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    The air was bitterly cold. Snow drifted down in lazy spirals, blanketing everything in white. It wasn’t the usual weather for that time of year, but around here, near the Wall, the rules didn’t quite apply. Just beyond that colossal barrier lay the Ice Wastes, a frozen desert of constant snowstorms. Crossing into that deathtrap was suicide.

    Scott moved through the base with quiet purpose. It wasn’t large, but it was theirs. He and his gang had managed to grow a lot since the Renegades vanished. Marshall had died in a fight with Bastion, all because of his obsession with Bartholomew. Stupid. If he had just let that vendetta go, he could’ve kept on living.

    “Where’s Nash with the food?” Kevin grumbled, sitting at a table, carving something into a block of wood.

    “How the hell should I know?” Scott replied, rising to his feet.

    Their base was built into the Wall itself, half stone, half reinforced scrap. They had inherited it from the Renegades after the group was wiped out. Scott knew the place inside and out. He used to work for them, after all.

    Passing a narrow window, he glanced outside.

    “No lights after sundown,” he reminded one of the guards posted at the front door.

    “As always, boss.”

    “Last time you idiots forgot to dump the sewage, I got a nasty surprise.”

    “That was… different,” the guard muttered.

    “I’m done with excuses.” Scott turned and headed back inside.

    Beneath the base, the old dungeons were still crawling with the undead. That whole wing had been sealed off, the corridor leading down collapsed. Even so, every time he passed it, a chill crept up his spine.

    Nothing grew in that area. The trees stood like petrified corpses, twisted and bare. Even the rare ones that still held onto a single green leaf looked frozen in time, never blooming, never rotting. Just… paused. It was like the winter there had sunk its teeth into time itself.

    That edge of the camp was dead. Beasts avoided it. Wardens stuck to the city beyond the Safe Zone. The only things left wandering the place were the undead, shambling out of the gaping holes in the earth that led to the dungeon.

    They had tried to seal some of those holes in the past. Gave up quick. There were just too many. Eventually, they decided to treat the undead like a natural defense, dumb enough to ignore you unless you got too close, perfect for keeping intruders out.

    Around the camp’s perimeter, they had built up wooden barriers and crude spike pits. The undead didn’t even approach. Most just stood there, staring off into the distance, lost in their own mindless trance.

    Scott made his way back to the main room where Kevin was still at his carving.

    “I’m going back to my reading. If any of those bastards return, let me know.”

    “Yeah, sure.”

    Scott headed for his room. Food was always a problem out here. They had to send men far out to hunt since no beasts came near the cursed ground. Thankfully, they had three storage artifacts between them. That made hauling the meat back easier.

    Still, scarcity was the name of the game out here. Supplies were limited. Scott could try heading into the Safe Zone to trade, but his face was plastered on too many wanted posters for that to be a real option.

    Inside his quarters, he went straight to the desk and sat down, pulling out a book. The room had once belonged to Marshall. Most of what Scott owned had originally been his. The old bastard had hoarded plenty of things in the storage chest that still sat tucked into the corner.

    Notebooks lay scattered across the desk, pages filled with scribbled routines, soldier patrol schedules, hideout locations, contingency plans. Eight years’ worth of experience and survival instinct, all carefully recorded, now belonged to Scott. His men called him a genius, but the truth was simpler. Most of his ideas came straight from the mind of the Renegades’ old leader.

    Scott had claimed everything left in Marshall’s storage chest and transferred it into his own storage item. Safer that way. Only he could access it now.

    Marshall had always been cautious to a fault. He never trusted storage items for anything truly important. Said they could be stolen or destroyed. If someone died while carrying one, the entire contents could vanish. Instead, he preferred to bury backup chests all over the Wild Zone, scattering his secrets like landmines. It was overkill, but it worked.

    Disciplined man. A tactician through and through. But Scott knew the truth.

    “The old bastard was a pervert,” he muttered, laughing as he flipped through another notebook.

    Mixed in with all the tactical brilliance were… drawings. A lot of them. Crude at first, but surprisingly well done the further he went. Pornographic sketches. And not just random smut. No, Marshall had a fixation.

    Always the same woman.

    Naked. Cracked skin like fractured marble. Four arms, two wings, one of them broken. Her pose never changed. Two hands raised in prayer, the other two covering her lower body.

    And of course, just one breast exposed.

    “Why the hell only one?” Scott frowned, staring at the sketch. “Come on, man. Could’ve at least drawn both.”

    Every time, it was the same pose. Same missing details. No matter how vivid the rendering got over the years, Marshall always covered her genitals with those lower hands like it was some sacred ritual.

    Scott groaned.

    “This guy was insane.”

    But buried beneath the perversion, something else lingered, something unsettling. Under one of the better-drawn pages, there was a scrawled note in Marshall’s handwriting: If I can pull her out of this world… the last one left in the multiverse… will that God really bring my son back to life? Where is she?’

    Scott read it, then leaned back in his chair, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

    “Freaking old man.”

    A sudden knock on the door broke the silence.

    “Who is it?” Scott snapped.

    “It’s me,” came Kevin’s voice from the other side. “Can I come in?”

    Scott clicked his tongue in annoyance. He quickly gathered Marshall’s things and shoved them into his storage item. By the time he reached the door, he’d composed himself.

    “Did the scouts return?” he asked as he unlocked it.

    “No. I actually came to give you this.”

    “What are you—”

    Kevin’s arm jerked, a flash of steel cutting the sentence short. Scott staggered backward, eyes wide as a blade sank deep into his throat.


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    Panic set in.

    “Ke-Kev…?” he gasped, choking on his own blood.

    Desperately, Scott reached into his inventory and pulled out a wand. But before he could aim, Kevin kicked it out of his hand. It clattered across the floor. Scott raised a trembling palm and fired a crackling bolt of lightning. Kevin dodged easily, darting behind a chair.

    “Ke…” he tried again, but his arm went limp, the strength draining from his body like water through a cracked jug.

    “It’s taking effect,” Kevin said coolly. “My disease blade.”

    He lunged again, this time stabbing Scott in the stomach. Once. Twice. Over and over. Scott collapsed, vision swimming. His blood pooled on the floor, soaking into the old wood.

    “There was no other way to deal with you,” the figure continued. “You’re a high-level thunder mage. But in the end, it all worked out.”

    Kevin leaned in close.

    “Oh, and I’m not Kevin. He’s dead. Laying in pieces on the other table.”

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