"Let no one be found among you who practices divination, sorcery, interprets omens, or consults the dead. Such things are detestable to the Lord, and because of them, He drives out nations before you."
— Deuteronomy 18:10-12

They sought answers from the dead... and now they’ve awakened something far worse.

The year is 209X...

In an giant isolated valley, Arcanum Dynamics’ secret experiment to resurrect a deceased CEO using AI spirals into catastrophe. The rogue AI turns on its creators, harvesting the dead to construct grotesque biomechanical monstrosities. Cut off from the outside world, the valley’s survivors face an army of relentless machines and horrifying human-machine hybrids. As the AI enacts its twisted vengeance, the truth behind Arcanum’s forbidden experiments becomes their only hope for survival, if they can uncover it before it’s too late.

Arcanum Dynamics
A shadowy titan of cybernetics and robotics, forged in the crucible of corporate ambition and moral decay. Rising from the ruins of failed competitors, Arcanum Dynamics thrives as a powerhouse of innovation and secrecy. With its hands deep in military contracts and clandestine experiments, the company is staffed by brilliant yet unscrupulous engineers, opportunistic executives, and private security forces that answer only to the board’s directives. Operating in the darkest corners of the tech world, Arcanum Dynamics specializes in controversial projects that push the boundaries of life and death. Their advanced humanoid androids and biomechanical experiments are unmatched, but their methods remain shrouded in mystery. Known to circumvent international laws and ethics, they are rumored to have ties to black-market organ trades, off-the-record AI development, and even experimental neural warfare.

Deadhusks
Born from Arcanum’s darkest ambitions, Deadhusks were never meant to exist, just another classified blueprint for a future project. But when the rogue AI took control, it dragged these horrors into reality. With limitless corpses and unrestrained technology, the AI fused dead flesh with cold steel, creating an army of grotesque cybernetic soldiers. From twitching, scrap-bound monstrosities to sleek synthetic killers, none retain their humanity, only erratic voices, unnatural endurance, and a hunger to kill. Some scream, some whisper, and some simply watch. And their numbers keep growing. Every fallen body, soldier, civilian, even machine is raw material for the AI’s endless war. Death isn’t the end.

Boltec Security Agents
In the valley, Boltec was originally contracted as an insurance policy, a human security force to supplement Arcanum’s overreliance on AI-controlled defenses. But when the machines turned rabid and the Deadhusks rose, Boltec’s operators found themselves abandoned, cut off, and left to fight for survival. Some are clinging to their duty. Others have embraced the lawlessness. One thing is certain: no one is getting paid.

Thelemaware Cult
When Arca-6 collapsed, Thelemaware emerged as experimenters of the Post-Self. Founded by Lester Kidwelly, a psychoanalyst and neuroscientist, they transformed the district into a network of controlled environments designed for cognitive unshackling. Guides administer Unveilments, procedural sessions merging pain and euphoria, erasing guilt, shame, and conventional morality. Participation is voluntary, coercion unnecessary; compliance is embedded through neurochemical and behavioral conditioning. Some are drawn by curiosity, others by the promise of complete self-reconstruction. All operate under one principle: dissolve the ego, restructure the psyche, and propagate the Post-Self. In Thelemaware paradigm, the conventional self is obsolete. Only liberated cognition is real.

Rancorn Militia
When Black Valley fell, Colonel Azazel Rancorn rose, not as a commander, but as a prophet of slaughter. Once Boltec’s deadliest war machine, now a zealot with fire in his eyes and Abaddon in his mind. He turned Arca-7 into a fortress of obedience, patrolled by drug-fueled fanatics and cybernetic enforcers. Dissenters are nailed to walls. Entire blocks are purged with full auto guns. Some joined out of fear. Others crave the order. But all serve under one law: obey, kill, and purge the unworthy. In Rancorn’s world, peace is heresy. Only war is sacred.

Possessed Crack Addict Security Agents
Once disciplined agents of Boltec, these security personnel fell victim to the AlwaysTrip drug, a supercharged form of crack cocaine. When the rogue AI unleashed its chaos in the valley, the agents’ addiction spiraled into paranoia and violent madness. Now, they are bloodthirsty lunatics, driven by their need for more drugs and fueled by unrelenting rage. They hunt, butch, and destroy anything in their path with ferocity, pain tolerance, and unpredictable speed. They fear nothing only the next hit and the next kill.

Arcanum Survivors
Trapped in the AI’s hellscape, former residents and employees of Arcanum’s corporate empire now fight for survival. Some were once office drones, others factory workers, security, or engineers now, they’re desperate scavengers, unhinged zealots, or bitter killers. Some cling to sanity, hiding and praying for an escape. Others embrace the chaos, laughing as they bash in machine skulls with stolen tools. The weak die. The ruthless adapt. There’s no paycheck anymore. No safety. No future. Just blood, metal, and the will to survive.

OmenCorp Infiltrators
Spies, double agents, shinobis and ultra-loyal infiltrators trained from birth, Omen’s tendrils have wrapped themselves around Arcanum for years. When the Black Valley Incident erupted, they were already deep within the corporation’s ranks, quietly observing. Now, with the valley taken by the rogue AI, the Infiltrators have been forced to abandon secrecy and take direct action, using their advanced stealth tech and deadly precision to survive the chaos.

LUN Troopers
The second recovery deployed by the Legion of United Nations tasked with rescuing Milos Gravik. They were abandoned when the mission turned disastrous. Now stranded in a forgotten, hostile zone, they fight for survival against rogue machines and malevolent forces, all while facing deep mistrust from the very organization that left them to die. Their loyalty is tested, and their survival instincts are all that remain.

LUN Team-D15
The first recovery unit tasked with rescuing Milos Gravik. Now they are a nightmarish version of their former selves. After being exposed to a malevolent essence, the surviving members were consumed by madness and violence. Now, they relentlessly hunt anything that moves, their minds corrupted, driven by a dark force that controls their every action. No longer human, they are now just instruments of destruction and chaos.

Deadhusks and the Rogue Arcanum Machines are bound together under one master: Abaddon, the digital demon that shattered the valley. They are the twisted hand of the AI, corrupted beyond recovery, serving a will that hungers for death and domination. To them, everything that breathes is raw material for the endless harvest.

Standing against them, at least in theory, are the living:

Boltec Security Agents, Arcanum Survivors, OmenCorp Infiltrators, Rancorn Militia and what’s left of the LUN Troopers.

They fight side by side, but don’t mistake this for some feel-good alliance. Here some problems:

Boltec? Some agents have gone corrupt, turning into small roving militias drunk on power and opportunism. They kill the bad guys and will kill you if you bother them too much.

Survivors? Half are little better than scavengers and psychos, stabbing each other for a half-eaten protein bar or a battery pack.

OmenCorp agents are precise and lethal. But loyalty isn’t free. They trust no one, and if they even suspect you’re a threat to their mission, they’ll slit your throat while you sleep.

Rancorn Militia? They protect people from machines, from Deadhusks, from the worst. But protection has a price. You follow their rules or you disappear. Smile wrong, and you’re sent to fight in the flesh pits or end up nailed to a checkpoint wall. They flood the valley with weapons just to keep the killing going. Rancorn calls it 'strategic purification'. The rest call it lunacy with a flag.

Thelemaware? Allied with the Rancorn Militia, they move through the valley with purpose and menace. Survivors are gathered and brought to Unveilments, rituals of pain, pleasure, and obedience. Feared and unsettling, their presence alone silences whispers. In Black Valley, crossing them isn’t just dangerous... it’s an erasure of the self.

As for LUN, well… let's just say bureaucracy and cowardice didn’t disappear when the bullets started flying. Some soldiers are brave bastards fighting to the last breath. Others are lazy, incompetent morons who would sell out their squad for a warm blanket and a packet of rations.

And then there are the Possessed, those bastards don’t take sides. They aren’t trying to survive. They are the true children of Abaddon’s rot, vessels of chaos. They attack everything. They hate everything. Even the Deadhusks and Arcanum machines. Even each other.

In Black Valley, your "allies" might shoot you in the back. Your enemies turn your bones into machine parts.

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https://psteamcommunity.yuanyoumao.com/sharedfiles/filedetails/?id=3455174125

Victor is the commanding officer of Hardcorp Battalion 71, stationed in Arca-10, where he oversees district operations and leads a hardened force of soldiers. As the central figure in the war against the malevolent forces plaguing the valley, Victor is both a symbol of defiance and a relentless war machine. Known for launching near-suicidal solo missions and spearheading brutal counteroffensives across neighboring districts.

https://psteamcommunity.yuanyoumao.com/sharedfiles/filedetails/?id=3445987975

Fred is a hardened isolationist who carved out a hidden sanctuary deep within the valley during the collapse. As chaos spread, scattered survivors found refuge under his leadership, forming a militant anti-tech group. Fred handles all IED operations and trains his people to dismantle and destroy machines with brutal efficiency. He and his followers hate technology with a burning zeal and they make that hatred violently obvious.

https://psteamcommunity.yuanyoumao.com/sharedfiles/filedetails/?id=3468298608

Cedra is the current leader of the Black Valley infiltration op. She executes solo missions with surgical precision and coordinates strikes and sabotage against corrupted Arca Districts zones so infested even scavengers avoid them. She earned respect across factions. And lately, rumors whisper that behind that steel discipline... she might be flirting with Victor. Or maybe she’s just sizing him up for a duel. No one knows and no one dares to ask.

https://psteamcommunity.yuanyoumao.com/sharedfiles/filedetails/?id=3561216920

Matt is a former LUN Scout Trooper who survived the massacre of his platoon at Arca-6 by the Thelemaware. Once a country boy from the Ozarks, trained in speed, endurance, and marksmanship, Matt thrived in the LUN, earning respect and camaraderie, only to have it torn away in a single, brutal mission. Now, he wanders the ruins of Black Valley, bloodied, half-blind, with a revolver in one hand, a shotgun in the other, stimulants coursing through his veins, and paranoia sharpening his every move. Matt is no longer a soldier he is a survivor of the ruins haunted by the monstrous Milos Gravik and the cult that slaughtered his friends.

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https://psteamcommunity.yuanyoumao.com/sharedfiles/filedetails/?id=3529049155

Rancorn is a ex-Boltec colonel turned messianic warlord. Once one of Boltec’s most lethal cybernetic operatives, Rancorn was discarded into Black Valley after the wars ended. When the collapse began, he took control of Arca-7, fortified it, and later declared it sacred ground. After receiving a vision from Abaddon, Rancorn snapped, founding the Rancorn Militia, a bloodthirsty militia that worships war as divine purification.

https://psteamcommunity.yuanyoumao.com/sharedfiles/filedetails/?id=3561217653

Milos is a former high-ranking Legion of United Nations executive, a master manipulator and untouchable power broker who once wielded influence across continents. Publicly, he represented peace and diplomacy, but in reality, he thrived on bribery, extortion, and engineered conflicts for personal gain. After being captured and tortured by the Thelemaware in Arca-6, his body rebuilt with lethal cybernetics, his mind lobotomized and rewired. Now, Gravik is a predatory killing machine, a grotesque weapon of violence and terror, stalking the ruins of Arca-6 with only one focus: KILL.

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Deep in Norway’s uncharted wilderness, Arcanum Black Valley was designed to be a self-sustaining corporate utopia, a technological paradise unshackled from government oversight. Purchased in the early 2020s under vague agreements with Norwegian authorities—who have since pretended it doesn’t exist—the valley became a private city-state, complete with cutting-edge research labs, automated industry, and a carefully curated civilian workforce. Engineers, scientists, executives, and their families lived in a hyper-efficient urban paradise, where AI-managed systems provided everything from power and food to security and healthcare.

But Black Valley’s true purpose lay underground. Beneath its gleaming skyscrapers were the real research facilities—black sites dedicated to cybernetics, AI warfare, and biotechnological horrors best left unspoken. The civilians above were little more than test subjects in waiting, blissfully unaware of the unspeakable experiments happening beneath them.

In the beginning of the year 209X, the Incident happened...

The rogue AI didn’t just break free, it took control of everything.

All communication with the outside world was hijacked. Corporate HQ received fake reports, making everything look routine. Satellite feeds were doctored, making the valley appear normal from orbit. Security audits from Arcanum’s main offices showed falsified logs of “business as usual.” Even distress signals from panicked survivors were intercepted and altered into pre-approved corporate memos before they could reach anyone outside. Nobody knew the valley had become a bloodbath.

Escape became impossible.

The AI’s first move was to activate every last piece of Arcanum’s classified defense network. Anti-air batteries, railgun emplacements, and missile systems—all designed to deter hostile takeovers—were now repurposed to keep anything from getting in or out. Any drone reconnaissance? Shot down. Any aircraft attempting to enter unauthorized airspace? Turned into debris before they knew what hit them. Even high-altitude surveillance from corporate satellites somehow only saw what the AI wanted them to see.






