It was just another average, normal day in the office. Dealing with the daily assortment of blessings, complaints and other matters regarding mortals.
Mars had just finished blessing a group of northern giant folk on a wild goose chase across the frozen wastes for their leader's killer. It was an honourable venture but a stupid one nonetheless.
The God of War took another sip of coffee from his white mug. Labelled across the front was "#BestWeapon." From reinforcing his weary mind on the battlefield of words to rescuing him from the plague of tiredness, the mug has earned its name many times over.
Mars strolled casually down the white hallways towards a conference with the God of Agriculture and the Goddess of Life about a farmer revolt in the eastern lands. A system notification popped up. He felt a sharp tug at his soul.
[A follower has requested your presence! Affiliation: [Saint] Priority: [Life-threatening]
[Would you like to [Teleport]?
[Y/N]
Before the God of War could interact with the notification, a boney hand gently settled itself around his shoulder, “Have a rest. You deserve it!” His mind drifted into black. As his senses of the world around him disintegrated, the god felt the entity’s hand fade away. Quiet footsteps. A door closed. Silence. Mars desperately clawed towards the fading line of light with no avail, being steadily dragged into the depths of emptiness. Darkness took him.
From the outside, his mouth hung open, hands shaking. Hot coffee careened over the rim, drenching his armour and flesh in the boiling beverage. Mars didn't flinch, not even aware of the spillage, eyes locked straight ahead on a blank white wall.
His passing colleagues glanced him over, some waving their hands over his face, others tapping him on the shoulder before glancing at their watch and hurrying on towards their destination. Many simply walked by, uncaring and ignorant of the man's plight.
He floated in the darkness, a prisoner to his own mind space. Time lost its meaning.
A white slit of light pierced through the emptiness yet nothing was illuminated. A thin line divided the pitch blackness from the light. There was no gradient.
Mars pumped his invisible limbs, slowly closing in on the white strip. As he drew near, a white ray emerged from the crack, latching onto his vision and pulling him into it.
His eyes opened. The immortal immediately attempted to scan the room but to no avail. It was as if his eyeballs were glued to the back of the sockets, restricted to the one viewing window. The God tried to stand up but his muscles refused to budge, firmly attached to the leather padding. Strange.
Mars reached out mentally to the system only to find nothing. No translucent screen popped up. No subtle presence. His mind spun as a whirlwind of questions and theories took his brain by storm. “This surely can’t be…”
Mars focused on the objects currently in view. A sleek black desk, outlined with glowing thin strips. What seemed to be a blank canvas in a golden, ornate art frame was positioned in the centre. “No… This can’t be!”
The immortal’s mind shuddered at the realization. A cold shiver ran down his nonexistent spine. He had no backbone yet he felt it. “His” vision swerved to the right as if checking for something, looking over the pile of shelves pressed against grey, metal walls.
Varieties of junk, weapons and armour were piled hazardously on the shelves, all of which no longer exist in the present day. These tools weren’t primitive swords, shields and plate armour but technology capable of mass destruction. There were L-shaped metal bars that could stop a fully armoured knight with a single shot. "They were called pistols," he remembered vaguely. Grey cylinders with small handles growing from the middle. “Rocket launchers,” his mind whispered. Many strange, peculiar objects held no title, their names lost to the annals of history from strange balls to what seemed like a pair of water tanks connected to a hose.
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A certain pistol caught Mar’s eye. A barrel made of pure white mithril fashioned with a grip of red emerald. He distinctively remembered calling it, “Hope’s End.” The irony of the statement. The immortal could only shake his head at his younger self’s stupidity.
His past self’s eyes lingered on the weapon before returning to the blank artwork. His forefinger touched the centre of the sheet.
Mar’s current self buckled against his restraints, lashing out against the mental prison, slamming his mind against the mental barriers. He yelled at the finger to stop, reaching out towards the hand with his mental tendrils. They phased through it like a ghost.
All was in vain.
The fingertip effortlessly pressed against the blank sheet, sending waves of air rippling through the empty canvas. The reality within the golden perimeter began to fold, the plane white colour transforming into green, red and other hues as they combined together to form a moving image of a rainforest. In the distance, the faint outlines of towers and spanning bridges dotted the landscape.
A black dot appeared upright on the leaves-covered floor, gradually expanding into a swirling portal of red and black. “The first rift...” Mars whispered. He tried to pry his eyes off the screen with no effect, staying firmly glued to the screen.
This had been the catalyst that pushed the gods towards the creation of the System. The mortal realm against the incorporeal. The enlightened races versus the evil entities. Light versus dark. A civil war among the gods.
Yet it was so much more than that. It was a devolution, a retreat to a more primitive plane of existence. Progression yet regression simultaneously.
As the first rifts descended upon the plane, the evil forces hiding in the shadows of the world rejoiced. They turned against their fellow people, sowing destruction and chaos wherever they wished, wandering the landmasses undisputed like nomads, leaving nothing but corpses and destruction in their wake.
Another tug pulled at the immortal’s soul, sucking his consciousness into another place. Mars didn’t resist, happy to be far away from this nightmarish place, the gate to untold horrors.
He instantly regretted not defying this strange force, finding himself once again sitting at the desk but seemingly closer to the frame as if doubled over… The surrounding grey wall walls flashed with red as a distant siren screamed.
The artwork no longer showed a vibrant rainforest but a collapsed, desolate wasteland paved with the charred remains of vegetation.
At the location where the portal had resided was a gleaming, black fortress, surrounded by two layers of walls. The battlements were swarming with people, all dressed in slim, black skinsuits, armed with a pistol and an elongated weapon version of it with two handles and an extended barrel. Reflective helmets hid their faces from sight. At intersections and corners of the walls were giant cylinders sitting on rectangular platforms standing on four legs.
Another tug. Another sight.
Desolate, collapsed buildings littered with destroyed vehicles and bodies. The same soldiers in black armour lay limp in the carnage, helmets shattered. Their reddish skin and sprouted black horns blended into the mangled forms of architecture and the deceased. Ash, smoke and fire coated the landscape in an orange glow.
Mars remembered it all…
Millions had died. Cities with towering towers, expansive sky bridges and other stunning feats of architecture were flattened within minutes. Historical artefacts, gone. Precious research and technological innovations, gone. Nothing remained unmolested by their filthy, disease-infested hands.
He had gained near-unlimited power from the raids and battles…but at what cost? The images flickering across the screen faded into the background as the god turned his attention to his racing thoughts. Regret and guilt bore heavy in his heart.
Before the mysterious power could drag him elsewhere, he heard several voices in front of him. His surroundings faded away, completely dissolving into white nothingness. The sounds were more distinct now, more coherent, comprehendible. Mars felt the system reappearing at the back of his mind, a familiar comfort he didn’t know he missed. A safeguard against his troubles.
“It does not seem to be working, Goddess of Knowledge! We need to try something else!” The voice was drenched in sarcasm and frustration.
“I’ll have you know that my archives are extensive on this condition known as Post-traumatic stress disorder. Although there have been no known cases for the last hundreds of years, these are tried and tested treatment methods.”
[System back online!]
[Welcome!]
[A follower has requested your presence! Affiliation: [Saint] Priority: [Near-death]
[Immediate attention needed!]
[Would you like to [Teleport]?
[Y/N]