Prologue: The Great Contemplation
The celestial light of the cosmos did not change. It had been this way since the beginning, a silent testament to an endless, serene perfection that humans could only ever glimpse in their most profound moments of peace. Jesus stood, not on a cloud, but in the very stillness of that perfection, his eyes gazing upon the swirling blue and green of Earth.
He spoke, his voice not a sound but a feeling that resonated through the fabric of existence. "The harvest has been bountiful, yet the fields are full of weeds that choke the good grain. I have given them every chance. I have walked among them as they are and as I am. They know the truth in their hearts, yet they still pursue the shadow. They have forgotten the love I gave them and embraced the pretense of a life without consequence."
Archangel Michael, his form shimmering with the essence of all order, stood patiently, a sword of pure light at his hip. "Lord, the systems we established... they were meant to guide them. The prophets spoke, the covenants were made. Yet they twist the law to serve their greed. The poor become poorer for the sake of the rich's comfort."
Jesus's gaze remained fixed on the world. "The first coming was to save them from themselves, and the second was to bring the New Heaven and Earth. That has been fulfilled, as it was in the days of Rome, a testament to My faithfulness. All was to be made new, but too many still cling to the old ways. They lie to themselves and to each other. They hide in their wealth and their power, believing it will shield them from what is to come. But there is only one door now, and they are standing in front of it, mocking its purpose. This cannot proceed."
From the shadows of the cosmos, a new form manifested. It was Azrael, the Angel of Death, but his presence was not of dread, but of quiet finality. His wings, the color of starlight and absence, unfolded slowly. "Lord, you have called upon me. The task you speak of would require the separation of the wicked from the flock, not in death, but in form. I am the collector of souls; I understand the mechanisms of the final journey. What is your will?"
"They will be separated, but they will not be taken by death," Jesus said, his gaze finally shifting from Earth to Azrael. "They will be moved to a place of their own making. A world where they can have all the wealth and power they craved. But it will be a test. A final, isolated truth. You, Azrael, will manifest this dimension. You will craft it from their own desires, a mirror of their worst sins, and a stage for their last chance at repentance."
He then turned to Michael. "As for you, Michael, your task is to maintain the order of the world they leave behind. The structures must not collapse. The innocent must be protected. You will ensure that the military and the police—those who still hold to their oaths—will remain to stabilize the institutions. You will oversee the logistics of the physical world, ensuring it continues to function in the absence of those who thought they were indispensable."
Michael placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, a silent pledge. "It will be done, Lord. Order will be maintained."
Azrael bowed his head, his form a deep shadow against the light. "And the dimension will be crafted. I will prepare the way for those who will be taken."
Jesus looked back at Earth, his face now a mask of both sorrow and a stern, unwavering resolve. "The time is now. They will not be alone. Their families will be with them, for they were a part of the corruption. And the door will be open, but only to those who truly understand why it was closed to them in the first place."
***
Chapter 1: The President's Reckoning
The gilded hands of the antique mantel clock in the Oval Office swept towards noon, casting long, elegant shadows across the polished mahogany desk. President John Crenshaw, at 68 years of age, had lived a life of meticulously calculated advantage. A career politician whose ascent was paved with insider trading, defense contracts funneled to companies he discreetly held shares in, and the occasional "strategic intervention" by intelligence agencies that conveniently aligned with his financial interests, he was the epitome of the corrupt elite.
Today, however, John wasn't in the Oval Office. He was in a private suite, a discreet, soundproof haven high above Lafayette Square, just a stone's throw from the White House. The air conditioning hummed, cooling the flush on his face, a mixture of exertion and the lingering thrill of illicit indulgence. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a thick, plush bath towel barely cinched around his trim (for his age) waist, a half-empty glass of single malt Scotch clutched in his hand.
Beside him, wrapped in a silk sheet, sat Bethany, his chief of staff's stunningly ambitious 32-year-old assistant. Her laughter, a light, tinkling sound, was a constant reassurance of his vitality, his power. She was a fresh face, sharp mind, and utterly devoid of moral qualms—a perfect reflection of his own younger self, if he were honest. She knew exactly what she was doing, what she was getting, and what she was enabling.
"Another round of sanctions on Sector 7, Bethany," John mused, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "That'll tank their currency, make our acquisitions even cheaper for the next quarterly report. Tell my broker to be ready to move by… say, 12:05 PM Eastern. That should give the markets enough time to react. We'll make a killing."
Bethany smiled, running a hand up his arm. "Always thinking, Mr. President. Even in… moments of relaxation. You're truly in a class of your own." Her eyes, however, glinted with a calculation that matched his own. She was more than just a mistress; she was an active participant, fully aware and complicit in his schemes, benefiting handsomely from the knowledge she gleaned.
John chuckled, the sound dry and satisfied. "That's why I'm President, darling. Always a step ahead." He raised his glass to the cityscape, a silent toast to his unending reign. The clock on the bedside table chimed: 12:00 PM Eastern.
At that exact moment, across the world, his wife, Eleanor Crenshaw, was in a high-end boutique on the Champs-Élysées. She stood before a three-panel mirror, a sales assistant fluttering around her, holding up a shimmering, hand-beaded gown that cost more than most people's annual salary. Eleanor, a woman whose beauty had long since been replaced by a carefully maintained façade of expensive treatments and surgical enhancements, frowned.
"No, darling, the emerald just doesn't quite... pop enough for the G7 gala," she declared, dismissing the dress with a languid wave of her hand. Her life was an endless carousel of philanthropy events that provided tax write-offs, boutique shopping sprees, and high-stakes social climbing. She lived off the security of the Crenshaw name, basking in its glow and carefully curated image, never questioning its source, only demanding its continuation. Her personal wealth, managed by a battalion of advisors, was inextricably linked to John's "successes."
Meanwhile, back in the United States, their two children were living lives of similar, if less direct, complicity. 22-year-old Sterling Crenshaw was in a private box at a basketball game, his phone pressed to his ear, loudly advising his trust fund manager to divest from a "failing" energy company he'd heard would be hit by new regulations. He was learning fast, imitating his father's casual cruelty with financial markets, trading on whispers and inside information, never truly creating value, only shifting it to his own accounts. His wealth was entirely derived from his family's opaque trusts.
