The evening sun in Time line No 4 bled crimson across the horizon, casting long, jagged shadows over the asphalt as David drove home from work. His hands gripped the steering wheel of his old sedan, the hum of the engine a familiar comfort after a grueling day. The radio played a soft jazz tune, its notes weaving through the quiet, but his mind was elsewhere—on Linda, his wife, whose smile could unravel the knots of even his worst days. He pictured her now, waiting at home, maybe stirring a pot of her famous chili, the scent filling their modest house with warmth. A faint smile tugged at his lips. Today had been peaceful, a rare gift in a world that felt increasingly unsteady.
He pulled into the driveway, the gravel crunching under his tires, and stepped out into the cool twilight. The house stood before him, its white paint peeling at the edges, a silent sentinel of their shared life. He climbed the porch steps, fishing for his keys, but when he reached for the doorknob, it turned too easily. The door was unlocked. A prickle of unease crawled up his spine. Linda always locked the door when he was out. Always.
"Linda?" he called, pushing the door open. His voice echoed in the stillness, unanswered. "Baby, I'm home."
The air inside was wrong—heavy, thick with a metallic tang that clung to his throat. He stepped forward, and his shoe met something wet. A soft squelch broke the silence. His gaze David froze, his gaze dropping to the floor. The living room, once a haven of soft rugs and warm lamplight, was a nightmare. The carpet was saturated, a grotesque canvas of blood and flesh. Shreds of tissue, glistening and raw, clung to the walls, the furniture, the ceiling. Organs—God, were those organs?—lay scattered like discarded refuse, their surfaces slick with crimson. The room pulsed with the stench of death, a visceral assault that made his stomach lurch.
He staggered forward, his breath hitching. His eyes caught something glinting amidst the carnage—a delicate silver chain, its pendant shaped like a tiny heart. The necklace he'd given Linda on their first anniversary. His fingers trembled as he reached for it, the metal cold against his skin. The moment he touched it, a vision seared through his mind, sharp and merciless: a man, his face a mirror of David's own, stood over Linda. Her eyes, wide with terror, pleaded for mercy as he raised a blade. Blood sprayed, her scream cut short. The same man turned to James, David's brother, and with a sickening crunch, shattered his skull. The vision dissolved, leaving David gasping, the necklace slipping from his fingers.
He stumbled back, bile rising in his throat. "No… no…" His body convulsed, and he vomited, the acidic burn mixing with the coppery reek of the room. His hands, now smeared with blood, shook violently. Linda's blood. James's blood. His wife. His brother. His world, obliterated in a single, brutal stroke. Tears blurred his vision, but they couldn't wash away the horror. Fear and grief clawed at his chest, each breath a jagged shard of glass.
The ground beneath him shuddered, a low rumble growing into a bone-rattling quake. The walls groaned, picture frames crashing to the floor, their glass shattering into the blood-soaked mess. David scrambled to his feet, heart pounding, as the television flickered on, its screen cutting through the darkness. A news anchor's voice, strained and urgent, filled the room: "World War has begun. Nations have deployed nuclear arsenals. Riots and chaos engulf cities as governments collapse…"
David's knees buckled. The world was unraveling, mirroring the ruin of his soul. He staggered to the door, desperate for air, for escape. Outside, the sky burned orange, streaked with smoke and ash. Screams pierced the air—human, raw, unending. Buildings crumbled in the distance, their skeletal remains swallowed by flames. A child, no older than ten, sprinted past, his face streaked with soot and terror. He tripped, sprawling across the pavement, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle, blood pooling beneath him.
David's instincts kicked in. He rushed to the boy, kneeling beside him. "Hey, hey, you're okay," he lied, his voice cracking. The child's eyes, wide and glassy, locked onto his. "It hurts…" he whimpered. David scooped him up, ignoring the sharp pain in his own body, the weight of the boy's broken form grounding him in the chaos. "I've got you," he whispered, though he had no idea where to go. The street was a warzone—cars ablaze, people running, others lying still, their bodies mangled by unseen forces.
