Captor 1
It all ended on a Monday.
They say that the great shifts in life are heralded by divine signs or catastrophic thunders, but for me, the end of the world had the insipid aroma of a convenience store and the weight of a plastic bag carrying a couple of cheap sodas. The city sky was gray—that leaden, suffocating hue that seems to crush the streets under a layer of endless routine. I was walking along the sidewalk, my shoulders slumped under the weight of a workday I couldn't even remember the importance of. The roar of traffic was a background hum, a constant vibration that numbed my senses as I dodged people who, like me, only wanted to get home and turn off their brains.
Then, the sound of the world changed.
The violent screech of tires and the acrid smell of burning rubber hit me before the sight did. A child was there, in the middle of the street, right where the crosswalk faded away. He stood paralyzed, eyes wide, staring at the headlights of a truck bearing down on him like two furious suns thirsty for blood.
There was no time for logic. There was no heroic thought, no profound reflection on mortality.
My legs moved on their own. It was animal instinct—a spark of pure electricity that shot up my spine and launched me onto the asphalt before my brain could process the danger.
I felt the dull thud, the impact of my shoulder against the boy's small torso as I shoved him out of the way. In that millisecond, time stopped. It was a perfect, terrifying slow-motion. I saw the truck's chrome grille approaching inch by inch, the distorted reflection of streetlights on the windshield, and the driver's frantic face behind the glass, mouth open in a gesture of pure panic.
There was no fear. Only a cold acceptance.
The real impact arrived with a crash I didn't hear, but felt vibrating in my bones before my entire world shattered into pieces. It was an unbearable pressure followed by an impossible lightness. The light went out all at once. It was an instant death—a total and absolute disconnection of the system.
Or so I thought.
Total darkness. I couldn't feel my hands, the brush of clothes, or the rhythmic beat of my heart. They say when the hardware is destroyed, the software shuts down, but I was still there. Floating in an absolute nothingness where the concept of space held no meaning. Had minutes passed? Eons? In that void, time is a dead variable, a lie that no longer serves to measure anything.
I was left alone with my consciousness. Even dead, it turned out I was a stubborn bastard. I refused to cease existing simply because the laws of physics dictated that my body was now biological scrap on a damp street. I clung to my own thoughts with violent tenacity, questioning the validity of that eternal silence, daring the nothingness to try and erase me.
"What… what are you still doing here?"
The voice didn't come from outside; it vibrated from the very center of what I was. A note of genuine surprise that made my consciousness shudder.
An impossible light began to seep in, transforming the absolute black into a white darkness—a visual paradox that surrounded me completely. It had no defined shape, but it felt heavy, as if the entire universe were trying to look at me through a microscope.
"Your thread was severed eons ago in this plane," the voice vibrated again. "But you have lingered so long in this void that your soul has absorbed the energy of the nothingness itself. You have expanded in a way that should not be possible. You are no longer a drop of water returning to the ocean. Now… you are an anomaly."
The entity fell into a heavy silence. I could feel its judgment—an evaluation that went beyond morality or humanity. It offered me two destinies. The first was peace: to drain that stolen energy and allow myself to be reincarnated as a common man, without memories, a blank slate for fate to write upon as it pleased. The second… was sublimation.
There was no doubt in my mind. I hadn't spent an eternity of absolute solitude, devouring the silence of eons, just to be drained like a used battery.
"I choose the path of sublimation," I declared. My voice was not sound, but pure will. "I did not survive the void to become an ant trampled by destiny once again. I claim the right to my own evolution."
"So be it," the Presence decreed. "Speak, then. Define the gifts that will shape your new existence."
I was meticulous. I didn't ask for external miracles; I asked for the tools to forge them myself. I wanted to be a blank canvas capable of learning everything, free from the limitations of blood or fate that bind mortals. I wanted a body that knew neither fatigue nor limits—a physical throne capable of withstanding the energy now vibrating in my soul. I wanted a domain of my own, an inner realm where everything I conquered could become a part of me. I wanted the majesty to empower those who swore loyalty to me, and the vision to walk between the cracks of reality.