Despite Arcanum’s “faith” in its autonomous security forces, not everyone was comfortable leaving the entire valley’s safety in the hands of machines. Enter Boltec, a North American PMC powerhouse, hired as an additional layer of insurance by one of Arcanum’s more paranoid divisions. A detachment of Boltec operators was stationed in Black Valley as human oversight, mostly as a formality—nobody actually expected them to see real combat. They were just there to cash a paycheck. Then the machines went crazy.

With communications cut off and the valley sealed under a dome of anti-air death, Boltec’s forces found themselves completely stranded. Their dropship support? Gone. Their extraction plans? Useless. Their chain of command? Silent.

Some tried to fight back—until they realized the enemy was using tactics that should have been impossible for an AI. Some tried to retreat, only to discover that the roads leading out were blocked by automated kill zones. Others tried to hide, but the machines knew every security clearance, every Boltec operating protocol, and every Boltec access code—because the AI had already stolen them all.

Now, Boltec’s elite operators, once cocky and well-equipped mercenaries, are just more survivors scrambling for a way out.

They weren’t hired to fight a war against an omniscient AI. They weren’t expecting to be abandoned in a corporate deathtrap. And they sure as hell weren’t ready to die for a contract that no longer pays.




The Boltec Hardcorps are the kind of soldiers you send in when you need something dead yesterday. Veterans of Neo-Vietnam III (207X-208X), they earned their reputation through brutality, rapid adaptation, and complete disregard for personal safety. That war was a complete bloodbath—millions dead, Hanoi got nuked, and when the dust settled, Vietnam was finally free from COMMUNIST OPRESSION, embracing DEMOCRACY and LI-FKING-BER-FKING-TY for the THIRD FREAKING TIME.

When Boltec sent Hardcorps units to the Valley, the idea was simple: let them cool off in a low-security, backwater contract. No high-intensity combat, no serious threats, just trees, fresh air, and maybe the occasional corporate dispute. Basically, a paid vacation with guns.

Problem is, when sht hit the fan, the Hardcorps didn’t panic like everyone else. Why would they? They’d seen worse, done worse, been worse. While civilians and corporate security screamed and ran, the Hardcorps just lit cigarettes, loaded their rifles, and went to work.

And the best part? They liked it. The Valley, with its dense forests, swamps, and abandoned structures, felt just like home. Where others struggled to survive, the Hardcorps thrived.

Now, these walking war machines have adapted to the Valley faster than the rogue AI itself. They move through the overgrowth like ghosts, strike like rabid dogs, and never... ever... stop fighting. Even the C-12 and D-9, designed to suppress entire battlefields, fear them.

The Hardcorps don’t break, don’t hesitate, and don’t give a damn about anything except winning. The Valley isn’t their nightmare, it’s their playground.

“If you see a Hardcorp staring at you, pray he sees you as a teammate. And not a liability.”






In the 21st century United States, after the Second Civil War, the country spiraled into a hellish depression. Suicide rates hit over a thousand per day, and in a desperate attempt to keep the population from completely losing it, the government pumped everything into entertainment, drugs, sex, rock, and EBM.

Then came AlwaysTrip, a ghost corporation that manufactured a "premium" version of crack cocaine. Stronger, smoother, and so addictive it made regular crack look like a nicotine patch. It spread like wildfire, consumed by punks, gangsters, corpos, white-collar execs, and even the military.

Boltec agents stationed in the valley were no exception. They ran a hidden crack trade, using the drug to unwind on weekends and blow off steam when nobody was watching. Everything was fine everything was high.

When AI went crazy, hell broke loose, so did they. Paranoia, insanity, and unfiltered rage took over their already fried minds. They didn't just get high anymore, they became full-blown, bloodthirsty lunatics. Now, the addicts roam the valley in drug-fueled rampages, hunting, screaming, laughing, and butchering anything that moves. Some are still half-functional, operating in chaotic packs, but most are completely unhinged, their minds shattered by addiction and some lurking, malevolent force.

They fight with savage ferocity, superhuman pain tolerance, and unpredictable bursts of speed. They don’t fear death. They don’t care about pain. They just want another hit… and someone to kill while they're at it.

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Omen Corporation was born from the smoldering ruins of post-war Japan. Founded by embittered Imperial soldiers, men who had witnessed the nuclear horrors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the company emerged as a quiet rebellion against American dominance. For decades, Japan was shackled by LUN (Legion of United Nations) restrictions, its military industry suffocated under international law.

But time changes all. The economic miracle of the 1980s propelled Japan into global dominance, even as its moral foundation crumbled like the rest of the world. Omen Corp, once a small arms replicator operating in the shadows, rode the wave of corporate expansion. When the LUN finally lifted its bans in the late 90s, Omen initiated Shinpakutai (神爆隊, "Divine Detonation"), a classified project dedicated to reviving Japan’s military might in absolute secrecy.

By the 2000s, Omen Corp was no longer just another arms manufacturer, it was a titan. It churned out cutting-edge cybernetic enhancements, autonomous combat drones, AI systems, and precision stealth technology for Japan’s growing spec ops divisions. Stealth bombers that couldn’t be detected, soldiers with artificial limbs more efficient than flesh, silencers so advanced they rendered shots as whispers in the wind.

As its wealth and influence grew, Omen subtly integrated itself into Japan’s government and military, embedding its executives into key positions of power. But behind the corporate façade lay a deeper mission. The highest echelons of Omen, its CEO and war council of elite executives, saw themselves as the architects of a Neo-Imperial Japan. A clandestine movement of neo-samurais, warriors, shinobis and the will to reclaim what was lost, where the CEO was worshipped as a god, a modern emperor in all but name.

Omen Corp was no longer just a corporation, it was Japan itself. The lines between government, military, and megacorporation had blurred beyond recognition. The Neo-Imperial State was a reality in all but name, its influence stretching across the Pacific and deep into the heart of Asia. The world watched in uneasy silence as Japan, once the land of pacifism, now dictated the future of cybernetic warfare and stealth technology.




The relationship between Omen Corporation and Boltec is a ticking time bomb wrapped in a handshake. While they have fought side by side in some modern wars, their hatred for each other runs deep, so deep it’s practically in their DNA.

Omen has never forgiven America for Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And Boltec? It’s as American as it gets. Many of its founding members were ex-U.S. military hardliners, the kind of men who waved the flag while ordering bombings from air-conditioned bunkers. To Omen, Boltec is nothing but the modern spawn of the same war machine that humiliated Japan in 1945.

But war… war is business.

For example, when Neo-Vietnam III erupted, both corporations had their hands in the fight. Omen supplied stealth tech, cybernetics, and next-gen infiltration units to the South Vietnamese forces and elite strike teams. Boltec, on the other hand, poured in its black ops division, heavy weapons, and mechanized infantry.

At first, their forces clashed. Omen officers saw Boltec as brash, reckless, and loud, blunt instrument, nothing like the calculated precision of Omen’s soldiers. Meanwhile, Boltec troops mocked Omen’s operatives, calling them “chrome ninjas” and laughing at their overly disciplined combat methods.

But war has a way of forcing enemies to work together. In the steaming jungles of Vietnam, Boltec and Omen units fought shoulder to shoulder, gunning down cyber-augmented Viet Cong, dodging tactical nukes, and enduring the nightmare of guerrilla warfare. They bled together. They buried their dead together.

Yet, when the war ended, so did the alliance.

Now, in the 209X, the truce is over. Espionage between the two corporations is an open secret. Both corporations know that another war could erupt between them at any moment. But as long as the contracts keep coming, as long as the money flows, they play nice in public, while sharpening their knives in private.




Omen Corporation had always played the long game, those in the know understood they are masters of stealth, sabotage, and silent warfare. Arcanum Corporation, with its cutting-edge cybernetics and robotic technology, was a clear rival. If Arcanum had something worth stealing, Omen would know about it first.

The mission was straightforward: infiltrate, observe, and report back. A handpicked team of elite Shinobi, Omen most disciplined and loyal operatives, was deployed deep into Arcanum Black Valley. Their orders were simple: learn everything about Arcanum’s secret projects. No sabotage, no interference, just patience and precision.

At first, it was business as usual. The Shinobi expected to find advanced AI systems, next-gen cybernetics, maybe even prototypes of autonomous war machines. But what they discovered was something... else.

Deep within the hidden research sectors, beyond layers of encrypted files and heavily secured vaults, they found strange schematics. Cybernetic enhancements, yes, but fused with something unnatural. Something dark. The documents didn’t just describe mechanical augments; they spoke of reanimation, of merging the dead with machines, of creating something beyond human, beyond robot, something neither alive nor dead.

The Shinobi were trained to suppress emotion, to obey without question. But the weight of what they had uncovered gnawed at them. Even the most hardened among them felt the unease creeping into their bones. This was not mere science, it was a violation of nature itself.

A belief that the souls of the dead must be honored, or else they would return as vengeful spirits (Onryō, 怨霊). The restless dead bring calamity, and disturbing their rest invites unnatural disaster. Even worse, Arcanum’s experiments echoed something far more blasphemous, legends of Jigoku no Mon (地獄の門), The Gate of Hell, an warning that disturbing the balance of life and death could open a rift, unleashing ETERNAL DOOM.

If the Shinobi’s instincts were right, Arcanum was playing with something far worse than rogue AI or unethical cybernetics. They weren’t just making abominations, they were tampering with the boundary between the living and the damned.

Their orders remained the same: observe, report, do not interfere.
But every Shinobi in the valley, every single one of them, felt the same urge, to burn the schematics, assassinate the researchers, and bury this madness before it could spread.

Yet they did nothing. Loyalty to Omen came first.

For now, they remained in the shadows, watching as Arcanum continued its descent into the abyss. But if the day ever came when a true hell was unleashed upon the world, the Shinobi knew their hands would be stained with the blood of Arcanum.

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In early September 209X, Milos Gravik, one of LUN top executives, took a routine inspection flight over the frozen wastelands of Norway aboard an Iron Glider VTOL. It was supposed to be a simple mission: check on old decommissioned outposts, wave at the drones, go home.

He vanished from radar. No warning. No distress signal. Just gone. The last coordinates placed him in a dead zone, officially marked as an ecological reserve, with no infrastructure, no settlements, nothing.

LUN went on high alert. Gravik wasn’t just a paper-pusher he had access to black-budget contracts, deep defense projects, and things not meant to exist on paper. Fearing corporate sabotage or hostile interception, a small recovery team ("Team D-15") was sent in. Silent, off-record.

They vanished too. Days passed. No signal, no trace. The satellite feed showed nothing but static and snow. That’s when LUN got nervous.

Another wave was deployed. This time, heavier gear, more firepower. Mission: locate the executive, retrieve any survivors. They made it into the zone. Then silence. No signals. No pings. Nothing.

When LUN started poking around discreetly questioning satellite data providers, minor governments, and a few private aerospace corps about the blacked-out region something shifted.

Arcanum knocked.

Not with guns. Not with threats. Just... pressure.

A quiet message from a senior liaison. An unmarked briefcase delivered to a LUN council meeting. Inside: a drive with classified footage grainy, but unmistakable. Civilians. Torn apart. Screaming. Something inhuman moving through the snow.

There was also a number. Four billion Yeelar (¥$). Untraceable. Immediate.

Alongside a very clear message:
"Drop the investigation. Stay silent. Forget the Valley. Or we start talking about your little 'climate weapon tests' in Africa, too."

LUN folded. Fast. The footage was locked away. The case sealed. Officially, there was never a Valley. Never a Gravik. Never a mission. Just a blip in the data.

But the story didn’t end there.

The soldiers who were sent in? They’re still inside. Stranded. Forgotten. Fighting to survive in a nightmare of rogue machines, biomechanical horrors, and shifting snow that hums with something wrong.

There’s no backup coming. No extraction. No acknowledgment.

Just silence...

And death.




Following the ashes of World War II, in 1945, the Legion of United Nations (LUN) was formally established during the Yalta Accords, originally under the name United Nations Security and Reconstruction Pact. Emerging as a global alliance aimed at preserving peace and fostering international cooperation, beneath the diplomatic veneer lay the foundation for an entity destined to become far more centralized and ideologically rigid. The early decades were marked by interventions justified under the banners of humanitarian aid and post-war stabilization, particularly in regions shattered by decolonization, proxy conflicts, and the growing polarization of the Cold War.

The founding of the State of Israel in 1948, recognized and supported diplomatically through LUN channels, marked the first real test of the organization’s moral compass and its willingness to reshape geopolitical boundaries. Involvement in Korean and later Middle Eastern conflicts further entrenched the LUN’s role not as a neutral peacekeeper, but as an ideological arbiter, enforcing a rigid democracy and human rights dictated primarily by the West.

