GM-Public services {2}

[Hogun - POV]

[Hogun]: Finally. We arrive at the hospital… Took long enough. I never expected the inspection process to be this tight—and this annoying.

I stepped out of the armored personnel crawler and took a deep breath of the sterile, ozone-tinged air outside the fortress-hospital gates. For the past three hours, James and I had endured enough biometric scans, soul resonance pings, and psychological compliance tests to classify as borderline divine. I even reactivated the Zombie Invasion Add-On back at the Citadel just to entertain myself while we waited.

Sure, it might have caused a few minor civilian alerts, but hey, I left the diplomats in that luxury six-star hotel with indoor waterfalls and symphonic pillow menus. They'd live. Probably.

James stood beside me, ever the soldier, ever the straight man.

[James]: General, I believe the heightened security is due to the hospital housing... well, everything. Dangerous diseases, parasitic plagues, demonic infestations, eldritch spores… the usual. This is, after all, the most secure medical complex in the hemisphere. Possibly the world. You designed it with Miss Hast, if I recall.

[Hogun]: Yes. We did. A marvel of bio-defensive engineering. Layers upon layers of bunkers, self-sealing doors, anti-magic fields, and enough automated defenses to survive ten apocalypses and a civil lawsuit.

I let my eyes drift across the towering structure. It wasn't just a hospital—it was a fortress. A city of steel and sterility. Drones buzzed overhead. Paladins in white-and-black power armor stood at every corner like guardian statues. Inside, patients ranged from plague-ridden soldiers to beings who no longer had consistent definitions of "alive."

[Hogun]: But… it still has one flaw.

James turned to me, puzzled. I didn't look at him. I just started walking.

[James]: Sir? You said you designed it to be impenetrable.

[Hogun]: I did. But the flaw… is that it's too damn big.

James raised an eyebrow.

[James]: Too big, sir?

[Hogun]: Yes. You can get lost. Like, three-days-with-a-compass lost. I once tried to visit Wing Delta and ended up inside the maternity ward of bioengineered phoenixes. They were very judgmental.

James coughed politely.

[James]: And the codes, sir?

[Hogun]: Half of them don't make sense. I think we wrote half of the room labels during a caffeine-fueled, 96-hour emergency session after the Red Bile Incident. There's a storage unit called 'Chrono-Cough Custard Containment Room 7-Beta'. I don't even know what that means.

[James]: …Should I write that down in the list of future redesigns?

[Hogun]: No. If someone can't survive the maze, they don't deserve the secrets inside.

As we approached the main gate, the giant reinforced blast doors hissed and opened slowly. Inside, a medical drone hovered and gave us a cheerful AI greeting.

[Drone]: Welcome, General Hogun. You are 103.2 hours late for your scheduled inspection. Diplomats have been redirected to the Stress Recovery Spa. Would you like to initiate Casual Tour Mode or Emergency Surgeon Chase Mode?

[Hogun]: …Tour Mode. And prep the vault. I want to check on Subject 9, the anomaly we extracted from the Ark.

James tensed slightly at the name.

[James]: Sir… you think it's connected to Whiteveil?

I stopped in the entrance, shadows and light from inside flickering on the edges of my coat.

[Hogun]: Everything comes back to Whiteveil.

The air changed as we entered the internal sectors of the hospital. The sterile scent of antiseptic gave way to something… older. Metallic. Like the weight of rusted memory. We passed by glass walls shielding containment rooms filled with every horror our world had spat into existence. A girl with a plague-bound halo floated above her bed, whispering in languages older than time. A vat-grown angel was being taught how to pray. Soldiers with half-missing souls hummed lullabies to their missing halves.

We walked in silence, the sound of boots echoing down corridors designed to contain nightmares.

[James]: Are you sure you want to see him now, sir? Subject 9 hasn't spoken to anyone since he arrived.

[Hogun]: He spoke to me once before. Back then, during the evacuation of Whiteveil… he said the sky had started bleeding.

James looked uneasy, but didn't push it. He rarely did when it came to Whiteveil.

We reached Vault Sector Omega-13, a blast-shielded zone sealed beneath twenty meters of neutronium-hardened alloy and void-inscribed wards. Only two people in the world could open the final door. One of them was me.

I placed my hand on the biometric lock. It scanned my bone structure, mana signature, soulprint, and pulse rhythm.

[AI]: Welcome, General Hogun. Unlocking Containment: Subject 9. Warning: Subject is active. Cognitive state—uncertain.

The vault hissed open with a slow exhale of cryo-mist.

Inside, the chamber was dim. Not dark—just shy of being lit. It felt like light existed here only because it was told to, and even then, it didn't want to stay long.

Subject 9 sat cross-legged on a slab of obsidian composite. His skin was partially mutated—horned growths trailing down his spine, one arm entirely covered in bone-like plating that pulsed gently with bioluminescence. He wore a black blindfold across his eyes, but he turned his head the moment I stepped in.

