Vikram limped forward, each step feeling like a monumental effort, as if the ground itself was conspiring to drag him down. His body screamed in protest, muscles sore and bones heavy, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. Not now.
That red gaze still lingered in his mind. The moment the giant golem had fixed its gaze on him, Vikram had felt time slow, the air thickening around him. It was as though every breath he took was an agonizing reminder of how small and fragile he was in comparison to the towering monster before him. Standing there, beneath its oppressive stare, felt like being naked in the middle of a storm—completely vulnerable, exposed, and at the mercy of something far beyond his power.
The fear had clawed at his chest, gnawing at his resolve, but he forced himself to stay calm. He had to. One slow, labored breath after another, he dragged his feet through the cursed sands, willing his body to keep moving, to push through the exhaustion and pain.
That gaze had almost broken him, but somehow, he had held on. It wasn't just pressure—it was madness, a madness that tried to strip away his sanity, his sense of self. No one his age was supposed to bear something like that.
But then, mercifully, the golem's gaze shifted. The weight of its attention lifted as it turned toward the sound of heavy, booming footsteps—the Hulk and his minions approaching.
Relief hit Vikram like a sudden gust of cool wind, washing over him, even as the agony of his battered body threatened to take him down. The pain surged again, stronger this time, as if it had been waiting, coiling just beneath the surface, ready to break free.
Still, he kept going.
The winds stirred the sands around him, and in the shadows, the elemental creatures shifted, their forms twisting in fluid, purposeful motions. They didn't look at him, didn't acknowledge his presence—didn't need to. It was like they could sense that, for better or worse, he belonged here now, a part of this desolate, cursed land.
His thoughts drifted to the conversation he'd had with the Slave Head, back when all of this had seemed like a distant, far-fetched nightmare.
"The Land of Black Blood... few return," the Slave Head had said, fear painted across his face.
Vikram remembered how the man's voice had trembled as he spoke, as though just uttering the words might summon something terrible.
But Vikram? He'd just smiled.
"There's always a first time," he'd replied, trying to mask the uncertainty gnawing at him, trying to act braver than he felt.
Now, here he was—black sand sticking to his skin, torn clothes clinging to his body, barely able to walk, but still walking. Still moving forward. And still smiling, albeit faintly.
"Might as well go all in," he'd said back then. His voice had been quieter, more uncertain, but now it rang in his mind with a confidence he hadn't realized he possessed.
And maybe—just maybe—this gamble was starting to pay off.
How long had he been walking? Vikram had lost track of time, lost track of how many golems had passed him by, their heavy steps like thunder in the distance. But now, as he stumbled onward, something felt different. The air had changed.
The oppressive weight of the desert, the endless stretch of black sands, was shifting. He was closer now—he could feel it. Ten meters away. A dark, ominous cave loomed ahead, the opening swallowed by an inky blackness that pulsed with a barely-contained energy, a promise of danger.
Vikram stopped, staring into the void of the cave. His chest rose and fell with every breath, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop around him.
"It's still not over?" he muttered to himself, his voice tinged with frustration and exhaustion, his words barely more than a rasp. The weight of everything—the desert, the golems, the madness—seemed to catch up to him in that instant. His face, covered in sand and streaked with sweat, revealed the toll it had all taken.
Half of his skin was smooth, young—like a baby's. The other half, though, was twisted and aged, wrinkled with the ravages of time, as if the Land of Black Blood had branded him in its cruel image.
It was a grotesque thing to behold, but there was no time to reflect on that.
His eyes narrowed at the cave as his heartbeat quickened. And then—
A presence appeared beside him, silent and heavy.
The Hulk.
Vikram didn't need to look up to know it was him. He could feel the weight of the air shift, the earth tremble beneath the giant's presence. The Hulk had appeared without a sound, no warning, just… there, towering beside him like a mountain of muscle and menace.
He could feel the absurdity of it—the sheer luck he'd had the last time, how he'd survived tossing the Hulk off that cliff just because he had caught the behemoth off guard. That had been his only advantage.
"Are you prepared to face the wrath of an Aminite?" The Hulk's voice rumbled like thunder, deep and rough.
Vikram raised a single, smooth eyebrow and smirked. "Duck," he said, the words barely a whisper before he dropped straight into the black sand below.
The Hulk, surprisingly, just ducked. And that… that was a mistake.
Vikram didn't see what happened next. There was only wind, a gust of air so powerful it nearly swept him off his feet. His instincts screamed at him to look behind him, to see what had just passed.
When he turned, his heart skipped a beat.
A massive golem—double the size of the one he'd seen earlier—towered above them. Its golden flames burned fiercely in its hollow eye sockets, a fury so intense that it seemed to burn through the very air around it. Its gaze swept over Vikram, barely acknowledging him, before it looked past him, its focus zeroing in on the Hulk.
It was a mistake.
Vikram clenched his fists, grinning to himself.
Behind him, The Hulk roared, a sound so primal and powerful that the desert seemed to shake. He erupted from the sand, massive and unstoppable, his voice booming across the wasteland.
"Ha! This your plan, Your Highness? Nicely played!" The Hulk laughed, the wild grin on his face like a predator reveling in the chaos. "But you know you need me now more than ever, right?"
Vikram didn't need to argue with him. The Hulk was right. If he died, Vikram wouldn't last five seconds. But if the golem died… that was a different story.
He watched as the battle began—the Hulk charging at the massive golem with all the fury of a storm, the giant creature roaring in defiance. Power clashed against power, and Vikram stood there, waiting, watching with the sharp eyes of a hunter waiting for the moment when the lions bled.
Like a hyena, hungry and patient.