"It is written," said the voice, fading away. "Go then, anomaly. Write your name upon the world that receives you."
The absolute white vanished, but there was no gentle transition. The silence of the void was replaced by a deafening howl that seemed intent on tearing the skin from my bones.
Waking up was a physical blow.
My feet touched solid ground atop a lonely ridge. The cold didn't arrive gradually; it hit me like a slab of frozen granite, knocking the breath out of me. Around me, the world was a chaos of snow and gusting wind that erased any trace of the horizon. The air was so thin I felt my lungs crystallize with every breath. This wasn't the cold I knew; it was an ancient cold, the kind that steals your life before you can even ask for forgiveness.
Before the blizzard could bury me alive under the white mantle, I closed my eyes and focused on the refuge now pulsing in my mind like a second heart. It wasn't a blink; it was a transition of consciousness.
Suddenly, the roar of the wind died down, becoming a dull, distant echo.
The freezing air was replaced by the sweet scent of dry pine and the deep warmth of a lit hearth. I was in my Sanctuary. It was a two-story log cabin, solid and welcoming, built from the very fabric of my thoughts. Dark wood beams glowed under candlelight, and a stone fireplace dominated the main room.
I sat before the fire, letting the orange glow of the flames return the sensation of having a real body. It wasn't just a physical shelter; it was the center of my new existence. As I watched the dance of the sparks, the truths of my new nature—my gifts of infinite potential, absolute endurance, and authority—integrated into my bones, merging with my marrow. I felt my body stabilize, becoming the perfect vessel for what was to come.
I stayed there for a moment, enjoying the silence before returning to the storm. I walked toward the heavy wooden door, felt the rough touch of the handle, and opened it. The winter of the North reclaimed me.
I descended the ridge with a firm step, letting the snow crunch beneath my boots. As I climbed down the steep slope, my vision sharpened, piercing through the white haze until I found what I was looking for. A group of men wrapped in animal furs were striking the rock with a desperation that only hunger and cold can dictate.
I stopped a few meters away. I observed them in silence; they were real men, their faces weathered by the wind and ice clinging to their beards as if it were part of their own skin. Their lungs wheezed from the effort of pulling heat from the gelid air, while I felt in perfect peace.
One of them, a sturdy fellow with broad shoulders named Torgad, dropped his pickaxe and looked at me with lethal suspicion. After a tense exchange where I made it clear I wasn't after their iron but a place by their fire, Torgad let out a hoarse laugh and pointed to a section of dark granite—a vein known as the "bone-breaker."
"Break that ledge before the light fails, and you shall eat with us," he declared, tossing a bronze pickaxe at my feet.
I picked up the tool. The wooden handle was splintered, but as I closed my fingers around it, I felt the power vibrating in my tendons. I approached the rock and struck. The crash shook the slope, a sharp sound that seemed to silence the wind for an instant. I didn't need technique; only pure will. With every impact, the stone they considered eternal crumbled like dry clay.
In ten minutes, I did the work that would have taken a whole crew weeks. When I finished, I let go of the pick; the handle had cracked under my pressure and the bronze head was bent, useless. Without a word, I walked over to the immense leather sacks full of ore that four of them could barely drag. I hoisted them onto my shoulders with insulting ease, feeling the weight as if it were barely a blanket.
"The iron is ready," I told Torgad, whose jaw seemed frozen in shock. "Now show me the way to your village."
That was when we began the descent. I walked behind them, maintaining a light pace despite the load, while the savages exchanged looks of terror and respect.
The settlement was a circle of ox-hide tents protected by a palisade of frozen logs. As we entered, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. I stayed on the periphery of the main bonfire, letting my Majesty speak for me in the silence. It was there that I heard a one-eyed elder speak of what lurked to the east.
"Do they wear armor that gleams like ice and carry swords that shatter steel as if it were glass?" I asked, breaking my silence.
The elder nodded, primary terror in his eyes.
