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This story contains intense and graphic themes that may be disturbing to some readers. Please read with caution.
Trigger Warnings:
- Violence: Explicit descriptions of physical and psychological abuse, including brutal assessments and the culling process of children.
- Child Endangerment: Children are subjected to harsh testing and evaluation with high stakes involving life or death outcomes.
- Body Horror: Descriptions of unnatural physical mutations and genetic experimentation.
- Death: The process of eliminating children deemed unworthy, including casual references to death and disposal.
- Trauma: Depictions of emotional and psychological strain, including fear and distress in young characters.
- Blood and Gore: Frequent references to blood and medical procedures, including surgical tools and bloodstains.
- Medical Torture: Some medical procedures are shown to be invasive and disturbing, performed without concern for the well-being of the subjects.
- Moral Ambiguity: Characters discuss and participate in a system that objectifies and harms others, leading to moments of ethical conflict.
- Death and Injury: A number of characters face fatal injuries or near-death experiences, and their suffering is described in detail.
- Abuse of Children: There are scenes depicting the abuse and mistreatment of children, including exploitation and brutal testing.
- Disturbing Imagery: Some scenes feature disturbing, surreal, and unsettling imagery that may be deeply uncomfortable to some readers.
- Foul Language: Strong language, including expletives, is used in parts of the story.
- Mental Health Struggles: Characters express significant psychological strain, frustration, and moments of existential crisis, with occasional references to mental instability and self-destructive thoughts.
- Substance Abuse: Characters engage in drinking alcohol in excess as a coping mechanism, often to numb their emotions or escape the harsh realities of their environment.
- Dark Themes of Futility and Despair: The setting and interactions between characters explore feelings of hopelessness, futility in their work, and a pervasive sense of being trapped in a cycle of violence and survival.
- Chaotic Behavior and Madness: Some characters display erratic or unpredictable behavior, including moments of frantic energy, outbursts, and strained attempts to maintain control in the face of overwhelming chaos.
This story addresses intense themes related to power, experimentation, and the loss of innocence. It is recommended that readers be cautious if sensitive to graphic violence or emotionally heavy content.
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Status: Draft #1
Last Edited: November 26, 2024
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The morning air of District 1 carried a cold sterility, a chill not of nature but of design. Kasuga and Orion moved silently through the sprawling estate, their steps softened by floors polished to a mirror-like sheen. Beyond the grandeur of their quarters, they followed the winding, hollow paths toward the farthest reaches of the Methuselah Estate, where even the faint hum of perpetual technology seemed muted, swallowed by a sense of foreboding.
Ahead lay Nursery Golgotha, the facility assigned to the weakest of the Methuselah’s progeny. It was a paradoxical name, both a graveyard and a crucible, where the unworthy were weeded out and the survivors shaped into cold perfection. The Nursery loomed like a vast, geometric monolith, its structure devoid of warmth. Though the living conditions were leagues above those of District 12, it was clear this place was not meant to nurture. It was a place to refine.
Orion, ever energetic despite the oppressive air, hummed a tuneless melody as his silver hair shimmered under the flickering artificial lights. “Sector Z, Class Z,” he said, glancing at the assignment tablet clutched in his small hands. His heterochromatic eyes sparkled with interest. “The lowest of the low. Wonder what that says about us, huh?”
Kasuga cast him a sidelong glance, his tall, lean form shadowing the smaller boy. “It says we’re expendable,” he replied, his voice measured. “Perfect candidates to clean up after corpses and failures.”
Orion only grinned. “Cheerful as always, Kasuga. But hey, at least we’re starting somewhere. Maybe Class Z will surprise us.”
Kasuga said nothing, his gaze fixed ahead as the automatic doors slid open with a hiss. The interior of Sector Z was as uninviting as the exterior—clinical white walls, sharp fluorescent lighting that cast unforgiving shadows, and the faint, acrid smell of antiseptic masking something darker, something more organic.
They stepped into the designated classroom, where the air hung heavy with a quiet tension. Doctor Sen Yamato stood at the center of the room, his sharp eyes fixed on a datapad, his dark, angular features carved with an emotionless precision. His pristine white coat was stained with faint red smears near the cuffs—old, dried blood that no amount of scrubbing seemed to erase. Beside him, his assistant, Doctor Akaza Fubuki, worked with a brisk efficiency, arranging equipment with the detached grace of someone long accustomed to this work. She was shorter than Yamato, her tan skin illuminated by the sterile lights, her gloved hands handling tools meant for destruction rather than care.
