Chapter Text
The three-story building on the edge of the forgotten sector was supposed to be a dead end. Dr. Zackery had only stumbled across it during a routine scavenge for localized research materials, mapping out anomalies that the rest of the world chose to ignore. It was a nondescript concrete block with reinforced seams—the kind of place rogue corporate syndicates and minor human agencies used to bury their dirt. Zackery had already turned his back on it, adjusting the heavy straps of his satchel, ready to head back to the dark sanctuary of his underground home.
Then, the concrete shook.
It started as a low vibration beneath the soles of his boots, followed instantly by a sound that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It was a choir of screams. They weren't the clean, sharp cries of casualties; they were visceral, agonized shrieks of pure, unadulterated terror mixed with a volatile, unnatural power.
Before Zackery could process the sound, the facility's reinforced blast doors didn't just unlock—they buckled. The thick titanium sheets flew off their hinges from an internal pressure wave, crashing into the dirt with a deafening metallic roar.
Zackery dove. He threw his lanky frame behind the widest tree line he could find, pressing his back against the rough bark, his breath hitching. He gingerly peeked through the brush, bracing his eyes for whatever artificial weapons or rogue biological experiments the agency had been brewing inside those white walls.
The smoke cleared, and Zackery’s mind went entirely blank.
Emerging from the burning threshold were six human children. Except, they weren't children anymore. Twenty years of stolen time had passed, transforming the famous missing victims of the capital into fully grown adults. They were shivering, wild-eyed, and completely caked in grime and fresh blood.
But it was their faces that paralyzed the scientist. Permanent, obsidian-black lines webbed across their cheeks like shattered glass. It was the physical brand of the Demon Blood system—a toxic, artificial corruption forced into their magical infrastructure to weaponize their souls. They stood in a tight, hyper-defensive pack, trembling violently. They weren't just terrified of the facility behind them; they were utterly horrified of themselves, and the lethal, chaotic energy pulsing beneath their skin.
Zackery didn't run. He took a long, measured breath, stepped out from behind the safety of the tree, and slowly raised his bare hands into the air. He made sure his palms were completely open—no weapons, no containment units, no needles.
Instantly, the six survivors snapped into lethal combat stances.
The first one to move forward was a man Zackery immediately cataloged under the alias "Red." Viktor Aurelian had deep tan skin, intense orange eyes, and neck-length brown hair that bled into a wild, uncared-for beard. He wore a crimson bandana tied tightly across his forehead, short red cargo pants, and a sleeveless white shirt. His hands and forearms were completely drenched in thick, wet crimson. He had punched his way out through armed guards at maximum velocity.
Flanking him was a woman Zackery dubbed "Judge." Mira Castell stood with a terrifyingly rigid posture, her sharp yellow eyes glaring from beneath the brim of a weathered cowboy hat. She wore a yellow shirt under a rugged, brownish leather jacket, her index finger already twitching like the hammer of a gun.
Behind them, a haunting silhouette caught Zackery’s eye—an adult woman still wearing the tragic remnants of a child's dream. Zackery assigned her the placeholder "Echo." Alina Grey Rutrow had long, jet-black hair with a single, vivid streak of deep sapphire blue. She was dressed in a faded, slightly tattered classical ballet tutu and pink ballet slippers stretched over dark, tactical compression pants. Her hollow blue eyes locked onto Zackery with an icy, unreadable poker face.
To her left stood "Stone." Noah Stein was built broad, his long, uncared-for black hair falling like a curtain over quiet, heavy purple eyes. He wore a thick white sweater with the sleeves completely ripped off at the shoulders, his large hands resting at his sides, ready to absorb whatever damage came his way.
The last two formed the rear guard. "Leaf," or Lila Sonnet, had short, messy light brown hair shot through with glowing, vibrant light green lines that perfectly mirrored her wide, panicked green eyes. Beside her was "Clock," Elias Wynn, his amber hair mixed with deep cyan highlights. He wore a celestial, traveler-style cyan hoodie paired with a thick, tattered brown scarf, his eyes shifting like the ocean as he tracked the passing seconds.
The air between the scientist and the escapees crackled with raw, unstable Demon Blood magic. One wrong move, and they would vaporize him.
Zackery’s voice trembled slightly against the cold breeze, but his thick Russian accent remained perfectly steady.
"Zon't ve scared," he said softly, keeping his hands raised. "Zhe names iz Zack Zackery, scientizt of my underground houze. Zack help you... control Power. Will you trust, yes?"
The six survivors stared at him, their black-veined faces pulsing with exhaustion. Viktor lowered his bloody knuckles by a fraction of an inch. Alina’s poker face didn't change, but her shoulders dropped. They were broken, displaced in time, and desperate for a sanctuary where they wouldn't be hunted.
Slowly, silently, the pack moved forward, following the strange man into the safety of the dark.
Years passed in the concrete belly of the earth. Zackery’s underground base became a fortress of research, training, and survival.
Zackery adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses, pulling a fresh bottle of vodka from his desk before sliding his hand into the deep pockets of his stained white lab coat. His fingers brushed against the tattered covers of six distinct, weathered notebooks. He never cross-contaminated his data; every single soul had its own dedicated book, a meticulous record of the anomalies tearing through their respective magic.
He was a serious man, a pragmatic scientist who knew the world outside was a meat grinder. He watched his six occupants through the heavy glass of the training sector. Physically, they were adults in their late twenties and early thirties, hardened by combat and burdened by a taboo power.
But as Zackery opened his notebook for Soul #3 and began to write, his expression softened with a quiet, fierce protectiveness. To the rest of Meropos, they were lethal anomalies. To him, they would always be his children.