Shadow Slave: The Four Horseman of Deviants

Chapter 3: Darkness Engulfs the Land

"What's the current situation?"

A sharp voice cut through the corridor as they walked briskly, the air around them tense.

"Well, from what one of the officers told me, there are about four infected, all male," came the calm reply.

They passed through a brightly lit hall, security cameras discreetly perched on the ceiling, capturing every movement. Two figures were being escorted by policemen, drawing eyes as they moved. The first, a woman with flowing blonde hair, walked with confidence, her piercing blue eyes exuding authority. She wore a crisp white blouse tucked into black jeans, the sleekness of her black heels clicking against the tiled floor. Her presence alone commanded respect, an aura of a Master after all.

Beside her, a young man, barely in his twenties, kept pace. His brown hair was slightly disheveled, his auburn eyes scanning the space cautiously. Dressed in a standard-issued government uniform, he seemed out of place next to the powerful woman.

The woman, Master Florence, reached into her hand purse, pulling out a sleek communicator. With a swift motion, she scrolled through the files detailing the infected. Her sharp gaze flicked over the limited data, just the basics— gender, appearance, age, height. No names, no personal histories.

"These boys… Do they have any guardians?" she asked, her voice laced with quiet authority as she skimmed the screen.

"No," her companion responded after a beat. "The police said they were found near the outskirts. No further details."

Florence's lips tightened, the absence of information leaving too many questions. She glanced up briefly, her mind already working through the implications, her expression unreadable.

As they strode down the sterile hall, their steps echoed softly against the floor. They reached their destination, and with a soft hum, the automatic sliding doors parted before them, revealing a dimly lit room filled with glowing screens displaying various locations throughout the station.

One of the staff members stepped forward, offering a respectful nod in greeting. Master Florence acknowledged with a slight dip of her head and moved toward one of the largest screens at the center. Awakened Desmond trailed behind her, his gaze shifting lazily across the room.

On the screen, two sleeping pods dominated the view. One held William, his features calm but taut with tension. In the other lay a blonde-haired young man, his face serene and still, untouched by any sign of distress. His expression remained unnervingly calm, as if in a deep, undisturbed slumber.

Master Florence's sharp eyes scanned the scene before turning to Desmond. "What do you think, Awakened Desmond?"

Desmond leaned in briefly, his eyes flickering over the pods before shrugging. "I think they're doing just fine." He straightened up and strolled toward a corner of the room, his movements casual, as though none of it weighed on him. "I'll go take a seat. Call me if you need anything, Master Florence," he added with a carefree wave of his hand before settling himself down.

Florence's attention shifted to the police officer, it was none other than Officer Walter who had escorted them. "Do you have any other information about them?"

Walter shook his head, arms crossed loosely. "No, ma'am. We've given you everything we know. It's hard to gather much from the outskirts," he added with a slight shrug, his tone apologetic but resigned.

Master Florence's eyes narrowed slightly as she listened, her gaze sharp, but her face unreadable. "I see," she murmured, her voice low and steady. "How were they infected before they arrived here?"

The officer shifted, tipping his hat nervously, as if the memory itself unsettled him. "My partner and I found two boys sleeping on the streets of the outskirts last night," he began, glancing at the floor. "That area was where the gate opened." His fingers fidgeted by his side, betraying the unease he tried to conceal.

Florence's gaze didn't waver. She gave a slight nod, acknowledging the officer's quick action. "You made the right call," she said, the words clipped but carrying weight.

"And the other two?" she inquired, her attention still locked on him.

The officer cleared his throat. "We found the other two walking out from the contaminated zone," he replied, his voice lower now.

Florence's fingers hovered over her communicator again, but there was nothing new. The screen's data held only the bare essentials, frustratingly incomplete.

'No other information, she thought, her mind working through the gaps in what she knew.

Her gaze flicked up to another screen, this one showing two boys in the cell. One lay on the bed, his eyes wandering aimlessly toward the ceiling, his boredom evident in the slow rise and fall of his chest. The other boy, however, caught her attention. He was hunched over the floor, scribbling with focus, movements deliberate, almost methodical.

She tilted her head slightly, studying him more closely. His hand moved swiftly across the surface, forming intricate shapes. Her eyes narrowed, her voice barely a whisper as she muttered to herself, "Are those runes?"

….

