Chapter 15: New Direction
A million thoughts ran through Wes's mind, crashing and scattering before he could make sense of any of them. He didn't want to think about where they were going. Didn't want to picture what came next.
It was December in Minnesota. Even after everything, the world still had seasons. Summers were hot, autumns short, and winters—winters were brutal. The kind of cold that settled deep in your bones, turned breath into fog, and made every step a battle. It wasn't just uncomfortable; it was the kind of cold that could kill you if you weren't careful.
Wes had learned that lesson early.
His boots had been a lucky find, abandoned on the side of the road, a small hole worn through the side. He'd found a roll of duct tape not long after and wrapped them tight, sealing out the worst of the cold. They were stiff, clumsy, too big for him—but better than the worn-out tennis shoes he'd had before. Those had been falling apart, barely holding together, offering no protection from the frozen ground beneath his feet.
The jacket was another scavenged prize, built for a man twice his size. It had swallowed him whole at first, hanging awkwardly off his frame, dragging in places where it shouldn't. He had torn at the fabric, cut the sleeves down, made it fit as best he could. It barely did.
But it was warm. And warmth mattered more than anything else.
Survival was all Wes knew. He had seen what hunger turned people into. What desperation could make them do. He had watched men and women throw away whatever scraps of morality they had left just for another day, another meal.
Xavier had been no different.
He was about a year older than Wes, African American, probably athletic before the world went to shit. He was tall for his age, lean, with the kind of wiry strength that came from constant movement. Even starved and tired, he had a sharpness to him—quick reflexes, quick hands, quick thinking. Wes had crossed paths with him early on, neither speaking, neither acknowledging the other, just moving in the same spaces, scavenging from the same ruins. They weren't friends. Not then. Just two kids caught in the same storm, fighting for the same scraps.
Xavier had taken from him once—snatched food right out of his hands. Wes had taken it back. Then Xavier had stolen again, and Wes had taken it again. It became a pattern, neither of them willing to back down.
Then one day, enough was enough.
They fought.
Wes lost. Or at least, that's what it looked like. Xavier had been faster, sharper. Wes had been stronger, but strength only went so far when someone knew how to use speed against it. Xavier had left him in the dirt, ribs aching from where he'd kicked him while he was down. The pain had lingered for over a week, every breath a reminder.
But Wes had gotten his own hits in too. Enough that, after that day, neither of them sought the other out. It wasn't fear. It wasn't avoidance. It was just understanding. A quiet truce between two people who had nothing but the same hunger, the same exhaustion, the same stubborn refusal to give in.
And now, looking back, it was ironic.
Ironic how two kids who had fought so fiercely over scraps would become brothers in everything but blood.
He remembered the first time they had come to the gate.
The National Guard base had been nothing special before the world ended, just a place for weekend warriors to train. But over the years, it had changed. Abandoned cars had been welded together to form barricades, sheets of metal layered over weak points. Guard towers had been built from scavenged materials, watching over the perimeter. It wasn't impenetrable. Nothing really was. But it was enough to keep most people out.
As scarred man led them to the base's entrance some kids had cried when they arrived, others, like him and Xavier, had kept their heads down, waiting, watching, searching for opportunities.
Now, as they moved through the base, Wes saw them—figures standing near the inner gate, wrapped in thick leather, smeared white to blend into the snow.
Most of them stood apart, withdrawn, wary even within the walls.
One of them stood near King. Watching. Waiting.
As they got closer, Wes felt it—that deep, gut-wrenching instinct that something was wrong.
The figures in white stood by the inner gate, motionless, their thick leather armor smeared with frost to disappear into the snow. Their faces were obscured by their helmets, their bodies stiff and unreadable. Something about them made Wes uneasy, but he couldn't place why.
They didn't move, didn't speak. Just stood there, waiting.
The air felt heavier now.
Xavier shifted beside him, just enough that Wes noticed. They glanced at each other, but neither said a word.
Then, King stepped forward.