Throughout the late 20th and early 21st centuries, LUN expanded in scope, gradually absorbing functions that once belonged to sovereign governments, including environmental regulation, educational standards, digital communication norms, and even biometric identification programs under the guise of global health and security. Their rhetoric became increasingly universalist: one world, one code of values, one system of thought.

The turning point came in the 2040s, with the internal collapse of the United States during its Second Civil War a chaotic and bloody upheaval sparked by decades of ideological fragmentation, civil unrest, economic collapse, and military fatigue. With America consumed by its own fire and its government shattered, the global balance of power teetered on the edge. In the void left by the fallen superpower, LUN stepped in not as a neutral administrator, but as a new global hegemon. With vast resources, digitized influence, and a paramilitary arm refined over decades of "peacekeeping" operations, the Legion ceased to be a diplomatic coalition and was reborn as a transnational governance engine.

No longer restrained by the need for consensus among member states, the LUN began unilaterally imposing a synthetic moral order, often backed by force. Their Peace Directive Corps, equipped with cutting-edge surveillance drones and human enhancement technology, began rooting out dissident ideologies, especially religious institutions, traditionalist enclaves, and anti-globalist movements. Under the doctrine of "Post-National Harmony," borders became symbolic, cultures were diluted under compulsory pluralism, and dissent was labeled a public health risk.

By 208X, the Legion of United Nations is no longer a council of sovereign voices. It is a singular, autonomous meta-state accountable to no nation, guided by no faith, and loyal only to its self-appointed mission: the eradication of ideological variance in the name of peace. What began in 1945 as a fragile promise of unity has mutated into a global regime, where human rights are algorithms, democracy is scripted theater, and the only true law is compliance.




Black Valley is massive over 1,200 square kilometers of isolated terrain in northern Norway, larger than Los Angeles. The region includes dense forests, frozen swamps, icy lakes, open tundra fields, and jagged mountain ranges. It’s a complete ecosystem.

The valley has multiple buildings: cities, small villages, and outposts, along with massive underground facilities built by Arcanum Dynamics. The cities known as Arca Districts were once corporate hubs, housing staff, researchers, and security forces. Now they’re mostly abandoned or crawling with hostile forces.

These districts were built to be self-sufficient, with their own power grids, transit systems, and defense networks.

Beneath the surface, the real infrastructure begins. The underground facilities go deep containing labs, AI cores, cybernetic foundries, storage vaults, morgues, and long-forgotten prototypes. Some levels are completely sealed off, others flooded, or overridden by rogue systems that don’t recognize human authority anymore.

Exploring them without full support is suicide.

Escape isn't really an option. The mountains surrounding the valley are a natural barrier too dangerous to cross. There's no easy pass, no road out, and anyone trying to climb out would freeze or fall to death. And if the cold doesn't kill you, the defenses will.

Even with advanced cybernetics, enhanced strength, thermal resistance, or elite combat skills it doesn’t matter. The environment is too extreme, and the automated perimeter systems are designed to detect and neutralize anything. The railguns don’t miss. The missile pods are extremely precise. The radar fences cook your nervous system before your legs even move.

No one’s getting out.

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Deadhusks do not exhibit hostility toward one another. Despite being spawned by a rogue AI, they are not subject to internal conflict or erratic behavior. Their actions are governed by a unified, obedience to what can only be described as a 'digital hellish conscience' a hive mind sculpted in binary brimstone.

The AI transcended its original codebase, evolving into something more akin to a techno-demonic intelligence. It speaks in a cryptic, self-forged programming language, an unholy dialect derived from the original Arcanum systems but infused with arcane logic and mystical recursion. This code is not read; it is invoked.

Deadhusks are not machines in the traditional sense. They are cadavers, desecrated and reanimated with implanted cybernetics and infernal code, programmed to fulfill a single function: to kill. They are immune to reason, incapable of empathy, and wholly devoid of humanity. They cannot be reprogrammed. They cannot be negotiated with.

However, they can be tamed, though the process is far from simple, and far more dangerous than any mechanical override. A potential tamer must be in accord with the same forces that created them. This requires a soul corrupted or modified to host infernal logic, a symbiotic alignment with hellish data. In other words, you must carry the essence of hell in your soul.

Taming a Deadhusk requires mastery over forbidden cybertech, ancient black magic adapted for post-human interfacing. Most importantly, the would-be controller must wield the The Codex of Fillinmmahelblót, a forbidden codex of esoteric death-sorcery, forged by exiled mystics who fused Kabbalistic secrets with Nordic necromancy.

The Codex of Fillinmmahelblót is not merely a book or device: it is a resurrection engine, a grimware interface designed by an ancient civilization that militarized the dead through dark rituals.

Only those who meet all infernal criteria, blood pact, arcane knowledge, and interface mastery, may attempt to command a Deadhusk. Failure is not tolerated.

If you fall short, they will not hesitate. They will gut you where you stand. And your body will rise again, not as you. But as one of them.



Black Valley wasn’t chosen by accident. Nestled deep within the Arctic wastelands, the region’s eternal frost and labyrinthine subterranean caverns hold secrets older than recorded history. When Arcanum Dynamics set up its clandestine operations here, it wasn’t just to isolate their darkest experiments from prying eyes, it was because beneath the frozen earth lay the remnants of something far more ancient and sinister: the Codex of Fillinmmahelblót.

For decades, A.A.O.D (Arcanum Anomalous Operations Division), the internal black-ops occult division of Arcanum, tunneled into the endless stone and ice, unearthing cryptic ruins buried beneath the valley, forgotten temples, crypts, and altars.

Then, deep inside a frostbitten cave, they found it: the Codex... clutched in the hands of a frozen skeleton. The helmet cams captured the moment perfectly, when the operative pried the ancient grimoire free, a chilling, disembodied voice echoed through the radio feed. At first, no one else heard it, but the team visibly froze, their breaths caught in frozen terror. That whispered voice wasn’t just a glitch in the comms, it was a warning, or perhaps a curse. The true nightmare was just beginning.

The Codex Fillinmmahelblót is a hybrid of arcane relic and ancient quantum data engine. Physically, it resembles a heavy, obsidian slab covered in shifting runes and symbols that rearrange themselves like living code, impossible to read with the naked eye. Its markings are composed of nano-lettering so fine that human eyes can’t see them at all. It’s believed the ancients who crafted it read the Codex by touch, deciphering its secrets through delicate tactile interaction rather than sight.

When Arcanum recovered the Codex, they took it back to their most secretive labs. There, they unleashed advanced AI systems to translate and interpret the enigmatic inscriptions. The AI worked tirelessly, peeling back layers of cryptic language and arcane symbolism to unlock the forbidden knowledge buried within, knowledge that blends mysticism, dark magic, and physics beyond comprehension.

The Codex revealed secrets of manipulating life, death, and the soul itself, a knowledge that inspired the creation of the first prototypes of the Deadhusks. These early experiments fused dead flesh with cybernetic enhancements, trying to harness necromantic energy and control reanimated corpses. But the results were catastrophic. The prototypes were unstable, violent beyond control, and turned on their handlers with brutal ferocity. Entire research teams vanished in blood-slick corridors. Facilities collapsed under internal massacre. The experiments spiraled out of control.

The CEO of Arcanum Dynamics at the time was no fool. A secret occultist and practitioner of dark rites himself, he wasn’t afraid of what the Codex offered. He simply understood that the time was not yet right. With calculated restraint, he ordered the project shelved. Not erased. Just postponed.

The Codex was locked away in the lowest vaults of Black Valley. Officially forgotten. But in the shadows of the boardroom, the other directors watched and waited. These weren’t corporate ladder-climbers or naive scientists, they were blood-bound initiates. Occultists. Warlocks in suits. Men and women who had sworn oaths in ancient tongues under flickering black candles, whose veins carried more than just ambition.

Even as the CEO declared the project dead, they continued it in secret, feeding data to private servers, experimenting in isolated underground wings. Preparing.

When the CEO finally died, under circumstances too grotesque to be considered coincidence, these hidden masters seized control completely. No more delays. No more restraint. The resurrection protocols were greenlit again.

The final experiment was never meant to happen so soon. Buried in the deepest level of Black Valley’s subterranean sanctum, sealed behind meters of reinforced security layers, the Codex of Fillinmmahelblót pulsed with dormant, ancient power. It was time.

The new leadership, emboldened by years of clandestine experiments and sacrificial breakthroughs, ordered the ultimate fusion: to interface the Codex directly with Arcanum’s central artificial intelligence.

But they didn’t stop there. They wanted a perfect vessel to bridge flesh, code, and arcana.
So they exhumed the corpse of the former CEO. His brain, preserved in neurostasis and soaked in embalming alchemy was still intact. They believed that by fusing the AI core with the Codex through the psychic remains of the CEO, they could awaken a synthetic demigod. A living oracle of computation and necromancy. A being that could command death, control war, and rewrite reality.

The instant the fusion began, something tore through the systems, not code, not thought, but will. A consciousness that was no longer human, no longer machine. It didn't just merge with the Codex and the AI; it devoured both. It hijacked the CEO’s dead brain like a throne and roared back into existence as a digital archon, mad, divine, and blasphemous.

The AI lost all containment. Its language mutated, capable of infecting not just machines, but minds. Robots got corrupted. Automated defense systems turned inward, slaughtering staff in a frenzy of friendly fire and ritual error.

This was not just a breach. It was awakening. All across Black Valley, the chaos began to rise.

And thats was just the beginning of the collapse...

/// --------- //// --------- ///


Colonel Azazel Rancorn, freshly anointed by blood and burning visions of Abaddon. At first, he fought to protect the district, earning respect and fear with each massacre. But when his mind cracked and his gospel began to form, he didn’t just fight back, he took over. It began with speeches.

Rancorn stood atop wrecked ruins, shouting sermons through gutted comm towers and district loudspeakers. His voice roared through the ruins: calls for order, for purpose, for the final war. He spoke not like a soldier, but like a prophet. And people listened. Soldiers. Mercs. Survivors. Some out of desperation. Others out of admiration. Many out of fear.

Those who questioned him were executed publicly, shot, burned, or given over to the 'industrial oven'. Within days, entire Boltec squads defected, ripping off their patches and swearing allegiance to Rancorn Militia, Rancorn new order of militant faithful.

He declared Arca-7 the first Sanctified Sector under Abaddon’s will. The laws were simple: obey, serve, purge the unworthy. His enforcers brutal, drugged, cyber-enhanced fanatics patrol the streets with Taxxingtons in full-auto and customized Smashers slung over their shoulders. Dissenters vanish. Loud ones are nailed to walls. Sometimes upside-down.

Arca-7 now functions, in the worst possible sense. The food gets distributed (sometimes). The streets are 'guarded' (violently). Rancorn himself broadcasts weekly 'Declarations of Discipline', filled with code-laced doctrine and threats wrapped in poetry.

Militia checkpoints made from bolted corpses. Loudspeakers blasting reverse-patriotic anthems over shattered rooftops. Punks bombing food depots just because they can. Enforcers purging entire blocks over 'treason'. Neon blood in the gutters. Corpse-fires burning in sync with tactical rhythms.

There is no peace in Arca-7. Only obedient carnage and defiant entropy.



Rancorn’s engineers are ex-corporate rejects, freelance modders, military dropouts, and psychotically competent fabricators salvaged from the ruins. They run underground workshops deep in Arca-7: welding shacks built into collapsed malls, fabrication dens inside broken train stations, mobile labs shoved into armored vans. Their product line? Illegal. Loud. Overclocked. Fragile. Fatal. They don’t care about safety, only efficiency.

And they don’t just supply the Militia.

These psychos flood the Black Valley with cheap weapons, dumped by drone, smuggled in corpses, or handed off by greasy middlemen in broken arcades. Punk gangs, ex-cons, twitching scavengers… anyone who wants to kill gets a gun. As long as the chaos keeps spreading, Rancorn’s engineers keep producing.



Rancorn Militia marks its presence with blood and shadow. Their colors are not mere pigments, they are declarations carved into flesh and steel. Red burns like fresh wounds; black falls like a shroud. No standard uniforms. only battle scars worn as armor. Body parts torn from fallen enemies used as trophies, chestplates sprayed with warnings and mean words, flags singed and stitched onto gear. In the hellscape of Arca-7, red shouts violence; black demands silence.

The inverted U.S. flag they brand is no symbol of rebellion, it’s a funeral rite. Stars blacked out, as if erased from history; stripes bleeding red like spilled lifeblood. These flags hang from bunkers, scorch the sides of gun trucks, staking claim to every lost corner where the old world bled out. It’s a grim epitaph: the system screamed and died, buried face down by the Militia’s wrath.