At the base of the towering mountains, the town lay shrouded in eternal dusk. The jagged peaks above seemed to pierce the heavens, blocking any glimpse of the sun.

The sky churned with clouds so thick they appeared to have consumed all light. Wind whipped through the streets, carrying whispers of old prayers and untold fears.

In the heart of the town stood the massive church, its spires reaching in vain toward the heavens. Its stone facade, ancient and worn, cast deep shadows across the worn cobblestone streets. Around it, twisted staircases coiled like serpents, drawing the faithful in. Inside, the great bell was silent—perhaps it had not tolled in years, perhaps it never would again.

Below the towering church, a crowd gathered, their faces upturned in desperate hope. They did not speak, only mouthed their prayers to the Sun God, their eyes fixed not on the sky but on the distant, black silhouette of the dragon's lair high in the mountains. The dragon, their captor and warden, watched from its perch—its presence, like the weight of centuries, pressed down on the town.

Two centuries had passed since it had sealed them here, since the sun had last shone upon their faces. And still, the dragon watched.

For years, bands of warriors, their faces hardened by resolve, had set out toward the mountain peaks, their bodies brimming with power. Some wielded fire, others bent the wind, and still others commanded forces unknown to most. These were no ordinary souls; they were the gifted, the chosen ones, whose purpose was to break the cycle, to challenge the Awakened Tyrant.

They left the town under whispered promises of salvation, their figures swallowed by the shadows of the towering mountains. The people watched them go, clinging to hope as if it were a thread, thin but unbroken. But none ever returned.

High above, amidst the storm-shrouded cliffs, the dragon waited. Its dark form moved like a shadow among the jagged rocks, its black wings spreading over the sky like a curse. One by one, the heroes came. And one by one, they all fell.

Each battle was swift and brutal. The dragon's breath—an inferno of darkness—consumed them. Its talons, sharp as the mountain's edge, tore through their defenses as if they were made of nothing more than mist. And when it had finished with their bodies, it devoured their very essence—the spark of power that had made them strong, making itself stronger still.

The echoes of their cries faded, but the memory of their defeat lingered in the minds of those below. The town grew quieter, the streets emptier. No one dared speak of resistance, no one dared mention those who had once risen against the beast. What was there to say?

If the strongest among them—the heroes, the ones blessed with extraordinary gifts—had been slaughtered so easily, what chance did any of them have? The mountains loomed larger than ever, and with each passing day, the dragon's shadow seemed to stretch farther, its presence sinking deeper into their bones.

To be the chosen one to seek the light for the people of the Sun God. A prophecy has been bestowed into a wall by a seer 50 years ago—

[In an age when darkness engulfs the earth, years will pass before the rise of a Light Seeker. With great benevolence, as the Sun God's messenger, they will restore light to the world once more].

….

"Our God has never abandoned us, a savior will come, they will free us from the clutches of that demonic creature!" 

A man draped with a loincloth, his beard reaching to his chest. He was nonetheless a devotee, he was pointing at the mountain range, where the Dragon nested itself. 

Everyday the Preacher will go to the town center, sharing his beliefs to the disheartened citizens. 

Some eyes were gloomy, some felt neutral and some felt devastated. 

A boy with blond hair and green eyes, standing at the center of it all among the crowd, he had a gentle face, having a calm demeanor of a monk. He was quite tall, wearing white robes with patterns of yellow and white, situated in his linen shirt was a visage of the symbol of a Sun. 

The boy was about 18 years old, listening to the man's words. His skin crawled from the somber wind that permeated the town. 

His eyes darted around the town center, the stairs that head towards the Sun God Church, a very tall stature that could make him quiver his feet from climbing that height.

His outer visage may seem calm and uncaring, his eyes showing no signs of unnecessary movements. But deep down inside, he was still clueless of what's going on.

The boy planned on gathering as much intel as possible, he needed to get out of here as much as he could. After all he didn't belong here let alone know about this from the history lessons he learned in high school.

Damian was good with history, without a doubt. Apart from his artistic skills in music, his pride in knowing about the history of the renaissance era was without a doubt better than anyone else apart from his other friend. 

Competitive?

He was without a doubt not competitive but insecure, being overshadowed is something he was used to.

Reminiscing the past, It was one of the things he couldn't control even when he was a child, even now.

'How should I go about this?' 