His younger sister, 16-year-old Chloe Crenshaw, was in her elite private school's lounge, scrolling through social media. She had just posted a picture of her new limited-edition designer handbag, purchased with a credit card linked to the family trust. She was oblivious to the real world, her biggest worry whether her private jet would be available for her spring break trip to the Maldives. Her entire existence was a testament to the family's extracted wealth, enabling her utterly detached reality.
Back in the suite, John was reaching for Bethany, a triumphant grin on his face. As his fingers brushed her arm, a fleeting anomaly shimmered in the periphery of his vision. A flicker, like heat haze, at the very edge of the room. He blinked, convinced it was just the Scotch or the glare.
Then, the world twisted.
It wasn't a spin, or a fall. It was an impossible compression of sensation, a warping of reality. The scent of Scotch, the soft touch of the towel, the smug satisfaction in his chest—all were violently, yet silently, scrambled. The room, the city outside the window, Bethany's face—everything stretched, distorted, and then snapped.
A blinding, nauseating flash, like a thousand cameras going off at once, but with no sound. It was an entirely sensory experience, a violent tearing of one reality to reveal another.
When his vision cleared, the air was different. Sharper, dustier, and surprisingly warm, despite being indoors. The plush towel was still around his waist. He was standing on a floor of cracked, discolored concrete, within what looked like a sprawling, dilapidated warehouse. The walls were corrugated steel, rusted in patches, and the ceiling was a vast, grimy expanse of exposed girders and flickering, bare fluorescent tubes. The overwhelming smell was of stale air, distant dust, and something metallic.
Beside him, Bethany was also standing, still wrapped in her silk sheet, her face a mask of utter bewilderment, then growing horror. Her eyes darted around the cavernous space, then to him.
"John... what... where are we?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
He looked down at his hand, then back at the familiar towel around his waist, the faint tremor of his fingers betraying his shock. He looked at Bethany, the silk sheet, his Scotch glass—which had, miraculously, reappeared in his hand, now empty.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.
Meanwhile, Eleanor, standing in the Parisian boutique, was no longer surrounded by designer gowns. She was in a similar vast, concrete space, though her section seemed to be partitioned by makeshift screens of mismatched fabrics. The sales assistant was gone. The emerald dress she had so casually dismissed now lay in a crumpled heap at her feet, a cruel testament to the sudden shift. She wore the expensive, delicate lingerie she had underneath her clothes. Her eyes, wide with disbelief, stared at the rough, worn garments hanging on a rail nearby, a stark contrast to the haute couture she'd been accustomed to.
Sterling, still holding his phone, found himself in a similar concrete expanse, now furnished with rows of bunk beds. The roar of the crowd was replaced by a low, monotonous hum of distant machinery. His trust fund manager's voice was still on the line, but it was just a dead signal. He looked at the phone, then at his new surroundings, a flicker of genuine fear in his eyes.
And Chloe, the handbag still clutched in her hand, was in a vast, open area that resembled a cafeteria, complete with long, communal tables and industrial-sized cooking vats. She was still wearing her school uniform. The designer bag felt absurdly heavy now. She looked up, her perfectly made-up face contorted in confusion, then in utter horror, as she saw hundreds, perhaps thousands, of other confused, disoriented faces, all in various states of dress, all sharing the same, stark reality.
A cold, unseen wind seemed to sweep through the dimension, and suddenly, they all knew. Not with words, but with an intrinsic, terrifying understanding of where they were, and why. The secrets of John's deals, Bethany's complicity, Eleanor's willful ignorance, Sterling's leveraged wealth, and Chloe's privileged detachment—all of it, every single deed, every unspoken truth, was laid bare, not to each other, but to themselves. Their lavish, untouchable lives, built on the backs of others, were now a shared, visible shame.
The new resolution had indeed arrived. And it was merciless.
***
Chapter 2: The Commissioner's Late night Deal
The city of Canberra was asleep, save for the few, select offices where power, both official and unofficial, continued to hum. In his fortress-like office on the 10th floor, illuminated only by the sterile glow of a desk lamp, Commissioner Logan Mustings sat hunched over a steaming mug of tea. At 58 years of age, he was a man who had long ago traded his youthful idealism for the comfortable cynicism of absolute power. The uniform he wore, immaculate and starched, was a stark contrast to the morally compromised deals he was finalizing on his encrypted government phone. The time was just past 1:58 AM on March 5th.
On the other end of the line was the Federal Minister for Internal Security, a man who, like Logan, had perfected the art of public piety and private plunder. The minister's voice was a low, conspiratorial rasp.
"The operation is a go, Logan. The warrants will be signed by morning. We'll seize the assets of that technology firm on 'suspicion of tax evasion.' Funny how things work out," the minister chuckled, the sound devoid of all mirth. "Their new software could expose a few too many of our... 'donations'."
Logan took a slow sip of his tea, a faint smile playing on his lips. "It's not 'funny,' Minister. It's an inconvenience we've made... convenient. My team is ready. We'll be in and out before sunrise. The public will see a win for the tax office; we'll see a healthy commission from our friends at the rival firm."
The minister sighed contentedly. "Exactly. And for your trouble, Logan, the paperwork for your son's scholarship to Oxford is all but done. You'll have no issues with the official channels."
Logan's smile widened. "A golden future, Minister. A secure future. It's all about legacy, isn't it? Thank you." He hung up the phone, the soft click a punctuation mark on a career built on systemic corruption. His wife, Patricia, a woman who lived a life of quiet luxury and active social climbing, never asked about the source of their endless wealth, only that it continued to arrive. His 17-year-old son, Finn, was even more complicit. He knew his "scholarship" was a family-bought ticket to elite society, a fact he lorded over his friends with smug arrogance.
Logan leaned back in his leather chair, a sense of cold satisfaction settling over him. He had everything: power, wealth, an obedient family, and the ability to operate above the law he was sworn to uphold. He glanced at his Rolex—just one minute till 2:00 AM. He had time for one last cup of tea before heading home to his sprawling suburban mansion.
