As Mike glides through the heavy, humid air above the savanna, animals flee in all directions beneath him. A deep, instinctual satisfaction thrums through his mind, a reminder that he is at the top of the food chain once again. He looks toward the jagged outline of distant mountains when he suddenly feels Binyai reappear on his back.
"Where did you go, Binyai?" Mike growls, his tone low and vibrating with irritation.
"King Maymun called all djinn back to the palace due to—"
Binyai's sentence is cut off as he explodes into a wisp of black flames. Before Mike can process it, an unseen force slams into him, smashing him out of the sky and into the earth with catastrophic force.
The impact carves a crater beneath him.
He tries to stand but he can't move an inch.
The pressure pinning him is overwhelming, a crushing weight that grinds his limbs deeper into the ground. Fear and deep, cold, helpless panic claws up the back of his skull. The feeling he swore he'd fought to never experience again.
Bahamut's voice roars in his head, but it's garbled, distorted, broken into echoes he can't understand. The dragon's fury and emotions shake his mind but the words still distant.
"Enough of that."
The calm, serene voice cuts through Bahamut's distorted rage.
The dragon's presence goes silent.
Completely silent.
Mike freezes.
He looks up, struggling, and sees an old man with a grey beard walking toward him at an unhurried pace. The man appears frail, fragile, his steps slow… but every movement radiates effortless, immeasurable power. He wears tattered white robes and leans lightly on a knotted wooden cane.
The old man stops in front of Mike.
"Stand up, Michael," he says. "We need to have a conversation."
The crushing pressure loosens just enough for Mike to rise to his feet, but not enough to step away. His muscles strain uselessly. His instincts scream danger.
The fear grows sharper, colder.
"Calm down, Michael. I came to talk with you," the old man says, his voice patient.
Mike meets his gaze and finds no bottom, no end, no hint of who or what this being is. It makes his stomach twist. He feels like the tiny lizard at the beginning of his trial once again.
He forces a slow breath into his lungs.
"Who are you," Mike asks, voice rough, "and what do you want with me?"
The old man smiles faintly. "I am a concerned observer. And I simply wish to know… why you kill all the chosen?"
Mike studies him, annoyed that he refuses to reveal who he truly is. "I kill the chosen to take the gods' essence. To grow stronger. So I can kill all of them for what they did to my wife and to my friend Hunter."
"I see." The old man strokes his beard. "Tell me, Michael… have you thought about why chosen started appearing on Earth at all?"
"When would I have time to think about that?" Mike snaps. "I've been attacked by angels, demons, and gods ever since I got out of my fucking trial!"
Hatred sharpens Mike's expression. Rage tightens his jaw. And with it, the fear begins to weaken.
The old man's voice stays calm. "Your trial, and everything that followed, was indeed unfortunate. But most of those actions came from one god, Hecate. Did you not go into the underworld and erase her existence after saving Kelsey?"
"Yeah, I did. But that doesn't change the fact that countless other shitty gods are still murdering people for fun. They attacked me after Hecate too." Mike's voice rises, furious. "I'll stop Abbadon, and then I'll wipe out the angels."
"That sounds quite similar to the gods' behavior, does it not?" the old man muses. "You laugh as you slaughter titans. You tear apart chosen and consume their essence for your own power. Tell me, Michael, how are you different?"
Mike bares his teeth. "Because I don't kill innocent people. I don't destroy the world just because I feel like it."
"Hm." The old man taps his cane once against the earth. "Did you not just slaughter an army of civilians along with the Orishas when you entered Africa? They did not hunt you. They did not force your hand. They did not harm your wife. Yet you killed them for power."
Mike flinches. Just barely but enough.
The old man continues. "You say you want to stop Abbadon. But tell me… why do you have to kill Abbadon? Wouldn't other chosen be able to help and grow had they not been eaten?"
Mike's throat tightens.
He hadn't thought about that.
Not once.
He shakes his head violently. "All the chosen are too weak to fight Abbadon. And the angels are destroying Earth faster than anyone else. If I don't kill him… then who will?" he snarls.
A quiet chuckle escapes the old man. "Why would Abbadon need to be killed at all?"
Mike blinks. "What?"
"Have you considered," the old man says gently, "that the angels cannot control him? Kur is leading you down the very path he walked."
Mike's chest goes still. "What do you mean 'can't control him'? They summoned him."
"Abbadon obeys only one god," the old man replies. "And that god will not intervene in this war. The angels have summoned ruin upon themselves."
Mike's eyes widen. "War? What the fuck are you talking about? It's just chaos, random gods destroying everything. A war against what? Humans?"
The old man shakes his head. "The chosen appeared at the exact time they did for a reason. Every one of you has a purpose. A role to play. So I will give you one piece of advice, Michael." His gaze sharpens, powerful and absolute.
"Stop eating the chosen."
He turns and disappears.
"Wait!" Mike roars, wings flexing out of instinct but the old man is nowhere. Not even a trace of energy remains.
The savanna is silent.
"Fuck…" Mike mutters, dragging a clawed hand over his face as he looks toward the sky. His thoughts churn, tangled, heavy.
Chosen with a purpose? Not kill Abbadon?
The words gnaw at him. He continues thinking about everything that's happened to this point. He doesn't trust gods or any other being. A viscous smile forms on his face as he clenches his fists.
"I won't bow down to any god. I will go after Abbadon. It's my fight!" Mike roars as he takes off into the sky.