Chapter 1
Limbo was an affront to logic—a twisted symphony of dissonance, where the familiar was mangled and the alien seeped into every crevice. The sky was no sky at all, but a convulsing void of liquid black, suspended unnaturally above. It churned in slow, viscous waves, reflecting fractured glimpses of a world that didn’t exist, as if teasing reality with its own impossibility. No stars pierced the darkness; instead, faint glimmers rippled like bioluminescent creatures in a sea of ink, mocking the concept of light.
The ground underfoot was equally peculiar—slick and cold, like polished obsidian dampened by unseen dew. It pulsed faintly, as if the ground itself drew shallow breaths, exhaling a strange, crisp scent. The air carried the tang of lemons—sharp yet strangely restrained, a fragrance neither ripe nor rotted, perched in the exact moment of transformation. It was intoxicating, leaving a lingering yearning for something just out of reach, an itch that could never be scratched.
The people were a kaleidoscope of disarray and incongruity. They moved as if on unseen tethers, their expressions blank or eerily misplaced—some grinning with ecstatic delight, others weeping soundlessly, but none truly aware of their surroundings. Conversations overlapped in a deafening roar, yet individual voices cut through with unsettling clarity. Here was a child in a nightgown soaked with blood, chattering happily about nothing; there, an ancient warrior with cracked, spectral armor, murmuring prayers to gods long dead. Among them, clean and immaculate figures wove through the throng like shadows given form, their purpose enigmatic but their presence undeniable. They didn’t belong—yet neither did anyone else.
Above it all loomed a sense of purpose, though twisted and malformed. This wasn’t chaos for chaos’s sake—it was a grotesque order masquerading as a check-in station, an unholy convergence of the living and the unliving. Names were shouted, some ancient, others modern, their echoes slicing through the din: Homer, Virgil, Odysseus, Tennebrea. Each name carried weight, as if spoken not merely to identify but to summon.
At the epicenter of the madness stood a hooded figure, small yet commanding in a way that defied explanation. Unlike the rest, life radiated from him—a vibrant, defiant energy that pulsed like a heartbeat in a room full of stillborn souls. Circling him was a green luminescent light, its tail trailing faintly like a comet’s afterglow. The light spoke, its voice sharp and brittle, as though it were an ancient star learning to form words:
“Elroy, this is not good. I don’t like this. I don’t like it one bit.”
Limbo stretched endlessly, a mosaic of impossible spaces that folded and unfolded with every step, warping Elroy through realities that were never meant to coexist. His thoughts churned like the liquid void above, unrelenting and murky. Regret clung to him like the acrid scent of smoke after a wildfire, sharp and inescapable.
He couldn’t escape the memory of the choices that led him here—the mistakes that made this odyssey necessary. He had once thought himself a great man, a giant among mortals, a leader who commanded fear and respect. But now, each step was heavy with guilt. Lucas, his nephew, was different. Lucas had no lust for power, no hunger for war. He had never envied the Enochians or their might, only admired them with the quiet reverence of a child who still saw the world’s beauty.
Elroy was no leader—he never had been. He was a coward, drowning in a sea of guilt and regret that had begun long before this moment. He had been a drunk, a husk of a man who had stumbled through the remnants of his shattered life with a bottle always in hand. He’d lost his son. That pain had consumed him, hollowing him out and leaving him incapable of anything except grieving poorly. Lucas had stepped in—not as a successor, but as a caretaker. A boy too young for the burdens he carried, tending to an uncle who was little more than a shambling ruin.
The Baskerville family, a proud lineage of Zoan wolves, had faltered under his neglect. He hadn’t wanted to lead them—he didn’t have it in him. The divorce, the loss of his son, and the gnawing shame of his failures had sapped him of all resolve. He had watched idly as his brother ran amok, dragging the family into disarray, while his brother’s oldest son, Kagato, unleashed his chaos unchecked. Elroy had known better, had seen the disaster coming, but he hadn’t lifted a finger to stop it. What was the point? He was already drowning; why not let the family drown with him?
But then there was Lucas. The boy was everything Elroy had failed to be—pure-hearted, kind, gentle. He wasn’t like the other Zoans, who reveled in their strength and their capacity for violence. He was originally thought to be born without a Zoan spirit.
Lucas wasn’t a leader; he was a dreamer, a boy who saw the good in a world that offered him none.
And yet Elroy had used him. He’d seen salvation in Lucas, a way to absolve himself without getting his own hands dirty. He’d pitted Lucas against Kagato, hoping to turn brother against brother in order to fix the family and allow a competent ruler reclaim the Baskerville title of Alpha. But Lucas wasn’t a killer, and Elroy had known that from the start. He had thrown Lucas to the wolves—literally and figuratively—while he stood back and watched.