“New blood,” Yamato said without looking up, his voice a scalpel cutting through the silence. “You’re late.”
“We’re not,” Kasuga replied calmly, his blue eyes unflinching. “We arrived on schedule.”
Yamato’s gaze flicked to him, calculating and cold. A faint smirk touched his lips, a predator sizing up a curious mouse. “Ah, one who talks back. That’s rare for Class Z support.” He turned his attention back to the datapad. “No matter. You’re here to assist, not to think.”
Fubuki gestured at the tools and medical supplies laid out on the counters—needles, clamps, bio-scanners, and trays of surgical instruments gleaming under the harsh light. “The children will arrive soon,” she said, her tone clinical, detached. “Prepare the space. Wipe down the equipment. Ensure there’s no obstruction for the instructors when the session begins. And keep out of the way.”
Kasuga and Orion exchanged a glance before moving to the task. Kasuga reached for a cloth and antiseptic spray, methodically wiping down the blood-spattered surfaces. Orion, humming again, moved to organize the trays, his small hands deftly arranging scalpels and clamps with unnerving cheerfulness.
As they worked, Yamato spoke, his words directed more at the air than at them. “Class Z,” he began, his tone contemplative. “The dregs. Born with the lowest genetic potential, the least promise of strength or intelligence. A statistical disappointment, even before their first breath. If they survive today, it’ll be because they’ve clawed their way out of insignificance.”
Fubuki didn’t look up from her work. “Survival rate for Class Z during the first culling is less than five percent,” she added, almost absently. “But those who do survive… well, they’re often the most ruthless. Desperation breeds ingenuity.”
Orion, undeterred by the grim statistics, piped up, “So, basically, they’re like underdogs? I like underdogs.”
Yamato’s sharp gaze snapped to him. “They’re not ‘underdogs.’ They’re mistakes. Errors in an otherwise flawless system. The Methuselah tolerate their existence only because even the weakest can serve a purpose. A reminder of failure. An example of what must never be repeated.”
Orion blinked, then grinned. “Still sounds like underdogs to me.”
Kasuga sighed, not bothering to hide his exasperation. “Orion, if you keep talking, you’ll find yourself on the wrong end of the culling.”
The boy only shrugged, his excitement undampened. “If they haven’t culled me yet, I think I’m safe.”
Yamato’s lips curled into a faint sneer. “Confidence. Let’s see how long it lasts.”
Before they could respond, the doors hissed open again, and the first of the Methuselah children were led in. They were small, no older than a few weeks, their bodies already unnaturally developed. Their eyes—some glowing, others pitch black—were unblinking, scanning the room with an unsettling awareness. Despite their age, they carried an aura of quiet menace, their movements deliberate, calculated.
“Naive,” Fubuki murmured, watching them. “But not for long.”
Orion stared, his eyes wide, the cosmic spark within them flickering brighter. “They’re amazing,” he whispered, his voice almost reverent. “Look at them. You can see it. The potential.”
Kasuga didn’t respond. His gaze remained on the children, his expression unreadable. Somewhere deep in his mind, a question lingered—a quiet, persistent doubt about the purpose of all this. But he pushed it aside, focusing instead on the task at hand.
For now, they were here to assist. To clean. To prepare the tools of destruction and watch as innocence was stripped away, replaced by the cold, calculated brutality of survival.
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The air in the massive training chamber was cold and sterile, yet tinged with an underlying, metallic tang. The walls stretched endlessly, reinforced steel panels glinting faintly under the harsh fluorescent light that bathed the space in an unforgiving glare. The floor was polished to a mirrored sheen, marred only by the scuff marks of countless bodies that had passed through this room—a place of judgment and death. This was Sector Z, Class Z, the lowest echelon of the Methuselah Nursery.
The children entered in an orderly stream, their numbers precise: one hundred souls, wide-eyed and uncertain, yet already burdened with the unyielding weight of expectation. Each child was a tapestry of unique traits, their mixed bloodlines evident in their alien elegance. Draconic scales shimmered on the necks of some, faint gill slits pulsed on others, while others bore feline tails or glowing eyes that hinted at nocturnal prowess. Yet their posture betrayed their youth. These children, no more than one or two years old, still bore the innocence of the newly born. Their bodies, however, were those of ten-year-old humans—lean, preternaturally strong, and unnervingly symmetrical.
