Ash crackled under Hamza's boots as he stepped closer, trying to make sense of the power distorting the very air between the realms. He had seen gods scream before. He had heard the cries of the broken, the damned, and the dying. But never had he felt such pure, raw terror from a deity as he now felt from Bahamut.
Mike stood among the bones, essence leaking off his skin like smoke from a raging fire. Hamza's breath caught in his throat.
"WHY DOES THAT WITCH HAVE MY BONES?" Bahamut's roar slammed through the veil like a hammer on iron.
Hearing Bahamut's words Mike looked towards the black bones. His mind beginning to race. He turns to see Hamza visibly shaken.
Hamza's eyes widened. "No… No, that's not—" He raised a hand to point toward the shattered dragon skeleton laid out across the cavern floor.
But before he could speak, Bahamut's voice returned, quieter now, a low growl in Mike's mind and Hamza's soul alike.
"Go to them, my chosen. Go to what was once mine."
Mike obeyed, his steps heavy, his claws dragging against the stone. The bones radiated with a strange warmth, not cold like death, but pulsing, ancient. Alive in a way only something truly divine could be.
Hamza took a step closer, swallowing hard. "Those are… yours?" he whispered, speaking more to Bahamut than to Mike.
A gust of heat rolled over them both as Bahamut finally answered.
"They belonged to me before I shed this world. Before the name Bahamut. When I was Kur the first to breathe flame beneath the sky. The first to rise."
Mike stood before the bones, breath heavy. The weight of what lay at his feet was beginning to sink in.
"I never returned for the body. I never imagined she could… unearth it. Desecrate it. Feed her monstrosities with what was once mine."
Hamza's thoughts spun. Kur. The Prime Dragon. The god before gods. Forgotten by most, hidden by the rest. Even in the halls of Maymun, his name was whispered only in fragments, buried beneath superstition.
Mike fell to one knee, his claws digging into the ancient bones. They thrummed in his grip like plucked strings.
Bahamut's voice was sharp now.
"Consume it. It is your right. The path is blood. The fire, memory. Consume the legacy of Kur, and become what was lost."
Mike turned his head slightly toward Hamza. "This won't kill me, will it?"
Hamza blinked. "I don't know."
"Good enough." Mike dug his claws into the black ribcage, broke a chunk free, and bit into it like meat.
The change was immediate.
Mike screamed.
His body twisted, flames bursting from every pore. The bones weren't just bone — they were ancient power, condensed memory, primordial flame. They weren't meant to be consumed. They were meant to be worshipped.
Mike fell to all fours, scales splitting, fusing again, reforming.
Hamza stepped back as waves of heat pulsed from Mike's body. "Back!" he shouted to the remaining djinn. "Clear the chamber!"
The warriors obeyed, dragging the wounded and shielding their eyes as light poured from Mike like a newborn star.
Mike's bones cracked audibly. His limbs elongated, joints snapping back into unfamiliar shapes. The thick black scales darkened further, shimmering with smoky oil-like luster, glowing with crimson lines of essence. His tail extended, curled, and cracked the earth. Horns twisted and sharpened. His wings stretched impossibly wide before folding back against his shoulders. He felt his bones growing heavier, his muscles felt different than before. The essence he trained to control was flowing through his muscles effortlessly.
Mike felt tremendous power building that far exceeded what he felt in his trial. The djinn around him felt weak now. Their once overwhelming elemental essence now seemed lacking.
Mike let out one final deafening roar that shook the cavern. Fire pouring from his body. Rock falling from the ceiling of the cave as he finished consuming the bones and transforming.
And then silence.
The fire died.
Mike stood there still. Breathing.
Then he fell forward.
Hamza rushed to his side.
"Mike! Mike—"
But the form that lifted its head wasn't just Mike anymore.
His human shape reformed slowly, muscles writhing under darkened skin. His hair was now jet black, a color so dark it swallowed the light. His eyes burned, permanently transformed, deep red irises rimmed with golden wisps, like cracks in a molten core. A large group of markings now flowed from his back right shoulder blade to his wrist. Letters from old forgotten languages moved around the shape. A long jagged dragon silhouette.
Hamza knelt beside him. "You okay?"
Mike coughed once, then laughed. "Hurts like a bitch."
Hamza exhaled shakily. "I thought you were dying."
"Felt like I was."
Mike stood, body crackling with barely contained power. The cave floor quaked beneath his steps now.
One of the djinn, a scout with fractured bracers approached slowly. "What… what is he now?"
Hamza looked at Mike, awe warring with caution.
"He is the last of Kur. The Dumu-Kur. The First Flame reborn."
Mike raised an eyebrow. "Binyai called me that once."
Hamza nodded. "Now you understand why."
The other djinn bowed their heads. Not from obligation, but instinct. The presence Mike now carried was divine. Not merely touched by a god, but forged by one.
Mike looked toward the end of the chamber, toward the passage that pulsed with faint, bone-white light. He could feel her now, Hecate. Not just in body, but in spirit, a rot that permeated the stone.
"She's just beyond," he said quietly.
Hamza stood. "We finish it now."
Mike turned, voice steady. "Then rally everyone left. We move."
The tunnel curved upward, and Hamza could hear his own heartbeat again. It had quieted when Mike changed. Everything else had.
He had seen gods rise and fall. Had fought horrors under a thousand names. But this wasn't ascension.
This was transcendence by fire and fury.
Hamza walked beside Mike as the army of djinn gathered behind them, what was left of it. Many still bore burns from the flame he had released during the transformation. None of them complained.
"You still in there?" Hamza asked, quietly.
Mike glanced sideways. "Mostly. Some new things whispering, but I'm still me."
Hamza gave a slow nod. "Good."
They passed a corridor carved with ancient markings, Djinn script, long before King Maymun's reign. Warnings, prophecies, and spells meant to ward off those who came chasing forgotten gods.
It made sense now. The bones weren't just a trophy. They were a prison.
"You think she dug up your bones to feed her rituals?" Hamza asked.
Mike nodded. "Probably. Maybe she wanted the flame. Maybe she wanted to keep it away from me."
"Now you are the flame."
Mike grinned as he paused before the final gate, an obsidian arch cut into the cave. The temperature
They stepped through the archway, into the final hall.