Kaelis' final fungal transmission still burned behind his eyes: coordinates to this exact location, timestamped twenty-three years ago.
The sandbox was wrong.
Instead of ordinary play sand, it contained a shifting black particulate that formed and re-formed miniature landscapes—here a tiny Lightning Fortress, there the Rotting Lord's hospital. At the center stood a crude clay figurine with seven arms, its face an uncanny blend of Adrian's features and the Demon King's hollow eyes.
A child's voice giggled from the empty swing set:
"You always forget to bury your toys when you're done playing."
The Neighborhood of Nightmares
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Mrs. Calloway's House
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The kindly widow's rose bushes now grew surgical scissors instead of thorns
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Her porch swing moved on its own, the chains made of braided spinal columns
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The O'Reilly Twins' Backyard
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Two small graves marked "Prototype IV-A" and "IV-B"
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Fresh dirt suggested recent excavation
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
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Adrian's Bedroom Window
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The curtains parted to reveal a plague doctor adjusting an IV drip in his childhood bed
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The patient wasn't young Adrian, but a grotesque homunculus with seven brands
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The streetlights flickered on, though it was midday. Each bulb contained a swirling stormcloud—miniature versions of Veythos' power.
The First Memory Extraction
The sandbox figurine came alive when Adrian touched it. Clay fingers gripped his wrist as the voice of his second-grade teacher, Ms. Alvarez, whispered from its mouth:
"Show-and-tell was always your favorite, Adrian. Why don't you show the class what's inside your chest?"
Pain erupted as the figurine's fingers plunged into his VII-OMEGA brand. The backyard dissolved into:
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Memory Layer 1: A birthday party where the other children had brand-shaped cookies
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Memory Layer 2: Those same children strapped to Sanctum examination tables
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Memory Layer 3: Ms. Alvarez removing her face to reveal Vaulk's skull mask
The figurine yanked free, holding a wriggling silver worm—Adrian's earliest memory of love.
The Guardian of the Sandbox
The swing set's chains rattled as an impossibly tall figure emerged from the shadow beneath the slide:
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Appearance: A patchwork of neighborhood adults' features
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Left Hand: His Little League coach's, still gripping a bloodstained bat
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Right Hand: His mother's, holding a nurse's syringe filled with black fluid
It spoke with the voice of the ice cream truck driver who'd gone missing when Adrian was nine:
"You were never the test subject, kid. You were the control group."
The syringe plunged into the sandbox. The black particles coalesced into a miniature Eclipse Vault—and inside, seven tiny Adrian figurines lay on operating tables.
The Revelation
The sandbox wasn't a childhood toy.
It was the original containment unit.
The neighborhood wasn't a hometown.
It was the first testing ground.
And the children—
The guardian's face split open like a broken puzzle, revealing the swirling storm that had been watching Adrian since birth:
"The other six Omegas failed because they didn't have real childhoods to sacrifice. You're the only one who ever had something to lose."