Naivety dripped from their every movement as they took in their surroundings, their gazes darting between the two Doctors, the butlers in training, and the tall, imposing man who awaited them at the center of the room. Instructor Levi Akashi, a living embodiment of discipline and brutality, stood motionless, his muscular form clad in the rigid lines of a military instructor’s uniform. His scarred face told a story of countless battles, his eyes void of sympathy, and his silence heavier than the steel walls enclosing them.
Kasuga and Orion stood to one side, tasked with assisting the Doctors in their evaluations. Kasuga’s expression remained calm, his movements efficient as he prepared the tools laid out for the assessments. Orion, however, had to suppress his constant, bubbling energy, his heterochromatic eyes sparkling with an almost childlike wonder.
“Children of Sector Z,” Levi’s voice boomed, a deep baritone that reverberated through the room, silencing the whispers and giggles among the young ones. “You stand at the edge of judgment. From this moment forward, your existence must be justified.”
Many of the children flinched at the sound, their reactions instinctive and unguarded. A mistake. Levi’s lip curled in disdain. “Pathetic,” he muttered under his breath, though the word carried far enough for all to hear.
Doctor Sen Yamato stepped forward, his datapad in hand, flanked by his assistant, Doctor Akaza Fubuki. Their movements were clinical, deliberate. “Begin the assessments,” Yamato instructed, his voice sharp and clipped. “We have no time for sentimentality.”
The first child was summoned, a thin, wiry boy with translucent skin that shimmered faintly under the lights. His eyes glowed faintly green, a bioluminescence that marked some deep-sea ancestry. Fubuki motioned for the boy to step forward, her gloved hands already examining his vitals with cold precision.
“Heightened oxygen efficiency,” she murmured as she ran a bio-scanner along his chest. “Minimal muscle density. Possible genetic defect in the protein encoding sequences. His speed might compensate, but strength is suboptimal.”
Yamato’s gaze never left the datapad as he typed rapidly. “Tolerable. Move him to the butlers’ side.”
Kasuga gestured for the boy to join the small line forming behind him. The child shuffled over, visibly relieved.
The next child, a girl with faint, iridescent wings folded against her back, hesitated as Fubuki’s hands moved to measure her neural response times. “Flight adaptations appear promising,” Fubuki commented, her voice devoid of praise. “But nerve reflex lag is unacceptable.”
Levi’s eyes narrowed, his scarred hand flexing instinctively. “Instructor’s side,” Yamato said without hesitation, and the girl’s face crumpled as she was directed toward the towering figure of Levi.
Kasuga watched her go, noting the way her wings trembled. “She won’t last,” he murmured under his breath, too quiet for anyone but Orion to hear.
Orion, still organizing surgical tools nearby, whispered back, “Bet she’s got something up her sleeve. Underdogs, remember?” He grinned, a spark of mischief lighting his face. Kasuga gave him a sharp glance but said nothing.
Child after child moved forward. Some were sent to the butlers’ side, their potential deemed salvageable. Others were relegated to Levi’s side, where their trembling forms stood in stark contrast to his immovable presence. Fubuki and Yamato continued their work with ruthless efficiency, their words dissecting the children like blades.
“This one’s cranial development is stunted. Instructor’s side.”
“Unstable genetic markers. Possible autoimmune complications. Instructor’s side.”
“Excessive biomass. Strength compensates. Butlers’ side.”
Orion’s eyes lingered on the small pile of discarded identification tags accumulating near Fubuki’s workstation—tags from those deemed irredeemable. Each one represented a life that would soon cease to exist.
“They don’t even get a chance,” he muttered, a rare moment of solemnity slipping through his usual cheer.
“They had their chance,” Kasuga replied, his voice low. “Every moment up to this was their chance.”
The process dragged on, a grim parade of innocence met with cold judgment. By the end, the room was silent save for the steady scribble of Yamato’s datapad and the faint hum of Fubuki’s scanners. Fifty-three children stood behind Kasuga and Orion, their faces blank as they struggled to emulate the stoicism they thought was expected of them. The remaining forty-seven huddled behind Levi, their fate hanging in the balance.
Yamato finally lowered his datapad, his voice cutting through the tense silence. “Assessments are complete. The culling will commence tomorrow.”
Levi’s scarred lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile, and the children behind him recoiled slightly.
Kasuga met Orion’s gaze, his calm expression betraying none of the unease he felt. Orion, as usual, grinned. “Well,” the smaller boy said, his voice hushed but unshaken, “looks like tomorrow’s going to be fun.”
