The religion of Nizarism was founded by a famous self-proclaimed Prophet over 2,400 years ago. It has conquered numerous planets within three galaxies and has for the last three hundred or so years remained relatively stagnant as far as expansion. It believed in extremely arbitrary rules. Covering up the soles of feet, for showing your feet to another man was a sign that you desired to kill them, women that didn't cover there face would be beaten to death, people that chewed bubble gum in public would be killed, homosexuality and sodomy was punishable by death. Circumcission was mandatory and if not carried out punishable by death, intoxicants were banned, music was banned, pornography was banned, sexual intercourse with prostitutions and any other sex workers was of course banned along with all adultery and non-marital sex.
It was founded by a Prophet named, "Yathrib," who had founded the religion and died about 2,400 years prior. His race is unclear there are few reports that still exist of him and for the most part there only remains the Holy Book which is very long, about 240,000 pages in total and is supposed to come from the one true God, Hubal. This was a warrior religion and had sought to conquer the universe for God.
King Ibrahim who was the current ruler and Apostle on Earth for the religion and the Final Prophet of the Universe and of the one true God learned that a new prophet Hermes was rising. Campaigns by her soldiers had been going on for years without her ever seeing her followers, her companions such as the goddess Nebula fought on campaigns with them and thus the miraculous nature of her companions convinced hundreds of billions of new followers of Hermes' religion assumed she must be incredible if these gods were her comrades and companions. This worried the Nizaris sometimes called the Yazidis. These Polytheistic gods were defeating the armies of the Monotheists on the Battle Field for this False Prophet and their false god and this heresy could not stand.
The Holy Prophet of the Nizari cult, Yathrib or Yathrif.
The Dream Train:
The Dream Train roared across a track suspended in the night between worlds, each wheel clanging not against steel but against cosmic syllables that spelled out existence itself. The train was massive and ancient, its carriages stitched from the memories of countless sleepers across infinite realities. Its whistle blew like the cry of a thousand trumpets, summoning the attention of angels and djinn alike. To the common dreamer, it appeared only as a streak of light across the horizon of slumber, but for the chosen—for Ungar, Hermes, Talus, Lupus, Imam al-Tayyib, and their companions—it was a vessel of initiation. It was not merely moving them from one realm to another; it was carrying them deeper into the architecture of the soul.
Ungar sat in the rear of the lead carriage, hunched forward with his massive arms crossed and his chin lowered in contemplation. His skin bore the faint shimmer of old battles, as if the scars themselves remembered fire and lightning. He stared into the shifting wooden floor beneath his feet, where patterns of battles he had fought replayed themselves in miniature. To him, the Dream Train was not a sanctuary but a reminder—every mile a confrontation with ghosts of his past. Yet he did not flinch. The Warlock's burden was heavy, but it was also the crucible from which his iron spirit was forged.
Hermes sat across from him, eyes fixed on the window where the cosmos flowed like a living scroll. Her long hair swayed with the rhythm of the rails, catching glimmers of moonlight and starlight as though woven with threads of silver. She whispered Names softly under her breath, her lips shaping the syllables of the Spirit Blade's awakening. The glass responded, forming ripples of light with every invocation. She was not merely observing the dream; she was stitching herself into it, bending its current with the language of prophecy.
Talus sprawled across two seats like a child who had no respect for solemnity. His grin was wide, his posture careless, but his eyes burned with anticipation. He was the only one who treated the Dream Train as if it were a carnival ride rather than a sacred trial. "So tell me," he chuckled, tossing a fruit he had pulled from nowhere into the air, "does this thing stop at heaven, or do we have to fight the conductor first? Because if it's the second option, I'm calling dibs." His voice was laughter in a place heavy with silence, and though Hermes rolled her eyes, even Ungar's lips tightened, as if suppressing a reluctant smile.
Lupus, cloaked in black and crowned by his wolf's mane of silver hair, stood in the aisle with regal stillness. He did not sit, for the wolf-blood in him was too restless for chairs and compartments. His eyes, sharp and luminous, scanned the door ahead as if expecting an ambush. His cape brushed against the floorboards, and with each step he took, the lamplight flickered, bending around his presence. He was at once a general inspecting his troops and a predator scenting unseen prey. Though he said nothing, his silence radiated leadership, the kind that made men willingly walk into impossible wars.
