Saypen1

In a world divided by power and inequality, ancient cults threaten to bring chaos once more. Unbeknownst to most, one young man holds the key to stopping them—his forgotten lineage linked to a past where heroes saved the world. As dark forces close in, he must uncover the truth of his heritage before it’s too late.

End Of Days: Genesis

The rain hadn't stopped in three days.

Mike stood alone on the eastern balcony of Gravemarch's outpost, watching as stormwater slithered across ancient stonework. Below, the once-bustling dig site was abandoned—cordoned off after the "incident." The whispers had stopped. The symbols had faded. The ground had gone still.

The mark on his palm throbbed beneath the glove. His skin hadn't healed. It had mutated—veins shifting in patterns that pulsed with a rhythm he could feel but not understand.

Behind him, the door creaked open.

"You skipped the psych eval again."

Eleanor's voice was dry, edged with frustration and something softer. She stepped beside him, her black coat flaring in the wind, data pad under one arm.

"They said you had another seizure yesterday. But when they scanned you—nothing."

"It wasn't a seizure." Mike's voice was low. "It was a memory."

She tilted her head. "A memory of what?"

"Of something that didn't belong to me."

Mike had woken in a sweat, sheets tangled, shirt clinging to him like a second skin. He didn't remember falling asleep. He rarely did these days.

The dream had been different this time.

A circular chamber, impossibly large, filled with writhing forms—tens of thousands, fused together, chanting in a language that vibrated in the bones.

At the center, a pulsing hive. Organic. Alive.

And then he'd seen himself, standing in its core—calm, silent, his chest glowing with the same symbol that had scarred his palm.

Back at HQ, strange reports had started to surface.

A priest in southern Helveta was found chanting in a dead language. His eyes bled black.

A kid in Eastern London claimed he could "hear the Hive again" and disappeared two nights later.

In Sector A of New Berlin, three CPOA agents investigating a minor cult pocket went missing—and when found, had etched spiral runes into their own skin.

Ysara's command center buzzed with red alerts and audio logs filled with static-laced screams.

"The Hive was supposed to be dead," Eleanor muttered, scrolling through the intel.

In the weapons bay, Lucas had rebuilt his rifle for the third time that week.

"I don't like this crap, man," he muttered, shoving a component into the chamber. "You've been off. Eleanor's twitchy. Even Ysara's acting like we're in a war she hasn't told us about."

Mike leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

"What do you think the Hive really was?"

"I think it wasn't just a cult. It was… something deeper. Like it wasn't spreading beliefs. It was spreading itself."

Mike didn't answer. Because he didn't know. He just did.

Later that night, Mike wandered back to the ruins. Alone.

The area was sealed—motion sensors, drones, a silent alarm straight to HQ. But they didn't stop him. Couldn't.

He descended into the heart of the dig. Past stone pillars etched with warnings in dead tongues. Past the sealed iron gate—now cracked open by something strong from the inside.

At the chamber's center, the stone altar remained.

But when Mike touched it, the symbol on his palm glowed.

He stood in another body. Another time. Not human. Not quite.

A battlefield. Cities burned. Machines screamed. The Hive roared.

And he—this version of him—stood at the edge of it all, leading others like him. Guardians. Hybrids. Not born. Awakened.

Then, betrayal. Fire. Death. The world sealing the Hive away.

And a warning: It will rise again, through flesh that remembers.

When he looked up, his reflection shimmered in the altar's surface.

Chapter 7: Echoes of the Hive