-----
Episode 4: The Beginning of an Endless Journey — Part 1
-----
(A day later)
Rain hammered the funeral grounds in uneven sheets, slapping into the earth hard enough to splash back up onto black coats and polished shoes. The mud was thick, heavy—every step sank with a wet SCHLK, trying to steal boots right off people's feet. Still, they moved. Slowly. Carefully. Umbrellas shook in unsteady hands, fabric snapping and bending under the wind. Quiet sobs mixed with the sound of rain hitting plastic, cloth, skin.
Alan stood at the front.
His black coat was soaked through, clinging to his shoulders and arms, water dripping steadily from the hem. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, fists locked tight enough that the fabric around them stretched and creased. His posture was straight but rigid, like his body had forgotten how to relax. Rain streamed down his hair, down his face, over his jaw—he didn't blink it away. His eyes stayed fixed on the casket resting above the open grave.
Diana stood beside him, holding the umbrella over both of them. Her grip around the handle was tight, knuckles pale. Her shoulders were drawn up, spine stiff, jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped near her ear. The umbrella tilted slightly toward Alan, instinctive, protective.
Behind them, the crowd shifted.
A little girl clutched her father's coat with both hands, her shoes half-buried in mud. She stared at the open grave, eyes wide and confused.
"Daddy…" her voice was small, almost lost in the rain. "Why are they lowering my mama into the dark hole…? It's cold down there…"
Her father froze. His mouth opened, then closed. His shoulders started to shake. He turned away, dragging her into his chest, one hand pressing against the back of her head.
"I— I don't know, baby… I—" His voice cracked completely. "I don't know…"
Nearby, another man dropped to his knees in the mud, palms slapping down with a wet SPLAT.
"The gods abandoned us!" he screamed, voice raw, tearing apart. "Why?! Why let demons loose here?!" He slammed his fist into the ground again, mud spraying. "I buried my kids today—both of them—!"
A woman sobbed somewhere behind him. Someone else cursed under their breath, kicking at the ground in frustration, their shoe slipping.
"Ember City won't recover from this…"
"There's thousands dead… everything's gone… I lost everything…"
Alan heard every word.
His jaw tightened. A muscle jumped along his cheek. His fingers curled harder inside his pockets, nails biting into his palms. He didn't turn around. He didn't react. His gaze stayed locked forward.
Footsteps squelched through the mud.
Damian and Rose came up beside him, stopping just close enough to be there without crowding him. Damian's boots sank deep; he adjusted his stance to keep balance. Rose folded her arms around herself, shoulders hunched against the rain, breath uneven. She hesitated—then stepped in and hugged Alan. It was quick. Careful. She pulled back almost immediately when she felt how solid he was, how unmoving.
"Alan…" Her voice shook. She swallowed, wiping rain from her cheek with the back of her sleeve. "I—I'm always here for you. I'm… I'm sorry for your loss."
Damian stepped forward next, planting a firm hand on Alan's shoulder. His grip was steady, grounding.
"Sorry for your loss, brother…" he said, his voice low, strained.
Alan nodded once. Just once. His eyes never left the casket.
The speaker approached the stand, shoes slipping slightly as he steadied himself. He tapped the microphone—TAP… TAP—his hand trembling.
"We gather… to mourn," he said, voice thin but cutting through the rain. "And to remember. The lives taken from us in the demon king's attack—"
His words stalled. He looked down, swallowing hard.
The wind pushed rain sideways, rattling umbrellas. The crowd shifted, restless.
The casket handlers stepped forward. Thick ropes were threaded under the wood, gloved hands tightening their grip. The wood creaked softly as tension settled into it.
Alan's throat worked. His breathing shortened, shallow and uneven.
Diana shifted closer, her free hand lifting to rest gently on his shoulder. Her thumb pressed there, small, steady pressure.
She leaned in, voice low near his ear. "He wouldn't want us to despair over his death," she whispered. "For his sake… let's stay strong, son."
Alan gave a small nod. His shoulders dipped just a fraction.
The handlers began lowering the casket.
The ropes slid, fibers scraping— SSSHHKK— as the wood descended inch by inch into the grave. The sound dug into Alan's chest. His lips parted. He exhaled through clenched teeth, breath shaking.
He stepped forward.
From inside his coat, he pulled out a white lily. The petals were bent, bruised by rain and pressure. His fingers trembled slightly as he tossed it down.
THUD.
