The desert shimmered like a dying flame. Wind scraped over the dunes, carrying grains of sand like razors, stinging the eyes and choking every breath. The sky overhead was an endless stretch of pale blue, too wide, and too empty.
A lone scorpion crawled across the cracked earth, skittering silently on the land.
The low growl of a Jeep truck broke the silence. It tore over the ridge, trailing dust in its wake like smoke from a funeral pyre. The engine roared until it choked to a halt just outside the excavation site.
The scorpion froze.
A desert boot came down hard.
Crunch.
Zaeim stepped out of the truck, cigarette smoldering in the corner of his mouth, a short trail of smoke curling into the heat. He adjusted the scarf around his neck, eyes narrowing as he scanned the site. Tan vest, green shirt, and khaki pants, he looked like every other foreign archaeologist who'd come to pillage the sands. But the scarab tattoo on his hand told a different story.
A man jogged toward him, head wrapped in a keffiyeh, sweat streaking his dusty face.
"Sir," the man called, breathing hard. "We're working as fast as we can, but the stone.. It's deeper than we thought. The desert is... unforgiving."
Zaeim didn't blink. He exhaled a long stream of smoke and flicked the half-burnt cigarette to the ground.
"No," he said flatly. "The desert is indifferent. What's buried beneath it? That's unforgiving."
The worker hesitated. Something in Zaeim's voice chilled him worse than the cold desert nights.
"Speed it up," Zaeim muttered, walking past him. "We're already behind schedule."
__
The dig site was a crater carved out of the dunes, surrounded by canvas tarps flapping like torn sails. Laborers hauled away buckets of sand, while others pried at ancient stone with bars and ropes. The sun beat down on their backs. Their muscles ached from days of effort.
Zaeim climbed down the trench, boots slipping on the loose sand. At the bottom, a massive slab of sandstone, carved with worn glyphs, jutted from the earth like the tip of a buried fang.
One of the foremen looked up from the slab. "We're ready to try lifting it again."
Zaeim nodded. "Do it."
With a creaking groan, the slab shifted. Sand spilled in thick streams as the stone moved, revealing a stairwell descending into pitch darkness. The air that escaped was stale, heavy, and cold, unnaturally so.
Everyone stepped back.
Zaeim stepped forward.
One worker grabbed his arm. "Sir, maybe we wait for reinforcements. Lights, gear.."
Zaeim pulled his arm free. "I wasn't asking you to come with me."
He retrieved a flashlight from his belt, clicked it on, and disappeared down the stone steps.
The deeper he went, the colder it became. The light of the surface faded until it was swallowed whole. The walls were covered in reliefs, their edges smoother than they should've been, like something had run its hands across them for centuries.
Serpents. Eyes. The same figure again and again: tall, crowned, arms open, surrounded by swirling lines and floating symbols.
Ka-Hor.
Zaeim reached the bottom.
A wide burial chamber stretched before him, the ceiling lost in shadow. At its center stood a sarcophagus made of black stone, polished like glass and veined with green crystal. The air crackled faintly with static.
He approached slowly and reverently.
Dropping to one knee, Zaeim pulled a small amulet from beneath his shirt. A flat scarab cast in bronze, etched with the Eye of Ka-Hor. He pressed it into a recessed symbol on the lid.
There was a click.
The sarcophagus shuddered.
Light, green, ancient, and alive poured from the seams. Dust lifted from the floor. The glyphs on the walls flared to life one by one like waking eyes.
Then the lid cracked open.
From within, something rose.
A figure suspended in glowing green energy. Limbs long and regal, wrapped in ancient cloth that flowed like the wind. He wore light armor of gold and jade. An undead face carved with divine arrogance.
And eyes of endless judgment.
Ka-Hor.
The god opened his eyes. Looked down at the mortal who dared summon him.
Zaeim tried to speak but nothing came out.
Ka-Hor floated forward towards him.
"You call me from the dark," he said. His voice was two voices, one echoing, one whispering.
"Do you know what you've done?"
Zaeim's mouth finally moved. "I've freed you."
Ka-Hor's expression didn't change. "You have unleashed me."
Zaeim took a step back. "I did what was written. I followed every rite. You're back, just as you wanted."
Ka-Hor descended, tendrils of energy curling toward Zaeim like vines.
"And yet… you are mortal. Weak. Do you think yourself my equal? My priest? You opened the gate, yes. But now you must become the door."
Zaeim's eyes widened. "What.."
Tendrils struck him, piercing his chest and skull, wrapping around his limbs and snapping his spine into place like a puppet.
He screamed.
Ka-Hor's form dissolved into glowing threads of emerald flame. They sank into Zaeim's body, coiling into his flesh, his blood, his soul. The tattoo on his hand exploded with light, spreading up his arm in jagged lines. His eyes burst open blazing green.
Zaeim's voice rose in agony, then cracked and changed.
"Yes… This body will do."
Zaeim stood, posture twisted, movements unfamiliar. His clothes warped, part desert gear, part ancient robes. Sand clung to him unnaturally. He flexed his fingers, admiring the stolen flesh.
