Chapter 1
In the year 1324 of Vorynthex’s calendar, the denizens of planet Soil clung to the hard-earned stability of their world brought by the Federation. At the heart of the country of Veridia, its capital, Azurea, sprawled like a vibrant mosaic of neon and concrete. Towering skyscrapers, their glass facades gleaming under the sun, mirrored the hustle of a bygone era, billboards flashing advertisements for synthetic energy drinks and mobile phones, their surfaces framed with the soft glow of embedded Lumicite strips. The roar of combustion-engine taxis and the chatter of pedestrians filled the streets. A small fraction of the crowd had dark blue skin that stood out from the rest and mirrored the indigo-painted sky. Under the sun, a woman with long fiery curls navigated the throng. Her brown eyes scanned the vibrant chaos, merchants haggling over knockoff watches, teenagers in baggy jeans trading collector cards of their favorite sports. She adjusted the backpack slung across her shoulder, its weight hardly slowing down her pace.
Vendors hawked grilled street food, their voices mingling with the tinny pop music blaring from portable radios. Nearby, a federation news broadcast droned on about trade policies on Lumicite exports to Veridia. Azurea was a beacon of life, its people weaving through crowded sidewalks, some of their laughter rising above the traffic. To the people of Azurea, she was just another face. But beneath her casual stride lay a secret that burned hot.
She slipped away from the busy streets, ducking into a dark alley where the glass towers gave way to crumbling brick. A rusted manhole cover, half-hidden by litter, led to catacombs below. She descended, the lively buzz of the city fading into a suffocating silence, though the dark excitement inside her couldn’t be suppressed any longer. The air turned frigid, heavy with mold. Her sneakers slapped against the cold stones, each step a descent from the vibrant pulse of life above to the death-soaked depths below.
The first sounds reached her—screaming noises, raw and guttural, entwined with the metallic clink of chains ringing against stone. A burst of adrenaline coursed through her veins, but her face remained neutral. She reached into her backpack, pulling out a dark cloak with a crimson tint. She donned it, the hood swallowing her fiery hair in darkness, transforming her from citizen to cultist.
The catacombs opened into a vast cavern carved from the planet’s bones. Candlelight cast stretched silhouettes that danced on the walls of a massive cavity. There, against the faint, sickly cyan mood, sacrificial altars stood in rows. Humans, some with dark blue skin, were bound and begging for their life as their limbs were torn apart by ritual knives, their blood streaming into large jars etched with cryptic runes. The stench of iron and despair saturated the chamber, thick and suffocating.
At the heart of it all, hundreds of these blood-filled jars were plugged into a central tower—an antenna cobbled together from artifacts probably older than Soil itself, its veins of Lumicite pulsing with a turquoise light as they channeled the dark energy. The hooded figure joined her fellows, their faces hidden under cloaks like her own, moving in synchronized reverence. Their chants rose in a slow cadence, weaving a symphony of sound, ancient and alien, as if calling to something beyond the stars.
In the center of the cavern lay a grotesque relic: a dead, alien-like creature, its tentacle-like limbs splayed across the floor, glinting faintly in the candlelight. Its flesh was a mottled gray with an unnatural texture. Beneath it, the stone was carved with sprawling runic symbols, their Lumicite lines glowing faintly, as if alive. The antenna hummed, channeling dark energy drawn from the blood jars, each wave growing stronger, more prolonged. As the ritual neared its climax, the cultists’ chants grew frenzier, and a new rite began.
Pairs of hooded figures gathered near the alien creature, some shedding their crimson-tinted cloaks entirely, others parting the fabric to expose glistening skin, blue and pale alike, bathed in the dim light. Their bodies pressed close in fervent, ritualistic fornication, the shadows of breasts and other intimate curves projected against the cavern’s altars, a mockery of the victims’ dead bodies, swaying in rhythm with the antenna.
The woman discarded her temporary cloak like a mere accessory and joined the rest of the cultists. They smeared blood from the jars on their skins, the crimson mingling with sweat as their gasps and moans merged with the chants, amplifying the dark energy coursing through the antenna. The cultists’ voices, hers among them, reached a fevered pitch as tension built to a breaking point.
Then, at the climax, the energy surged—a writhing storm of darkness and blinding light, fueled by blood and forbidden acts, spiraling toward the creature. But instead of awakening, the creature remained still. The energy struck its form, only to rebound in a violent bolt of lightning, scattering like embers into the void. A collective gasp erupted from the hooded figures as they disentangled from their rites and exchanged glances. Her heart thudded beneath her cloak, a mist of confusion painting her thoughts.
The ritual had failed?
Rising from a secluded pocket in the Ashtown district of Azurea, far from the main arteries, stood the tallest building in the vicinity. Its lofty spire dominated the skyline in quiet defiance. A few weeks before the ritual, a familiar scene unfolded inside its steel frame.
