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CHAPTER 3
🕑 Added 2025-04-11 19:53:47 +0000 UTCThey were still filled with apprehension.
As scholars of the arcane, learned in the mysteries of the cosmos, they knew better than to dismiss the existence of other worlds as mere fantasy. Unlike ordinary people, who scoffed at such ideas, they understood that the boundaries of reality were far more fragile than they appeared.
After all, their own magic was not an innate force but borrowed power—drawn from dimensions beyond comprehension. The existence of other realms was not a question of belief, but of knowledge.
But!
The contents of this glowing screen… it was simply absurd!
A single bite transforming someone into a mindless, rotting husk? That was beyond ridiculous. The process of species transformation was impossibly complex; it was not some instantaneous metamorphosis triggered by a mere wound. This was not some work of fiction where logic could be tossed aside at convenience.
This was neither science nor magic!
"Fake?"
A voice, calm yet enigmatic, drifted through the air.
The Ancient One stepped out of the Sanctum, her golden robes flowing like ripples through reality itself. The flickering candlelight danced across her smooth, ageless features, casting shifting shadows across the chamber's stone walls. Her expression was unreadable, yet there was an unsettling weight in her tone.
"Tell me, Mordo," she mused, her fingers delicately tracing the edge of a sigil inscribed upon a nearby pillar, "do you truly believe that possibility dictates reality?"
Mordo's breath hitched, his muscles tensing at the implication. A phantom chill ghosted across his skin, as though the very fabric of the world had shifted around him.
"Supreme Sorcerer," he said slowly, searching her expression, "are you saying that… this is real?"
The Ancient One offered no confirmation, nor did she deny it. Instead, she merely tilted her head slightly, the barest hint of a smile playing on her lips.
"Perhaps," she said.
A single word, but it sent a storm raging through Mordo's mind.
The weight of possibility, of truth, pressed down on him like an anchor. The chamber felt smaller, the air denser. Even the flickering light of the sigils seemed to waver, as if uncertain themselves. But before he could fully process it, the screen flickered again, displaying new images.
With the Supreme Sorcerer acknowledging the legitimacy of this vision, he no longer dared to dismiss it as an elaborate trick.
The words on the screen pulsed ominously, the eerie glow casting unsettling shadows across the chamber. And then—
The perspective shifted. The flat image gained depth, transforming into a three-dimensional window into another world.
A world of horror.
Amidst the darkened corridors, filled with the slow, shuffling movements of the undead, a lone figure emerged.
A woman clad in a black tactical bodysuit.
Her every movement was precise, controlled—the gait of a predator, her muscles coiled with readiness. She advanced with deliberate caution, the dim emergency lighting reflecting off the sleek contours of her suit, making her appear almost spectral against the darkness. Her breaths were measured, her fingers twitching near the hilt of a blade strapped to her thigh.
A hunter in the midst of death.
A dangerous beauty that exuded both grace and lethality.
Instantly, countless spectators were captivated.
"Natasha?"
Nick Fury stiffened, his single eye narrowing as he recognized the woman on screen.
His most trusted agent.
"What the hell is she doing there?"
This was impossible. Natasha had been assigned to an undercover mission in a classified location. By all logic, she had no reason to be here, in this nightmare realm.
Unless…
Unless this wasn't a fabrication. Unless this was real.
Nick Fury felt a cold dread settle in his stomach, a rare emotion for a man who prided himself on being unshakable.
An invasion? A crisis spanning across dimensions?
Unimaginable rewards?
Before he could process his thoughts further, the screen shifted again.
A sudden movement in the darkness.
"Look out!"
Coulson's voice rang out in alarm.
From the shadows behind Natasha, a grotesque figure emerged. Its flesh twisted and gnarled, its jaw stretched impossibly wide, exposing rows of jagged, rotting teeth. Its eyes, milky and lifeless, held no hint of sentience—only hunger.
A putrid green liquid dripped from its maw, hissing as it splattered onto the cold stone floor, burning through it with a sickening sizzle. The scent of decay and something worse—something alien—filled the air.
And it was lunging straight at her.
Fury's pulse spiked.
"Get out of there!" he barked into his communicator, desperation lacing his voice. "Do not let that thing touch you!"
No response.
Nothing but dead air.
As if she were in an entirely different world.
The realization hit him like a gut punch.
His heart plummeted.
——
Online Reaction:
"No way… she's gonna turn into a zombie?!"
"Damn, not even the hot ones get a pass?! I thought she was a main character!"
"She's about to be zombie chow, man…"
"Screw that, if she goes down, I'm quitting this stream."
A flood of live chat messages exploded across the screen.
A mixture of morbid fascination and dread.
It was like watching a horror film—except this time, it felt real. Too real.
The tension in the air thickened. The grotesque maw of the creature loomed inches from Natasha's exposed neck.
Its breath, rancid and putrid, caressed her skin.
And then—
Natasha's expression darkened.
A flicker of irritation crossed her face.
"Ugh."
Her nose wrinkled in distaste.
"That smell."
She didn't hesitate. Years of experience, a lifetime of surviving the impossible, dictated her next move.
Without looking, without needing to confirm, she pivoted on instinct.
Her blade flashed in the dim corridor, cutting through the air in a deadly arc.
A single, decisive strike.
She had faced death too many times before.
She wasn't about to let it take her now.