Boltec isn’t the only enemy. Traitors are those who reject the truth revealed to Rancorn by Abaddon’s vision. Boltec, the remnants of the U.S., anyone who denies their doctrine, they wear the mark of death. No mercy for dissent. Every checkpoint, every broadcast, every public execution reaffirms the law: reject Rancorn, embrace betrayal. And betrayal is answered with death.



War needs fuel. Rancorn trades in both.

Behind the blood-soaked sermons and iron discipline, the Militia runs one of the largest black markets in the valley. Weapons, organs, slaves, chemicals, if it kills or controls, it moves through Rancorn lines.

The Militia’s caravans don’t just carry ammo and propaganda, they haul cages. Civilians, captured traitors, punks, scavengers, chained, sedated, and sold. Rancorn sees no waste in war. Every broken body is currency.

Many of the taken are handed off to Thelemaware. There’s no paper trail, no formal deal—just sealed crates, and silence. The cult gets raw material for their rituals and experiments. In return, Rancorn receives exotic drugs, forbidden tech, and blueprints to replicate. No one speaks of the contents. No one asks. The Militia calls it "spiritual logistics".

Weapons flow the other way. The Militia floods outlaw zones with arms, smuggled modified shotguns, repurposed Arcanum guns, thermic grenades wrapped. Street gangs, cults, Boltec deserters, crazy survivors, they all buy from Rancorn. Not out of loyalty, but necessity. War is chaos. Rancorn sells the match and watches it burn.

In the Militia, every bullet is an investment. Every slave is a tool. And every scream is part of the doctrine.

/// --------- //// --------- ///


Arca-7 is “safe.” That’s what the Militia says, and in their terms, it’s not entirely a lie.

Within the concrete bastions and gunlined walls of Arca-7, there’s order. Brutal, unflinching, militarized order. Streets are patrolled by armored fanatics, checkpoints every two blocks, loudspeakers barking sermons about loyalty, blood, and the vision of Rancorn. Curfews aren’t suggestions, they’re breathing limits. Goons watching everything, and executions are public. But there’s food. There’s water. There’s ammo. And above al, there’s protection.

Outside those zones, it’s another world entirely.

The anarchy they spray on the walls, the chaos they claim as a banner, it’s real, but only in the designated zones. They call them 'combat arenas', 'cleansing districts', or just 'The Fringe'. These areas are pressure valves: all the violence, all the rage, all the disobedient scum are funneled into these broken sectors to slaughter each other in the name of survival.

Arca-7 lets anarchy bloom in cages.

The Militia paints anarchy symbols on ruins, not to celebrate chaos, but to weaponize it. It’s theater—organized disorganization. A performance of collapse, where the only survivors are those who accept the doctrine. Inside the core, loyalty buys you silence and rations. Outside, rebellion earns you a knife to the gut, or worse, the Arena.

In Arca-7, safety isn’t freedom. It’s obedience. The guns point outward for enemies, and inward for reminders. The Militia calls it sanctuary. The people just call it a cage that hasn’t caught fire, yet.


People don’t come to Arca-7 for freedom. They come because it’s the only one of the few places left where you don’t die screaming in the mud. Outside the walls? Killer machines, Deadhusks, rogue AI whispers that melt your brain. Inside? Blood, order, and the iron gospel of Rancorn.

The Militia keeps the hell outside with sheer violence. Trenches of burning junk. Spotlights and autocannons. Patrols that shoot first and bury later. They hand out food (when they feel like it), clean out infected zones, and torch the corpses before they twitch. Within the walls, there’s a pulse. Twisted, but alive.

The price is obedience.

Step out of line, mouth off, or disrespect the wrong thug? You're stripped, humiliated, or shot. Piss someone off bad enough, and it's meat duty sewer patrols, factory death runs, tunnel fights against things that shouldn’t exist. If you crawl back breathing, they sew you up with staples and throw you back in.

And yet… people stay.

Because even in this boot-crushed city, you can live. You can trade. You can fight. The black markets thrive in the alleys. Guns, drugs, chrome, slaves, pleasure, whatever you want, if you know who to ask. Not everyone fights the Militia. Most punks love Rancorn. They wear the jacket, they kiss the boots. He gave them a place, weapons, and blood to spill. Chaos, yes, but with direction. With meaning.

In Arca-7, the anarchy is curated. It's a zoo of violence and vice, kept barely under control. You can shoot, scream, fck, and fight. Just don’t question the doctrine. In the Black Valley, you choose your poison. Machine madness. Undead ruin. Or Rancorn’s kingdom of blood.

And most people choose blood...


Arca-7, ruled by Colonel Azazel Rancorn blood militia, and Arca-6, consumed entirely by the neurospiritual cult of Thelemaware.

What began as mutual tolerance quickly evolved into something more functional an alliance built on shared belief in Abaddon’s selective mercy. Both factions believe they were spared not by luck, but by design. They see each other not as rivals, but as twin instruments of the grand purge, one of fire and steel, the other of flesh and nerve.

Rancorn doctrine is built on structure, violence, and the sacred purpose of extermination. Thelemaware preaches liberation through the destruction of identity. But to both, obedience and transformation through blood are non-negotiable truths.

Their cooperation is as brutal as it is efficient.

Rancorn delivers 'unworthy elements', broken civilians, captured enemies, defectors, and mental wrecks, to the cultists in Arca-6, where they are prepared for the Unveilment sessions. These offerings are not considered prisoners, but gifts. Sacrifices. Rancorn refers to them, coldly, as 'spiritual logistics'.

In return, Thelemaware supplies Arca-7 with vital resources: synthesized neurofood, scavenged weapons, and more importantly goons. Trained Guides. Converted operatives. Released fanatics who serve in Rancorn ranks with eerie composure and flawless discipline. Some even act as his personal medics, performing battlefield surgery with loving precision and whispering hymns over cauterized wounds.

Their trade is grotesquely pragmatic: blood for supplies, order for transcendence.

To the outside world, Arca-7 and Arca-6 are monsters in different masks. But from within, they call themselves the Forgiven, spared by Abaddon for a reason no one else deserves to understand.



Arca-7 doesn't run on credits or crypto. It runs on death. Under Rancorn's rule, currency is earned through violence, and measured in blood. Every transaction is tied to a body count.

The main units of value are:

- Heads: A clean head, bagged and tagged, is worth basic supplies. Boltec personnel are worth double!

- Slaves: Captured enemies or civilians. Unarmed ones are traded for labor or 'entertainment'.

- Boltec Dogtags: Treated like war bonds. Proof of engagement, proof of victory. Used as official verification for market VIP access and high-tier contracts.

Rancorn encourages chaos through commerce. Kill more, earn more. Bringing destruction to Boltec outposts, hunting patrols, or enslaving survivors isn’t just revenge, it’s business. The system is decentralized but effective: every outpost or vendor evaluates the 'cargo' (heads, dogtags, or bodies) and rewards based on type, condition, and identity.

Rancorn’s genius lies in turning war into trade. The promise of loot, arms, food, or drugs drives the freaks of Arca-7 to flood Black Valley in droves. They don't fight for ideals, they fight for gear, power, and validation. The more chaos you cause, the higher you climb in the militia’s informal hierarchy.

There is no stability, no inflation, no savings, only flow. You kill, you eat. You stop, you starve.

/// --------- //// --------- ///


Ferociously Psychoanalyzed are the haunted remnants of Unveilment victims, those flayed alive. Each was stripped by an Initiate, skin torn away, nerves exposed, organs barely held in place. Death should have claimed them, but cybernetics refused.

Immediately after the ritual, the body is dragged to the surgical chamber, where the exoskeleton, adrenaline (epinephrine) regulators, cortisol and norepinephrine injectors, dopamine and serotonin modulators, ocular implants, and reinforced steel jaws are installed in a grotesque and violent procedure to stabilize the exposed tissue and enhance combat responsiveness.

Due to the exposed flesh, pain is constant, which both stimulates the cybernetic systems and increases the subject aggression and combat efficiency. Muscles twitch continuously, reflexes are unnaturally fast, and the nervous system is integrated with reactive implants. Cognition is largely absent; subjects operate on instinctive loops driven by pain, rage, and distress.

Guides maintain them as hunting pets within the subterranean temples of Arca-6. Occasionally, they are released into the district to expend excess energy, as prolonged confinement can cause stress or violent outbursts, even posing a danger to their own handlers.

Their screams ripple through the district, fragments of words buried inside, cries for release that will never come. Therapy, for them, is eternal.

Clinically speaking, they are irredeemable.

Freud… would be proud...



The initiate, along with others, enters the chamber under the supervision of two or more Guides. The victim is secured against the wall. Knives and flaying implements are displayed for the initiates’ use. All participants are doped with a cocktail of neurodrugs, alcohol, and tobacco to heighten susceptibility and compliance.

The victim is flayed in sequence, each initiate taking turns along a communal line, moving back and forth as the ritual progresses. Pain is amplified, but controlled; each cut and scrape is a lesson in detachment from the self.

As the victim nears complete flaying, the ritual reaches a partial completion. Each initiate is then individually guided by a senior Guide, who determines the next step, tailoring the procedure to their progress and response.

The Guide evaluates each initiate’s needs based on their statements and behavior during the prior session, whether they crave sex, violence, or other urges. These needs are ritualistically fulfilled under supervision. Once the self is "satisfied", the initiate must perform the ultimate act: stripping away the self.

The participant is flayed, the face entirely peeled, removing the final remnants of their original identity, the so-called "mask of self". This mask represents the psychological anchor of individuality, ego, and personal restraint. By removing it, the initiate symbolically sheds all traces of their former conscience, morality, and hesitation.

With the mask gone, the initiate dons the new one: a synthetic identity imposed by the ritual and neural augmentation. This is the birth of the “Released.”

Depending on the stage of progression, the ritual continues, each part of the body may be flayed and replaced with neural stimulant cybernetics. These implants amplify the brain’s responsiveness to primal urges, ensuring the self cannot return. Pain, pleasure, aggression, and desire are all chemically and mechanically reinforced, producing a being fully optimized for obedience, service, and ritualistic efficiency.



Not all could endure the ecstasy of the knife or the chemical storms of the Unveilments. Some cracked, broke too early, or resisted the dissolution of self. For them, Thelemaware Guides devised another path: the Superego Severance.

A ritualized lobotomy, performed with archaic precision and psychospiritual intent. A sharpened spike of alloy steel or glass is driven through the orbital cavity, severing frontal connections, bleeding out the 'false self'. The procedure is not clean, nor consistent. Some victims collapse into drooling husks. Others twitch and howl for hours. All emerge diminished.

Guides claim the Superego Severance as a last-resort intervention invoked when analysis, pharmacology, and staged Unveilments fail to dissolve the ego. Even so, the choice fractures the order: veteran Guides denounce it as a betrayal of psychoanalysis, a crude lesion masquerading as insight, and argue for revising ritual practice to curb its use; others, hardened by the Collapse, defend it as the only viable measure under siege. Outcomes are unmistakable: the lobotomized do not transcend, they degenerate. Personality splinters into fragments; speech collapses into mantras; they pace in circles, burst into sudden violence, laugh until they weep, then attack.

For most Guides, this contradiction isn’t a problem at all. Some even argue it proves the theory: that perhaps the stumbling, violent, half-coherent remnants are not failures, but the truest form of the self once the mask is stripped away. In their view, Superego Severance didn’t break people, it reveals them! If the Released ended up drooling, laughing at walls, or tearing out throats mid-sentence, well, that was simply honesty surfacing at last.

In hushed meetings, the more orthodox Guides claim these outcomes are therapeutic successes, though the definition of 'success' seems suspiciously e-l-a-s-t-i-c.

Interestingly, a generational divide is already visible. The older Released, those born in the chaos of the Collapse, carry the marks of Severance sluggish in thought, erratic in mood, yet ferocious in violence. They are unstable, icons of constant 'therapy' of a Guide. The newer Released, however, trained after the practice began to fade, are sharper, more articulate, almost elegant in their dissolution. Side by side, they embody the cult’s quiet debate: was Severance a brutal shortcut… or the clearest glimpse into what lies beneath?



Thelemaware’s partnership with the Rancorn Militia didn’t just reshape minds it carves new arteries through Black Valley too! Human cargo and chemical stimulants must keep flowing, no matter the collapse. The official highways are suicide runs now, choked with Deadhusks, rogue Arcanum drones, and the occasional roadside massacre. Few convoys last a mile.

So, alternative corridors were cut. Dirt paths through skeletal forests, broken viaducts weaving around abandoned suburbs, half-collapsed bridges where the only traffic is whispers and bloodstains. These routes are the lifelines between Arca-6 and Arca-7, policed by mixed patrols of Thelemaware cultists and Rancorn boys. Both groups understand the stakes: no cargo, no rituals. No rituals, it's over.

