Chapter 1: Paradise Valley
The Great Wars ended so long ago that their scars have become the landscape itself. Today, the ruins are seen everywhere, woven into the jagged skyline and the rusted earth, yet nobody truly remembers why they started or who fired the first shot. Darkness and fear have become the only legitimate rulers of what was once a sprawling, beautiful civilization. In the blink of an eye, the achievements of a thousand years crumbled into the gray dust that now coats everything.
When the world was still gasping for air, trying to crawl out of the void that plagued them like a necrotizing parasite, the Kings arrived. They were men and women who appeared from the fringes of the wasteland, wielding supernatural abilities that defied the logic of the old world. They forged a brutal order out of the chaos, hacking a path through the darkness for the remnants of humanity to follow.
Those who were too weak to stand and too sick to fight saw that path and flocked to it. They came in droves, begging for food, for protection, for a place to sleep where the shadows wouldn't swallow them whole. They ran to escape the dreaded reality of this new world, but they forgot a fundamental truth: safety is never free. It didn't take long for the hand that offered protection to clench into a fist. The path they followed became a treadmill of labor; protection became a chain, and hope became servitude.
But the darkness didn't just bring the Kings. It brought creatures monstrosities that preyed on human flesh as if it were common livestock. Seeing this threat, the Kings didn't just build walls; they built weapons. They took the men, the women, and even the children, training them into lethal, unfeeling armies. To the common folk, these soldiers were guardians. To the Kings, they were merely a perimeter a way to protect their own thrones from the enemies both outside and within.
This world was built on blood, fueled by blood, and it will eventually drown in blood. Concepts like "good" or "bad" are luxuries for a dead era. There is no morality here, only the cold mechanics of survival. If you want to see the sun rise, you have to be strong enough to hold back the night. No one cares if you live to see the moon; the moon has no pity for the fallen.
Welcome to Paradise Valley. A name that was likely a joke even when it was conceived. Welcome to the Valley of Blood.
A frail-looking young man with skin the color of aged parchment and dark circles carved deep under his eyes pedaled a rusted bike down the cracked highway. His name was Seven. He moved with a rhythmic, mechanical pace, weaving through the piles of rubble that littered the roadside like discarded refuse. He looked at the wreckage with an unbothered, vacant expressionnthe gaze of someone who had seen so much destruction that it had become as mundane as the weather.
He squeezed the brakes, the metal screeching in the silence, and hopped off as he reached a massive, corrugated iron structure. He stood before the warehouse for a moment, the wind whistling through the bullet holes in the siding.
Seven walked toward the entrance. With a sudden, forceful motion, he kicked the worn door. It didn't just open; it collapsed entirely, hitting the concrete floor with a hollow bang that echoed through the cavernous interior. He stepped inside, his pace unusually steady as he surveyed the carnage. Bodies were everywhere logistics workers, sorters, and guards tangled together in their final moments.
The heavy hum of flies filled the air, a buzzing shroud over the dead. Seven didn't linger. He noticed a trail of footprints heavy, muddy boots leading toward the back door. He stood up, adjusted his collar, and followed the trail. It bled out of the warehouse and disappeared into the suffocating green of the dense forest nearby.
Deep within the woods, the shadows of the trees stretched like long fingers over a group of men gathered around a roaring fire. They weren't hiding; they were celebrating.
"Hey, Boss! We caught a big boar this time around," one of the men shouted, hoisting a flask. "Gonna last us for a hell of a feast tonight!"
The leader of the pack, a mountain of a man with a jagged scar running from his left eye down to the corner of his mouth, let out a booming laugh. "Yeah, you're right about that. We got the job done quickly, so we might as well enjoy the spoils. It's a rare thing to have a full belly in this hole."
One of the younger thugs leaned in, tearing a piece of meat with his teeth. "But Boss, I thought we weren't taking this contract. I thought we were done doing the dirty work for those shitty Kings who call themselves the Messiahs of humanity."
The Boss spat into the fire, making it hiss. "Tch. I wasn't going to take it at first. But I changed my mind. There's a specific kind of gain you get when a 'King' owes you a favor. Power recognizes power.
Suddenly, one of the scouts on the perimeter stood up, hand on his holster. "Boss... someone's coming."
Seven didn't try to hide. His footsteps were deliberate, crunching loudly over the dry leaves and twigs. He wanted them to hear him. He wanted them to feel the approach of something inevitable. He walked into the clearing, his face a mask of calm, stopping right in the center of their camp.
The Boss looked Seven up and down, then spat again to clear his throat. "You lost, stranger? Or just looking for a quick way to die?"
"Someone attacked a warehouse a couple of miles back," Seven said, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "Killed everyone. I'm looking for the ones responsible. Do you know where they went?"
The Boss smirked, glancing at his men who began to slowly encircle the frail youth. "We might look like rough types, but we don't deal with human business out here. So, what makes you think you can just walk into my 'house' and start throwing accusations?"
Seven's lips twitched into a small, cold smirk.
"A house, huh? Well, if you want to be technical, that warehouse belonged to my someone I work for. And they don't like it when people break their toys. I'd like you guys to return whatever it is you took from there. Now."The Boss let out a short, mocking chuckle. "Wait, wait... check it out, boys. We got a real-life 'Killer' from the capital here with us today. Look at him! He looks like he'd blow away in a stiff breeze."
The camp erupted in mocking laughter. The men relaxed, seeing only Seven's thin frame and tired eyes.
"Well, if I may ask," the Boss continued, leaning forward, "where are the others? Don't tell me you came all this way alone."
Seven began to chuckle too a dry, rasping sound that felt out of place. "I don't remember the last time I actually felt like laughing," he said, his tone turning sharp and mocking. "You guys are actually pretty funny."
The Boss's face darkened, the scar on his cheek flushing red. "Are you mocking me, boy?"
Seven tilted his head, his eyes turning cold.
"Who knows?"
The Boss stood up, reaching for a heavy cleaver at his belt. "So, what are you doing here in the first place, if you're so smart?"
"I already told you," Seven replied, the smirk never leaving his face. "I'm here for the some questions"