The bar was dim and smoky, a temporary sanctuary carved out from the chaos outside.
Broken windows had been shuttered with planks; the air smelled of dust, sweat, and burnt coffee.
People huddled together, eyes fixed on the small radio perched precariously on the counter.
Thyssara clutched the youngest of their siblings, Merryl, her knuckles white.
Gravely sat next to her, eyes flicking nervously to the door. The brothers—Jones, Joren, and Jalvon—muttered quietly among themselves, trying to distract the tension with half-hearted jokes.
"Stay close," said the fifteen-year-old, Davy, his voice calm but firm, guiding each of them to a safer corner beneath a hanging beam. "Shade is your friend. Keep low. Move slowly."
"Davy, why is everyone so scared?" Thyssara whispered, her dark eyes wide, trembling against his shoulder.
"Because," he said softly, scanning the bar and streets outside, "what's coming isn't a storm. It's… alive."
From the radio came the soft, almost melodic voice of the reporter:
"…the Golden Light continues to sweep across the globe. Adaptive, relentless… it hunts with intent. Cities are collapsing, populations halved from eleven billion to six point five billion. Authorities advise—no, implore—citizens to remain indoors. Any attempt to leave… is fatal. Be alert. Do not engage…"
Every syllable carried weight, like a whisper through a canyon. The bar was silent except for the static crackle of the transmission.
"Look at that…" Joren murmured, pointing at a street reflected in the cracked glass.
Golden flares danced across the horizon, curling like molten fingers. Shadows stretched unnaturally as if reality itself recoiled.
Merryl whimpered, hiding behind Thyssara. "It's… moving fast. It's coming…"
Davy's eyes narrowed. "It's coming for everyone who isn't ready. Everyone who can't survive."
He placed a hand on each sibling's shoulder in turn. "Stay calm… slowly… don't panic. Remember, the light judges and chooses, but it moves with rules we don't fully understand… yet."
The reporter's voice continued softly, almost like a lullaby against the horror outside:
"…in Asia, a massive portal expands. Corrupted beasts, twisted humans, demons—multiplying. Yet deep in the abyss, 10 Awakened survive. Smiling at heaven while hell grows. The hope of humanity rests on their shoulders. The road to awakening passes through death; life is the only path to death everyone, and death… is the only path to life. Be ready. Be vigilant. Or be consumed."
Gravely shivered. "It speaks like it's alive… like it chooses who lives."
"Yes," Davy said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. "And sometimes… the choice is death for some, survival for others. But if we move carefully… maybe we'll last until morning."
Thyssara gripped his arm. "You're going to protect us, right?"
Davy gave a small, wry smile. "Always. Slowly… and carefully. That's the only way."
Outside, the Golden Light moved again. It arced across the horizon, faster than the eye could follow.
The bar's old wooden walls vibrated with heat and hum, shadows twisting as molten gold reflected against broken bottles and battered chairs.
Every patron froze. Every heart thumped in time with the unnatural rhythm of the approaching Judgement.
And somewhere, far above, the Light paused for a moment, almost knowingly, almost sentient—like it could see them, weighing their worth.
Davy felt it in his bones. He whispered to his siblings: "If it comes… we do what we must. Shade first. Survival second. Together… always together."
The radio crackled once more:
"…the Golden Light adapts… finds… selects… kills… and sometimes… it chooses. And when it does, it touches lives in ways unimaginable. Be ready. Or be gone."
Merryl's small hand gripped Thyssara's. Gravely's jaw tightened. Jones, Joren, and Jalvon exchanged nervous glances. Davy's eyes hardened.
"Stay under the bar," he said. "No matter what… slowly. Don't move. Wait."
Outside, the sky burned. Golden fingers stretched, curling like liquid fire. It was coming.
The Golden Light halted just outside the massive bar, hovering like molten liquid suspended in the sky.
Its presence warped the air, bending shadows and reflecting off the cracked windows in molten gold.
Every person inside felt the heat, the weight, the silent awareness of something alive observing them.