The room featured everything to be expected from a typical team meeting, coffee steaming from chipped mugs, the projector’s aquamarine light casting a vibrant haze over the Fairydust art on the walls. Whiteboards, scarred with scribbles and deadlines, loomed in the background.
Tack slouched back in his chair, the leather groaning under him, his gaze drifting over the artwork without lingering, turquoise irises with hints of purple. Fairies, the game’s beating heart, flashed their large prismatic wings, shards of stained glass catching torchlight, while dragons bared molten scales and warriors glared in mythic armor.
Tack grabbed a stray crumb from the previous meeting from the table, barely registering the colors that once stirred something in him. His fingers tapped an idle rhythm on the armrest. The pull of the world he’d helped build was drowned out by the grind that kept him clocking in.
A handful of familiar faces filtered into the meeting room, the eighth person easing the door shut behind her, making nine with Tack included. The typical Monday briefing was ready to kick off. “Alright, team,” Mark, the team lead, said, resting his weight against the table cluttered with notebooks and half-drained coffee cups. “We’re getting tight on the combat engine. We need a prototype by next week to hit that New Year’s release on schedule.”
One of the developers, Andre, ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “If we zero in on the combat engine, fine, maybe we pull it off. But what about the weapon upgrade system? We can’t just slap that together at the last minute—and we need time to squash bugs. Rushing now means a disaster down the road.”
Mark held up his hands. “I get it. That’s why two new devs are joining us Monday. They’ll take on the upgrade system so we can focus on combat mechanics.”
In his corner, Tack absently scrolled through his phone, its polished brass casing engraved with Veridian motifs, until a headline on his favorite occult forum stopped him: Karnath Cult Sightings in Azurea? His legs became restless. The Karnath Cult, long the subject of rumor and dread, had survived in obscurity for centuries, but now talk of its revival spread like wildfire. For Embers like him, the news carried a heavier weight than it did for most. Their flame-colored hair had always drawn suspicion, branded as omens of magic and misfortune; with the cult recruiting Embers, that old stigma was curdling into something darker.
He bookmarked it for a deep dive later. Succumbing to his ingrained habit, he absentmindedly switched apps and ended up on his main social network account, brimming with cosplayer photos of questionable taste, if not outright explicit.
”—Tack, you with us?” Mark’s voice jolted him back.
”Uh, yeah. Sorry,” Tack replied, slipping his phone into his pocket.
A soft laugh escaped Mark, prompting a ripple of chuckles from the team. “Think you can handle integrating the AI behaviors into the combat engine?”
Tack nodded. “Already started sketching it out. I should have something solid by the end of the week."
"That’s why we count on you,” Mark said, moving on.
As chatter swelled around him, Tack caught the glances toward his flame-colored hair and beard. He was used to those. The cult’s resurgence had turned old superstitions into suspicions, and now every Ember felt the weight of it. For Tack, the unease ran deeper; his talent with code, once a source of pride, was so uncanny it seemed born of a pact with the devil himself.
After the meeting, Tack packed up, solitude biting at him as usual. Outside, Azurea hummed—vendors yelled, guitars strummed, cafe chatter spilled over. He walked alone, untouched by the bustle.
Three blocks west of work, he hit Vesper Park’s rusted gate off Crane Street. Oaks flanked a stone path, roots cracking the pavement. A fountain bubbled at the center, pigeons pecking nearby, while kids hollered from a playground. A busker strummed by the north exit. Tack crossed in ten minutes, hands in pockets, boots tapping steadily, then stepped onto Laurel Avenue. Two blocks later, he turned left onto 17th Street. His gray, peeling apartment building loomed at the end. He climbed the steps, the city’s noise fading, and shut the door behind him.
At his apartment door, his cat greeted him with a soft meow, weaving between his legs. “Hey there, Rocie,” he murmured, scooping up the silver-furred cat. Her green eyes seemed to understand. He held her close for just a second, the only creature who accepted him without question no matter how his hair marked him, and no matter what forbidden threads he followed into the night.
He tossed his keys on the counter and fixed a quick dinner, scrambled eggs and toast, after feeding his little furred creature. Eating at the small kitchen table under the soft teal light of an overhead lamp, Tack listened to the distant hum of the city. It was a soundscape of lives intertwined, but he didn’t quite feel part of it.
Later that night, Tack settled at his desk. He dove into the forum posts about the Karnath Cult. Stories of cosmic rituals and secret gatherings pulled him in, but so did the warnings. People were afraid—and for good reason. Stories of mysterious disappearances and whispers that the cult had infiltrated local institutions were rampant. If that weren’t enough, there were also rumors of human sacrifices and demon-worshiping rituals.
