This world is not Earth.Earth was merciful enough to end things quickly.
This world is called Brenntameðís.
Brenntameðís is what happens when history rots but refuses to die.
The sky here does not merely hang above the land—it presses down upon it, thick and bruised, like a wound that never healed. Clouds crawl low, heavy with ash and unspoken prayers. Rain falls rarely, and when it does, it stains stone black and leaves metal tasting of blood. Even silence feels crowded, as though something unseen is breathing just behind you.
In this world, countries are not born—they are forged, and one such Stykki rose higher than the rest.
Its name was Eiríni.
Eiríni called itself a nation of peace. That lie was carved into every gate, sung by every choir, and etched into the bones of its children. In truth, it was a kingdom built on fear, ambition, and an appetite that never learned restraint.
The people of Brenntameðís were known as Xotikó.
They looked like humans. Too much like humans.Same eyes, same skin, same laughter. But where humans withered at a century, Xotikó lived twice as long—two hundred years of memory, two hundred years of grudges, two hundred years of cruelty refined into an art.
Long life did not make them wiser.
It made them hungrier.
Eiríni believed power was not something to be earned or inherited. Power was something to be extracted—from flesh, from souls, from things that should never have been touched.
So they began the experiments.
At first, they called it progress. Hybridization. Enhancement. Evolution. Words polished clean enough to make murder sound intelligent. Xotikó bodies were broken, reshaped, merged with things that crawled out of forbidden texts and older screams. Demons were not worshipped in Eiríni.
They were summoned.
Dragged screaming across thresholds that were never meant to open. Bound in sigils carved by bleeding hands. Chained by names stolen from forgotten gods. Some demons burned. Some whispered. Some wept. None were whole when Eiríni was done with them.
The hybrids that survived did not scream.
They learned.
And when even demons proved insufficient, Eiríni turned inward—testing on its own bloodlines. Children born wrong were hidden. Adults who questioned disappeared. Entire districts were erased, not with fire, but with silence so complete that maps themselves forgot.
Sin was no longer a crime.
It was policy.
By the time the Handan Nútímans Era was named, Brenntameðís already knew it was doomed. The age was defined not by innovation, but by containment—how long the world could imprison its own mistakes before they broke free.
Which brings us to the Superprison.
No banners marked it. No guards stood proudly at its gates. It was buried deep beneath black stone and older regrets, a structure grown rather than built. Walls layered with runes so dense they hummed, like insects trapped behind glass. The air inside tasted metallic, sharp enough to sting the lungs.
This prison did not hold criminals.
It held consequences.
And in its deepest chamber, sealed behind doors that had never been opened twice, there was one prisoner.
One.
No name carved above the cell. No record in public archives. Only a designation etched into forbidden registries: Subject Absolute.
Chains wrapped the figure—not iron, not steel, but something pale and living, pulsing faintly as if remembering pain. They did not merely restrain the body. They bit into thought, memory, identity. Runes burned softly along the walls, reacting not to movement, but to existence.
The prisoner sat motionless.
Breathing.
That alone terrified the wardens.
Because everything Eiríni had ever created either begged, raged, or went mad.
This one endured.
Outside the cell, the world continued its slow collapse. Cities of white stone cracked under their own weight. Faith rotted into paranoia. Xotikó elders, once revered for their centuries of wisdom, now whispered of omens and shadows that followed them even in daylight.
They all felt it.
Something had gone wrong.
Not in the future.
Already.
Brenntameðís had crossed a line so ancient that even demons refused to name it. The experiments did not simply fail or succeed—they echoed. Reality itself seemed thinner, like fabric stretched too far. Nightmares bled into waking hours. Children spoke languages no one had taught them. Graves did not stay quiet.
And still, Eiríni tightened its grip.
Power demanded sacrifice, after all.
The Superprison was their final lock. Their ultimate denial. A place where they told themselves the worst was contained, quantified, controlled. One being. One cell. One problem buried deep enough to forget.
They were wrong.
The Handan Nútímans Era was not the age of peace Eiríni promised.
It was the calm breath before something remembered how to scream.
And somewhere beneath the stone, beneath the runes, beneath centuries of arrogance and blood—
The prisoner opened their eyes.