25 December 3823 — Southern Town
The smell of roasted chestnuts and mulled wine drifted through the frozen air. Southern Town had never been much—five thousand souls tucked between the mountains and the wasteland—but on Christmas Eve, it tried its best to be something more.
Luther watched his son's nose press against the frosted window, leaving a small circle of condensation that bloomed and faded with each excited breath.
"Dad! Dad, look—the Hendersons brought their dog! He's wearing antlers!"
"Mmm." Luther fastened the last button on his coat, fingers clumsy from the cold that had seeped through the walls. The heating grid had been spotty all week. Budget cuts, the mayor said. Routine maintenance, they always said.
Reo spun around, five years old and electric with anticipation. "Can we go now? Please? Everyone's already there!"
From the doorway, Vanessa appeared with Reo's scarf, the blue one his grandmother had knitted. "Your father's been 'almost ready' for twenty minutes."
"The manager—"
"Dumped work on you at the last minute. I know." She wound the scarf around Reo's neck with practiced efficiency, then met Luther's eyes with that look—the one that said we'll talk about this later. "Let's just go. Before our son combusts."
Luther grabbed his own scarf from the hook. "I'm coming, I'm coming."
Outside, the cold bit immediately. Reo didn't seem to notice. He grabbed both their hands and pulled, his small boots crunching through the fresh snow that had fallen during the afternoon. Above them, strings of lights crisscrossed the narrow streets, swaying gently in the wind. The old bulbs—the kind that had been illegal in the central cities for decades—cast everything in warm, amber tones.
"Evening, Luther! Vanessa!" Old man Chen waved from his doorway, a glass of something dark in his hand. "Heading to the square?"
"Wouldn't miss it," Luther called back.
"Your boy's gotten big! How old now?"
"Five!"
"Five! Well, enjoy it while it lasts. They grow too damn fast."
They walked on. The streets grew more crowded as they neared the town center—families bundled in layers, teenagers clustered in laughing groups, even a few elderly folks being pushed in wheelchairs by patient grandchildren. In Southern Town, everyone came out for Christmas. It was tradition. It was everything.
The square opened before them, and Reo gasped.
The Christmas tree stood thirty feet tall, strung with ribbons and bells and lights that must have taken days to arrange. Garlands looped between the surrounding buildings. Food stalls lined the perimeter—dumplings, grilled meat skewers, sweet potato cakes, and hot cider that steamed in the frozen air.
Someone had set up speakers that crackled with old holiday music, the kind with too much static and not enough bass. It didn't matter. People were singing anyway.
Reo broke free from Vanessa's grip and sprinted forward, his voice lost in the noise and the music and the sound of five thousand people pretending, for one night, that the world beyond their walls didn't exist.
Luther felt Vanessa's hand slip into his.
"He's happy," she said.
"Yeah."
"You're not."
Luther watched their son disappear into the crowd, then reappear near the tree, pointing at something and shouting. "I'm fine."
"You've been checking your comm every five minutes."
"It's nothing."
"Luther."
He sighed, the vapor of his breath curling upward. "Work's been... strange lately. Manager's been tense. Won't say why, but there've been more patrols around the perimeter. More drills."
"You think something's happening?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Or maybe I'm paranoid." He squeezed her hand. "Let's just enjoy tonight, alright?"
She studied his face for a moment longer, then nodded. "Alright."
They found Reo near one of the food stalls, eyes wide as he stared at a massive swirl of pink cotton candy. Luther bought it without hesitation. The kid's grin was worth every credit.
For a while, they wandered. Luther shook hands with neighbors, listened to gossip about Old Chen's new girlfriend, laughed at someone's terrible joke about cultivators and bar fights. Vanessa stopped to chat with her coworkers from the clinic. Reo dragged them toward the street performers—a pair of jugglers tossing flaming batons back and forth while a small crowd clapped and cheered.
The night smelled like woodsmoke and sugar. It sounded like bells and laughter. It felt, for just a moment, like nothing bad could ever touch them here.
Then the clock tower struck midnight.
The lights flickered once.
Twice.
Died.
The music cut off mid-note, leaving only the wind and the sudden, collective intake of breath from five thousand people realizing something was wrong.
Luther's hand went instinctively to his belt—an old habit from years ago, back when he'd carried a blade. His fingers found nothing but cloth.
Then the sky tore open.
A line of burning red light screamed across the darkness, arcing over the town like a falling star. Where it touched the horizon, the air shimmered and solidified—a dome of crimson energy spreading across the rooftops, over the walls, sealing them in.
