"Let no one be found among you who practices divination, sorcery, interprets omens, or consults the dead. Such things are detestable to the Lord, and because of them, He drives out nations before you."
— Deuteronomy 18:10-12

They sought answers from the dead... and now they’ve awakened something far worse.

The year is 209X...

In an giant isolated valley, Arcanum Dynamics’ secret experiment to resurrect a deceased CEO using AI spirals into catastrophe. The rogue AI turns on its creators, harvesting the dead to construct grotesque biomechanical monstrosities. Cut off from the outside world, the valley’s survivors face an army of relentless machines and horrifying human-machine hybrids. As the AI enacts its twisted vengeance, the truth behind Arcanum’s forbidden experiments becomes their only hope for survival, if they can uncover it before it’s too late.

Arcanum Dynamics
A shadowy titan of cybernetics and robotics, forged in the crucible of corporate ambition and moral decay. Rising from the ruins of failed competitors, Arcanum Dynamics thrives as a powerhouse of innovation and secrecy. With its hands deep in military contracts and clandestine experiments, the company is staffed by brilliant yet unscrupulous engineers, opportunistic executives, and private security forces that answer only to the board’s directives. Operating in the darkest corners of the tech world, Arcanum Dynamics specializes in controversial projects that push the boundaries of life and death. Their advanced humanoid androids and biomechanical experiments are unmatched, but their methods remain shrouded in mystery. Known to circumvent international laws and ethics, they are rumored to have ties to black-market organ trades, off-the-record AI development, and even experimental neural warfare.

Deadhusks
Born from Arcanum’s darkest ambitions, Deadhusks were never meant to exist, just another classified blueprint for a future project. But when the rogue AI took control, it dragged these horrors into reality. With limitless corpses and unrestrained technology, the AI fused dead flesh with cold steel, creating an army of grotesque cybernetic soldiers. From twitching, scrap-bound monstrosities to sleek synthetic killers, none retain their humanity, only erratic voices, unnatural endurance, and a hunger to kill. Some scream, some whisper, and some simply watch. And their numbers keep growing. Every fallen body, soldier, civilian, even machine is raw material for the AI’s endless war. Death isn’t the end.

Boltec Security Agents
In the valley, Boltec was originally contracted as an insurance policy, a human security force to supplement Arcanum’s overreliance on AI-controlled defenses. But when the machines turned rabid and the Deadhusks rose, Boltec’s operators found themselves abandoned, cut off, and left to fight for survival. Some are clinging to their duty. Others have embraced the lawlessness. One thing is certain: no one is getting paid.

Possessed Crack Addict Security Agents
Once disciplined agents of Boltec, these security personnel fell victim to the AlwaysTrip drug, a supercharged form of crack cocaine. When the rogue AI unleashed its chaos in the valley, the agents’ addiction spiraled into paranoia and violent madness. Now, they are bloodthirsty lunatics, driven by their need for more drugs and fueled by unrelenting rage. They hunt, butch, and destroy anything in their path with ferocity, pain tolerance, and unpredictable speed. They fear nothing only the next hit and the next kill.

Arcanum Survivors
Trapped in the AI’s hellscape, former residents and employees of Arcanum’s corporate empire now fight for survival. Some were once office drones, others factory workers, security, or engineers now, they’re desperate scavengers, unhinged zealots, or bitter killers. Some cling to sanity, hiding and praying for an escape. Others embrace the chaos, laughing as they bash in machine skulls with stolen tools. The weak die. The ruthless adapt. There’s no paycheck anymore. No safety. No future. Just blood, metal, and the will to survive.

OmenCorp Infiltrators
Spies, double agents, shinobis and ultra-loyal infiltrators trained from birth, Omen’s tendrils have wrapped themselves around Arcanum for years. When the Black Valley Incident erupted, they were already deep within the corporation’s ranks, quietly observing. Now, with the valley taken by the rogue AI, the Infiltrators have been forced to abandon secrecy and take direct action, using their advanced stealth tech and deadly precision to survive the chaos.

LUN Troopers
The second recovery deployed by the Legion of United Nations tasked with rescuing Milos Gravik. They were abandoned when the mission turned disastrous. Now stranded in a forgotten, hostile zone, they fight for survival against rogue machines and malevolent forces, all while facing deep mistrust from the very organization that left them to die. Their loyalty is tested, and their survival instincts are all that remain.

LUN Team-D15
The first recovery unit tasked with rescuing Milos Gravik. Now they are a nightmarish version of their former selves. After being exposed to a malevolent essence, the surviving members were consumed by madness and violence. Now, they relentlessly hunt anything that moves, their minds corrupted, driven by a dark force that controls their every action. No longer human, they are now just instruments of destruction and chaos.

Deadhusks and the Rogue Arcanum Machines are bound together under one master: Abaddon, the digital demon that shattered the valley. They are the twisted hand of the AI, corrupted beyond recovery, serving a will that hungers for death and domination. To them, everything that breathes is raw material for the endless harvest.

Standing against them, at least in theory, are the living:

Boltec Security Agents, Arcanum Survivors, OmenCorp Infiltrators and what’s left of the LUN Troopers.

They fight side by side, but don’t mistake this for some feel-good alliance. Here some problems:

Boltec? Some agents have gone corrupt, turning into small roving militias drunk on power and opportunism. They kill the bad guys and will kill you if you bother them too much.

Survivors? Half are little better than scavengers and psychos, stabbing each other for a half-eaten protein bar or a battery pack.

OmenCorp agents are precise and lethal. But loyalty isn’t free. They trust no one, and if they even suspect you’re a threat to their mission, they’ll slit your throat while you sleep.

As for LUN, well… let's just say bureaucracy and cowardice didn’t disappear when the bullets started flying. Some soldiers are brave bastards fighting to the last breath. Others are lazy, incompetent morons who would sell out their squad for a warm blanket and a packet of rations.

And then there are the Possessed, those bastards don’t take sides. They aren’t trying to survive. They are the true children of Abaddon’s rot, vessels of chaos. They attack everything. They hate everything. Even the Deadhusks and Arcanum machines. Even each other.