Kasuga didn’t respond. He simply turned back to his work, methodically cleaning the tools for what was to come.
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The corridor leading to the Red Door was eerily silent, its length lit only by cold, white lights embedded in the steel ceiling above. The metallic clang of boots against polished floors echoed as Kasuga and Orion marched at the head of the fifty-three children who had passed. Behind them, the young Methuselah whispered in hushed tones, their voices rising and falling like a tide of naivety that grated against the oppressive atmosphere.
Kasuga’s sharp blue eyes darted toward the children as they passed. Despite their enhanced bodies and engineered minds, their behavior was juvenile—an innocent facade draped over monstrous potential. A boy with faintly glowing golden hair nudged a girl whose tiny horns curved delicately from her forehead, causing her to giggle. Another child, a willowy figure with translucent fins fluttering along their arms, marveled at the reflective steel walls, their fingers leaving smudges as they traced invisible patterns.
“Stupid,” Kasuga muttered under his breath.
Orion, walking beside him, grinned in response. “They’re just kids,” he said, his heterochromatic eyes sparkling with uncontained mischief. “Big, scary kids, sure, but you’ve gotta admit it’s funny.”
Kasuga shot him a glance, his expression as flat and unreadable as ever. “Funny is irrelevant. Look closer. They’re unprepared for what’s coming.”
Orion didn’t reply, though the slight furrow in his brow betrayed his unease.
At last, they reached the Red Door, an imposing barrier set into the wall. The color wasn’t paint—it was the deep, dried crimson of countless lives condensed into an immortal hue. Kasuga’s hand brushed against the biometric panel, and the door hissed open, revealing the room beyond.
The shared quarters stretched out in stark minimalism. Rows of identical, neatly made beds lined either side of the room, their military precision broken only by the faint depressions in the thin mattresses. The lighting was dimmer here, softer, giving the illusion of comfort, but the cold steel walls and lack of personal touches made it clear this was no sanctuary. The Methuselah demanded strength from the moment of existence, and comfort bred weakness.
“Inside,” Kasuga ordered curtly, his voice slicing through the low chatter. The children hesitated only a moment before shuffling in, their gazes darting nervously around the room. For a moment, they lingered near the doorway, clustering together like herd animals sensing a predator.
Orion clapped his hands together, startling them. “Alright, find a bed, settle in, do whatever you kids do,” he said brightly. His cheerful tone was almost jarring in the sterile environment. “Doctor Yamato wants you all rested for tomorrow. Big day, you know? The kind where you prove you’re worth not dying.”
Some of the children exchanged uneasy looks, their instincts catching on to the undercurrent of Orion’s words. Others seemed to dismiss him entirely, their youthful arrogance shielding them from the weight of the situation. Within moments, they were climbing onto the beds, talking amongst themselves, and even laughing.
Kasuga observed silently, his sharp gaze dissecting every movement, every word. A boy with draconic claws was flexing his hands experimentally, testing his grip. Another child, a girl with violet-tinted skin, sat cross-legged on a bed, staring at the ceiling with a dreamy expression, as though none of this concerned her. A cluster of three children had already begun arguing over which bed was “best,” their voices rising in an infantile competition that grated against the air of authority Kasuga had tried to maintain.
“They don’t get it,” Kasuga said quietly, leaning slightly toward Orion. “They don’t understand where they are. What they are.”
Orion tilted his head, his silver hair falling like a cascade of moonlight over his shoulder. “They’ll figure it out,” he whispered back. “Or they won’t, and they’ll end up…” He trailed off, his eyes drifting to the sealed training lab they’d just left.
Kasuga didn’t respond. Instead, he moved to the control panel near the door, pressing a series of buttons that activated the room’s security system. The faint hum of invisible barriers locked into place, ensuring none of the children could leave.
“Lights out in five minutes,” Kasuga announced to the room. “Get to bed.”
The children obeyed with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Some dove under the covers as though this were a sleepover, their laughter a discordant melody in the oppressive quiet. Others climbed into bed more cautiously, their instincts warning them that this newfound safety was an illusion.
Kasuga waited until the chatter had dulled to a faint murmur before sealing the door behind him and Orion. The two butlers in training stood in the corridor for a moment, the silence pressing down like a leaden weight.
“They’re going to die,” Kasuga said flatly, his voice carrying no emotion, just fact.
“Not all of them,” Orion replied, though his usual cheer was muted. “Just… most of them.”
