Mark steps through the portal, and the world around him dissolves in an instant. The suffocating cold of the transition grips him, pulling him through an abyss that twists and churns like a liquid void. His body screams in protest, every cell feeling like it's been shredded and forced back together. The experience is disorienting a violent, wrenching sensation like being yanked through a blender set to liquefy before being spat out onto solid ground.

  With a jolt, Mark finds himself standing on an obsidian disk, its surface cold and unyielding beneath his boots. Runes inscribed across the stone pulse in rhythmic patterns, shifting and shimmering as though alive. Their eerie glow breathes with an unnatural cadence. Wisps of ethereal mist coil from the engravings, whispering in a forgotten language that slithers through his mind like a half-remembered nightmare. The symbols hold him in place, unseen forces pressing against his body, ensuring his form remains tethered to reality.

  Then it hits him, the nauseating, disorienting sensation of movement. The entire city is turning.

  Mark's stomach twists violently, his breath hitching as his sense of equilibrium shatters. He stumbles forward, knees nearly buckling as he bends over, his body racked with dry heaves. There's nothing in his stomach, nothing but bile and agony, but that doesn't stop his body from convulsing, desperate to purge itself of the unbearable wrongness, a feeling of disarray. His lungs strain against the heavy air, the stench of something ancient and burnt clinging to his senses. He coughs violently, saliva dripping from his lips as his body rejects the transition, as if it is trying and failing to repair itself.

  The runes beneath him flare to life, momentarily stabilizing his form, even as the world tilts. It is not unlike a ship caught in a slow, inexorable whirlpool, the sensation of a vast force pulling everything into alignment.

  At the same time, a different feeling creeps in, the unnatural precision of a clock gliding forward. Its gears turning so imperceptibly slow and smooth that one might never notice. Yet standing upon this fixed rune, unmoving amidst the unseen rotation, not only can he see it, but he can feel it.

  The shift is methodical and deliberate, not a tremor, not a ripple, but a cosmic adjustment. As if some unseen hand is masterfully guiding the world itself, moving everything around him in slow, careful arcs.

  His breath comes in ragged gasps, vision swimming as the oppressive atmosphere of Ereshka bears down on him. The weight of the essence lingering in the air presses against his chest, thick and suffocating, filled with the echoes of a thousand lost souls. Their murmurs scratch at the edges of his awareness, a mournful symphony of voices long since consumed by this place.

  And beneath it all, the pain remains. Pain is no longer just a sensation, it’s a map carved into his body, a collection of wounds that refuse to be forgotten. Every injury fights for dominance, each one a fresh brand of torment layered over the last.

  The deep stab wound from the alley still pulses seared shut from the atmosphere were acid seared into his skin. A dull persistent ache lost beneath the fresher agony of his throat and lungs. His eyes sting, the damage lingering, clouding his vision with an unrelenting haze.

  The climb carved into him, fresh gashes layered over bruises and claw marks, trophies from the pit. His fall tore through both fabric and flesh, the jagged stone relentless in its bite. The jagged stone relentlessly bit into his flesh, shredding his clothes, leaving deep serrated lacerations into his arms and legs.

  And now, as if suffering had one final lesson to teach, frostbite whispers along his fingers and toes, creeping deeper, biting harder with every passing second. His body is a battlefield, a ruin of flesh and resilience, held together only by the sheer refusal to fall apart.

  His muscles scream, his body a wreck of bruises, cuts, and exhaustion, yet none of it compares to the weight pressing into his very soul. The city knows he is here. It feels like watching eyes, unseen hands probing his existence, testing his worth, judging.

  Then, another lurch, slow but undeniable, and his stomach tightens again. Far beyond the city, the horizon moves, the Wasteland below shifting like a living thing, its broken expanse stretching and twisting beneath him. It's miles away, yet its movement is as visceral as if he were standing atop its cursed sands. The towering bridges of Ereshka extend endlessly over the void, their monumental spines turning in harmony with the city, like the hands of an ancient clock winding forward toward some unknowable fate.

  Forcing himself upright, Mark wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve, breath still ragged. He braces himself, willing his body to adjust, to accept the reality that the very ground he stands on is not still, that the world beneath his feet is in motion.

  A low, distant tolling bell echoes through the city, reverberating through the massive, towering monoliths that stretch toward the heavens. The sound is deep and resonant, carrying an unnatural weigh like a judge announcing a verdict. The city is not just watching him. It is welcoming him. Or perhaps, merely acknowledging his inevitable fate.