"Gods," someone whispered.
Luther's chest tightened. He knew that light. He'd seen it exactly once before, during a training exercise fifteen years ago.
"Vanessa." His voice came out flat, controlled. "Pick up Reo. Now."
She turned to him, face pale in the red glow. "What is that?"
"Heaven-Earth Sealing Formation."
Her eyes widened. "But that means—"
"Yeah." He scanned the crowd, looking for movement, for anything out of place. "It means they're here."
The loudspeakers crackled to life.
"Hello, everyone." Mayor Caldwell's voice, usually so warm and grandfatherly, sounded thin and stretched. "I... I need everyone to remain calm."
The murmurs started immediately.
"We've detected hostile elements attempting to breach the town perimeter. I'm asking—no, I'm ordering—everyone to return to your homes immediately. Lock your doors. Stay inside. Do not open them for anyone you don't recognize."
A pause. Static hissed through the speakers.
"The Cultivator Association has been notified. Help is coming. Until then, stay safe. Stay—"
The broadcast cut off.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then panic set in like a flood.
People ran. Families scattered. Someone screamed. A child started crying. The orderly Christmas celebration disintegrated into chaos as thousands of people tried to funnel into the narrow streets all at once.
Luther grabbed Vanessa's arm. "Stay close. Don't let go of Reo."
"I've got him."
They pushed through the crowd, moving against the current of bodies. Luther kept his head down, eyes scanning, always scanning. His father's training, buried under years of paperwork and ordinary life, surfaced like muscle memory.
Watch the shadows. Watch the rooftines. Watch for anyone moving too smoothly, too purposefully.
They were halfway down Market Street when the figures stepped out of the alley.
Six of them. Black coats, black masks, moving with military precision. They formed a loose perimeter around Luther's family, cutting them off from the fleeing crowd.
The townsfolk barely slowed. A few glanced over, curiosity flickering across their faces, but fear drove them onward. Within seconds, the street was empty except for Luther, Vanessa, Reo, and the six masked figures.
The leader raised a hand in salute—fist to chest, the old way.
"Young Master." The voice was male, clipped, professional. "Agent Ten, Southern Region Task Force. We're here on your father's orders."
Luther felt something cold settle in his stomach. "Of course you are."
"Sir, this is an emergency situation. We've confirmed at least twelve Dawn of Light operatives in the area. Possibly more. We need to move you to a secure location."
"Do you know why they're here?"
Agent Ten hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second, but Luther caught it.
"Standard cult activity, sir. They target smaller settlements, try to—"
"Don't." Luther's voice went hard. "Don't insult me with the propaganda. You're his people. You know exactly why they're here."
The agent said nothing.
Vanessa's grip tightened on Luther's arm. "Luther, we need to go. Now."
He wanted to argue. Wanted to demand answers, to rage against the fact that even here, even on Christmas, his father's shadow followed him. But Reo was crying softly, face buried in Vanessa's shoulder, and the distant sounds of combat were getting closer.
"Fine," Luther said. "Take us to the safe house."
"Yes, sir."
They moved quickly through the empty streets. The snow that had seemed so festive an hour ago now felt suffocating, muffling sound, hiding threats. Luther kept Vanessa and Reo between himself and the agents, old instincts screaming at him not to trust anyone completely.
The safe house was an old government building on the eastern edge of town—squat, ugly, built during the paranoid years after the Cult Wars. Agent Ten punched a code into the security panel. The steel door slid open with a hydraulic hiss.
Inside, the lights were harsh and white. Protective runes had been carved into every surface, glowing faintly with stored qi. The air tasted like metal and ozone.
"This way."
They descended a short staircase into a reinforced chamber. Two cots, a table, a single vent in the corner. Supplies stacked against one wall—water, rations, medical kit.
"You'll be safe here, Young Master," Agent Ten said. "The formation core is directly beneath this building. Nothing short of a Core Formation cultivator could break through."
"And if they have one?"
"Then we die buying you time." The agent said it matter-of-factly, like he was discussing the weather. "Lock the door behind us. Don't open it unless you hear the passphrase: Winter's Mercy."
"Understood."
The agents filed out. The heavy lock engaged with a solid thunk.
Silence.
Vanessa sat on one of the cots, Reo curled in her lap. She was stroking his hair, whispering something Luther couldn't hear. The boy had stopped crying but his eyes were wide and unfocused, the way children look when they're trying to process something too big for their understanding.
