The night was quiet. Too fucking quiet for Barl, a drunk farmer whose idea of nightly entertainment was counting how many times his mule farted before dawn. He was mid-swig from a clay jug of rotgut when the heavens ripped open.
A streak of fire tore across the sky, brighter than any star, roaring like a pissed-off dragon on meth. The flames screamed downward until they slammed into the distant forest with a thunderous crack that shook the very soil under Barl's muddy boots.
Barl spat, wiped his mouth, and blinked at the smoke rising on the horizon.
"Well, shit," he muttered. "That weren't no star."
His mule brayed in agreement, or maybe in terror. Either way, Barl dropped his jug and ran stumbling toward the village, screaming like the world's drunkest herald.
"The fucking sky's fallin'! Somethin' fuckin' fell from the heavens!"
Within minutes, half the village had gathered: peasants in ragged tunics, guards with rusty spears, and the village head, a fat man named Edrin whose only real skills were tax collecting and pretending to know shit about politics.
Barl gasped for breath, pointing to the smoking treeline. "Big fuckin' fireball came down! Thought it was a star, but stars don't crash in forests, do they?!"
The guards exchanged nervous looks. Edrin adjusted his greasy robes, trying to look wise.
"Stars do not fall," Edrin said, his voice pompous. "The heavens are eternal. Clearly, this is… something else. We shall investigate. Gather the militia!"
The villagers murmured, crossing themselves and whispering about omens, gods, and demons. But curiosity always beat fear when gossip was involved, so soon enough, a crowd was moving toward the forest.
Meanwhile, in the crater…
The once-pristine private jet was now a twisted, burning carcass, half-buried in dirt and shattered trees. The air reeked of scorched metal, smoke, and jet fuel. Sparks popped from what was left of the engines, like the dying heartbeat of a technological beast that didn't belong in this world.
And out of that flaming wreckage crawled three men who had absolutely no fucking business surviving.
"Son of a bitch," Riven coughed, spitting out blood and soot as he stumbled to his feet. His leather jacket was shredded, his boots half-melted, but he was alive. He yanked a shard of metal out of his shoulder like it was a splinter and laughed. "Well, that was a goddamn ride."
Damian Voss rose next, eerily calm as always, brushing soot from his black suit like he'd just stepped out of a meeting, not a plane crash. His tie was still intact. Of course it was. The bastard looked more like death's accountant than a crash survivor.
"I told the pilot the turbulence pattern was unnatural," Damian muttered coldly. His gaze swept the alien forest, sharp and calculating. "This isn't Earth."
"No shit, Sherlock," Riven snapped, lighting a cigarette with a still-burning piece of wreckage. "Unless the UN suddenly decided to plant a medieval forest in the middle of Manhattan."
Kael Arclight staggered last from the wreck, his platinum hair singed, his lab coat torn but still somehow managing to look like an asshole who belonged in a high-tech lab, not a dirt pit. He stared wide-eyed at the stars above—uncharted, different constellations entirely.
"Oh my god," Kael whispered. "We… we're not even in the same fucking universe."
"Thanks, Captain Obvious," Riven barked, exhaling smoke. "You wanna tell me next that gravity still works, too?"
"Shut up," Kael snapped, clutching his tablet—miraculously still working, though flickering. "This is a dimensional shift. A forced translocation event. The runes… the energy signature… this isn't just some freak accident. Someone—or something—pulled us here."
"Great," Riven muttered. "So some cosmic asshole threw us into fantasyland. Fantastic. Can't wait to meet the local dragon and shove a grenade down its throat."
Damian's eyes narrowed, scanning the treeline. "We won't need to wait long."
Because already, the distant sound of voices carried through the forest. Dozens of them. Villagers. Soldiers. Curious idiots.
Kael stiffened. "They're coming straight here."
Riven grinned, cracking his knuckles. "Good. I was getting bored."
Damian's voice cut through like a blade. "No. Not yet. We don't know this world. We don't know their weapons, their politics, their gods. Until we understand the board, we don't make a move."
Riven spat his cigarette into the dirt. "Fine. But if one of these peasants points a pitchfork at me, I'm turning him into mulch."
The three of them stood amidst the smoking wreck, surrounded by firelight and shadow, as the first flickers of torchlight appeared through the trees.
The villagers thought they had seen a star fall from the heavens.
What they found instead were three devils in suits.
