Within a decade, the world was overrun by shadows. High E sought to put an end to their creation, while Low E, lingering at the edge of the universe, attempted to break into another reality. From light-years away, High E seized him, tearing him from the brink and sealing him inside a prison—a dimension of pure light, designed solely to contain him.
High E intended to seal Low E within his prison using divine creations, but soon realized that Low E had begun corrupting it. Cracks of darkness splintered through the walls of light, and over time, the prison dimmed. This growing corruption earned it a name among the supernatural—Ombrathrax.
To counter Low E's influence, Godself's planted seeds carried out her will, eradicating his creations. It seemed the war was nearing its end—until the Nullborns, Low E's first progeny, began crafting inferior imitations of themselves. These beings, known as the Shadowborn, were forged from Nullfire, an echo of the same process that had birthed the Nullborns, though weaker in nature.
Vanta, the first of the Nullborn, was determined to free Low E. But before he could even attempt a rescue, he faced an immediate challenge: locating the prison. Ombrathrax was whispered of in supernatural circles, but its true location remained a mystery.
Adam laid waste to the skinheads, his body now fused with the Invisible Hand. Twin beams of raw energy erupted from his eyes, reducing them to ash in an instant. They scattered, desperate to escape, but there was no refuge. Buildings crumbled under the force of his attacks, their walls offering no protection from his wrath.
Meanwhile, Baserka watched the woman's gruesome transformation. Her hair fell in uneven clumps, her teeth dropping from her gums only to be replaced by jagged, elongated fangs. The new growth forced her to gnaw through her own lips, blood spilling down her chin. When the change was complete, Baserka ended her life without hesitation.
By the time he returned to Adam, thousands of skinheads lay dead.
"This is going to take longer than I thought," Adam muttered, surveying the massive pile of bodies. Then, as his gaze fell on Baserka, something clicked. He had almost forgotten why they were here.
Baserka is supposed to be fighting these creatures, Adam realized.
Baserka continued Adam's work two towns over, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. Meanwhile, Adam stood before the frightened townspeople, calling them out of their hiding places. Slowly, they emerged, eyes darting with caution. He pointed at the pile of fallen skinheads.
"They're dead. You don't need to be afraid," he said.
A ripple of relief passed through the crowd, and then—cheering. Hesitant at first, then swelling into something like triumph.
But Baserka felt none of it.
The woman's death gnawed at his mind, an image he couldn't shake. Her face, frozen in shock. The life draining from her eyes. The way her body had crumpled like something discarded.
Like a machine running on instinct, he tore through the remaining skinheads, moving with brutal efficiency. He wasn't thinking—just doing. Until a voice cut through his trance.
"I'm not infected," a man gasped, hands raised.
Baserka had him by the throat, his fist poised to cave in the man's skull.
Then, something caught the man's eye—just below Baserka's sleeve. A bite mark.
The moment Baserka let go, the man reacted. A gunshot rang out.
The bullet punched into Baserka's back. He staggered but didn't fall. Instead, he turned—slowly, deliberately.
The man's face twisted with regret. "I—I thought you were one of them. You've been bitten."
Baserka looked down at his arm. The wound was there, darkened at the edges, but… something wasn't right. The infection should've taken hold by now. He ran a hand through his hair, yanking at a clump. It stayed intact.
He should be turning. He should be dead.
"The time frame for the symptoms was far spent." The thought settled in his mind, cold and heavy.
Meanwhile, Adam watched from a distance. The adrenaline rush had faded, and something about Baserka felt wrong. Off.
And then, the realization struck him.
Baserka wasn't dying.
But he wasn't the same either.
Adam approached Baserka and immediately noticed the bite mark. Without hesitation, he reached out, merging with him. As their bodies fused, a rush of memories flooded Adam's mind. He saw the woman die through Baserka's eyes—felt the shock, the helplessness.
Then the fever hit.
The physical wound sealed instantly, but the infection was different. It burrowed deep, trying to take hold. Adam fought it, his body burning, muscles trembling. It took time—too much time—but he won.
Even in his fevered state, he refused to rest. Alongside the town's survivors, he helped erect a wall—vehicles, reinforced steel, anything that could form a barrier. They worked until exhaustion took him.
Adam was unconscious for a day and a half.
Sakar's wife prepared a broth to bring down his fever, and by the second day, he had fully recovered. From then on, he refused to let Baserka fight the skinheads alone. They stood together, cutting down the remnants of their enemy until none remained.
When the last of them fell, medical specialists took samples of Adam's blood. From it, they developed a vaccine. A cure.
Months passed.
The world began to heal. Cities stirred with life again. For the first time in too long, people walked the streets without fear.
Adam watched it all, knowing his work here was done. It was time to leave.
He boarded his ship, setting a course for the stars. He had almost forgotten about the protection system—until it activated.
A streak of light lanced through space, targeting him. He veered sharply, but more beams followed, relentless. One struck the ship's hull. Then another.
An explosion.
Metal and fire.
Silence.
Adam drifted, weightless amid the wreckage.
Then—he reached out, merging with the Invisible Hand. Its presence wrapped around him, unseen but strong. With its power, he willed himself forward, streaking back toward D'Sul.
Iyan watched in shock as Adam soared through the sky, covering vast distances with ease. He had only ever known one species capable of such flight—the Zenons.
There had been another, once. A race with the same gift.
But the Zenons had wiped them out.