Chapter I.I – Ghost of Perdition Act I

A hollow thud echoed through the forgotten sewer line beneath the old town. The sound carried like a heartbeat inside the tunnels, a reminder of how greed and corruption centuries ago had scarred the world beyond repair.

In the shadows, beneath the faint glow of cradle-lights fixed to the damp brick walls, a boy named Kaodin stood still. His breath was slow, measured. His focus drawn inward. Heat coiled in his belly, burning at the Dantian—the core of his energy.

It hadn’t always been like this.

The drainage line was never meant for people—just runoff, overflow, forgotten water pushed away from the old city. But beneath it, sealed behind a collapsed service hatch, was something else entirely.

A maintenance subspace.

Dry. Reinforced. Old-world engineering—overbuilt, cautious. Designed for the family of a mechanical technician to live and work in isolation during extended inspection cycles. Power came from a makeshift electrical coil that harvested energy from the constant water flow, like a miniature dam. A dormant autonomous system remained active, calibrated to purge non-human biological signatures that breached its perimeter. Rats never lingered. Neither did anything worse.

Kaodin hadn’t found it by choice.

He’d fallen into it while running—cornered, breath burning, chased by things that didn’t belong in daylight. The autonomous system detected him as human and, by sheer luck, allowed entry through an auxiliary access route. The space itself was what kept him alive.

Later—much later—he’d learned what it was.

Tired of the isolation, the rest of the family had left first—heading toward a settlement zone and never sending word back. The father, head of the household, stayed.

Not out of duty. Out of fear.

If they returned, this would be the only place they would know to look.

So he never left.

He fortified the subspace—tuning the autonomous water filtration, air filtration, and power-renewal systems. He kept meticulous logs, not by date, but by cycles: filter changes, power recalibrations, radio sweeps conducted at fixed intervals.

One entry repeated more than the rest.

Radio scan complete.
No return signal.
Cycle count unreliable.
Still waiting.

Another, written much later, the script tighter, more deliberate.

Counter reset again after filtration stall.
Estimate: over eight dozen seasonal turns.
Could be wrong.
Waiting regardless.

If I don’t make it, he’d written in one place, they’ll know I waited.

Kaodin had found the diary on his third night there, fingers shaking as he pried open the waterproof case. He didn’t understand everything inside—old schematics, maintenance codes, frequency tables, fragments of a life measured in silence—but he understood enough.

This place wasn’t a sewer.

It was a shelter someone had trusted with their last hope.

That was why Kaodin stayed.
It was this place that carried him through his hardest days—where he survived, trained, and endured, before meeting the people who would become his family in this new world.

He moved in rhythm.

One… two… punch.

The cement-pole dummy—reinforced, scavenged, bound with rags—absorbed the impact as his knuckles flared red with restrained Qi. The space held. Always did. No echoes. No wandering sounds. No watching eyes.

Whatever haunted the surface avoided this place.

And whatever systems still watched beneath the city did not mistake him for prey.

He moved in rhythm.
One… two… punch.
One… two… low kick, high kick.

“Breathe, control the Qi, make it part of your Muaythai.” Back then, It sounds like how he would pestering me about such none sense…, but who would have thought…

Kaodin’s knuckles glowed red with seething aura. Each strike landed against a cement-pole dummy bounded with rags. His second punch released a burst of Qi, rattling the pole. He twisted his waist, leg snapping forward in a whip-like arc.

Crack.
A fracture split the surface of the cement.

Ping….Ping…
The sharp tone of the proximity alert jolted through the silence. Kaodin exhaled slowly. Cee-Too must be close.

He centered himself one last time. Let’s try Eyes closed, aura focused inward, he counted the rhythm.
One—left foot forward.
Two—fists raised.
Energy surged into his right leg, glowing crimson. He struck—

POOF…………
Dust shook loose from the rag-covered cement pole.

Kaodin drew a deep breath. Let’s try something else this time.

The air in the sewer training chamber shimmered faintly as he steadied his stance. Breath slow, deep, rhythmic—his focus turned inward. From the core of his body, his fiery red Qi surged outward, threading through every muscle and nerve. Legs, knees, elbows, fists—each one came alive with heat and pressure, until his whole form seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.

He began to move.

