I kicked the bucket.
Yep, checked out, bought the farm, bit the dust became ex-parrot… well, that''s the basic idea. Not exactly breaking news for me at this point, seeing as my internal monologue was stuck on repeat, like the world''s worst TikTok soundbite looping in my skull: Died. In. My. Sleep.
Yeah. Sleeping. The one activity specifically designed not to kill you. My mind kept buffering on that grim little 5-second clip, an infinite loop of anticlimax. Died. In. My. Sleep. Over and over. Thanks, brain. Real helpful.
It almost makes me want to laugh, or scream, or whatever the non-corporeal equivalent is. Remember hearing those stories growing up? About some ol'' Mr. Henderson, the neighbourhood grandpa type, who just... didn''t wake up one morning? Passed peacefully, they''d whisper, like it was some kind of gentle reward.
Yeah, peaceful.
Never in a million years thought I''d be joining that club, especially not at thirty-one. Okay, fine, there were a few... complications... a couple of twists compared to ol'' Mr. Henderson''s that I hadn''t banked on, but the ending? Still landed with the same dull thud: Died. In. My. Sleep.
No dramatic exit music. No slow-motion flashbacks of my life’s most questionable choices — not even a glorious battle scene with blood spraying across the walls and my body crushed in some heroically dumb pose.
Nope. Just... poof. Finito. Kupta.
Staring into the afterlife darkness – which, honestly, felt less like a terrifying cosmic void and more ''forgot-to-pay-the-electric-bill'' black – wasn''t doing much to distract me from my internal broken record.
The void wasn''t offering answers, just a whole lot of loneliness.
And then, just as the sheer crushing boredom threatened to become the new worst part of being dead, the nothingness flickered.
SYSTEM CRASH REPORT — ERROR D.404
INITIATING INTEGRATION PROTOCOL v.1011.DDefsd427
System. Okay. Completely unexpected. Does this work in the afterlife too?
The Integration Protocol. Been rolling out for thirty years, drip by drip, snagging the tiny percentage of the population born every year. Rumours, classified leaks, hushed conversations about people developing weird abilities or just... disappearing after exhibiting them.
We all knew about it, even if the specifics were buried under layers of bureaucracy and denial.
But this? Continuing integration post-mortem? That wasn''t in any of the whispered theories or conspiracy forums. The assumption was always that it targeted the living.
The unexpected, almost aggressive blueness of it punched a spike of something cold and sharp through my non-existent gut. Phantom adrenaline. So, death wasn''t an opt-out clause. The System was apparently inescapable even in death. It just changed the processing. Great.
My attention locked onto the screen as a new line appeared beneath the text, accompanied by a stark white bar:
?PROGRESS: [>-------------------] 0.00%?
I watched, morbidly fascinated, as the tiny sliver indicating progress flickered, maybe expanded by a single pixel, and the percentage ticked over.
?PROGRESS: [>-------------------] 0.01%?
Oh, come ON! Zero point zero one percent? Seriously? At this crawl, post-mortem processing was going to take longer than the heat death of the universe. This wasn''t integration; this was system torture.
That''s going to be a long wait.
With a mental flick, like swatting away a particularly persistent and depressing fly — or perhaps more accurately, like closing an agonizingly slow download window, ah, reminds me of the good old days — I poofed the system display out of my immediate perception. If I was going to be stuck here, I wasn''t going to spend it watching the equivalent of cosmic paint dry.
Dismissing the progress bar forced me to actually look around again, to properly take in my surroundings now that I have some possibilities. Real possibilities.
The main point was that I wasn''t alone in this budget-bin afterlife. Oh no. Around me, a sea of vaguely human outlines stretched out in eerily neat lines. Thousands? Millions? Enough people to make a music festival seem like a small get-together.
All just floating there... Hang On.
Tapping my foot, I felt it make contact with something solid — cold, smooth, reassuringly there. So, not floating then.
Standing. In the mother of all queues.
Then things went from mind-numbingly dull to genuinely unsettling. A ripple moved through the endless line ahead of me. Like a slow, beige wave in a stadium full of ghosts. Countless right feet shuffled forward, one single, perfectly synchronized step.