The Gods That Fell
The villagers approached the crash site like idiots poking a hornet's nest with sticks. A dozen guards in chainmail shuffled ahead with spears trembling in their hands. Behind them, peasants carried torches and prayed loudly to gods who clearly weren't answering.
The first torchlight spilt into the crater, revealing three soot-covered men standing in front of a burning metallic beast that looked nothing like any siege engine ever built.
The crowd gasped.
"Holy fuck…" whispered one farmer. "The gods sent omens."
"They're demons," another spat. "Look at their strange armor!"
"Armor?" Riven scoffed, brushing soot off his shredded leather jacket. "This is Gucci, dumbass."
The crowd didn't understand a word, but that didn't stop them from pissing themselves.
Damian stepped forward, calm and calculating, as if he was presenting at a shareholder meeting instead of standing in a flaming crash pit. His cold gaze cut across the peasants, and the effect was immediate—three villagers dropped to their knees in worship, another fainted, and a guard screamed, "He's cursing us with his eyes!"
Kael tried to play diplomat, raising his hands. "Listen, we're not here to hurt anyone. This is just a… misunderstanding—"
An arrow whizzed past his head and nailed his tablet, shattering the screen.
Kael froze. Then screamed. "You primitive fucks! Do you have any idea how many terabytes I just lost?!"
That was the signal.
The guards surged forward, spears shaking, shouting prayers to whatever half-ass god they thought could protect them.
Riven cracked his neck, grinning like a maniac. "Finally. Some fun."
He dodged the first spear, punched a guard so hard the man rag-dolled into a tree, then ripped the spear out of another's hands and snapped it in half like kindling.
The villagers shrieked and scattered. Half of them yelled "demon!" while the other half yelled "savior!"
Damian, instead of fighting, simply stepped aside with surgical precision. Every guard who tried to stab him ended up tripping over roots, crashing into each other, or accidentally skewering their own allies. He didn't lift a finger, just watched them collapse like dominoes, his cold smirk doing all the work.
Kael, meanwhile, was the least threatening of the three. He grabbed a burning branch and swung it wildly, screaming at the villagers to back off. Somehow, he still managed to set two guards on fire.
The chaos would've lasted all night if not for the arrival of the real soldiers, armored knights under the banner of Lord Halbrecht, the local ruling bastard.
A warhorn blared. Steel boots thundered. Suddenly, thirty knights stormed into the crater, shields raised, crossbows aimed.
"Stand down, in the name of Lord Halbrecht!" their captain barked.
Riven spun the broken spear in his hands and chuckled. "Finally, some fuckers with real armor."
Damian raised a hand, stopping him. "Not yet." His voice was cold steel. "We don't know their politics. For now, we let them think they're in control."
"Speak for yourself," Riven growled. But before he could argue, five knights dogpiled him, smacking him in the head with shields until he was half-buried in the mud, still laughing through a bloody nose.
Kael tried to explain again, only to get knocked out when a knight bashed him over the head with a helmeted fist. He collapsed face-first into the dirt, muttering, "You… illiterate… fucks…" before passing out.
Damian stood calmly until six men rushed him at once. He sidestepped the first, disarmed the second, and even managed to snap a sword in half with his bare hands. But when a knight's mace clocked him across the jaw, even he staggered.
As the soldiers swarmed, shackles clamped on wrists and ankles.
For the first time in their privileged lives, the three most dangerous CEOs on Earth were captured like common criminals.
Hours later…
They awoke in the damp stone belly of Halbrecht's castle, tossed into separate cells that stank of piss, rot, and hopelessness.
Riven spat out a tooth and grinned at the knight standing guard. "That all you got, shiny boy? I've had worse from bar fights in Mexico."
Kael groaned, clutching his head. "Oh god, my brain's concussed. If I can't do quantum calculations tomorrow, I'm blaming you medieval motherfuckers."
Damian sat in the corner, silent, eyes cold. He didn't look like a prisoner. He looked like a man already planning to burn the entire castle to the ground.
The guard shifted nervously under his gaze. He muttered a prayer. Then whispered to his buddy:
"Tell Lord Halbrecht. We've captured the sky demons."
Lord Halbrecht's Court
Lord Halbrecht of Greymoor was not a man to be underestimated. Fat, yes. Greedy, definitely. But beneath the layers of indulgence and wine stains was a political snake who had slithered his way through three wars and five family feuds without once getting his own hands bloody.
