Full Metal Abysmal

Anon followed the blood trail through the shop, his boots crunching against the broken glass and debris scattered across the floor. The trail led to a back door, slightly ajar, but something caught his eye—a small security room off to the side.

The door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing a room blanketed in thick layers of dust. Despite the neglect, the signs of recent activity were clear: a chair slightly out of place, a few scattered papers on the floor, and a faint handprint smudged on the desk. Anon scanned the room quickly, his eyes landing on a journal lying on the desk.

He flipped it open, the pages stiff from age, but the words inside were still legible.

The handwriting was messy, rushed, as though the author had been in a constant state of panic.

"This town isn't right. It's not just the sounds at night, or the people who go missing. It's the feeling—that suffocating weight that presses down on you, whispering that you'll never leave. No matter how far I drive, I always end up back here. Like the roads curve without my permission, forcing me to return."

Anon turned the page, his expression unchanging but his mind alert. The entries became increasingly erratic.

"The shadows move when they think you're not looking. I swear I saw someone in the mirror that wasn't me. They were smiling."

The next page was written in blood instead of ink, the strokes uneven, as though the writer's hand had been trembling.

"I tried to leave again. I packed everything, got in my car, but the road just brought me back. I heard laughter in the trees. I can't do this anymore. The town won't let me go. None of us can leave. None of us…"

Anon shut the journal with a soft thud, his expression unreadable. "Cool story. One mystery solve," he muttered dryly, though his tone was laced with tension. His gaze sharpened. "its has to be The cult," he added coldly.

The trail of blood led him to a small, dimly lit restaurant just down the street. The neon sign flickered erratically, casting an eerie glow on the cracked pavement outside. Anon stepped in cautiously, his hand brushing against the doorframe as he crossed the threshold.

The interior was surprisingly intact, though empty of customers. A cheerful, young waitress stood behind the counter, her smile bright and welcoming.

"Good evening!" she greeted, her voice a stark contrast to the oppressive atmosphere outside.

Anon's eyes narrowed slightly in surprise. He hadn't expected anyone to still be here, let alone someone who seemed so… normal. He adjusted his jacket, brushing off some of the dust from his earlier scuffle.

"Evening," he said flatly. "Didn't think anyone would be working in a place like this."

The waitress shrugged, still smiling. "I live here. This place has been home for as long as I can remember. Not many people come by anymore, though. You're a rare sight."

Anon introduced himself, his voice curt but polite, and she introduced herself in turn. Her name was Mary.

After a moment, Anon asked, "Have you seen a guy come through here? Probably hurt, maybe bleeding?"

Mary tilted her head, thinking. "Actually, yeah. He came in earlier, looked pretty shaken up. He asked for directions to the woods. Didn't say much else."

Anon muttered under his breath, "Great. The woods."

As he turned to leave, Mary stopped him. "Wait!" she said. "Stay a bit longer? It's been so long since I've had someone to talk to. People rarely come here these days."

Anon hesitated, then sighed. His body ached, and the blood from his earlier fight still dripped sluggishly down his face. "Fine. Just for a moment."

He sat down at the counter and ordered something to drink, along with some bandages for his wounds. Mary returned with a steaming cup of coffee and a small first-aid kit, her movements quick and practiced.

"Thanks," Anon said, wrapping a bandage around his hand where glass had cut into his palm.

As they talked, Mary's demeanor was warm, almost unnervingly so given the emptiness of the town. She asked him about his travels, and he answered vaguely, not giving away too much.

"You're different," she said after a while, studying him. "Not like the others who pass through."

Anon looked up from his coffee. "The others?"

She nodded. "They come and go, always looking scared, like they're running from something. But you… you seem calm. Like you've seen worse."

Anon chuckled dryly. "You have no idea."

They fell into a comfortable silence after that, and for a brief moment, Anon almost forgot about the horrors lurking outside. But the blood trail still called to him, and the woods were waiting.

"I should get going," he said, standing and pulling his coat tight around him.

Mary nodded, her smile dimming slightly. "Be careful out there."

Anon smirked. "Always am."

As he stepped outside, the oppressive weight of the town pressed down on him once more. The woods loomed in the distance, dark and foreboding. Whatever waited for him there, he'd be ready.

As Anon stepped into the woods, the silence around him was oppressive. The only sound was the crunch of leaves beneath his boots, but soon, he became aware of something else—footsteps. They followed him, keeping pace, stopping when he stopped. He stood still, listening.

Step. Crunch. Then silence.