He looked pleased with himself, as if everything had gone exactly as he intended. His presence alone was suffocating—arrogant, assured, as if he had already won before the game even started.
Wes had hated many people in his short life, but this man…
God, he hated him.
King had always been a pompous ass, but now there was something different about him. He carried himself like nothing could touch him, as if he had changed.
Because the Void Crystal of the Second King was no longer just in his possession.
He had absorbed it.
As long as a Void Crystal user hasn't undergone a Great Awakening, the crystal reappears on their corpse upon death. If they have, its fate is bound to them.
His military coat had been modified—lined with slots along the arms and torso, each holding thin, dark needles of metal. Weapons he could now control effortlessly, twisting through the air with just a flick of his thoughts.
Wes tried to remember.
Was this the sixth king? The seventh?
He couldn't recall. Those years had been too harsh, too cruel to waste time keeping track.
But this king?
Oh, this one he would remember.
Because this king was a pompous ass.
And it wasn't just his power that made Wes despise him. It was how easily he could have changed things.
Earth was still relatively safe. The worst was still years away. The surges hadn't begun in earnest, more portals hadn't torn open, and the wildlife was still in the infancy of change. Surviving was hard, but not impossible.
A single beast, ground up and made into soup, could have fed dozens of the starving orphans scraping by under King's rule.
But King didn't care.
He never had.
"Hello, children."
He smiled.
Wes clenched his fists. He had just watched King's men break an eleven-year-old girl's limbs, and now he was standing there, greeting them like they should be grateful.
Wes barely heard the words, but one thing stuck.
They were going with the Orcs.
A few kids sobbed. Others wailed. But there were some—like Wes and Xavier—who simply stared.
At him.
The one standing beside King.
Gorrak.
Even under his thick leather armor, reinforced with metal plates, his presence was undeniable. Up close, Wes could see it—the indentations in the armor, the way it seemed heavier, like it was built with something beneath. His face was mostly hidden, his features concealed by the reinforced plating protecting his body, but Wes could still feel his stare.
Unlike King, Gorrak wasn't interested in talking.
He was watching.
His gaze moved slowly, deliberately, across the sea of children—not at the ones sobbing into their hands, not at the ones clutching each other in terror. He didn't waste a second acknowledging them.
He was looking for something else.
The ones still standing.
Even they weren't fearless—how could they be? The air was thick with uncertainty, with the unspoken knowledge that any of them could be food by nightfall. No one could truly stand there unafraid. But out of a hundred children, maybe ten had the resolve to hold themselves upright.
Wes was one of them.
Xavier was another.
And then there was the boy near the front.
He wasn't crying, wasn't trembling—just standing.
A second later, he collapsed.
Hard.
No sound, no resistance. His body simply hit the ground, his limbs limp, his breathing shallow.
Gorrak barely lingered. His gaze was already moving.
A girl.
She lasted a second before dropping where she stood, eyes rolling back, unconscious before she hit the snow.
Then another boy.
Gone in an instant.
One by one, as soon as Gorrak's eyes met theirs, the children dropped. Their knees gave out, their bodies slumped forward, as if something unseen had drained the life from them in an instant.
Wes felt his stomach knot, the instinct screaming at him to look away. To let his body follow the others before it was forced to. But he resisted.
Then Gorrak's gaze landed on Xavier.
And Xavier held it.
The shift in the air was subtle, but different.
Xavier's shoulders tensed, his breath growing sharp, uneven. His fingers twitched at his sides, his muscles locking up. He had to force himself to keep standing, but he did.
Five seconds passed.
Six.
Seven.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, rolling down his face despite the freezing air. His knees shook, but he didn't fall.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten—
Then, his body gave out.
He dropped.
Not crumpling, not stumbling—just gone, like a puppet with its strings cut.
Gorrak's head tilted slightly, barely more than a shift.
Then, slowly, his gaze moved.
To Wes.
Their eyes met.
And Wes felt it.
Pressure.