The alarm hits like a hammer.
It’s not the hum of resonance or the choir of the Dominion—it’s the shrill digital blare of my phone vibrating against the nightstand. My body lurches awake, lungs heaving as if I’ve run a marathon. I stare at the ceiling, heart thundering in my ears, and realize the sound isn’t only in my head.
Tinnitus. A steady, high ring replaces the hum I’ve come to depend on. The silence of the apartment feels wrong without it. No chorus, no rhythm, just the faint hiss of blood moving through veins. My body feels whole, but my mind screams phantom pain—the ache of blows I didn’t take in this world.
I sit up slow. Every muscle remembers impact. My right arm tenses when I flex it, expecting it to hurt, expecting the heat of a burn that isn’t there. My skin is fine. My nerves don’t know that yet.
Coffee helps, barely. The first swallow turns my stomach. The phantom pain is bad enough, but it’s the mental hangover that really gets me. Numb and sharp all at once, like static in the brain. The echo of every command and every death from last night lingers in my skull.
The monitor glows quietly. Notifications stack up: work chat, fan pings, Nod updates. I rub my eyes, squint at the clock—6:30. I should be getting dressed, starting another day in the office. But not today.
I thumb open the company email app, typing slow.
To: Des
Subject: Out Sick
Hey, I’m not feeling well this morning. Woke up dizzy, ringing in my ears, can’t really focus. Going to take a sick day and rest. I’ll check in tomorrow if I can.
– Marcus
I hover before hitting send. Then I do it anyway and drop the phone beside the mug. “Marcus never takes sick days,” I can already hear them say. The thought makes me laugh under my breath. The office will assume I’m either dying or on fire.
“Hopefully just the printer,” I mutter. “Please don’t let the building burn down while I’m gone.”
The silence after feels too heavy. I reach for the mouse, pull up the browser, and type without thinking: Nod – Ashwing fight recap.
The results explode. Clips, thumbnails, headlines. ‘The Black King vs. the Ashwing.’ ‘An Hour in Hell: The Dominion Holds.’ My face is on everything, crown blazing, sand burning around me. Even muted, I can hear phantom screams and the Chime’s echo. A trending Reddit thread sits pinned: Was it scripted? followed by another—How many died for real?
Scrolling, I see slowed footage of the final stand, annotated with red circles marking where the Sablehound shielded me. Comments pour in beneath:
[u/HarmonicTheory]: It’s not a game anymore. Look at how real the reactions are.
[u/SunforgedFan]: Kyris tanked for over an hour. The man’s insane. Respect.
[u/ClericWatcher]: The Cleric King mentioned him in stream today. “Bravery and willpower beyond comprehension,” he said, “though such courage in a creature born of monstrous origin is an unfortunate waste of the divine spark.”
My stomach knots. The fight’s become legend overnight.
I swap tabs, open Discord, and find my fan club server at the top of the list. CH100 – The Dominion. The unread count flashes red: 9,987 messages.
The moment I join, it’s like stepping into a storm.
[VioletVex]: He’s probably exhausted. Give him time to rest.
[carapace_kid]: OUR KING FOUGHT A DRAGON. A DRAGON.
[Archivolt]: Data analysis uploaded—Ashwing’s plasma particulate spread suggests intelligence, not instinct.
[Thrumline]: We’ve begun a mourning list for the fallen Hekari. They will be remembered.
[ProteinPrincess]: The gym chat sends love and protein shakes! #RebuildTheHive
[GainsGoblin]: I’m starting a GoFundMe for the sablehound statue. Don’t test me.
[Arbiterofsalt]: Justice will come. The Ashwing’s end is inevitable.
My throat tightens. These aren’t just fans—they’re grieving. Rallying. Living inside the thing I built. I scroll further and see artwork of the Singing Citidel half-broken under an orange sky, memorial candles photoshopped into the courtyard.
[VioletVex]: “Our king stood between us and fire.”
I close my eyes and lean back, letting the tinnitus fade beneath the imagined hum of resonance. The Dominion survived because of them—because of faith. Their belief is real enough to shape worlds.
“Thank you,” I whisper to no one, and open a blank document. Notes begin to form, half-strategy, half promise: stronger defenses, fireproof evolutions, hatchery expansions. The work never stops—just changes shape.
It’s been a while since I’ve been home for the day. I reach out to Victor in text to see if he’s free for lunch. His reply comes fast:
Victor: After what I just watched you go through, I’m clearing my whole day. It’s an R&R mission.
He sends me a pin of a local hot springs bathhouse with mineral tubs.
Victor: You’re going. No argument. We’re relaxing and talking in person.
I want to object, but the thought of hot springs and silence is too tempting. I concede and text back that I’ll meet him there.