At that very moment, across town, Patricia lay in her palatial bed, the soft glow of her smartphone illuminating her face. She was finalizing an order on a luxury website for a new diamond necklace, the price tag so absurd it made her giggle. A notification for an article popped up on her screen: “Federal Police Bust: Tax Evasion Scam.” She skimmed the headline and, with a dismissive swipe, filed it under "Logan's Work" and went back to her jewels. Her complicity was passive, but absolute; she was a willing beneficiary, deliberately ignorant of the cost.
And in his room down the hall, Finn was on his gaming console, headphones on, laughing into his microphone as he taunted a friend he was about to defeat. "My dad's getting me into Oxford," he boasted, "so you can keep trying, but you'll never be on my level." The arrogance was learned, a perfect mimicry of his father's dismissive cruelty, reinforced by a life of unearned privilege.
Logan raised the teacup to his lips. Just as the ceramic touched his mouth, a fleeting shadow, impossibly deep and dark, flickered in the corner of his eye. It was so fast it was almost not there at all, a glitch in the flawless reality he had constructed. He froze, the teacup halfway to his face.
Then, the world twisted.
It was an instant, violent, silent compression. The air in his lungs was sucked out, his body felt like it was being pulled apart and reassembled, all in a single, gut-wrenching moment. The rich scent of his tea, the feel of his polished desk, the weight of his uniform—everything vanished.
When his vision cleared, he was no longer in his office. He was on a floor of cracked, discolored concrete, within a vast, echoing warehouse. The ceiling was a grimy expanse of girders and flickering fluorescent lights, and the air was thick with the smell of dust, decay, and a faint, metallic odor. The teacup he had been holding was gone, replaced by the ghost of its weight in his hand.
He saw her first: Patricia, standing a short distance away, still in her silk nightgown, her phone—and the open shopping page—gone. She looked utterly lost, her face a mask of utter bewilderment, then as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, of sheer terror.
"Logan? What is this? Where are we?" she cried out, her voice thin and high.
Behind her, Finn was standing by what looked like a pile of dusty, mismatched furniture. His gaming headset was around his neck, the console vanished, and his face was pale, his bravado utterly gone. He simply stared, wide-eyed and terrified, at the new, desolate world.
As a sense of intrinsic, horrifying knowledge settled upon them, they saw their secret sins laid bare not to each other, but to themselves. Logan’s calculated deals, Patricia’s willful ignorance, and Finn’s entitlement—it was all there, visible not just in their new, unforgiving surroundings, but in the shame that now burned within them. The new reality had arrived, and it was a cold, hard reflection of their true selves.
***
Chapter 3: The Senator's New World
The afternoon light filtered through the ornate blinds of Senator David Pike's Washington D.C. office, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air. At 52, David was a man out of time, a populist and a true-believer. He genuinely fought for the people he represented, railing against corporate overreach and championing "America First" policies that focused on domestic prosperity and non-interventionism. His integrity was his most formidable weapon, and it had earned him as many enemies as allies among the D.C. elite. He was on the phone with a fellow senator, a man he respected, discussing a bipartisan bill to re-shore critical manufacturing.
"The numbers just don't make sense, Frank. They want to move production overseas, but at what cost to our own communities? The people need jobs, not another quarterly report filled with 'synergy' and 'vertical integration' nonsense," David argued, pacing the worn carpet. He glanced at the clock on his wall. 12:00 PM Eastern.
Frank, on the other end of the line, was about to reply when his voice cut out abruptly. There was a sudden, chilling silence. David pulled the phone from his ear, frowning. "Frank? You still there?"
The line was dead.
Puzzled, David hit a button to call his chief of staff, but the line was also dead. He tried his personal cell phone. No dial tone. The office was eerily silent. A young intern, usually glued to their screen, stood up from their desk with a look of wide-eyed confusion.
"Senator? My internet just went out. The Wi-Fi and the data network," they stammered.
Just then, a faint, distant sound began to grow, a rising chorus of sirens—police, ambulance, and fire—from every direction. It was an alarm bell that hadn't been rung since 9/11. David strode to his window and looked out. The streets, usually choked with traffic, were a chaotic mess. Cars were stopped in the middle of intersections, their drivers’ doors hanging open, as if someone had just stepped out and vanished.
He watched as a black town car, the kind that ferried high-level officials and CEOs, sat motionless in the street. Its door was ajar, the trunk slightly open, a briefcase resting on its side. There was no one inside. Panic began to ripple through the city.
He turned to his staff. "Everyone, try to get a TV on. Any channel. Find out what's happening."
The television screens in the office flickered to life, showing images that were equally baffling and terrifying. A news anchor on CNN was speaking live, his face ashen, while his co-anchor's chair sat empty. A reporter was struggling to describe the scene on Wall Street: a sea of abandoned briefcases on the street. In some shots, high-end cars had crashed, their drivers gone. In others, boardrooms and trading floors were filled with the ghostly presence of half-eaten lunches and empty chairs.
The newscast then cut to a bewildered U.S. General, who was trying to explain that the Chief of Staff of the Army, along with several other key military and political leaders, had simply vanished. "We are operating under the assumption that this is not an attack," the General said, his voice strained, "but we are in a state of unprecedented alert."
David’s phone finally rang. It was the vice president, his voice a frantic mixture of adrenaline and confusion. "David, a lot of the cabinet is gone. The President... he's gone. His entire staff, his inner circle, his family... all gone. The Joint Chiefs are missing their top brass. The CEOs of every major defense firm, the heads of the big banks, the lobbyists—they're all just... gone."
David’s mind began racing, connecting the dots that were scattered all over the city. A cold, stark reality was setting in. He thought of all the people he had fought against, the ones who had laughed at his ideals and dismissed his genuine patriotism. They weren't just the corrupt; they were the architects of a system built on deceit. And they were gone.
Suddenly, a theory began to form in his mind. He thought of his colleagues, the honest ones who had stayed, the ones who had fought the good fight. He thought of himself. They were all still here.