Shhk.
The sound wasn''t real, more like the idea of thousands of sensible ghost-shoes scraping across some unseen floor.
Before my brain could fully process the wrongness of it, my own body mirrored the movement.
Right foot forward. Shhk.
Okay, fine, maybe I was a fraction of a second late.
Then the shhk echoed from behind me as the next person in line followed suit, the delayed wave rippling back down the endless queue. That''s entertainment.
Delayed synchronized shuffling. Creepy doesn''t even begin to cover it.
Right. Okay. Deep, non-existent breaths. Ignore the terrifyingly organized ghost mob doing the conga line of eternity. And the slow patch update happening somewhere in the background...
?PROGRESS: [>-------------------] 0.09%?
Great. Still glacial.
The real kicker, the cosmic joke that had me grinding my phantom teeth, wasn''t the waiting, wasn''t the void, wasn''t the synchronized shuffling, even the system integration was getting old.
It was How.
<ol>
<li> Died. In. My. Sleep. When I had the best chance to survive. </li>
</ol>
Only a little dose of [ [ S ] Dreamveil ], and bam. I''m here.
Stuck. In what I''m charitably calling Afterlife Lite?: The Queue That Never Ends.
And that smug git, Ronald. He''s probably back there, alive, having a good laugh, breathing my air, maybe even stealing my exotic collections.
After all, he was the one with barely any chance of surviving the night.
With no answers coming from the void, the shuffling masses, or the barely-moving progress bar, my mind started to do what minds do best when faced with the irreversible: obsessively replay the tape. Trying to pinpoint the exact moment, the one tiny decision I could have made differently to get a better result.
<hr>
Thump-thump.
A low pulse vibrated from the crimson leather tome, a rhythm unnervingly close to a heartbeat beneath my fingers as I turned the page. Chapter 41 - Carving Nerves and Blood Vessels…
Tucked away in my usual bolthole, a blessedly shadowed corner of the Research Base lab affectionately dubbed The Shadow Shelf – mostly because it was perpetually dim, smelled faintly of old paper and ozone, and was conveniently just outside Director ''Eagle Eyes'' Thornton usual patrol route. Our little slice of heaven for under-the-books R&R, aka hiding from actual work.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The air hummed with the low thrum of arcane machinery and the scent of sterile cleansers barely masking something metallic underneath.
Across the lab, Silas was hunched over some bubbling glassware, muttering threats at what looked suspiciously like green black goo that was fighting back.
Further down, Lyra was sketching furiously, occasionally glancing up with eyes that held the slightly manic gleam of someone running on caffeine and pure, unadulterated genius – or possibly just caffeine.
Pretty standard Tuesday, all things considered.
I’d barely gotten through the page when a shadow fell over my book, blotting out the fancy crimson writing I had been pretending not to be fascinated by.
"Reading up on another exotic manual, Tristan?" Ah, Isabel Branch. Her voice was as dry as desert bones and twice as judgmental. She didn’t even try to hide the sarcasm curling around each word like smoke.
I glanced up, pasting on my best ''who, me?'' innocent smile—an expression that, historically, had never convinced anyone.
She wasn''t even looking at the book. Didn''t need to. The ominous leather cover alone would probably set off half a dozen security wards, and the title — Advanced Blood Magic: Curses, Hexes and Havoc (With Illustrations) — was embossed in shimmering red symbols that pulsed gently, like a heartbeat. Like a tiny, evil, very illegal heartbeat. Thump-thump.
"Oh, this old thing?" I tried, casually closing it halfway. "Just some light reading. You know, expanding my horizons, embracing intellectual curiosity… Definitely not actively violating several ethical guidelines in the process." I tapped the cover. Thump-thump. Yup. Still beating.
I probably shouldn’t have had it. And I definitely shouldn’t have been reading it inside the highly regulated, easily alarmed Research Base.
Not that it was enough to get me killed — probably. Technically, it was sort of within regulation. Well. Near regulation… if you squinted at the regulations. And interpreted "restricted to licensed personnel with Level X clearance and a signed waiver from the Court" as more of a friendly suggestion.