Kasuga turned to leave. “We have to report back.”
Orion hesitated, glancing back at the Red Door. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice quieter than usual. “Let’s go.”
The two walked away, their boots echoing in unison as the crimson barrier loomed behind them, sealing the children inside their brief, naive peace.
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The return to the training lab was painted in visceral shades of red and black. Kasuga and Orion stepped inside to the pungent metallic scent of blood that clung to the air like an oppressive fog. Corpses lay scattered across the room, stacked in grotesque piles. Flesh, bone, and sinew melded together in a macabre tapestry of failure—bodies too small to have ever deserved such ruin, mutilated beyond recognition. Limbs twisted at impossible angles. Faces frozen in terror.
Kasuga barely blinked, his eyes sweeping over the carnage with the detached efficiency of someone used to it. Orion hesitated, his expression tightening. For all his boundless energy, there was a flicker of something—perhaps nausea, perhaps pity—that Kasuga noted but didn’t comment on. This was normal here. It was all normal.
The Instructor, Levi Akashi, loomed over the two surviving children who stood trembling near the Doctors. Their small bodies were filthy, smeared with blood and dirt, though neither appeared injured. Their eyes—one child with faintly glowing silver irises, the other with jagged crimson pupils—were wide and glassy, as if they had seen something beyond comprehension. The Doctors leaned over them, murmuring in calm, clinical tones as they jotted down notes and scanned the children with handheld devices.
Their small forms were smeared with dirt and blood, though they bore no visible injuries. The way they shook wasn’t from exhaustion but pure, primal terror. Doctors Yamato and Doctor Fubuki hovered over them, muttering clinically to one another as they scribbled notes on sleek, glowing tablets.
“Minimal surface damage,” murmured Dr. Yamato, tilting one of the child’s faces upward with a gloved hand. The boy flinched but didn’t resist. “Resilience adequate, though barely meeting threshold. Observationally, they survive out of fear rather than instinct or skill. Acceptable, for now.”
Dr. Fubuki nodded, her delicate hands adjusting her glasses. “Standard augmentation potential. I’d recommend immediate conditioning to suppress emotional interference.”
A shadow loomed over them all, darker than the blood-streaked walls. Instructor Levi Akashi stood tall and silent, his scarred face devoid of expression. His fists were caked with gore, fresh blood dripping lazily from his knuckles. The air around him was oppressive, his very presence a reminder of brutality incarnate.
Yet none of this was what caused Kasuga to pause mid-step. His eyes caught on something smaller, crumpled near the far corner of the room. It wasn’t the blood-soaked heaps of the dead or the trembling children by the Doctors—it was her.
A tiny child, no more than a whisper of a person, lay on the floor. Her frail body was contorted unnaturally, her limbs twisted and broken in ways that seemed impossible. Her skin was so pale it seemed translucent, painted with streaks of crimson. Long black hair clung to her face and shoulders, plastered there by sweat and blood. Her eyes—deep, dark brown to the point of near blackness—stared unblinking at nothing, but her shallow, rattling breaths betrayed her stubborn hold on life.
“Impossible,” Orion whispered, his voice barely audible.
Kasuga’s sharp gaze lingered on her. Human. That was the first word that came to mind. There were no visible racial traits, no exotic markings, no monstrous features. Just a pale, ordinary human girl. Her appearance stood out in a room filled with Methuselah children whose very existence defied the mundane. But there was something else—her size, her fragility. She didn’t even have the physicality of a ten-year-old, unlike the others. She looked her age: one year old. Perhaps younger.
Orion nudged Kasuga, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s alive,” he murmured.
Kasuga’s gaze narrowed. “She shouldn’t be.” His words were cold, clinical, but his mind raced. Her wounds were catastrophic—open fractures, crushed ribs, a torso caved inward like paper crumpled by an impatient hand. There was no logical reason for her to be breathing, yet the faint rise and fall of her chest persisted.
The Instructor’s heavy boots thudded across the room as he approached the girl. He loomed over her broken form, his eyes cold and calculating. Without a word, he brought his foot down, pressing harshly against her skull. The wet crunch beneath his heel wasn’t accompanied by a sound from the girl. She remained utterly silent.
“Deon Fonias,” Levi Akashi muttered, his voice low and emotionless. His scarred face bore no malice, only detached observation as though her suffering was a puzzle to be solved. He pressed harder, her fragile skull creaking under the weight, but still, she didn’t die.
