DeSean snapped awake in sweltering, smelly darkness. The floor was splintered wood digging into his bare back. When he sat up, he noticed he was naked and alone next to a row of decrepit bar seats. He sniffed, inhaling the congealed scent of piss-poor booze, old vomit, and rotten eggs.

Wait, no. The rotten egg smell was actually sulfur. And there was burning tire scent in the air on top of that.

The Marine frowned. He looked around carefully, searching for another person or anything else of note. Broken tables and shattered chairs occupied a dining area empty of people living or otherwise. Tattered banners hung from the rafters and in front of the windows where a blaring orange-yellow light shone.

It was a strange sight, the light. It was bright, nearly scorching to his eyes. Yet, it didn’t pierce deeply into the darkness that surrounded DeSean.

Slowly, the Marine reached up with his left hand and gripped the bar counter.

“That’s not right,” he said, pulling himself up. “I don’t have a left hand anymore.”

Just as he got to his feet, his arm fell into dust. A disfigured nub above the elbow joint remained.

DeSean’s memory snapped in place. He remembered the horrific pain, Lylothia’s glowing red eyes, the heart-throbbing and nightmarish experience of receiving a Hell Princess’s kiss and all the consequences that followed.

DeSean touched his right cheek, and the kiss pulsated hotly against his fingers. “So, that happened,” the Marine confirmed. “Might have a talk with her about need-to-know information.” And boundaries.

A shrilling noise reached DeSean’s ears. His heart sank, his body jumped to action. He vaulted over the bar counter and got all the way down on the ground. A mortar struck outside near the front, rocking the building, blasting in the windows, fluttering the banners. DeSean waited for more to strike down and heard none. He pushed up with one arm, ignoring the glass shards that failed to pierce his skin.

He looked around and saw the room was just as wrecked as he found it. The only difference now was the occupancy had gone up to two.

DeSean didn’t know how he knew where to find the gun, but he had a loaded revolver in his right hand. He leveled the barrel on the newcomer, letting his silence speak for him.

The newcomer was heavily shadowed while in the alcove leading to the front door. Right above his head was the tattered flags of the United States and the Marine Corps.

“I had a long day out there, Sergeant,” the man rasped. “Care if I have a drink?”

The stranger took a step closer, making himself a little more recognizable based on outfit alone. He was a geared-up Marine dressed with a helmet, body armor, rifle, pack, and all. His desert utility uniform was soaked wet with sweat and something dark. He had the air of a young man who’d been through a lot and wanted to forget the things he’d experienced.

DeSean’s gun-holding hand wavered. He was going to lower it, but his instincts said otherwise. He kept it leveled.

“What’s your unit, Devil Dog?” DeSean asked, using a U.S. Marine nickname.

“Second Platoon.”

The shadowed Marine twitched, his shoulder suffering a spasm.

“B Company.”

The buckles to his pack broke all at once, lessening the burden on his back.

“Third Battalion.”

His rifle strap slipped down his shoulder. The weapon fell into his awaiting hands.

“Fifth Marines!”

He leveled his rifle, and DeSean shot him between the eyes. The shadowed Marine staggered backward, staying on his feet.

“All I wanted… was a drink,” the dead Marine said before collapsing into dust, bones, and broken gear.

“Get some,” DeSean muttered, repeating the motto of his old infantry command: Third Battalion, Fifth Marines—Darkhorse. He was a member of Second Platoon, B Company while serving in that battalion a couple years ago. The Shadowed Marine was likely someone he had once known.

“If this is the start to my hell, I’m going to need a drink,” he said to the darkness. The place looked like a worn-down watering hole desperate Marines would visit for a cheap drink. Like a tavern.

DeSean wrinkled his nose, feeling affronted by the stereotype. He was still going to find a drink, but a second glance at the remains of the shadowed Marine held him still.

In the middle of the decomposed ruin of a fellow brother in arms was a white card sticking up. It had an unusual glint of light surrounding it.

DeSean went over and plucked it out of the shadowed Marine’s remains. The card burst into motes of dazzling white light, heralding a System Notification.

You’ve entered the Selection for your Main Path.