A private message popped up from one of Tack’s contacts, NightOwl: “Stop searching Karnath on the open web. They have people sitting on the local ISP nodes. Some guy asked about the disappearances last Tuesday; his entire digital footprint was wiped by Wednesday, and his apartment is empty. An Ember poking around is just throwing up a flare.”
He leaned back, rubbing his temples. Even in anonymous spaces, there was no escaping the stigma. His fascination with the occult, once a source of wonder, now felt like a liability.
His gaze drifted to a framed photo from the Cosplay Expo. Then, he was dressed as a shadow knight, armor gleaming, a rare smile on his face. That photo felt distant, like a relic from another era.
Without realizing it, he reached out and wiped a smudge from the corner of the frame with his thumb, the motion slow and absent. Get it together.
He crawled into bed, the weight of the day pressing down. Soft music played from his headphones, its harmonies filling the room. The lyrics spoke of distant stars and unseen worlds.
As sleep claimed him, his thoughts churned with cosmic visions and the faint hope that somewhere out there, he wouldn’t be treated like an outsider.
The following days blurred together. Tack was caught between the grind of his job at Ion-Storm and the pull of Azurea’s backstreets. One chilly Friday evening, restless and drawn to the city’s Lumicite-lit mood, he wandered into Low Tide Records, a cramped music store he’d been visiting occasionally since his teens.
The familiar scent of dust and old plastic greeted him, the shelves packed with Music Discs (MD) and other records he’d rifled through countless times. His fingers brushed against an MD case on a crowded shelf, its cover scintillating under the harsh store lights. The face staring back at him made Tack freeze in place. Sai, her facial features unmistakable, though she seemed more tame than usual. The album title read The Void Echoes: Resurgence, her name in stark, indigo lettering.
Tack was both confused and excited. Sai, the voice of his youth, who’d vanished after Sirenum Scopuli’s dissolution, was back with a new band. Another MD nearby caught his attention. It was a Best of Sirenum Scopuli compilation, its cover boasting a curated selection of their most iconic tracks. His brows lifted in surprise, excitement hiding behind the confusion; as a devoted fan, how had he missed this release? Maybe the downsized form factor of newer MD formats was why people missed new releases these days. Shaking off the surprise, he grabbed both the new album and the compilation, eager to reclaim a piece of the past he thought he’d known inside out.
Back home that night, Tack sank into his well-worn couch. The new MD whirred in his old player. The Void Echoes’ tracks spilled out—clean, modern, but lacking the soul of Sirenum Scopuli. Sai’s singing, though still powerful, felt restrained, polished into something too safe. Disappointed, he swapped it for the Best of Sirenum Scopuli. The opening notes of Tidal Requiem flooded the room, raw and haunting, pulling him back to the old days. He surrendered to the music, letting it lull him into a deep, inescapable sleep.
In his dream, Tack stood amidst a writhing crowd, the concert hall alive with frenetic energy. Strobe lights carved jagged arcs through a haze of smoke, and Sai dominated the stage, her silhouette both fragile and commanding. Her voice wasn’t the polished sound of the album. It was something alien, a layered, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate from beyond the stars. Each note fractured the air, sending ripples of distortion across the stage, bending light into fractals. The sound wasn’t just heard; it was felt—a visceral pull that tugged at Tack’s chest, drawing him forward as if magnetized. The audience swayed in perfect surrender, eyes closed, mouths half-open in silent rapture. Some of them pressed their palms to their chests as if trying to trap the vibration inside their ribs forever.
Sai’s gaze swept the crowd, then locked onto Tack’s. Her eyes widened, and she faltered, a single wrong note cutting through the hall like a shard of glass. The soundwave hit Tack like a physical blow, a tremor that shook the floor and sent a shock through his bones. Around him, others staggered, some collapsing to the ground, their faces contorted in awe or pain. Sai collapsed on the stage, her microphone clattering to the stage as she fell, the alien resonance unraveling into silence. Tack’s vision swam, the world tilting into a kaleidoscope of fractured light and sound. He crumpled, darkness swallowing him whole.
He jolted awake, gasping, his heart hammering against his ribs. The final chords of Tidal Requiem faded from his speakers, the MD player clicking off. Tack sat up, the vision of Sai’s gaze and that alien, shattering note burning in his mind, as vivid as the sweat dampening his shirt. But it wasn’t a dream, it was a lingering memory from that chaotic Sirenum Scopuli concert five years ago, when his world had unraveled under the power of her voice.
It was Saturday morning. Tack struggled to focus while preparing his lunch; the memory, still fresh in his mind, gnawed at him. the memory, still fresh in his mind, gnawed at him. During the afternoon, he found himself staring at photos of Sai that he had found on the web. After a long silence at his desk, Tack snapped back into reality as he smacked his desk with the fingers of his hand in a flat motion.
Alright, I shouldn’t get too obsessed, maybe I should try to find myself a girlfriend…
His loneliness led him back to Affinity, a dating app he’d joined a while back in hopes of finding like-minded individuals..