Anon turned, his sharp eyes scanning the trees. Nothing. Not a flicker of movement or a shadow out of place. Whatever it was, it was good at hiding. He continued walking, his pace unhurried, though his senses were on high alert.

The sound returned. This time, it was closer.

Without hesitation, Anon dove into the ground, his body dissolving like ink into water. Submerged beneath the surface of the forest floor, he moved silently, observing the world above. The trees loomed like distorted silhouettes, but even here, there was nothing. The footsteps had stopped.

He swam through the liquid void beneath reality, moving with purpose. After what felt like an eternity, he surfaced near a small, decrepit house, its rotting walls barely holding together. The air around it felt wrong, heavy, like it had been saturated with something ancient and foul.

Anon stayed beneath the surface, spying through the watery veil. Inside the house, the man he had been searching for was sitting at a table, speaking to an old man with hollow, sunken eyes. The conversation seemed normal enough at first glance, but something was off.

Anon moved silently through the water and into the house, emerging without a sound. As he approached, his eyes darted around the room. In the corner stood an old fridge, the door slightly ajar. Inside, he caught a glimpse of a corpse, its face eerily similar to the old man sitting at the table.

Without hesitation, Anon acted. He moved behind the old man and stabbed him through the back, his blade sliding cleanly between the ribs.

The man he had been searching for screamed in horror. "Father!"

Anon's voice was cold and steady. "Oh, so you've taken the form of his father, huh?"

The old man shuddered, his body convulsing as it began to change. His skin stretched and tore, revealing a grotesque, eldritch creature beneath. Its body was deer-like but wrong—its limbs twisted unnaturally, its face a grotesque mass of antlers and void-like eyes.

The creature lunged at Anon, its claws slicing through the air. But Anon was quicker. With a swift, precise motion, he severed its head, the body collapsing into a heap of viscera and shadow.

The man—Mike—was frozen in shock, his face pale as he stared at the scene. "Why… why did you do that?"

Anon didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked to the fridge and pulled the corpse out, letting it fall to the floor with a sickening thud. "Here's your father."

Mike's scream was a mixture of grief and terror as he stumbled back, his hands covering his face. "How… how can this be happening?"

Anon leaned against the wall, his tone colder now. "The town isn't just alive—it's a trap. A giant flytrap that feeds on anyone unlucky enough to wander in. It uses your memories, your fears, and your regrets to keep you here."

Mike's voice trembled. "No… no, this can't be real."

Anon nodded grimly. "It is. And we're already deep in its belly."

Mike collapsed into a chair, his hands trembling as he stared at his father's corpse. "What is this symbol?" he asked, pointing to the strange sigil carved into his father's forehead.

Anon's eyes narrowed. "Your father… was a Hunter."

Mike looked up, confused. "A what?"

Anon sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Hunters are people chosen—or cursed—to serve different eldritch gods. Each one hunts creatures like that thing I just killed. Your father wasn't just a victim; he was part of something much bigger."

Mike's voice was barely a whisper. "But why? Why him? Why us?"

Anon sat down on the couch, his expression unreadable. "This world isn't as simple as you think. There are powers at play far beyond your understanding. Your father knew that. And now, so do you."

Mike stared at the sigil, his mind racing. "What does it mean? What do I do now?"

Anon stood, his presence towering and resolute. "You survive. And you learn. Because if you don't, this town will swallow you whole."

As the room fell silent, the weight of Anon's words pressed down on them both.

As Anon slumped onto the dusty couch, he adjusted himself into a comfortable position and closed his eyes. Mike paced back and forth, still visibly shaken.

"Why are you sleeping now of all times?" Mike demanded, his voice a mix of panic and disbelief.

Anon, eyes still closed, waved a hand dismissively. "Just give me a bit. I've been through a lot just to get here. Need some rest."

Mike's frustration bubbled over. "Rest?! Right now?! We're stuck in some nightmare town, my father just—" He choked on the words. "And you want to nap?!"

"Yep. also i cant do really much right now my voice cant reach The King in Yellow, to end this nightmare i need his blessing" Anon replied calmly.

Mike threw up his hands in exasperation. "I… I need air. I can't be in here."

"Sure," Anon muttered, already halfway to sleep.

Mike stormed outside, the cold night air wrapping around him like a suffocating blanket. The oppressive dread of the town gnawed at his mind. He could feel the weight of unseen eyes watching him, the air so still it felt unnatural, after a hour standing.

He Trying to focus on something, anything, he grabbed a shovel from a nearby shed and returned to his father's body. He hoisted the corpse with trembling arms, carrying it to a small tree. He dug a shallow grave, the effort keeping his growing fear at bay.

