The night had been quiet at first, unsettlingly so. The red rain had stopped, the tremors had subsided, and the mansion lay in uneasy silence. Until the fever began.
The once-lively mansion had turned into a ward of the ill.
Xavier, burning with fever, lay curled under a sheet soaked with sweat, his skin hot to the touch. Natasha whimpered from a nearby couch, tangled in a pile of pillows. Alex and Sasha were passed out side by side in the parlor chairs, cheeks flushed. Luis, Jax, Daniel, Alice, and seven children all shivered under blankets across rooms, hallways, and whatever flat surface Alvin could find.
And Alvin Bencio, prideful semi-god level mage, hero of two realms, slayer of a siren princess, the one who once bent mana with a sneeze—
—was in the kitchen, battling a pot of porridge.
Alone.
He stared into the pot like it had personally insulted him.
"This shouldn't be difficult. It's just hot water and grains. Even a fool can do this."
And yet, this was his third failure.
The first pot? Scorched beyond recognition. He had tried to boil the rice on maximum heat using magic and ended up vaporizing the bottom layer. The pot had turned black and produced a smell that made even the unconscious Daniel stir and groan in his sleep.
The second attempt had been too cautious. He used barely a flame. The water simmered for over thirty minutes but the rice didn't soften—it just sat there, mocking him, crunchy and cold. He tasted it and promptly spat it back into the sink.
The third pot?
Alvin added too much water in a bid to "compensate" for the prior batch and ended up creating a gray soupy liquid that looked like zombie mucus. Even he wouldn't feed that to the fevered.
Now he stood before attempt number four, sweat beading on his brow, apron tied haphazardly over his sleeping robes, sleeves rolled up.
"I killed three gods," he muttered to the pot. "You will not defeat me."
With methodical precision, he rinsed the rice—twice, because the bag said so—and poured it into the cleanest pot he could find. He added water, cautiously this time. Not too much. Not too little. Just enough to cover the rice with a thin smile of depth, like a mage measuring mana flow.
He set the flame. Low. Steady. No magic this time.
"I'm watching you," he warned the pot.
Then, arms crossed, he waited.
Ten minutes later, the aroma changed.
Not burnt.
Not soupy.
But soft, warm… comforting.
Alvin blinked in surprise. "Is that… working?"
He reached for a spoon, stirred it carefully. The rice swirled lazily in the thickening water. It was softening, giving way. He tasted a bit.
Success.
He didn't smile—not quite. But there was a certain pride in his narrowed eyes, the proud tilt of his chin. "Finally," he said to the empty kitchen.
Porridge made, he portioned it into mismatched bowls, fumbling only once with the ladle when he burned his finger and swore loud enough to startle a fevered Luis into mumbling something about "giant toads."
First, Luis and Jax.
They were laid out on the drawing room floor, heads resting against opposite ends of an old loveseat. Luis blinked blearily at him.
"Porridge?" Alvin said flatly.
"…You… made it?"
"Regretfully," Alvin replied, shoving the spoon into Luis's hand. "Eat or die."
Jax chuckled weakly from his pillow. "That's some bedside manner."
Alvin glared. "You want flowers too?"
Next, Natasha.
She was grumpy even in illness. She tried to turn away, muttering something about "cinnamon" and "gold flakes." Alvin unceremoniously spoon-fed her with the efficiency of a war medic.
When she gagged on the first bite, he said, "You're not allowed to die from porridge. If I survived cooking it, you'll survive eating it."
Natasha scowled. "You suck."
"You'll live," he said sweetly.
Sasha and Alex were easier.
Alex had enough strength to sit up and nod gratefully.
"You cooked?" he asked, sounding like he was hallucinating.
Alvin's smile was tight. "Try not to faint from the shock."
Sasha stared at the spoon like it was a relic of doom. "You didn't add… weird things?"
"Only heat. And hate."
Alex smiled faintly. "Well-seasoned, then."
Then came the children.
Seven little heads, feverish and trembling, laid in the nursery. Lily, blinking up at him through damp lashes, tried to sit up.
Alvin placed the bowl on her lap and sat beside her, helping her scoop small spoonfuls. He fed Yiso himself, holding her gently as she leaned into him. He tucked in Leo's blanket, wiped Ash's forehead, brushed back Diana's hair.
He didn't speak much. But the way he moved—the gentleness, the quiet steadiness—it was clear.
They were his. Every one of them.
And he would feed the world by hand if he had to.
Finally, he returned to Xavier.
The man was burning. Shirt off, soaked in sweat. Eyes half-lidded but lucid.
"You made that?" Xavier croaked, nodding at the bowl.
"Be impressed later. Eat now."
Alvin sat beside him, supporting Xavier's head and holding the bowl. Xavier, pride set aside, let himself be fed in small spoonfuls.
"I can't believe you cooked," Xavier murmured.