Dr. Yamato raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “She resists death without the benefit of cellular regeneration,” he noted, his voice calm amidst the chaos. “No detectable self-repair mechanisms. Yet her vitals persist.”
Dr. Fubuki leaned closer, her expression intent. “It’s not metabolic preservation either. She’s actively decaying, yet… sustained.” Her fingers hovered over a scanner, analyzing the faint flicker of life that clung to the girl. “A mutation, perhaps? An anomaly?”
The Instructor lifted the girl by her hair, her limp body dangling like a ragdoll. Blood streamed from her wounds, pooling beneath her in sickening drops. Her head lolled forward, yet her chest continued its uneven rise and fall. Levi Akashi examined her closely, his gaze piercing.
“She’s weak,” he said finally, his voice as heavy as a death knell. “But this… endurance.” He turned her face slightly, examining her glassy, unfocused eyes. “Not strength. Not skill. Just… something else.”
The Doctors murmured among themselves, theories spiraling out like threads of silk spun by mad spiders.
“Her endurance might make her a candidate for experimental conditioning.”
“Potentially a unique bloodline? If so, she could be valuable for cross-experimentation.”
“Perhaps an inherent resistance to death stimuli. No, that doesn’t align with her neurological patterns…”
The child made no sound, no movement, no resistance.
Finally, the Instructor spoke again. “She passes.”
The declaration was simple, final. He tosses her to the floor, her broken body crumpling back to the ground like a discarded toy.
Dr. Yamato turned to the butlers, nodding once. “Take her to the medical wing. Have her stabilized. Then bring the other two to their quarters. We’ll have further discussions about this one later.”
Kasuga moved first, stepping over corpses with an almost dismissive grace. He crouched, his gloved hands brushing against the girl’s blood-soaked frame. For a moment, he hesitated, staring at her face. Something about her felt…wrong. But there was no time for speculation. He scooped her up with practiced efficiency, careful not to jostle her shattered limbs.
Orion gathered the other two children, offering them a bright but strained smile. “C’mon, you two. Time to rest up for another day of…fun.”
The children didn’t respond, their traumatized gazes fixed on the floor.
As they left the room, the Doctors’ voices faded into the background, their scientific analysis continuing even as they walked away. Behind them, the Instructor stood amidst the corpses, watching them go with an inscrutable expression.
The girl in Kasuga’s arms twitched faintly, a single weak breath escaping her lips. He glanced down at her pale face, his expression unreadable.
“Stupid,” he muttered softly. But his grip on her was steady as they walked.
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The meeting room was an exquisite contradiction, a haven of opulence nestled in the heart of cold brutality. The long obsidian table gleamed under the golden glow of chandeliers that cascaded light in fractals, each crystal seeming to mock the blood-drenched chaos outside. Plush velvet chairs, carved with intricate designs, invited comfort, while trays of lavishly prepared dishes—perfectly roasted meats, delicate pastries, and sparkling beverages—were set like offerings to gods who might never come.
Kasuga sat down silently, his dark blue eyes scanning the table. He reached for a glass of wine, swirling the crimson liquid absently as though trying to drown out the metallic taste of blood still lingering in his senses. Across from him, Orion had already dove into the food, his hands a blur as he stacked his plate high. The boy’s ever-present energy seemed impervious even to the horrors they had just left behind.
Instructor Levi Akashi sat at the head of the table, his muscular frame dwarfing the ornate chair he occupied. A thick, leather-bound book rested in his massive hands, pages dog-eared and worn from repeated readings. He chewed methodically on a piece of meat, his eyes never leaving the text. The blood on his knuckles from earlier had been cleaned away, but the faint scent of iron still seemed to cling to him like a second skin.
“Your last team member will arrive shortly,” Levi said without looking up, his voice like gravel grinding in the silence. “We’ll discuss the details when he’s here.” That was all. He flipped a page, his attention fully absorbed again.
Across the table, Doctors Yamato and Fubuki were engaged in their usual animated bickering, plates untouched as they leaned over shared datapads and scrawled diagrams.
“Her resistance isn’t genetic,” Yamato snapped, his fork gesturing wildly as though to punctuate his point. “It’s a biochemical anomaly, likely environmental. Perhaps she was exposed to something in utero.”
Fubuki clicked her tongue, unimpressed. “You’re a fool if you think something as crude as environmental exposure explains this. It’s an adaptive trait, however nascent. The data from her vitals—”
“—is inconclusive!” Yamato cut her off. “We don’t even have a baseline for this level of endurance in the absence of regenerative capabilities.”