Though with my luck, I’d get a public dressing down at best. Or, gods forbid, a deduction from my already pitiful salary — a fate far crueler than death, especially when said salary was barely sustaining my rapidly dwindling lifespan.
She arched an eyebrow — the kind of eyebrow raise that could strip paint from a wall. “Tristan, that book is humming. And glowing. And I’m fairly certain it''s alive."
I slid my hand over the cover like I could shush it. “It’s just…expressive.” Thump-thump.
She crossed her arms, tapping a foot. “You know I should report this.”
Without breaking eye contact, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a folded parchment, the edges charred from hasty ward-burning. “Freshly marked,” I said, sliding it toward her. “F-grade dungeon. Just outside Ashmere Province. Low interference, stable anomaly. Should be good for at least fifty souls.”
It was a small price, I reasoned, considering I did set her lab on fire about a month ago. And maybe twenty… biological samples… met an untimely, flame-broiled end. Details, details.
She unfolded the map, eyes scanning the markings, fingers trailing over the sigils I’d inked in red. “This legit?”
I shrugged. “Would I lie to you, Izzy?”
She gave me the look.
“Okay, fine, I’d absolutely lie to you, but not about this. It’s clean.”
She exhaled sharply, then folded the map and tucked it into her jacket. “That’s enough for a week.”
"What? That''s not how this works—" My indignant retort was cut short.
Flicker.
Flicker.
POP.
The main overhead lights died with the sound of a small, sad firecracker. For half a second, absolute darkness swallowed the lab.
Then – WUM… WUM… WUM… – the emergency lights kicked in, bathing everything in that oh-so-calming, pulsing, blood-red glow. Really highlighted the ominous thrumming coming from my illegal book. Fantastic.
We both froze. Even the sentient goo seemed to pause its ominous bubbling.
Across the lab, Silas jerked upright so fast he nearly sent a rack of questionable glowing vials crashing down. "Oh, hell no! I am not cleaning up another containment breach."
"That wasn''t a drill... right?" Lyra asked, her voice suddenly small. She was already drifting towards the wall terminal, caffeine-fueled genius momentarily short-circuited by actual alarm. "They tell us about drills. Usually. Don''t they?"
“Unless we’ve started holding drills without warning and with full Arcane lockdown... probably not.” My own voice sounded far calmer than I felt. A knot of unease tightened in my stomach. Something was very, very wrong.
Isabel was already doing her frantic finger-painting routine on the glowing terminal. Sweat slicked her brow, catching the pulsating crimson emergency light. "Wards are up. Like, all the way up," She finally looked up, eyes wide. “That only happens if something broke out... or someone broke in.”
BWAAA! BWAAA! BWAAA!
The klaxon shrieked and base-wide intercom crackled overhead, the speaker burst to life: "Enemy Attack! I repeat, enemy attack in Lab A2. All soldiers, head to Bay Area Four Four Three, WEAPONS HOT! Researchers, initiate loca—"
SCHLICK!
The Captain''s order cut off mid-word, replaced by sounds no one ever wants to hear over an intercom.
A sharp, metallic tearing sound, like a blade carving through steel... and something softer underneath. A wet, sickening sound. Then the unmistakable sound of—
SPLASH.
A choked scream, instantly cut short.
Then… a THUMP.
Heavy. Final. Like dropping a sack of potatoes. Wet potatoes.
The speaker fizzled, stuttered—then went too quiet.
A smoother, almost… pleasant voice followed, "Terribly sorry about that interruption. Please remain calm and stay put while the rescue is underway."
I blinked, my mind struggling to process the sudden shift. Wait. No... it couldn''t be—?
Every head in the lab – Isabel, Lyra clutching her data slate, Silas shrinking near the cooling unit – swiveled towards me. Not just looking, but staring. Their faces, bathed in the rhythmic red pulses of the emergency lights, were canvases of dawning horror, confusion sliding into raw, pointed suspicion.
Ah, hell. Ice water seemed to inject itself directly into my veins, creeping up my spine. They recognized it too. Of course, they did. Everyone did.