"Neither can I," Alvin admitted.
Xavier touched his hand. "Thank you."
Alvin stilled. Just for a second.
"…Don't make me feel things right now," he said, and spooned in another bite.
By the time he reached the last child, one of the ones who had fainted without a fever, the porridge pot was nearly empty.
Alvin knelt beside her bedroll, brushing sweat-damp hair from her forehead. He sighed.
He was sore. His back ached. His feet throbbed. His shoulders felt like collapsing.
And yet… he didn't stop.
He fed her. He wiped her face. He whispered, "Good girl," and pulled the blanket over her shoulders.
Then he slumped back against the wall and stared at the ceiling.
"…I should've just set the damn pot on fire," he muttered.
But even then—
There was a small smile playing at the edge of his lips.
The world was burning.
Xavier stood on the edge of a ruined highway, breath fogging in the ash-choked air. His boots crunched on shattered concrete. The sky above was no longer blue, but a roiling canvas of black smoke, pulsing with strange green light that blinked like an eye—watching. Always watching.
The air smelled like charred metal and rotting flesh.
To his right, once proud mountains had split open, torn apart from the inside. Rivers of molten rock spilled into deep gorges, and the trees—what few remained—were twisted husks, scorched and weeping a black sap. The earth cracked beneath his feet, trembling like a dying animal.
The seas had receded. The oceans had turned to glass in some places and boiling steam in others. Fish floated upside down in streets. Boats hung from power lines like forgotten toys.
But it wasn't just nature collapsing.
It was them.
Xavier looked up and saw the silhouette of one—a massive figure descending from a rift in the sky, like a shadow given form. Its limbs didn't bend the way they should. Its head was elongated, eyes glowing with a color no human could name. Its body glistened like oil, wings opening in a jagged, unnatural spread.
The Aliens. The Devourers.
They had not come in ships.
They had come in silence.
And they had hunted.
In the distance, Xavier saw what used to be a city—skyscrapers split open like paper, giant metal beams twisted into grotesque shapes. In the ruins, people ran. Screamed. Hid.
And were found.
The alien dropped into the crowd like a god of death, limbs lashing out, piercing bodies like butter. The screams were cut short, replaced by the sizzling sound of flesh melting under alien weaponry.
Behind them, another terror approached—the undead.
Humans, or what remained of them, dragged rotting limbs through the rubble, eyes glowing faintly blue. Once bitten, people turned within minutes. There were no safe zones, not anymore. Even children were not spared. A horde stumbled through the fog like broken dolls, their mouths open in an eternal scream.
Xavier tried to move, to help—but his legs wouldn't respond.
He turned, helpless, as the ground beneath him began to rise. A massive chunk of earth, lifted by some unseen force, split open. A pulsing structure—metallic, breathing—rose from the chasm. A tower, alien in design, humming with energy.
It was growing.
Feeding.
From the planet itself.
Xavier gasped as he saw the sky crack open again, and from it came more.
Not ships. Not machines. But living entities, like armored insects with humanoid forms, their limbs a blend of bone and weapon, eyes filled with cold intellect.
One of them saw him.
And smiled.
It moved.
He tried to run.
The ground buckled, flipped, exploded.
Then—
Silence.
He woke with a jolt.
Xavier's eyes flew open, chest heaving. Sweat soaked through his shirt, gluing it to his skin. His heart thundered in his ribcage like a trapped bird.
It took him a moment to realize—
He wasn't alone.
Alvin lay beside him, one leg half-thrown over Xavier's thigh, his face tucked against the pillow, breathing deeply. His sky-blue hair fell across his cheek in a cascade of light.
He looked peaceful.
Untouched by the nightmare that had just tried to tear Xavier apart.
Still half-panicked, Xavier turned on his side and wrapped his arms tightly around Alvin, pulling him close, burying his face in the crook of his neck.
He didn't speak.
He just held him.
Alvin stirred slightly, muttering in his sleep. "You better not be trying anything perverted again."
Xavier huffed a shaky breath and whispered, "No. Just… dreaming."
"Dream quieter."
But he didn't pull away.
In fact, after a beat, Alvin shifted closer, resting a hand lazily against Xavier's chest.
Xavier closed his eyes again.
He didn't want to see that world again. The cracked mountains. The dying oceans. The burning cities. The laughter of alien gods. The faces of people who died screaming.
No.
Here, in this room, was warmth.
Here was the only world worth saving.
He tightened his grip on Alvin.
"I'll protect this," he whispered, more to himself than anyone. "No matter what comes next. I'll protect you. All of you."
Outside, the night pressed against the windows. The rain had stopped. The skies had darkened further.
But for now, the monsters were held at bay.
In this bed, in this breath, in this heartbeat—
There was peace.
-
Alvin rolled his eyes in sleep: Really suffocated in this world.