As a Hell Marked, your Selection is challenged by the Heavenly Lords more intently. Because you are a bringer of chaos and hellish intention, linked by the demonic plots of the Hell Princesses of the Seventy Hells, the trial posed here will ultimately be against your favor.

The System has evaluated your memories, emotions, psyche to tailor your Selection. You have a 19% chance of succeeding. If you wish to automatically fail the Selection process and be painlessly destroyed, you may do so by saying or thinking intently “I quit.”

“Fuck you,” DeSean said.

You have decided to undergo the Hell Marked Main Path Selection Trial.

You will be met by endless waves of Shadowed Marines. They will grow increasingly savage in their attempts to invade your Tavern and kill you. In between each wave, you have time to fortify your defenses, restock, and find a means to escape.

The next wave will commence in 59 seconds.

DeSean stood still for a second until he realized the game he was playing here. “This is fucking Call of Duty Zombies.”

But the ‘zombies’ could shoot back.

Horror and nostalgia ran down his spine like sheets of ice. He glanced at the counter in the corner of his vision and saw he was down to 55 seconds. The Marine darted away from the remains of the first Shadowed Marine and searched the tavern. He found a couple of things of note that were lost to him when he’d awakened.

There was no actual front door. Looking behind the banners and window blinds burned. The orange light seeping through opposed him like touching a flame. There were hammers and nails, which was useless for him because of his… disability. Behind the bar counter were other weapons: a machete, a pump-action shotgun, a bolt action rifle, and another revolver. The ammunition were in the cupboards, but the supply was limited. The backroom door was locked, and the staircase nestled in the darkest corner led into an unbreakable ceiling.

DeSean was coming down from the stairs when he heard two shrills. He checked the time and saw Second Wave Incoming. He jumped over the rails, landed amid splintered wrecks, and ducked under the stairs when two whooping explosions outside shook the entire tavern. DeSean gritted his teeth, riding through the shock waves as he listened to the horrid sounds of chandeliers rattling somewhere above.

Fuck, I hate chandeliers. DeSean hadn’t felt a personal grievance against the System until this exact moment. The chandeliers were up there by design.

“Left! Left! Left-right-left!” roared a Shadowed Marine marching through the front without the need of a door. “Left! Left! Left-right-left!” He raised a dagger and turned toward DeSean’s hiding spot behind the useless stairs. “Kill! Kill! Kill!”

DeSean shot him in the throat, staggering the Shadowed Marine. He pulled the trigger again, the revolver thundering. He landed a shot square on the nose.

The Shadowed Marine replied with a nasal battle cry and charged him anyway. Right behind him followed two more Shadowed Marines outfitted with different weapons.

DeSean sidestepped the dashing and slashing Shadow Marine, shot the second one before he leveled his rifle, then spun around and smashed the butt of his revolver into the jaw of the first one.

Finally, the first one dropped.

As he hit the deck, DeSean ducked in time to avoid a bullet snapping at his head. He put a bullet in the legs of the other Shadowed Marines, dropped the revolver, and snatched up the dagger.

He stormed them, kicking half a table up into the air to foul their rifle aim. He tackled the nearest one and gutted the Shadowed Marine underneath his chest armor.

Dispatching the second one into decay and ruin, DeSean moved onto the third one DeSean had the heart-pounding, blood-boiling will to kill.

“Why’d you shoot the kid, Sergeant?” the final Shadowed Marine asked with a trembling voice.

DeSean hesitated. A mistake.

He took a butt-stroke to the face for his trouble. His Strength saved him from having his eye socket crushed, but the blow still gave him pause. It was a good crack.

The Shadowed Marine moved with the expertise of a trained professional, darting backward out of DeSean’s knife range. He started to level his rifle’s barrel on DeSean.

The Real Marine knew he was caught out of position, but he also had more than his military training to rely on. He had his [Dark Revelry] Skill.

He listened to the melody of darkness, his eyes glinting with a purple light. With a hum that spoke of eons without light, of endless times of nothingness, of vast wonders hidden from sight, DeSean flicked his wrist. He sent ribbons of shadow up from the room’s darkened interior and around the Shadowed Marine’s limbs.