His court was a reflection of him: loud, corrupt, and painfully medieval. Stone pillars rose high in the great hall, torches casting greasy shadows across banners stitched with his boar sigil. Nobles stuffed in brocade sat gossiping at long tables, their mouths greasy with lamb and spiced wine. Servants scurried about with the speed of rats, carrying trays and dodging drunken hands.
At the center of it all sat Halbrecht on a wide oaken chair that was just short of a throne—big enough to project power, not big enough to invite accusations of treason from the High Crown. His jowls quivered as he chewed a slab of roasted boar, and his piggish eyes gleamed at the report being read before him.
"—and so, my lord, the villagers and militia dragged from the forest three strangers who fell from the heavens in a burning sky-chariot," droned the steward, a skinny man with ink-stained fingers.
The hall erupted in whispers.
"Demons!" spat one old knight, crossing himself.
"Or gods!" countered a priest, clutching his amulet. "Omens from the heavens, sent to test us!"
"Or spies," muttered a rival noble, eyeing Halbrecht with suspicion.
Lord Halbrecht raised a pudgy hand, silencing the noise.
"Gods do not fall from the heavens in burning wrecks," he said flatly. "And demons do not wear the skin of men so cleanly." He licked grease from his lips, smirking. "But spies? Yes. That I can believe. Which clan sent them? Which House dares trespass on my domain with magic-machines and strange armor?"
The steward bowed. "They spoke in a foreign tongue, my lord. Not the common speech. And their manners… were unrefined."
"Unrefined?" Halbrecht snorted. "Good. If they were nobles, they'd have grovelled already. That means they're mercenaries. Tools." He leaned forward, his chair creaking. "And tools can be bent or broken."
The hall chuckled darkly.
A younger noblewoman spoke up—Lady Verenne, sharp-eyed, ambitious, and dangerously clever. "If they truly fell from the sky, my lord, they may hold powers we do not understand. Perhaps we should consult the High Priests before deciding their fate."
Halbrecht waved her off with greasy fingers. "The High Priests only care about filling their coffers. If these strangers are powerful, better they serve me first. Let the crown squabble later."
The priest scowled, but held his tongue.
Halbrecht's eyes glittered. "Prepare the dungeons. Let them stew in the dark a while. Tomorrow, I will see if these so-called sky demons bend the knee… or if their heads look prettier on spikes."
The hall roared with approval, goblets slamming against tables.
Outside, the bells of Greymoor tolled, their heavy iron chimes rolling over the city like thunder. Peasants whispered of fallen stars, omens of war, gods or devils in human skin. Some prayed. Some sharpened blades. Everyone knew one thing for certain—something had changed tonight.
And in the bowels of the castle, three men from another world sat in chains, waiting.
Damian's cold eyes glimmered in the torchlight.
Kael muttered equations under his breath like prayers.
Riven just grinned in the dark.
The storm was only beginning.
The Interrogation
The dungeon beneath Greymoor Castle was a pit of misery. Rats squeaked in the corners, the walls dripped slime, and the air reeked of rust and rot. Shackles clanged as the three CEOs sat chained to iron rings in the stone.
When the heavy doors creaked open, torchlight spilled in, revealing Lord Halbrecht himself flanked by armored knights and a priest clutching a book like it could shield him from evil.
"Well, well," Halbrecht drawled, his voice greasy with amusement. "The fallen stars. The sky demons. My little prizes." His eyes slid across them like a butcher sizing up livestock.
Riven spat a bloody tooth onto the floor and grinned. "Fuck you too, Jabba the Hutt."
The knights tensed, hands going to their swords. Halbrecht only chuckled. "Even their tongue is strange. Harsh. Guttural. It stinks of demons."
Kael groaned, clutching his bruised head. "For fuck's sake, does anyone here even understand me? Hello? Language barrier? Jesus Christ…"
The priest stepped forward, muttering a spell under his breath. A faint shimmer of light passed over the three prisoners. The priest gasped. "They are not demons, my lord. Their souls… are human. Strange, but human."
Halbrecht frowned. "Human… but not of this land. Interesting." His eyes narrowed like a predator's. "That means I may break them like men."
He gestured. Two knights hauled Riven upright, chains rattling.
"Name," Halbrecht demanded.
Riven stared him dead in the eye. "Daddy."