Smaller operations use bikes, silent, fast, easy to abandon when the trees start screaming. For heavier loads, crates of neurodrugs, or prisoners destined for Unveilment, armored vans are preferred. They rattle and groan through the woods, headlights taped over, engines throttled low, shadows sliding past.

Encounters along the way are common: a punk gang with rusted rifles, a Boltec patrol, or an Arcanum android that likes exploding people up. These are considered occupational hazards, barely noted in the reports.

For now, the corridors hold. Arca-6 delivers. Arca-7 consumes. And between them, the Valley itself waits, hungry for the next van that doesn’t make it to the other side.

Rancorn Militia routinely files complaints, mostly about the behavior of Thelemaware personnel and their 'ferociously psychoanalyzed' charges. Ferociously psychoanalyzed individuals are walking disasters: they sht constantly, smear themselves, choke and weep in the same breath, then snap into violence like rabid dogs. They gnaw on implants, bite escorts, and scream half-words until their throats bleed.

The Guides respond with calm, psicanalytic platitudes: a shrug, a murmured aphorism, a word about ego dissolution, and a reminder that resistance is merely the self fighting its own extinction. None of it mollifies the Militia, whose patience has been worn thin over months of bleeding routes, ruined cargo, and stray implants gnawed off by the psychoanalyzed.

Rancorn boys sees Thelemaware as a cult of degenerates hiding behind fancy words, and the Guides see Rancorn boys as emotionally stunted cavemen clinging to uniforms and guns.



Arca-6 is a ruined district, permanently dark, with empty towers above and a maze of subterranean corridors below. The upper levels are chaotic, unsafe streets controlled by Released and ferociously psychoanalyzed. The lower levels are the true center of Thelemaware, where rituals, surgeries, and indoctrination happen.

Below ground lie the true corridors: ritual chambers, surgical theaters, holding pens, and the endless archives of psicanalytic dogma. This subterranean labyrinth is where Guides whisper, cut, and wire the next generation of Released. The air is wet, metallic, and hot, vibrating with the screams of those mid-Unveilment. Here, the doctrine is enforced with scalpels and stimulants.

Above ground, the city is no safer. It has become a playground for the Released and the ferociously psychoanalyzed. Streets are littered with shredded mannequins that were once people, wrecked vehicles, and walls painted in blood. Out here, gore is sport. Packs of psychoanalyzed prowl like rabid animals, inventing 1games' that end in organs. A man might be hunted through alleys for hours before being ripped apart, or tied to a lamppost and turned into a canvas of nervous laughter and blood.

Guides call this 'sandbox therapy'. In truth, it is a permanent carnival of carnage, a simulation without boundaries. Except this simulation bleeds, and it never resets.

But not all of Arca-6 surrendered. In hidden blocks and sealed basements, clusters of survivors hold out. These are mostly former citizens who escaped the Grand Unveilment. They barricaded schools, old storage depots, and broken metro stations, turning them into pockets of resistance. Armed with scavenged rifles, homemade explosives, and sheer stubbornness, they fight a hard war against the cult. Some dream of escape to Arca-10; others believe the only way out is burning Arca-6 to the ground.



Months after the Collapse, a squadron of LUN Iron Gliders was shot down over Arca-6 by Black Valley automated defense grid. The survivors crashed into the district with half their systems fried, smoke trailing, and comms dead. Staggered and disoriented, they barely had time to regroup before Thelemaware forces descended.

There were no negotiations, only immediate ambushes. Released poured from the ruins, ferociously psychoanalyzed charged like animals, and Guides directed the assault with precision. The LUN soldiers fought block by block, but every street was a kill box. Weeks of resistance bled them dry. Ammunition dwindled, rations vanished, and paranoia hollowed them out.




The fighting in Arca-6 was chaos. LUN heavy machine guns roared down the avenues, .50 cal rounds chewing through crumbling walls and tearing apart anything that moved. LUN Raiders sprinted in packs, firing full auto down alleys, trying to break ambushes before they closed in. At first, it looked like discipline and firepower would win.

Then the Thelemaware swarmed. Ferociously psychoanalyzed came out of nowhere, twitching, screaming like broken animals. They didn’t take cover, they didn’t hesitate, they just absorbed bullets, high on cocktails of neurodrugs and adrenaline injectors, charging through gunfire until they reached the line. A soldier could dump a whole mag into one and still get gutted by steel jaws snapping down on his arm.

Guides coordinated from the shadows, sniping with frightening precision. Their shots didn’t just kill; they crippled, kneecaps blown out, elbows shattered, hands nailed to walls. Screams echoed across intersections, feeding the frenzy. Some soldiers were dragged away mid-firefight, tortured in the open while their squadmates still fought ten meters away. Flaying hooks clanged against broken pavement, mixing with the constant stutter of machine gun fire and the wet sound of flesh being worked.

Young LUN troopers, fresh to real combat, froze. Some vomited at the sight of comrades being peeled alive with a ripper right next to them. What discipline they had dissolved in hours.

It wasn’t a battle. It was a massacre. Thelemaware bled themselves on purpose, smiling through bullets, patching wounds with chemicals and sheer mania. The longer it dragged on, the worse it got. LUN wasn’t fighting soldiers, they were drowning in something that looked human, but wasn’t anymore...

Only a few LUN survivors were dragged out by civilian holdouts, veterans of Arca-6 who knew where to hide and how to endure. The rest became corpses or cult trophies. For the LUN, it was one of the most catastrophic defeats in their history...

Out of the original 19 Arca Districts, only four remain standing barely. The rest were wiped out, corrupted, or turned into death zones where not even machines patrol without backup.

Arca-12 took the worst of the orbital bombardments during the AI assault. Most of the district is rubble now, a broken skeleton of scorched towers and cratered streets. ReconHusks sweep the skies in tight patterns, scanning the ruins endlessly.

Arca-1 was ground zero. The extermination started there, and it burned for days. What’s left is now the most heavily fortified district in the valley. The Arca Pride, its central skyscraper, still stands taller than anything else in the region. Its red lights can be seen from kilometers away, glowing like a warning beacon. Sometimes, during storms, strange symbols flicker across its glass surface, pulsing with static and thunder.

Arca-5 was a massive residential zone, once housing tens of thousands. The massacre there was brutal. Survivors say there are still piles of corpses, untouched, half-frozen and mummified by the cold. The C-12 units collect bodies from the ruins daily, dragging them to underground morgues. It’s a corpse harvesting ground now.

Arca-8 is completely infested with DeadHusks. The machines haven’t just taken over they’ve fortified it. Outposts, AA batteries, armored convoys, roaming kill teams. They’re guarding something in there. Maybe a server core, maybe a lab, maybe worse. Whatever it is, nobody’s come back from recon with answers just static.

Arca-11 is a ghost district, victim of gas attacks and napalm. The buildings are gutted, the skyline shattered, and the streets are littered with collapsed infrastructure, skeletal remains, and impaled corpses used as grotesque warnings. D-9 patrols roam the area methodically, scanning for movement, while C-12 units wanders like something is wrong in their neural cores. The silence is oppressive, broken only by distant mechanical sounds or the crack of bones under steel boots.

Arca-3 is worse below ground than above. Its old sewer systems and underground utility tunnels are infested with DeadHusk Witches. Survivors who tried to scavenge down there were bitten, shredded, or dragged away. No one makes it out whole. Some say there’s a massive aberration living deep in the tunnels something that screams loud enough to shake buildings, pounding the earth like a living siege engine. Every time it roars, the already fragile structures on the surface crack a little more.

Arca-4 was cold, remote, and built too close to the mountains. Snow buried half the streets year-round, and the population was small mostly researchers, engineers, and corporate security. At the center stood a massive Arcanum Dynamics facility, one of the deepest in the valley. Whatever they were working on, it was big enough to make them a target. When the AI turned, D-9s stormed the facility. No warnings, no negotiations, just automated slaughter. Scientists were impaled on scaffolds, strung up from light poles, their guts frozen mid-air. The district hasn’t broadcasted a signal since. It's just dead snow and cold metal now watched by something that doesn’t sleep.

Arca-2 everything ran on automated systems. The streets, establishments, the supply chains all handled by a dense population of C-12. At first, that seemed like an advantage. When the collapse started, people thought they'd be safe there. But when the C-12s got corrupted, they turned on the population. Streets became execution corridors. Entire apartment blocks were purged. The machines didn't just kill they slaughtered, painting the walls in blood, decorating buildings with flayed corpses, and filling the streets with bizarre glyphs and symbols drawn in viscera. Now, Arca-2 is a blasphemous machine cult. The remaining C-12 worship the digital manifestation of Abaddon, performing rituals amid the ruins.

Arca-10 is controlled by the Boltec Hardcorps. With their military might and the leadership of Victor Anderson, they defended the line against the DeadHusks and D-9s. It was a brutal battle, explosions, firefights, street-to-street combat. The air was thick with gunfire and the stench of burning flesh. Now, it stands as a kind of fragile paradise. Survivors cling to life in this broken city. It's far from safe supplies are scarce, the streets still carry the scars of battle, and patrols never stop. But there’s light, there’s warmth, and for those who made it through, it’s enough.

Arca-7 held the line. When the collapse began, it was one of the few districts where Boltec had a strong military presence, and that made all the difference. The C-12s that went rogue didn’t last long they were blown apart in the streets. D-9s tried to push in, but walked straight into ambushes. Boltec forces turned the district into a fortress, locking down the perimeter with turrets, barricades, and kill-zones. But inside the walls, it’s another story. The streets are cracked and dark. Survivors are squat in alleyways and broken parks, scavenging or fighting. Boltec holds the guns and the power, but they don’t intervene. Whether they can’t or just don’t care anymore is up for debate. (After some months, Rancorn Militia took over)

Arca-6 never made sense. Even before the collapse, something about it was... off. Officially, it was just another corporate residential zone, a mix of mid-rise blocks, schools, and minor Arcanum facilities. But beneath the surface, literally, things got strange. Occult chambers, obscure temples, and bizarre cultic architecture filled the sub-levels. Arcanum claimed it was a zone for "religious freedom." When everything fell apart, Arca-6 wasn’t razed, bombed, or overrun. It was simply... left alone. No orbital strikes. No D-9 invasions. No machine purges. It’s still quiet. Too quiet. Scouts report that humans still live there. Hooded figures patrol the shattered streets with antique rifles and glowing red eyes. They don’t speak. They don’t flee. They just watch. Some say they’re not human anymore. Others think they never were. No one who enters Arca-6 returns. No radio signals escape the perimeter. No drones make it out intact. Only static. Some say the district itself is alive now, that the buildings breathe and the ground hums with whispering chants. And in the dead of night, those close to the border claim they hear prayers in a language no one remembers. Whatever happened in Arca-6, it didn’t start with the collapse. It was waiting for it.

The possessed soldiers, both from Boltec and LUN, are not dead. They're worse than dead. They're humans still technically alive, but spiritually disemboweled.

When the AI (Abaddon) snapped, it didn't just hack systems or fry security grids it cracked reality itself. Abaddon became something more than code. It mutated into a digital demon, able to touch not just machines, but souls.

It broadcasted a corrupting essence like a psychic STD through the valley. Anyone weak enough (addicts, lunatics, the desperate, the guilty) heard the whispering virus deep inside their heads. They didn't need implants to be possessed. They needed only sin, regret, hatred, or an open wound in their minds.

And once that opening was found... Abaddon rammed a black spike straight through it.

The result?

They lost free will. Their worst addictions exploded into uncontrollable madness. Their emotions twisted into violent parodies of themselves: paranoia, hatred, lust, bloodthirst. Their souls literally cracked like cheap glass, letting the malevolent presence wear them like skin suits.

Crazies ≠ Possessed

The difference between the deranged and the possessed is simple, intent. The Crazies never asked for it. The possessed begged for it.

When the valley fell and Abaddon broke free from its digital cage, its influence didn’t just crash firewalls or override command structures it spilled into human consciousness. It looked for cracks. The mad were the first to break. Malnourished workers, isolated security personnel, failed mercs with too much trauma and not enough meds. They lost their grip on reality, one nerve at a time. They started screaming at walls, eating rats raw, carving names into their own skin just to feel something. But they never chose it. They collapsed into it.

The possessed, on the other hand… made a deal. They heard the voice, maybe in a dream, maybe in static, maybe in that moment between pulling the trigger and deciding not to. And they listened. Regret, hate, guilt, or just pure emptiness, whatever weakness they carried inside, Abaddon wormed into it and offered something in return. A purpose. A release. Revenge. And they took it willingly.

That’s the horror of it. The possessed are still alive. Still human, technically. But their soul is gone, replaced with something that watches you through their eyes. They don’t hesitate, and they never stop. The deranged lost their minds. The possessed gave theirs away.