Dammit. So this is it. I was in ASOIAF. Not the softened TV version; this was the damn world of the books: filthy, lethal, and smelling of that desperation Martin describes—the kind that gets into your lungs. The air in the camp didn't just smell of pine smoke; it smelled of an inevitable end.
I saw a mother cradling a child gray with fever and a young warrior whose leg already reeked of rotting flesh. They were ghosts waiting for winter to finish the job. I decided to act, using my light to heal them and claim my place not just as a warrior, but as their savior.
That night, the camp was submerged in a dense silence. Under the cover of darkness, I signaled Torgad and the young Jarl to move away from the fire. I placed my hands on their shoulders and used my Majesty. It wasn't a gentle touch; it was an invasion of pure energy. I felt their muscles tighten and their bones creak as I optimized every fiber of their bodies, raising their strength and agility far beyond human limits. Torgad became a bulwark of raw power, and Jarl a lightning bolt with an axe.
Then, I retreated to my Sanctuary. In the silence of my domain, I refined my magic. I reached out and molded the light until I created a shield of solid gold, vibrating with heat, and an incandescent white solar blade that hissed as it cut through the air. They were weapons designed for one thing: to evaporate the cold.
Before sleeping, I closed my eyes and projected my vision beyond the peaks. I flew over the snow to the Frostfangs. There I saw Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, leaning over a leather map with his patched red silk cloak. Beside him, I saw Dalla, her swollen belly protecting a new life, and Val, sharpening a dagger with the gaze of a she-wolf. They were planning a desperate flight, seeking salvation at a Wall of stone that would only offer them death.
At dawn, I returned to the frozen ridge of the village. The wind howled, but my voice rose above it as I gathered the hundred Free Folk. I knew this North was a death trap and that waiting for Mance would only lead us to the grave.
"Torgad, pack everything. Mance seeks a wall to die against; I am going to give you a new world," I stated, looking every man and woman in the eye. "A place where the sun warms the earth and there are no kings to ask you to kneel. But if you come with me, this gray sky will be the last you see of your world. There is no turning back."
Torgad tightened his grip on his axe, looked toward the darkness of the east where the shadows lurked, and nodded with fierce determination. One by one, the hundred—men, women, and children—chose to follow me. Not out of fear, but because of the spark of a hope the cold had stolen from them generations ago.
I led them toward the cave in the neighboring mountain where the anomaly vibrated with an oily light. I stopped before the tear in reality, reached out, and forced the rift to stabilize. It became a shimmering, liquid surface reflecting a sky of an impossible blue. I took the first step, and reality folded in on itself.
The change was a violent sensory shock.
In a heartbeat, the dry cold of the North vanished, replaced by a heavy humidity that clung to my throat. My boots hit cracked asphalt and dry grass. The scent of snow was replaced by a pungent smell of rusted metal, burnt rubber, and that sickly-sweet trail of decomposition under a sun that beat down on my shoulders with brutal force.
We were in Georgia. At the start of the outbreak of The Walking Dead.
The Free Folk emerged from the rift behind me, stumbling and covering their eyes, blinded by the intensity of the sunlight. They tore off their furs in desperation, panting as sweat began to roll down their foreheads for the first time in their lives.
Suddenly, a movement among the nearby bushes caught our attention. A walker, clothes in tatters and jaw hanging loose, emerged with a guttural groan. This wasn't the elegant chill of a White Walker; it was a ruin of putrid flesh.
Jarl didn't wait. With his tripled speed, he became a blur of motion. His stone axe descended in a perfect arc, burying itself in the creature's skull before it could even raise its hands. The body hit the ground with a wet thud.
Jarl stood staring at the corpse with a mix of disgust and curiosity, giving the shattered skull a soft kick.
"It is only flesh, Valthor," Jarl said, wiping the axe on his thigh. "Flesh that walks, but there is no blue magic in it. There is no cold."
I looked toward the horizon, where the white fences of Herschel's farm shimmered under the vibrant heat of the afternoon.
"And there are millions like him, Jarl. But here, the sun is on our side. Welcome to the end of the world."