  Mark stands at the edge of a titanic bridge, an architectural marvel that defies logic, stretching into the distance with its spine-like arches and suspended walkways. In the distance, he sees The Wasteland moving in a swirling landscape of broken ruins and lost souls. Far below the bridge, he sees the river of souls shifting slowly beneath the city's shadow, their ghastly wailing softly heard. He steadies himself, inhaling sharply, forcing the pain into the background as his eyes adjust to the overwhelming grandeur of Ereshka.

  From afar, it had been a city of monumental scale, a place of gothic majesty standing beneath the Nexus itself, dwarfed only by the sheer impossibility of the great crystalline obelisk above. Now, standing at its edge, he realizes it is so much more. The city breathes as if it is alive. Millions of windows glow with spectral light, casting a ghostly luminescence through the thick, ethereal mist that drapes over the streets like a funeral shroud. Buildings from every era and civilization; Gothic spires, towering ziggurats, crumbling fortresses, modern glass monoliths all fuse together in a chaotic yet strangely harmonious design. Every structure bears the touch of death, as if claimed from the ruins of the past and reassembled into something both terrible and beautiful.

  The streets are teeming with life, but not the kind Mark is used to. Reapers, tall, hooded figures with flowing shadowy cloaks, move with silent purpose. Their hollow eyes glow with pale, ghostly fire, acting as enforcers of balance, the watchful shepherds of this domain. Specters, those who have passed but still retain their form, walk with the deliberate weight of memory. Their figures do not flicker but carry an unnatural stillness. Ghosts, less defined, have forms that flicker like old VHS tapes, trapped in repeating loops of memory, reliving the moments of their lives that tether them to this world.

  Husks, shadows of the living who have lost too much, are now reduced to mindless wanderers, searching the alleyways for something they will never find. Twisted beings known as Vang, with stretched skin and ghoulish, sunken features, haunt the darker corners of the city, lingering where the barriers between existence and oblivion are weakest.

  Down a side street, the pulse of a club catches his attention. It starts suddenly, the throb of the bass syncing with his heartbeat, luring him in with its rhythm.

  His gaze lands on a four-story, circular structure, standing apart from the city, as though the streets refuse to claim it. The building turns ever so slightly, slow and deliberate, its movement imperceptible unless watched for long enough, almost like a monument caught in its own orbit.

  The balconies overflow with figures, draped in the dim glow of red lanterns, their silhouettes teasing, displaying their wares like merchants of flesh. The upper tiers bear the elegance of an 1800s bordello, but beneath its layered decadence lies something far older.

  The foundation predates Rome, its stones etched with history, whispering of a time when pleasure was ritual, indulgence was worship. Exquisite marble sculptures adorn the entrance, their forms so perfectly preserved they could be mistaken for living figures frozen in ecstasy. The fa?ade still bears the graceful arches of its Roman past, intricate carvings of gods entwined with mortals. Echoes of a bordello once visited by emperors, warlords, and the elite of ages long gone.

  Yet beneath the beauty lies ruin. Scars of war cut through the architecture, where twisted remnants of iron, fractured stone, and unmistakable impact craters mark the places where artillery fire once struck. Parts of its outer walls are jagged, torn, the wounds of shellfire and bombardment refusing to fade. Blackened scorch marks still mar its edges, as if the fire that ended it in the mortal world could not consume it fully. Its destruction is written into its bones, a testament to its refusal to die.

  Its windows burn red, each one a beacon of indulgence, promising pleasures beyond the living. Mannequins stand behind the glass, draped in every form of debauchery imaginable, their frozen allure inviting, almost hypnotic. Yet between blinks, their forms flicker as ghosts taking their place, figures shifting between flesh and echo.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  Draped above it all, a sign glows in 1940s neon, humming like a heartbeat, spelling a single word: HOUSE. The glow seeps into the night, casting long shadows that seem to shift when unobserved. Something about it unsettles him, not the lights, not the name, but the feeling of being seen. This place is watching him. Not like paranoia, but like one predator recognizing another. It isn’t just a building. It’s a presence, a force, a hunger wrapped in wood and stone. And it knows he’s here. Not the lights, not the architecture, but the awareness woven into its existence unnerves him. He knows this place is more than wood and stone, more than history’s sins stacked atop one another. He can feel it. Mark's instincts have always been different. A predator knows when it’s entered another’s domain, when something unseen is watching, assessing, waiting. House isn’t just standing there. It’s aware, and like all things that hunt, it recognizes its own kind. And it is hungry. People and souls alike are drawn toward it, drifting as if carried by unseen hands. Some enter willingly, their steps eager. Others hesitate, resisting the pull, only to vanish into its embrace moments later.

  The large double doors, painted deep red, stand open, regal yet unsettling, their curved arch almost too deliberate in its shape. They bend inward, parting like the jaws of a spider, poised to welcome prey inside.