Kasuga sipped his wine, allowing the debate to wash over him like static. Orion, meanwhile, tore into a glazed drumstick and turned to him with an infuriatingly cheerful grin, entirely unbothered by the grim discussions surrounding him.
“So,” Orion began, leaning back in his chair. “Anyone from today’s batch catch your eye? I mean, they were mostly cannon fodder, but there’s always one or two who don’t make you want to blow your brains out, right?”
Kasuga glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “You mean besides the ones we scraped off the floor?” he said flatly, taking another sip.
Orion chuckled, unperturbed. “Yeah, yeah. I mean the ones that actually made it through. Like that scrawny little skeleton girl. What’s her name? Oh wait, she doesn’t have one yet, right? How do we even refer to her? Pile of Sticks? Walking Hemorrhage?”
Kasuga raised an eyebrow but didn’t dignify the comment with an answer. Orion, as usual, filled the silence.
“Seriously though,” Orion continued, “she’s got something, doesn’t she? I mean, she’s practically dead, but still kicking. That’s gotta count for something.” He grinned, waving a fork as though in celebration. “Maybe she’ll be the next big thing. Like an underdog story. Real inspiring, you know?”
“Sure,” Kasuga deadpanned. “I’ll write her a eulogy.”
Orion laughed, a sound too carefree for the blood-drenched day they’d had. “You’re such a softie, Kasuga. All these grim stares, but deep down, you’re rooting for her. Admit it.”
Kasuga set his glass down with a soft clink. “The only thing I’m rooting for is fewer corpses to clean tomorrow. If she makes it, fine. If she doesn’t, we’ll be back to scrubbing floors.”
“That’s the spirit,” Orion quipped, raising his glass in mock toast. “Pragmatism over sentimentality. Truly, you’re the shining star of the butler corps.”
Across the table, Dr. Yamato shot them a glare. “Do you mind? Some of us are attempting serious work here.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Orion said, not missing a beat. “Please, go on debating the mechanics of turning toddlers into immortal punching bags. Riveting stuff.”
Kasuga fought the urge to smirk, though a flicker of amusement danced in his dark eyes. Levi Akashi, still engrossed in his book, let out a low grunt of approval—or perhaps disinterest. It was hard to tell with him.
The strange domesticity of the scene was as surreal as it was unsettling. Here they sat, indulging in luxuries that most outside Eternity’s Edge would never see, while the blood of children still dried on their uniforms. It was a microcosm of Methuselah logic: absolute loyalty, absolute efficiency, absolute madness wrapped in a veneer of civility.
And this, Kasuga thought, was just the beginning.
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The door slammed open with a ferocity that sent a jolt through the otherwise calm room, and the man who entered was a bundle of frantic energy, a chaotic storm wrapped in a sharp business suit. His eyes, golden and unsettlingly draconic, flickered with barely concealed madness, like molten metal in a tempest. His hair was a wild mess of tangled brown strands, a stark contrast to the neatness of his attire, as though the suit and the unkempt wildness of his appearance were at odds with each other, a snapshot of someone desperately clinging to control but on the verge of being consumed by chaos. He muttered curses under his breath, practically vibrating with frustration, barely noticing the others as he dropped into the seat beside Instructor Akashi.
The room barely flinched at his entrance. Kasuga’s eyes flicked briefly in his direction, the barest hint of curiosity there before he turned his attention back to his wine. Orion, on the other hand, raised an eyebrow at the newcomer’s display of stress, but otherwise said nothing. Both were used to the strange, disjointed nature of their existence. People like this man, Solomon Osborne, were a fixture in their world—chaotic, yet somehow functioning within the madness.
“Fucking idiots,” Solomon muttered to himself, slurring through clenched teeth as he tore off his jacket and tossed it to the side. His eyes darted over the table, wild with irritation. “These stupid new bloods don’t know a damn thing! How the hell did they even get this far? Half of them can’t even dress themselves right! Too damn queasy from a little blood, huh? A bunch of babies thinking they can survive in this world.” His voice was thick with frustration, his tone sharp, biting, like a knife scraping across stone. “Idiots. Absolute idiots.”
He wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular. The words spilled out with such ease, such venom, it was like a second skin for him—this disillusioned ranting, this burning, incessant release of everything that made his life a barely-contained mess. He didn’t even flinch when his hand shot out to grab a bottle of dark liquor from the table, popping the cork and draining it down his throat with the efficiency of someone accustomed to drowning his frustrations.
