They had seen him fall. They had watched their protector beaten, broken, unmasked. The footage from that night had circled the globe, halting cities, freezing schools, stilling armies. But no one expected what came next. From the cold eyes of satellites came images never meant for the public. High above an unmarked forest, a body floated in the air, wrapped in a golden glow laced with silver threads of energy. Thunder rolled without sound. Lightning danced without storm. "What… is that?" one voice asked. "It's him," another replied. "It's MRD." No coordinates were given, no nation could locate the exact place, the forest itself seemed to guard its secret. But the image reached every screen, every home, every soul. A figure suspended above the Earth, burning like a dying star that refused to fade. A child in his mother's arms whispered, "Mama… the sky is alive."
In newsrooms, anchors broke down trying to explain it. "We have no words for this… the readings from global observatories—" "The energy he's producing… it's more than a nuclear event…" "It's beyond our measurement systems…" One scientist, live on air, simply said, "He's not healing. He's evolving." A professor known for decoding ancient prophecy shook his head slowly. "This is not a man returning from death. This is divinity finding its voice."
Far away, in the Tribunal's hidden halls, there was laughter at first. They replayed the footage of MRD's defeat, voices mocking, "He fell. He screamed. He bled. He lost." But then the screens changed. The satellite feed rolled. His body hung in the air. The glow around him burned into the watchers' eyes. Their instruments flickered, then failed. "Shut it down," someone ordered, but the feed continued. "We cannot measure this," another voice admitted. The warriors who had been so certain now stood in silence. One elder turned to the man who had brought MRD down. "You were victorious… but what did your victory awaken?" The warrior smirked. "I will end him next time." No one responded. The Tribunal leader's voice was low and cold. "And what if next time… you meet not a man… but something that doesn't bleed?"
On the island, the chamber lay quiet. Mirshad's body was still, skin faintly glowing, healed yet unmoving. Sophia sat beside him, her hand holding his, the brothers gathered behind her, Baba pacing like a shadow that could not rest, Rayyan staring at the floor, Amir and Jabir standing together in silence. But Sophia's eyes never left him. "You're not the same. Not anymore. I saw your body in the air. I saw what you're becoming." Her hand rested on his chest. "But to me… you're not a god. You're not a myth. You're mine." Tears slid down her face. "And I know you'll wake… when you're ready."
Around the world, people moved as if answering a call they could not hear. Shrines were built. Candles burned. Streets were named for a man who had not spoken since his return. A boy in Brazil lifted a photo of MRD in front of the glowing satellite image and whispered, "He's not dead. He's dreaming." An old woman in Palestine clutched her rosary and murmured, "He returned once. He will rise again."
The world now waits. The enemy watches. And the god sleeps. But when he rises again… he will not rise alone.