Chernobog I

POV: The Trickster

The Trickster and the Silent One tore through the Between like twin blades slicing the world's last breath. Their Wills tangled—his wild and darting, like a road twisting itself into existence; his brother's heavy and relentless, the pure crushing weight of suppression given form. Together they forced the void to bend, to crack, to open.

Light bled at the edges of reality as the doorway to Tartarus yawned before them. Even unopened, it stank of old nightmares. Memories the Trickster would have much preferred to leave behind him.

For one heartbeat, they hung suspended above the abyss. Nothing below. Nothing above. Just endlessness, like a great mouth waiting to swallow them whole.

Then, Tartarus noticed them.

No… It remembered them.

The space around the Trickster shivered, latching onto him like a starving hound. The void reshaped itself, folding inward, drawing substance from his mind, his fears, his memories. An ouroboros of suffering.

Walls rose around them, composed of stone the color of dried blood. A corridor stretched out into forever, stretching beyond the Trickster's physical senses and even the ability of his [Perception]. Iron bars lined each side. Will-o-wisps of light guttered along the hall, providing little light, though the Trickster knew none of what his eyes told him were there.

It was all a lie. Tartarus had no form. It never had.

But it loved to wear whatever mask would hurt you most. In this case, the very prison the Trickster's mind had produced during his many, many years trapped there by his siblings.

Beside him, the Silent One stepped forward, cloaked in a fury so naked and so bright it almost shocked the Trickster. He'd never seen his brother angry. Truly angry. There was always some level of stoicism to his brother. Even when he had delivered the sentence that had sent the Trickster to this very plane of damnation.

Today, though… today the Silent One's face was carved from wrath. The god was a storm given shape. His golden eyes burned like twin molten suns and his aura sizzled the air as he began to march down the corridor.

The Trickster swallowed. Between hearing his brother's voice earlier and now seeing him in this state… Well, it was a day of firsts. And firsts rarely heralded anything good.

Tartarus stretched before them—an impossible hall that mocked the concept of distance. The cells on either side dissolved into shadow. Even still, he could feel them: those who'd been banished here. The forgotten. The broken. The ones who had violated the unspoken rules that dominated the very dimensions their influence spanned.

Closest to them lay an open cell. Empty now. Its bars hung crooked, twisted from when he'd forced them apart with what little Will he'd had left. The Trickster felt bile rise in his throat. Tartarus remembered him well. It taunted him, now.

It was cell made for brief punishments. Temporary confinement. Because they'd never expected him to last longer.

Past that point… the cells grew worse. The bindings were tighter. The spaces within hungrier.

And somewhere far beyond anything he wanted to think about… lay Chernobog's cage.

The Silent One did not wait for him to catch up. He thundered through the void, each step a heavy strike against the floor. The will-o-wisps lining the hall flickered away from him, as though even illusions feared his shadow.

The Trickster followed, though every instinct screamed at him to flee. Not from the prisoners—from the gods and monsters that called this place their home, or their grave—but from Tartarus itself. The plane was alive in its own wretched way. It had predated the Trickster and his siblings. Some believed it was as old as Creation itself. The negative space that filled the gaps in the emanations of the System.

He worked hard to stay close to his brother, because that was the only sane thing left to do in a place like this. Cling to the familiar. Even if it's your brother who smote you to this cursed oblivion. That thought pried a chuckle from the Trickster's throat. The sound that escaped his constricted muscles was a whistling, pitiful thing.

And so, they went down.

And down.

And still further down, until the notion of depth began to lose shape and meaning. Tartarus didn't obey direction. It only pretended to, just as it pretended at walls and floors and individual cells. But the Trickster felt the passage all the same, a sinking sensation in the pit of his Core, like being dragged into deep water with chains around his ankles. The air grew tighter, heavier, pressing against his skin and Will like a vise. The torches on the walls dimmed to dying embers. After all, even illusion had its limits. Tartarus devours all.

At last, they reached the place where their forms could travel no more, where existence itself thinned like old parchment. And there, at the very edge of the fathomless abyss, lay a cell fashioned from bars of pure shadow—each one trembling with an internal pressure, as though struggling to stay solid.

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The final prisoner sat within.

The Trickster kept close to the Silent One. His brother approached the bars with measured steps, and for the first time, the Trickster saw something new in that ancient, unshakable frame. Something like… hesitation?

A pause in the march. The tightening of his brother's jaw. A flicker of fear leaking through the cracks.

Interesting, the Trickster thought. Very interesting.

The Silent One's voice filled the Trickster's mind—reverberating against the inside of his skull. The telepathic message was empowered by his brother's Will. A command forged from authority older than suns.

Speak, Black Stain on Existence!

The force of it shook the hall, rattled the chains of the cage itself. The bars hummed like tuning forks struck by the blow of the Silent One's Will.

Something moved behind the bars, stirring at the god's command.

A figure, rising from the void pooled at the cell's center. No shape the Trickster could make out—not with Tartarus warping every outline, twisting everything. Probably for the best. He'd seen what this place did to beings far weaker than Chernobog. He had no desire to learn what it did to one of the most destructive monsters ever born.

But he felt it. The prisoner's attention slid over them. It was slow and heavy, like a cold fingertip trailing down his spine.

