Deviant: No Longer Human

October 18th, 2031

Wang Xiao finally had a moment of peace, a rare luxury after months of continuous battles, standing as a silent guardian against an unknown enemy.

But the world outside was far from quiet.

"Are you seeing this?" one of the viewers whispered in disbelief, eyes glued to the screen of a flickering livestream that had come to life at exactly midnight.

DING!

The clock struck twelve, the screen transitioning as the date shifted to October 18th.

Across the world, millions watched, breath held in collective anticipation.

The chatter buzzed through the air.

"He's going to move any second now!" someone shouted excitedly. "The Eighth Prince will crush them!"

The excitement was almost palpable, as people expected the Eighth Prince to lead his army and wipe out the Skinwalkers once and for all.

Alaska had become a hotbed of terror, with rumors swirling about Skinwalkers hiding in the shadows.

The world awaited the decisive moment.

But then… nothing.

Woooosh!

The wind howled on the other side of the transparent barriers, a chilling sound that echoed through the empty land.

The camera shook slightly, barely capturing anything but the bleak, desolate wilderness beyond.

"Where... where is he?" a voice cracked through the static of the livestream. "What the hell is going on?"

The only thing visible was the barren ground, stretching endlessly under a blackened sky.

The isolating barriers surrounding Alaska stood still, unmoving, like a prison for something forgotten.

Darkness sprouting inside, impenetrable, swallowing any sign of life.

Thud... Thud... Thud...

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The camera picked up the subtle vibrations of distant winds slamming into the barriers, their force rattling them like brittle bones.

"This place… it's like a ghost town," a voice in the crowd muttered, fear lacing their words.

Another chimed in, "This wasn't how it was supposed to go down. Where's the army? Where's the prince?"

But all they saw were empty plains and the haunting wails of the wind.

No armies.

No Skinwalkers.

Only cold, eerie silence.

The livestream flickered for a moment, the screen darkening before refocusing on something small—a figure, barely noticeable at first, drifting through the pitch-black sky like a ghostly apparition.

"There!" someone shouted, pointing at the screen. "Do you see that?"

The figure hovered in the air, a delicate silhouette, slowly passing through the impenetrable barrier as if it were a mere illusion.

She moved with a grace that defied explanation, her presence both ethereal and haunting.

The world fell silent, millions watching in awe as she ascended to the very top of the transparent dome that shielded Alaska from the outside world.

Whoosh…

The wind whipped around her, swirling as though it too bowed to her power.

For a moment, everything stilled, the tension increasing with each second.

The figure paused at the highest point, suspended in the center of the barrier, like a dark sun ready to unleash its fury.

"What's she going to do?" someone murmured nervously, their voice barely a whisper.

Suddenly, without warning, her body began to dissolve.

Crackle… crackle…

Tiny cracks of light split through her form, her skin crumbling into fine, blood-red sand that shimmered like celestial dust.

The crowd gasped in unison, mesmerized by the spectacle.

Each grain of sand sparkled, floating in the air as if weightless, before erupting outward with unimaginable speed.

Ziiiiiing!

The red sand grains shot outwards like missiles, spreading across the entire expanse of the barrier.

It moved with a mind of its own, weaving and swirling through the air in a mesmerizing dance of destruction.

The rest watched, captivated by the beauty and sheer terror before their eyes.

Inside the barrier, hidden in the darkest corners of the land, the Skinwalkers felt it first.

A low, chilling howl echoed from the shadows.

Then another.

And another.

Awooooo!

The monsters, previously concealed, leaped out of their hiding places, their disgusting forms revealed under the red-tinted sky.

Their inhuman howls pierced the silence, a deafening symphony of terror that made even the most seasoned warriors shudder.

Millions of them. Crawling, leaping, swarming—like a living sea of nightmare.

"Oh my God," a voice trembled through the livestream. "There's so many of them…"

But the red sand was endless.

It moved faster, swirling through the air like a deadly storm.

The grains, so small and so unassuming, penetrated the Skinwalkers' defenses with terrifying precision.

Swoosh!

Puchi! Puchi! Puchi!

One by one, the grains slipped through the cracks of their thick skin, entering through their eyes, ears, and mouths. And then, in an instant, each grain burrowed into their skulls, reaching their brains.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

The Skinwalkers dropped where they stood, green blood splattering across the barren land, pooling like a sickly flood.

No mercy.

No chance to fight.

The celestial dust moved through them with surgical precision, killing without hesitation, without remorse.

The red grains danced in the air, breaking through the creatures as if they were nothing more than paper.

It was a massacre—beautiful, haunting, and devastating.

The barrier, once dark and silent, now glowed with the eerie shimmer of the celestial dust, filling every corner with its deadly light.

Each death was precise, like an artist painting a masterpiece with blood.

The creatures, once so terrifying, fell in waves, their green blood splashing against the barrier, staining it with violent bursts of color.

And yet, the sight was so breathtaking that the viewers couldn't look away.

"It's like a storm of death," someone whispered, awe and fear in their voice.

The red sand moved as though it had a will of its own, filling the entire barrier, flowing endlessly, killing everything in its path with cold efficiency.

The Skinwalkers howled in desperation, but the celestial dust silenced them all.

____

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The world trembled as the screen flickered with the final image of the crimson storm swallowing the blue icy whole.

The howling of the wind faded, replaced by a deep, bone-chilling silence that seemed to stretch into eternity.

In New York, the corporate titan, once so confident, stood motionless.

His reflection in the shattered glass of his whiskey stared back at him, hollow-eyed. "This isn't power," he muttered, voice shaking. "This is something else... something unholy." The words barely escaped his lips before he sank to his knees, as though the weight of the very air had pressed him down.

In Tokyo, the leaders who once plotted their defiance found themselves on their feet, but not for long.

One by one, their legs gave out, as if some invisible hand gripped their throats.

They fell.

There was no discussion, no debate.

Just the sound of knees hitting the cold marble floor.

In the Vatican, a place where faith had never wavered, something broke.

Cardinals, bishops, even the Pope himself—those who had spent their lives worshipping angels—found themselves kneeling, their prayers twisted into whispers of fear.

A few priests resisted, their lips quivering in defiance, but were swiftly scolded by others.

"Kneel," one hissed through clenched teeth, gripping the collar of a younger priest who hesitated. "Do you want to bring death upon us?"

And so, even in the holy halls of the Vatican, heads bowed, foreheads pressed to the floor, as if the fear itself had become a god to worship.