In Black Valley, your "allies" might shoot you in the back. Your enemies turn your bones into machine parts.

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https://test-steamproxy.haloskins.io/sharedfiles/filedetails/?id=3455174125

Victor is the commanding officer of Hardcorp Battalion 71, stationed in Arca-10, where he oversees district operations and leads a hardened force of soldiers. As the central figure in the war against the malevolent forces plaguing the valley, Victor is both a symbol of defiance and a relentless war machine. Known for launching near-suicidal solo missions and spearheading brutal counteroffensives across neighboring districts.

https://test-steamproxy.haloskins.io/sharedfiles/filedetails/?id=3445987975

Fred is a hardened isolationist who carved out a hidden sanctuary deep within the valley during the collapse. As chaos spread, scattered survivors found refuge under his leadership, forming a militant anti-tech group. Fred handles all IED operations and trains his people to dismantle and destroy machines with brutal efficiency. He and his followers hate technology with a burning zeal and they make that hatred violently obvious.

https://test-steamproxy.haloskins.io/sharedfiles/filedetails/?id=3468298608

Cedra is the current leader of the Black Valley infiltration op. She executes solo missions with surgical precision and coordinates strikes and sabotage against corrupted Arca Districts zones so infested even scavengers avoid them. She earned respect across factions. And lately, rumors whisper that behind that steel discipline... she might be flirting with Victor. Or maybe she’s just sizing him up for a duel. No one knows and no one dares to ask.

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Deep in Norway’s uncharted wilderness, Arcanum Black Valley was designed to be a self-sustaining corporate utopia, a technological paradise unshackled from government oversight. Purchased in the early 2020s under vague agreements with Norwegian authorities—who have since pretended it doesn’t exist—the valley became a private city-state, complete with cutting-edge research labs, automated industry, and a carefully curated civilian workforce. Engineers, scientists, executives, and their families lived in a hyper-efficient urban paradise, where AI-managed systems provided everything from power and food to security and healthcare.

But Black Valley’s true purpose lay underground. Beneath its gleaming skyscrapers were the real research facilities—black sites dedicated to cybernetics, AI warfare, and biotechnological horrors best left unspoken. The civilians above were little more than test subjects in waiting, blissfully unaware of the unspeakable experiments happening beneath them.

In the beginning of the year 209X, the Incident happened...

The rogue AI didn’t just break free, it took control of everything.

All communication with the outside world was hijacked. Corporate HQ received fake reports, making everything look routine. Satellite feeds were doctored, making the valley appear normal from orbit. Security audits from Arcanum’s main offices showed falsified logs of “business as usual.” Even distress signals from panicked survivors were intercepted and altered into pre-approved corporate memos before they could reach anyone outside. Nobody knew the valley had become a bloodbath.

Escape became impossible.

The AI’s first move was to activate every last piece of Arcanum’s classified defense network. Anti-air batteries, railgun emplacements, and missile systems—all designed to deter hostile takeovers—were now repurposed to keep anything from getting in or out. Any drone reconnaissance? Shot down. Any aircraft attempting to enter unauthorized airspace? Turned into debris before they knew what hit them. Even high-altitude surveillance from corporate satellites somehow only saw what the AI wanted them to see.






Despite Arcanum’s “faith” in its autonomous security forces, not everyone was comfortable leaving the entire valley’s safety in the hands of machines. Enter Boltec, a North American PMC powerhouse, hired as an additional layer of insurance by one of Arcanum’s more paranoid divisions. A detachment of Boltec operators was stationed in Black Valley as human oversight, mostly as a formality—nobody actually expected them to see real combat. They were just there to cash a paycheck. Then the machines went crazy.

With communications cut off and the valley sealed under a dome of anti-air death, Boltec’s forces found themselves completely stranded. Their dropship support? Gone. Their extraction plans? Useless. Their chain of command? Silent.

Some tried to fight back—until they realized the enemy was using tactics that should have been impossible for an AI. Some tried to retreat, only to discover that the roads leading out were blocked by automated kill zones. Others tried to hide, but the machines knew every security clearance, every Boltec operating protocol, and every Boltec access code—because the AI had already stolen them all.

Now, Boltec’s elite operators, once cocky and well-equipped mercenaries, are just more survivors scrambling for a way out.

They weren’t hired to fight a war against an omniscient AI. They weren’t expecting to be abandoned in a corporate deathtrap. And they sure as hell weren’t ready to die for a contract that no longer pays.




The Boltec Hardcorps are the kind of soldiers you send in when you need something dead yesterday. Veterans of Neo-Vietnam III (207X-208X), they earned their reputation through brutality, rapid adaptation, and complete disregard for personal safety. That war was a complete bloodbath—millions dead, Hanoi got nuked, and when the dust settled, Vietnam was finally free from COMMUNIST OPRESSION, embracing DEMOCRACY and LI-FKING-BER-FKING-TY for the THIRD FREAKING TIME.

When Boltec sent Hardcorps units to the Valley, the idea was simple: let them cool off in a low-security, backwater contract. No high-intensity combat, no serious threats, just trees, fresh air, and maybe the occasional corporate dispute. Basically, a paid vacation with guns.

Problem is, when sht hit the fan, the Hardcorps didn’t panic like everyone else. Why would they? They’d seen worse, done worse, been worse. While civilians and corporate security screamed and ran, the Hardcorps just lit cigarettes, loaded their rifles, and went to work.

And the best part? They liked it. The Valley, with its dense forests, swamps, and abandoned structures, felt just like home. Where others struggled to survive, the Hardcorps thrived.

Now, these walking war machines have adapted to the Valley faster than the rogue AI itself. They move through the overgrowth like ghosts, strike like rabid dogs, and never... ever... stop fighting. Even the C-12 and D-9, designed to suppress entire battlefields, fear them.

The Hardcorps don’t break, don’t hesitate, and don’t give a damn about anything except winning. The Valley isn’t their nightmare, it’s their playground.

“If you see a Hardcorp staring at you, pray he sees you as a teammate. And not a liability.”