In contrast, Imam al-Tayyib sat quietly, his posture perfectly upright, his robe shining faintly with a light that did not come from the lamps. His presence seemed to stabilize the entire carriage. Where Lupus exuded command, the Imam exuded stillness, as if his very breath harmonized with the rhythm of the cosmos. "This train," he said softly, his voice cutting through the rumble of the wheels, "is not driven by engines of iron. Its rails are memory, and its fuel is longing for the One. Each mile we travel is the measure of our yearning." The words fell into their hearts like seeds, and even Talus ceased his jesting for a moment.
Beyond the windows, a dream-forest emerged, trees of translucent glass rising from the void, their branches heavy with shimmering leaves. Each leaf bore a prayer whispered by some soul in some corner of creation. The leaves trembled with the weight of desire, of sorrow, of love. Hermes pressed her hand against the glass, tears forming as she whispered, "They are calling to us. Not for conquest, not for miracles—only that we might carry their burdens for a little while."
Talus leaned toward her, his expression softening. "I hear them too," he said. "Voices crying out for something beyond themselves. They don't want gods. They want companions." For a moment, the usually careless warrior spoke with a sincerity that startled the others. Even Ungar raised his gaze, acknowledging the truth in the boy's words.
Lupus closed his eyes, the wolf within him attuned to cries beyond hearing. He caught fragments in countless tongues—some human, others as old as the stars themselves. His fists clenched. "If we are to ride this train, then let it be for them," he growled. "Every battle we fight, every scar we bear—it must mean something for the voiceless." His vow carried a ferocity that shook the lamps above, as if the train itself nodded in approval.
The far door slid open with a creak that reverberated through the bones of the passengers. A figure entered: tall, draped in a conductor's uniform stitched from verses of forgotten scriptures. His face was hidden behind a silver mask, but his eyes shone like lanterns, casting pools of light into the car. He bowed before Imam al-Tayyib. "You bear the Seal," he said in a voice that was both command and chant. "You and your companions may ride until the end of the cycle. Few are given such permission."
Ungar's deep voice broke the silence, carrying the weight of thunder in a cavern. "And what waits at the end of the line?" he demanded. His tone was not one of fear but of grim expectation, as though daring the answer to challenge him.
The Conductor's lantern-eyes flickered. "The Station of Mirrors," he replied. "There you will behold your true selves. Victories and betrayals, prayers and curses, faces you wore in past lives and those you shall wear in futures yet unborn. Only those who can reconcile with their reflection may pass beyond."
Talus smirked, trying to lighten the mood again. "Sounds easy. I'll just beat my reflection until it admits I'm prettier." Hermes shot him a sharp look, but her lips curved, betraying the smallest smile. Beneath the banter, even he felt the weight of the trial looming.
Lupus's grin was feral, baring teeth as white as blades. "If my reflection is stronger, I will devour it. If it is weaker, I will carry it on my back. Either way, it will not be left behind." His vow was both oath and threat, and the lamps shivered in his presence.
Imam al-Tayyib lifted a hand, his voice calm but absolute. "You cannot devour yourself, nor can you enslave it. Reconciliation, not conquest, is the key. Those who refuse will find their reflection consuming them instead." His words were not harsh; they were like the tolling of a bell, inescapable and eternal.
The train rumbled across a bridge of crystal spanning a river made of forgotten dreams. Below, the travelers saw the fragments of countless souls: children's laughter that had been lost, warriors' final laments, the whispered promises of lovers long dead. Hermes gasped, realizing that the river carried everything creation had chosen to forget, each dream now given eternal flow beneath them. "If one of us falls," she whispered, "we are swept away forever into the dreams of strangers."
Ungar rose, his shadow filling the aisle. "Then none of us will fall," he declared. He moved toward the carriage door, his steps resonating like drums of war. For all his silence, his presence was command enough to bind them together, to remind them that they were not merely pilgrims but warriors destined to stand against oblivion.
Hours passed—or perhaps days, for time was fluid on the Dream Train. The rhythm of the wheels became a meditation, each clank a heartbeat echoing through eternity. Each of the companions sank deeper into thought: Hermes rehearsing invocations in her soul, Talus imagining duels with versions of himself, Lupus plotting strategies for battles against shadows, and Ungar weighing every sin he had ever committed. Only the Imam remained utterly still, his serenity unbroken, his gaze steady as though fixed on a horizon beyond horizons.