He took a deep breath, the sirens still wailing outside, and a cold sense of resolve washed over him. He was a senator who believed in the people. Now, the people had to believe in themselves. The world was in a state of shock, but it wasn't broken. It had just been... cleansed. The people who actually worked for a living were still there—the police on the street, the doctors in the hospitals, the mechanics, the teachers. The foundations were all still in place.
David looked at his staff, their faces filled with fear. He straightened his tie and went back to his desk, grabbing his phone. The Vice President was still on the line.
"Mr. Vice President," David said, his voice calm and firm, "get a hold of the military leaders who are still there. The ones who are not under indictment, the ones who were passed over for promotion, the ones who are still good men. I'll get a hold of every senator I can trust. We need to stabilize this nation, and we need to do it now. The people who were holding us back are gone. We have to seize this moment. This is our chance."
***
Chapter 4: The Engineer's Early Call
The alarm on Mark Sawyer's phone blared at 5:00 AM, a familiar and unwelcome sound. At 45, Mark had spent his life meticulously solving problems. As a senior electrical engineer with the national grid, his world was a complex network of power lines, substations, and fail-safes. His integrity was his most valuable tool—a habit born from a deep understanding that a single, lazy shortcut could plunge an entire city into darkness. He was a man who believed in systems, and for a system to work, it had to be honest. He rolled over in bed, stretching a hand out to silence the alarm. The time was 5:00 AM on March 5th, Australia's capital of Canberra still cloaked in predawn darkness.
He had fallen asleep to a late-night news report about the strange, mass disappearances in the United States. It was the top story on every Australian news outlet, though the anchors were struggling to make sense of it. He’d seen the bizarre footage of empty cars on Wall Street and the bewildered faces of officials trying to give updates on missing colleagues. He'd shaken his head, dismissing it as some kind of elaborate hoax or a terrible, but isolated, incident.
Just as he was about to drift back to sleep, his phone rang. It was an incoming call from an unknown number, which was unusual for this hour. He answered, his voice thick with sleep.
"Sawyer," he grumbled.
"Mark, thank God I got through to you," a frantic voice said on the other end. It was Greg Miller, the acting director of the Department of Energy, a man Mark knew to be a decent, if somewhat bureaucratic, fellow. "The entire system is a mess. I've been trying to call everyone. We've lost most of our top leadership—the director, his entire cabinet, the ministers for energy—they've all just vanished. Our communications are in and out, and the power grid is starting to show anomalies."
Mark sat bolt upright in bed, his sleepy haze instantly gone. "What do you mean, anomalies? Are we looking at a blackout?"
"No, no, the grid is holding," Greg said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But some of the power plants are operating at a higher efficiency than they should be, and we have a major anomaly in the financial department. All of the private trusts that were siphoning money for 'consulting' fees have just... emptied out. The funds are gone, the bank accounts are zeroed out, and the people who were managing them have disappeared."
Mark ran a hand through his hair, his mind already working through the implications. "So the corrupt parts of the system are... gone?" he said, a note of disbelief in his voice. "And you need me to help figure out how to keep the power on without them?"
"Precisely," Greg said. "We've been on the phone with the military and what's left of the government. They're trying to contain the panic. The Prime Minister is gone, along with most of the cabinet. But the Chief of the Defence Force, the one who was passed over for the top job because he was too 'ethical,' he’s still here. He's trying to stabilize things. They want people like you, people who know how things actually work, to help. The people who were just in it for the money are all gone. And a lot of the hidden redundancies and shortcuts they put in place to save money are gone with them."
Mark's mind raced, his thoughts jumping from power grids to political systems. He had always believed in an honest day's work for an honest dollar, and he’d been fighting against the kind of cost-cutting that could compromise the grid's integrity for years. Now, with the people who pushed for those decisions gone, he had a chance to build the system the right way, from the ground up.
"Tell me what you need, Greg," Mark said, his voice firm and steady. "I'm on my way." He hung up the phone, a strange mix of dread and exhilaration settling over him. He wasn't just an engineer anymore; he was one of the people who would have to rebuild the world. The parasites had been removed, and the host was now in a state of shock. It was up to people like him to help it heal. He threw on some clothes, his mind already sketching out the new, more honest systems he would have to build.
***
Chapter 5: The Fallen and the Fiefdoms
Part I: The President's New World Order
The first 24 hours in the Dimension had passed in a blur of shock, disbelief, and mounting dread. For President John Crenshaw, the initial bewilderment had given way to a growing, visceral panic. The sprawling, concrete warehouse they found themselves in was just one of many identical structures separated by high, impenetrable walls of corrugated steel. It was clear that this was not a temporary holding cell but a vast, self-contained world. The only provisions were stacks of military-style ration packs and pallets of bottled water, an insult to a man whose daily meal was prepared by a personal chef.
His wife, Eleanor, had found him and his mistress, Bethany, just hours ago. The sight of them—John still in a bath towel, Bethany in a silk sheet—had been a gut-wrenching, silent revelation. The façade of their meticulously constructed lives, all the secrets and lies they had so carefully maintained, were now an unbearable, public truth. Eleanor’s face, initially contorted with confusion, had hardened into a mask of pure, glacial rage.
"So this is it, John? This is your life?" she spat, her voice a low, dangerous whisper that cut through the murmur of the other disoriented families around them. "The reason for all the late nights, the last-minute trips? It wasn't the country you were saving; it was a... a whore."
Bethany, who had been a shark in the corridors of power, was now just a terrified young woman. "Eleanor, please—"
"Quiet!" Eleanor’s voice rose, no longer whispering. "You are nothing. He is nothing. And now, we are all together. Here. Thanks to you and your filthy lies." She turned to John, her eyes blazing. "You thought you were a king. Now you're just a common criminal, and we are paying for your sins." The irony was a bitter poison in the air. Their children, Sterling and Chloe, stood nearby, their faces a mixture of confusion and dawning horror as they witnessed their parents’ public, humiliating fall.