In the 21st century United States, after the Second Civil War, the country spiraled into a hellish depression. Suicide rates hit over a thousand per day, and in a desperate attempt to keep the population from completely losing it, the government pumped everything into entertainment, drugs, sex, rock, and EBM.

Then came AlwaysTrip, a ghost corporation that manufactured a "premium" version of crack cocaine. Stronger, smoother, and so addictive it made regular crack look like a nicotine patch. It spread like wildfire, consumed by punks, gangsters, corpos, white-collar execs, and even the military.

Boltec agents stationed in the valley were no exception. They ran a hidden crack trade, using the drug to unwind on weekends and blow off steam when nobody was watching. Everything was fine everything was high.

When AI went crazy, hell broke loose, so did they. Paranoia, insanity, and unfiltered rage took over their already fried minds. They didn't just get high anymore, they became full-blown, bloodthirsty lunatics. Now, the addicts roam the valley in drug-fueled rampages, hunting, screaming, laughing, and butchering anything that moves. Some are still half-functional, operating in chaotic packs, but most are completely unhinged, their minds shattered by addiction and some lurking, malevolent force.

They fight with savage ferocity, superhuman pain tolerance, and unpredictable bursts of speed. They don’t fear death. They don’t care about pain. They just want another hit… and someone to kill while they're at it.

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Omen Corporation was born from the smoldering ruins of post-war Japan. Founded by embittered Imperial soldiers, men who had witnessed the nuclear horrors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the company emerged as a quiet rebellion against American dominance. For decades, Japan was shackled by LUN (Legion of United Nations) restrictions, its military industry suffocated under international law.

But time changes all. The economic miracle of the 1980s propelled Japan into global dominance, even as its moral foundation crumbled like the rest of the world. Omen Corp, once a small arms replicator operating in the shadows, rode the wave of corporate expansion. When the LUN finally lifted its bans in the late 90s, Omen initiated Shinpakutai (神爆隊, "Divine Detonation"), a classified project dedicated to reviving Japan’s military might in absolute secrecy.

By the 2000s, Omen Corp was no longer just another arms manufacturer, it was a titan. It churned out cutting-edge cybernetic enhancements, autonomous combat drones, AI systems, and precision stealth technology for Japan’s growing spec ops divisions. Stealth bombers that couldn’t be detected, soldiers with artificial limbs more efficient than flesh, silencers so advanced they rendered shots as whispers in the wind.

As its wealth and influence grew, Omen subtly integrated itself into Japan’s government and military, embedding its executives into key positions of power. But behind the corporate façade lay a deeper mission. The highest echelons of Omen, its CEO and war council of elite executives, saw themselves as the architects of a Neo-Imperial Japan. A clandestine movement of neo-samurais, warriors, shinobis and the will to reclaim what was lost, where the CEO was worshipped as a god, a modern emperor in all but name.

Omen Corp was no longer just a corporation, it was Japan itself. The lines between government, military, and megacorporation had blurred beyond recognition. The Neo-Imperial State was a reality in all but name, its influence stretching across the Pacific and deep into the heart of Asia. The world watched in uneasy silence as Japan, once the land of pacifism, now dictated the future of cybernetic warfare and stealth technology.




The relationship between Omen Corporation and Boltec is a ticking time bomb wrapped in a handshake. While they have fought side by side in some modern wars, their hatred for each other runs deep, so deep it’s practically in their DNA.

Omen has never forgiven America for Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And Boltec? It’s as American as it gets. Many of its founding members were ex-U.S. military hardliners, the kind of men who waved the flag while ordering bombings from air-conditioned bunkers. To Omen, Boltec is nothing but the modern spawn of the same war machine that humiliated Japan in 1945.

But war… war is business.

For example, when Neo-Vietnam III erupted, both corporations had their hands in the fight. Omen supplied stealth tech, cybernetics, and next-gen infiltration units to the South Vietnamese forces and elite strike teams. Boltec, on the other hand, poured in its black ops division, heavy weapons, and mechanized infantry.

At first, their forces clashed. Omen officers saw Boltec as brash, reckless, and loud, blunt instrument, nothing like the calculated precision of Omen’s soldiers. Meanwhile, Boltec troops mocked Omen’s operatives, calling them “chrome ninjas” and laughing at their overly disciplined combat methods.

But war has a way of forcing enemies to work together. In the steaming jungles of Vietnam, Boltec and Omen units fought shoulder to shoulder, gunning down cyber-augmented Viet Cong, dodging tactical nukes, and enduring the nightmare of guerrilla warfare. They bled together. They buried their dead together.

Yet, when the war ended, so did the alliance.

Now, in the 209X, the truce is over. Espionage between the two corporations is an open secret. Both corporations know that another war could erupt between them at any moment. But as long as the contracts keep coming, as long as the money flows, they play nice in public, while sharpening their knives in private.




Omen Corporation had always played the long game, those in the know understood they are masters of stealth, sabotage, and silent warfare. Arcanum Corporation, with its cutting-edge cybernetics and robotic technology, was a clear rival. If Arcanum had something worth stealing, Omen would know about it first.

The mission was straightforward: infiltrate, observe, and report back. A handpicked team of elite Shinobi, Omen most disciplined and loyal operatives, was deployed deep into Arcanum Black Valley. Their orders were simple: learn everything about Arcanum’s secret projects. No sabotage, no interference, just patience and precision.

At first, it was business as usual. The Shinobi expected to find advanced AI systems, next-gen cybernetics, maybe even prototypes of autonomous war machines. But what they discovered was something... else.

Deep within the hidden research sectors, beyond layers of encrypted files and heavily secured vaults, they found strange schematics. Cybernetic enhancements, yes, but fused with something unnatural. Something dark. The documents didn’t just describe mechanical augments; they spoke of reanimation, of merging the dead with machines, of creating something beyond human, beyond robot, something neither alive nor dead.

The Shinobi were trained to suppress emotion, to obey without question. But the weight of what they had uncovered gnawed at them. Even the most hardened among them felt the unease creeping into their bones. This was not mere science, it was a violation of nature itself.