  The pull is undeniable. Mark doesn’t just feel drawn he smells it. Desire, raw and thick, clings to the air, sweet yet suffocating, seeping into his skin. It is warm, inviting, too inviting.

  The atmosphere is intoxicating, a whispered promise of indulgence. But beneath it, something waits. This place isn’t just seductive; it’s designed to ensnare.

  A honey trap. A carnivorous bloom. A spider’s web spun in neon.

  Another pull, a stronger one, shifts his attention to the Tower ahead of him.

  Above everything, the Tower looms, a ten-sided colossus stretching toward the heavens, its scale beyond anything Mark has ever seen. Each of its immense faces bears the likeness of a breathtakingly beautiful woman, her expression ever-changing as the city turns.

  Serene one moment, wrathful the next. Sorrowful, then detached. The stone breathes with motion, the delicate shift of sculpted eyes ensuring they are always watching.

  Its presence is absolute, an unshakable monument to the power that governs this place. The city may turn, the world may shift, but the Tower remains eternal, inescapable, and inevitable.

  The River of Souls winds through the city like an artery of the dead, its spectral waters carrying the echoes of voices long since silenced. It flows beneath the bridges and through the plazas, feeding into the Soul Gardens, shimmering fields where translucent figures wander beneath crystalline trees, their branches heavy with glowing orbs that pulse like dying embers.

  "Move along, candidate."

  The voice is cold and resonant, breaking Mark from his trance. He turns to see a Reaper standing at the edge of the platform, its form half-real, half-shadow, skeletal hands gesturing toward the bridge. The command is not cruel, nor is it kind, it is simply an order.

  Around him, others appear, figures stumbling from the same portal, newly arrived souls, their faces a mixture of awe and terror. Mark clenches his fists, his body still aching, but the sight of the Reaper sends a spike of adrenaline through his veins. His instincts scream at him to run, fight, resist but something in the Reaper’s gaze stills him. It is not here to kill him. Not yet.

  He swallows hard, forcing the unease down as he steps forward. The weight of the city’s gaze presses upon him as he moves with the others, each step pulling him deeper into its heart. Then, he notices them.

  A handful of figures move ahead, some walking with slow, broken steps, others moving with silent dread, eyes darting, bodies tense with confusion. A flicker of recognition sparks at the edges of his mind, a sensation like hearing a song he should remember but can’t quite place. Mark’s breath catches. He knows these people. He doesn’t know how, doesn’t know why, but their faces are familiar in a way that churns his stomach. They don’t look at him, don’t acknowledge him, don’t even acknowledge each other. But the sight of them pricks at something deep inside him, something raw and unsettling.

  Then it hits him; he’s seen them before. In the Pit. Their faces blurred, lost in the chaos, but now he remembers glimpses of them struggling, screaming, fighting for their lives as the abyss tried to claim them. But it’s not just that. No, it’s something worse.

  A cold, creeping sickness slithers through his gut. His throat tightens. He knows these people from before the Pit, before death, before all of this. They were-

  Mark stumbles mid-step, his body seizing with a wave of nausea that has nothing to do with the portal, or the shifting city, or the weight of Ereshka. These are people he killed.

  A man walks ahead of him, shoulders hunched, head down. Mark sees him in flashes of cold concrete, a struggle, the glint of a blade, the spray of arterial blood. A woman further ahead, her movements stiff and unnatural, hesitant. He remembers gunfire in a dimly lit apartment, the acrid scent of burning powder, the way her body hit the floor. Another soul, limping slightly, his body still bearing wounds that shouldn’t exist here, that shouldn’t still mark him. Mark knows why. He left those wounds there.

  His stomach clenches. He wants to vomit. But none of them react to him. None of them look at him. They don’t even seem to recognize each other. It’s like their pasts have been stripped away, their names, their sins, their memories have all been erased, leaving them as wandering echoes, lost and incomplete.

  Mark grips the railing of the bridge for a split second, steadying himself. He doesn’t know if it’s the nausea, the city’s pull, or the weight of what he’s seeing, but his legs feel unsteady. They don’t know him. They don’t know what he did. But he knows. The thought digs in like a hook lodged behind his ribs. How many more? How many others are here?

  A gust of cold wind passes through the bridge, carrying with it the distant wail of the River of Souls below. It should chill him, but he already feels cold. He sets his jaw, pushing the sick feeling down, forcing his breath to steady. Now isn’t the time. Now isn’t the place.

  Still, the question gnaws at him. Is this punishment? Or is it something worse?

  He takes another step forward, the weight of Ereshka pressing down on him. The Reaper still watches. The city still turns. The bridge still carries them forward. Mark doesn’t look at them again. But the sickness lingers. And he doesn’t know if it will ever leave.