At last, a light appeared in the distance—a station suspended in the void, shimmering like a diamond. Around it floated countless mirrors, each as large as mountains, each reflecting not the passengers but entire worlds: armies marching, kingdoms falling, lovers embracing, and gods dying. Each mirror seemed alive, vibrating with memory and possibility. The Dream Train slowed, its whistle fading into a long, mournful sigh.
As the train shuddered to a stop, the Conductor spoke one final time. "This is the Station of Mirrors. Beyond it lies the path only reconciled souls may walk. Here you will find not enemies, but yourselves. Some of you will triumph. Some will break. And some may never leave." His words echoed into silence as the doors opened, revealing the impossible station bathed in mirrored light. The travelers rose as one, each with their own fears and hopes. The Dream Train had carried them to the threshold; now the true journey would begin.
Dinner on the Dream Train:
A week stretched itself across the Dream Train like a long exhale. The landscape outside shifted with every passing hour—cosmic forests, oceans of fire, deserts where stars fell like rain—and yet inside the carriages, the companions began to fall into rhythm with one another. On the seventh night, the lamps burned brighter, the floorboards steadied into a smooth hum, and a fragrance of roasted meats and spiced rice drifted through the corridors. A bell rang, deep and resonant, inviting them to the dining car.
Talus was the first to leap up, grinning like a boy promised candy. "Finally! I was starting to think this train was powered by starving us," he shouted, racing down the aisle. Hermes sighed, smoothing her robe, but a small smile betrayed her amusement. Lupus followed with regal calm, though his sharp eyes betrayed his anticipation—wolf-blood demanded meat, after all. Even Ungar rose without protest, his massive frame moving with the gravity of a storm. Imam al-Tayyib stood last, serene as ever, though his presence seemed to sanctify even the thought of food.
The dining car was no ordinary carriage. Long tables stretched into infinity, laden with dishes that shimmered with impossible colors. Bowls of steaming rice glowed like starlight, platters of roasted beasts emitted fragrances that reminded each traveler of home, and cups overflowed with nectar drawn from forgotten gardens. The walls were lined with murals that changed as they watched, depicting feasts of past ages: kings and peasants, gods and demons, all sharing the same table.
Talus dove in first, seizing a skewer of glowing meat and chomping with reckless abandon. "Ahhh! This is living! Who needs destiny and mirrors when you've got this?" he said, his mouth half-full. Hermes scolded him—"Talus, chew before you speak!"—but she herself couldn't resist the sweet-smelling fruit that peeled itself in her hand. Lupus chose sparingly, carving a slice of dark, blood-rich meat that seemed to pulse faintly, savoring it in silence. Ungar picked only once, a single slab of bread and meat, as though reminding himself that war never allowed too much comfort.
Imam al-Tayyib broke bread with deliberate reverence, murmuring a prayer that filled the room with a hum of unseen harmonies. The prayer seemed to bless the entire gathering, binding even Talus' rowdy laughter into the circle of sacred joy. For a moment, the companions forgot the looming trial. They were not warriors or prophets but travelers sharing a meal, their laughter mingling with the crackle of cooking fires and the clinking of cups.
Then, from the far end of the table, a strange sound echoed—click, click, click—like the tap of a cane against marble. The companions turned, and there he was: a figure unlike any they had expected. A beaver, dressed in a long trench coat, a battered fedora tilted over his eyes, a toothpick clenched between his large teeth. A badge glimmered faintly on his lapel, though the letters shifted, never quite readable. He leaned on his cane like a world-weary detective who had seen too many cases.
"Detective Beaver," Hermes breathed, recognition flickering in her eyes. She had heard whispers of him in dreams—an investigator who appeared where mysteries converged, neither ally nor foe, but always circling the truth. Talus, of course, nearly choked on his food from laughing. "Wait—he's… a beaver? A detective beaver?! This is too good!"
The beaver ignored Talus entirely, pulling himself onto a chair with surprising dignity. He reached for a cup of steaming tea, sniffed it once, then sipped. "Train food," he muttered in a gravelly voice that carried the weight of old noir films. "Not bad. Could use a little more salt." He set the cup down and tapped his cane twice against the floor, eyes flicking across the companions.