It said nothing.

Perhaps it no longer could. Or perhaps its silence was a refusal: a petty act of defiance even in total defeat. Hard to tell in suffocating darkness.

The Trickster held very still.

The Silent One stepped closer. Opened his lips. And out came a whisper so soft it might've been mistaken for breath. If such things existed here.

"Speak."

A tremor passed through the cell.

Two eyes opened in the dark.

Twin points of pale, abyssal fire, staring through the bars. The Trickster's Core flinched. He knew those eyes. They had haunted him once, in dreams that followed him even into waking. Chernobog.

But the prisoner remained silent. Silent despite a god's command. That alone was proof enough. Chernobog was still here. Still bound.

The Silent One smiled.

It was a small thing, brittle as cracked glass, and it lasted no more than a heartbeat before fading into the solemn mask he always wore. Without another look at the cage, he spun on his heel and marched away, his fury boiling off him in waves.

The Trickster staggered after him, grateful for the excuse to flee that final cell. He helped shape the gate out of Tartarus using what Will he could muster. Anything to escape the oppressive, suffocating hunger of the place.

They burst back into the Between. He gasped, grateful to be anywhere but that damned prison.

The Silent One rounded on him, eyes burning, expression carved from pure accusation.

A silent judgment radiated from the god. It was a verdict without words.

You wasted my time. There is no threat. Be silent, you fool. I will not hear of this matter again.

Then he opened a portal of gold and stepped through, vanishing without a backward glance.

The Trickster stood alone in the void, staring into the space where his brother had been. His mind raced, thoughts clashing like swords in the dark.

There was no way—no way—that the Beast could be mistaken. No Aspect of the System ever erred. Not to this degree.

"What is going on?" he whispered into the emptiness.

The void didn't answer.

POV: Veronica Sampietro

Veronica wiped the sweat from her brow, letting the last of her adrenaline simmer into a dull, post-training hum.

The training mat beneath her was damp. It was getting late. Around her, the System-enhanced gymnasium was mostly empty. From the other side of the gym, she could hear the sound of distant grunts, the occasional whoosh of a spell being flung during someone else's sparring session, and the subtle hum of mana batteries embedded in the floor.

Before the System, she wasn't a huge 'gym' person. Not that she didn't enjoy physical exercise (she was a devout biweekly attendee of her local yoga studio). Now, she enjoyed the opportunity to push her Attributes to their limit. To see how much she was able to do with her various Skills.

You're getting stronger, she reminded herself.

At least, she hoped so. Because the next round of open Guild Assessments was coming up fast.

She stepped into the locker room, unequipping her System-generated gear, and checked her Skills menu. The System flared to life, a familiar cascade of cool blue light illuminating her face.

Her [Hammer Cyclone] Skill had already reached Tier 3.

Her [Summon Shield] Skill was even better: Tier 4. From the threads on the Discussion Channels, she understood Tier 4 Skills were rare at this point in Earth's use of the System. She could now summon up to twelve different shields, or combine them all into a wall that could defend against powerful attacks. If only she had leveled up the Skill before fighting a damned Storm Dragon.

She ran her hand across her face, her fingers finding the small of her neck, and the soft, tight scar tissue there. A reminder of how dangerous the Gates really were.

Veronica was coaxed out of her distant thought when she felt her phone vibrate against her thigh. She exited out of her System menu and pulled her cell phone from her pocket, delighted to see the message ribbon waiting for her on her home screen.

SYSTEM MATCH: You've received another match!

When she slid her phone unlocked, the System Match app opened in its own separate window. The app was highly exclusive. To even get access to its matching services, one had to submit an extensive application, go through several virtual interviews, and then create a profile and wait for the application's algorithm and specialized matchmakers to find bespoke pairing options for your consideration. It was a very different change of pace from the dopamine drain of mindlessly swiping left.

Her match's name hovered in large font, coupled by a blurb prepared by one of the app's matchmakers:

Damien

A Level 25 Summoner-type User. He is originally from Chicago and new to Cleveland. He's looking to explore the city with someone equally dangerous.

The blurb was followed by a winking face emjoi.

"Oh, god," she muttered.

She pressed the button to see his approved pictures. Well, I can probably guess what his wardrobe looks like. Black-on-black. And the last picture? The trench coat and that many rings was definitely a choice. But... he wasn't bad-looking. In fact, if she squinted past the edge-lord vibe, he was kind of hot. Dark hair. Sharpened jaw.

And a Summoner-type? That could be an interesting source of conversation. System Match didn't provide actual Class details. It provided Level, as many System Users preferred to be with someone of a comparable level to themselves. But a person's actual Class was their secret to keep. In fact, during the application and interview process, you provided the matchmakers with descriptions of your capabilities. After which, they provided the descriptor that appeared in your profile. Veronica's was Armor-focused Protector.

She stared at his profile a beat longer than she meant to. Then tapped: Accept Match.

Followed by a quick message: Hey Damien. Welcome to Cleveland. Drinks after the next round of Guild assessments?

She paused, watching the three dots appear, then vanish, then reappear.

Nothing yet.

"Great," she muttered, leaning back against the cool wall of the locker room. "This is probably a dumb idea."

She should just focus on the upcoming assessments.

But still… A date wouldn't kill her.

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