The nearest knight punched him in the gut. Riven doubled over, wheezing, then started laughing. "Oh yeah… hit harder, you tin can fuck. I like it rough."
Kael groaned again. "Please. For the love of—stop antagonizing them, Riven."
Damian hadn't moved once. His cold eyes never left Halbrecht. His silence was louder than anything the other two said. Finally, the lord's gaze turned to him.
"You. The quiet one. You look like a noble, not a mercenary. Tell me—what clan sent you? What house do you serve?"
Damian's lips curved into the faintest smile. "I serve no house." His voice was cold steel. "I build empires."
The translator priest paled, but Halbrecht leaned in, intrigued. "Empires, you say? You speak as if you are my equal."
Damian's gaze never wavered. "No." His voice dropped to a whisper that cut like a blade. "Not your equal. Your replacement."
The hall went still. The knights shifted uneasily. Even the torches seemed to flicker.
Riven started laughing so hard he nearly fell off the chains. Kael smacked his head against the wall. "Oh my god, you're going to get us all executed."
Halbrecht's jowls trembled, his face flushing red with rage. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. A deep, booming, porcine laugh that shook his belly.
"Ha! Such arrogance. I like it." He pointed a greasy finger at Damian. "Chain them tighter. Let them rot tonight. Tomorrow, we test their worth. If they truly are omens, they will survive. If not…" His grin widened. "Their heads will decorate my gate."
The knights dragged the CEOs back into the dark. The iron door slammed shut.
And in that silence, Damian finally spoke again, voice low and certain:
"He's already lost. He just doesn't know it yet."
Riven chuckled. "Can't wait to burn this shithole to the ground."
Kael sighed. "We are so unbelievably fucked."
Whispers in the Dark
While the three chained strangers languished in the bowels of Greymoor Castle, the village outside was alive with fear and firelight.
The tavern, usually filled with drunken laughter and bad lute music, had become a war council of terrified peasants. Torches smoked in the streets, children cried in their mothers' arms, and every man and woman with a mouth was running it.
"They fell from the sky, I tell you," old Barl slurred again, waving his clay jug for the fiftieth time that night. "I saw it with me own eyes! A star, on fire, crashing into the forest like the gods pissed it out!"
"You were drunk," muttered his neighbor, a toothless woman stirring a pot of stew.
"I'm always drunk," Barl shot back, pounding the table. "But I know what I fuckin' saw! Three demons crawled out of the fire, tall as giants, eyes glowing with hellfire!"
"That's not what the guards said," another villager interrupted. "My cousin's brother's sister's uncle—he's a gatekeeper at the castle. He swears the strangers bled like men. They ain't demons. They're gods. Flesh and bone, but not of this world."
The tavern went quiet. Then erupted in shouting.
"Gods!"
"Demons!"
"Foreign spies!"
"Shut the fuck up, all of you!"
At the far end of the table, old Granny Ulfa slammed her cane against the floor. Her eyes were milky with age, her voice a raspy growl. "I've seen omens before. When the Red Comet burned the skies, the Demon King rose. When the Moon split in half, the Elves began their wars. Now fire falls from the heavens again. It means blood. Always blood."
The villagers crossed themselves, muttering prayers. Even the drunks sobered at her words.
Outside, the streets buzzed with torchlight and rumor. Merchants whispered about the value of the strangers' "sky-metal," already imagining ways to melt it down for coin. Priests preached from steps, warning of divine punishment if the lord failed to appease the gods. Soldiers gathered at gates, sharpening their swords more from nerves than duty.
And somewhere in the crowd, spies of rival houses slipped like shadows, already carrying word of the "sky demons" back to their masters.
Greymoor was a backwater domain, but tonight, it had become the center of the fucking universe.
Meanwhile, in the castle kitchens, the servants were no less terrified. A scullery boy whispered while scrubbing a pot:
"They say one of the sky demons laughed when a dozen knights tried to beat him down."
"Aye," said a maid, shivering. "And another one spoke with the calm of a noble, like he weren't afraid at all. As if he were the lord himself."
"I heard," the cook grunted, chopping onions, "that the third one—he carried fire in his hands. Lit men ablaze just by touching them."
The maid crossed herself. "Devils. All of them."
"Or gods." The boy's eyes glimmered. "Maybe they'll burn Lord Halbrecht for his sins and lift us all up instead."
