The Immortals
Chapter Two: The Rise of Monday
In the cavernous dark beneath Notoriouslandia, the Gauntlet of Endless Dominion stirred as though sensing a breath after centuries of stillness. Its surface was a shifting storm of liquid metal, symbols older than language swirling like cosmic ink across its surface. It was not meant for mortals. It was not meant for anyone.
But it welcomed Septiceye.
The shapeshifter descended into the core chamber without resistance. Stone that would have liquefied flesh parted like silk. Traps, wards, spells—nothing awoke. The Gauntlet recognized him as one of its own.
He stretched out a clawed hand that glitched between forms—beast, god, shadow, mist—and slipped the Gauntlet onto his arm. It hissed, then sang. Power surged like a dying star collapsing into singularity. His scream echoed across dimensions and returned as laughter.
The world above changed instantly.
Every citizen of Notoriouslandia… stopped.
Eyes turned white. Voices vanished. Movement halted.
Then, as one, they bowed.
Septiceye, now fused with the Gauntlet, had taken all of them. Not their lives—something worse. He rewrote them. Their thoughts. Their wills. Their identities.
Artists became executioners. Children wandered streets humming static. Mothers watched silently as their skin cracked into pixel ash.
Notoriouslandia had fallen. It was no longer a city.
It was a hive.
Septiceye called it:
BBC PRISON(Blackened Brain Control Prison)Where thought was treason, and obedience was carved into bone.
But one mind burned bright.
In a crumbling tenement on the city's edge, a boy named Monday sat in darkness.
He wasn't remarkable. Not at first glance. A loner. Too quiet. He'd always been… strange. Things would move when he got scared. Glass would shatter when he got angry. People whispered that he was cursed. But now, he was something more.
When the psychic pulse swept across the city—he didn't freeze. Instead, he awoke.
His body levitated a full meter above the floor, his eyes glowing a deep violet as the walls around him cracked and floated. Trash. Furniture. Dust. All orbiting like planets.
The ground shook.
Then he heard them.
A voice of fire, a voice of steel, and a voice that echoed from stars.
"We couldn't stop him.""We failed.""But you… You are different. You are Chosen."
Images rushed into his mind—Arthur blazing in battle, Technical wiring machines into suns, Lux folding space like paper.
"We give you what remains of us.""The spark. The mind. The cosmos.""He took our bodies, but not our spirits."
Three streams of power spiraled into him—flames laced with nanotech, stars wrapped in gravity, and knowledge forged in pain.
"Save what we could not. Save our city."
The vision ended.
Monday fell back to the floor, panting. The entire building shattered outward from him in a silent explosion of psychic force. He stepped outside into the eerie quiet of Notoriouslandia. The streets were wrong. Lights blinked in red pulse-beats. People stood, eyes white, moving like puppets through routines they didn't remember.
He floated.
And they turned to him.
A child hissed and lunged. A man with butcher knives grafted to his arms came sprinting. Swarms of mind-controlled citizens, twitching and jerking, converged with the cold silence of a hivemind.
Monday didn't scream.
He reached.
With a flick of thought, a wave of telekinetic force launched a crowd into the air. He crushed a mutated drone into a knot of twisted metal. A woman wrapped in barbed wire shrieked as he levitated her mid-air and flung her into a tower.
They kept coming.
They didn't stop.
He fought through blocks. Miles. Hours. Each fight worse than the last. His mind stretched to its limits, his powers growing—but so did the horror of what Septiceye had done.
By nightfall, the sky was a dead shade of rust.
Monday stood, torn and bleeding, clothes ripped, eyes wild with power.
Before him loomed the obsidian spires of BBC Prison, tendrils of red energy coiling from its core.
A voice echoed in his head—not the Immortals.
But Septiceye.
"Oh… you're still breathing?""Interesting.""Come, little Monday. Come try to stop me."
Monday clenched his fists. Rubble rose around him like a storm.
He had reached the gates.
The resistance had begun.