The bottle was gone in a flash. Not a hint of redness colored his skin, no dazed look crossed his face. Just an eerie, unsettling calm that seemed to settle over him as the liquor hit his bloodstream. He set the empty bottle aside and wiped his mouth, his golden draconic eyes narrowing in irritation at the mess that filled his mind.
“You know,” Solomon finally spoke again, his voice level now, as though the alcohol had brought him back down to earth, “I’m not some freakin’ babysitter. I don’t have time to deal with these idiots. God, I need a vacation… but that’ll never happen, will it? Never happens for any of us. This place just keeps taking and taking.” He rubbed his temples, shaking his head as though trying to clear away the chaotic storm that never quite ceased.
His gaze shifted from the glass of liquor to the two newcomers, Kasuga and Orion, and his eyes, now sharper, pierced through them with immediate recognition. They were competent—he had been briefed on them. Their faces were etched in his memory from reports, their presence calculated. He couldn’t help but nod, finally calming down enough to regain his composure.
“Ah, right. You two,” Solomon said, his voice suddenly becoming more measured, more professional as he wiped his hands across his face and leaned back. He had switched gears, a seasoned businessman adapting to a different rhythm, a different role. “Kasuga, Orion… yes, I’ve heard of you. Good to finally meet you. The word on the street is you’re not like the rest of the trash they’re sending through here these days. Smart, competent. Proper. You’re the ones who don’t make me want to gouge my own eyes out just by existing in the same space.”
Orion leaned forward, offering a grin that was half amusement, half something darker. “Flattery, huh? We’re flattered. I mean, you sure seem like a man who enjoys his job,” he said, voice dripping with dry humor.
Solomon gave him a wry smile. “Job? I don’t have a ‘job.’ I have a prison sentence with nice curtains and a fridge full of expensive alcohol. And don’t you even get me started on all the real work that needs doing.” He ran a hand through his messy hair, the frustration returning in small waves.
Kasuga, ever the quiet observer, merely nodded in acknowledgment, his gaze steady and calculating. “You don’t seem too thrilled by it.”
Solomon’s mouth twisted into a grimace, his gaze flicking to the others at the table, all of whom had returned to their own business, paying him no mind. “Thrilled? No. But someone has to do it, don’t they? Someone has to make sure the wheels keep turning. The Methuselah don’t give a damn if you’re ‘thrilled,’ as long as you get results. And believe me, I’ve seen plenty of ‘new blood’ who can’t even clean up a corpse without making a damn mess. Every single day, I’ve got to fix these people’s mistakes and smooth things over just so we don’t fall apart. That’s the way this place works.”
He sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, the golden eyes narrowing slightly, as though calculating something. “Anyway,” he said, shifting the topic as easily as flipping a switch, “I’m sure you two are bored of being out there with the children, huh? It’s the same crap every day. But don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. When you’ve been here as long as I have, it all starts to blend together. Children die, children don’t die, and you clean up the mess. That’s the rhythm.”
Orion’s smile didn’t falter, but something in his expression darkened, just the slightest hint of discomfort. “Sounds like a lovely place to work. Can’t wait to get used to it.”
Kasuga remained silent, his eyes flickering to the Doctors at the far end of the room, still engaged in their theories, but he didn’t speak up. The conversation was a familiar one. Life here was a constant negotiation between survival and futility.
“Well, I won’t keep you two any longer,” Solomon said with a shrug, as though dismissing the conversation as easily as he’d begun it. “We’ll talk again when the next disaster strikes. You know where to find me.”
He picked up another bottle of alcohol, eyeing it with a strange reverence, before opening it and pouring himself another drink.
And with that, he seemed to slip back into his world, his chaotic, rumbling frustration once again encased in a tight, controlled professional shell—like a man running on fumes, but still somehow keeping it all together, for now.
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Before you start reading God’s Protagonist, make sure to read the following:
- Introducing God’s Protagonist: A Dark Fantasy Epic by Fang Dokja [General Info]
- The Purpose of “God’s Protagonist”
- Content and Trigger Warnings for God’s Protagonist
- Why God’s Protagonist is Rated Mature (23+)
- Comprehensive Content and Trigger Warnings for God’s Protagonist
- How God’s Protagonist Works: Major Arcs and Chapter Posting
- Coping with “God’s Protagonist”: Taking Care of Yourself as a Reader
𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 