The familiar ram muay flowed through him like an ancient melody. Each breath matched the rhythm; each step ignited another flicker of crimson light beneath his skin. When his Qi felt stable—warm, alive, ready—he whispered the name of his next form.

“Kua Sat Hawk”
“Right Spear Thrust”.—He ducked low, slipping past an imagined left punch, and struck—his right elbow cutting through the air toward an invisible torso.

“I Nao Tang Grid.”
A Man Stabbing a Dagger.
He pivoted, countering a right-hand strike that wasn’t there, slipping into the inner circle and driving his elbow sharply toward the ribs of a phantom opponent.

Kaodin exhaled, smiling faintly. One more.

This time he pushed harder, breath shortening, Qi accelerating in sharp pulses. The red glow deepened, rippling across his frame like liquid fire. He twisted his waist, pivoting into a half-circle spin.

“Jarakae-Fard-Harng,” the Crocodile Striking Tail.
The movement snapped like a whip—his leg arced high, and his heel slammed into the top of the cement pole.

THUD.

The dummy trembled. Dust rained down.
Kaodin landed lightly, breathing steady despite the strain. “It’s just shaking a little,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. “Never mind. I’ll keep sharpening my kick until I can break it one day.”

He drew in one final breath, then returned to stance—calm, centered, still glowing faintly beneath the dim light.

From the sewer’s entrance came a familiar voice, cheerful and echoing.
“Kaodin! We’re heading out to scavenge. You comin’?”

Cee-Too’s iron pipe clanged against the mangrove ladder as he descended, grin flashing in the half-light.
Kaodin slung his pack over one shoulder. Before he could answer, a sharp crack echoed behind him. The training dummy split down its spine, the upper half snapping free and collapsing into a shower of pebbles.

Kaodin froze. The sound echoed—a deep crack, followed by the soft crumble of stone.
Cee-Too blinked toward the noise. “What was that?”

“Probably something just fell,” Kaodin said quickly, brushing off the dust from his sleeve. “I’ll clean it up later. Let’s finish the errand first.”

Cee-Too shrugged, grinning faintly. “Yeah. Better hurry before Dad starts calling. Daylight’s the best time for scavenging anyway.”

Sunlight streamed through the fractured roof above, spilling across them in slanted beams. Dust hung in the air like drifting gold.

“So,” Cee-Too asked, squinting ahead, “anything specific you’re hoping to find today?”

Kaodin adjusted his pack, eyes on the horizon. “Maybe a utility knife. Or some proper camping gear.”

Silence followed—quiet but heavy. His thoughts began to drift.

Fragments of memory flickered behind his eyes: the rift splitting open like a wound in the sky… the searing light that swallowed him whole… and that whisper—deep, formless, inhuman. A demon’s voice, or a dream pretending to be one. When he’d opened his eyes again, the world had already ended.

He remembered the first time he saw it—the ruins buried in sand, the skeletons of towers sinking into dust. Civilization wasn’t dying; it had already been erased.

“If I’d had camping gear back then,” he murmured, almost to himself, “things might’ve been easier.”

Cee-Too tilted his head. “What was that?”

Kaodin blinked, forcing a small smile. “Nothing. Just… remembering something from before.”

They moved on, weaving through the wreckage of the old city. Rusted cars lined the road like tombstones, half-swallowed by dunes. The ground crunched beneath their boots—glass, gravel, fragments of the past.

Both boys kept to the shadows, their small size an advantage. They walked beneath collapsed billboards and twisted metal beams, staying close to cover—unseen, unheard. The silence of the wasteland pressed in like a held breath.

Far above, hidden behind a broken overpass, Mr. Cee-Ar-Tee adjusted the focus on his binoculars. The glass caught a faint glint of sunlight as he scanned the area.

His voice murmured softly into the commline, reporting to the security team back at the settlement as per routine procedure.
“Visual confirmed. The boys are in good condition. Keep them within the shaded zones and stay alert. Always moving—don’t let them sit still long enough to be targets. No hostiles detected or following.”

He lingered a moment longer, gaze softening as he lowered the binoculars.
“Good boys… almost there,” he muttered to himself. “Still, I’ve got to teach them better awareness. I’m sitting out here in plain sight, and they haven’t even noticed. They see what’s in front of them, but not what’s beyond their sight.”

Below, Kaodin and Cee-Too continued on, two small figures threading through the bones of a dead world—unaware of the eyes watching over them.