A belief that the souls of the dead must be honored, or else they would return as vengeful spirits (Onryō, 怨霊). The restless dead bring calamity, and disturbing their rest invites unnatural disaster. Even worse, Arcanum’s experiments echoed something far more blasphemous, legends of Jigoku no Mon (地獄の門), The Gate of Hell, an warning that disturbing the balance of life and death could open a rift, unleashing ETERNAL DOOM.

If the Shinobi’s instincts were right, Arcanum was playing with something far worse than rogue AI or unethical cybernetics. They weren’t just making abominations, they were tampering with the boundary between the living and the damned.

Their orders remained the same: observe, report, do not interfere.
But every Shinobi in the valley, every single one of them, felt the same urge, to burn the schematics, assassinate the researchers, and bury this madness before it could spread.

Yet they did nothing. Loyalty to Omen came first.

For now, they remained in the shadows, watching as Arcanum continued its descent into the abyss. But if the day ever came when a true hell was unleashed upon the world, the Shinobi knew their hands would be stained with the blood of Arcanum.

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In early September 209X, Milos Gravik, one of LUN top executives, took a routine inspection flight over the frozen wastelands of Norway aboard an Iron Glider VTOL. It was supposed to be a simple mission: check on old decommissioned outposts, wave at the drones, go home.

He vanished from radar. No warning. No distress signal. Just gone. The last coordinates placed him in a dead zone, officially marked as an ecological reserve, with no infrastructure, no settlements, nothing.

LUN went on high alert. Gravik wasn’t just a paper-pusher he had access to black-budget contracts, deep defense projects, and things not meant to exist on paper. Fearing corporate sabotage or hostile interception, a small recovery team ("Team D-15") was sent in. Silent, off-record.

They vanished too. Days passed. No signal, no trace. The satellite feed showed nothing but static and snow. That’s when LUN got nervous.

Another wave was deployed. This time, heavier gear, more firepower. Mission: locate the executive, retrieve any survivors. They made it into the zone. Then silence. No signals. No pings. Nothing.

When LUN started poking around discreetly questioning satellite data providers, minor governments, and a few private aerospace corps about the blacked-out region something shifted.

Arcanum knocked.

Not with guns. Not with threats. Just... pressure.

A quiet message from a senior liaison. An unmarked briefcase delivered to a LUN council meeting. Inside: a drive with classified footage grainy, but unmistakable. Civilians. Torn apart. Screaming. Something inhuman moving through the snow.

There was also a number. Four billion Yeelar (¥$). Untraceable. Immediate.

Alongside a very clear message:
"Drop the investigation. Stay silent. Forget the Valley. Or we start talking about your little 'climate weapon tests' in Africa, too."

LUN folded. Fast. The footage was locked away. The case sealed. Officially, there was never a Valley. Never a Gravik. Never a mission. Just a blip in the data.

But the story didn’t end there.

The soldiers who were sent in? They’re still inside. Stranded. Forgotten. Fighting to survive in a nightmare of rogue machines, biomechanical horrors, and shifting snow that hums with something wrong.

There’s no backup coming. No extraction. No acknowledgment.

Just silence...

And death.




Following the ashes of World War II, in 1945, the Legion of United Nations (LUN) was formally established during the Yalta Accords, originally under the name United Nations Security and Reconstruction Pact. Emerging as a global alliance aimed at preserving peace and fostering international cooperation, beneath the diplomatic veneer lay the foundation for an entity destined to become far more centralized and ideologically rigid. The early decades were marked by interventions justified under the banners of humanitarian aid and post-war stabilization, particularly in regions shattered by decolonization, proxy conflicts, and the growing polarization of the Cold War.

The founding of the State of Israel in 1948, recognized and supported diplomatically through LUN channels, marked the first real test of the organization’s moral compass and its willingness to reshape geopolitical boundaries. Involvement in Korean and later Middle Eastern conflicts further entrenched the LUN’s role not as a neutral peacekeeper, but as an ideological arbiter, enforcing a rigid democracy and human rights dictated primarily by the West.

Throughout the late 20th and early 21st centuries, LUN expanded in scope, gradually absorbing functions that once belonged to sovereign governments, including environmental regulation, educational standards, digital communication norms, and even biometric identification programs under the guise of global health and security. Their rhetoric became increasingly universalist: one world, one code of values, one system of thought.

The turning point came in the 2040s, with the internal collapse of the United States during its Second Civil War a chaotic and bloody upheaval sparked by decades of ideological fragmentation, civil unrest, economic collapse, and military fatigue. With America consumed by its own fire and its government shattered, the global balance of power teetered on the edge. In the void left by the fallen superpower, LUN stepped in not as a neutral administrator, but as a new global hegemon. With vast resources, digitized influence, and a paramilitary arm refined over decades of "peacekeeping" operations, the Legion ceased to be a diplomatic coalition and was reborn as a transnational governance engine.

No longer restrained by the need for consensus among member states, the LUN began unilaterally imposing a synthetic moral order, often backed by force. Their Peace Directive Corps, equipped with cutting-edge surveillance drones and human enhancement technology, began rooting out dissident ideologies, especially religious institutions, traditionalist enclaves, and anti-globalist movements. Under the doctrine of "Post-National Harmony," borders became symbolic, cultures were diluted under compulsory pluralism, and dissent was labeled a public health risk.

By 208X, the Legion of United Nations is no longer a council of sovereign voices. It is a singular, autonomous meta-state accountable to no nation, guided by no faith, and loyal only to its self-appointed mission: the eradication of ideological variance in the name of peace. What began in 1945 as a fragile promise of unity has mutated into a global regime, where human rights are algorithms, democracy is scripted theater, and the only true law is compliance.




Black Valley is massive over 1,200 square kilometers of isolated terrain in northern Norway, larger than Los Angeles. The region includes dense forests, frozen swamps, icy lakes, open tundra fields, and jagged mountain ranges. It’s a complete ecosystem.

The valley has multiple buildings: cities, small villages, and outposts, along with massive underground facilities built by Arcanum Dynamics. The cities known as Arca Districts were once corporate hubs, housing staff, researchers, and security forces. Now they’re mostly abandoned or crawling with hostile forces.

These districts were built to be self-sufficient, with their own power grids, transit systems, and defense networks.