Now, as he moved through the warped halls of Limbo, each step carried the crushing weight of his cowardice. He had failed. Not just as an uncle, not just as a leader, but as a man. Lucas was innocent, a lamb sent to slaughter by the one person who should have protected him. And yet, the boy had endured. Somehow, despite Elroy’s failures, Lucas had survived.
The realization was both a balm and a curse. Elroy’s shoulders sagged under the strain of his thoughts. His guilt gnawed at him like a starving beast, and he couldn’t help but wonder: Was there still a chance to make this right? Or had he already lost everything?
As the shifting madness of Limbo distorted around him, Elroy pushed forward. Each warp dragged him into a new part of this eldritch labyrinth—rooms that flickered with lightless flames, hallways that whispered with the voices of the dead, open spaces that bled into nothingness. The further he traveled, the more he felt them. Things. Watching. Moving. Stalking. Yet every time he focused, they vanished, slipping out of existence like shadows retreating from a flame.
“What are they?” Elroy growled, his voice tight as he quickened his pace.
The green light that swirled beside him flickered with agitation. “Nothings,” it hissed. “This is not good. You need to move faster.”
“What do you mean nothing, it has to be something I just...I cant see them,” Elroy snapped, his tone laced with frustration. “But I can sense them.”
“Yes, because they’re Nothings. Now move,” the light snapped back, sharp and angry. “Do not let them touch you.”
Elroy broke into a jog, his boots echoing hollowly against the shifting terrain. The light’s voice dropped, reverberating with ancient weight. “Nothings existed before the First Words were spoken—before the Lord God said, ‘Let there be light.’ Before there was light, there was darkness. Null. Void. When the light came, it destroyed everything Null and Void had created. Some of their shapes rebelled against the light, waging wars against creation. Others turned against each other, like the Shape that your nephew carries, born of the first Beast.”
Elroy’s jaw tightened. “What does that have to do with these things I’m sensing?”
The light pulsed brighter, its tail flicking like an agitated serpent. “In time, Null and Void were subdued. Null became a blind, idiot god—slumbering, leaking fragments of itself into reality. These fragments, the Nothings, exist to erase life, to devour it and leave only unlife in its place. They don’t kill, Elroy. They unmake. They remove you from existence entirely.”
His voice was a low growl. “And who decided to make these things the police of this place? What happened to demons?”
“This is not Hell,” the light replied with thinly veiled impatience. “This is Limbo—a realm for those who are neither good nor evil. They do not seek paradise; they do not seek punishment. They exist here because they refuse to choose. But your kind complicates everything. You overcomplicate life, and now, you overcomplicate death. They exist to prevent your kind from doing things exactly like you are doing now.”
Elroy chuckled bitterly. “You talk as if our lives mean nothing. It’s just a process, that’s all.”
The light flared, suddenly halting in midair, and Elroy froze with it. His body locked in place, as though the very fabric of Limbo had tightened around him. Panic clawed at his chest. “What the hell is this?”
“Careful, pup,” the light said coldly, its tone sharper than ever. “Do not grow prideful. To beings like us, you are nothing but characters in a story—a sequence of ones and zeros written on the fabric of reality. This task of yours? It’s nothing more than removing a file from the recycling bin. What you call an adventure, we call a task. What you call death? It is but a simply flesh wound.”
Elroy wanted to respond, to fight back against the condescension, but the weight of the light’s words held him still. His silence was a mix of defiance and awe as the voice continued, its tone like the grind of ancient stones.
“Know this, Baskerville, and let it humble you. Your kind complicates life because you can. You entangle yourselves in trivialities, in things like rent payments, dress codes, and fleeting ambitions. Your lives are constructed of ones and zeros, simple systems, and yet you believe yourselves profound. But in truth, you are all zeroes. You are Nothing. And yet…”
The voice paused, lingering as if savoring its own thoughts. Its tone shifted, a curious mix of awe and disapproval. “Your kind fascinates us. Despite your nothingness, you dream of being more. For beautiful reasons, you reach beyond yourselves—to love, to create, to hope. Yet, just as easily, you live for unrighteous ends—greed, pride, destruction. If only you could become, in your waking, what you are in your dreaming… you might indeed be perfect creatures.”
The words hung in the air, sharp as glass and heavy with meaning. “But that,” the voice continued, “is not something we will dwell on for now.”
Before Elroy could respond, reality lurched. The oppressive stillness of Limbo shattered as he was pulled through layers of existence in a violent blur of colorless, soundless motion. When he stopped, the ground beneath his feet shifted—a coarse, hot texture replacing the unsettling smoothness of before.
He looked down. Sand. Endless dunes stretched out before him, shimmering under a sky that held no sun, just a heavy, oppressive glow. Elroy brushed at his coat instinctively, sand clinging to it despite the lack of wind.
He squinted at the horizon, searching for some clue as to where he’d landed. “Is this… Thoth’s realm?” he asked cautiously, tension lacing his voice. The mere thought of it made his chest tighten with unease. The scribe’s wrath was legendary, and Elroy had already earned more of it than any man should.