The initial shock had given way to a desperate, Darwinian scramble. Small groups had formed around families who had managed to find a pallet of water or food, hoarding resources with a chilling efficiency. John, with his political instinct, saw the patterns immediately. Power was not being won through brute force but through the creation of small, insular fiefdoms. He tried to organize a meeting, to declare his authority as President, but the title meant nothing here. His power was an illusion, and the only people who listened were his family, who now viewed him with a mixture of contempt and fear.
They were forced to move, to scavenge, and to work together to find a place to sleep. John, the man who had ordered drone strikes and manipulated markets, now found himself bargaining for a single bottle of water from a former CEO who had barricaded a small corner with overturned furniture. He was powerless, and it was a terrifying, suffocating feeling.
Part II: The Commissioner's Royal Rumble
As chaos unfolded in John Crenshaw’s warehouse, a similar scene was playing out in another vast, echoing space. Logan Mustings and his family found themselves among a very different, and even more volatile, group: the royalty and corrupt political leaders from across the globe.
The space they occupied was a testament to the sheer scale of the purge. Prime ministers, presidents, and even a few Royals stood in stunned silence among the pallets of food and water. They were not just a collection of individuals; they were a collective of egos, all convinced of their divine right to lead.
Within minutes, the first power struggle had begun. A European prince, a man with a reputation for his ruthlessness in business deals, was now attempting to organize a "royal council." An African dictator, notorious for his brutal oppression, was trying to claim ownership of a water pallet. An American billionaire, who had made his fortune off of privatized prisons, was trying to sell food at an exorbitant price. All of them, stripped of their guards and their vast wealth, were now just men, and they didn't know how to handle it.
Logan, the corrupt police commissioner, watched it all unfold with a cold sense of fascination. He had always seen himself as a man of order, even in his corruption, but this was pure anarchy. His wife, Patricia, clutched his arm, her eyes wide with fear. "Who are all these people, Logan? What do we do?"
"We watch," he said, his voice low. "We watch and we learn. Their old titles mean nothing here. Power is now about who can organize the most effectively. They have no armies, no security detail, no weapons. Just themselves."
Just then, a commotion broke out near a pallet of food. A former Indian Maharaja, a small, arrogant man who was now just as hungry as anyone else, had been caught trying to steal a ration pack. A former British Prime Minister, a famously cunning politician, stepped in, not to help, but to manipulate the situation, trying to organize a "court of justice" in a bid to gain followers. The two men, a Maharaja and a Prime Minister, were soon in a heated argument, their voices rising to a fever pitch. A few onlookers, a former German finance minister and a Chinese party official, watched with a kind of morbid curiosity.
The conflict escalated. All the years of passive-aggressive maneuvering and political back-stabbing gave way to bare, brutal reality. The Maharaja, enraged, lunged at the Prime Minister, and a brawl ensued. Bare knuckles and flailing limbs, a display of raw, animal aggression that would have been unimaginable just a day ago. It was a fight between two men who had never had to fight a day in their lives.
Logan knew in that moment that this was not a place of organized politics. It was a world of competing fiefdoms, where every man's ambition was now laid bare. The only law was what you could enforce yourself. He looked at Patricia and Finn. They would have to learn to fight, or they would have to find a way to make themselves indispensable. This was not a test of faith; it was a test of survival, and the royal houses were failing it miserably. They had no subjects to rule over, only equals they needed to dominate, and that was a lesson they were learning the hard way.
***
Chapter 6: The Unfolding of a New World
The transition was less of a ceremony and more of a solemn, impromptu assembly. It was 4:00 PM Eastern Standard Time, barely four hours since the Event, and the nation was reeling. A television crew, one of the few with a signal, had been granted access to a press conference room at the Pentagon. There, surrounded by a handful of bewildered but resolute military leaders and surviving members of Congress, the former Vice President, a man named Henderson, was being sworn in as the new President. The Supreme Court Chief Justice was gone, so the oath was administered by the next most senior justice, her voice trembling slightly.
David Pike stood a few feet away, his mind still racing, trying to comprehend the scale of the Event. He had been on the phone non-stop since noon, talking to every senator and representative he could find who wasn't a part of the "disappeared." The number of missing was staggering, a full-blown decapitation of the political and financial elite.
After President Henderson took the oath, he turned to David, his face a mask of weary purpose. "Senator Pike, with the Senate's consent and with the utmost urgency, I am nominating you as my Vice President. I have already confirmed with what's left of the Senate. The vote is unanimous. We need you, David. The country needs an honest voice, a man of the people, in this moment of crisis."
David, who had always fought against the system, was now being asked to lead it. He took a deep breath, the irony not lost on him. He nodded. "I accept, Mr. President. But we must set a new precedent. No more backroom deals. No more corruption. The people are watching, and they deserve a government that works for them."
The swearing-in was brief and without fanfare. There were no cameras flashing, no cheering crowds, only the quiet resolve of the few who remained. As the new Vice President, David was ushered into a makeshift Situation Room, a stark, sterile space filled with military screens showing live feeds from around the world. The chaos was universal.
A general pointed to a map of Europe. "Sir, we have confirmation. The entire Royal House of the United Kingdom is gone. The Prime Minister is also gone, as are most of his senior cabinet members. The parliament is in disarray. We have a similar situation with every monarchy in Europe—Spain, Denmark, Sweden, Norway... all of them. Their entire royal families are gone. The political parties tied to them are in a complete free-fall. We are seeing popular movements in the streets demanding new, provisional governments."
David's eyes widened. "Republics. They will become republics." He saw it for what it was: the sudden, brutal end of an old world and the beginning of a new one.
Another screen showed a live feed from the UN. A new UN Secretary-General was put in place, and gave a desperate address. "The scale of this event is unprecedented. We are seeing entire governments in developing nations simply cease to exist. The leaderships of countless countries—from Latin America to Africa to Asia—have been entirely wiped out. The wars... they've just stopped. The military leaders have simply... disappeared. The supply lines for conflict have been cut. We are calling for an immediate global cessation of all hostilities. The UN will be the nexus of all global rebuilding efforts."
President Henderson's phone rang. It was a secure line from what was left of the Russian government. A general on the line, his voice thick with a mixture of shock and grim determination, said, "Mr. President, our entire politburo is gone. All of them. The oligarchs, the defense ministers... all gone. We are a nation without leadership. Our nuclear protocols are under control, but we... we need to talk. We need to talk to everyone."