Above, the sky split open with a deafening roar. David looked up, and his blood ran cold. A figure hovered in the air, cloaked in shadow, his laughter a jagged blade cutting through the pandemonium. The man's face—it was his face. The same one from the vision, the one who'd butchered Linda and James. His eyes glinted with manic glee, reveling in the destruction. David's heart pounded with a new emotion: rage. It burned through his grief, a molten core of purpose. He didn't know why this doppelgänger had torn his life apart, but he would find out. He would make him pay.
The air grew heavy, a low hum building to a scream. David's gaze snapped to the horizon. A nuke, its sleek form glinting in the apocalyptic light, arced toward them. Time slowed, the world narrowing to that single, inevitable point. He clutched the boy tighter, shielding him as if it mattered. The missile struck, and the world erupted in white-hot oblivion. Pain consumed him, then—nothing.
David's eyes snapped open. He was standing, unharmed, in a place that defied comprehension. A vast, ethereal landscape stretched before him, its skies shimmering with hues of gold and violet, its air vibrating with an otherworldly calm. Marble pillars, ancient and pristine, rose from a sea of mist, their surfaces etched with runes that pulsed faintly. Twenty others stood nearby, men and women of varying ages, their faces etched with confusion and fear. They were strangers, yet their shared disorientation bound them in silent kinship.
A figure emerged from the mist, clad in a flowing white robe that seemed to glow from within. His presence was both serene and commanding, his eyes ancient, as if they'd witnessed the birth of stars. "Humans," he intoned, his voice resonating like a bell in David's skull, "welcome to our world."
The crowd stirred, murmurs rippling through them. David's fists clenched, his grief a leaden weight in his chest. The robed figure raised a hand, silencing them. "You have been summoned for a purpose—to defeat the Demon God who threatens this realm. You are heroes, each granted powers to protect this world."
A massive crystal orb descended from the heavens, its surface swirling with iridescent light. The figure gestured to it. "Approach. Place your hand upon the crystal to reveal your power."
One by one, the others stepped forward. The crystal flared with each touch, assigning ranks: A, B, D. Some smiled, others paled, but David barely registered them. His mind was a storm of Linda's screams, James's broken body, the laughter of his doppelgänger. When his turn came, he moved mechanically, his hand pressing against the cool surface. The crystal erupted in a blaze of light, its radiance blinding. Gasps echoed around him.
"An S-rank hero," the robed figure declared, his voice tinged with awe. "A rare gift. What is your name, child?"
"David," he said, his voice hollow.
The figure's gaze softened, piercing through David's facade. "Why do you carry such sorrow, my child? Such rage?"
David's jaw tightened. He saw Linda's smile, James's laugh, the blood that stained his hands. He saw the man who'd taken them, his face a twisted reflection of his own. He said nothing, his silence a wall against the world.
The ceremony ended, and the heroes were teleported to their assigned kingdoms. David's vision blurred, and when it cleared, he stood in a desolate wasteland. The Ruins Kingdom, a graveyard of crumbled stone and forgotten glory. The air was thick with dust, the sky a bruised purple, as if the world itself mourned its own decay. No technology, no trace of the modern era—just a medieval tapestry of broken spires and whispering ghosts.
He looked at his hands, still trembling, still stained with the memory of blood. The rage within him simmered, a promise forged in loss. "I will become strong," he vowed, his voice a low growl. "I will find you. I will kill you."
The ruins stretched before him, vast and unforgiving, a mirror of his shattered heart. Somewhere in this alien world, the man who'd destroyed his life waited. David took his first step, the crunch of gravel beneath his boots a quiet requiem for the man he'd been. The path ahead was unknown, but one truth anchored him: he would carve through this world, through gods and demons, until justice was his.
The wind howled through the Ruins Kingdom, carrying whispers of ancient wars and forgotten heroes. David's journey had begun, but the shadows of his past clung to him, relentless. Each step was a defiance of despair, each breath a vow to reclaim what was stolen. The world might burn, but David would rise from its ashes, a hero forged in blood and sorrow, driven by a singular, searing purpose: vengeance.