From the radio, the reporter's voice came soft, trembling, almost reverent:
"…we have just received new information regarding the Golden Light. Eyewitnesses suggest… it requires a sacrifice. Only through offering may one hope to survive. The Light, it seems… adapts. It can linger, waiting for the offering… until it is satisfied."
The bar's patrons pressed together, murmurs spreading like wildfire. The tension was palpable, a thick pressure pressing on every shoulder, every chest.
The bar owner, a broad-shouldered man with streaks of gray in his beard, stepped forward, voice low and grave.
"If we want to save everyone here… someone must offer themselves. One life… to spare hundreds. That's the law it seems to follow."
An old man in the corner, bent and frail, rose slowly. His eyes met the bar owner's and the gathered crowd.
"Then I will do it," he said, voice trembling but firm. "Let me go. Let me be the sacrifice."
The Light shimmered, golden tendrils curling closer. The old man stepped outside.
Every eye followed him, breaths caught in chests. Silence stretched, thick and unbearable.
Then a sound, almost mechanical, almost human, drifted from the air itself:
"Rej… rej… rejected."
The old man froze. The crowd gasped. He had expected death—but the Light did not kill him. He remained, untouched, suspended between awe and disbelief.
Inside, the bar seemed impossibly still.
The old man returned, brushing dust from his tattered coat, and gestured toward the interior. "See for yourselves," he said.
Every eye turned inward. The bar was packed.
Hundreds of people pressed together: young men with clenched jaws, children huddled close to their mothers, middle-aged women sobbing quietly, hands over mouths.
The reality of the stakes struck like a hammer—anyone could be next.
Some women began to cry outright, fear overtaking them. "We're going to die…" one whispered, trembling.
Thyssara's hand went to her mouth, eyes wide.
Gravely's jaw tightened, hands gripping the edge of the table.
Merryl clutched his sleeve, shaking. Jones, Joren, and Jalvon exchanged frightened glances, fear stark in their faces.
Davy knelt beside them, placing a hand on each shoulder in turn.
"Shh… calm," he murmured, voice steady despite the terror in the room. "We stay together. Slowly. Don't panic. The Light… it tests, but we will survive. I promise."
The Golden Light pulsed outside, golden heat rippling the walls.
The hum of its presence filled the bar, and yet, for now, none were touched.
The tension was alive, waiting, as if the air itself was holding its breath.
The Golden Light began to pulse, each beat echoing like a drum through the walls of the bar. Then, impossibly, a voice—deep, metallic, and alive—spoke slowly, counting down:
"Six…"
The patrons froze. Thyssara clutched Gravely's hand. Merryl whimpered softly. Davy's heart hammered so hard it hurt.
"Five…"
The air seemed to compress around him. Every instinct screamed to move, to hide, to fight. Panic clawed at his chest. He could feel tears welling, blinding him, shaking him from the inside out.
"Four…"
Davy stumbled over a chair, tripping as he ran past his siblings. His hands trembled. He wanted to grab Thyssara, to pull her back, but the Light called to him—demanded him.
"Three…"
He sprinted through the bar, heart breaking. "Go! Go! Go!" he shouted to his siblings, throwing his hands toward the Light, surrendering himself. "I… I'll handle this! Don't look back!"
The Golden Light seized him, golden tendrils wrapping, biting, disassembling him at the atomic level.
Pain tore through him like fire and ice combined. Every nerve screamed.
Every cell vibrated in agony. He felt himself unraveling—tortured, burned, twisted—and yet, in the midst of the impossible pain, he focused.
He turned his head toward his sisters and brothers, lips trembling, and managed a broken, bloody smile.
"I… I'll be back… slowly… go to grandma… tell them Davy… won't be coming home… for a while… maybe forever…"
Tears streamed down his face. "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry."
Thyssara, Gravely, Merryl, Jones, Joren, and Jalvon pressed low beneath the bar beam, eyes wide, frozen in horror.
They watched as the impossible, sentient light held him, tore him, and yet did not fully consume the essence of his will.
The Golden Light hovered, immense and incomprehensible, voice booming across the bar, resonating deep in the bones of everyone inside:
"JUDGMENT."
And then everything went black.