The light, swirling lazily beside him now, pulsed faintly in what could have been amusement. “No,” it said, its tone softer now. “This is not Thoth’s domain. This is a realm shaped by Anubis.”
Relief washed over Elroy, and he exhaled a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Anubis,” he repeated, nodding slowly. “Well, that’s… better. I think.” His muscles eased slightly, though the memory of Thoth’s ire still lingered at the back of his mind like a shadow.
The light swirled closer to Elroy, its green glow intensifying, casting an eerie luminescence on the endless dunes around him. Its voice dropped to a tone that felt almost conspiratorial, as if it were peeling back some cosmic veil for Elroy alone to glimpse.
“Unlike They, the Lord whom we serve, We and our kind are not omnipotent. But even We have heard whispers—rumors carried through the fabric of existence—of the rage of Thoth for you. Why does this exist, Baskerville? What have you done to invoke the wrath of one of the last Egyptian Antediluvians?”
Elroy sighed, running a hand through his hair. The dry heat of the sand clung to his skin, though the air carried no weight. “Thoth,” he muttered, shaking his head. “That’s… complicated.”
The light pulsed brighter, its swirling form tightening as though it were leaning in closer. “Simplify it for us, Baskerville,” it said, its voice edged with ancient patience that belied its urgency. “Why does the Scribe of the Antediluvians burn with wrath for you?”
Elroy hesitated, his lips tightening as he searched for the right words. Finally, he exhaled heavily, his tone resigned. “I was on a quest, okay? A simple task—or so I thought. I was supposed to return some texts. Important ones. Ancient, sacred stuff.” He paused, wincing at the memory. “But… I didn’t know how important they were.”
The light flickered. “Go on.”
“Well,” Elroy continued, rubbing the back of his neck, “it turns out the Egyptians didn’t use those fancy, dramatic scrolls you see in movies. They had these compact, unassuming ones. And, uh… I thought they were scraps.”
The light dimmed slightly, as if stunned. “Scraps?”
“Yeah,” Elroy muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I… used them as toilet paper. Look, I didn’t know! Something about the First Tree, something about giving life—it didn’t exactly have a warning label on it.”
The light fell silent, its glow dimming until it was barely more than a faint glimmer. For a moment, Elroy thought it had vanished entirely, leaving him alone in the suffocating stillness of the sand-strewn expanse. Then, its voice returned—quieter now, burdened with a weight that seemed almost sorrowful.
It sighed softly, the sound reverberating like an echo through eternity. “Elroy Baskerville,” it murmured, “you are more fortunate than you know. Your foolish heart, for all its flaws, has earned you a fading wish. A well-done for your persistence. But heed me, this journey is yours alone. We do not intervene where souls are concerned.”
Elroy frowned, his brow furrowing as he felt the faintest pull within him. Without understanding why, he reached into his coat and withdrew the small container he had carried since the start of his quest. It was plain and unassuming, its purpose unclear until now.
He opened it, and a delicate, shimmering speck of light emerged, drifting upward like a firefly seeking the heavens. It hovered for a moment, pulsing with a gentle radiance, before spiraling toward the light guardian. When it touched the tail of the green luminescence, it melded seamlessly, becoming one with the entity. The light grew fractionally brighter, as though strengthened by the tiny offering.
Elroy watched in silence, a strange hollowness filling him. He could still feel Lucas—somewhere in this vastness, his nephew’s presence lingered like a faint pulse in the ether. That meant Lucas hadn’t passed on completely. Not yet. But where was he? And how much time remained before it was too late?
“Sure you can’t help more?” Elroy asked, his voice strained with desperation.
The light swirled lazily, its glow faltering. “No,” it said firmly. “Bringing souls back is not something we do. We allow you this quest only because They allow it. But listen well: you must only bring back what is your nephew.”
Elroy’s jaw tightened, the words hitting him like a warning shot. “What do you mean? What else could I bring back?”
“There are many realms,” the light replied, its tone darkening.
The light flickered, its intensity waning. “You must warn him of the storm. Whatever happens, he must not step into it. If he does…”
The words cut off abruptly as the light dimmed into nothingness, leaving Elroy alone. His heart pounded in his chest, the sudden silence deafening in its finality. “Hey!” he called out, his voice hoarse with panic. “If he does, what? What happens?”
No answer came. The light was gone.
Elroy stood frozen for a moment, staring at the spot where it had disappeared, willing it to return. But it didn’t. The oppressive vastness of the wasteland pressed against him, the weight of its emptiness gnawing at his resolve. He couldn’t afford to wait. Lucas was out there, somewhere, and every second wasted brought him closer to danger.
With a deep breath, Elroy steadied himself. “Guess it’s just me now,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes scanned the horizon, taking in the endless dunes and the encroaching shadows. He knew the Nothings could return at any moment, and he had no intention of being caught unprepared.