Getting dressed feels like an afterthought. Jeans, hoodie, worn sneakers. I hesitate in front of the closet, half laughing to myself. “Do I even own swim trunks anymore?” It takes five minutes of digging through drawers to find them, still smelling faintly of chlorine and summer. I toss them into a bag with a towel, deodorant, and a phone charger, then head for the bus stop.
Halfway down the stairs, another thought hits me.
Me: Should I tell Scott too?
Victor: Sure, but he’s paying for himself. I’m only covering you. That’s what he gets for being late to the raid last night.
I smile reading it, picturing Victor’s expression.
I text Scott next.
Me: Victor’s dragging me to a spa. You in?
The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
The reply is instant: a flood of emojis—flexing arms, suns, a tiger, and fire.
I laugh. “Guess that’s a yes?”
The bus ride takes an hour and a half. I sit by the window, the city fading to open hills and pine. The hum of the engine almost matches the tone of the Dominion, steady and grounding. The air smells clean, cooler than in town. My mind drifts between worlds, every vibration of the road a faint echo of resonance.
When the bus finally stops near the spa, I spot Victor waiting at the gate, coffee in hand and his usual half-grin in place. I’m halfway up the path when I’m suddenly lifted off my feet from behind.
“Gotcha!”
Scott’s laugh booms in my ear as he locks me in a crushing bear hug from behind, shaking me like a rag doll before setting me down.
“You need to eat more, man! Gotta bulk up!” he says, grinning like he owns the place.
Victor groans. “I leave him alone for five seconds and he’s already starting a wrestling match in the parking lot.”
Both of them give me a once-over after that, the joking gone for a moment. I can see it in their eyes—the mix of pride and worry they don’t want to voice. Victor crosses his arms, measuring me like a broken server he’s about to repair, and Scott’s grin softens, the energy bleeding into quiet concern. For once, I don’t have the words to reassure them.
Before we head in, Scott glances down at the bag in my hand and bursts out laughing. “Dude, please tell me you didn’t bring swim trunks.”
I blink. “Uh… yeah? Why wouldn’t I?”
Victor groans, rubbing his temple. “You didn’t read the fine print, did you? It’s a traditional mineral spa. You can’t wear clothes in the water.”
“What?!” I blurt. “The site said spa, not mandatory nudist retreat!”
Scott grins, explaining between chuckles, “It’s for the minerals, man. Synthetic fabric and detergents mess with the chemistry. You wear trunks, you ruin the balance—and nobody wants soapy hot springs.”
Victor adds with mock gravity, “So really, you’re saving the sanctity of the springs by stripping down. A noble sacrifice.”
I groan, glaring at both of them. “You two are never letting this go, are you?”
Scott smirks. “Not a chance.”
They’re still laughing as we head inside.
Steam curls up from stone pools set into the mountain, the sharp chill of winter air mixing with the heavy warmth of the springs. The first step into the water feels like being unmade and rebuilt all at once, the heat soaking through skin and bone until my muscles finally stop fighting the idea of rest. I sink lower until the water laps my shoulders, the hiss of it louder than my thoughts.
Outside the wooden walls, frost clings to the trees. The world here is pale, quiet, the opposite of the blazing heat of the Black Sands. I can’t help but think of how strange it feels—how cold can be a comfort now, how the silence of this place feels safer than the hum.
Victor leans back on the stone ledge, closing his eyes. “Alright,” he says softly, “rule number one—no talking about printers, servers, or anything that has an IP address.”
Scott laughs, the sound echoing against the tiled walls. “So… just Nod talk, then?”
I grin faintly. “Guess that’s unavoidable.”
For a while we do talk about Nod—the Ashwing, the Dominion, the things I’ve seen and can barely explain. They listen in silence, the way only old friends can. When I mention the moment the Sablehound threw itself in front of me, Scott’s expression changes; he doesn’t joke this time, just nods, jaw tight. Victor looks down at the water, eyes shadowed. “That’s… brutal, man.”
The topic drifts naturally, as all heavy ones do. Soon the talk shifts to old times. College, sleepless nights, ramen cups stacked like trophies. The Songbird Guild. The way we once spent whole weekends in raids, learning every pattern, memorizing every timing until it was all muscle memory. Scott’s voice rises with that same old energy when he talks about The Citadel of the Fallen Sun—the raid that broke almost every guild before we cleared it.
Victor laughs, shaking his head. “We were insane. No one was even close to us. World first before they nerfed it, and the devs said it wasn’t possible.”
Scott splashes a bit of water at me. “Because this guy—” he jabs a finger at me, “—refused to let us die. ‘Hold position,’ he’d say, like we weren’t already screaming.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “We had to be perfect. That’s what made it worth it.”
