I hope you all had a good weekend.
I kind of feel bad for skipping those days. Let me know if we should either do 5 or 7 chapters a week.
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The Freedom Fighter
The wind howled through the jagged peaks of the Caucasus Mountains, a relentless cold that seemed to seep into the bones of all who dared to tread its unforgiving land. Snow drifted across the rugged terrain, casting a pale blanket over the landscape. The mountains were silent, save for the faint crunch of boots on snow as Aram Avetisyan made his way toward the edge of a rocky outcrop.
Once a champion in the brutal world of mixed martial arts, Aram now stood as a leader of the resistance, a seasoned warrior determined to free his people from the weight of Russian oppression. His once-pristine fighting career, known throughout the world for his unstoppable strength, had given way to a far more dangerous battle: the fight for survival in the rugged Caucasus.
Tall and powerfully built, Aram's broad shoulders and muscular frame were the legacy of years spent honing himself in the gym, in the cage, and now on the mountain. His past had been a blend of glory and pain. Born in a small village in Dagestan, he had fought his way up through the ranks to become a national MMA champion. But the medals and fame had meant nothing when his people were being oppressed, when the land of his ancestors was under the boots of foreigners.
Today, his mujahideen had finally spotted the Russian military convoy making its way through a narrow pass in the valley below. It was a large procession of armored vehicles, trucks, and tanks, snaking its way through the valley, unaware that the mountains themselves were waking up to challenge them.
Aram didn't hesitate, this is what they were waiting for thanks to the intel they got from the CIA. Enough weapons, munitions, and supplies to let the resistance be armed for years to come. The battle was theirs to win. His footsteps fell silently in the snow, his heart steady, his mind clear, his every muscle ready for the fight ahead. The enemy wouldn't know what hit them.
As the blue-gray light of dawn spilled over the mountain, Aram's thoughts flashed back to the cage, to the roar of the crowd, to the taste of victory. But all that was distant now. In the mountains, there was no audience, no medals, no fame. There was only the fight for freedom. A fight that demanded more than strength, it demanded will, resolve, and an unbreakable spirit.
Having his men get into position, Aram also crouched behind the ridge as wind screamed through the crags of the Caucasus Mountains. From the high cliffs above the convoy, Levan, the explosives expert, triggered the first charge. There was no sound at first, just a flash of light, then a deafening explosion.
A Russian truck exploded in a ball of flame, sending debris hurtling through the air. The convoy screeched to a halt as their own vehicles was taken out, confusion rippling through the ranks. "Move, move, move!" he shouted over his radio.
Aram's men descended like wolves, slipping silently into the chaos below. Beka, the sniper, dropped two guards with a single shot, his rifle whispering death from the treeline. The soldiers below had no idea where the attack was coming from, disoriented by the blast and the sudden onslaught of gunfire.
In the center of the valley, Amina and Nikolai, former MMA fighters themselves, were deadly in close combat. Amina, short but incredibly fast, launched herself at a Russian soldier, her combat knives flashing and before the man could react, her knife was in his side, his breath cut short in a gurgle.
Ramzan grabbed the turret of a Russian truck, hoisting himself onto the hood with brutal force. His massive fists came down like hammers on the driver, knocking him unconscious with a single strike before pulling him out of the vehicle and throwing him aside. The truck was now theirs. Ramzan manned the gun, raining hell down on the Russian soldiers still scrambling to respond.
Meanwhile, Aram had made his way to the front, coordinating his fighters. His voice crackled over the comms as he directed the assault and he also took part in the fighting. He was a force of nature. He moved through the chaos like lightning; every punch, every kick, every gunshot landing with precision.
An officer fired at him, but Aram was already closing the distance, his speed unmatched. With a single, bone-shattering punch, Aram sent the officer crashing to the ground, his rifle skittering away. A quick snap of his leg sent another soldier flying into a nearby rock face, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Above them, a Russian helicopter gunship that had been hovering just out of range began descending, weapons primed. He saw a bazooka sticking out of a flap in a truck and grabbed it. The blast caused another ripple of chaos among the soldiers, who were now pinned down on all sides as it fell from the sky.
The convoy commander tried to regroup, barking orders, but it was already too late. The guerrillas had already breached the convoy's perimeter, and Aram's men were dismantling the enemy's defenses piece by piece. The convoy's supply trucks, loaded with weapons, ammunition, and fuel, were now in the hands of the resistance.
The battle didn't last long. Aram's fighters, unrelenting and ruthless, tore through the Russian forces with calculated brutality. The remaining soldiers fled into the mountain forests, leaving behind a wreckage of burning vehicles and scattered weapons.
Aram stood amidst the destruction, his chest heaving with controlled breath, the weight of the victory settling on him. His men were already securing the supplies in a quick and orderly fashion as soon there would be reinforcement here.
Just then as they were packing up and about to move out he had the strangest message appear out of nowhere; Earth has been initiated into the Multi-Verse!