His gaze came upon the church, he hesitated to move a single inch from his spot. 

But whatever that was calling upon him to climb the stairs was much stronger. Pulling him closer, as if fate made him want to push him towards there. 

When he was transported into this place, he was at a small room, situated with items that were related to weaving and purification. 

Plastered on the wall were sketches that have different kinds of symbols. Symbols that looked like magic circles that Damian remembered when his friend Lee was reading webtoon.

Standing up from the armchair, he traced his hands upon the wall— bark that was centuries old, moist yet sturdy enough to be livable for someone to make an abode. 

As he led his gaze upon the lines of the symbol, his gaze traced upon trinkets that looked like bracelets and necklaces, carved from ruined wood but still vivid enough to tell that the carvings represented a sun.

Damian turned around then saw a cabinet, in it was the robe that he was currently wearing. 

In that instant, he wore the clothes then went outside to look for affirmation. To see that if his guess was right. 

….

The air felt thick around Damian, a heavy, oppressive silence filling the ruined town. The buildings, half-collapsed yet somehow still standing, loomed over him like forgotten giants, their stone walls covered in crawling vines and thick moss. The cracked windows reflected nothing but darkness, as if the light itself refused to touch this place. Every shadow seemed to stretch unnaturally long, curling around corners as though alive, watching.

His breath caught in his throat as his feet rooted to the spot. His hands trembled at his sides, and his pulse hammered in his ears. It didn't make sense. He had just been with his friends, hadn't he? The laughter, the clink of glasses, the burn of liquor down his throat—it all felt so real. But now… now this.

His eyes darted around the desolate street, the creeping dread clawing at his insides. Where was he? How could this be real? His thoughts raced, but the answers slipped through his fingers like smoke.

Damian shook his head violently, trying to clear away the hazy memory of the party. He didn't want to think about that now.

'I just need to get out of here.'

Without another thought, he bolted toward the nearest house, his heart pounding as his feet hit the uneven ground. The door creaked loudly as he pushed it open, the sound echoing through the empty space. He dashed inside, past the dim, dusty living room, and into a small, cluttered bedroom. Throwing himself onto the bed, he yanked the blanket over his head, as if it could shield him from the strange, unsettling reality outside.

"What… what is happening?" he muttered into the fabric, his voice barely a whisper. His mind was a blur, images flashing too quickly to make sense of them—drawings, figurines, strange symbols he had never seen before but now felt familiar. The confusion gnawed at him, his thoughts spiraling.

It's just a dream. I'll wake up soon.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his fists to his temples. Think, Damian, think! He tapped his head over and over, each strike harder than the last, his skin reddening with frustration.

"What would a protagonist do?" he muttered, desperate for clarity. He forced himself to breathe, slowly, deeply. He began to hum a familiar tune, the melody shaky at first but gradually steadying. The sound seemed to ground him, and the panic receded, just a little. His heart slowed, his chest rising and falling more evenly.

As his eyes closed again, his body curling tighter under the blanket, fragments of the night before floated back to him. His friends, the laughter, the warmth of the room. But something else—something darker—hovered at the edge of his memory. He struggled to grasp it, but it slipped away before he could catch it.

With a deep sigh, Damian let the darkness of sleep pull him under, unsure of whether it would bring answers or more questions.

...

Damian's thoughts tangled in his mind like a knot he couldn't undo. His head throbbed with confusion. What's happening? Where am I? Flashes of the night before—friends, laughter, liquor—swirled in his brain, but none of it made sense here, in this dark, decayed place. His heart raced, pounding louder in his ears as he pulled the blanket tighter around himself, eyes wide but seeing nothing.

But then—like a shard of clarity piercing the fog—a voice. Mechanical, cold, too familiar yet out of place. It echoed in his mind, like the automated announcements he always heard on the train, right before reaching his stop. Except now it was saying something different.

"Aspirant! Welcome to the Nightmare Spell. Prepare for your First Trial…"

The words reverberated in his skull, repeating over and over. Aspirant? Nightmare Spell? First Trial? His thoughts, still a jumbled mess, began to latch onto these new pieces, though they felt foreign, wrong.

'Aspirant. He rolled the word around in his head. Aspirant… someone who's striving for something… a goal? A purpose?'

He was trying to recall the meaning, the definition fighting its way through his panic. His fingers pressed against his temples, rubbing furiously as if that would help sort his spiraling thoughts.

