The Immortals of Notoriouslandia
Chapter Four: A Thousand Years of Silence
A thousand years had passed.
Time, as always, eroded legends, rewrote facts, and softened the edges of horrors. The Door of Never, that monolithic prison sealed with celestial chains, still stood untouched in the heart of Notoriouslandia—now a monument, silent and half-swallowed by ivy and steel.
The world had changed. Notoriouslandia was no longer a city—it was a continent. A sprawling megascape of floating towers, underground ecosystems, AI-hymn temples, and gravity-folded districts. Magic and technology had fused completely. Reality bent in places it once only shimmered. Cities now whispered names like Chronoborough, Voxspire, and Steel Eden—all under the watchful peace of the Immortal Line.
But peace was never forever.
And some names are not erased. They wait.
In a remote sector of Chronoborough, within a hovering monastery carved from petrified storm clouds, a boy floated, eyes closed, limbs suspended mid-air. Around him danced shattered stones and twisting coils of light—raw psychic energy reacting to his presence.
His name was Descentedrain.
He was sixteen.
And he was dangerous.
He was the direct descendant of Monday the Chosen, though only a few knew the blood still flowed. The bloodline had been hidden, protected, manipulated through centuries. But in Descentedrain, the power had awakened again—spontaneously, violently.
The day he was born, every psychic across the planet fainted.
The day he turned ten, he collapsed a government building just by dreaming too hard.
And now, he was hearing voices.
"Open the door…""I remember your blood…""Let me out, little heir…"
Descentedrain's eyes snapped open.
They glowed black and violet.
He wasn't like other students. He didn't fit. While others manipulated matter with tools, he tore it with will. While others studied ancient tech, he heard the machines whisper back. While others feared the sealed Door, he dreamed inside it.
And in those dreams, Septiceye waited.
Not dead. Not quiet.
Awake.
That evening, Descentedrain stood on the balcony of the monastery, staring out at the ancient skyline, now warped into shimmering towers of living metal and glowing stone. He clutched his head. Visions surged behind his eyes: fire, chains snapping, shadows pouring across the world like ink.
He saw the old battlefield. He saw Monday. He saw a voice like gravity calling his name.
And then—he felt a presence behind him.
It was the Warden-Archivist, an AI in a humanoid exosuit shaped like a robed monk, draped in wires and scrolls.
"You've been dreaming again," the Archivist said softly, voice like distant thunder."You've seen him.""It's not a dream," Descentedrain whispered. "He's alive… He's inside the Door. I feel him."
The Archivist's visor shimmered with ancient runes.
"Then the seal is weakening."
That night, beneath the monastery, Descentedrain opened a hidden vault. Inside lay relics untouched for a millennium:
A fragment of Monday's cloak.
Vera's harmonic blade.
A shard of Bruno's crystallized skin.
And the broken containment core once worn by Zeke.
They all thrummed when Descentedrain entered.
"You called me," he said."Then I'll answer."
As he touched the relics, energy surged into him.
The bloodline didn't just carry Monday's legacy.
It carried all of them.
In the distance, something shifted.
A chain on the Door of Never trembled.
One link cracked.
And from within the prison, Septiceye smiled.
"Come find me, little spark.""This time… you open the door."