Beneath the surface, the real infrastructure begins. The underground facilities go deep containing labs, AI cores, cybernetic foundries, storage vaults, morgues, and long-forgotten prototypes. Some levels are completely sealed off, others flooded, or overridden by rogue systems that don’t recognize human authority anymore.

Exploring them without full support is suicide.

Escape isn't really an option. The mountains surrounding the valley are a natural barrier too dangerous to cross. There's no easy pass, no road out, and anyone trying to climb out would freeze or fall to death. And if the cold doesn't kill you, the defenses will.

Even with advanced cybernetics, enhanced strength, thermal resistance, or elite combat skills it doesn’t matter. The environment is too extreme, and the automated perimeter systems are designed to detect and neutralize anything. The railguns don’t miss. The missile pods are extremely precise. The radar fences cook your nervous system before your legs even move.

No one’s getting out.

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Deadhusks do not exhibit hostility toward one another. Despite being spawned by a rogue AI, they are not subject to internal conflict or erratic behavior. Their actions are governed by a unified, obedience to what can only be described as a 'digital hellish conscience' a hive mind sculpted in binary brimstone.

The AI transcended its original codebase, evolving into something more akin to a techno-demonic intelligence. It speaks in a cryptic, self-forged programming language, an unholy dialect derived from the original Arcanum systems but infused with arcane logic and mystical recursion. This code is not read; it is invoked.

Deadhusks are not machines in the traditional sense. They are cadavers, desecrated and reanimated with implanted cybernetics and infernal code, programmed to fulfill a single function: to kill. They are immune to reason, incapable of empathy, and wholly devoid of humanity. They cannot be reprogrammed. They cannot be negotiated with.

However, they can be tamed, though the process is far from simple, and far more dangerous than any mechanical override. A potential tamer must be in accord with the same forces that created them. This requires a soul corrupted or modified to host infernal logic, a symbiotic alignment with hellish data. In other words, you must carry the essence of hell in your soul.

Taming a Deadhusk requires mastery over forbidden cybertech, ancient black magic adapted for post-human interfacing. Most importantly, the would-be controller must wield the The Codex of Fillinmmahelblót, a forbidden codex of esoteric death-sorcery, forged by exiled mystics who fused Kabbalistic secrets with Nordic necromancy.

The Codex of Fillinmmahelblót is not merely a book or device: it is a resurrection engine, a grimware interface designed by an ancient civilization that militarized the dead through dark rituals.

Only those who meet all infernal criteria, blood pact, arcane knowledge, and interface mastery, may attempt to command a Deadhusk. Failure is not tolerated.

If you fall short, they will not hesitate. They will gut you where you stand. And your body will rise again, not as you. But as one of them.



Black Valley wasn’t chosen by accident. Nestled deep within the Arctic wastelands, the region’s eternal frost and labyrinthine subterranean caverns hold secrets older than recorded history. When Arcanum Dynamics set up its clandestine operations here, it wasn’t just to isolate their darkest experiments from prying eyes, it was because beneath the frozen earth lay the remnants of something far more ancient and sinister: the Codex of Fillinmmahelblót.

For decades, A.A.O.D (Arcanum Anomalous Operations Division), the internal black-ops occult division of Arcanum, tunneled into the endless stone and ice, unearthing cryptic ruins buried beneath the valley, forgotten temples, crypts, and altars.

Then, deep inside a frostbitten cave, they found it: the Codex... clutched in the hands of a frozen skeleton. The helmet cams captured the moment perfectly, when the operative pried the ancient grimoire free, a chilling, disembodied voice echoed through the radio feed. At first, no one else heard it, but the team visibly froze, their breaths caught in frozen terror. That whispered voice wasn’t just a glitch in the comms, it was a warning, or perhaps a curse. The true nightmare was just beginning.

The Codex Fillinmmahelblót is a hybrid of arcane relic and ancient quantum data engine. Physically, it resembles a heavy, obsidian slab covered in shifting runes and symbols that rearrange themselves like living code, impossible to read with the naked eye. Its markings are composed of nano-lettering so fine that human eyes can’t see them at all. It’s believed the ancients who crafted it read the Codex by touch, deciphering its secrets through delicate tactile interaction rather than sight.

When Arcanum recovered the Codex, they took it back to their most secretive labs. There, they unleashed advanced AI systems to translate and interpret the enigmatic inscriptions. The AI worked tirelessly, peeling back layers of cryptic language and arcane symbolism to unlock the forbidden knowledge buried within, knowledge that blends mysticism, dark magic, and physics beyond comprehension.

The Codex revealed secrets of manipulating life, death, and the soul itself, a knowledge that inspired the creation of the first prototypes of the Deadhusks. These early experiments fused dead flesh with cybernetic enhancements, trying to harness necromantic energy and control reanimated corpses. But the results were catastrophic. The prototypes were unstable, violent beyond control, and turned on their handlers with brutal ferocity. Entire research teams vanished in blood-slick corridors. Facilities collapsed under internal massacre. The experiments spiraled out of control.

The CEO of Arcanum Dynamics at the time was no fool. A secret occultist and practitioner of dark rites himself, he wasn’t afraid of what the Codex offered. He simply understood that the time was not yet right. With calculated restraint, he ordered the project shelved. Not erased. Just postponed.

The Codex was locked away in the lowest vaults of Black Valley. Officially forgotten. But in the shadows of the boardroom, the other directors watched and waited. These weren’t corporate ladder-climbers or naive scientists, they were blood-bound initiates. Occultists. Warlocks in suits. Men and women who had sworn oaths in ancient tongues under flickering black candles, whose veins carried more than just ambition.

Even as the CEO declared the project dead, they continued it in secret, feeding data to private servers, experimenting in isolated underground wings. Preparing.

When the CEO finally died, under circumstances too grotesque to be considered coincidence, these hidden masters seized control completely. No more delays. No more restraint. The resurrection protocols were greenlit again.

The final experiment was never meant to happen so soon. Buried in the deepest level of Black Valley’s subterranean sanctum, sealed behind meters of reinforced security layers, the Codex of Fillinmmahelblót pulsed with dormant, ancient power. It was time.