As he buried his father, he spoke softly. "You were always right, Dad. I shouldn't have come here. You told me your time was running out, but I thought we'd have more time together." Tears welled in his eyes. "And now… it's all gone. All because of me."

A voice startled him. "Not entirely."

Mike turned to see Anon standing there, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "This mess? Kind of our fault, really," Anon admitted " i'am the one show you the way to this town, becuase i want to know more about this town... and using you as bait."

Mike let out a dry laugh. "I guess you're right." He stood and looked at the disturbed earth. "So… what now?"

Anon crossed his arms, surveying the dark forest beyond. "This town isn't just a trap. It's a rogue eldritch being trying to ascend into godhood. If we want out, we need to weaken it. That means dealing with the cult worshiping it. They're the ones keeping it strong. Then, we find its core and kill it."

Mike frowned. "How do we do that? You said earlier your… uh, connection to the King in Yellow was cut off."

Anon nodded. "Yeah, something's blocking me from reaching him. Without his blessing, this'll be harder, but not impossible."

Mike hesitated before asking, "You serve the King in Yellow?"

"Yep," Anon said nonchalantly.

Mike raised an eyebrow. "So did my father?"

Anon shook his head. "Nah. From the sigil on his forehead, your dad served Cxaxukluth." He tripped over the name and muttered, "Damn, I hate pronouncing that."

Mike tilted his head. "So… my father worshiped that thing?"

"No," Anon corrected. "We don't worship them. We work for them. They give us jobs, and we get paid."

Mike blinked. "Paid? For what?"

"Forgot already?" Anon smirked. "Killing creatures like that deer-thing and rogue eldritch gods. Also, they pay well. Ten thousand dollars a day."

Mike's jaw dropped. "Seriously?"

"Yep," Anon said, grinning. "And I blow it all on video games, Legos, and occasionally women. But mostly games and cool stuff I find online."

Mike shook his head in disbelief. "Yikes. You need to manage your finances better."

Anon shrugged. "Probably. But hey, I'm just a guy who likes shiny things."

Mike sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is going to be a long nightmare."

Anon chuckled. "You're catching on fast, kid."

As the dim light of dawn began to creep through the cracked windows of the old house, Mike and Anon sat in a quiet corner, sharing a moment of calm amidst the chaos. Mike broke the silence, his voice hesitant but curious.

"So… how does the Blessing actually work?" he asked.

Anon leaned back, folding his arms as he began to explain.

"Blessing," he said, his tone almost like a teacher giving a lecture. "It's the offensive capability of a Hunter. It's specifically designed to harm beings that exist beyond mortal comprehension. These blessings let us hit their true essence, bypassing their supernatural defenses."

Mike furrowed his brow. "True essence?"

"Yep," Anon nodded. "Eldritch beings don't work like us. They exist across multiple dimensions, so just stabbing them with a sword won't do much. A blessing is a divine gift that tunes itself to their weaknesses. Without it, you're basically fighting air."

He paused, letting it sink in before continuing. "But that's just one key to being a Hunter. We also practice something called the Abyssal Paradigm. It's not just about blessings; there are five pillars."

Mike leaned forward, intrigued. "Five pillars?"

Anon began counting them off on his fingers. "First, Blessing, which I just explained. Second, Curse. This is all about weakening or tormenting enemies by messing with their essence or reality around them."

Mike raised an eyebrow. "Reality? How?"

Anon smirked. "Take my Drowning Aura, for example. It exploits an eldritch being's reliance on its environment, suffocating its manifestations and cutting its tether to the physical plane. Curses aren't for quick kills—they're for control and attrition."

"Okay," Mike said, nodding slowly. "What's next?"

"Third, Belief," Anon continued. "This is where it gets tricky. Belief is the defining attribute of a Hunter's power. Through sheer conviction, we can reshape reality itself. Turn thoughts into tangible changes. The stronger your belief, the more profound the alteration. But…"

Mike frowned. "But what?"

Anon's smirk faded. "The line between control and chaos is razor-thin. If your conviction wavers, you could end up rewriting yourself—or worse, breaking reality in ways you can't fix."

Mike swallowed hard.

"Fourth," Anon went on, "is Physicality. Hunters may have eldritch power, but we're still mortal. Our strength, speed, and endurance are what let us survive long enough to use the other tools. Think of it as the foundation."

"And the last one?" Mike asked.

