Smoke rose from the center of the ruined village in twisting black columns, thick with the scent of scorched earth and burned flesh. What little remained of the huts leaned half-collapsed, glowing red at the edges. The night air pulsed with heat, and the jungle surrounding the clearing was silent, no birds, no insects, not even the wind dared whisper.
Mike walked through middle of it all, his body half-shadowed in flame and blood. His chest rose and fell slow and deliberate, steam rolling off his skin as the fires burned down to coals.
He exhaled a long breath, tongue flicking across his teeth to taste the iron on his lips. The silence almost felt mocking now. His claws flexed, curling and scraping through the ash.
Bahamut's voice came to him low and thunderous, echoing through the back of his skull.
"Do not mistake silence for peace, hatchling."
Mike's grin faded. He crouched over the nearest corpse, Amara's lower body. The sound of splitting bone filled the air. Her flesh was tough, thickened by the primordial energy that had once flowed through. The taste was bitter, like soil. It burned his throat going down.
The fire under his skin flared in response. Veins of black-red light crawled up his neck, his back arching as Bahamut's presence surged within him. His scales gleamed brighter for a moment before settling into their dull, obsidian sheen.
He growled softly, wiping the blood from his mouth. "Weak."
"You misunderstand their purpose," Bahamut rumbled, his tone neither approving nor angry, merely vast. "Even the weakest of the Primordials' chosen carry fragments of their gods' original creation. By devouring them, you are consuming those fragments. Absorbing the power that once shaped the foundations of existence."
Mike replied flatly. "Didn't feel like much."
"Power rarely does when it merges with your own," the dragon replied. "Their gods birthed the world, not through force, but through essence. The earth, the sky, the first light, and the first darkness, each of them fed the cosmos before gods ever drew breath. Their strength is quiet, ancient. But it is what you will need when the time comes to face Abaddon."
The name rolled through Mike's head like thunder. His claws flexed reflexively. "That bastard."
"The End of Things," Bahamut murmured. "Even I could not kill him once he was set upon his path. He destroys reality itself, not merely flesh. To face him, you must carry the echoes of creation, the Primordials' gift. That is why you are here."
Mike rose to his full height, the fire dimming slightly along his shoulders. The burned remains of the chosen lay in heaps at his feet, Erebus's chosen smoldering faintly, unmoving.
He stared at them for a moment, then turned his gaze to the jungle beyond. "Then I'll find more. If that's what it takes."
"It will take much more than this," Bahamut answered. "But this is the path you chose, hatchling. You will learn through suffering. Do not ask your allies to shield you from it."
Mike's eyes flicked upward. "Binyai."
The monkey, perched silently in the charred remains of a hut, flinched at the sound of his name. Bahamut's voice deepened.
"Next time you sense danger, you will say nothing. Let him bleed, let him break, let him crawl if he must. Only then will he rise."
Binyai lowered his head, nodding "Fine, I have to report to my king." The monkey disappeared into a small black portal.
Mike's expression didn't change. He started walking, his footsteps cracking the hardened soil beneath him. His body shifted slowly back into its human form, the claws retracting, the scales dissolving beneath pale skin, his frame shrinking until he looked like an exhausted man walking barefoot through ruin. Only his eyes remained the same, burning, inhuman.
He walked until the jungle swallowed the light of the fires and the crackling wood were nothing but ghosts behind him.
The deeper he went, the more the air thickened again with the scent of life and rot, the pulse of the rainforest returning as if the destruction behind him had never happened. Each step took him further toward the heart of the Amazon, deeper into territory untouched by modern man.
Sanctuary: The Council Chamber
The chamber deep within the Temple was lively. The air hummed faintly with divine residue, a constant reminder of the gods' silent oversight.
At the circular table sat the six members of the Council. Their faces were drawn, the tension in the room palpable.
Nicolas Galanis, the chosen of Aether, stood at the head of the table. The light around him was soft, but absolute, his voice steady as it filled the room.