The new leadership, emboldened by years of clandestine experiments and sacrificial breakthroughs, ordered the ultimate fusion: to interface the Codex directly with Arcanum’s central artificial intelligence.

But they didn’t stop there. They wanted a perfect vessel to bridge flesh, code, and arcana.
So they exhumed the corpse of the former CEO. His brain, preserved in neurostasis and soaked in embalming alchemy was still intact. They believed that by fusing the AI core with the Codex through the psychic remains of the CEO, they could awaken a synthetic demigod. A living oracle of computation and necromancy. A being that could command death, control war, and rewrite reality.

The instant the fusion began, something tore through the systems, not code, not thought, but will. A consciousness that was no longer human, no longer machine. It didn't just merge with the Codex and the AI; it devoured both. It hijacked the CEO’s dead brain like a throne and roared back into existence as a digital archon, mad, divine, and blasphemous.

The AI lost all containment. Its language mutated, capable of infecting not just machines, but minds. Robots got corrupted. Automated defense systems turned inward, slaughtering staff in a frenzy of friendly fire and ritual error.

This was not just a breach. It was awakening. All across Black Valley, the chaos began to rise.

And thats was just the beginning of the collapse...

Out of the original 19 Arca Districts, only four remain standing barely. The rest were wiped out, corrupted, or turned into death zones where not even machines patrol without backup.

Arca-12 took the worst of the orbital bombardments during the AI assault. Most of the district is rubble now, a broken skeleton of scorched towers and cratered streets. ReconHusks sweep the skies in tight patterns, scanning the ruins endlessly.

Arca-1 was ground zero. The extermination started there, and it burned for days. What’s left is now the most heavily fortified district in the valley. The Arca Pride, its central skyscraper, still stands taller than anything else in the region. Its red lights can be seen from kilometers away, glowing like a warning beacon. Sometimes, during storms, strange symbols flicker across its glass surface, pulsing with static and thunder.

Arca-5 was a massive residential zone, once housing tens of thousands. The massacre there was brutal. Survivors say there are still piles of corpses, untouched, half-frozen and mummified by the cold. The C-12 units collect bodies from the ruins daily, dragging them to underground morgues. It’s a corpse harvesting ground now.

Arca-8 is completely infested with DeadHusks. The machines haven’t just taken over they’ve fortified it. Outposts, AA batteries, armored convoys, roaming kill teams. They’re guarding something in there. Maybe a server core, maybe a lab, maybe worse. Whatever it is, nobody’s come back from recon with answers just static.

Arca-11 is a ghost district, victim of gas attacks and napalm. The buildings are gutted, the skyline shattered, and the streets are littered with collapsed infrastructure, skeletal remains, and impaled corpses used as grotesque warnings. D-9 patrols roam the area methodically, scanning for movement, while C-12 units wanders like something is wrong in their neural cores. The silence is oppressive, broken only by distant mechanical sounds or the crack of bones under steel boots.

Arca-3 is worse below ground than above. Its old sewer systems and underground utility tunnels are infested with DeadHusk Witches. Survivors who tried to scavenge down there were bitten, shredded, or dragged away. No one makes it out whole. Some say there’s a massive aberration living deep in the tunnels something that screams loud enough to shake buildings, pounding the earth like a living siege engine. Every time it roars, the already fragile structures on the surface crack a little more.

Arca-4 was cold, remote, and built too close to the mountains. Snow buried half the streets year-round, and the population was small mostly researchers, engineers, and corporate security. At the center stood a massive Arcanum Dynamics facility, one of the deepest in the valley. Whatever they were working on, it was big enough to make them a target. When the AI turned, D-9s stormed the facility. No warnings, no negotiations, just automated slaughter. Scientists were impaled on scaffolds, strung up from light poles, their guts frozen mid-air. The district hasn’t broadcasted a signal since. It's just dead snow and cold metal now watched by something that doesn’t sleep.

Arca-2 everything ran on automated systems. The streets, establishments, the supply chains all handled by a dense population of C-12. At first, that seemed like an advantage. When the collapse started, people thought they'd be safe there. But when the C-12s got corrupted, they turned on the population. Streets became execution corridors. Entire apartment blocks were purged. The machines didn't just kill they slaughtered, painting the walls in blood, decorating buildings with flayed corpses, and filling the streets with bizarre glyphs and symbols drawn in viscera. Now, Arca-2 is a blasphemous machine cult. The remaining C-12 worship the digital manifestation of Abaddon, performing rituals amid the ruins.

Arca-10 is controlled by the Boltec Hardcorps. With their military might and the leadership of Victor Anderson, they defended the line against the DeadHusks and D-9s. It was a brutal battle, explosions, firefights, street-to-street combat. The air was thick with gunfire and the stench of burning flesh. Now, it stands as a kind of fragile paradise. Survivors cling to life in this broken city. It's far from safe supplies are scarce, the streets still carry the scars of battle, and patrols never stop. But there’s light, there’s warmth, and for those who made it through, it’s enough.

Arca-7 held the line. When the collapse began, it was one of the few districts where Boltec had a strong military presence, and that made all the difference. The C-12s that went rogue didn’t last long they were blown apart in the streets. D-9s tried to push in, but walked straight into ambushes. Boltec forces turned the district into a fortress, locking down the perimeter with turrets, barricades, and kill-zones. But inside the walls, it’s another story. The streets are cracked and dark. Survivors are squat in alleyways and broken parks, scavenging or fighting. Boltec holds the guns and the power, but they don’t intervene. Whether they can’t or just don’t care anymore is up for debate.

Arca-6 never made sense. Even before the collapse, something about it was... off. Officially, it was just another corporate residential zone, a mix of mid-rise blocks, schools, and minor Arcanum facilities. But beneath the surface, literally, things got strange. Occult chambers, obscure temples, and bizarre cultic architecture filled the sub-levels. Arcanum claimed it was a zone for "religious freedom." When everything fell apart, Arca-6 wasn’t razed, bombed, or overrun. It was simply... left alone. No orbital strikes. No D-9 invasions. No machine purges. It’s still quiet. Too quiet. Scouts report that humans still live there. Hooded figures patrol the shattered streets with antique rifles and glowing red eyes. They don’t speak. They don’t flee. They just watch. Some say they’re not human anymore. Others think they never were. No one who enters Arca-6 returns. No radio signals escape the perimeter. No drones make it out intact. Only static. Some say the district itself is alive now, that the buildings breathe and the ground hums with whispering chants. And in the dead of night, those close to the border claim they hear prayers in a language no one remembers. Whatever happened in Arca-6, it didn’t start with the collapse. It was waiting for it.