The cook slapped him with a greasy hand. "Shut your mouth before someone hears you. Gods or demons, it makes no difference. They'll bring war to Greymoor. Mark my words."
High above, in the castle tower, Lord Halbrecht himself watched the village torches flicker like fireflies. His fat fingers drummed against the stone windowsill as he muttered to his steward.
"Fear is good. Fear makes men obey. But if these strangers truly are omens…" His eyes narrowed. "Then I must tame them before the other Houses hear. If word spreads, every greedy bastard from here to the High Crown will march on my lands."
The steward bowed nervously. "And if they cannot be tamed, my lord?"
Halbrecht's lips curved into a piggish smile. "Then I will feed their corpses to the crows and claim the heavens themselves sent me the victory."
The bells of Greymoor tolled midnight. The whispers did not stop.
And in the dungeons below, three men from another world listened to the faint echoes of those bells, each of them already plotting in their own way.
Damian's cold mind ticked like a clock, calculating.
Kael's head throbbed with questions of magic, physics, and survival.
Riven just grinned in the dark, waiting for the chance to break free and paint the walls red.
The New World thought they had captured omens.
They had no idea they had just chained three opportunistic assholes.
The Great Thrones Whisper
Rumors were the true currency of the New World. By the time the bells of Greymoor tolled dawn, whispers of the "sky demons" had already traveled far beyond the backwater lord's crumbling castle walls.
Messengers, spies, merchants, and priests carried the tale like wildfire. By the time the sun rose, the Ten Great Houses—the apex predators of the world's feudal jungle—were stirring.
The Elven Courts
In the moonlit halls of silver and crystal, Lord Aired Vastina of the High Elves listened to the report in silence. His hair was pale as moonlight, his robes shimmering with enchantments older than human history.
"Strangers who fall from the heavens," his spymaster whispered. "Clad in strange garb. Speaking tongues unknown. Captured by a human pig-lord in Greymoor."
Aired's lips curved into a faint, cruel smile. "Humans always stumble into treasures they do not deserve. If the heavens truly sent omens, they belong to the Elves. Not to dirt-eaters."
In the forests far to the south, Lady Ashera Wysarona of the Dark Elves read the same news from a blood-stained scroll. Her crimson eyes narrowed. "Omens from the heavens? If they are gods, then we shall worship them. If they are demons, we shall enslave them. Either way…" She licked her lips. "…they will be ours."
The Human Thrones
Across the plains, Lord Nicholas Claybrook—a hardened warlord whose banners had crushed a dozen rivals—slammed his gauntleted fist against the table. "If Greymoor holds power from the heavens, then war is inevitable. The Houses will march. And I will march first."
In the gilded salons of the West, Lady Stéphanie de Courvoisier sipped her wine and laughed at the news. "Three men fell from the sky? Oh, how deliciously absurd. But absurdity has value. If Greymoor is foolish enough to think it can hoard omens, we shall strip it bare… and perhaps steal these sky-men for our collection."
Meanwhile, in the imperial heartlands, Lord Benno von und zu Austerlitz—a man born in armor and raised on blood—read the report with cold precision. "If they are weapons, I will wield them. If they are threats, I will crush them. Greymoor is weak. They cannot hold such prizes."
The Dwarven Holds
Deep in the mountains, the dwarves stirred.
Lord Hadmoick Blackborn, scarred by a hundred forges and battles, bellowed to his council. "Metal that falls from the heavens! A machine that burns the sky! Bring me its wreck, and I will build an empire the gods themselves will envy!"
Far to the east, Lady Gomnorra de Wyvernhand sharpened her axe, smiling grimly. "Demons or gods, they bleed. If they bleed, we can use them."
And in the Strauss stronghold, Lady Gokririka von und zu Strauss, adorned in gold and sapphires, sneered at the reports. "Fools chase omens. I chase wealth. But if these strangers can make me richer than the crown itself… then I will have them."
The Beasts
In a palace of silk and shadow, Lady Helena de' Ballesteros, matriarch of the Nekojin, purred as she read the scroll. Her feline ears twitched with amusement. "Three men from the sky. How… entertaining. Perhaps they will make good pets. Or husbands."
Meanwhile, in the rabbitfolk domains, Lord Kelemen László frowned. His long ears twitched nervously. "The heavens send omens before wars. If these men are weapons, then war is coming. I will prepare my people."
The Whisper Spreads
Across the lands, the Ten Great Thrones stirred. Some saw opportunity. Some saw danger. All saw war.
