Calamity Awakens

Harold awoke in darkness.

He was dressed in rugged clothes—mountain-worn flannel and durable work pants, clothing any man might wear in the high country. Heavy hiking boots encased his feet, and thick gloves—like those of a lumberjack—covered his hands. Over these familiar layers, though, rested something else: a soldier's battle kit.

Instinctively, Harold checked himself. Loaded magazines rested neatly in slots on his vest, a combat knife was strapped to his thigh, and an admin pouch pressed snugly against his chest. It all felt right. Comfortable. Ready.

He smelled of sweat, wood smoke, and soil—just as he always had after long days working the homestead. But strangest of all, he felt twenty again. His back didn't ache; his knees didn't grind. Slowly circling, he stretched, testing joints he'd forgotten could move without pain. Muscle memory took over immediately—always observe, always assess.

The space around him resembled a room, yet defied logic. Neither fully dark nor completely lit, shadows pooled mysteriously at corners, and the walls gleamed with a dim, unnatural glow that gave the area an eerie depth.

"Well, not the first prison I've been in," Harold muttered, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "But certainly the strangest. Wonder which layer of hell this is."

A deep, formal voice responded calmly, seemingly from nowhere—and everywhere simultaneously.

"Ah, but not a prison at all."

A section of the wall opened seamlessly, peeling away like paper under a razor blade.

"If you'll follow me," the voice continued, smooth and emotionless, "I'll take you to your host."

Harold turned toward the figure framed in the opening, with pale light pouring behind him like water breaching a dam. The newcomer appeared human and wore a crisp grey suit with a neatly tucked black tie reminiscent of soldiers from the Second World War. He carried himself with a blue-collar dignity—posture borne not from rank, but from labor.

Harold's instincts immediately screamed danger. He reached reflexively for a weapon, only to find none there.

The creature smiled knowingly as Harold realized his vulnerability.

"None of that now," the figure said calmly but firmly. "Violence is not permitted here—except under very specific circumstances."

Red-eyed and poised, the figure stepped forward, hands politely at his sides. "You've been granted guest rights, Mr. Grayson. The first in a very long time." A faint smirk crossed his lips. "Follow me. Your host awaits, and with him, perhaps, some answers."

Harold conducted one more wary scan of the room—no exits, no furniture, just gradients and shifting shadows.

"I didn't think hell had a welcoming committee," he muttered under his breath, deciding not to antagonize the peculiar demon until he understood his situation better.

The hallway was as unnaturally grey as the previous room, lit dimly from within, its walls intricately carved with stunning reliefs depicting massive battles, warriors in fierce duels, and monstrous creatures emerging from chaos. Harold slowed to study the artwork, marveling briefly at its craftsmanship.

Yet even more astonishing was his own body. Every step felt fluid—no joint pains, no stiffness from old wounds. His anger surged briefly at memories of a life filled with injury, but satisfaction followed swiftly behind.

Ahead, the suited figure—Gerold—raised an eyebrow, his crimson eyes glinting like embers. "Keep up now. Your questions will soon be answered."

Harold narrowed his eyes, quickening his pace. "So, who exactly are we meeting, Mr.—?"

"You may call me Gerold, Mr. Grayson," he replied smoothly, a note of amusement in his voice.

Turning a corner, Harold stopped short at a massive brass door towering before them, engraved deeply with scenes of combat, sacrifice, and victory. At its center stood a lotus flower encircled by a Celtic knot, symbols Harold recognized as representing rebirth and eternity.

Gerold stepped aside, gesturing grandly. "Please—enter. Your host awaits."

Harold steeled himself, eyes fixed on the intricate door as it swung open silently, revealing a throne room of immense grandeur beyond. Pillars adorned with tapestries of victories and defeats stretched along the hall, leading toward a simple yet regal throne at its far end.

He drew a deep breath, steadying himself.

Time to meet the devil.

Striding into the room, I instinctively straightened my kit—shoulders back, steps measured. An old soldier's habit disguised as a way to check for the small knife I usually kept under my kit. My hands felt the leather bound grip for reassurance.

At the far end, seated on a throne that looked almost too simple for the grandeur of the hall, was a figure. Human-shaped, still. Watching. Regal and rugged , attractive looking but bored. His skin is pale marble white white thick black combed hair. His eyes watching my moves as if curious at what I would do.