Inside, Zaeim's soul screamed in agony.
Ka-Hor silenced it immediately.
The workers above heard the scream. Then the silence.
Then the laughter.
One by one, they dropped their tools and ran, but by the time they looked back, it was too late.
Ka-Hor had returned in all his glory.
Wrapped in a mortal shell, corrupted and alive, wearing Zaeim like a trophy.
"The world forgot me," he whispered to the night. "But I have returned. Let them remember!"
_____
The office was suffocating with shadows. No lamps. Just the faint orange glow bleeding through the half-cracked blinds and the red dot of Damien Darkblood's cigarette, flaring like a heartbeat.
Papers were scattered across the desk in chaotic piles. Old case files, torn newspaper clippings, a cracked photo frame lying face-down. On the wall behind him, a corkboard stretched from corner to corner, littered with pins, string, maps, and sketches. It looked less like detective work and more like obsession.
Darkblood moved with slow purpose, his coat whispering behind him as he stepped through the darkness and made his way to the bar cart in the corner. The crystal bottle of scotch had only an inch left. He poured it into a cloudy glass, the liquid catching the dim light as it sloshed. He brought it to his lips.
And paused.
The air behind him shifted.
"You took your time," Darkblood said quietly, not turning around. His voice was gravel in the dark. "I was beginning to think you would not show."
Nolan floated just above the floor. No sound. No breath. A presence that pressed in like a weight. His arms were folded. His eyes, glowing faintly in the dark, fixed on the back of Darkblood's head.
"You were in my house," Nolan said. His voice was low, measured. "You frightened my wife."
Darkblood set the glass down, untouched. "You murdered seven people."
Silence.
The kind that hung heavy between two predators.
Nolan's lips curled slightly, not a smile. "And maybe you came into my home," he said, "to finish what you started. Demon."
Darkblood finally turned. His eyes were shadowed, glowing faintly under his brow. "We know evil, Nolan. We live in it. Swim in it. I crawled out of hell a long time ago. I know what I see when I look at you."
Nolan didn't flinch. "You think anyone will believe you?" His voice sharpened, just a little. "You're a creature of fire and brimstone. I'm Earth's greatest hero. A husband. A father. If you ever set foot in my house again…" He leaned forward slightly, just enough to cast a long shadow across the desk. "I won't have to lay a finger on you. All I have to do is tell them what you are."
Damien's expression didn't change. "Go ahead. But it's too late. The mask's slipping. She sees it. Your wife. She suspects. And the boy.." he paused, eyes narrowing "how long until he sees it too?"
Nolan's jaw tensed. Something flickered in his eyes.
Darkblood stepped forward into the dim light, just enough for the lines of age and bitterness to carve into his face. "The truth doesn't rot, Grayson. It lingers. Stinks. You think you buried it, but it always claws its way back up."
For a moment, Nolan said nothing. Just stared. His silhouette seemed darker now. Like it had soaked up all the light in the room.
Then he turned.
Floated toward the door with slow, effortless motion. Hand still clenched. Shoulders tight. He reached the frame. Looked back, one last time, eyes glowing like dying stars.
"Go fuck yourself, Darkblood."
The door slammed shut behind him.
The office trembled.
Darkblood didn't move. Just stood there in the dark, smoke curling from his cigarette, the scotch still untouched beside him. His reflection stared back from the window, twisted in the cracked glass.
And somewhere, in the pit of his chest, something cold told him it had only just begun.
____
The skies above Cairo darkened far too early. Not with clouds, but with something stranger.
Dust spirals and golden flame coiling upward like inverted whirlwinds. Locals screamed and scattered through the crowded market streets as the frightening figure of Ka-Hor descended from the heavens like a curse made flesh.
He touched down with the weight of a god, sandals slamming into the rooftop of a crumbling apartment complex and reducing it to rubble beneath him. His cloak, wide as a ship's sail, flared behind him, glimmering with ancient hieroglyphs that moved like living ink. His eyes glowed with the green light of Ra itself, bright, unblinking, and merciless.
"Men of dust," Ka-Hor boomed, his voice shattering windows for blocks, "you have forgotten the covenant. You have buried the old gods beneath your roads and oil. You have built your towers on stolen bones."
He raised his golden staff, topped with a blazing sun-disc, and the Nile quivered. From its waters, shadowed serpents began to rise.
Beasts of muck and papyrus and bone, dripping with rot and ancient hunger. They slithered onto land with gaping maws, scattering tourists and locals alike as chaos surged through the city's arteries.
A military chopper cut through the smoke, opening fire. The bullets clinked uselessly against Ka-Hor's bracers. With a casual flick of his hand, he summoned a burst of sand that split the helicopter in two, sending its remains spiraling into the Grand Egyptian Museum. The explosion shook the earth.
Cairo was becoming a war zone.
Flaming cobras burst from statues. Obelisks cracked and floated into the air like jagged shards of memory. The sky itself seemed to ripple with forgotten spells.