Ungar leaned forward, his voice like thunder contained. "Why are you here?" It was not suspicion alone—it was instinct. Ungar had seen countless allies and enemies wear strange faces. None arrived at such a table without purpose.
Detective Beaver tilted his hat lower, shadowing his eyes. "Call it professional curiosity. You lot are heading to the Station of Mirrors. Big trial. Real big. And where there's a trial, there's always a crime." He bared his teeth in what might have been a grin, or just a detective's way of showing he knew more than he let on. "I'm here to sniff it out before it blows the whole case wide open."
Lupus narrowed his wolf-eyes. "We are no criminals. Our enemies lie elsewhere." His voice carried the sharp edge of pride. But the beaver only chuckled, low and knowing. "You'd be surprised, wolf-boy. Sometimes the biggest betrayals don't come from enemies—they come from the ones sitting across the table."
The words fell like stones into water. Talus laughed nervously, waving his skewer. "Heh, don't look at me. I only betray my appetite." But Hermes' gaze grew serious, her fingers tightening around her cup. She remembered prophecies that warned of fractures within, and the Conductor's warning echoed in her ears.
Imam al-Tayyib, however, smiled faintly, unshaken. "Even detectives must remember: no crime exists without a Judge, and the Judge of souls is not found in files or badges, but in the scales of eternity." His words seemed to ripple across the car, dimming the lamps, until even the beaver's sharp grin softened.
Detective Beaver placed his toothpick aside and leaned closer, his whiskers twitching. "Fair enough, holy man. But my job isn't to judge—it's to reveal. Every secret has a trail. Every trail leads to the truth. And truth, my friends, is never as pretty as you want it to be."
Talus pounded his cup on the table, sparks flying as he declared: "Well then, if the truth wants a fight, we'll fight it! Just like everything else." His optimism clashed against the beaver's grim tone, but that was Talus' nature: to laugh in the face of warnings.
Hermes leaned forward, her voice low. "Detective… what have you seen in the mirrors?" For the first time, the beaver paused. He pulled his hat lower, his eyes vanishing into shadow. "I've seen myself," he muttered, almost too softly to hear. "And let's just say… I didn't like what was staring back."
Silence fell heavy after his words. Even Talus' laughter faded. The feast, once bright and joyful, now carried the weight of unspoken questions. Were they ready to face not demons or gods, but themselves? Each plate of food became an anchor against unease, each sip of drink a desperate grasp at warmth.
Ungar broke the silence, his voice steady and unyielding. "Whatever reflection awaits, we will not turn away. I have looked into darker mirrors than most, and I still walk." He tore another piece of bread, as if to emphasize that even the simplest act of eating was defiance against despair.
Detective Beaver raised his cup in a toast, his sharp teeth gleaming. "Then here's to survival. To truth. And to not losing yourselves before the train hits the station." He drank, and for a brief moment, his eyes softened with something like respect.
The companions raised their cups as well, each in their own way—Talus with reckless joy, Hermes with quiet resolve, Lupus with the pride of a king, Ungar with the heaviness of stone, and Imam al-Tayyib with the serenity of faith. Their cups clinked together, echoing louder than any battle cry. Outside, the Dream Train barreled onward through endless stars, carrying them ever closer to the mirrors that waited.
A portal opened and Nebula walked through the portal along with several other characters. Emperor Lemon, Alt. Narcis, Alt. Talus, Krampus [that will be explained in a moment], a powerful warrior with a large sword, a blue haired man with a sword, and a black haired man in a cloak. Demon King Daimao laughed: "Didn't that guy work for that disgusting Volker character."
Krampus grimaced a flash back ensued. The night was thick with smoke and the bitter stench of burning steel. Mark and Sarah stood at the front of their weary group, eyes straining against the haze. Out of the darkness came two shapes, first the heavy, clawed stride of Krampus, the goat demon, his chains dragging sparks along the cracked road, then the tall silhouette of Anton Volker, his long coat billowing, eyes glinting with that same cold cruelty Mark remembered from before.
Mark's fists tightened. He had waited for this. Krampus had already taken from him more than he could bear, and though his muscles trembled from the earlier fight, his spirit would not yield. The monster roared, rushing forward, claws and chains swinging with feral force. Mark surged to meet him. Their blows crashed like thunder, Mark ducking beneath a hooked claw, rising with a fierce knee, then slamming his elbow into Krampus's chest. Blue ki erupted from his strikes, sparks of raw energy casting wild shadows across the broken street. Krampus staggered back under the relentless assault until Mark spun on his heel, shouting, and drove his foot into the demon's chest. The kick crackled with light, hurling Krampus across the street where he crashed at Volker's feet. Mark's chest heaved as he glared at them. "Volker," he said between breaths, "take your friend. Leave."