The rifle was fired anyway. The bullets gutted DeSean, but it was not enough to put him down.

DeSean clenched his fist, commanding the elemental ribbons to go taut. They yanked the Shadowed Marine down on his knees, his weapon against the floor.

“I know who you’re supposed to be,” DeSean said, spitting blood. “We didn’t get along. You eventually moved to Third Platoon.”

“You’re a child killer,” the Shadowed Marine moaned.

“The kid was going to blow you up if I hadn’t shot first,” DeSean said. “But what good did saving your life do? Two months later, you got yourself blown up anyway.”

“We’re where we belong,” the Shadowed Marine said. “Our bones are baking in the fire. Our stomachs hold mud. But your blood will fill our cup.”

“Aye. Is that what you want to drink?” DeSean asked. “Or is that the sacrifice needed to escape this place?”

DeSean glanced at the bar shelves behind the counter. A particular mug standing by its lonesome self stood out.

“Wait here, you.” DeSean staggered around the counter, keeping a magical mind on the elemental strings binding the Shadowed Marine.

It was an interesting use of magic. Even though he wasn’t consistently singing the melody himself, he could still ‘hear’ it through his Attunement energy sense. It resonated between him, the source of the element that was the darkness filling the busted tavern, and the strings he’d shaped with his intent. He found it wondrous and fun even while suffering gut wounds and the sounds of three shrilling mortars signifying the incoming of a third wave.

DeSean studied the ivory mug as the floor shuddered underneath him. Shock waves rattled the entire tavern, fluttering the banners and window blinds hard. Glass shards flew across the room in a wild spray.

The Real Marine kept his gaze fixed on the mug throughout. His eyes followed the intricate engravings bastardizing all the hallmarks that made the U.S. Marines special.

The raising of the flag on Iwo Jima was reinvented into the raising of entrails with laughing demons in place of the Marines. The humanitarian aid given to allied nations was replaced by Marines raping women and children. Other historical images of Marines got twisted into a fascinatingly grim depictions that filled every surface of the mug. There was no doubt this was some part of the game here. An attack on him.

“You’ve always been more trouble than you’re worth, Sergeant,” grumbled a dreadfully familiar voice from behind him.

DeSean turned and raised the pump-action shotgun he had already grabbed when he got here. The weapon’s retort filled the room with light and thunder that clapped his ear drums awfully hard. The Shadowed Marine in the lead dodged to the side, letting one of a dozen others marching into the tavern take the brunt of the blast instead.

The Shadowed Platoon Commander of DeSean’s past ducked behind a table on its side. The other Shadowed Marines lifted their guns and let loose a barrage of gunfire.

DeSean dropped to the floor as a curtain of lead zipped over him. Dusty bottles shattered and rained shards all over him. Wood splinters flew in sprays as bullets ripped open the bar counter. A few skimmed over DeSean’s naked back and punched his leg, getting a grunt out of him.

There was no knowing when they’d run out of ammo. Hell, who’d say if they would? This was a nightmare unlike anything DeSean had ever faced. The rules of reality need not apply.

But that didn’t leave DeSean helpless. It made him angry instead. Wrathful, in fact. Because this game was playing with his emotions and trying to make him lose.

Fuck your game.

DeSean rolled onto his back, taking another shot to the ribs that made him cough blood. He raised his hand—a bullet ripped a piece out of his forearm—and concentrated on the melody of darkness.

It was strong here. Deep. As deep as the darkest corners of the Seventy-Two Hells. Whatever Hell this was, if it was not his own personal Hell, it had all the history, significance, and story of the dark element tucked into its dreaded corners. He just had to borrow its power.

So he sang the unimaginably deep melody and gathered a pool of shadow into his purple-glowing palm. More bullets started to hit their mark, ripping DeSean apart as he wrenched spools of elemental power into his awaiting hand.

I need more power.

Another bullet ripped across his forehead.

More darkness!

He felt a puddle grow from under him.

Mooooooore!

One side of his lungs started to fill with blood.

Now!

“Geeeet! Some!” DeSean spat globs of blood as he lobbed the shadow grenade over the bar counter.