Cars veered into buildings, soldiers were flung like dolls. A wall of sand engulfed the skyline, hurling debris into the air as people screamed and disappeared into the golden mist.
Ka-Hor stood at the center of it all, arms stretched wide, eyes closed, drinking in the power.
"I am Ka-Hor. Firstborn of Egypt. Son of the Dune and Keeper of the Judgment Flame. Your gods are dust. I am your reckoning."
His voice echoed through minarets and across rooftops.
A group of emergency responders, armored and panicked, took positions behind a barricade near Tahrir Square. One of them radioed in.
"We can't contain him. We can't even get close. He's leveling half the city and, wait.. What is that?"
The feed turned to static. The screen in the GDA command center crackled once, then went dark.
___
Cecil Stedman stood at the center of the GDA control room, arms crossed tight against his chest, jaw locked with tension. Around him, agents moved like a machine falling apart at the seams, snapping into comms, dragging satellite footage across touchscreens, shouting status updates no one wanted to hear.
Cairo was a war zone. Half a dozen live feeds flickered across the main monitors, each one a front-row seat to the unraveling of a city.
Ka-Hor stood at the center of it all, his menacing frame framed by a roiling sandstorm that bled across the skyline. People were fleeing in every direction. Some were swallowed by sand. Others by fire. Cairo's streets burned with the light of something ancient and furious.
"Where the hell is Nolan?" Cecil muttered, eyes never leaving the screen.
Donald cleared his throat behind him, tapping through a barrage of incoming reports. "East China. Still locked in with that dragon, sir."
Cecil finally glanced at him. "Still?"
"It's not dying. It's not stopping. It's tearing through power grids and mountain towns. He can't just walk away from that one."
Cecil grunted. "And Invincible?"
Donald's hesitation said enough. "Phone's off. He might be with Amber or… maybe just ignoring us again. We've sent everything short of a flare through his window."
Cecil didn't swear. Just stared at the grainy footage of Ka-Hor summoning a storm across the Nile. A golden serpent burst from the water and slammed into a military convoy trying to evacuate civilians. The explosion washed the screen white for a second.
"What about the new Guardians?" Cecil asked.
Donald didn't even look up. "Still trying to lock down the prison riot. Monster Girl and Dupli-Kate are in the yard. Robot's trying to keep the power grid from frying. Rex is… being Rex."
"Jesus," Cecil muttered, rubbing his temples. "So every damn cape is off the board."
Donald glanced over. "We're out of options, sir."
Cecil said nothing at first. Just stared at the screen. At the carnage. At the madness. At the city falling apart while the world's so-called heroes were too distracted, too injured, or too damn unavailable to act.
Then, slowly, he turned toward the comms panel. Pressed a secure line.
The screen lit up.
One word. One name.
MAELSTROM.
He exhaled once, like he already regretted what he was about to do.
"Call in the boy." he said.
The operator blinked. "Sir? You mean Mael-"
"I know what I said." Cecil's voice was quiet now. "If anyone's got the strength to stop an ancient Egyptian god from turning half the planet into ash, it's him. Call him in. Now."
A pause.
"Even if he says no?"
Cecil didn't blink.
"He won't."
The feed from Cairo crackled louder, growing grainier as a blast of golden light devoured the camera entirely. The screen went black.
Cecil stared at it a second longer, face carved from stone.
"Because if he does," he said under his breath, "we're screwed."
The room fell into silence.
___
The steel ribs of the Calumet Bridge creaked under the night wind, swaying ever so slightly above the slow churn of the canal below. Naruto lay flat on his back across one of the support beams, hoodie bunched under his head like a pillow, fingers laced over his chest.
Chicago's glow faded the farther he looked up, but past the haze, the stars were still there. Quiet. Distant. Untouchable.
A barge groaned beneath him. Someone shouted on the docks. Car horns whined somewhere deep in the grid.
Naruto didn't move.
His phone buzzed once in his pocket. The screen lit up: Unknown Caller.
He stared at it. Let it ring once. Twice. Then sighed.
No one called from an unknown number unless they wanted something.
He answered without sitting up. "It's a school night," he said lazily. "I was gonna sleep soon."
Cecil's voice came through, dry and direct. "You can sleep later. Cairo's burning right now."
Naruto blinked once. Slowly sat up, dragging his feet over the edge of the beam. "What?"
"Some undead pharaoh freak calling himself Ka-Hor. Came out of nowhere. He's leveled half the museum district and turned the Nile into a sandstorm. Nolan's in China dealing with a dragon that won't die, and the Guardians are stuck handling a full-scale prison revolt."
Naruto scratched the back of his head. "You people always wait till the last second to call, huh."
"We didn't have a last second until now." A pause. "I needed you in the air, five minutes ago."
Naruto didn't respond right away. He looked back up at the sky. The stars were still there, still indifferent.
He stood, the wind tugging at his jacket.
"And of course I liked this spot," he muttered, mostly to himself.
_____
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