The app had been quietly waiting in the background, but now he saw it needed a refresh to reflect his current interests. He updated his bio:
“Software developer and music enthusiast. Lover of indie and experimental sounds. Enjoy exploring the city’s hidden gems and live music venues. Looking to meet someone who enjoys good tunes and great conversations.”
Despite his age, Tack still had trouble with the language of sex. Tack tapped the update button, watched the confirmation icon appear, then let out a deep exhale, the small act feeling bigger than it should have.
Despite his hopes, his brand-new profile was not an instant success. A full week passed, during which Tack focused on an important deadline at Ion-Storm, debugging lines of code late into the evenings. The combat engine was due by Friday, and Tack, ever reliable, worked hard to deliver it right on schedule.
On that Friday evening, after wrapping up his final meeting and submitting the code, Tack could finally relax from the week’s deadlines. His mind wandered as he found himself drifting again to the twilight streets of downtown. A haunting melody drifted from a side alley—a raw sound that stirred his restlessness, reminding him of the alien note from his dream. Drawn to it, he found himself standing before Leaf & Lore, an old bookstore he’d long forgotten, its faded sign creaking in the breeze, its door slightly ajar as if beckoning him in.
Intrigued by this unexpected coincidence, Tack felt compelled to enter. The storefront was nestled between tall buildings, almost hidden from view. He approached, catching the warm glow of antique lamps spilling onto the sidewalk and the faint aroma of aged paper.
Inside, shelves stretched to the ceiling, laden with volumes bound in worn leather and cloth, their musty scent stirring a sense of nostalgia in Tack as he ventured deeper. His fingers trailed along the spines of books whose titles whispered of mysteries and forgotten knowledge.
Amongst the dusty tomes, one book captured his attention: bound in charcoal leather with silver lettering, it was titled Harmonic Realms. Flipping through its pages, Tack discovered texts veiled in mystery, speaking of arcane ceremonies and theories about music as a bridge between universes. The idea that sound waves could intertwine different realities resonated deeply with him.
Tack’s paranoia flared, a sour knot twisting in his gut as he gripped the book. He’d known a tome like this, cryptic and weathered, would be tangled up with the Karnath cult somehow; those fanatics he’d barely slipped free of always left their mark.
The thought made his palms clammy and slick. With unsteady fingers, he flipped through the table of contents. His usual calm frayed as he sought confirmation of the cult’s hidden hand. There it was. No overt name appeared, but Tack recognized several of their rallying sigils. Those featured twisted tentacles entwined around star-shaped symbols. They reflected back at him like a projection from his reckless past. Not only were those sigils present in the book, but they also appeared in a key section about multiverse-related rituals.
He hissed a curse. Why couldn’t he ever dodge trouble’s pull? Wisdom urged him to drop it, to hold fast to the shaky peace he’d clawed together after years of blunders. But that old, bullheaded itch gnawed at him. With a faint grimace at his own folly, Tack slammed the book onto the counter, buying it despite the dread gnashing at his resolve.
Returning to his apartment, Tack became engrossed in Harmonic Realms. The more he read, the more he noticed something intriguing: Some of the musical concepts and compositions mentioned echoed the styles of his favorite bands, but also underground bands he’d heard about but never truly explored. These artists, dwelling on the fringes of mainstream awareness, seemed to call out to those willing to delve deeper into the unknown.
This discovery ignited a new fire within him. Sensing a connection between the book’s ideas and music hinting at other worlds, he decided to dive deeper and searched online for bands that might have a relation to the book. One band in particular, Abyssal Laments, drew him in with its strange yet addictive vocals that stirred a vague sense of familiarity, reminiscent of the shattering voice from his recent dream. On that weekend, Tack went to a record shop to purchase albums from these bands, each one drawing him further into a realm where sound and ancient mysteries met.
Once back home, Tack immersed himself in their raw and powerful music. The haunting melodies and unconventional rhythms resonated deeply with the ideas he’d been exploring in the book. The technical analysis of certain music tracks presented in the book led Tack to make connections with both Abyssal Laments and Sirenum Scopuli, especially the latter. What really happened at the concert that keeps haunting his dreams?
Did it open a conduit to alternate realities?
Immersed in these realms, Tack perceived the world differently; his usual understanding shifted. The music and theories rekindled a stubborn fire in his chest, pulling him deeper. Wary of associating with the Karnath cult, he deleted his browsing history and searched cautiously to keep his explorations discreet.
The next weekend, Tack was about to revisit his Affinity profile when his phone lit up with a notification, signaling a new match. Her profile picture showed her dressed as Luna Silvermist from Shadows and Stardust, a detail that piqued Tack’s interest. Under the username MysticMelody, her bio hinted at a shared passion for the mystical and the musical, a promising start.