The same calls were coming from China, where the majority of the leadership of the Communist Party had vanished, leaving a bewildered military to try and maintain order. The global conversation had changed, utterly and completely. The secret, back-channel deals were gone. The old rivalries, the old grudges, all gone with the men who had orchestrated them.
David took a deep breath, his hands trembling slightly as he took a folder from a staffer. He was the Vice President of the United States, a man who, just hours ago, had been fighting a losing battle against a system he now had to lead. He looked at President Henderson, and he saw a mirror of his own resolve.
"Gentlemen," David said, his voice now strong and clear, "this is not a time for old policies. The world has been given a second chance. We need to reach out to every country that is still standing. We need to offer aid. We need to help them build. We need to start over, from the ground up, with honesty and transparency. The people who were holding us back are gone. Let's not let their actions be in vain."
The room was silent for a moment. Then, one by one, the generals and the surviving politicians nodded. They were no longer fighting the old battles; they were now in the business of building a new world. The new order had just begun.
***
Chapter 7: The Engineer's New Blueprint
The sun had risen over Canberra, but for Mark Sawyer, the world was still cloaked in a new and unnerving darkness. He had spent the last three hours in a frantic series of meetings at the Australian National Grid's crisis center, a stark, windowless room filled with blinking screens and harried engineers. The chaos of the city was a distant hum, but in this room, the focus was laser-sharp and terrifyingly specific: the stability of the nation's power and telecommunications.
"We're seeing a full-blown decapitation of the entire top-level management across every major utility," a junior engineer reported, his voice tight with stress. "The CEOs, the Chief Financial Officers, the board members—the ones who approved the cost-cutting measures—they're all gone. Our redundancies and fail-safes are being tested in ways they were never designed for."
Mark, his mind a whirlwind of logic and schematics, took a deep breath. "The grid is holding because the people who actually built and maintain it are still here. The problem isn't a technical failure; it's a systemic one. The corrupt management was the biggest risk to the system, not a flaw in the engineering itself." He pointed at a flickering screen displaying a series of red alerts. "Those are the energy trusts and shell corporations that were siphoning off funds for fake consultations. The money is gone, and the systems they put in place to launder it are now showing up as critical errors. We need to go in and remove those bugs immediately."
Just as he was issuing orders, a military officer in full dress uniform strode into the room, his face stern but his eyes filled with a weary hope. "Mr. Sawyer? I'm General Thompson. What's left of the government wants to speak with you immediately. The Chief of the Defence Force wants you in a meeting."
The General led him to a separate, high-security command center. It was unlike any political gathering Mark had ever seen. There were no press agents, no lobbyists, and no slick politicians with practiced smiles. The room was filled with professionals: scientists from the CSIRO, economists who had been sidelined for their unconventional views, and a handful of surviving, honest members of Parliament. The meeting was being led by the Chief of the Defence Force, a man with a reputation for integrity and a deep-seated distrust of backroom politics.
"Gentlemen, ladies, thank you for your service," the General began. "The country has been hollowed out from the top down. The Prime Minister, his cabinet, the heads of every major financial institution, the majority of the Senate—they're all gone. We are now the provisional government. And we've come to the only people we can trust to lead us out of this: the ones who know how things actually work. We need engineers, not politicians."
The General turned to Mark. "Mr. Sawyer, your department is experiencing a massive systemic shock. The people who were bleeding your infrastructure dry are gone. The funds they were siphoning are now in a limbo state. We need a man of your caliber to take control of the entire energy and utilities sector. You have full authority to rebuild it from the ground up. Not for profit, but for service. For the people."
Mark looked around the room, seeing the same mixture of terror and determination in the faces of the others. He saw a geologist who had been fighting for years to get funding for clean Coal and Nuclear projects; a leading medical researcher whose work had been stalled by a corrupt pharmaceutical company; an agricultural scientist whose findings on sustainable farming were ignored for the sake of profit. They were all there, the best and brightest, finally being asked to lead.
"Sir," Mark said, his voice steady, "I can do that. I can assure you, the grid will hold. But the issues are broader than that. We need to audit every single piece of infrastructure that was put in place for a dishonest purpose. We need a new national budget that prioritizes services, not profits. We need to build a society where people are rewarded for what they know, not for who they know."
General Thompson nodded. "That's why we called you. You're now the Acting Minister for Infrastructure. You will have full authority to restructure our national assets, from our power plants to our roads and communications networks. We trust you to do the right thing."
Mark felt the weight of the country settle on his shoulders. The old guard was gone, and the new guard had just been given the tools to build a better world. He was no longer just an engineer; he was a leader, tasked with constructing not just a new power grid, but a new nation.
***
Chapter 8: The Price of Empathy
Part I: The President's Desperate Survival
A year had passed, and the illusion of power had been completely stripped away. The sprawling concrete warehouses, once filled with bewildered suits and gowns, had become a lawless labyrinth of desperate survivors. President John Crenshaw was no longer a politician; he was a scavenger, a ghost, his once-pristine appearance replaced by a gaunt frame and a beard matted with a year's worth of dust and sweat. His family, once a pillar of his carefully constructed life, had splintered. His son Sterling, hardened and selfish, had joined a small, brutal gang. His daughter Chloe, terrified and dependent, clung to her mother. Eleanor and Bethany, the wife and the mistress, lived in a constant, simmering state of mutual hatred, a silent, corrosive punishment that was worse than any physical fight.
Food was an ever-present obsession. Though the pallets of nutrient-paste and water reappeared at regular intervals, they were always preceded by a terrifying, violent rush. The initial "fiefdoms" had become full-blown gangs, controlling food and water through brute force. Weapons were fashioned from anything: sharpened pieces of rebar, clubs made from pallet wood, and makeshift shivs from scavenged metal. Fear was the only constant currency. Compassion, the very emotion they had so casually discarded in their old lives, was utterly absent here.
