Chapter 5: The Gate and the Curse

I understood why my father kept quiet. Some truths are too awful to share, even with your own son.

Six hundred thousand Americans and hundreds of thousands of enemies tore each other apart, turning the battlefield into hell. Monsters rose from the dead, the ground soaked in blood and fire. When America was about to break, the occultists finished their ritual.

The sky split with golden light, the air crackling with power. For a moment, hope flickered on the horizon.

The ritual shot golden light, covering the blood-red moon. American soldiers fell back into the circle, and the tide turned. Fallen soldiers stopped spawning monsters, and the endless killing finally slowed.

The change was instant. The men fought with new strength, their fear replaced by wild determination. For the first time, I thought we might actually win.

But the monsters kept coming. Foster stared at the horizon, where a huge figure appeared. The enemy chief, Erikson, strode forward—a humanoid monster, massive, covered in black scales, wielding a giant battering ram. His head was gone, replaced by a tentacle covered in mouths, each swing tearing Americans apart.

Erikson’s presence was crushing. The ground shook with every step, the air thick with the stink of blood and something older.

With every step Erikson took, the red moonlight pushed forward, giving him endless power. The American ritual circle groaned, ready to break. One by one, the occultists collapsed, still raising their hands, refusing to quit.

Their sacrifice was hard to watch. I wanted to help, to do something, but all I could do was pray.

I called to Foster, his warhorse cutting a path through the chaos. My white horse followed, charging straight at Erikson. The Americans roared, their battle cries shaking the sky.

The noise was deafening—drums, trumpets, thousands of voices. I gripped the dagger, knowing this was my shot.

When my horse reached Erikson, it leaped high, and the dagger—great-grandfather’s—sank into Erikson’s knee. Erikson toppled, crushing my horse. Foster grabbed me and dragged me back to our lines.

Pain shot through my leg as I hit the ground, but Foster’s grip was iron. We barely made it back alive.

The ritual circle erupted with its last power, a roar shaking the heavens. Golden light swept away the monsters; Erikson shrank to human size. A thousand occultists turned to ash, and the circle was gone for good.

The battlefield went eerily quiet, only the crackle of flames and distant cries of the wounded breaking the silence. I knelt in the mud, the weight of the dead pressing down.

But the war wasn’t over; Erikson’s reserves charged in. Foster handed me his best horse, telling me to retreat. From now on, America’s only goal was to get back to Washington.

Foster’s eyes were like stone, his jaw clenched. He was buying me time, and I hated myself for leaving him behind.

The army split; Foster and hundreds of thousands stayed to fight Erikson. The last 50,000 retreated with me. On the way, one place stood out—Red Bluff.

The name echoed in my mind, a beacon in the dark. I prayed my father’s prophecy would hold.

Suddenly, my father’s words rang in my ear; maybe America’s future was at Red Bluff. My mother’s prayer echoed, too: one chance in ten. The nine deaths were obvious—the monsters were unstoppable, and if the war crossed the old frontier, America was done. The one hope, maybe, was at Red Bluff, like my father said.

The odds were terrible, but hope was all we had. I clung to it like a drowning man to driftwood.

I pulled up my horse and had a trusted aide send a message to Foster: "Retreat to Red Bluff."

The message was simple, but it carried the weight of everything we’d fought for. I could only hope Foster would make it in time.

The armies fought all night, barely reaching Red Bluff by dawn. Suddenly, Walter Jenkins, my aide, transformed into a giant snake…

His body writhed, scales flashing in the pale light. The men around me froze, terror in their faces. I drew the dagger, ready for whatever came next.

A surviving occultist told me Red Bluff was a place of deep darkness, where ghosts bred easily. Walter was infected by some mysterious force, showing his true form here. Foster rushed over and killed him with one stroke, but Walter might not be truly dead. A crimson power floated up, joining the blood-red moon.

The occultist’s voice was barely a whisper. I watched the red light rise, a chill settling in my bones. The battle wasn’t over—not by a long shot.

The enemy army was still far off, not attacking again, so we rested at Red Bluff. Late at night, something pulled me to a wasteland. The world shifted as I stepped in.

The air was thick with smoke and old blood. My footsteps echoed, the world twisting around me like a nightmare.

It was a ruin, a giant alchemical furnace burning bright, two children’s bones scattered nearby. There was an adult skeleton, a brush and bracelet beside it. Some strange force was eating away at the bones, making a sizzling sound. Flesh kept growing on the bones, only to be shredded by something unseen.

The sight was horrifying. I wanted to look away, but something made me watch every gruesome detail.

The person on the ground might not be dead, just trapped by some force. But if it went on, he’d die for sure.

I felt a surge of pity—and fear. Was this my fate, too? Trapped between life and death, unable to move on?

Inside the giant furnace was a half-burnt scroll. It said the chaos in the world came from the void—an unknown place, the dark side of the universe. Maybe it was another universe, just with a different history.

The words burned into my mind, twisting and shifting like smoke. I realized then that our world was just one of many, all balanced on the edge of chaos.

In our world, after everything formed, order and chaos balanced, and things grew as they should—humans, gods, beasts all followed the rules. But the chaos came from another world, a place with no order. In that chaos, strange life was born; we called them outer gods.

The idea was terrifying. I finally got why the Carter family fought so hard to keep the gates shut. Chaos wasn’t just a force—it was the enemy.

Every time they invaded, it started with a blood moon, whose gospel summoned certain people. These people became slaves of the outer gods, powerful and chaotic, always plotting their arrival. The gods made giant bronze gates to seal off the void. The blood moon couldn’t sense this world, but it too was one of the outer gods, its name unspeakable.

The pattern was clear, the warning unmistakable. I knew now what I had to do.

Only when the bronze gate was damaged did the blood moon’s projection show up. Those summoned would slowly become part of the outer gods, ancient singers of the old days. By chanting, they summoned the outer gods from the void. The gods even gave them a name—Old Day Chanters.

The words echoed in my head, a grim prophecy. I realized then that the real enemy wasn’t the tribes or the ghosts, but the forces lurking beyond the gate.

The place where the bronze gate stood was called the Dust Abyss by the gods; beyond the plains, at the tribes’ holy mountain. Beneath the mountain was the deepest abyss, sealing the giant bronze gate—the deepest place in the world.

The map in my mind shifted, the holy mountain now the center of everything. I finally understood where the last battle would be fought.

At that moment, I understood what one hope in nine deaths meant. The enemy’s holy mountain was forbidden to outsiders, but they’d sacrifice their enemies’ leaders there. Six hundred thousand Americans were just the prelude; if I lost and got captured, I could enter the holy mountain openly. Maybe that was the only chance to fix the bronze gate—the only hope for humanity…