And at the center of it all, the backwater domain of Greymoor now sat like a fat pig with a golden crown—too stupid to realize every wolf in the world was already licking its lips.
Lord Halbrecht believed he had captured omens.
But in truth, he had lit a signal fire that would set the entire world ablaze.
The Trial of Omens
The morning sun broke over Greymoor in a haze of smoke and fear. The castle courtyard, usually a place for drills and livestock trades, had been cleared for spectacle. A wooden stage was built overnight, hastily hammered together by servants, with an executioner's block ominously placed at its center.
The villagers gathered in droves, murmuring prayers and curses in equal measure. Children sat on their fathers' shoulders, wide-eyed with awe. Merchants hawked roasted meat and watered-down ale because in this world, even impending divine judgment was an excuse to make coin.
Above them, on his oaken chair, Lord Halbrecht sat fat and smug, his jowls quivering with excitement. He had declared to his people that today the "sky demons" would be tested. If they were gods, they would endure. If they were men, they would break. If they were demons, their heads would roll.
The three CEOs were dragged in chains onto the stage. The crowd gasped.
Riven staggered forward, bloodied but grinning, chains rattling like trophies. He spat into the dirt and bellowed, "Morning, peasants! Who wants autographs?"
The crowd recoiled. Some crossed themselves. Others shouted curses.
Kael, pale and furious, muttered under his breath. "I swear to god, I will kill someone if I don't get coffee soon."
Damian, as always, was silent, his cold eyes scanning the crowd. Not a word wasted, not a motion unnecessary. His mere stillness unsettled people more than Riven's chaos.
Halbrecht stood, raising a pudgy hand. "People of Greymoor! You see before you the strangers who fell from the sky! Last night, they mocked our guards, spat at our priests, and defied my authority. Today, they will face the judgment of gods and men alike."
The crowd roared.
The test began.
The First Trial
Halbrecht ordered them unchained, one at a time, and thrown into the sand of the courtyard. First came Riven.
A knight in full plate armor, massive as a bear, stomped forward with a warhammer. The crowd cheered.
"Show us if you bleed, demon!" the knight snarled.
Riven rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and smirked. "Cute hammer. Compensating for something?"
The knight swung. The warhammer smashed into the sand, sending dirt flying. Riven sidestepped, grabbed the knight's wrist, and with brutal precision, dislocated it. The man screamed. The crowd gasped. Riven yanked the warhammer free and casually slammed the flat end into the knight's helmet, dropping him like a sack of turnips.
Riven raised the hammer high. "Next!"
Half the villagers screamed "demon!" The other half shouted "god!"
Halbrecht frowned. He had wanted blood, not awe.
The Second Trial
Next came Kael. Halbrecht had arranged a riddle contest with the castle's priest—an old man smug in his knowledge of scripture and lore.
The priest spoke: "Answer me this, stranger. What always runs but never walks, has a mouth but never talks?"
Kael blinked. Then laughed. "Are you kidding me? A river. That's first-grade bullshit."
The crowd gasped. The priest sputtered.
Kael smirked. "Try harder. Or do you people only have knockoff riddles from a children's book?"
Halbrecht's face darkened, but the villagers were stunned. Some whispered: He answered without pause. He must be blessed. Others muttered: He mocks holy men. He must be cursed.
The Third Trial
Finally, Damian was led forward. His test was simple: to stand before Lord Halbrecht himself, unchained, and swear loyalty.
The hall went silent as Damian approached, his black suit still torn from the crash yet somehow regal in the morning sun.
Halbrecht leaned forward, piggish eyes gleaming. "Kneel, stranger. Swear to me. Serve House Greymoor. Do this, and live."
Damian's eyes were cold steel. He didn't move. Didn't flinch. The silence stretched until even the birds stopped singing.
Then he spoke, voice low, razor-sharp.
"I do not kneel."
The words cut through the courtyard like a blade. Gasps erupted. A child cried. The priest fainted.
Halbrecht's face turned purple with rage. "Seize him!"
Knights surged forward.
Damian didn't resist. He allowed himself to be shackled again, eyes never leaving Halbrecht's. His smile was subtle, infuriating. It said one thing: You've already lost.
Whispers Beyond Greymoor – The Minor Houses Stir
While Greymoor burned with gossip, the minor lords of the region wasted no time.
