Chapter 28

  Evil Incarnate?

  Well, aren’t I just the luckiest bastard alive? I

  died… again. Fourth time? Fifth? Hell if I know.

  “Congratulations—truly, darling.”

  The voice slinks through the dark, velvet-smooth

  but razor-sharp, dripping with honeyed sarcasm. Slow, deliberate claps echo,

  each one slicing through the silence like a blade.

  I blink. Once. Twice.

  Nothing.

  I try harder—like that’ll help—but there’s still

  nothing. No shapes. No light. Just… gone.

  Dark.

  Not the kind with shadows and distant stars. No,

  this is heavy. Smothering. Like sinking into black ink, cold and endless.

  Soundless. Sightless. Even my thoughts feel like they’re unraveling.

  Then—.

  A spotlight snaps on, a brutal slash of white

  that stabs straight into my skull. I hiss, squinting into the glare.

  She’s there.

  A woman in a razor-sharp black suit, sleek and

  pristine, stands just out of reach. Platinum hair cascades over her shoulders,

  catching the light like liquid silver. She watches me with lazy amusement, head

  tilted, a slow, curling smile painting her lips. Ethereal. Perfect. Dangerous.

  “Truly, darling, you have a remarkable talent for

  dying,” she purrs, voice silk-wrapped steel. “It has only been… a week? And you

  have already kicked it, what, a hundred and twenty times? Impressive.”

  I blink hard. “I—no. I’ve died, like, three

  times.”

  She tuts, shaking her head. “Oh,

  sweetheart.”

  It hits like a sledgehammer.

  Memories—fractured, raw—slam into me.

  A twisted tractor frame. Metal screaming. An

  explosion, blinding and brutal. A void, cold and absolute. Something massive

  slamming into me—my body ripping apart like wet paper. I feel it—burning,

  breaking, scattering like ash.

  A castle in flames.

  My hands—soaked red.

  A body—lifeless—heavy in my arms.

  My breath stutters. My chest tightens. Too

  much—too fast—

  Gone.

  Like someone yanked the film from the reel. But

  the dread lingers, thick and bitter at the back of my throat.

  “Well,” she muses, stepping closer, heels

  clicking softly against nothing, “seems my children wove a delightful little

  trick into this world—memory manipulation and passive suggestion. How… quaint.”

  I swallow hard. “Your children?” It slips out

  before I can stop it. “Gaia?”

  Another flood.

  But it’s… not me.

  Or—it is.

  A man in golden armor beneath a blood-orange sky.

  A woman’s laugh—soft, warm. A child, curls bouncing as she runs.

  Then—fire.

  Screams.

  The world burns.

  A crown’s weight settles heavy.

  A daughter, locked away.

  A kingdom, ashes.

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  A war— war.

  A massacre.

  A name, sharp as glass.

  Arthur.

  My pulse races, cold sweat crawling down my

  spine.

  “What is this?” My voice barely holds.

  Her smile widens, teeth sharp behind velvet lips.

  “Oh, Arthur. Still pretending?”

  “I’m—”

  “Don’t.”

  Another surge. No dam this time—just the flood.

  I see myself, cloaked in ebony armor. A nightmare

  of a steed beneath me—flames for a mane, hooves cracking the earth. I’m

  charging through ruin, smoke swirling in my wake.

  Behind me? Bodies.

  Hundreds.

  Thousands.

  Lifeless.

  “King Arthur,” she purrs, “the Paragon of Death.”

  The title hangs heavy in the air.

  And all I can think is—

  I don’t remember being this much of an

  asshole.

  I shake my head, heart racing. “Lady, you’ve got

  the wrong guy. I’m Grant Calloway. Grant Grason Calloway.”

  “Perhaps…” She flicks her wrist lazily, and a

  glowing window materializes beside her, humming with a soft, pulsing light—a

  game stat screen. My stat screen.

  Her brow arches. “Hmmm… interesting.”

  With a snap of her fingers, the window expands.