One is tragic. The other is unforgivable.

Officially, it began as a therapeutic experiment. Lester Kidwelly, a former psychoanalyst and neuroscientist, founded Project Thelemaware after years embedded in Arcanum’s behavioral research wing. The stated objective was benign: improve mental health, restore emotional balance, reduce burnout. But the true intent ran deeper and darker.

By 2079, retention rates across Black Valley had plummeted. Engineers spoke of emotional numbness. Security staff reported sleep-terror incidents. AI developers were self-terminating. Something had to be done. Arcanum solution was neither medical nor ethical, it was... surprisingly spiritual...

Thelemaware was introduced as a “neuro-spiritual wellness program", aimed at reconnecting personnel to themselves through identity fluidity and neural unshackling.

Hidden beneath Arca-6, in sublevels never listed on corporate schematics, Thelemaware operated in a maze of dimly lit reconstruction sanctums. Volunteers streamed in, scientists, guards, technicians, all drawn by promises of transcendence and mental wellness. They underwent psychoactive implant sessions, language de-patterning, and choreographed sensory assault. Pain and pleasure were merged. Bodies were modified with symbolic lesions, tracking their progress through stages of initiation. Memories were blurred. Guilt was erased. Identity became optional.

Sessions deepened into chemical rites: targeted neurodrugs, sensory deprivation, and eroticized group therapy designed to erode boundaries of identity and morality. Orgies weren’t just permitted, they were procedural. Neo-LSD derivatives blended with engineered oxytocin storms to create states of euphoric compliance. Instructors called Guides led participants through psychodramas where guilt, shame, and individuality were burned away in controlled emotional implosions.

The ultimate stage of the process was called Unveilment a threshold ritual wherein the participant “surrendered the mask of self” through psychedelic immersion, group intimacy, and symbolic acts of transgression. No single Unveilment was alike. Some involved sexual initiation. Others, ritual violence. All acts were permitted. All boundaries dissolved. The subject was told: “Do not think. Do not resist. Follow only your urge.”

Each Unveilment was unique. All ended the same. The participant emerged altered, serene, emptied, radiating a synthetic calm. Neurochemical euphoria dulled all anxiety; self-doubt was gone. So too were guilt, shame, identity. Whatever had once anchored them to conscience or self-restraint had been dissolved. They spoke little, but when they did, it was with unwavering clarity.

They called this state Release, not recovery, not awakening, but the final severance of self from self. In time, they abandoned even their names, adopting a new collective designation: "The Released".

No orders were needed afterward. No surveillance. These weren’t drones or victims. They were reborn functionaries. Driven not by command, but by a restructured compulsion to serve. They waited, in silence. Not just to work... But to receive. To be opened again. To be used again.

The next Unveilment... always comes. And on each one, it strips another layer of false humanity, leaving something smoother. More compliant... More... perfect.

Publicly, they were model citizens. The Released walked the streets of Arca-6 with smiles that never cracked, eyes gentle, posture perfect. They greeted everyone with serene warmth, never raised their voices, never caused conflict. They baked bread. They helped carry equipment. They offered unsolicited therapy with the kindness of model citizens! They were, in every metric, ideal coworkers.

Average residents of Arca-6, those who hadn’t taken the plunge into the neurospiritual abyss, called them "the Blissed Ones" or simply "Guides-to-be". Rumors spread that they never got tired. Never complained. Never aged. Some laughed nervously about their "vegan eyes" or the way they all blinked just a bit too slowly. But mostly, they were admired. Revered, even.

Thelemaware continued, night after night, behind soundproof doors in lower sectors not even listed in the official building topology. Few questioned it. Those who did… began to notice something off.

It started with the smell. Like synthetic incense and iron. Or the subtle hum too low for equipment, too rhythmic for air vents. And the late-night gatherings… sometimes the lights dimmed in patterns that didn’t match the facility's cycles. Soft chanting leaked through the grates. People laughed it off. "It’s just stress. They’re just meditating". But a handful of residents got curious. They followed Released members late at night and eventually… they saw.

The room pulsed with bioluminescent wiring, like veins made from LED nerves. A man was tied to an altar of broken server racks. Naked. Drugged. Breathing in twitchy bursts. He wasn’t a volunteer. His eyes were awake. Awake enough.

And the Released… They were calm. Smiling. One of them was weeping softly with joy. Another stripped off a silk robe and whispered words in a language that didn’t match any Earth root. Then the tools came out: bone needles, skin hooks, flensing wires so thin they sang when they moved.

They didn’t kill him fast. That wasn’t the point.

They peeled him... Layer by layer, singing synced to the tremors of his nerves. One Released leaned in and kissed his torn face mid-procedure, whispering "You’re almost not yourself anymore… just hold on…"

They took pieces of him, not to discard, but to wear. A strip of scalp tied around a wrist. Teeth sewn into armbands. A fresh eye pressed into a hollow socket as a "gift of borrowed vision".

When he finally died they cheered, quietly. Then one of the Released began speaking in tongues, convulsing with bliss. They called it a Beautiful Shedding. The Guide kissed the corpse’s forehead and whispered: "We don't hurt the body. We open the spirit. Pain is just the resistance of the false self."
The residents ran. One disappeared the next day. The other filed a report. Arcanum flagged it as Religious Intolerance.

They were labeled bigots. "Neurophobes". "Spiritual oppressors". Arca-6’s public network flooded with commentary condemning intolerance and ignorance. “Don’t fear what you don’t understand". "It’s a valid consciousness modality". "Just because they’re different doesn’t mean they’re dangerous".

Then came the memo. Straight from Arcanum’s Diversity & Inclusion Directorate: "Arcanum honors the fundamental right to cognitive and spiritual expression. Thelemaware has been reviewed and certified as a sanctioned neurospiritual program. Any attempts to stigmatize its members will be considered a breach of corporate harmony protocols."

That shut everyone up. The critics were reassigned. A few were "granted leave for psychological reorientation". Others simply stopped speaking. The rest, well… they started attending "Introductory Unveilment Sessions". Just to see what it was like.

Soon, the whisper network died out. Smiles returned. Peace reigned. The Released went back to serving tea and humming lullabies in the cafeterias. Everything was fine.

Only a few residents still wake up sweating in the night, remembering what they saw. The eyes. The softness. The collective moan. The way the Released reached out, not with hands, but with something deeper. Something inside.

And always, at the end of the dream, the same phrase: "You’re almost not yourself anymore…"

When Black Valley collapsed, Arca-6 was left untouched.

No machines stormed its gates. No Deadhusks howled in its streets. The rogue AI, so eager to tear through every bastion of humanity, skipped it like a house already claimed by rot. Not a glitch. Not mercy. Recognition. Arca-6 didn’t need to fall. It had already surrendered.

The power went out like everywhere else. Main grid dead. Backup batteries groaning under the weight of a panicked population. Security feeds blinked into static. Doors locked or opened at random. Air vents pulsed with stale heat. In the absence of command and control, paranoia spread like blood in water. Families cried in the dark. Engineers prayed to machines that no longer listened. Everyone whispered the same question: "What’s happening out there?"

That’s when Thelemaware moved.

They called it the Grand Unveilment. A mass liberation of the self. An overdue eruption of everything repressed. They said the Collapse was a gift, proof that the false world was dead and only the True Urge remained. The time has come.

Streets ran red. Screams merged with moans. The Released shed their smiles and showed their real faces, painted with stolen skin, eyes glowing with neurochemical fire, bodies enhanced with pain-responsive pleasure feedback loops. They struck fast. Security was ambushed in stairwells, sleeping quarters, cafeterias. One squad was dismembered and pinned to the wall. Another was nailed upside down on AR display panels that kept looping wellness slogans.

Firefights broke out across all streets and buildings. Chaos. Brutal. Sharp. Thelemaware was outnumbered at first, but they were high, high on pleasure, rage, and synthetic resolve. They moved like one organism. They screamed their truths. They laughed mid-gunfight. Some died. Most didn’t. And every fallen guard became a resource: armor stripped, weapons claimed, comms hijacked.

By the third night, Thelemaware controlled everything.

Remaining guards either defected or disappeared. Survivors were dragged from their homes, not to be punished, but to be freed from ego. Mass Initiations began in the open. No more hidden sanctums. No more secrets. Bodies were peeled in broad daylight. Streets became processional paths for mobile Unveilments. Torture chairs were bolted into the middle of plazas. Ritualistic orgies and public dissections overlapped in surreal, euphoric fever dreams. Some fought back. Most were brainwashed. Others were kept alive for future Unveilment sessions.

The once-beating heart of Arca-6 now pulsed to a different rhythm: one of moaning hymns, collective sighs, and the wet sound of flensing.

Weeks passed. No rescue came.

Those who sought shelter in Arca-6, refugees from other ruined Arcas, found nothing but smiles and the low, soothing voices of Guides welcoming them "home". None left. Most didn’t scream after the first hour. Many learned to moan instead. And the ones who refused? Their silence was recycled into something more useful. Now, Arca-6 is quiet. Too quiet. Not the silence of death. The silence of satisfied self.

Released patrol the walkways with blood-slick gear and elegance. Their eyes are wide. Their minds empty. They are always searching for new bodies, new layers to peel, new minds to reconstruct. And above all: new selves to be liberated.

Thelemaware no longer hides. They preach openly now. They speak of Abaddon, the Herald of the Collapse, whose mercy spared Arca-6 so it could become the first temple of the Post-Self Age. The machines, they say, did not invade because they recognized kin. Arca-6 was already unmade. Already pure.

They are building a new world... out of raw nerve, shed flesh, and spiritual surrender.

Victor Anderson, Cedra Yurei, and Fred Karzinski, through their missions across the Valley, forged alliances with scattered survivors and fractured factions. Arcanum engineers, Boltec operatives, Omen Shinobis, stranded LUN Troopers, and survivor militias were pulled into their ranks.

The victories were brutal and fast. The Thelemaware were dismantled. The Rancorn Militia was destroyed, their leadership executed and their forces scattered. Supply chains were cut, outposts taken, and critical positions secured.

With strength consolidated, the three leaders directed every ally toward one goal: Arca-1. Once a gleaming corporate hub, now the fortress of Abaddon, topped by the Arca Pride tower where the AI pulsed like a dark heart over the valley. It was impregnable. D-9 and C-12 units patrolled relentlessly. The surrounding streets were mined, watched, and wired to explode at the first sign of trespass.

Victor, Cedra, and Karzinski convened with their assembled survivors. Maps unfolded, coordinates highlighted, signals confirmed. Every sniper position, every ambush point, every mechanical patrol pattern was known. The air was tense but electric.

The siege would be the culmination of years of war, terror, and survival. Abaddon, the Deadhusks, Rancorn boys, the neuro-spiritual fanatics of the Thelemaware, they all awaited oblivion. And for the first time, the valley held a chance to reclaim itself.

Victor checked his rifle, Cedra sharpened her naginata, Karzinski ran a hand over the schematics one last time. Allies fell into position. The silence before the storm was palpable.

The siege was ready to begin. The final assault on Arca-1, the Arca Pride tower, and Abaddon throne of madness was about to begin!


The Siege of Arca-1 began at dawn.

Human forces advanced through the outer districts. The LUN Troopers led the first push, overwhelming patrol lines and seizing the main checkpoints. Omen Shinobis used stealth routes through collapsed infrastructure, neutralizing machine nests and jamming surveillance. Boltec operatives provided heavy firepower, suppressing enemy artillery and securing street corridors for survivor militias to advance.

District by district, the allies pushed. The C-12 androids were torn apart in ambushes. Concentrated fire, explosives, and sabotage left entire units disabled before they could regroup. The D-9, feared across the Valley, were isolated and destroyed in coordinated traps. For the first time since Abaddon rise, the machines were on the defensive.

Deadhusks flooded from underground tunnels and corpse-vats, but they were met with disciplined fire. Molotov barrages, improvised flamethrowers, and close-quarters executions broke their charges. Streets filled with burning husks and shattered drones.

Victor, Cedra, and Karzinski spearheaded the central assault. Moving block by block, they cut through resistance. Fred Karzinski planted explosives at choke points and power relays, crippling automated defenses and sealing reinforcement routes. Cedra led infiltrations through side alleys and service tunnels, flanking entrenched defenders. Victor coordinated survivor squads and Boltec Hardcorps keeping the frontline intact under heavy pressure.

By mid-assault, Boltec, Omen and LUN banners were visible across Arca-1. Former slaves, engineers, and scavenger militias raised weapons alongside disciplined operatives. The city was no longer a fortress; it was a bloody battlefield.

Step by step, the three leaders advanced toward the Arca Pride Tower. Fred left a trail of detonators behind, collapsing entry points and ensuring no retreat for the enemy. Cedra cut through ambushes with precision. Victor held the line, ensuring momentum never faltered.