That was the voice of Empress Rosalia Tempestyr. My Empress. The woman I’d sworn allegiance to, whose Imperial faction held my loyalty.
"Tristan?" Lyra’s voice trembled. "What in the Nine Hells is happening?"
"Do you know anything? Are we safe?"
Isabel grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly fierce, knuckles white. Her eyes bored into mine, demanding answers I didn''t have. "Tristan. What is going on?"
I could only shake my head. "I don''t know. Gods, I swear, I have no idea. This is..."
SLAM! CRUNCH! THUNK!
The reinforced lab door crashed shut, the sound was deafening, echoing in the suddenly claustrophobic space. Heavy bolts shot home with metallic thunks, sealing us in. Red indicator lights above the frame flared to life. LOCKED. SECURE.
"No!" Lyra cried, stumbling back.
Isabel flinched, hand flying to her mouth.
Trapped. We were well and truly trapped. And that''s never good news.
"Maybe... maybe it''s just a glitch?" Silas whispered, wringing his hands, his eyes darting nervously between me and the reinforced door. "A localized containment field malfunction? It doesn''t have to be... disastrous, right?"
Nobody was buying it. My own thoughts churned, a frantic scramble for logic in a situation rapidly dissolving into nightmare.
"Or maybe," a new voice cut through the strained silence, sharp and cold as chipped ice, "it''s a purge."
We all jumped. Standing over by a workstation buried under data-slates and enough chocolate bar wrappers to build a small fort, was Ronald.
Ronald. Quiet, unassuming Ronald.
The guy who always seemed to melt into the background, his contributions competent but unremarkable, his presence so unassuming that half the time, you forgot he was even in the room. He must have been there the whole time, working behind his equipment.
That itself should not be the problem, but Ronald? He was with the Courts, while I followed behind the Imperial faction.
Everyone knew it, even if no one spoke of it.
We were oil and water, cats and dogs, pineapple on pizza versus not pineapple on pizza – that level of fundamental disagreement had almost torn the world.
Now, in the crimson gloom, the unspoken truce of the research center felt paper-thin now. Eyes flickered between us, calculating, wary.
And Ronald’s usually downcast eyes weren''t downcast now. They burned with a focused, chilling intensity in the pulsing red light.
"Ronald? What are you talking about?" Isabel demanded, her voice tight with suspicion.
He ignored her completely, his gaze locked onto mine. "The Empress doesn''t take idle actions, Tristan. Do you really don''t know what''s going on?"
"Look," I started, raising my hands slowly, palms out, trying to project calm I absolutely didn''t feel. "Whatever is happening out there," I gestured vaguely towards the sealed door, "we''re all in the same desperate situation in here. We need to work together. Secure this lab, figure out—"
"SECURE THIS?!" Ronald''s voice exploded, a raw, furious roar utterly alien to the quiet man we knew. It bounced off the metal walls, painfully loud. His face twisted, the mild researcher vanishing, replaced by something cornered and feral.
"Ronald! Control yourse—" Isabel started off.
He didn''t even look at her. With a savage kick, he sent a stack of research journals flying off a nearby console. Papers erupted into the air, fluttering down like wounded birds in the bloody light. "SECURE THIS?! EVEN IF WE DO, WHAT AWAITS ME OUT THERE IF THAT IMPERIAL BITCH SUCCEEDS? EXECUTION!"
He wasn''t wrong. Faction takeovers weren''t tidy affairs, especially since the System Integration warped everything. Power shifts were brutal, and absolute.
Then he moved. Not stumbling in anger, but with a sudden, shocking agility. He vaulted over the desk he''d cleared, landing lightly.
"Ronald, stop this!" Silas screamed, scrambling away, anking Lyra with him towards the far wall.
Ronald didn''t pause.
He snatched up a thick, metal-bound datapad – the kind used for hazardous environment readings, heavy as a brick. "Don''t interfere!" he snarled at the others. "A few valuable hostages like you lot, and the Imperial dogs will think twice about killing us!"
The air crackled. Panic, sharp and acidic, surged in my throat. He meant it. The months of quiet observation, the shared coffee breaks, the collaborative problem-solving – all gone.
This was raw affiliation, stripped bare.