Because in a world stripped bare…
Religion offered the unbearable weight of suffering…a name.
A purpose.
A fragile, defiant reason to raise the knife… …and fight for one more bloody sunrise.
Thirty Years.
A lifetime measured in scars and sins.
Jack had clawed through the rotting carcass of the world doing things that stained the soul.
Stealing medicine from the dying.
Abandoning children to hordes for a head start.
Selling secrets for a mouthful of clean water.
Anything. Everything. Just to see another sunrise.
But now?
He felt the cracks spreading through his spirit.
A deep, structural fatigue.
Like rusted iron holding up a collapsing bridge.
Teetering on the edge of becoming nothing more than a hollow thing that still breathed.
Humanity had technically stopped the Virus.
Barely.
Not with science or bullets.
But with an Idea.
A creed that hardened hearts and promised salvation through sacrifice.
It spread faster than the plague ever had.
A theological wildfire.
Now, that Idea ruled.
Consumed.
Devoured.
It turned cities into prayer-camps. Forests into sacrificial groves.
And dissenters into kindling.
The Wooden Cabin.
Neither sanctuary nor prison—but a liminal space.
Dim.
Lit only by dozens of trembling candle flames.
Their light pooled on rough-hewn planks, casting dancing, monstrous shadows up the walls.
The air hung thick, cloying.
Saturated with the hot-sweet stink of melting beeswax and something darker… old blood, perhaps?
Jack knelt at its heart.
Bound. Wrists raw against coarse rope behind his back.
Encircled by a chalk-white line drawn on the floorboards.
Inside it, a symbol:
Complex. Angular. Like knotted thorns or fractured bones.
Unrecognizable. Alien. Hungry-looking.
He waited.
Exhaustion wasn't just in his muscles—it was in his marrow.
In the fractured lens of his thoughts.
Regret was a millstone around his neck.
Why crawl through thirty years of hell just to end like this?
Born to cultists. Survived the plague.
Outlived the bombs. Watched civilization rot… for what?
To be bait in some mad ritual?
The questions echoed, hollow. No answers. Only the candle smoke.
Jack realized too late – maybe age had dulled his edge.
The mercenaries sent to capture him…
They were never the real threat.
Just bait.
A carefully laid snare to flush the old wolf from his den.
The Red Wolf...they were Strong.
It showed in how they'd breached his sanctuary.
His hideout– a fortress honed over seven relentless years.
Layered with deadfalls, fire-traps, razor-wire. Every corridor a death trap.
Yet they climbed.
Floor by brutal floor.
Most died screaming – claimed by his traps.
Enough reached the top.
Strong?...Yes.
But cursed by the lunatics they served.
He dealt with them.
---
Finally.
The last fanatic fell silent.
Time to vanish.
He turned to leave...Ambush.
Not one.
Not two.
Not even five.
Twenty.
Ability Users.
The Church's hidden fist.
Materializing from smoke and shadow.
An army unleashed… just for him.
A grim chuckle escaped Jack's bloody lips.
"They really brought their whole damn arsenal..."
His capture?
Just another chapter in his cursed life.
Born to misfortune.
Surviving only to be cornered.
He stood amidst the gore of the Red Wolves,
Facing the cold power of the Church,
And knew the trap had sprung.
Perfectly.
---
Creeeeeeak.
The door opened.
A chill slithered in.
Men entered.
Shrouded in coarse black robes. Faces hidden deep within shadowed hoods.
Silent as gravestones.
Among them, One.
Dominating.
He wore a Mask.
Not metal. Not plastic.
Tanned hide, stretched taut over a frame.
The head of a goat.
Horns curling wickedly. Empty eye sockets deep as voids.
Was it animal?
Or… human skin, tanned and reshaped?
The thought curdled Jack's stomach.
You can't understand madness, he thought. It doesn't follow roads.
The Goat-Mask Man held a long, cruel-looking sword in one hand.
In the other, a book bound in cracked, dark leather.
Weighty. Ominous.
A robed figure placed a simple wooden chair before Jack.
The Goat-Mask sat.
Regal. Terrifying.
He handed sword and book to an attendant without a word.
Then, He Spoke.
A voice utterly dissonant.
Smooth. Melodic. Warm.
Like honey poured over poison.
"Son," the voice resonated in the small space, "are you scared of me?"
Jack inhaled.
Wax. Dust. Fear.
His reply was ash in his mouth:
"No."
A beat.
"Nothing scares me. Not men. Not monsters. Not infected. Not even gods, if they exist.
I've seen the pit. Lived in it. You? You're just… madmen. Dressing up desperation as faith. Praying to shadows you think will save you."
The Goat-Mask didn't flinch. Didn't rage.
His calm was more unnerving than fury.
"Have you ever wondered,"he murmured,
leaning forward slightly, the mask's void-eyes fixed on Jack,
"why the reaper always passes you by?"
"Why the plague took your neighbor, the bullet your friend, the fire your lover…
but you? You stand. Again. And again. And again."
"Coincidence?" A soft chuckle. "Fortune's favorite child?"
"Or…" The voice dropped, intimate, probing, "a will of iron? Unbreakable?"
He paused. Letting the questions hang in the wax-heavy air.
"I pondered this. For years. It haunted my dreams."
"Until… enlightenment."
He spread his hands, a gesture of revelation.
"It is not luck. Not will. Not chance."
"It is purpose."
"The reason our souls are flung into this suffering. Some purposes are grand. Some small. But none die…"
He leaned closer, the mask inches from Jack's face. "...until their purpose is fulfilled."
Jack's breath hitched.
The car crash. The hospital. The mall. The thousand near-misses…
Survival against impossible odds.
Always.
A cold dread seeped into his bones.
He wanted to scream it was nonsense.
But the seed of doubt… it took root.
Could there be… a reason?
Anything… other than cruel randomness?
He locked the thought away. He wouldn't give this monster the satisfaction.
"I,"
the Goat-Mask declared, standing, his voice swelling with conviction,
"was born to pull humanity back from the abyss. I knew my purpose. Early. A rare gift."
He retrieved the leather-bound book from his attendant.
"So now… I help others find theirs. A heavy burden…"
He traced the book's spine. "...but the path to my own destiny."
"What's my purpose then?"Jack's voice was raw, stripped bare.
"Why was I born?"
"Why did your god…" He spat the word.
"...make my life one long scream?"
The Goat-Mask faced him fully. The book creaked open in his hands. He held out his right hand.
The attendant placed a knife in his palm.
Not just large.
Ritualistic.
Ancient bone handle. Blade dark, flaked with old, dried blood. Razor-edged.
He raised the knife. Candlelight slithered down its cruel length.
"You, my child," the sweet voice proclaimed, resonating with terrifying certainty,
"were born to be a Martyr."
"The Hero who bleeds so the world lives."
"Our Savior…"
The knife point lowered, aimed at Jack's heart.
"...awaits his crown of thorns."