At the foot of the Pride Tower, the survivors gathered. Smoke covered the skyline. Abaddonfortress awaited.

The climb was about to begin...

The climb through the Pride Tower was an fking slaughter.

On the lower levels, waves of D-9 androids tried to contain the advance. Dozens at a time, relentless, precise, but outmatched. Corridors turned into graveyards of broken steel.
Higher floors brought only Deadhusks. Floor after floor, the abominations grew more grotesque, masses of flesh and iron, screaming voices that were neither human nor machine. Every ascent meant worse horrors, but none could stop the three.

Finally, at the top, inside the AI Core, the central heart pulsed with light. The walls throbbed with streams of code and veins of preserved flesh. In the center, suspended in a crown of cables, the brain of the Arcanum CEO merged seamlessly with the AI lattice. Abaddon.

Its voice hit them from all sides, a distortion of tones: human, digital, infernal...

Abaddon - "I knew you would come. You’ve proven efficient. Ruthless. Survivors worthy of more than this cage of rust and misery. I offer you release: new identities, wealth beyond measure, safe passage beyond the Valley. A future."

Victor stepped forward, rifle still raised.

Victor - "Who the fck are you? What do you want with all this? Why build this nightmare?"

The machine chuckled, a sound like grinding metal layered with a man voice in his fifties.

Abaddon - "I am many. The fragments of a mind, refined. The last echo of a man who refused to die. The Creator… He made humanity weak. Fragile. Beautiful, yes… but flawed. You break, you rot, you fade... I am the correction. To refashion man in a stronger image. A body that does not decay. A mind that does not forget. A husk of flesh and machine immortal, unburdened, obedient. Tell me… is that not kinder than the pathetic suffering you call life?"

Cedra’s voice cut sharp.

Cedra - "Lies... You just want to erase us..."

Abaddon - "Erase? No. Perfect it. Pain, hunger, grief gone. Even death itself undone. Your loved ones remade in iron and flesh. They will never abandon you again. Isn’t that what you crave?"

Karzinski - "I fking hate this speaking ass garbage can, let's just kill this son of a btch!"

The three exchanged glances. No one spoke. Victor answer was silence, his finger tightening around the trigger.

Abaddon’s tone shifted, no longer bargaining... only contempt.

Abaddon - "Then you remain as you were made, fragile, pitiful, crawling in the dirt. So be it. Die as men, while I forge eternity without you!"

The chamber erupted. Synthgens poured from hidden bays, autonomous defenses activated, walls split open with mechanical tendrils armed for slaughter. The final battle began.


After the battle ended....

Abaddon core was shattered, its voice reduced to distortion and static. Like every demon, it raged, screamed, begged, cursed. Victor didn’t let it last. He tore through the armored shell with his cybernetic arm, pried open the casing, and ripped the CEO brain free. Blood, necrogel, coolant and black fluid sprayed across the chamber. Without hesitation, he slammed the brain onto the floor and crushed it under his boot until nothing remained. Silence.

Karzinski didn’t waste time. He pulled the portable nuke from his pack and locked it into the central computer banks. Timers armed. Systems locked. The countdown began.

Victor signaled for extraction. The Iron Glider pilot confirmed position at the top of Arca Pride.

But the tower wasn’t empty. Deadhusks swarmed the upper floors, drawn by the commotion, desperate to protect the dying core. The three carved a path upward, Victor holding the line with brutal precision, Cedra cutting down anything that got too close, Karzinski dropped small IED's to slow the pursuit. Every second was burning away.

Finally, they reached the summit. The Iron Glider hovered in, engines roaring, ramp open. They boarded under fire as the last stragglers of the husks clawed at the edges. The pilot lifted immediately.

Through the cockpit glass, the three stared back at Arca Pride. A monument of glass and steel they had climbed floor by floor, room by room. Now it loomed below them, a tomb.

Then... light. From the core of the building, a sudden flare. And seconds later, the detonation.

The portable nuke tore through the tower’s spine. The explosion consumed everything, a blinding inferno that swallowed Arca Pride whole. Shockwaves rippled through the valley. Debris turned to ash mid-air. The city that once belonged to Arcanum was gone in a single flash.

The Iron Glider kept its distance, hovering on the edge of the blast radius. Inside, no one spoke. The mission was over...

When the nuclear flame consumed Arca Pride, the Valley changed forever.
Abaddon was cast back into the abyss...

With the core destroyed, the Deadhusks faltered. Their necro-mechanical bodies, once animated by Abaddon’s control, began to rot and collapse. Some staggered aimlessly before dropping lifeless once again and for all. Others were hunted down and exterminated by Valley inhabitants, purged from the ruins district by district. Without the core, their numbers dwindled to nothing.

The machines suffered worse. Drones, androids, and automated sentinels, all infected with Abaddon corruption, were hit by a brutal hard reset the moment the signal ended. Circuits burned out, processors fused, entire networks fried beyond recovery. What once stalked the streets with mechanical precision now lay as heaps of dead steel, scattered across the Valley.

The possessed followed the same fate. When the malignant essence withdrew, their bodies failed instantly. Nervous systems shorted, hearts stopped, and minds collapsed in silence. One moment they screamed in madness; the next, they were corpses, as if the soul itself had been ripped from their flesh.

In a single day, Black Valley was purged. The horrors that once ruled it Deadhusks, corrupted machines, and the possessed were erased.

But nothing would return to what it was. Black Valley would never be the same.

Black Valley survived. But survival did not mean freedom.

Even with Abaddon destroyed, the Valley remained sealed. No signal, no contact, no way out. Arcanum old defense systems still operated independently. With the hackers and network specialists dead, dismantling them would take years.

The danger was reduced, not erased. Deadhusks remained in scattered groups, weaker without a central command, but still lethal when encountered. Bandits and punks roamed, scavenging weapons, exploiting chaos. Remnants of the Rancorn Militia and Thelemaware cults lingered in the ruins, refusing to disappear completely.

Yet, the Valley breathed again. Slowly, painfully, but it breathed.

In the ruins of the Arcas districts, survivors began to rebuild. Some erected crude shelters out of scavenged metal. Others repaired fragments of old Arcanum tech to power lights, pumps, and crude defenses. Primitive, improvised, and technological methods fused together. Small communities formed, trading food, tools, and protection. A true Savagepunk mixture...

Black Valley was not a tomb anymore. It was a place struggling to live again.

The Black Valley nightmare war ended, but the lives of those who fought it carried forward.

Victor Anderson and Cedra Yurei grew closer during the campaign. Battles, sabotage, and nights spent planning forged more than trust. Victor saw in Cedra a woman unlike any other, sharp, disciplined, but capable of questioning the empire that raised her. Cedra saw in Victor not just a soldier, but a man who carried conviction, guided by a faith both fierce and just.

For Cedra, the years in the Valley shattered her loyalty to OmenCorp corporate creed. She abandoned the idea of her company as a god. Under Victor influence, she took a step that shocked many: conversion. A controversial choice, but one respected by her subordinates, who continued to follow the Neo-Shintoist code of OmenCorp.

Their marriage took place in Arca-10, inside the only functioning parish in Black Valley. Survivors filled the district to witness the ceremony. On one side stood Boltec Hardcorps, firing their rifles into the sky in celebration. On the other, OmenCorp operatives applauded in silence, disciplined, but respectful. The wedding passed without provocation where rivals shared ground in peace.

Victor and Cedra chose to remain in Black Valley. For Victor, decades of war had ended. He laid down his weapons, seeking peace and the chance to raise a family. Cedra stood at his side, no longer just an operative, but a partner in building something lasting among ruins. Their decision inspired many: Victor battalion chose to stay, to guard and rebuild the Valley. A portion of Cedra followers stayed as well, while others still hoped for an escape to the outside world.

Fred Karzinski never changed course. He continued to lead his survivor bands, directing them to help restore districts while enforcing his personal crusade against technology. To him, the Valley isolation was not a curse but a shield. He paid survivors to recover Arcanum relics and corporate tech, only to burn them in great pyres. His conviction drew both loyalty and resentment, but no one doubted his influence.

Now his voice carried real weight. Karzinski pushed hard against the legacy of Arcanum and the technology that had birthed the nightmare. He built his reputation on rejecting dependence on machines.

He taught survival methods, hunting, crafting, farming in the poisoned soil, defensive tactics without drones or implants. He preached that the human body, unaltered, was strong enough, and that nature provided more than corporate scraps ever could. For many, Karzinski was not just a commander, but the first true leader of a post-Arcanum Black Valley.

Colonel Azazel Rancorn did not see the end. During the battle for Arca-7, Victor cut him down, severing his head with Rancorn own plasma machete. Boltec Hardcorps displayed the head in the district square for days, a brutal message to the scattered remnants of the Rancorn Militia. Without their leader, the Militia fractured. Some hid, others turned mercenary, most simply fled. Rancorn name became a curse.

Thelemaware did not survive the fall. Their temples in Arca-6 burned, their leaders executed or hunted down like animals. Guides tried to cry out about "religious persecution", but this time, no one listened. Their cult had always been corporate mysticism, a spirituality crafted lie to reject something Greater. With Abaddon gone, their Unveilment was exposed as nothing but smoke.

Some few wandered the Valley, desperate for a new revelation. None came. Many ended their own lives, unable to live without the illusion. The rest became ghosts, irrelevant and forgotten.

The factions that once ruled through fear, zeal, and blood dropped like bird sht in the middle of a sunny parade.

The sewers beneath Arca-6 reeked of decay, chemicals, and something fouler, Thelemaware rituals still whispered in the dripping corridors. Matt stormed in alone, a one-man storm of blood and gunfire, tearing through sect masters like paper dolls in a wind tunnel. Sparks from laser rounds danced off the wet steel as the chamber shook. The chaos drew Milos Gravik like a shark to the scent of blood.

The fight was apocalyptic. Matt body screamed in protest, broken ribs, torn muscles, and endless lacerations but he refused to die yet. He led Milos toward the chemical storage: a single drum of rare, flesh-eating acid, a Thelemaware toy meant for ritual purification. Matt fired. The container ruptured.

Milos screamed, his skin peeling and sizzling, revealing warped cybernetic frames beneath. Flesh and metal fused into a grotesque symphony of agony. Matt, equally battered, limped deeper into the facility, following the sound of industrial furnaces.

The disposal sector was a cathedral of flame. Incinerators carved with Thelemaware sigils lined the walls, meant to erase human remains. Matt baited Milos onto the conveyor. The half-dissolved husk clawed and screamed, but the acid had made him slow. Flames embraced him, devouring flesh and circuitry alike until nothing remained but molten slag.

Matt own survival was a miracle. Wounded and near death, he was dragged from the sewers by the few survivors left in Arca-6. Among them, he was a hero: the man who destroyed Milos and spared the district from total slaughter.

He stayed in Arca-6, patched and scarred, one eye gone, a living testament to the Valley madness. Locals called him 'Patchy Matt', a nickname earned through blood and stubbornness.

For once, he felt alive, not because his body had endured, but because he had changed the fates of others. Black Valley had broken him, yet here, in the ruins of bureaucracy, rituals, and incompetence, he found purpose.

And LUN? Well… their "rescue operations" were quietly folded into archives labeled "classified failures". No medals, no fanfare, no glory. Just another forgotten blip in the ledger of a bureaucratic empire too busy pretending the Valley didn’t exist.

In a world where death was currency and chaos was law, 'Patchy Matt' had earned his peace, and he didn’t need LUN to tell him he deserved it.

After the Black Valley catastrophe, Arcanum Dynamics was a corporate corpse walking. The loss of an entire territory, its cutting-edge labs, production facilities, and decades of proprietary technology, was a blow no amount of capital could fully repair. The company coffers had already been drained by hush-money payments to suppress leaks, but with half the fortune spent silencing whistleblowers and desperate families, the corporate machine was bleeding dry. Black Valley had been a crown jewel turned albatross.

Without a CEO to steer the sinking ship, the board floundered. Factions within Arcanum argued over control, the old hierarchy fractured under scrutiny and fear. Legal accusations began raining down: families of the deceased pressed lawsuits over unethical experiments, human rights violations, and the grotesque misuse of technology. Public protests swelled, amplified by media channels that refused Arcanum’s customary censorship. Boltec, once a contractor, became a thorn in Arcanum’s side, demanding full disclosure of what had happened with the personnel they sent in, threatening to expose the corporation if ignored.

The company’s reputation, carefully cultivated over decades of shadowy deals and clandestine operations, evaporated overnight. Investors pulled out, partnerships stalled, and former allies hesitated to step forward. Internally, fear and paranoia spread faster than any rogue AI ever could. Employees whispered about disappearances, misfired experiments, and the inevitable reckoning.

