The Winged Beast lies broken at my feet, its once powerful wings now shattered and useless. Blood—thick, dark, and oily—pools around its torn body, mixing with the mechanical fluids that ooze from its shattered metallic feathers. My hands tremble, not from fear, but from the strain of the battle. My muscles ache, each breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps, and my wounds—though healing slowly—burn with a dull, throbbing pain.
I lean against the wall for a moment, trying to catch my breath, trying to understand how much further I have to go. This place… this *lab*... has already taken everything from me—my identity, my memories, my humanity. But as I look at the broken creature before me, I know that I've taken something from it, too. A small, dark satisfaction blooms inside me. The Winged Beast was supposed to be unstoppable. And yet here it lies, dead, just like the others.
But there's no time to revel in my victory. There's always another floor, another monster, another fight.
With a heavy breath, I push myself away from the wall and move toward the far side of the chamber, where a door stands half-open, hidden behind a twisted pile of debris. My instincts tell me to move, to keep climbing, but something pulls me toward that door—something that feels *different*. This isn't another combat room or death trap. The air is different here, thick with something that feels… purposeful.
I step inside.
The room beyond the door is small, almost claustrophobic compared to the wide-open chambers I've been fighting through. But it's not the size of the room that catches my attention—it's the rows of holographic displays that line the walls, each one flickering with strange, glowing symbols. At the center of the room, a large data terminal hums softly, the blue glow of its screen casting shadows on the floor.
I step closer, my footsteps eerily silent on the metal floor, my eyes drawn to the holographic images that pulse and shift in front of me. For a moment, the symbols are incomprehensible—a jumble of shapes and lines that mean nothing. But then, something strange happens. The more I stare at them, the clearer they become, as though my mind is slowly translating the meaning behind the symbols.
And then, I realize it.
*I can read this.*
I freeze, my eyes darting across the screen. The words—*I understand them.* I don't know how, I don't know *why*, but I can read the data on these screens as easily as if I had written them myself. The realization is… jarring. My memories are still a fog, a tangle of darkness and confusion, but this—*this*—is clear. And it shouldn't be.
How long have I been here? Who was I before this place?
I shake off the questions as best I can. There's no time to dwell on it. I focus instead on the data, scrolling through file after file, my curiosity growing with each passing moment.
The records show more than I expected. This lab—it wasn't just built to create the abominations I've been fighting. It wasn't simply a factory for twisted fusions of flesh and metal. No, this place was something more. Something… *desperate*.
The scientists who ran this place—they weren't trying to create monsters. They were trying to *stop* something.
I move to another terminal, my fingers swiping through holographic files, and the more I read, the more the truth begins to unfold before me.
The world—*Earth*—wasn't always like this. The records speak of an apocalypse that shattered everything, an event that turned the skies crimson and unleashed waves of monsters upon the human race. The sky—the *red sky*—was a harbinger of destruction, a signal that the world was falling apart.
And then, the monsters came.
At first, they were nothing more than beasts—brutal, savage creatures that tore through human civilization like a storm. But as time went on, the monsters began to change. They became… *something else*. More powerful, more intelligent, their bodies fusing with metal and machinery in ways that defied logic. These weren't natural creatures. They were something *unnatural*, something that had *evolved* beyond anything the human race had ever known.
The scientists called them *Fusions*.
I read further, my eyes narrowing as I scroll through the data. The Fusions—the monsters that emerged from the apocalypse—weren't created by human hands. They weren't part of some experiment gone wrong. They *just appeared*, seemingly out of nowhere, as if the red sky itself had birthed them.
And humanity was powerless against them.
That's when this lab came into existence. The scientists—desperate to find a way to survive—began experimenting on the Fusions, trying to understand what made them so powerful, trying to *control* them. They took pieces of the Fusions and merged them with humans, creating the abominations I've been fighting—the *Mecha Fusions*.