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The Mining Tycoon
The sun sank low over the jagged hills of the South African veld, turning the horizon to fire. Smoke from distant smelters rose like dark fingers into the sky, mingling with the scent of dust and ore. In the heart of this rugged landscape, the sprawling mining complex of Kgosi Xander stretched as far as the eye could see; crushing plants, conveyor belts, and towering shafts rising like monuments to industry.
Kgosi leaned on the balcony of his private office, the city of Johannesburg faintly glowing in the distance. He was a man shaped by ambition, built from raw determination and an instinct for survival. He was born in Welkom, South Africa, a gold-mining town built on hard labor and harder truths. His father was an Afrikaner engineer and his mother a black schoolteacher from the Zulu tribes. He was a child of both worlds.
Years ago, he had walked into the mining industry as a young engineer, walking underground with the men who bled for the ore. He studied economics at night, geology by day, and politics by instinct.
Soon he was in the real game buying up land, when markets crashed and companies folded, he bought what remained, he sought out claims no one wanted, land others feared, resources buried too deep or too dangerous to touch.
Now, he controlled veins of gold, platinum, and rare earth minerals critical to modern civilization which were worth billions. His empire wasn't just wealth, it was power and leverage that extended from the boardroom to government corridors and beyond.
Environmentalists called him a monster, a symbol of industrial greed. Competitors called him untouchable. Governments negotiated with him quietly. Corporations structured supply chains around him. Entire regions lived or starved based on his decisions. He simply called it survival.
Tonight, the wind shifted across the shafts, carrying whispers of unrest. Labor disputes, rival tycoons angling for a piece of his empire, and smuggling syndicates all tested the boundaries of his dominion. But Kgosi thrived on the challenge and welcomed it.
With a single phone call, he could mobilize fleets of trucks, security teams, and geologists; every cog in his industrial machine ready to respond to threats or seize advantage. Inside his office, screens flickered with real-time satellite imagery of his mines, shipment routes, and competitor activity.
Kgosi's mind raced as he planned expansions, acquisitions, and contingencies, like a chess master moving pieces across a board. Every decision had consequences measured in millions, sometimes billions, but he never faltered.
A knock on the door. His chief of operations entered, holding a report. Kgosi glanced up. "The northern platinum shaft?" he asked, voice calm, commanding.
"Sabotage attempt. They were trying to divert shipments to a rival. We intercepted in time," the chief replied.
Kgosi did not turn from the screens. "Casualties?"
"None."
"Good." He paused, then added, "Double security. And make it clear to the miners; their families remain protected. Schools funded. Clinics stocked. Fear creates obedience but loyalty creates stability."
She hesitated. "And the suspects?"
Kgosi's reflection stared back at him from the glass. Calm. Cold. Certain. "Remove them quietly," he said.
When the door closed, Kgosi returned to the balcony. The veld stretched endlessly before him; beautiful, brutal, ancient. Riches and danger woven together beneath the soil. He understood this land because it had shaped him. He was not merely exploiting it. He was commanding it.
Kgosi Xander was not just a tycoon, he was a force of nature, relentless and unyielding, built from grit, greed, and ruthless intelligence. And in South Africa's heart, he ruled supreme.
However tonight was not the end of his problems as he received out of nowhere a prompt; [WORLD INTEGRATION IN PROGRESS]
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The Hippy
For twenty years, Taavi Leemet had walked.
Across borders that shifted while he crossed them. Along roads older than nations. Through deserts where the sky crushed the horizon and forests where the trees whispered in languages no one bothered to remember anymore. He walked without a map, without ownership, without urgency. When shoes fell apart, he went barefoot. When money ran out, he traded labor and stories.
The world called men like him drifters. Hippies. Lost souls. Taavi knew better. He walked because the earth was a vast place and he wanted to see it all.
He had left Estonia as a young man, after the noise of the modern world grew too loud. The screens. The speed. The forgetting. His teacher, last keeper of the old stories in their people had pressed her forehead to his and whispered words that were older than Christianity, older than borders. She told him the land remembers those who listen. She told him the forests are not empty.
He slept beneath baobabs in Africa, learned silence in Himalayan passes, shared fire with nomads, monks, and farmers who still understood seasons as teachers rather than inconveniences. In the Amazon, shamans called him "one who hears roots." In Mongolia, an old woman traced symbols into his palm and said he walked like a man already dead to the world.
He never stayed long. The path always called him onward. But no matter how far he wandered, the dreams were always the same: dark pines. peat bogs breathing mist. stones half-buried, waiting. Now, after twenty years, his feet carried him home.
He looked back at the TV crews that followed him. He did not know how they got word of his journeys but once they did they were on him like flies to honey. He knew they were hungry for meaning, for spectacle, for a story they did not understand. Taavi neither slowed nor acknowledged them. The road had never cared who watched.