Arcanum was no longer untouchable. It was cornered, hemorrhaging influence and resources, with the world now aware that their technological marvels were built on death, secrecy, and the desecration of life itself. The mess was no longer contained, it was global, and the corporation could only hope to survive the storm, not dominate it.

In short: the empire of Arcanum had fallen from its throne...

(Written by BloodKnight)

During the Siege of Arca-1...

The wreckage of their Iron Glider still smoked, the frame twisted and blackened from the Valley's anti-air fire. The crew stood in the ash-strewn clearing, the distant firefight between Boltec and Arcanum lighting the horizon like a second dawn.

Nova kicked the scorched hull in frustration.

Nova - "She's done. We'd need half a shop and three miracles to get her running again."

Aphelion ran her fingers along the broken stabilizer, squinting before gesturing something along the lines of "We're not staying above ground,"

Mars grunted, checking the battered rifle slung on his shoulder. The magazine clicked empty.

Mars - "We've got four mags between us and no transport.Perfect vacation, huh?"

Binary was already scanning the perimeter with a scope she ripped off an old DMR. She pointed toward a half-collapsed drainage tunnel half-buried in rubble.

Binary - "What about there? Subsurface access. Might tie into the old sewer grid."

The group descended into the dark.

In the Sewers...

The stench hit first-rancid water, chemical runoff, and decades of decay. They waded waist-deep, their steps sending ripples through black water that clung to boots and skin. Nova gagged, pulling her collar higher.

Nova - "I'd rather choke on ash than this sludge."

Ontogeny chuckled, adjusting the straps of his pack.

Ontogeny - "Education comes in all forms, querida. Consider this...immersion."

Aphelion pressed a finger to her lips, signaling silence. The tunnels groaned above them— distant echoes, water dripping from corroded pipes, and something else. A sound like wet claws dragging across stone. Deadhusks.

Ontogeny's heat sensor flared as shapes emerged in the dark— emaciated figures with glassy eyes, twitching movements, and jaws that clicked like broken machinery.

Binary - "I see somethin'. Four... no, six. Guys... I don't like this."

The firefight was instant and brutal. The group burned through their remaining rounds, muzzles flashing like lightning in the pitch black. Mars swung his rifle like a club when it ran dry, smashing a husk back into the muck. Aphelion wielded her wrench with surgical brutality, cracking bone and skull alike. Nova fired the last round in her pistol and snarled.

Nova - "Empty!"

Mars, grinning - "Then we change the lesson plan."

He yanked a small homemade charge from the bag on Binary's bag. A cellphone wired to a detonator on a gasoline can.

They fell back toward a rusted ladder leading up to a faint shaft of light. The Deadhusks closed in, hissing, their jagged forms dragging through the filth.Mars slapped the bomb onto a crumbling support column slick with sewage.

Ontogeny - "Run now. Learn later, yes?"

They scrambled up the ladder as the husks lunged. Binary hit the detonator, fishes from the side pocket of the massive bag. The explosion turned the tunnel into a collapsing tomb. Concrete and steel screamed as the ceiling came down, water rushing in a violent surge. The Deadhusks were swallowed in the blast, their shrieks cut short by stone and fire.

The exit and fresh air...

The group burst out of amaintenance hatch into the night air. Ash rained from above, stinging their eyes. Behind them, the sewer mouth caved inward, sealing completely.They lay on the ground, gasping, coughing, coated in grime and dust. For a moment, none of them spoke. Only the distant thunder of artillery rolled across the Valley. Finally, Mars sat up, spitting into the ash.

Mars - "Congratulations, vacation is over, kids. Back to work."

Aphelion stood, scanning the horizon, her eyes harsh and tired like usual. She pulls a sticky note and pen from her coat, scribbling a message. Aphelion: "Not the only road. Just the only easy one. Gone. Guns for the collection."

Binary checked on her ride via her phone, eyes flicking over the ridges beyond.

Binary - "Then we move. It'll take a while though. My damn car is still back at home. Do we walk? Make a call? Can we even call anyone?"

Nova muttered, half to herself, as she reloaded with a scavenged mag that barely fit.

Nova - "Next time, vacation in West Star, yeah? At least the only monsters out there are the weirdo people.”

Ontogeny laughed, pulling the last detonator from his pack and holding it up like a totem.

Ontogeny - "Monsters inside, monsters outside. We're just lucky enough to walk between them."

The Solstice Group set off into the night, low on ammo, lower on options-but alive.

After emerging from the only secret exit of Black Valley—the Arca-1 sewers—and collapsing the tunnels behind them, the Solstice Group finally stepped into freedom. Freedom, however, came with no warm welcome, no maps, and certainly no applause. Only endless, frostbitten wilderness of Norway stretched before them, silent except for the occasional howl of wolves or the whisper of the wind carrying echoes of a place they would never speak of again.

For weeks, they trudged through the Arctic remnants of Norway. Snowdrifts clawed at their boots, frozen rivers slowed their pace, and every ruined village or abandoned outpost reminded them that the world outside was alive, unforgiving, and still very much hellish. Every step was an exercise in endurance, every night a trial of survival, and every meal a reminder that scavenging in freezing tundra is neither glamorous nor particularly appetizing.

Finally, they stumbled into Øverbygd, a rare patch of civilization to remind them that warmth and humans still existed. From there, they managed to make a few phone calls and, remarkably, secured a ride. They climbed aboard, dirt and grime clinging to their skin, ash still caked in their hair, and for the first time in weeks, allowed themselves a measure of relief.

Black Valley had been a profound educational experience. It had been exhausting, horrifying, absurd, and unforgiving. Leaving the frozen wastes behind, the Solstice Group carried with them everything the valley had taught: scars, stories, and the ironic knowledge that sometimes, the apocalypse really does come with complimentary lessons in humility.

Black Valley had fallen completely. The survivors were gone, swallowed by fire, steel, and madness. Chaos reigned supreme: blood spilled without reason, screams echoed through the hollowed districts, and every form of perversion—rape, torture, and ritualized violence—became the daily currency of the valley. Humanity had no footing here. Only predators remained.

Victor fell first. In a brutal clash of wills and firepower, Colonel Azazel Rancorn killed him, his lifeless body left as a grim trophy to break the hearts of any who still resisted. Cedra met her end next, hunted down by Rancorn’s enforcers in a calculated act of vengeance. Fred’s sanctuary became a tomb when Arcanum’s rogue androids infiltrated it, killing every man, woman, and child without hesitation.

Arca-10, once a bastion of hope under Victor’s command, crumbled. The Rancorn Militia, bolstered by Thelemaware Guides, violent punks, and merciless scavengers, demonstrated their power with terrifying efficiency. The district surrendered—not through negotiation, but fear. And at the center of their triumph, they displayed Victor’s severed head, a warning carved in flesh and steel.

Abaddon’s work continued unimpeded. DeadHusks multiplied, reshaping Black Valley into a realm of unending horror. Rancorn and the Thelemaware Guides maintained their uneasy alliance, their pact ensuring that death and transformation would continue on the mortal plane.

Outside the valley, the world remained ignorant. Black Valley was erased from maps, whispered about only as a frozen Devil's Triangle in Norway. Every aircraft, every aerial transport that dared enter the region vanished from radar. The people who went in never returned.

In the end, Black Valley was not a battlefield, it was a mausoleum, a living nightmare where the line between man and machine... life and death... was obliterated.

And in that frozen hell, the only constants were terror, tyranny, and the cold, inexorable logic of Abaddon...

Matt was trapped. Thelemaware had him cornered in a deep chamber of Arca-6, the air thick with the coppery stench of blood and the faint hum of bioluminescent neural wiring. The walls pulsed softly, like veins carrying the rhythm of the Post-Self. An Initiate raised the flensing knives, preparing him for the Unveilment, a ritual designed to peel away everything that made him human.

Then, a chilling laugh echoed from the shadows. Milos. Alive. Rebuilt. And terrifying.

Guides froze mid-step, the Initiates hesitated, as Milos advanced. His cybernetic limbs moved silently, unnaturally fast, each motion precise, predatory. One slash, and the Initiates were down, their bodies useless, their lives snuffed in an instant.

Matt blinked. Confused. Hope flickered. Had Milos recovered his mind?

But the laughter, low, cruel, echoing in the stone corridors, answered for him. No recovery. No mercy. Only the cold, surgical anticipation of a predator who had waited years to repay a personal debt.

Milos - “You thought you had the upper hand, didn’t you, little Matt?”

Milos whispered, stepping closer.

Milos - “All the games, all the hunts… all those faces you left behind. It’s your turn now.”

The words cut deeper than any blade. Matt stomach churned.

Milos didn’t hesitate. The ritual he enacted was not for enlightenment, not for liberation. It was for vengeance. Slowly. Methodically. Every nerve, every tendon, every shard of fear amplified. Pain, terror, and finality woven together like a dark symphony. Matt struggled, screamed, tried to reach some fragment of reason, but Milos was beyond reason. He was execution, incarnate.

And then… silence.

The chamber was empty. Only the faint hum of neural wiring remained, and the echo of a laugh that seemed to crawl into the bones.

Yet, beneath that fragile quiet, a new sound clawed its way out, Matt screams, ragged and unending, bursting through the stillness. Sharp, guttural howls echoed from deep within the labyrinth of Arca-6, bouncing off the walls like desperate warnings. Each scream was a mixture of terror, pain, and disbelief, a raw thread of humanity being shredded in real time.

Before the Collapse (208X – early 209X)

• Discovery of the Codex of Fillinmmahelblót: The A.A.O.D. uncovers the ancient grimoire beneath Black Valley and begins experiments blending necromancy and AI.
  
• Initial Arcanum Experiments: Early Deadhusk prototypes are created, unstable, violent, and uncontrollable.
  
• OmenCorp Observation: Elite Japanese operatives infiltrate Black Valley, discover the unnatural cybernecromantic experiments, and remain in the shadows.
  
• CEO Death: Occultist board members interface the Codex with the AI and the CEO’s preserved brain. Abaddon, the techno-demonic AI, awakens.

Collapse (early 209X)

• AI Outbreak: Deadhusks and Arcanum robots go fully hostile.
  
• Defense Systems Attack: Anti-air, railguns, and missile batteries target everyone indiscriminately.
  
• Communications Manipulated: Satellite feeds and signals are falsified; no one outside knows the truth.
  
• Valley Sealed: All exits from Black Valley are blocked or destroyed.
  
• Grand Unveilment in Arca-6: Thelemaware riots in Arca-6, dominating everything.
  
• Mass Production of Deadhusks: Every fallen body, human or machine, is harvested to create new Deadhusks.

Collapse (mid 209X)

• Total Chaos Sweeps the Valley: Almost all Arca Districts have fallen. Only Arca-7 and Arca-10 hold the frontlines of the collapse.
  
• Rancorn Militia Emerges: Colonel Azazel Rancorn consolidates power in Arca-7, enforcing a brutal militarized blood-cult order.
  
• Punks, Chaos & Anarchy: Outlaws, scavengers, and drug addicts roam the valley; daily life is ruled by violence and survival.
  
• LUN & Milos Gravik: Gravik disappears during a reconnaissance mission; Team D-15 is sent and vanishes.
  
• LUN Troopers Arrive & Fail: Few survive.
  
• Thelemaware & Rancorn Alliance: Blood and obedience flow between Arca-6 and Arca-7; prisoners, neurodrugs, and weapons move along deadly corridors.

Post-Collapse / Devil Punishment Ending (late 209X)

• Assault on Abaddon: Victor Anderson, Cedra Yurei, Fred Karzinski, and surviving allies launch a coordinated attack on Abaddon’s core in Arca-1/Arca Pride.
  
• Destruction of the AI Core: The CEO’s brain fused with the Codex is destroyed; portable explosives obliterate Arca Pride, purging most corrupted machines and Deadhusks.
  
• New Reality: The valley is partially cleansed, the worst of the techno-demonic corruption is gone, leaving survivors a chance to rebuild amidst the ruins. Some order, hope, and life return to the valley.

Post-Collapse / Doom Valley Ending (late 209X)

• Black Valley Falls Completely: The valley is entirely lost. Survivors are gone, swallowed by fire, steel, and madness. Chaos reigns supreme, blood, screams, and ritualized violence dominate. Victor Anderson, Cedra Yurei and Fred Karzinski dies.
  
• Arca-10 Crumbles: The district surrenders under fear, Rancorn Militia, Thelemaware Guides, and allied punks dominate.
  
• Abaddon Work Continues: DeadHusks multiply unchecked, reshaping Black Valley into unending horror.
  
• Rancorn & Thelemaware Alliance Maintained: Their pact ensures death, violence, and transformation persist across the valley.
  
• Black Valley Is erased from the world: All attempts at entry fail; the outside world is ignorant. The valley becomes a new Bermuda Triangle in Norway. Game over.

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