Luther paced. Five steps to the door. Turn. Five steps to the back wall. Turn. Repeat.
His hands felt wrong without a weapon. Useless. He'd spent fifteen years convincing himself he'd left that life behind, that he could be just another clerk in a nothing town, raising his son in peace.
Lies. All lies.
The first explosion came twenty minutes later.
Distant. Muffled. But unmistakable.
Vanessa's head snapped up. "Luther?"
Another explosion. Closer.
Then the screaming started.
Not the panicked screams of civilians—these were different. Sharper. Shorter. The sounds of people dying.
Luther stopped pacing. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.
"We're safe here," Vanessa said. It sounded like she was trying to convince herself.
"Yeah."
"The agents will handle it."
"Yeah."
"Luther, look at me."
He turned. Her face was pale, but her jaw was set. She'd always been stronger than him, really. Practical. Unshakable.
"We're going to be fine," she said. "All three of us."
He wanted to believe her.
The sounds of combat continued for what felt like hours but was probably only thirty or forty minutes. Then, gradually, the noise faded. The building settled into an oppressive quiet broken only by the hum of the ventilation system.
Luther checked his watch. 12:47 AM.
Merry Christmas.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway above them. Slow. Uneven. Wrong.
Luther moved to the door, pressing his ear against the cold metal.
The footsteps stopped.
A knock.
"Young Master?" The voice was breathless, ragged. "It's Agent Z. Agent Ten sent me. We need to evacuate—there's been a breach. I'm here to take you to the tunnels."
Luther didn't move.
"Young Master? Please, we don't have much time."
Something was off. Luther couldn't name it, couldn't point to a specific detail, but every instinct he had was screaming.
Vanessa stood, still holding Reo. "Luther? Is it safe?"
"I don't know."
"Winter's Mercy!" the voice called through the door. "That's the passphrase, sir. Winter's Mercy. Please, we need to go now."
Luther's hand hovered over the lock.
The passphrase was correct. But Agent Ten had given it to him less than an hour ago, in front of five other agents. If even one of them had been compromised...
He made his decision.
Luther opened the door.
Agent Z stood in the hallway, uniform torn and splattered with blood. His breathing came in short, sharp gasps. He looked exhausted. Terrified.
Perfect. Too perfect.
"Lead the way," Luther said quietly.
They moved through the corridors. The emergency lights cast everything in red. Agent Z kept glancing over his shoulder, urging them to hurry. His movements were fluid, controlled—the gait of someone with extensive training.
But the blood on his uniform was wrong.
Luther had grown up watching his father's soldiers train. He'd seen men wounded in combat exercises, watched them limp and stumble and compensate for injuries. This agent moved too well. The blood pattern didn't match any wound that would allow him to walk that smoothly.
After three minutes, Luther stopped.
"Young Master—"
"Who are you?"
Agent Z turned, confusion on his face. "Sir, I don't understand—"
"The blood on your uniform. It's arterial spray, probably from the neck or femoral. But you're moving like you're uninjured. Either you're the luckiest man alive, or that's not your blood."
The agent's expression didn't change. "Young Master, I was close when one of my squadmates—"
"And your breathing," Luther continued, voice cold and analytical. "You came in gasping, but your pattern's all wrong. You're not exhausted. You're performing exhaustion. I've seen real fatigue. This isn't it."
"Sir, I really think—"
"My father drilled formation movements into his troops for weeks. Muscle memory that doesn't fade. You walk like military, you talk like military, but your stance is off by about fifteen degrees. Small thing. Most people wouldn't notice." Luther took a step back, positioning himself between the agent and his family. "But I'm not most people."
Silence.
Then Agent Z's shoulders started to shake.
It began as a small tremor, spreading through his torso. His head bowed. One hand rose to his mouth, as if trying to contain something.
The sound that came out wasn't human.
"Zhe... zhe... zhe... zhe..."
The laughter built, rising in pitch and volume, echoing off the concrete walls. Agent Z's body contorted, spine arching backward at an impossible angle.
When he looked up, his eyes had changed. No longer human brown, but glowing crimson—the color of fresh blood.
His mouth split wide in a grin that showed too many teeth.
"Clever," he said, and the voice was layered now, multiple tones speaking at once. "So very clever, Young Master. Your father trained you well."
The skin on Agent Z's face began to ripple like water.
"Such a shame," the thing wearing Agent Z's body continued. "We were so close. But don't worry—"
The face split completely, peeling away like a mask.
"—we'll get there eventually."
Underneath was something that had never been human at all.