  Data spills into the void. Her eyes gleam with sharp, predatory amusement as

  she reads.

  “Ah… fascinating,” she breathes. “You adopted a

  demon child? That is rare… even for you.”

  I blink. “What—why?”

  “You truly do not remember?” She steps in close,

  voice low and coaxing—velvet-wrapped steel.

  “No...” The word slips out, fragile, before the

  memories slam into me like a freight train.

  She sighs, almost pitying. “You, Arthur

  Pendragon, slaughtered the demon race in this world—along with countless

  others. Because of you, humans were hunted to near extinction.”

  My stomach plummets. Cold. Hollow.

  “I what...?” My breath comes hard and fast.

  “Then… why would you send her to me?”

  “Send her to you?” She scoffs. “I did no such

  thing.” Her smile sharpens, a blade behind silk. “That demon child you took in?

  She is a survivor. One of the last. Torn from her family—by your endless hunger

  for expansion.”

  The weight of it crashes down. The blue bag… it

  wasn’t luck. It was a damn spell—like a landmine, waiting to blow.

  “I… don’t blame her.” My mind flashes to Earth.

  To wars fought for men I never knew. “I’ve fought in other men’s wars. All for

  false vengeance. I get it.”

  She tilts her head, studying me. “Is that…

  guilt?” Her laugh bursts out, wild and hysterical. “The great KING ARTHUR feels

  guilty?”

  I grit my teeth. “For the last time, lady… I’m

  Grant fucking Calloway.”

  She laughs harder—rich, warm, like I’d just

  cracked the universe’s best joke. “Careful now, darling…”

  Snap.

  The air shatters.

  I’m upside down, face-to-face with her, the void

  twisting around us.

  “Maybe you are not truly Arthur,” she purrs, “but

  you do carry Pendragon blood.”

  Snap.

  Now I’m on a throne—massive, jagged, carved from

  a dragon’s skull. Golden lions curl around the armrests. The weight of it

  crushes me.

  I freeze. “I what—? I mean, yeah, my family moved

  west during the colonial era, but that doesn’t make me some noble heir.”

  “Curious…” She taps her lips. “You do not believe

  yourself to be of noble blood?”

  “Fuck no—I mean, no ma’am.”

  Her smile softens, something knowing behind her

  eyes. “Mmmm. Perhaps there is hope for you yet.”

  Snap.

  I jolt awake.

  Not the good kind. Not the peaceful

  stretch-and-yawn. No. This is the kind. My

  lungs claw for air like I just broke free from sleep paralysis.

  Cold dirt grinds into my palms. The meadow.

  Same damn spot where I first met Ember.

  My head spins. My chest’s tight. Heart hammering

  in my ears. I blink, hard, trying to clear the fog.

  Then—soft, teasing—her voice brushes my mind.

  Smooth. Almost fond.

  “Oh, by the way, darling... I have no need for an

  envoy.”

  Her voice drips with amusement—smooth as silk,

  sweet as poison. A low, smoky chuckle follows, the kind that seeps under your

  skin and lingers, cold and electric.

  “Let’s see now,” she purrs. “You have, at your

  disposal, some of the pieces to the puzzle—enough to make a clever, rational

  choice. I wonder... what will you do with it? Oh, I wait to see

  what the great Grant Calloway pulls off. Maybe something

  grand... maybe not. Who knows? Time will tell.” Her laugh is razor-sharp. “I

  wonder—are you truly a man of your word... or nothing more than Evil

  Incarnate?”

  Her words coil around me, tightening like a

  noose.

  “I will pray to myself, that you are the former,”

  she whispers. “Because if it is the latter... well.”

  The cold sinks deep, hollowing me out like

  something vital just got ripped away. My pulse hammers in my ears.

  “Consider this... your only warning.”

  Then—

  “GRANT!”

  The voice tears through the dark—raw, desperate,

  real.

  Shaq’Rai?

  The name barely forms before the void surges

  back, fast and merciless, swallowing me whole.