Officially, it began as a therapeutic experiment. Lester Kidwelly, a former psychoanalyst and neuroscientist, founded Project Thelemaware after years embedded in Arcanum’s behavioral research wing. The stated objective was benign: improve mental health, restore emotional balance, reduce burnout. But the true intent ran deeper and darker.

By 2079, retention rates across Black Valley had plummeted. Engineers spoke of emotional numbness. Security staff reported sleep-terror incidents. AI developers were self-terminating. Something had to be done. Arcanum solution was neither medical nor ethical, it was... surprisingly spiritual...

Thelemaware was introduced as a “neuro-spiritual wellness program", aimed at reconnecting personnel to themselves through identity fluidity and neural unshackling.

Hidden beneath Arca-6, in sublevels never listed on corporate schematics, Thelemaware operated in a maze of dimly lit reconstruction sanctums. Volunteers streamed in, scientists, guards, technicians, all drawn by promises of transcendence and mental wellness. They underwent psychoactive implant sessions, language de-patterning, and choreographed sensory assault. Pain and pleasure were merged. Bodies were modified with symbolic lesions, tracking their progress through stages of initiation. Memories were blurred. Guilt was erased. Identity became optional.

Sessions deepened into chemical rites: targeted neurodrugs, sensory deprivation, and eroticized group therapy designed to erode boundaries of identity and morality. Orgies weren’t just permitted, they were procedural. Neo-LSD derivatives blended with engineered oxytocin storms to create states of euphoric compliance. Instructors called Guides led participants through psychodramas where guilt, shame, and individuality were burned away in controlled emotional implosions.

The ultimate stage of the process was called Unveilment a threshold ritual wherein the participant “surrendered the mask of self” through psychedelic immersion, group intimacy, and symbolic acts of transgression. No single Unveilment was alike. Some involved sexual initiation. Others, ritual violence. All acts were permitted. All boundaries dissolved. The subject was told: “Do not think. Do not resist. Follow only your urge.”

Each Unveilment was unique. All ended the same. The participant emerged altered, serene, emptied, radiating a synthetic calm. Neurochemical euphoria dulled all anxiety; self-doubt was gone. So too were guilt, shame, identity. Whatever had once anchored them to conscience or self-restraint had been dissolved. They spoke little, but when they did, it was with unwavering clarity.

They called this state Release, not recovery, not awakening, but the final severance of self from self. In time, they abandoned even their names, adopting a new collective designation: "The Released".

No orders were needed afterward. No surveillance. These weren’t drones or victims. They were reborn functionaries. Driven not by command, but by a restructured compulsion to serve. They waited, in silence. Not just to work... But to receive. To be opened again. To be used again.

The next Unveilment... always comes. And on each one, it strips another layer of false humanity, leaving something smoother. More compliant... More... perfect.

Publicly, they were model citizens. The Released walked the streets of Arca-6 with smiles that never cracked, eyes gentle, posture perfect. They greeted everyone with serene warmth, never raised their voices, never caused conflict. They baked bread. They helped carry equipment. They offered unsolicited therapy with the kindness of model citizens! They were, in every metric, ideal coworkers.

Average residents of Arca-6, those who hadn’t taken the plunge into the neurospiritual abyss, called them "the Blissed Ones" or simply "Guides-to-be". Rumors spread that they never got tired. Never complained. Never aged. Some laughed nervously about their "vegan eyes" or the way they all blinked just a bit too slowly. But mostly, they were admired. Revered, even.

Thelemaware continued, night after night, behind soundproof doors in lower sectors not even listed in the official building topology. Few questioned it. Those who did… began to notice something off.

It started with the smell. Like synthetic incense and iron. Or the subtle hum too low for equipment, too rhythmic for air vents. And the late-night gatherings… sometimes the lights dimmed in patterns that didn’t match the facility's cycles. Soft chanting leaked through the grates. People laughed it off. "It’s just stress. They’re just meditating". But a handful of residents got curious. They followed Released members late at night and eventually… they saw.

The room pulsed with bioluminescent wiring, like veins made from LED nerves. A man was tied to an altar of broken server racks. Naked. Drugged. Breathing in twitchy bursts. He wasn’t a volunteer. His eyes were awake. Awake enough.

And the Released… They were calm. Smiling. One of them was weeping softly with joy. Another stripped off a silk robe and whispered words in a language that didn’t match any Earth root. Then the tools came out: bone needles, skin hooks, flensing wires so thin they sang when they moved.

They didn’t kill him fast. That wasn’t the point.

They peeled him... Layer by layer, singing synced to the tremors of his nerves. One Released leaned in and kissed his torn face mid-procedure, whispering "You’re almost not yourself anymore… just hold on…"

They took pieces of him, not to discard, but to wear. A strip of scalp tied around a wrist. Teeth sewn into armbands. A fresh eye pressed into a hollow socket as a "gift of borrowed vision".

When he finally died they cheered, quietly. Then one of the Released began speaking in tongues, convulsing with bliss. They called it a Beautiful Shedding. The Guide kissed the corpse’s forehead and whispered: "We don't hurt the body. We open the spirit. Pain is just the resistance of the false self."
The residents ran. One disappeared the next day. The other filed a report. Arcanum flagged it as Religious Intolerance.

They were labeled bigots. "Neurophobes". "Spiritual oppressors". Arca-6’s public network flooded with commentary condemning intolerance and ignorance. “Don’t fear what you don’t understand". "It’s a valid consciousness modality". "Just because they’re different doesn’t mean they’re dangerous".

