The New World Origins Book 1

Chapter 4

The Hand of the Betrayer

The ruined city was a labyrinth of shadows and broken glass, each shattered window a black, hollow eye watching our frantic movements. We had been running for what felt like an eternity, the symphony of screams from the plaza now a distant, terrible memory. The purplish sky, now a permanent feature of our new world, cast a sickly light on the concrete landscape. I, the all-American athlete, was still in top form. My breathing was controlled, my stride was even, and I could feel my physical endurance carrying us both through the urban wasteland.

“This way,” I said, my voice steady. “The remains of that pharmacy. It should be structurally sound. We can hole up there for the night.”

Thomas, breathing heavily, simply nodded and followed my lead. We ducked inside, the dust on the floor stirring into a choking cloud. We collapsed in the center of the room, our backs against a display counter. The quiet was a relief, but it felt temporary.

"Are you okay?" Thomas asked, looking at me. My suit was torn and grimy, but I felt none of the weakness I saw in him. He was tired, but I was not. I was annoyed by the filth, but I was ready to go on.

"I'm fine," I said, my voice strong. "This is just a temporary setback. We’ll find a way out of this."

My words died in my throat as a shadow fell across the doorway. A figure stood silhouetted against the magenta sky, not a demon, but a person. A man. He was dressed in the same type of utilitarian clothing as us, but something was terribly wrong. His eyes were a solid, inky black, and on the back of his hand, a crude, three-lined mark looked like a grotesque bar code burned into his flesh.

“Refugees,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “Light is looking for you. He wants to know why you refuse his gift.”

This was one of them. A sympathizer. My body tensed, my athletic training kicking in. This was a physical threat I understood. I would handle this.

Before he could react, I launched myself forward, a blur of motion honed by years of training. My fist flew towards his face, a perfect strike that would have taken any man down. But he simply caught my arm, his grip impossibly strong. I struggled, feeling his strength overpower mine, a terrifying experience I had never known. He twisted my arm, and I felt a bolt of white-hot agony as my shoulder dislocated. I cried out, the pain a foreign sensation I had never truly experienced.

“An athlete,” he sneered, his black eyes mocking me. “Your pathetic physical abilities mean nothing here.” He then threw me into a wall, the impact a jarring, humiliating shock.

I lay on the floor, gasping for air, the muscles I had worked my entire life to perfect now useless. I could hear Thomas groaning in pain, having been caught in the crossfire. The sympathizer walked calmly towards me which i lay crumpled against the wall, his guard completely down. The man knelt over me, a cold, predatory glint in his black eyes. "A failure in a perfect world," he said, and raised his hand to deliver a final blow.

Something inside me snapped. The world shifted. My physical superiority had just been proven utterly useless. The man's strength was not of this world. My confidence, my arrogance, my lifetime of success, all of it crumbled into dust. I was about to be die, and my perfect body could do nothing to stop it. I was useless.

But as I watched, something else happened. Thomas, my quiet, persistent, perpetually failing brother, began to get up. A soft, white glow emanated from his body, and a new voice, deeper and cooler than my own, a voice I had never heard before but felt I had known my entire life, spoke from his chest.

"Leave him be."