Patientx0

Heaven has spoken.  

The world must burn.  

When the angels descended, they did not come to save—they came to purge. The chosen were lifted into the floating holy cities, while the rest of humanity was cast into fire and ruin. Those who remained call it the End Times, the final judgment of God. But the truth is far more terrifying.  

Malachai was once an angel, a divine being forged in the light of Heaven. He believed in the will of God, in the righteousness of the purge—until he asked the one question no angel should ever ask.  

"Why?"

For his doubt, he was cast down. Stripped of his wings. Abandoned to the ashes of the dying world. Branded a demon by those he once called kin.  

Now, wandering the wastelands of a forsaken Earth, Malachai seeks answers. Why was humanity truly damned? Why do the chosen in the floating cities whisper prayers of madness? And what is the Thirteenth Commandment—the law of Heaven so terrible that even the angels dare not speak its name?  

The truth lies buried beneath the corpses of a fallen world.  

And Malachai is no longer bound by Heaven’s silence.

The Thirteenth Commandment

Riven stood before a cracked mirror, adjusting the straps on his patchwork armor. The plates were mismatched, scavenged from who-knows-where, but they served their purpose well enough. With a practiced motion, he stepped onto his stilts, shifting his weight until his balance was perfect. Finally, he pulled on his bone-carved mask, its hollow eye sockets making him look like something between a warrior and a ghost.

He gave himself a nod, satisfied.

"Alright, time to wake up the angel."

Riven ducked back into his tent and nudged Malachai's shoulder. When that didn't work, he kicked him—lightly.

Malachai stirred, cracking one eye open. "What."

Riven crouched, jabbing a finger into Malachai's forehead. "Listen, you can't just lie around in my tent forever. You gotta help out if you wanna keep eating."

Malachai sighed. He didn't particularly care about their so-called 'rules' of survival, but he also didn't want to deal with Riven's nagging all day.

Riven grinned. "That's the spirit."

He tossed Malachai an old, rusted sword. Malachai caught it and inspected the blade. It was dull, barely usable.

"This is barely a weapon," Malachai muttered.

"Better than nothing," Riven shrugged. "Now, come on. The others are waiting."

At the outskirts of the camp, a small group was already gathered.

One of them, a broad-shouldered man with short, curly hair and an eyepatch, waved as Riven approached. "There he is! Lookin' taller today, Riven."

"Gotta keep up the act, Dax," Riven smirked beneath his mask.

Dax chuckled, clapping Riven on the back before turning his attention to Malachai. "And you must be the new guy."

A woman with braided dark hair and a scar running down her cheek leaned on her spear, eyeing Malachai up and down. "You any good with that sword?"

"No," Malachai answered bluntly.

She laughed. "Well, at least you're honest. Name's Senna."

Another member of the group, a wiry man with sunken eyes and a permanently skeptical expression, crossed his arms. "I'm Rolf. Don't slow us down."

Dax clapped his hands together. "Alright, enough chit-chat. Let's move out."

As they walked through the wasteland, Malachai eyed the barren surroundings.

"What exactly are we hunting?" he asked. "I was under the impression most animals here were long dead."

Riven glanced at the others before speaking. "We're not hunting animals."

Senna sighed. "We hunt abominations—souls of the rejected. Those who weren't chosen for Heaven but also weren't sent to Hell."

"They linger," Rolf added, "crawling across the earth in forms not meant for them."

Malachai remained unfazed. "I see."

The group exchanged glances, as if expecting him to react more strongly. But Malachai simply adjusted his grip on the sword and kept walking.

"Alright then," Dax said, shaking off the tension. "Let's go find some lost souls."

The Hunt Begins