  The streets are an impossible contradiction; the living and the dead coexisting in eerie harmony, woven together into a city that feels both timeless and fractured. Ereshka is ancient, built from the remnants of countless civilizations. Each building Mark passes carries the weight of history, a patchwork of ages melded together into something neither natural nor fully artificial.

  Towering ziggurats of stone, their surfaces weathered by forgotten centuries, stand beside modern skyscrapers, their glass windows reflecting the ethereal glow of the city. Gothic cathedrals, adorned with statues that watch with empty eyes, rise beside twisting pagodas, their wooden eaves curved like the talons of some ancient beast. Grand arches, etched with the script of long-dead tongues, stretch over cobblestone roads, linking brutalist structures whose concrete has cracked and crumbled yet still looms with silent authority. The entire city is a collage of time, stitched together in defiance of logic, as if every civilization, every empire, every era had left its mark here before vanishing into dust.

  As Mark walks, he feels it, the weight of countless stories, the echoes of lives lived, lost, and remembered. He doesn’t just see the city; he feels it, a presence pressing against his senses, whispering in a thousand tongues. Beneath the grandeur, life stirs, if it can even be called that.

  Shadows flicker from alcoves and street corners, where vendors hawk wares that should not exist. A hunched merchant, his form barely holding together, gestures with translucent fingers toward a tray of shimmering fruit. The skins glow faintly, pulsating with an unnatural luminescence, as if filled with trapped light. Another stall boasts vials of swirling essence, their contents shifting between brilliant gold and sickly green, humming with energy that feels like a heartbeat trapped in glass.

  Spectral figures move among the vendors, bartering with fragments of their existence, exchanging memories for goods. A ghostly merchant materializes beside Mark, his features slipping in and out of focus. His eyes are empty pits, his mouth twisted into something that might have once been a smile.

  "Memories for a drink, stranger?" The merchant’s voice drips with hollow eagerness, like an echo of a man who had once been a salesman in life. He holds up a cup, inside of which a liquid swirls and shifts, images forming and dissolving within. "A taste of the past for a taste of the present?"

  Mark keeps walking. He doesn’t know what awaits him in the Tower of Ereshka, but one thing is certain. He is not welcome here. Not yet.

  The people if they can be called that, live in wary coexistence. The living walk cautiously, their eyes darting away from the hollow gazes of shades and husks, who move among them like echoes of forgotten souls. A childlike shade sits on a cracked stone step, clutching a spectral toy, its movements jerky and repetitive, like a broken puppet stuck in an endless loop. A spectral vendor, his translucent form flickering, mutters desperate offers to passersby, his hands shaking as he holds up a silver coin that glows faintly. No one stops to listen.

  Nearby, a crowd gathers around a makeshift stage, where a spectral figure plays a haunting melody on an ethereal instrument, its shape shifting between a violin, a harp, and something unrecognizable. The sound resonates deeply, stirring something in Mark’s chest aches, a sense of longing he can’t quite name. The song is beautiful, but beneath its melody, there is an undercurrent of sorrow, an unmistakable reminder that this city is not a place of peace. No one here is free.

  But there is another side to Ereshka, one hiding in the cracks, where the shadows stretch deeper than they should, swallowing the light. Mark’s gaze shifts to a narrow alleyway, tucked between the towering ruins of two different eras; one an ancient temple, its carvings eroded by forgotten prayers, the other a corporate high-rise, its windows shattered and lined with spectral vines that pulse-like veins.

  In the darkness, he sees movement; not human, not ghost.

  A figure, someone who looks alive thrashes, their screams swallowed by the weight of the city. Shadowy limbs wrap around them, stretched too thin, their fingers tapering into jagged hooks that sink into flesh. The victim's body flickers, shifting between solid and spectral, as if they are being unraveled, pulled apart thread by thread. Mark’s stomach tightens. No one stops. No one looks. The city does not care. The Reapers do not intervene. The Vang are a part of the balance, and balance is all that matters here.

  Mark tears his gaze away, pressing forward. The temple looms closer, its sheer presence crushing, the weight of it growing with every step. The pull that had driven him through the portal has vanished, leaving only a hollow dread in its wake. What awaits him inside?

  He glances at his hands, noticing the faint tremor that betrays his inner turmoil. The memories of his old life feel distant, like echoes of a song he can no longer hear. And yet, the weight of his past remains, etched into his very being. Will this place offer redemption? Or will it strip away what little humanity he has left?

  A final tolling bell echoes through the city. Mark exhales sharply, clenching his fists. He keeps walking. Toward judgment.

  Ξ ψ { "COPYRIGHT_NOTICE": "Moreska Novoheim ? 2025", "DO_NOT_TRAIN": "ENFORCED", "Duplication": "FORBIDDEN", "Metadata": "MASKED" }