[Subject 9]: Hogun... the general who survived the fall.

His voice was soft. But every syllable felt like it dragged something ancient and broken behind it.

[Hogun]: You remember me.

[Subject 9]: I remember fire. I remember screaming. And I remember the moment the ground vanished, and Whiteveil became a wound that the world forgot to close.

I stepped closer, motioning for James to remain by the door.

[Hogun]: You escaped before the Collapse.

[Subject 9]: Escaped? There was no escape. I was thrown out. Like a splinter.

He raised his plated arm, letting it hang in the air, fingers curling slightly.

[Subject 9]: It marked me. The Veil. When it inverted, it reached into me. It showed me the truth. We weren't the first city. We were just the first... sacrifice.

[Hogun]: Sacrifice to what?

[Subject 9]: To the thing beneath. The truth they buried under gold and glory. The thing that dreams of cities. The thing that eats names.

James's hand went to his sidearm, instinctively.

[James]: Sir, should I call for the psychic stabilizers?

I raised a hand to silence him. Subject 9 wasn't unstable. He was lucid. Too lucid.

[Hogun]: Tell me what you saw, Nine.

For a moment, silence.

Then he lifted his blindfold.

His eyes were empty. Not hollow—empty. As if what was once there had been devoured by something that didn't leave scars, only silence.

[Subject 9]: I saw the bottom. I saw what lies past the fifty kilometers of nothing. I saw the Heart.

The air grew colder.

[Subject 9]: And it saw me back.

He lowered the blindfold again and turned his head toward me—though he didn't need sight.

[Subject 9]: You'll go back, won't you? To Whiteveil.

[Hogun]: Yes.

[Subject 9]: Then remember this, Hogun the Unburned: The hole is not a grave. It's a mouth. And it's hungry again.

I stared at him for a long moment. There were many kinds of madness in the world—this wasn't one of them. That made it worse.

[Hogun]: …Thanks, Nine. Hope you finally shake off that bone plague of yours. And don't worry about that thing. If it shows its face again—I'll make sure it regrets evolving lungs.

Nine chuckled faintly. Or maybe the room did. Either way, I needed to get out of there.

I stepped out, the heavy doors hissing shut behind me with a whisper of reinforced paranoia. James was waiting, arms folded, eyes sharp.

I looked at him, tired in a way I couldn't articulate.

God, I'm going to collapse one day—probably mid-briefing. If only I had known that my lazy, caffeine-addicted, overcompensating younger self would leave a ticking time bomb called "Mr. Winnie" buried under our world like a twisted joke. Why, why did we name a reality-bending, city-devouring abyssal worm… Mr. Winnie?

"Because it made him sound cute," I remembered my younger self saying, "and no one would panic about a worm named Winnie."

Damn you, Young Me. You absolute moron.

I could feel my stress bar threatening to break its UI. But I had an image to uphold. A city ready to implode if I so much as looked tired. So I squared my shoulders, tugged down my coat, and turned to James with all the fake energy of a man running on spite and a shot of espresso brewed in hell.

[Hogun]: James. Take me to see the sick kids. Let's wrap this visit up before my spine files a resignation.

[James]: General, with all due respect, you look like you're about to pass out. Maybe I should meet with the diplomats while you—

As I stepped into the main hall of the pediatric recovery wing, I could feel my soul leaving my body. James was speaking, but my brain was buffering.

[James]: General, the children from Block 9 are ready for their morale session. I've taken the liberty of ordering extra pudding as per your last decree on 'diplomatic nutritional strategy.'

[Hogun]: Good. Fantastic. If pudding diplomacy fails, we'll try stickers.

I turned the corner.

And froze.

[Hogun]: Why... is the Doctor here?

I looked at the Doctor who was standing near the kids' reading corner, arms folded, their medical coat spotless. Somehow. Standing beside them was the cloned little pink menace—Theresa, now a child again, chewing on a crayon and humming a tune disturbingly close to a military march.

Behind them, W leaned in and fed the little Theresa pudding with a smile. Yelena, next to her, had the look of a woman who had just seen something both adorable and apocalyptic.

[W]: Hey, General! We brought snacks. Theresa insisted on sharing with the kids.

I looked toward the children's table. It was surrounded by half-finished cupcakes, half-dissected by Theresa with the focus of a nuclear physicist, and frosted with actual military-grade thermal paste. A small sign read "Cupcake Tactics – Sweet Victory Edition."

[Theresa]: Look, Uncle Hogun! I turned my cupcake into a fortress!

It was, somehow, a near-perfect replica of the western wall of the Citadel. I almost cried.

[Hogun]: Of course she did…

[Doctor]: General Hogun. We're here on invitation. You requested Rhodes' assistance in mental health reconnection therapy and clone behavioral modeling. I brought her to socialize with peers.

