Chapter 1: The Rules Written in Blood

You wake up in a world ruled by three fractured armies, where survival means following the rules—or dying by them.

The rules were scrawled in red across a battered road sign, half-buried in mud:

[Rule One: Calvin has already lost his mind. The fuel for the Seven-Star Lamp is rationality.]

[Rule Two: When someone becomes possessed, do not refuse any of their requests.]

[Rule Three: The President’s side is absolutely safe. He is the only hope.]

[Rule Four: Do not trust the angels. They are merely demons with greater appetites.]

[Rule Five: The truth is in the hands of a woman. She must never be harmed.]

[Save this world, and you can return to reality.]

The instant my eyes snapped open, I found myself inside the skin of Derek Young, just after he’d saved Adam.

My boss, Mr. Lawson, let out a guttural howl, “For this ungrateful brat, I nearly lost one of my best men. Hell, might as well carve him up for dinner.”

He hurled Adam to the dirt, drew his hunting knife, and started hacking—turning him into a pile of raw, bloody flesh.

Gavin, Sam... their eyes were wild, mouths slick with gore as they chewed and tore.

Mr. Lawson shoved half a dripping hand at me, his stare cold and expectant.

“Derek, why ain’t you eating?”

1

I stumbled back, sweat pouring down my face, my hands slick on the baseball bat. I could barely keep my grip as the others stopped chewing, their faces twisted, closing in on me. The coppery stench of blood filled my nose, so strong I nearly threw up, the metallic tang burning my throat. My hands shook uncontrollably on the bat, knuckles white with terror. In the next heartbeat, I knew I’d be their next meal.

Suddenly, I felt the tickle of a feather—Calvin’s pen—swiping bits of gore from my hair. “Derek might’ve had his fill already. After facing a million of Carter’s men, anyone might lose themselves for a second,” Calvin said with a cool smile, easing the tension. I glanced down—bits of flesh clung to me, fingers, ears, scraps I couldn’t even name. I gripped the steel knife at my belt. In its blade, I saw my own face—blood drying at the corner of my mouth, eyes hard and cold. Was this really me? Or had I become just another monster in this nightmare?

As the adrenaline pounded in my veins, the tent’s flickering fluorescent light caught the glint of blood on my cheek. For a split second, I could hear the old rattle of a generator outside and the far-off echo of someone singing a half-forgotten country tune, warped and eerie in the night. The taste of iron clung to the air. My hands trembled, not just from fear, but from the sickening possibility that I’d crossed the line, too. Here, in this American camp gone to hell, even the familiar felt foreign.

By now, Adam had been picked clean, and the others wandered off, satisfied for now. I picked up the blood-soaked baby blanket, where several lines of crimson script were stitched:

[Rule One: Calvin has already lost his mind. The fuel for the Seven-Star Lamp is rationality.]

[Rule Two: When someone becomes possessed, do not refuse any of their requests.]

[Rule Three: The President’s side is absolutely safe. He is the only hope.]

[Rule Four: Do not trust the angels. They are merely demons with greater appetites.]

[Rule Five: The truth is in the hands of a woman. She must never be harmed.]

What the hell happened to this world?

How did these heroes I once admired become so savage and terrifying?

How was I supposed to save the world—and get back to my own?

The blanket felt heavier than flesh, as if it soaked up all the hope this camp once had, now curdled into something monstrous. A sharp wind whipped through the tent flaps, rattling the old aluminum poles. My heart pounded as I tried to make sense of the rules, clawing at memories of what this place had been. Nothing fit anymore. All that was left was survival and a desperate, gnawing need to understand why.

I slipped out of the main tent, moving quietly, patrolling the camp.

It was a hellish battlefield. Soldiers, blood-soaked, clustered together, shouting and jeering. Every so often, someone broke away and two would fight to the death over some petty dispute. In just a few moments, seven or eight were dead from infighting. No one tried to stop them. Instead, the crowd watched with giddy excitement, placing bets on who’d survive. Two men, weaponless, bit each other, gnawing through flesh with broken teeth, ignoring pain, becoming more and more savage.

I looked around, horrified—

Mr. Lawson was always the kind of man who cared. After a defeat, he’d retreat with the townsfolk. But why were there only fighters here?

I grabbed a man by the arm and demanded, “Where are the others?” He gave a crooked grin, voice thick and low:

“You mean the civvies? Buddy, they’re long gone—turned into chow weeks back. If you’re hungry, head to the kitchen. Might find a few arms to gnaw on.”

The air was thick with violence and old diesel fumes. Somewhere in the distance, a radio blared static, then fizzled out—cut off mid-song. Mud squished under my boots, caked with blood and God knows what. The men—Americans all, some with faded tattoos, battered ballcaps, MRE wrappers, and beer cans—cheered like it was Friday night at a backwoods brawl. But the cruelty here was new, a hunger that had swallowed every bit of decency from these faces. A battered American flag hung limp from a tent pole, stained and torn, like everything else here.

Madness. All of them, mad.

Calvin appeared before me, like he’d been waiting: “Derek, I got a favor to ask.”