Volker crouched over Krampus, face unreadable. For a moment it seemed he might obey. But then his gloved hand closed around Krampus's horns. He lifted the beast's massive head, and with slow, deliberate pressure, began to crush it. Bone creaked, chains rattled, and Krampus screamed, his monstrous body thrashing helplessly. Sarah's gasp pierced the air.
The sight ignited something in Mark. Though Krampus had killed his friend, though justice demanded blood, he could not stomach this cruelty. Not like this. Volker's cold amusement as he toyed with the demon snapped something inside him. His aura burst into flame, blue-white energy roaring to life and splitting the ground beneath his feet. Volker turned, lips curling in a thin smile. "Ah," he murmured, "mercy makes you furious. How fascinating."
Mark roared, charging with speed that blurred the night. His fists hammered against Volker's defenses in a furious barrage, every strike ringing out with the crack of stone shattering. Volker countered with gadgets, with injections that sparked with green lightning, but Mark's fury broke through. Blow after blow rained down, Volker's coat tearing, his mouth bleeding as he staggered back, driven into retreat by sheer force. Finally, Volker leapt away, vanishing into the smoke with a bitter laugh, dragging the battered Krampus with him. "Another time," his voice echoed, cold and mocking, before it faded into the night.
Mark stood among the ruins, his aura slowly dimming, teeth clenched, eyes hard. He could have let Krampus die in Volker's hands, could have turned his back and been done. But instead he turned to his allies, voice low and heavy with command. "Take him back. Heal him. Even after everything… he doesn't deserve to die like that."
Sarah stared at him in awe, unable to speak. Mark's wrath was terrifying, but the mercy that remained beneath it was something greater still. He stood there in the smoke, his body trembling, the last ripples of his ki energy fading around him, a lone figure gritting his teeth in the ruins of battle.
The hospital room was quiet except for the steady beep of machines and the faint hum of fluorescent lights. The scent of antiseptic hung thick in the air, and against the white sheets lay the battered form of Krampus. His horns had been bound in bandages, his chest rising and falling with the labored rhythm of survival. His claws twitched faintly, chains coiled at his bedside like a reminder of what he was. The door creaked open, and Mark stepped inside. His fists were still taped from battle, bruises lining his arms. Sarah waited outside in the hallway, knowing this was something only he could do. Mark approached slowly, every step heavy with memory — memory of Frank's laughter, Frank's courage, and the way his life had been ended at the hands of the very creature now lying broken before him.
Krampus stirred, his yellow eyes flickering open. He looked up at Mark with a mix of shame and stubborn pride, as if expecting a final blow. But Mark only stood at the edge of the bed, his expression carved in stone. "I'm not here to forgive you," Mark said, his voice low but steady. "You killed my friend. Frank was more than a comrade — he was family. That stain will never fade." Krampus grunted, his throat catching as if to respond, but Mark cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. "But I refuse to sink to your level," Mark continued. His aura flickered faintly around him, not in anger but in resolve. "Volker would have crushed you like an insect. And maybe part of me wanted to let him. But mercy isn't weakness. It's strength. And if I killed you in this bed, or wished for your death, I'd be no better than you were the night you took Frank from me." Mark paused for a moment and said, "And honestly I don't know if my heart will be darkened at some point, sometimes I feel the
The silence stretched between them, the only sound the steady hum of machines. Mark's jaw tightened, his teeth gritted as if the words themselves burned to say. "You'll carry what you did," he said finally, his voice almost breaking, "and so will I. But you're alive because I chose not to be what you are. Remember that." He turned sharply, boots striking against the tile, and left without another glance. The door closed with a soft click, leaving Krampus alone in the sterile room. For a long moment, the demon only stared at the ceiling, his breath ragged. Then, slowly, his body trembled. His massive chest heaved, his clawed hands shook as tears welled in his bestial eyes. Chains rattled faintly as his shoulders convulsed. Krampus — the terror of villages, the executioner of innocents — buried his face in the crook of his arm and began to weep.