The flower landed on the casket, rolled once, then vanished into the shadow below.
Alan's stomach twisted hard.
The crowd slowly began to disperse. Handshakes. Quiet condolences. More crying. Shoes dragging free from the mud with wet, reluctant sounds.
Damian and Rose stayed.
Minutes passed.
The rain softened into a steady drizzle, pattering instead of pounding.
Alan finally spoke.
"We'll get through this…" His voice was low, rough, scraped raw by emotion.
His eyes didn't leave the grave.
His fingers flexed once, then stilled. "I don't have a choice but to be stronger…"
The wind shifted again, pushing rain against the umbrella, droplets tapping the fabric in a dull rhythm.
Alan didn't flinch.
The resolve around him felt heavy—solid—pressed into place by grief, not shattered by it
Later that evening, Alan sat hunched on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, the remote clenched in one hand. His thumb kept tapping the buttons too hard, plastic clicking sharply in the quiet room as channels flipped one after another. News. Static. Another anchor. More static.
The room barely moved. Curtains hung heavy and damp from the day's rain. The window was slightly open just enough to let cold air creep in, carrying the distant sound of traffic and sirens that hadn't fully stopped since yesterday.
He stopped flipping.
The screen settled on a newsroom bathed in blue-white lights. Behind the desk sat Vanessa Roberts, back straight, shoulders squared a little too stiff. A thin stack of papers rested under her hands. She adjusted an earpiece with two fingers, then looked directly into the camera.
"Good evening," she said, voice calm and controlled.
"Tonight, we cover the devastation that struck Ember City yesterday. The villain known as Oblivion managed to free the Demon King, resulting in the destruction of the capital. Casualties continue to climb. Many remain missing."
Alan's grip on the remote tightened. The plastic creaked faintly.
The footage cut in.
The camera shook violently, the image jerking as whoever held it ran. Smoke swallowed half the frame. Burning buildings leaned inward, windows bursting outward with sharp pops. Sirens wailed, cut short by screams—high, raw, breaking. A massive silhouette moved through the smoke, each step crushing pavement, the air warping around its body.
Then.
A black streak tore down from the sky.
Black Mentis slammed into the Demon King.
The impact split the street open. Concrete buckled. A shockwave blasted outward— cars flipped end over end, glass exploded into glittering clouds, chunks of demon flesh skidded across the pavement in wet smears. The camera whipped sideways, slammed into something hard—
Static.
Alan leaned forward without realizing it, forearms digging into his thighs.
The broadcast snapped back to the studio.
Vanessa pressed her lips together for a brief second, then folded her hands neatly over the papers.
"Although the footage is short," she continued, "eyewitness accounts praise Black Mentis as the city's last line of defense. We're grateful to HeroCorp for deploying him immediately. Thanks to his actions, the Demon King was defeated, and thousands of lives were saved."
Alan's jaw locked.
A polished transition rolled— HeroCorp's logo, slow and shining, rotating against a clean white backdrop.
Then a podium.
Black Mentis appeared on-screen.
His armor gleamed without a scratch. His stance was perfect. Too smooth. He stood still, hands resting calmly at his sides, voice crisp and evenly filtered.
"Hello, Ember City," Mentis said. "It's true—I defeated the Demon King, but sadly, there were losses."
Alan's breathing faltered.
"But I want to apologize for the damage that had to be done," Mentis continued, "and for the lives we couldn't save. The heroes and I fought as hard as we could."
Alan's hand tightened until the remote dug into his palm.
"What the fuck…?" he muttered, voice low and strained. "They're actually using AI to fake a speech?" His teeth clenched. "Why? Why lie about him being dead? Who the hell benefits from this?"
On-screen, Mentis inclined his head slightly—measured, rehearsed.
"I'll now join the other heroes on their mission in space. They've requested reinforcements, and I will answer."
Alan let out a sharp breath through his nose, shoulders rising, then falling.
Vanessa returned to the screen.
"Thank you for your time, Mentis," she said. "Now, we honor those we lost. Their families can rest knowing Black Mentis avenged them."
A soft piano track faded in.
Alan stared at the screen, unmoving. The glow from the TV reflected off his eyes, hollowing his expression. His fingers loosened at last, the remote slipping from his grip and landing on the mattress with a dull thump.
The music played.
Outside, a siren wailed—then another.
Alan didn't reach to turn the TV off. He just sat there, shoulders tight, watching the lie loop on-screen, carved into the silence of his room.
-----