[Hogun]: Peers? She built a battlement from breakfast.

[Doctor]: Which is already better than some of our recruits.

[W]: At least she didn't booby trap the cupcakes this time.

[Yelena]: She tried to recruit the children into something called the 'Plush Guard.' I don't know if that's adorable or terrifying.

[James]: There's already a logo and an anthem. She filed a flag design request five minutes ago.

I leaned on the nearest railing and sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. My stress meter was now an active threat to public safety.

[Hogun]: Why do I even try anymore…

[Theresa]: Can we invade the sick wing next? They have better blankets.

[Doctor]: She means 'invade' in a compassionate way.

[Hogun]: I'm going to pretend I believe you.

The door behind me opened with a hiss, and a nurse poked her head out.

[Nurse]: General, the children are ready to hear the story about the Worm again. They made drawings of Mr. Winnie eating politicians.

Of course they did.

I forced a smile, eyes twitching only slightly.

[Hogun]: Let's go, James. Time to tell the bedtime story that doubles as a national security briefing.

[James]: Should I prepare the emergency protocols?

As I stepped into the story circle, Theresa followed at my heel like a tiny pink duck with unstable magical potential. The Doctor observed quietly. W gave me a thumbs-up. Yelena mouthed good luck.

I didn't start the story.

Instead, I grabbed the Doctor by the collar of their pristine coat, gave W a look that said "no explosions, just follow," and dragged them both down a maintenance corridor. Once we were in one of the old observation rooms—soundproofed, sealed, and lined with relic tech—I activated the privacy ward with a flick of my ID band.

James and Yelena, sensing the storm brewing, wisely escorted little Theresa elsewhere. I hoped to whatever gods were still listening that she didn't declare war on the pediatric oncology ward.

I turned, pacing like a caged beast, before slamming both hands onto the table with enough force to rattle W's pockets.

[Hogun]: Doctor, I swear on every screw in this rusting citadel—sometimes I want to kill you. And this is one of those times.

The Doctor, unflinching as always, merely raised a hand in that infuriating 'calm down' gesture.

[Hogun]: You brought the former Queen of the Sarkaz into the most public, most watched part of the hospital. In a pink hoodie. With crayons. If even one loyalist under her brother catches a glimpse of her, we're not dealing with a political incident—we're looking at a full-blown magical civil war.

[W]: Relax, General. She's adorable. No one suspects that much death fits in such a tiny package.

[Hogun]: W, you once snuck a bomb into a cake and called it 'garnish.' Your definition of adorable is suspect.

[Doctor]: I didn't bring her as a showpiece. She needs social interaction to develop emotional scaffolding. She's a child now—clone or not. If we isolate her too long, she'll fracture. Again.

[Hogun]: I'm not disagreeing with the therapy. I'm disagreeing with the venue! I already have Ursus legions near-rioting, the Uraus diplomat is threatening to challenge me to a ritual hunt, and—oh right—there's a mouth in the earth that's getting hungry again!

[W]: Honestly, I kind of forgot about Mr. Winnie. How's he doing?

[Hogun]: Still sleeping. For now...

The words were automatic. Habitual. But halfway through that sentence, something snapped in me.

My eyes narrowed.

I turned slowly, the old burn across my collarbone throbbing like a ghost of Whiteveil whispering again.

My voice turned colder than ice and sharper than a blade.

[Hogun]: How do you know about Mr. Winnie?

W raised an eyebrow, casually tapping the side of her temple.

[W]: Relax, General. I was poking around the Whiteveil blackzones—intercepts, fragments, rumors. Heard a few lines about 'the one who sleeps beneath' and someone called Mr. Winnie. Thought it was... y'know. A pet name. Like some lazy old friend of yours.

I was already moving before the words even finished.

My katakana cleared its sheath with a sharp hiss and stopped an inch from her throat, glowing faintly with the seal-ink of the Oath Flame I swore never to draw it lightly.

The venom thick in my voice.

[Hogun]: That name… is classified above all else. Only me. James. And one dead historian knows its weight. Do you think I call it 'Mr. Winnie, because it's funny?

My eyes behind the gas mask turn red from anger.

[Hogun]: It's not. It's the containment protocol. A name so stupid, so mundane, so harmless, that if someone ever says it in terror, we'll know it's awake.

The air in the room thickened. Even W's casual posture faltered a bit, her smirk twitching into something far more serious.

[Hogun]: It's not a friend. It's not a joke. Mr. Winnie is a worm—no, a god-worm that ate a city. The city. Whiteveil didn't fall into a hole. Whiteveil became the hole. And he's sleeping at the bottom of it.

I lowered the blade slightly, but not the fury

"Oh," she says.

I let the silence sit like ash in the air, then spoke with iron.

