Unwritten Mythos

GPA Council, late evening.

The chamber buzzed with tension as reports trickled in, one by one, weaving a picture of a world on the brink.

"Based on the latest intelligence," began one of the council members, voice steady but grave, "containment zones in Asia are completely out of control."

"And North America?" came the sharp reply.

"The situation there is equally dire. 008 has already stirred up public opinion. Chaos brews like a storm."

A murmur rippled through the council. "There's even a church forming in North America," another added, "they call themselves the Church of Light, claiming to possess a holy water capable of dealing with Vampires... making a fortune off it."

"Does it work?" someone asked, leaning forward.

A dry chuckle escaped the speaker. "It's nothing but boiled water with salt. Just another scam. People profiting from the ruin of nations."

Disgust lingered in the air as a solemn voice broke through. "Even in times like these, humanity's darkness prevails. When we should unite to overcome the calamities before us, it only takes a few to trigger the collapse of everything we strive for."

The council fell silent. Then, the roll call of disasters continued.

"001, The Imitator—whereabouts unknown.

"002, The Deep One, has taken part of the Fish-Men into the oceans. We can't pinpoint their exact location.

"003, The Hollow—gone, same as 001.

"004, Queen Bee, has entrenched herself in Kitsune's original headquarters. The base is fortified, nearly impenetrable, surrounded by mountains, and guarded by the remnants of 009's Splitter objects.

"005, The Metallomorph—vanished.

"006, Fateweaver—confirmed dead by Kitsune.

"007, Siren, likely resides in the Atlantic. We recommend no contact."

The room grew heavier with each name.

"008, the True Ancestor, holds North America in its grip. Its form often shifts to a feminine appearance, though witnesses suggest it can adopt both male and female forms. Asians in particular have encountered 008—and all miraculously survived."

"Only Asians?" someone questioned, raising a brow. "Why?"

"It seems 008 understands only its mother tongue. When it fails to communicate… it resorts to violence."

The council exchanged uneasy glances. "These survivors all call 008 the Empress. When asked where the name came from, they simply say, 'Heard it from someone else.'"

"Why are we focusing on 008 right now?" the Asia Director snapped. "Shouldn't we be dealing with the immediate threat in our region?"

"Asia Director," the North America Director interjected, eyes flashing, "008 is a far greater threat. In North America, it's just one entity—but one powerful enough to rival everything in Asia combined."

The room bristled with tension as the two directors locked horns, neither willing to back down.

"Shut up! Have you even looked at the objects in Asia?!" the Asia Director seethed.

"The two of you, enough!" The Chairman's voice boomed through the chamber, silencing the brewing storm. "This bickering solves nothing. We cannot afford to splinter our focus."

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "We will launch a two-site inspection. First, we will examine the situation in both regions. Once we determine which area faces the more immediate threat, we'll focus our efforts there."

...

A few days later, in a quiet park in Beiling City, an old man was performing slow, deliberate Tai Chi movements, his posture calm under the evening sky. The city around him seemed to hum with the muted energy of the ordinary—children playing, birds singing, life continuing as usual. That is, until three GPA investigators approached, their presence disrupting the stillness.

"Sir," one of them began, "do you live in this area of Beiling?"

The old man paused, his weathered hands still mid-movement. He turned to face them, eyes squinting slightly in the fading light. "That's right. Been here since I was young," he answered, voice as steady as his movements had been.

"Beiling hasn't exactly been peaceful lately," another investigator pressed, his tone suggesting something unsaid.

But the old man only shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping him. "No, no. Beiling is peaceful, always has been. You're mistaken."

The investigators exchanged wary glances. "So," one of them continued, undeterred, "you haven't seen anything unusual? Phenomena? Ghosts, gods, maybe monsters?"

The old man clasped his hands behind his back, his voice calm but resolute. "People who read too many stories start believing in nonsense. No monsters in this world, just fear created by the mind. No use worrying about things that aren't real."

He shifted into another Tai Chi stance, the movement fluid and purposeful. "Why not join me? Better for the soul than chasing after shadows," he said, throwing a few playful gestures toward them.

The investigators visibly relaxed, exchanging a few amused glances. Perhaps Beiling wasn't as dangerous as they'd thought.