"Logic," Anon said firmly. "Eldritch beings aren't just mindless monsters. They're cunning. Manipulative. A Hunter's ability to strategize, analyze, and uncover their weaknesses is what keeps us alive. Rituals, symbols, patterns—decoding them is often the difference between winning and dying."

Mike nodded, digesting all the information. "That's… a lot to take in. And the mental part? How do you even stay sane facing these things?"

Anon chuckled darkly. "That's the final layer: Mental Fortitude. These things wield fear and despair like weapons. They'll try to twist your mind, make you doubt yourself, break you. Hunters need unshakable mental strength to resist, or they end up as pawns—or worse, part of the horror."

The room fell silent as Mike processed everything. He finally looked up at Anon, who had leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

"So… you do all this… and you're telling me you spend your paycheck on video games and Legos?"

Anon grinned. "Yep. Life's a balance, kid. You take on cosmic horrors by day, you build a Millennium Falcon by night."

Mike shook his head, laughing despite himself. "You're unbelievable."

"Better get used to it," Anon said, standing up and stretching. "Because if we're going to survive this town, you're going to need to learn at least the basics of the Abyssal Paradigm. Starting now."

Mike blinked. "Wait… now?"

Anon smirked. "What, you think we're just gonna walk out of here and wing it? Nah, kid. Time to get to work."

Mike leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, trying to comprehend everything Anon had told him. Finally, he asked, "So… how do I even start?"

Anon sat back on the couch, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "First, you need a contract. You can't just go wielding power willy-nilly without some kind of agreement. I made my deal with The King in Yellow ages ago, but…"

"But what?" Mike interrupted.

Anon frowned, tapping his temple. "Right now, I can't reach The King. Something about this town is blocking my connection to him. So, instead of waiting around, we're gonna do this differently."

Mike raised an eyebrow. "Differently how?"

Anon grinned slyly. "You'll make a contract with me instead."

"With you? How does that even work?" Mike asked, his skepticism clear.

Anon pulled a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket, along with a pen. "Simple. You'll work for me. I'll train you, teach you how to fight, and maybe keep you alive long enough to get out of here. In return, I get a cut of the rewards from our hunts."

Mike watched as Anon started scribbling on the paper, muttering under his breath. Finally, Anon handed it to him.

"What jobs? What rewards?" Mike asked, scanning the hastily written document.

"Anything we kill or any rogue cults we take down," Anon explained. "You'll get a share of the payout. Let's say… 5%."

Mike's eyes widened. "Five percent? Are you kidding me?"

Anon sighed, rolling his eyes. "Fine. Ten."

"Fifty," Mike said firmly.

Anon groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fifteen."

Mike crossed his arms. "Fifty."

"Twenty."

Mike shook his head. "Fifty."

Anon's patience was clearly wearing thin. He slammed the paper on the table, glaring at Mike. "Twenty-five percent. And that's final. It's the learning cost—I'm the one training you, after all."

Mike sighed, realizing this was as good as he was going to get. "Fine. Twenty-five percent."

"Good," Anon said, picking up a knife. Without hesitation, he pricked his finger, pressing it against the paper, leaving a bloody fingerprint beside the signature line. He handed the knife to Mike.

Mike hesitated, staring at the blade. "Do I… really have to do this?"

"Yes," Anon said, his voice firm. "The contract isn't valid without your blood. It's how these things work. Look, if you want to survive, you're going to have to get your hands dirty eventually. This is just the first step."

Mike stared at the knife, unease growing in his chest. Suddenly, a flash of lightning illuminated the room, casting eerie shadows on the walls. It was a stark reminder of the danger outside, and the harsh reality of his situation hit him like a brick.

With a deep breath, Mike took the knife, pricked his finger, and pressed it against the paper where Anon's bloody fingerprint was already stamped.

"There," he said, his voice shaking slightly. "Happy?"

Anon grinned, rolling up the contract and tucking it into his coat. "Ecstatic. Welcome to the team, Mike. Now, let's get to work."

As soon as Mike's blood-stained fingerprint merged with the contract, the paper began to glow with an intense golden light. The illumination filled the room, casting long shadows that danced wildly along the walls. Mike stumbled back, his eyes wide.

"What the—?!" he stammered, shielding his face from the radiant glow.

Before he could say another word, the light flickered out, leaving no trace of the contract. Mike's jaw dropped. "Where did it go? What just happened?"

Anon smirked, leaning back against the couch. "That's how you know the deal's real. The contract's been absorbed by the fabric of existence itself. It's binding now, kid."