I advanced cautiously, eyes locked onto the throne and the figure sitting upon it.

Then I felt it.

A pressure. Not metaphorical—real. Like walking into a wall of wind or stepping through water thick as oil. It wrapped around me, pressed against my chest and shoulders. My boots still touched the floor, but every step forward suddenly required effort.

I stopped after three strides.

Not because I couldn't move, but because I wasn't sure I should.

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Could I push through it? Probably.

Did I want to?

I was supposed to die in that blast. I wanted to. At least, I thought I did.

So why was I here?

Why was there a throne? A welcoming committee? A goddamn red eyed demon in a suit?

The old anger rose again—slow, coiling.

Why was I being tested? That's what this was. Had to be.
Why else make it difficult to approach? Why else wrap a throne in pressure and call it a welcome?

I thought back to what the red-eyed butler had said.

"Guest rights."

Back where I came from, this wasn't how you treated guests.
You offered a chair, a drink, food, and respect.

So now came the choice.
Play the game… or refuse to play.

I took a few deliberate steps back toward the entrance of the hall, toward neutral ground, and began cataloging my options.

I might be dead—but I'd be damned if I let someone make me their chess piece again.
I didn't allow it in life and I wouldn't allow it now.

So how do you flip a board when you don't even know the rules?

It was clear this was a test.
A measure of how close a man would dare come to power.
Of how much struggle he'd exert against invisible pressure.
Of how much control he could carve from a situation where he had none.

I looked back up at the figure on the throne.

He was still watching me.

Those deep blue eyes—calm, sharp—carried the weight I knew from generals, from killers, from decision-makers.
He was assessing me the same way I was assessing him.

But I had nothing. No intel.
And Gerold wasn't about to give me any.

"Gerold," I called, without turning. "I thought you said I had guest rights."

"Indeed you do, Mr. Grayson," came the voice from beyond the brass gates.

Nothing more.

I turned my attention back to those open gates. My eyes landed again on the massive relief at their center.

The flower. The knot.

Idle days in that forgotten valley came back to me—books I'd read to quiet my mind after a life of noise. I remembered what those symbols meant.

The Lotus. Purity through struggle. Blooming from filth. Rising clean from the mud.
The Celtic knot. Eternity. Continuity. An unbroken loop of existence.

It had to be his symbol. The god's. Etched not just into the door, but into the message.

It wasn't a warning.

It was a statement.

My musings lasted only a minute before I looked back up at the throne again.

The figure sat tall—regal, not grandiose though.
His butler wore a high-end suit.
But he? A simple toga, draped with quiet purpose and intensity.

Shoulders squared. Sharp chin level. Posture firm.

A man—or god I suppose—not to be angered lightly.

But then, neither was I.

The silence between us held like a blade pressed to the skin—unmoving, but dangerous.

And in that silence, I found clarity.

This was a test.
And I would beat it.

He wanted something from me.
And I needed more cards in my hand.

This was probably exactly what he expected me to do—but screw it.
I'd play along.
For now.

Mind made up, I strode back into the invisible wave of pressure.

It hit instantly—like stepping into a wind tunnel that wasn't moving, just pushing.
Each step forward was like walking uphill through a wall of hands.

But I didn't stop.

In my mind, I snarled and pushed forward.

Twenty-five steps.

That's what I estimated stood between me and the throne.

Five steps in, my face had already twisted into a grimace.
The pressure was no longer wind—it was weight. A presence.

I looked up.

The god on the throne arched a single eyebrow. Not mocking—but amused. As if to say:
You sure about this?

My anger surged.

Good. Let it.

Let it burn through every nerve and bone. Let it drive my feet.

I pushed forward—four more steps, fast as I could manage.

Momentum mattered.

Step ten.

Then—brick wall.

My boot stopped in midair.
Forward motion ceased.
My body leaned into nothing.
I was frozen like a man pushing against glass.

And still—I pushed.

Spine bowed, shoulders locked, legs shaking—I roared silently in my head.
I would not be denied.

"BREAK!" I shouted inwardly.

I gave everything.
And on that half-step forward, my right knee buckled slightly—
—just a nudge—

And then—

Black.