In a smoky war tent a day's ride away, Lord Branth Hollowmere, a petty baron with more ambition than brains, sneered at the reports. "Halbrecht thinks he can hoard gods? We'll march on his lands. If these strangers are weapons, they will be mine."
In a gilded villa by the river, Lady Mirabel Cazwyn, famed for her silver tongue and endless debts, whispered to her courtiers. "If Greymoor holds omens, the Ten Houses will come. But while giants move, mice can steal the crumbs. Send gifts. Send spies. I want one of these sky demons in my bed before Halbrecht knows what he's lost."
The wolves were already circling.
Back in Greymoor, the villagers erupted into chaos—half screaming that gods had descended, half shouting that demons had cursed them.
Halbrecht raised his arms, trying to control the crowd, but it was too late. The omen had already spread, and no fat pig on a wooden chair could cage it.
The CEOs stood in chains, but even chained, they commanded the world's attention.
The Pig's Decision
The great hall of Greymoor stank of wine, sweat, and fear. Lord Halbrecht sat slumped in his chair, face red from rage, while his advisors circled like nervous vultures.
"They are too dangerous, my lord," one knight said, his voice shaking. "The villagers whisper of gods. Already, half the peasants refuse to pay their tithes. If we keep these strangers alive, rebellion will come."
"They could be useful!" countered another noble. "Think of their strength, their knowledge—if they serve us—"
"They will never serve!" roared the priest, slamming his book onto the table. "One spat on holy ground. One mocked sacred riddles. One defied your order to kneel. They are demons, I tell you, demons in human skin!"
Halbrecht's face twitched. His fat fingers dug into the armrest of his chair. He thought of Damian's cold stare. Of Riven's laughter in the face of steel. Of Kael's insolent smirk.
No, they would never kneel.
Halbrecht slammed his goblet down, spilling wine across the table. "Enough! I will not be mocked in my own hall. Tomorrow at dawn, the strangers die. Their heads will decorate my gate as warning to all who whisper rebellion."
The hall fell silent. Then, one by one, the lords and priests nodded. None dared oppose the pig.
Outside, the bells tolled again. But this time, they sounded more like funeral chimes.
The Dungeon
The dungeon was damp, stinking of mildew and piss. Chains clinked in the dark.
Riven broke the silence first, chuckling to himself. "So let me get this straight. They drag me into a dirt pit, throw a knight at me, and act surprised when I beat his ass into the ground. Then they call me a demon. Am I missing something?"
Kael groaned, rubbing his bruised head. "Don't even get me started. They gave me riddles. Riddles! Like I'm on a medieval fucking game show. 'What has a mouth but never talks?' Jesus Christ. I wanted to punch that priest in the throat."
Riven snorted. "You should've answered: 'Your wife.'"
Kael barked out a laugh, then winced from the pain.
Damian, still sitting silently against the wall, finally spoke. His voice was calm, steady, ice cold. "They wanted submission. That's all. The trial was a theater. To make the villagers feel safe. To prove we could be broken."
"And instead," Riven grinned, "we scared the piss out of half the town."
"Exactly," Damian said. His eyes glimmered in the torchlight. "They'll execute us tomorrow. That much is certain. But already, the cracks are showing. Not everyone believes we're demons. Some think we're gods. And belief is more dangerous than any sword."
Kael looked up. "You're saying…?"
Damian's faint smile was colder than the stone walls around them. "I'm saying Greymoor is already lost. They just don't know it yet."
Dawn of Fire
The next morning, the courtyard was packed to bursting. Villagers, peasants, merchants, and guards—all pressed shoulder to shoulder to witness the execution.
Halbrecht sat fat and triumphant on his chair, goblet in hand, as the executioner raised his axe over the block.
The three CEOs were dragged forward, chains clinking, bruised but unbroken.
"People of Greymoor!" Halbrecht bellowed. "You shall see today that no demon, no false god, no omen from the sky can defy House Greymoor!"
The crowd roared. The axe was raised.
And then—
The first rock flew before the executioner's axe could fall.
It smashed into a knight's helmet with a hollow clang, staggering him. Then came another, and another. Torches arced through the morning air, setting hay and banners ablaze. Within seconds, the execution square transformed into a screaming storm of fists, pitchforks, steel, and fire.