These weren't monsters born of the apocalypse. They were attempts to recreate the power of the Fusions, to harness it, to use it against the invaders. But the records show failure after failure. The Mecha Fusions were strong, but they weren't enough. They couldn't stop the coming storm.
The apocalypse wasn't an isolated event. It wasn't just Earth. The red sky—*it spread*.
I continue reading, my curiosity shifting into something darker, more sinister. I feel the weight of the words as they sink into my mind, the reality of what I'm discovering settling deep into my bones.
The red sky wasn't unique to Earth. It happened on other planets as well. *Multiple worlds* were destroyed by the same catastrophe—planets whose skies turned crimson, whose civilizations were overrun by monsters just like the ones I've been fighting. The few that survived—humans and non-humans alike—found a way to escape, teleporting their cities, their empires, to new worlds in an attempt to rebuild.
But it didn't save them.
Earth was one of the last planets to fall. The apocalypse hit late here, giving humanity just enough time to witness the destruction happening across the universe. The scientists watched as planet after planet fell to the same crimson sky, the same monstrous invaders. And they knew—*they knew*—that Earth was next.
The Fusions were unstoppable. Entire worlds were being torn apart, and the survivors were scattered across different planets, desperate to find a way to survive. This lab was part of that last, desperate effort. It was a final attempt to harness the power of the Fusions, to find a way to fight back.
But something went wrong. Something *bigger*.
The red sky—*the Crimson Event*, as the scientists called it—wasn't just a random catastrophe. It was part of a cycle. A cycle that had destroyed countless civilizations across countless worlds. And Earth was just the latest victim.
But *why*? Why were the skies turning red? Why were these monsters appearing? The records are incomplete, cut off just as they begin to explain the cause of the Crimson Event. It's like someone deliberately erased the answers, leaving behind only fragments of the truth.
I feel a laugh bubbling up inside me—dark, hollow, humorless. *Of course* it's incomplete. Of course they didn't find the answer. These people—they thought they could control the apocalypse. They thought they could fight back against something they didn't understand.
And they failed.
I take a step back from the terminal, my hand still resting on the glowing holographic screen. The weight of what I've just learned presses down on me, but there's something else too—something unexpected.
I find it… funny.
Not in a lighthearted way. Not in the way normal people laugh at a joke. No, it's deeper than that. Darker. There's a part of me—a twisted, sadistic part of me—that *enjoys* the irony of it all. These scientists, these brilliant minds who thought they could stop the end of the world—they only made it worse. They created the very monsters that now roam this lab, hunting and killing without mercy.
And I'm one of them.
I feel the corners of my mouth twitch into a smile, my body shuddering with a dark, bitter laugh. The sound echoes off the walls, filling the small control room with a twisted sense of amusement. It's funny because it's *so predictable*. Humans—they always think they can stop the inevitable. They always think they can play god, control what can't be controlled.
But they couldn't control the Fusions. And they couldn't control me.
I glance back at the terminal, my eyes scanning the remaining files. There's still so much I don't understand—so many pieces of the puzzle that are missing. The apocalypse, the red sky, the monsters—it's all connected. But the records cut off before I can learn the full truth.
And that's fine.
I don't need to know everything. Not yet. The only thing that matters is *surviving*. Escaping this lab, finding whoever—or whatever—caused all this, and *destroying* it.
I feel my smile widen, a cold, sadistic grin spreading across my face. I don't need answers. I need *revenge*.
I step away from the control room, the dark amusement still simmering inside me. The files I've read—the truth I've uncovered—it doesn't weigh me down. If anything, it fuels me. The knowledge of what this lab was trying to do, the scope of the apocalypse that has destroyed world after world—it only sharpens my resolve.
The scientists failed. They couldn't stop the monsters. But *I* will.
I take one last look at the room, the glowing holograms flickering softly in the dim light. Then I turn and walk away, my footsteps echoing through the hallways as I continue my ascent.
There's something waiting for me at the top of this lab. And I intend to find it.