"Are you sure, sir?" one of them asked again, this time with a note of finality. "You've never seen a monster?"

The old man smiled as he continued his Tai Chi. "Monsters? No. But terrorists, now *those* can be found."

The word "terrorists" froze the air around them. "Terrorists?" one investigator repeated, his voice edged with alarm. "Where?"

The old man's movements ceased as quickly as they had begun. In one smooth motion, his palm shot forward with a speed that belied his age. A blast of energy rippled from his strike, a force unseen but deeply felt. It spread out like a wave, and in the blink of an eye, the three investigators were swallowed by the sheer impact, their forms vanishing as if they had never existed.

The old man took a deep breath, his eyes narrowing, the park once again silent except for the faint whisper of the wind. His voice, calm and quiet, cut through the stillness.

"Right in front of you," he said, his tone shifting into something darker.

The old man, now standing alone in the park, let out a low chuckle.

"Chaos Insurgency 8th seat," he muttered to himself, "Juan."

...

In the pitch-black void, three GPA investigators found themselves disoriented, as if they had been transported in the blink of an eye. The last thing they remembered was standing in a park, and now—this.

Under their feet, a massive Tai Chi diagram pulsed faintly, its ancient symbols glowing as if alive. Surrounding them were eight towering gates, each etched with cryptic patterns, symbols of the trigrams: heaven, earth, thunder, wind, water, fire, mountain, and lake. The gates loomed ominously, casting deep shadows across the space.

"This is... what exactly?" one of them stammered, his voice betraying confusion as he scanned the alien surroundings.

They exchanged uneasy glances, the sudden shift from reality to this place gnawing at their nerves.

"We weren't just here a moment ago..." one of them muttered, then realization dawned, "The old man!"

As soon as the thought formed, a voice echoed through the space, ancient and distant, as if the Tai Chi diagram itself was speaking to them.

"Of the eight gates, only one leads to life. Choose incorrectly, and you will die. Do nothing, and you will die. Time is not your ally, for the gates shift with every passing moment. If you can navigate this, perhaps you have the strength to survive."

The words settled into the air, cold and heavy.

"What the hell does that mean?" one of the investigators, clearly not familiar with Eastern esoterica, blurted out. His brow furrowed as he scratched his head in frustration. "What's with this 'eight trigrams' stuff?"

"Now isn't the time to ask!" snapped another, his breathing becoming shallow. "Can't you feel it? The air... it's thinning!"

The realization hit them all at once. The space around them was closing in, the very atmosphere growing denser, suffocating.

The one who understood the trigrams gritted his teeth, piecing together fragments of knowledge. "The life gate... it's connected to the wind, right? Air means life! Follow the wind!"

Without hesitation, he darted toward a gate inscribed with swirling patterns that resembled gusts of wind. But the moment he crossed its threshold, a violent tempest ripped through the gate. Razor-sharp gales tore at his body, shredding him apart before he could even scream.

The two remaining investigators froze, horror-stricken as the blood splattered across the cold ground.

"...He guessed wrong," one whispered, voice trembling. The other nodded in silence, his eyes wide with panic.

"There are seven gates left. One of them leads to life. We go alone, and it's a one-in-seven chance!"

"Right! Let's do it together, we cover more ground."

The words were bold, but fear gnawed at their resolve. One of them bolted toward the K'en gate, the earthy symbols promising safety. But as soon as he entered, the ground beneath him erupted into spikes, impaling him with terrifying precision. His body hung lifeless, impaled on the earthen spears, blood pooling beneath him.

The last survivor stood alone now, gasping for breath, eyes darting between the remaining gates.

"...One in six," he muttered between heavy breaths, a manic grin stretching across his face. His pulse raced as he realized the terrible truth: being the last one left offered the greatest odds of survival. He could watch, calculate, and choose with greater certainty than his fallen comrades.

He decided on the K'an gate, the watery symbols flickering like a promise of escape. With what little strength he had left, he rushed toward it, confident this would be his salvation.

But fate had no mercy.

The moment he crossed the threshold, his lungs seized as flames erupted around him. Fire surged and engulfed him, the heat searing his flesh until there was nothing left but ash.