Chapter 1
FUTUREHELL
INFINITE THE BEAST
A Hellworld Age Novel
An eight-chapter tale of the Shywalkers, the Sharkmaker Order,Orc clans, and the cruel demon lord who defeats a hidden people.
TIMELINE: HELLWORLD YEARS 5000–7000
Canon & Story Guide
This is a proposed FutureHell story draft. The title uses the requested name “Infinite the Beast.” The Shywalkers remain the Beast’s faction: he is a rare, powerful Shywalker who chooses to join and defend them, rather than founding a separate faction. The story takes place within the Hellworld Age, between Years 5000 and 7000.
Established Shywalker traits
Shywalkers have lion-like bodies and unusually tall legs.
They are faceless and have no ears, mouths, or noses.
They are shy and avoid attention, direct confrontation, and unfamiliar groups when they can.
They can still communicate through gestures, movement, patterned sounds, and—where this story develops it—rare mind-voice. Infinite is unusual because he can speak aloud.
Main factions
The Shywalkers: a hidden, cautious people who prefer secrecy and survival over conquest.
The Sharkmaker Order: an order of knights. Red Knights fight on the front line, Blue Knights scout and plan, and Yellow Knights defend and rescue. Their exact weapons can be adjusted to match the wider book canon.
The Orc clans: some are still ordinary Orcs, while others have already changed into Hell-Orcs. The transformation is not universal, and the story shows both groups.
The demon host: cruel invaders led by Lord Veydrak, an evil demon lord who wants to rule the region and break every faction that resists him.
Timeline
Year 5638: the Shywalkers’ hidden refuge is discovered.
Year 5640: the three-way war reaches the Ashen Marches.
Year 5641: Lord Veydrak defeats the Shywalkers’ gathered forces; survivors retreat into hiding.
Years 5642–5650: the surviving factions begin to reckon with the consequences. The wider Hellworld Age continues through Year 7000.
Chapter 1 — The Quiet People (Year 5638)
The Hellworld sky had no true sunrise. It only changed from the colour of dried blood to the colour of a coal that had not yet gone cold. Across the Ashen Marches, black grass grew between plates of cracked stone, and distant mountains glowed in their seams as if the planet itself were still burning.
In that harsh country lived the Shywalkers.
They had lion-like bodies, long legs built to cross broken ground, and smooth, faceless heads. No ears rose from their skulls. No nose broke the blank plane of their faces, and no mouth opened to reveal teeth. To strangers, they looked like silent hunting beasts. To one another, they were a people with memories, customs, fears, and names.
They did not build towers. Towers attracted armies. They did not light great fires. Smoke invited scouts. Their homes were tucked inside narrow ravines and hollow rock chambers, marked only by small stacks of pale stones that meant shelter, water, or danger. Their young learned to freeze when the wind carried the sound of armour. Their elders taught them that surviving a battle was not the same thing as winning one.
A young Shywalker named Sileth watched a line of red sparks crawling across the northern ridge. The sparks were torches. Beneath them marched the Red Knights of the Sharkmaker Order.
Sileth signalled twice with one raised foreleg: strangers, many of them. A second Shywalker answered with a quick tap against the stone. The warning travelled through the ravine without a shout.
The Shywalkers had watched the Order from a distance for years. The knights fought monsters and guarded settlements, but they were still armed strangers. The Shywalkers did not know whether the Order would protect their secret or expose it.
Then came a different sound: a low, steady footfall from the ravine’s sealed passage.
A huge figure stepped from the dark. He was a Shywalker, but unlike any Sileth had seen. His lion-like body was broad and scarred; his long legs were heavy with muscle, and dark plates of natural armour ran along his shoulders and spine. His blank face seemed to hold the whole ravine in its silence.
His name was Infinite the Beast.
He was not their king. The Shywalkers had no throne, and Infinite had never asked for one. He had lived alone beyond their territory, avoiding every settlement and every clan. Yet he had returned when he sensed danger approaching their refuge.
“I can speak,” Infinite said.
His voice startled the young ones. Most Shywalkers communicated with gestures, foot-drums against stone, and a rare mind-voice that passed between trusted companions. Infinite’s spoken voice was deep and rough, as if the mountains had taught him language.
“Then you can tell us what the knights want,” Sileth signalled.
“I can ask them,” Infinite replied. “I cannot promise what they will want from us.”
Beyond the ridge, the Red Knights halted. Their commander, Dame Elira Venn, raised a gauntlet to signal her troops to hold. She had seen movement in the ravine, but not enough to know whether it was a monster nest or a hidden settlement.
Before either side could approach, a horn sounded from the eastern wastes. It was not the measured call of the Order. It was harsh, broken, and answered by several more.
Orcs were moving through the Marches. Some were ordinary Orcs, green-skinned and fierce, carrying chipped axes and battered shields. Others had begun to change: their armour had grown fused to their bodies, their eyes glowed like embers, and black cracks marked their skin. Those were Hell-Orcs.
Behind them, the horizon flashed with a sickly violet light.
Infinite turned toward it. “That is not an Orc fire.”
For the first time in generations, the Shywalkers’ hidden refuge stood between three armies—and the quiet people could no longer remain unseen.`