Estonia greeted him quietly, as it always had. The Baltic wind cut clean and cold. Forests stretched unbroken, ancient and patient. The land had changed, wind turbines on distant hills, glass buildings rising where fields once lay but beneath it all, the old pulse remained.
Taavi knelt in the moss once he stepped foot on his motherland and pressed his palm to the soil. The earth was warm. Alive. It recognized him. The people barely did. To them, he was just another bearded man with weathered skin, loose linen clothes, and a staff carved with strange spirals. A hippy who had wasted his life walking nowhere. Children stared. Adults looked past him.
The forests did not. They stirred when he passed. Birds settled near him without fear. Old stones hummed faintly beneath his fingers. The bogs breathed deeper. Something long-dormant was waking, not because Taavi commanded it but because he had returned at the right moment.
The world was changing again. Fast. Violently. Carelessly. The old balance was fraying. Taavi felt it in the way rivers pulled wrong, in the way storms arrived out of season, in the way silence pressed heavier than sound.
He had not come back to preach. He had not come back to lead. He had come back because the land had called him home. Taavi rose, staff in hand, eyes calm, expression unreadable. He continued on his way towards his childhood village each step measured, patient, and perfectly in time with the earth beneath him.
He was able to hop on the back of the van of a sheep herder who gave him a ride for free that was heading in the direction he was going. Sitting back in the van with the sheep bleating around him, he let the cool air caress his skin and brush through his hair.
Already he saw familiar landmarks as the truck drove down the road and then out of nowhere he got a message that he felt as if he was waiting for; [Awakening World]
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The Martial artist
Seoul never truly slept. It only changed masks.
By day, it gleamed; glass towers, polished smiles, slogans about progress and success. By night, the neon bled into rain-slicked streets, and the city revealed what it really was: a quiet war fought in schoolyards, stairwells, and back alleys. Student gangs ruled hallways. Debt passed like currency. Children were broken early so the machine could keep moving.
From the outside, Han Joon-seok was invisible. A delivery man. A night janitor. A nobody moving through the city with his head down and no connections. He lived in a one-room apartment above a convenience store, ate simply, and spoke little. Cameras never lingered on him. No one ever followed him or noticed him. That was exactly how he wanted it.
Joon-seok had grown up in Busan, raised by a grandfather who was a war hero that fought in both the Japanese invasion and occupation of Korea, and the Korean civil war that followed. He
had survived war, occupation, hunger, and being disconnected from his home. Joon-seok was a by product of a powerful chaebol heir and a foolish young girl who thought that she could have a life together with a monster. She died in childbirth to give birth to him. The man never looked back.
Joon-seok was always an angry child growing up so the old man taught him traditional Korean martial arts not as sport, but as discipline as control. He learned from the old man violence was a tool, not an outlet.
Joon-seok learned faster than he should have. Stronger. Quieter. By his twenties, he was challenging other masters from different dojos.
Then the city took something from him. His younger cousin, brilliant, gentle, caught between rival student gangs funded quietly by secretive hands. Loansharks in uniforms. Violence disguised as "youth problems."
The police reports went nowhere. The schools stayed silent. The sponsors were connected to a chaebol subsidiary, far enough removed to stay untouchable. Justice never came. So Joon-seok did.
He did not announce himself. He did not make speeches. He appeared where fear already lived; school rooftops, underground arcades, half-abandoned gymnasiums. Gangs collapsed overnight. Leaders vanished. Bribes dried up. Adults who pulled strings from boardrooms suddenly found their operations exposed, disrupted, dismantled.
Rumors spread. Some said he was a ghost. Some said he was an ex-special forces operator. Students whispered a name: The Silent Hand.
Joon-seok had finally found the figure who was the source of his cousin's death. Looking at the picture of the young punk with blond hair and arrogance carved into his smile, Joon-seok could still see the familiar looks they shared. This was his half-brother.
While his mother passed away his father continued on with his life, climbing up the corporate ladder of his family's empire until he took over. He even started his own new family as he got married to some western woman and looked like the picture perfect bunch.
He would have laughed at the cosmic irony of it all if he could have, it was like his life was a cruel play, every role perfectly cast.
He didn't even care for them, they could live it up as much as they wanted in wealth, happiness, celebrity but to cut short the one light in his life…There could only be vengeance. Only reckoning.
Seoul had taught him well, in this concrete jungle of monsters there had to be a hunter.
Tonight, rain slid down the windows of the high-rises where Joon-seok stood alone on the rooftop of one. He exhaled slowly, centering himself. The hunt was on.
The city outside flickered. Then everything stilled. The hum of traffic vanished. The rain froze mid-fall. A cold blue light reflected across the mirrors. Floating before him, impossible and silent, words formed: [CANDIDATE IDENTIFIED: Potential – Very High]
Joon-seok did not flinch. He assumed he was suffering from hallucinations or demons but then right when he was going to complete his revenge he was whisked away.