One day, John was huddled behind a stack of crates, his stomach a gnawing void, watching a skirmish unfold. A former high-ranking CEO was trying to steal a few ration packs from a group of ex-lobbyists. The conflict quickly escalated. A piece of sharpened metal flashed, and the CEO, a man who had once controlled entire industries, collapsed, his last breath a thin, helpless wheeze. The lobbyists, men who had always negotiated in boardrooms, now looked down at the body with a chilling, detached calm.
John, watching from his hiding spot, felt a profound, gut-wrenching nausea that had nothing to do with hunger. He had orchestrated the ruin of countless lives, had watched from a distance as whole communities suffered from his decisions, but he had never seen the direct, bloody result of that kind of violence. He had always been so far removed, so clean. Here, there was no distance. The stench of blood was real. He had built a world of violence for others, and now, he was living in it. For the first time, he felt true terror, not of dying, but of living with the knowledge of what he had become.
Part II: The Commissioner's Cold Revelation
In another sector of the Dimension, a similar, bleak reality had taken hold. The hubris of the former royal houses had crumbled. The "council" of King's, Princes, Prime ministers and former prime ministers had dissolved into warring factions, their petty squabbles now decided with fists and improvised weapons. Logan Mustings, the former police commissioner, had survived by relying on his street smarts and a certain cold, pragmatic ruthlessness. He and his family had managed to stay together, but at a terrible price. His son, Finn, had been forced to learn how to fight, shedding his entitlement for a grim, brutal competence. His wife, Patricia, had become a hard, distrustful woman, her socialite past a distant and ridiculous memory.
Logan had witnessed countless acts of depravity. He had seen a former dictator, a man who had tortured dissidents for a living, weep like a child after being beaten for a few bottles of water. He had seen a former queen, a symbol of grace and opulence, beg for a single ration pack, her elegant hands now bruised and calloused. He had spent his career as a corrupt cop, believing that he was a man of order and law, just one who knew how to bend the rules for his own benefit. But here, with no rules to bend and no law to enforce, he saw the raw, chaotic violence that he had always been a part of. He had enabled it, he had taken money to look the other way, and now he was living in it.
The final straw came when he saw a former celebrity, a person who had preached about justice and peace, viciously attack a former banker for a scrap of food. The celebrity, stripped of their public persona, was a beast, and Logan, watching the fight, saw himself in the act. He had always been this person, a hidden monster, benefiting from the chaos he pretended to oppose. The violence was not a sign of their descent; it was a testament to what they had always been underneath the suits and titles. Logan closed his eyes, a profound wave of shame and self-disgust washing over him. He had been a monster, and he had raised his son to be one too. The punishment was not the hunger; it was the chilling realization of their true nature.
Azrael's Intervention
Just as the sunless, grey sky of the Dimension was beginning its slow shift into another night, a stillness fell over the chaos. All fighting ceased. The angry whispers died out, replaced by a profound, eerie silence. From a high point in the center of the largest warehouse, a figure manifested. It was Azrael, but he was no longer a shadow. He was a being of terrible, beautiful light, his form shimmering with the raw energy of creation itself. His presence was not intimidating; it was all-encompassing. He was not there to judge; he was there to end the test.
He spoke, and his voice was not a sound, but a thought that resonated in the mind of every single person in the Dimension. “You have been shown the truth. The world you lived in was an illusion, a beautiful lie that you told yourselves. You are what you were always meant to be. Some of you have seen the error of your ways. Most of you have not. The test is over. You will now return to where you were taken. But you will return with nothing but the truth you have learned.”
A moment of pure, blinding white light consumed the Dimension. It was not violent or painful; it was a perfect, gentle undoing of existence. John Crenshaw felt his body unraveling, a graceful dissolution of matter, and for a brief, fleeting moment, he saw his entire life laid out before him, a terrifying tapestry of missed opportunities and selfish choices. He saw the face of every person he had wronged, every lie he had told, every life he had broken, all of it playing out in a single, horrifying instant. He felt a tear stream down his face, a raw, genuine feeling of grief for a life he had wasted.
Simultaneously, Logan Mustings felt the same undoing. He saw his entire career of turning a blind eye, his wife’s complicity, his son’s entitlement—all of it now a crystal-clear, horrifying vision. He had lived his life believing he was a good man, just a pragmatic one, but he saw now that he had been a cancer, spreading rot through the system. He closed his eyes, a single, silent prayer forming on his lips for a second chance.
In the next moment, all of them—every one of the corrupt and their complicit families—were no longer in the Dimension. They were standing in public squares in their home countries, dressed in the exact clothing they had worn at the moment of their disappearance.
John Crenshaw, still in his bath towel, was standing in the middle of Lafayette Square in Washington D.C., his face pale, his body still trembling from the terror of the Dimension. He looked at the White House, the symbol of his old power, and saw it for the first time for what it really was: just a building. He felt a wave of nausea, a mix of pure relief and profound shame.
Logan Mustings, still in his police commissioner’s uniform, was standing in the middle of a bustling public square in Canberra, a throng of bewildered people walking past him. He looked down at his hands, the hands that had signed off on countless corrupt deals, and saw them as they were: just hands. The badge on his uniform felt heavier than it ever had before, a symbol of a duty he had so thoroughly betrayed.
They were back. But they were not the same men who had been taken. They had been given a second chance, but they had also been given a truth that would haunt them for the rest of their lives.
***
Chapter 9: The World Remade
The flash of light was gone as quickly as it had come. For John Crenshaw and Logan Mustings, the one-year-long, brutal nightmare of the Dimension had ended as abruptly as it began. They were both in Their own respective public squares, but the world around them was utterly alien. For them, it was March 5th, 2028. For the world, it was March 5th, 2067. The forty years in between had aged a generation, but had not aged the people who were taken.
The President's Bewilderment
John Crenshaw, still in his bath towel, felt a wave of dizziness as his eyes tried to comprehend the world around him. Lafayette Square was no longer surrounded by frantic chaos. It was a serene, bustling public park filled with people who moved with a calm sense of purpose. The air was clean, devoid of the usual city grime. The cars glided silently down the streets, their sleek, aerodynamic forms powered by hums, not internal combustion. The buildings, once a mix of old brick and glass, were now interwoven with vertical gardens and solar panels that shimmered in the afternoon sun. He looked up at the White House and saw it was no longer a symbol of power, but had been converted into a public museum, its doors open to all.