Mike stared at him in disbelief. "You're telling me… the fabric of existence just took our paper contract?"

"Pretty much," Anon replied nonchalantly, patting the spot next to him. "Now sit down. We've got some heavy stuff to go over, and I need you to not freak out."

Still reeling from what he'd just seen, Mike hesitated before taking a seat. His hands trembled slightly as he looked at Anon, unsure of what was coming next.

"Alright," Anon began, folding his hands together, his tone growing serious. "This is where the real training starts. Forget everything you thought you knew about the world, Mike. Because none of it's true."

Mike blinked, confused. "What are you even talking about?"

Anon leaned forward, staring directly into Mike's eyes. "What are you feeling right now?"

"What am I—what?" Mike asked, thrown off by the abrupt question.

"What. Are. You. Feeling?" Anon repeated slowly, emphasizing each word.

"I—I don't know! Confused, scared, maybe a little pissed off?" Mike stammered. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Anon smiled faintly. "It has everything to do with it. To unlock your power, you need belief. Not just belief in something—belief in everything and nothing at the same time. The core of the Abyssal Paradigm is this: 'The truth is a lie, and the lie is the end.'"

Mike furrowed his brow. "That… doesn't make any sense."

"It's not supposed to. That's the point," Anon explained. "You have to believe, and not believe, all at once. Let me show you how it works."

Anon stood up and gestured for Mike to follow him to the middle of the room. "See, my power comes from my belief that everything in this world is made of atoms. That means, at a fundamental level, there's no real difference between solid ground and water. It's all just a collection of atoms arranged differently."

Mike frowned, watching Anon curiously.

"So," Anon continued, "if I believe that the ground beneath me isn't solid, but instead is water…" He took a deep breath, focusing. "Then the ground becomes water."

As Mike watched in stunned silence, the floor beneath Anon's feet rippled like the surface of a pond. Anon's boots sank slightly, as if he were standing on liquid. Then, just as suddenly, the ground solidified again, leaving no trace of the transformation.

Mike stumbled back, his mouth hanging open. "How—how did you do that?!"

"Belief," Anon said simply. "I believed the ground was water, and for a moment, it was. Then I believed it was solid again, and it was. That's the foundation of the Abyssal Paradigm—imagination turned into reality."

Mike shook his head, trying to process what he'd just witnessed. "But… that's impossible."

Anon grinned. "Exactly. And that's why it works."

Anon took a seat again, crossing his arms as he watched Mike pace the room. "Here's the thing," Anon began. "Each person has their own unique belief. It's personal, like a fingerprint, and it shapes how their power manifests. But—and this is important—you can only believe in one thing at a time."

Mike stopped pacing, looking at him with frustration. "So I can't just copy what you did with the ground?"

"Not unless you really believe it," Anon replied, shrugging. "But even then, it's tricky. To create a new belief, you have to start fresh. Build it from the ground up and make sure it doesn't crash with your existing beliefs. That takes time, discipline, and creativity."

Mike frowned. "Alright, fine. Let me give it a shot."

He stood in the middle of the room, closing his eyes and concentrating. "I believe… I believe that the air around me is solid. Like a shield!" He thrust his hand forward, but nothing happened.

Anon chuckled softly. "Yeah, no. That's not how it works, Mike."

Mike glared at him. "What's wrong with what I'm doing?"

"You're trying to force it," Anon said. "Belief isn't just thinking something is true. It's about feeling it, deep down, like you did when you believed in Santa Claus as a kid. Remember that? The excitement, the certainty? That's what you're missing."

Mike rubbed the back of his neck, his frustration growing. "Okay, but how am I supposed to just… believe in something like that?"

Anon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "It's not easy, I'll admit. It's a lot more complicated than it looks. You've been conditioned your whole life to think logically, to rely on what you can see and touch. This? This is the exact opposite. You need to let go of all that and trust your imagination."

Mike sighed, closing his eyes again. He thought back to when he was a kid, how he used to imagine fantastical worlds where anything was possible. He tried to channel that feeling, that childlike wonder, but it still felt out of reach.

After a few minutes, he opened his eyes and looked at Anon. "This is harder than it sounds."

Anon nodded knowingly. "It always is. But don't worry—you'll get there. The first step is finding what you truly believe in, deep down. That's your starting point. Once you figure that out, everything else will fall into place."

Mike sat down with a groan, rubbing his temples. "Great. So now I have to figure out what I believe in while also not believing in it at the same time. This is going to be a long night."

Anon laughed, clapping him on the back. "Welcome to the life of a Hunter, kid. Get used to it."