, your past, your future, and in return, they give you a job, a place, some food… and probably some more blood, huh? Sounds fair enough, I guess. I mean, the food’s good, at least, right?” He tapped his chin thoughtfully, before continuing with a more serious tone, “But seriously though, loyalty is such a weird thing, don’t you think? Like, how do we know we’re loyal? Is it about doing everything they say, even when it’s… well, not just gross, but downright terrifying?”

Kasuga’s gaze lingered on Orion for a moment before he replied, voice as cold as the walls around them. “Loyalty here isn’t about whether you’re scared. It’s about not betraying them. Once you betray, you’re discarded. You’re nothing but a forgotten piece of filth. Trust me, Orion.” He let out a quiet sigh. “The way people rise through the Districts… it’s not just about surviving the work. It’s about becoming useful to them, becoming indispensable. You have to be willing to let go of everything. Your desires. Your dreams. Everything that came before, that made you you. And you will. Eventually.”

Orion furrowed his brows. “So… if I’m not loyal, what happens?”

Kasuga’s lips curled into a cold, almost imperceptible smile. “You die. Or worse. The Methuselah don’t give second chances. That’s the truth.” He paused, letting the silence hang in the air like a heavy weight. “Loyalty isn’t just a concept here. It’s the law. Without it, you’re not even human.”

The room grew darker, the air thick with the unsaid truths of the estate. Orion’s face remained lit with that sickly, excited glow, as though he were both fascinated and horrified by what Kasuga had said. Kasuga, on the other hand, sat back, his expression serene, as if he had already accepted his fate long ago. The Methuselah had shaped him, broken him, and in return, he had become something entirely different—a being who no longer questioned the horrors of their reign.

Orion leaned back in his chair, his mind racing with thoughts and possibilities, the weight of Kasuga’s words sinking into his chest. He hadn’t yet fully understood the depths of this place, the unyielding chains that bound everyone to it. But one thing was certain: District 1 wasn’t a place where you could simply make friends and live a carefree life. Loyalty, above all else, was the price of admission. And if you couldn’t pay it, you would be crushed beneath its weight.

For the Methuselah, it wasn’t about power. It was about control.

And they had it all.

═════════════════

Orion’s small, wiry frame bounced on the edge of the chair, his legs swinging as he regarded Kasuga with a kind of gleeful intensity that bordered on mania. His eyes—yellow and orange—danced with an irrepressible, hungry curiosity. He had been dying to get under Kasuga’s skin ever since the moment they’d been assigned as roommates. The older butler—so calm, so reserved—was like a puzzle Orion had yet to crack, and that made him all the more interesting. The energy between them was palpable, like a storm waiting to break, and Orion was determined to make sure it did.

“So, Kasuga!” Orion chirped, his voice light but edged with a wicked undercurrent. His tiny fingers drummed against the chair’s armrest in rapid succession. “What’s the deal with you? You don’t want to rise up the ranks? You’re fine with just being a regular butler? Come on, even I have bigger plans than that!” He leaned in closer, his face a breath away from Kasuga’s, his eyes narrowing mischievously. “Tell me, tell me, you don’t really want to just stay here forever, do you? Cleaning up messes and running errands for the same old people? Don’t you want to be special? Be the personal butler to one of the Rank 12 to Rank 2? They’d love someone like you! Calm, collected… efficient.”

Kasuga’s blue eyes flickered briefly in Orion’s direction, his expression as cool and unreadable as ever. He leaned back in his chair, slowly, deliberately, his long fingers brushing over the edge of his glass in a languid motion. Despite his calm exterior, there was something about Orion’s energy that gnawed at him, almost as though it reminded him of the youthful hunger he’d once felt before all this—before he had come to understand the truth about the Methuselah and their rules.

“Personal butler,” Kasuga murmured, his voice quiet, but with an edge of something that hinted at both curiosity and calculation. “To one of them, you mean? That’s a dangerous game you’re playing, Orion.” His gaze shifted to meet the child’s, his voice gaining a subtle, almost imperceptible weight as he continued, “You know that the personal butlers and maids serve directly under the Methuselah, right? And those who serve them… they live and die by their whims. One wrong move, one slip-up, and it’s over. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers, the sound sharp in the otherwise quiet room. “And even more so for you. You’re too young, too…” Kasuga paused, searching for the word, though it wasn’t entirely necessary. “… raw.”

