Neophyte awakened in the realms of unconsciousness, ensnared within the webs of eternal darkness that had neither beginning nor end. He rose slowly, as if attempting to break free from a sinister gravity pulling him into the abyss. His eyes scanned the pitch-black void enveloping him, probing the catacombs of this infinite emptiness. His gaze wandered with hesitation, searching for meaning in this desolate existence—a void filled with nothingness—like one seeking a forgotten secret deep within an ancient cavern lost to time. Yet all he found was darkness, mirroring the fragments of his shattered self, as if he were on an endless journey with no harbor, where thoughts drifted and souls ebbed toward oblivion.
The first thought that crept into Neophyte's mind was of eternal death and the crimson hell. He uttered the profound words that felt most fitting for such a moment.
"Am I in the depths of Hades?"
This was the first question to slip into his consciousness. Was he truly in the depths of Hades? As the thought lingered, strange and incomprehensible visions began to manifest before him—faint, distorted images that defied clarity.
He collapsed to his knees, shattered like a man who had lost everything. Would he surrender to this darkness? Would he allow the mysteries of this world to claim him? Shouldn't a man seek rest? Yet, deep inside, he yearned for eternal repose in a confined, silent place.
Clenching his fists so tightly that blood trickled onto the barren ground, Neophyte raised his hand, letting the crimson droplets fall into his mouth.
Lowering his head, he whispered to himself:
"What is this pain? What is this exhaustion that weighs upon my chest? What is happening to me?"
Then, in the midst of the terrifying void, his voice echoed between the walls of the unknown:
"This world does not seek my death; rather, I am the one who desires the death of this world. My life, therefore, is intrinsically bound to survival."
As Neophyte finished his words, a mysterious figure placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke in an eerily calm tone.
"My dear child, do you truly wish to surrender? You are dear to my heart. You must not flee from the unknown—you must fight it."
The speaker was the clown.
Neophyte responded in a voice drained of all vitality, a quiet tone that no longer bore the mark of life:
"What am I supposed to do, clown, in this dreadful world? I feel like I'm trapped in an enigmatic vortex, destined only to return to the beginning—or even before it."
The clown began circling around Neophyte, speaking with an unsettling playfulness:
"My dear child, you must not succumb to such thoughts. That is a grave mistake, one that will trap you within yourself, as if you were drawing an endless circle… Stand tall and face these challenges. Do not let them consume you."
Neophyte rose to his feet, his face now painted in red and yellow—the colors of a clown.
"That's right. In this world, only the strong survive, while the weak are torn apart like dust."
The clown placed a firm grip on Neophyte's shoulder and whispered:
"Keep that pen in your pocket safe. Never forget this advice."
The detective clown looked at the faceless clown and, in a chilling voice, asked:
"I am the clown, and you are the clown. Who is the ruling version?"
Blood seeped from the faceless clown as he spoke in a voice that could freeze one's veins.
"Now… now you are beginning to understand, Neophyte. It seems the ancient one within the cosmic dust has begun to rebuild himself once more."
He continued, his voice echoing in the abyss:
"There is a scenario you must follow if you wish to escape your uncertain fate, Neophyte."
Neophyte furrowed his brow.
"And what is this mysterious scenario?"
The clown paced into the unknown distance and answered:
"You must survive for seventy-two hours, and you must not be killed by anyone. Detective clown, you are now a wanted man in the world of Hades. Try to escape this scenario, writer."
The faceless clown handed Neophyte a gun and a sword adorned with scattered diamonds along its blade, with a skull gazing ominously at him.
"These are for you, detective. Use them to survive this scenario."
Neophyte took the gun and sword, strapping the blade onto his back and tucking the firearm into his coat.
The faceless clown raised a single finger.
"Trust no one in this scenario. Your survival is all that matters. When a man faces death, he will sacrifice anything—his own child, even the entire world. You understand exactly what I mean, detective clown. And remember—never stay in one place for more than two hours."