He stumbled towards what was once his private suite, the building a monument to his corrupt past, only to find it had been razed. In its place stood a towering, glass-and-steel structure that resembled a public library. The inscription on the facade read: The David Pike Institute for Ethical Governance. The sight of the name, the name of the man who had opposed him, a man now likely long dead, sent a jolt of shock and recognition through him.
He managed to get to a public information terminal, a clean, elegant pillar of light and glass. With a fumbling motion, he pulled up his own name. John Crenshaw. It came up instantly. He was listed in the public records as having vanished in 2027. His massive private holdings, his trusts, his businesses—all of it had been redistributed. His home, a sprawling mansion, was now a community health clinic. His wealth had been used to fund infrastructure projects across the nation. All of his money was gone. His family's names were also there, listed as having disappeared with him. They had no money, no property, and no legacy except for a historical footnote in a world that had moved on.
He saw a newspaper headline on a public screen: "A New World Order: 40 Years of Peace and Progress." The article spoke of a time before the "Great Cleansing," a dark, bygone era of war and greed. The United States was no longer the sole superpower, but one of many. China, India, and a unified Africa were all multi-polar nations, with their focus on diplomacy and development, not on military aggression. All the countries he had once exploited were now vibrant, self-sufficient societies. The very game he had built his life on was now obsolete. He was a relic in a world that had no use for him.
The Commissioner's Return
In Canberra, Logan Mustings was in the same state of shock. The public square he had appeared in was now a grand, open space with an enormous statue in the center. It depicted a man holding a wrench in one hand and a blueprint in the other, a monument to an engineer. The inscription read: The Mark Sawyer Foundation for Infrastructure Integrity. The name, the face of the man who had fought to get the systems right, was memorialized in bronze.
His former office was now part of a large, state-of-the-art justice building, its facade radiating a clean, bright energy. He tried to get in, to prove who he was, to reclaim his authority, but the police officer at the door just shook their head. They recognized him from the historical records, but he was a museum piece, not a person of authority.
He learned that the Australian monarchy had been replaced by a clean, transparent republic. The political parties that were once filled with corrupt officials were now led by people who were chosen for their competence, not for their connections. They had built a new society that utilized every form of energy—clean coal, nuclear fission, solar farms that were more efficient than ever, and advanced hydroelectric plants. The wind turbines did not kill birds; they had been designed with advanced sensors that changed their rotation speed to avoid collisions. The world was a place of efficiency and genuine progress. There was no "throwaway society." Things were built to last, to be repaired, to be valued.
He found the home he had once owned. It was now a community living space, a home for the elderly, a place of warmth and community. The people who lived there had a serenity he had never seen before. They were happy, truly happy, because they lived in a world where their well-being was a priority, not an afterthought.
The Real Reckoning
As John Crenshaw and Logan Mustings wandered the streets of this new world, they began to encounter others like themselves. The disgraced royals, the CEOs, the lobbyists—all of them, now one year older than when they left, were scattered throughout the globe, their expensive clothes and jewelry a bizarre, anachronistic display of a forgotten age. They tried to get their wealth back, to claim their properties, but everything was gone. The people of this new world, with a calm, gentle pity, helped them. They gave them food, clothes, and shelter, a stark contrast to the brutality they had shown each other in the Dimension.
The punishment was not the loss of their wealth or power. The punishment was seeing the world that could have been, a world that flourished and healed in their absence. The world they could have built with their immense influence, but chose to tear down instead. The world they had returned to was a monument to their failures, a living testament to what a society without corruption looked like. They had spent a year in a personal hell, a world they created with their own actions. Now, they would spend the rest of their lives in a beautiful world, a new heaven and earth that was created despite them.
***
Epilogue: The Narrow Path
The celestial light of the cosmos was still and perfect, as it had always been and would always be. Jesus stood in the quietness, his gaze now fixed on the future of a world that was no longer a shadow of its former self. He had witnessed the chaos of the immediate aftermath, the slow, difficult process of rebuilding, and the eventual blossoming of a society built on integrity and purpose.
Azrael, his form now a serene light rather than a profound shadow, spoke first. "Lord, the test was a success. The majority saw the error of their ways. The shock of being returned to a world that had moved on was the final, and most profound, lesson. They had to learn how to exist in a world that did not need them, a world that was better for their absence. The road was a hard one, but they are now on the narrow path."
Michael, his stance still that of a vigilant guardian, added, "The world has found a new order, Lord. It is not perfect. Conflict still exists, but it is no longer fueled by greed or a lust for power. The people who were left behind, the ones who were good and true, have built a world that is a testament to their inherent goodness. They have chosen to prioritize compassion over conquest, and their leaders now serve the people, not themselves."
Jesus turned to them, a profound and gentle smile on his face. "The world was not meant to be a Utopia. It was meant to be a place of choice. For too long, the broad road was paved with lies and corruption, and too many chose to follow it, thinking it was the path of least resistance. But you, my faithful servants, you created the conditions for the narrow path to be seen for what it truly is: a road of honesty, of hard work, and of genuine purpose."
His voice, a feeling that resonated through the fabric of existence itself, was filled with a final, overwhelming sense of completion. "The tools are there now. The societies they have built, the economies they have restructured, are proof that they can live in a world that is not governed by deceit. They are still men and women, with all their flaws and their imperfections, but they have learned that their actions have consequences that are not just measured in their own lifetimes."
His gaze fell upon the Earth, and his eyes, which had held the sorrow of a world gone astray, now held an immense and unutterable compassion. He had given them a chance to return, not to their old lives, but to a new path. It was the final lesson, the final awakening. A single tear, crystalline and filled with divine care, traced a path down his cheek. It was not a tear of sadness, but of a profound and beautiful relief. For now, the only thing that stood between them and the Kingdom of God was the life they had been given back to live, and the narrow path they were finally walking.
The End
By Zakford