The pro-god faction surged forward like a tidal wave, screaming, "The gods have descended!" Their chants turned into a battle cry. Farmers with scythes hacked at soldiers. Women with kitchen knives stabbed at armored legs. Children hurled stones like miniature siege engines.
The anti-demon zealots answered with equal fury. Priests shrieked holy verses, rallying knights to their side. Fanatics threw themselves at villagers, clawing and biting, convinced they were purging evil with their bare hands.
In the middle of it all, the CEOs still stood on the platform, shackled like sacrifices as the square erupted into civil war around them.
"Finally," Riven grinned, blood already spattering his face as a guard's spear jabbed too close. "The fuckin' party's here."
Kael ducked as an arrow whistled past his head. "This isn't a party! This is a goddamn peasant riot!"
Riven bared his teeth, chains rattling as he yanked against them. "Same thing where I come from."
Damian's voice cut through the chaos like ice. "Focus. This is our opening."
Knights tried to form a shield wall around the execution stage, but the mob smashed into them with raw fury. A farmer rammed a pitchfork clean through a guard's thigh. Another knight was pulled off his feet and beaten to death with cobblestones before his helmet could even hit the ground.
Halbrecht screamed from his throne, face purple. "Kill them! Kill them all! Protect the block!"
His words were drowned by the roar of fire as a villager hurled a torch onto the wooden stage. Flames licked the platform, smoke choking the air.
The executioner dropped his axe and bolted, vanishing into the chaos.
The First Blood
A pro-god rebel, face painted with ash, scrambled onto the burning stage. He smashed the lock of Riven's chains with a stolen mace. The iron cracked.
Riven stretched, the chains falling from his arms. He immediately picked up the broken length of chain and whipped it across a knight's face, tearing flesh and denting steel.
"Fuck yes!" Riven roared. He vaulted off the stage into the melee like a wolf loosed into sheep. Knights toppled, skulls cracked, blood sprayed. The mob cheered.
Another rebel, a young girl barely old enough to hold a blade, freed Kael's shackles. He stumbled, blinking in shock. "Oh god. Oh fuck. This is insane—"
He ducked as a spear lunged at him. Reflex kicked in. He shoved the broken shackle into the knight's visor, blinding him. The mob dragged the man down, screaming.
Damian remained perfectly still until the third lock snapped. Then he stood, brushed soot from his torn suit, and picked up the executioner's dropped axe. His grip was calm, surgical. His eyes never left Halbrecht's balcony.
"Now," he said coldly, "the game begins."
With two factions of villagers ripping each other apart and Halbrecht's knights breaking formation under sheer panic, the square became a slaughterhouse.
Riven carved a path through armor and bone, laughing with every kill.
Kael fought clumsily but desperately, wielding firebrands and jagged metal, each strike fueled by adrenaline and raw terror.
Damian moved with terrifying precision, every swing of his axe deliberate, every step forward calculated like a chess piece advancing across the board.
Above, Halbrecht shrieked at his men. "Stop them! Stop them! The demons must die!"
But already, half his guards were dead, the other half were running, and the mob was flooding into the castle itself.
The rebellion had begun.
At the edge of the square, a priest of the anti-demon faction climbed onto a cart, waving his holy book. "Strike them down! Burn the false gods!" he bellowed.
An old villager woman, torch in hand, screamed back: "The gods descended to free us from your pig-lord!"
The two factions clashed like armies. A dozen fell in the first charge. Blood slicked the cobblestones.
The mob swarmed around the CEOs, pushing them toward the alleyways. A dozen rebels shielded them with pitchforks and stolen swords.
"Gods! Protect the gods!" they cried, even as arrows cut them down.
Kael shouted over the roar. "They think we're fucking gods!"
Riven kicked a knight in the throat. "And they're not wrong!"
Damian's expression never changed. "Good. Then let's make them believe it."
The rebellion was in full swing. Greymoor was burning. And at the heart of the chaos, three men from another world carved their first steps into history—drenched in blood and fire.
Greymoor burned.
The square was no longer an execution ground but a battlefield, a storm of fire, steel, and screams. Halbrecht's knights scattered. Priests wailed. Peasants hacked one another apart in the name of gods or demons.
And at the center of the chaos, three men from another world strode through the smoke, their chains broken, their eyes blazing with the fury of survivors.
To the mob, they were gods descended.
To Halbrecht, they were demons unchained.
But in truth, they were neither.
They were predators.
And the New World had just opened its gates to them.