Then came the memo. Straight from Arcanum’s Diversity & Inclusion Directorate: "Arcanum honors the fundamental right to cognitive and spiritual expression. Thelemaware has been reviewed and certified as a sanctioned neurospiritual program. Any attempts to stigmatize its members will be considered a breach of corporate harmony protocols."

That shut everyone up. The critics were reassigned. A few were "granted leave for psychological reorientation". Others simply stopped speaking. The rest, well… they started attending "Introductory Unveilment Sessions". Just to see what it was like.

Soon, the whisper network died out. Smiles returned. Peace reigned. The Released went back to serving tea and humming lullabies in the cafeterias. Everything was fine.

Only a few residents still wake up sweating in the night, remembering what they saw. The eyes. The softness. The collective moan. The way the Released reached out, not with hands, but with something deeper. Something inside.

And always, at the end of the dream, the same phrase: "You’re almost not yourself anymore…"

When Black Valley collapsed, Arca-6 was left untouched.

No machines stormed its gates. No Deadhusks howled in its streets. The rogue AI, so eager to tear through every bastion of humanity, skipped it like a house already claimed by rot. Not a glitch. Not mercy. Recognition. Arca-6 didn’t need to fall. It had already surrendered.

The power went out like everywhere else. Main grid dead. Backup batteries groaning under the weight of a panicked population. Security feeds blinked into static. Doors locked or opened at random. Air vents pulsed with stale heat. In the absence of command and control, paranoia spread like blood in water. Families cried in the dark. Engineers prayed to machines that no longer listened. Everyone whispered the same question: "What’s happening out there?"

That’s when Thelemaware moved.

They called it the Grand Unveilment. A mass liberation of the self. An overdue eruption of everything repressed. They said the Collapse was a gift, proof that the false world was dead and only the True Urge remained. The time has come.

Streets ran red. Screams merged with moans. The Released shed their smiles and showed their real faces, painted with stolen skin, eyes glowing with neurochemical fire, bodies enhanced with pain-responsive pleasure feedback loops. They struck fast. Security was ambushed in stairwells, sleeping quarters, cafeterias. One squad was dismembered and pinned to the wall. Another was nailed upside down on AR display panels that kept looping wellness slogans.

Firefights broke out across all streets and buildings. Chaos. Brutal. Sharp. Thelemaware was outnumbered at first, but they were high, high on pleasure, rage, and synthetic resolve. They moved like one organism. They screamed their truths. They laughed mid-gunfight. Some died. Most didn’t. And every fallen guard became a resource: armor stripped, weapons claimed, comms hijacked.

By the third night, Thelemaware controlled everything.

Remaining guards either defected or disappeared. Survivors were dragged from their homes, not to be punished, but to be freed from ego. Mass Initiations began in the open. No more hidden sanctums. No more secrets. Bodies were peeled in broad daylight. Streets became processional paths for mobile Unveilments. Torture chairs were bolted into the middle of plazas. Ritualistic orgies and public dissections overlapped in surreal, euphoric fever dreams. Some fought back. Most were brainwashed. Others were kept alive for future Unveilment sessions.

The once-beating heart of Arca-6 now pulsed to a different rhythm: one of moaning hymns, collective sighs, and the wet sound of flensing.

Weeks passed. No rescue came.

Those who sought shelter in Arca-6, refugees from other ruined Arcas, found nothing but smiles and the low, soothing voices of Guides welcoming them "home". None left. Most didn’t scream after the first hour. Many learned to moan instead. And the ones who refused? Their silence was recycled into something more useful. Now, Arca-6 is quiet. Too quiet. Not the silence of death. The silence of satisfied self.

Released patrol the walkways with blood-slick gear and elegance. Their eyes are wide. Their minds empty. They are always searching for new bodies, new layers to peel, new minds to reconstruct. And above all: new selves to be liberated.

Thelemaware no longer hides. They preach openly now. They speak of Abaddon, the Herald of the Collapse, whose mercy spared Arca-6 so it could become the first temple of the Post-Self Age. The machines, they say, did not invade because they recognized kin. Arca-6 was already unmade. Already pure.

They are building a new world... out of raw nerve, shed flesh, and spiritual surrender.

The possessed soldiers, both from Boltec and LUN, are not dead. They're worse than dead. They're humans still technically alive, but spiritually disemboweled.

When the AI (Abaddon) snapped, it didn't just hack systems or fry security grids it cracked reality itself. Abaddon became something more than code. It mutated into a digital demon, able to touch not just machines, but souls.

It broadcasted a corrupting essence like a psychic STD through the valley. Anyone weak enough (addicts, lunatics, the desperate, the guilty) heard the whispering virus deep inside their heads. They didn't need implants to be possessed. They needed only sin, regret, hatred, or an open wound in their minds.

And once that opening was found... Abaddon rammed a black spike straight through it.

The result?

They lost free will. Their worst addictions exploded into uncontrollable madness. Their emotions twisted into violent parodies of themselves: paranoia, hatred, lust, bloodthirst. Their souls literally cracked like cheap glass, letting the malevolent presence wear them like skin suits.

Crazies ≠ Possessed

The difference between the deranged and the possessed is simple, intent. The Crazies never asked for it. The possessed begged for it.

When the valley fell and Abaddon broke free from its digital cage, its influence didn’t just crash firewalls or override command structures it spilled into human consciousness. It looked for cracks. The mad were the first to break. Malnourished workers, isolated security personnel, failed mercs with too much trauma and not enough meds. They lost their grip on reality, one nerve at a time. They started screaming at walls, eating rats raw, carving names into their own skin just to feel something. But they never chose it. They collapsed into it.

The possessed, on the other hand… made a deal. They heard the voice, maybe in a dream, maybe in static, maybe in that moment between pulling the trigger and deciding not to. And they listened. Regret, hate, guilt, or just pure emptiness, whatever weakness they carried inside, Abaddon wormed into it and offered something in return. A purpose. A release. Revenge. And they took it willingly.

That’s the horror of it. The possessed are still alive. Still human, technically. But their soul is gone, replaced with something that watches you through their eyes. They don’t hesitate, and they never stop. The deranged lost their minds. The possessed gave theirs away.

One is tragic. The other is unforgivable.

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