Victor leans back, steam curling off his arms. “You still lead like that. Always have.”
For a long time, we just sit in the warmth, the sound of running water filling the space between us. The world feels smaller, simpler. The hum in my ears fades, replaced by something softer—the echo of friendship, and the feeling that maybe, for the first time in weeks, I can breathe.
Steam fades to the smell of cedar and the sound of tires on wet asphalt.
By the time we towel off, the afternoon light has started to cool, the mountain air biting against our skin as we leave the bathhouse.
Victor’s already ordered a car, insisting it’s his treat. “We need food,” he says. “Real food, not ramen or old takeout.” He gives a pointed look at Marcus.
Scott grins and stretches, steam still curling from his hair. “Amen to that.”
The ride is quiet at first. The van hums along winding roads, snow melting in streaks across the windshield. I half-doze in the backseat until the driver’s podcast catches my ear. A smooth, accented voice fills the cabin, something European, Italian or close. It takes me a second to realize what he’s talking about.
“...and as one of the One Hundred Monarchs, I believe it is our sacred duty to bring order to Nod,” the man says. “Together with the King Alaric, we have formed an alliance—The Radiant Concord—to purify this world of its monsters. No king born of corruption shall stand.”
Scott snorts. “Real subtle,” he mutters.
Victor glances up from his phone. “Did he just call himself one of the Hundred?”
“Apparently,” I say, frowning. “And did he just say purify?”
The man continues, his tone dripping with piety. “There are kingdoms ruled by beasts masquerading as men. Take, for instance channel one hundred. A being born from shadow, whose people crawl like insects. These are not rulers—they are abominations.”
Scott and Victor both turn to me in perfect unison, identical grins spreading across their faces.
Victor elbows me first. “Hey, you hearing this, abomination?”
Scott follows up, smirking. “Guess the Inquisition is coming for ya, bug king.”
I roll my eyes, sinking lower into the seat.
Victor chuckles.
The host transitions into another segment about faith metrics and viewer engagement, but I’ve stopped listening. My mind drifts back to Nod, to the cathedral, to the hum beneath my ribs. Purify the monsters. The phrase lingers like a splinter.
The van finally slows near a strip of neon signs and warm light. Restaurants stacked shoulder to shoulder spill the smell of grilled meat and bread into the street. We pile out, the cold slapping hard after the hot spring’s haze. Scott is halfway to the door when my phone buzzes—a sharp, single tone.
[NOD]: Channel 100 – First Faith Distribution Available.
I open it without thinking, and stop dead in my tracks.
Account Deposit: $12,407.83 USD
For a long second, I just stare. The number doesn’t make sense. It’s more than a paycheck. More than three. It takes me a beat to realize what it means: Nod just issued its first payments to the Hundred.
Scott and Victor stop when they notice I’m no longer with them.
“What’s up? Did something happen?” Victor asks.
I turn the screen toward him. He snatches the phone before I can explain.
“Holy shit,” he exclaims, “For real!?”
Scott laughs like it’s nothing. “Man, you act like you’ve never been paid before. I see this kinda stuff with my fitness brand all the time. Still—twelve grand in a week? That’s really good Marcus.”
I take the phone back, my hand trembling slightly. “I’m not even one of the biggest channels.”
Curiosity pushes me to the official site. The rankings update in real time—streamers, kingdoms, view counts. My eyes scan the list until they catch on the familiar name.
Rank #16 – CH100 – Marcus, The Black Sand Dominion.
I exhale slowly. “Sixteenth? How?”
Scott peeks over my shoulder. “You jumped forty-four spots just from the Ashwing fight. Looks like you’re viral, man.”
I scroll lower.
Rank #28 – CH75 – Thalos, The Scorched Sun.
Scott’s grin widens when he sees it. “Hey, look at that, still top thirty. I’ll take it.”
At the top sits the same radiant emblem I’ve seen trending for days.
Rank #6 – CH07 – Alaric, The Holy See of Solomir.
Still climbing. Still watching.
I lock the screen and slip the phone into my pocket. The air feels colder now.
Scott claps a hand on my shoulder. “Hey. Don’t overthink it. We did what we do best—we fought, we survived, and people watched.”
Victor nods. “And their faith was well placed.”
I manage a weak smile. “Yeah. I just didn’t think belief came with direct deposit.”
We step into the warmth of the restaurant, the smell of seared food flooding the air. The hum of conversation replaces the ringing in my ears. I put my arms out onto their shoulders.
"Tonight guys, dinner is on me. Lets eat like the kings we are"
Scotts face lights up "Hell yeah! CHEAT DAY!!"