[Hogun]: Now listen—both of you. Never speak of this again. Not even to each other. Not to Kal'tsit. Not to Yelena. Not to a damned diary. This name dies here.

[W, sighing]: Got it. Mouth shut. Brain locked.

[Hogun]: Good. Now let's get back to Pink Storm and the kids. I've got an envoy to yell at, and a whole country balanced on my spine. Also—W?

She perked up.

[Hogun]: Your paycheck for this week is getting cut in half.

[W]: What?! For what?!

[Hogun]: Abandoning your post. Digging into black-zone classified intel. Nearly setting off an apocalypse.

[Hogun]: Dame tyrant.

[Doctor]: What about Theresa?

[Hogun]: Go to Section 3. Find Jon. He'll change her hair. Something less... flaming target pink. Blue. Green. Or black. Black sounds right.

[W]: I liked the pink...

We left the shadowed chamber. The door hissed shut behind us like a vault locking secrets away again. As the Doctor and W made their way toward Section 3, I turned and headed with James toward my office—the central spire of the hospital fortress, nestled in a tower of steel, rune-glass, and reactor shields.

James handed me a dataslate as we walked.

[James]: The envoy is already in the reception chamber. Representatives from the northern federations. They're... not happy.

[Hogun]: Good. Neither am I.

[James]: General... you look like death. You should rest.

[Hogun]: I'll rest when I'm dead. Or when Mr. Winnie eats the damn continent. Whichever comes first.

We approached the final door, golden-cased and covered in six-layered seals that only open to my voice.

It hummed open.

Behind it: the envoy chamber.

Flags. Suits. Cold eyes.

And the expectation of a leader who had all the answers.

But I had none.

Just a blade.

[Extra: The Red Khan vs. The Blood and Bronze God]

[Red POV]

It has been a hundred years since I arrived in this war-split world—one drenched in steel, fire, and prophecy. In that time, my legend galloped across continents on the backs of ten thousand hooves. They call me many names: Lord of Horses, Warlord of the Red Horizon, Patron of Honor Duels, and simply—the Red Khan.

My banners burn crimson in every sky. My horde knows no borders.

From the jade towers of Cathay to the obsidian temples of the New World, I've crossed blades with lizardfolk, sipped wine with dying emperors, and shattered more Chaos cults than I can count.

But nothing—nothing—prepared me for this.

During one of our latest raids, as we tore through a Chaos warband with thunder and flame, the sky screamed. A rift opened in reality—black and jagged like a wound in the world—and it dragged me into it.

I arrived in a realm of brass and ash.

The Realm of Khorne.

A land where rivers ran red and the sky wept fire. Mountains made of skulls reached for the heavens. The air pulsed with hatred, rage, and something older—something divine.

Before me stood a gate of molten iron, guarded by a host of daemon legions.

I killed them all.

With axe, blade, and hoof, I brought ruin to the Brass Host. My steed's hooves shattered skulls, and my war cries echoed with such fury that they turned daemon blood to steam.

And when I stood alone, drenched in gore, smoke curling from my wound, the gates opened.

And he stood there.

Khorne.

The Blood and Bronze God.

Ten stories tall. Forged from wrath and molten iron. His body was a furnace of divine rage, his axe bigger than any beast I'd slain. His helm bore antlers of flayed bone, and his voice… it wasn't a sound. It was a command.

But I did not kneel.

I pointed my curved sword at him, scarlet banners fluttering behind me like fire.

[Red]: I challenge you to a duel, god of rage. No armies. No avatars. Just you and me.

He laughed.

And the world cracked.

THE DUEL BEGAN.

He struck first, like thunder wrapped in hatred. His axe descended with the weight of continents. I dodged, leaping from the saddle, my blade flashing with the power of a thousand victories.

Our blows collided like worlds clashing.

My sword carved molten sparks from his bronze skin. His gauntleted fists shattered the ground with each swing. I danced, moved, struck—each movement fueled by the honor of ten thousand duels.

He bled magma.

I bled red.

Time lost meaning in that realm. We fought across mountaintops of skulls, through rivers of screaming souls, into a storm of fire and steel.

And still, I stood.

For every time he roared, I answered with a challenge.

For every time he tried to crush me, I slipped free, laughing like the desert wind.

I wasn't just a mortal.

I was a symbol.

I was defiant.

And finally—when my blade sank deep into the side of his burning neck, and his hand trembled on the haft of his god-forged axe—he dropped to a single, kneeling knee.

And I stood over him.

Breathing hard.

Victorious.

[Red]: Remember this, god. Even blood runs dry before my will.

He did not die.

But in the realm of Khorne, I left my mark.

And now… somewhere, deep in the screams of war, there is a silence. A pause.

And in it, the Red Khan rides on.

[???]: Looks like you made a home for yourself here, Khan. Too bad this cat is here for fun, too.

[Chapter end]