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."