"Reports continue to arrive from across the globe. More chosen missing in India. Entire groups of lesser gods chosen have gone silent. And now…" he placed a hand flat on the table, golden runes flickering beneath his palm "…the Primordial chosen in South America have vanished. Their divine threads have been severed."
Lisa Ariti, Hestia's chosen, leaned forward, her voice trembling slightly. "Vanished? Or killed?"
"Both," Nicolas said flatly. "Their essence devoured rather than the source. Gaia, Ouranos, Eros, Erebus, all four have lost their connection to this realm."
Pete McCalister, Dagda's chosen, frowned deeply, the lines on his face deepening. "Did he devour the primordial chosen?"
Leo Francis, representing Mithra, sat with his arms crossed, his tone clipped. "We know who could."
Cyra Farzaneh, chosen of Ninsun nodded, her expression calm but her eyes sharp. "Michael."
Jennifer Lee, Tara's chosen, sighed, her voice filled with grief rather than anger. "Then it's true. He has fully become a predator of the gods."
Nicolas nodded once. "Aether has spoken. The gods have deemed him an enemy of creation itself. He has slaughtered and devoured the chosen of the Primordials. Whatever balance they provided to this world, he is dismantling it piece by piece."
Leo's jaw tightened. "And the angels? They've been clashing with mortals and chosen more frequently. There are reports of entire detachments descending across Europe and Africa."
"The angels gather," Nicolas said, "because the trumpets are nearly assembled. They believe the final two are somewhere in Africa. We do not know what has torn the veil in India."
Cyra's tone turned grave. "If the veil collapses completely—"
"It will no longer be a question of gods or demons," Nicolas finished for her. "It will be open war."
Lisa looked between them, her voice barely a whisper. "And Michael? What do we do about him?"
Silence fell.
Finally, Nicolas spoke again, his voice low, solemn. "We watch. We prepare. Aether believes he may yet serve a purpose before his end. But if he continues consuming divine power unchecked… even the gods will turn their eyes to kill him directly if the veil weakens further."
Pete grunted. "If they haven't already."
Nicolas's gaze fell to the burning sigils on the table marking the dead chosen, their symbols fading one by one. He didn't look up when he spoke again.
"Whatever happens next threatens what's left of earth…" He exhaled slowly. "We must prepare more, Sanctuary is not enough."
The candles flickered, the golden runes along the walls dimming as if the room itself mourned the inevitable.
The Palace of Maymun
Far from the walls of Sanctuary, in Mexico, Maymun sat in his marble palace beneath a sky of endless stars.
When the shimmer of a black portal appeared before him, he didn't look surprised. The monkey stepped through it, landing lightly on the floor before bowing deeply.
"Lord Maymun," Binyai said, voice small, cautious. "Michael has done it. The first group of Primordial chosen in the Amazon are dead. He devoured them all."
Maymun didn't move. He sat perfectly still, one hand raised to his chin, the other tapping a single finger against the arm of his throne. Each tap echoed faintly, like a drumbeat through the air.
"I see," he said finally, his voice calm but weighted. "So the cycle continues."
Binyai hesitated. "He grows stronger, my lord. Bahamut feeds his hunger with purpose. But the more he takes in, the less human he becomes."
Maymun's golden eyes flicked toward him. "That was always the price. I trust the path my old friend leads Michael on."
Silence hung between them for a long moment. Then Maymun's gaze turned eastward, toward the faint rift of red light splitting the horizon beyond the palace windows. The stars shimmered uneasily around it.
"The veil over India has been torn," he murmured. "The chosen have vanished. Something from long ago has returned."
Binyai swallowed hard. "The balance?"
Maymun's expression darkened. "Nearly gone."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled. "Tell Bahamut his hatchling is walking the knife's edge. When balance collapses, even he will drown in what comes after."
Binyai bowed low, his form flickering faintly. "Yes, my lord."
Maymun turned his eyes once more to the horizon. The red light pulsed, faint but growing brighter.
Softly, almost to himself, he said, "The storm comes sooner than even the gods expect."