Orion’s lips curled into a smile that was far too wide, almost stretching into something feral. “Raw? Maybe! But I’ve got potential, Kasuga! A kid like me can go far in this place, don’t you think? I mean, look at me!” He waved a hand dramatically, his silvery hair falling into his face, a dazzling contrast to the dark, oppressive atmosphere around them. “I’m not like them—the others who just stay and accept everything as it is. No! I’m different. I want to rise, to be at the top, and you know what they say, right? You gotta be bold to get to the top. Bold and smart.”

Kasuga’s lips twitched ever so slightly, a small quirk of a smile that barely made it past his lips before it was gone again, replaced by the same, haunting calm. “Bold?” he echoed, his tone nonchalant but laced with an unspoken weight. “Being bold here means courting death. Or worse.” His fingers paused against the edge of his glass, his gaze distant, almost as though he was reflecting on something dark, something long past.

For a moment, there was silence, and in that silence, the atmosphere in the room seemed to thicken. There was no hint of warmth in the air. It was as cold as the hearts of the Methuselah themselves.

Orion, however, refused to let the tension linger for long. “Whatever, I’m not scared of that! I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? They’ll just—” He paused, his face suddenly serious, almost too serious for someone his age. “—replace me. But I won’t let that happen. I’ll get noticed, I’ll make sure they remember me, and I’ll be the personal butler to someone important. Rank 2, maybe. Someone strong. Someone who has… potential.”

Kasuga’s eyes narrowed just slightly as he regarded the boy before him. “Rank 2?” he repeated, his voice a low murmur. “You think someone like you would stand out to them? You think the Methuselah would care about you?” His tone was quiet, but there was a sharpness to it now, a subtle warning. “You’d be crushed under their gaze, Orion. They don’t pick people because they’re ‘interesting.’ They pick people who are useful, who have something to offer. Not… childish dreams.”

Orion leaned back slightly, his eyes flashing with that familiar defiance. “We’ll see, Kasuga. We’ll see. I’ve got more than dreams. I’ve got plans. And unlike you, I’m not going to sit around waiting for them to choose me.” He crossed his arms, his smile now almost dangerous in its self-assurance. “I’ll climb up the ranks, one way or another. I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty, you know? And besides, you know what it’s like. You’ve seen it yourself. Loyalty is all that matters. That’s why you’re still here, isn’t it? You’ve been here for so long because you know what they want. So tell me, Kasuga,” he leaned in a little closer, eyes gleaming, “why haven’t you tried to become a personal butler yet? To someone you actually want to serve?”

Kasuga’s face remained impassive, but inside, a flicker of something stirred. The question was loaded, almost too pointed to ignore. He took another slow sip from his glass, his eyes fixed on Orion as if weighing the boy’s words against the harsh reality of his own experiences. “I’m not in a rush,” he said after a moment, his voice calm but heavy with the weight of someone who had seen too much to act impulsively. “I’ve seen what happens when you rush. It gets you killed. Or worse.”

Orion raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Worse? What’s worse than dying?”

Kasuga’s gaze darkened for a moment, and for a fraction of a second, the weight of years, decades, centuries of serving the Methuselah passed over him like a shadow. “You’ll find out soon enough. We all do.” He set the glass down with a soft clink, his voice dropping even lower. “As for personal butlers… I don’t like the ones in Rank 12 to Rank 2. They’re… disappointing.” His lips curled into the faintest of smiles, but it was a smile that never reached his eyes. “But I’ll wait. People are always replaced here. And when they are, we’ll see if I find someone worthy.”

Orion’s grin widened, unbothered by the warning in Kasuga’s words. “Guess we’ll see who’s left standing, huh?” he said, his voice full of mischief. “But hey, just so you know, I’ll be aiming for Rank 2. And when I get there, I’m going to make sure you know how right I was.”

Kasuga’s eyes softened slightly, a flicker of amusement in the depths of his calm demeanor. “We’ll see, Orion. We’ll see.”

═════════════════

The room was dim, illuminated only by the faint, artificial glow of the walls. The air was heavy with the faint metallic scent of sterility—District 1’s standard. Kasuga leaned against the cold frame of the door, his blue eyes fixed on Orion, who had begun bouncing in place with a maddening enthusiasm. His silver hair shimmered faintly, but it was his eyes that betrayed him—those heterochromatic orbs now sparking with the glimmers of distant galaxies, stars flickering and dying as if the boy’s emotions were bending the fabric of space-time itself.

Kasuga, of course, was unfazed.

“So,” he began, his voice a smooth, monotone drawl that betrayed neither intrigue nor indifference. “What do you think about our first assignment? The nursery.” He tilted his head slightly, his gaze level. “Cleaning up injuries. Corpses. Helping with… conditioning.”