Neophyte's eyes burned with confidence and pride as he replied:
"They will become Hades' feast in the depths of the black inferno."
The faceless clown placed his hands behind his back and walked away, singing in a voice that sent shivers through the air.
"Neophyte the little one, Neophyte the little one… Do you seek death or survival, Neophyte the little one?"
A crimson light burst from an unknown source, shattering the oppressive darkness of Hades. In an instant, Neophyte found himself back in his apartment. Confusion clouded his mind—how had he returned?
He turned to the mirror and saw his face painted in red and yellow—the clown.
His gaze drifted toward the window, revealing London in the age of Hades. The crimson moon illuminated the ruined city. Buildings lay in destruction, with some Victorian mansions collapsed between the sky and the earth. Modern skyscrapers hung eerily in the air, while others lay shattered on the ground.
Peering down, Neophyte spotted a group armed with guns and swords, standing at the ready, as if awaiting the arrival of someone important.
Sitting on his bed, he analyzed the situation:
"I have seventy-two hours, but hiding is not a viable option. That damned rule forbids staying in one place for more than two hours. It wants me to traverse all of London."
Neophyte grasped his gun and spoke to it as if it could hear him:
"There is no other choice. Die like a coward, or survive like a warrior. There is no third option."
An hour passed. He remained in the same place until finally, Neophyte left the apartment.
He walked through the ruins and chaos, cautiously surveying his surroundings. Every step he took was deliberate. He needed to cover long distances—staying put was a death sentence.
Moving through narrow alleys and shadowed streets, he glanced at the sky and saw 400 eyes staring at him. Yet, when he hid from their gaze, they closed. But the moment he stepped back into sight, they opened once more—watching.
The detective walked through the ruined streets, surrounded by the remnants of destruction. As he moved cautiously, a heavily armed group of ten men spotted him. They carried swords, daggers, and pistols, their presence radiating a predatory intent.
Gunfire erupted, forcing Neophyte to take cover inside a destroyed tavern. Five of the sword-wielding men entered, scanning the debris-filled room for any sign of him.
Without hesitation, Neophyte struck. In a flash, he severed the head of one of the intruders, sending the remaining four into a state of confusion—they hadn't even noticed his presence. That was the hunter's gift: invisibility, speed, and the art of swift, silent kills.
To divert their attention, he fired a shot into a distant corner. Two of them immediately turned and fired at the source of the noise, unaware that Neophyte had already moved behind them.
"If you're hunting me, you'd best prepare to be hunted," he murmured before swiftly decapitating both men.
Only five enemies remained. Neophyte calculated his next move, seeking an approach that would let him strike like a serpent. Raising his pistol, he fired directly at one of their heads, then hurled his sword in a circular motion, slicing another's throat.
The remaining three were paralyzed with shock. They had lost track of him.
Neophyte climbed a medium-sized building, taking a vantage point above them.
MR Thiraxaimel, [Mar 27, 2025 at 17:44]
Without hesitation, he aimed and fired with surgical precision—three shots, three kills.
His calculations were precise: if he had delayed more than two seconds, his plan would have crumbled, and they might have had a chance to retaliate. But he was certain—his shots were lethal. As their bodies collapsed, smoke rose from their wounds.
Descending from the rooftop, Neophyte lifted his gaze toward the sky.
And then, terror struck.
The eyes—four hundred of them—were wide open, their veins tense, bleeding ominously. Neophyte locked eyes with one of them. In response, it immediately shut and withdrew.
He continued walking, and with each step, the eyes reopened and shut again in an eerie, rhythmic pattern, their purpose shrouded in mystery.
Then, a voice called out from above.
A man stood atop a wall connecting two buildings. He wore a long black coat over a dark vest, with a crisp white shirt beneath. His long black hair cascaded down his shoulders, and his piercing blue eyes glowed like the clear sky.
With a voice dripping with suspicion and cunning, he addressed the clown detective.
"Greetings, lost one."