Nightmare Spell. He winced at the word (Nightmare).

'That felt all too real right now. A nightmare… does this mean I'm inside one? Am I… dreaming?'

He blinked hard, trying to convince himself that he would wake up any second, that he'd be back with his friends, laughing off the liquor. But nothing changed. The ruined room still surrounded him, still cold and empty.

Then, First Trial. His stomach twisted.

'Trial? What kind of trial? A test? What am I supposed to do?'

Damian scrambled off the bed, his legs still shaky. He ran to the table, grabbing a half-burned stick of charcoal from the fireplace. He cooled it beside the cracked window, his hands moving quickly, more on instinct than thought. Grabbing a thin, worn journal from the table, he flipped it open to a blank page. The paper felt fragile, almost brittle, but it would have to do.

His hands, still trembling, began to scrawl across the page.

Aspirant, Nightmare Spell and First Trial.

He wrote it all down, the words seeming less terrifying when he saw them in front of him, something solid to grasp onto.

'Aspirant—he underlined the word. It has to mean I'm here to achieve something, right? His mind raced through memories of books, movies, games—anything that could help him understand what this meant. If I'm an aspirant, then there's a goal I need to achieve.'

He tapped the charcoal against the journal, leaving faint marks as he connected the next piece.

'Nightmare Spell' — his jaw clenched. 'I must be trapped inside some kind of nightmare, and if this is a spell, then someone or something has put me here.'

His brow furrowed. The pieces were still fuzzy, still shifting, but he was starting to see a shape emerge.

And then, the final part—'First Trial.'

Damian's breath steadied as he considered the words.

'If this is the first trial, that means there's more than one.' He scratched down the word "trial" harder, leaving a darker mark. But what kind of trial? What's the challenge?

He stared at the page, connecting the phrases, his mind slowly catching up.

'Aspirant… a goal. Nightmare Spell… I'm trapped. First Trial… I need to pass it.'

His fingers tightened around the charcoal as the biggest possibility formed in his mind, more concrete than the rest.

"I think…" he muttered aloud, as if hearing the words would make it real, "I think I'm inside a nightmare, and I'm asleep. To wake up… I need to figure out what I'm supposed to do here and achieve that goal."

He paused, chewing on his lip. "I'm not sure yet… but it makes the most sense." His hand moved quickly, scribbling the conclusion in his in his journal, as if writing it would solidify it in his mind.

Damian sat back, staring at the words in front of him. His mind was still spinning, but now there was a thread of logic running through the chaos. He didn't know exactly what was happening, but he had something to hold on to now, something to work with.

…..

Damian's feet moved without him, one hesitant step after another, as though something unseen was pulling him toward the towering church. His mind screamed for answers—why was he doing this? What was drawing him here? But his body didn't seem to care. The stone steps stretched upward before him, steep and endless, disappearing into the dark sky above.

Each step felt heavier than the last. His legs wobbled, his balance faltering as he climbed higher, the wind tugging at him from all sides. He could barely look down, the ground far below like a distant memory, dizzying. His breath hitched, fear clenching his chest as the height made his stomach twist, but still, he kept moving.

His heart pounded in his throat as he turned his gaze slowly around, taking in the terrifying view from above. The town below looked like nothing more than ruins, a forgotten world left behind. His pulse quickened, and before he realized it, he was running, his legs burning with the effort. The church loomed closer, just a few steps away now.

Ten steps from the top, his breath came in ragged gasps. His vision blurred, the edges of his consciousness fraying. He was panting hard, his chest rising and falling with frantic desperation. Everything felt off, like he was being stretched too thin, his body barely keeping up with his mind.

Finally, he stumbled, collapsing against a stone pillar near the entrance. His head throbbed, and his lungs burned as he tried to steady his breath. He closed his eyes, the world spinning, trying to piece together what had just happened. Why? Why had he come here? It was as if his body had moved on its own, like some invisible force had dragged him up those stairs. He wasn't in control, not really.

Laying against the cold stone, he let the confusion simmer in his mind. His limbs felt heavy, yet there was a strange calm in resting here, the towering church at his back. The wind whispered around him, and despite everything, he found himself enjoying the eerie view from this height.

But soon, the pull inside him stirred again, nudging him toward the doors of the church. The answers, whatever they were, lay within.