Orion’s eyes widened at the word, and his entire face lit up with a kind of cosmic delight. “The nursery?” he repeated, his voice practically vibrating with excitement. “Oh, Kasuga, it’s going to be amazing! Just imagine it—thousands of them. Thousands of Methuselah children, each one destined to become… something unimaginable!” He threw his arms out wide as if he were presenting the universe itself. “I mean, sure, we’ll just be cleaning up at first, but think about it. We’ll get to see them in action. Their training, their conditioning—seeing the weak ones get weeded out, seeing the strong rise to the top. It’s… inspiring!”

Kasuga’s gaze didn’t waver, though his lips quirked faintly at the edges. “Inspiring,” he echoed, his tone flat. “That’s one way to describe it. Others might call it… barbaric.”

Orion’s hands shot to his hips, and he puffed out his chest like a child defending their favorite toy. “Barbaric? Oh, please. It’s the Methuselah. What did you expect? Tea parties and lullabies?” He scoffed, his expression equal parts amused and incredulous. “This is the foundation of their strength, Kasuga! The reason why they’ve reigned supreme for… for forever! They don’t waste time on the weak. They refine, they perfect. That’s why they’re unmatched. That’s why we’re here—to witness it, to be part of it. Don’t you think that’s… I don’t know… thrilling?”

Kasuga stared at him for a long moment, his face unreadable. He finally crossed his arms, his blond hair falling slightly over his face. “Thrilling,” he murmured. “You mean scrubbing blood off the floor and hauling tiny corpses into incinerators. That’s thrilling to you?”

Orion didn’t even flinch. In fact, he grinned, a wide, childlike grin that seemed almost eerie in the dim light. “Of course! It’s all part of the process. The honor. Don’t you get it? Every little thing we do there—it’s a piece of the greater whole. A cog in the machine that keeps the Methuselah running.” His voice softened slightly, taking on a strange reverence. “And besides… it’s not just blood and corpses, you know. It’s potential. Every child we help train, every weak one we… dispose of… it’s all shaping the future. Their future. Our future.”

Kasuga’s expression darkened, though only slightly. He tilted his head again, his gaze piercing. “You’re disturbingly optimistic about all this,” he said quietly. “Most new blood would at least hesitate. Flinch. You, on the other hand…” He trailed off, letting the silence speak for itself.

Orion tilted his head back and laughed, the sound echoing unnaturally in the sterile room. “What’s there to flinch at?” he asked, his voice full of unrestrained glee. “This is what we signed up for, isn’t it? The Methuselah don’t just let anyone in. We’re here because we’ve proven ourselves. Because we’re worth it.” He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned toward Kasuga. “Or are you saying you’re not ready for it?”

Kasuga didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he straightened, his hands resting calmly at his sides. “I’m ready,” he said finally, his voice even. “But readiness and enthusiasm aren’t the same thing.” His gaze shifted slightly, taking in Orion’s almost otherworldly glow. “You’re too eager. That kind of energy… it won’t last here. Not for long.”

Orion’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it widened. “We’ll see about that, Kasuga,” he said brightly. “But hey, I’ll make you a deal. While you’re busy being all stoic and brooding, I’ll keep things exciting. Someone’s got to keep the mood up, right?”

Kasuga’s lips twitched faintly, a hint of amusement breaking through his otherwise calm demeanor. “If you think excitement will make this any easier, you’re in for a rude awakening.”

Orion shrugged, his silver hair catching the light as he turned toward the window. Outside, the artificial sky flickered faintly, casting the room in an unsettling, intermittent glow. “Maybe,” he said softly. “But you know what? I think I’ll be just fine. After all…” He glanced back at Kasuga, his eyes gleaming with starlight. “I’ve got galaxies on my side.”

Kasuga didn’t respond. He simply watched as Orion’s reflection danced in the glass, the faint shimmer of stars swirling around him like an unsettling aura. Despite himself, he couldn’t help but wonder just how long that light would last before the darkness of the Methuselah’s world snuffed it out entirely.

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Before you start reading God’s Protagonist, make sure to read the following:

1. Introducing God’s Protagonist: A Dark Fantasy Epic by Fang Dokja [General Info]
2. The Purpose of “God’s Protagonist”
3. Content and Trigger Warnings for God’s Protagonist
4. Why God’s Protagonist is Rated Mature (23+)
5. Comprehensive Content and Trigger Warnings for God’s Protagonist
6. How God’s Protagonist Works: Major Arcs and Chapter Posting
7. Coping with “God’s Protagonist”: Taking Care of Yourself as a Reader

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