Southern Iraq – Ruins of Eridu
The city had never been rebuilt.
Eridu, once the cradle of civilization, now lay in sand-scoured ruin, its ziggurat buried, its stones cracked and forgotten. But today, power stirred where silence had ruled for centuries.
Over a thousand Chosen stood in a crescent formation, gathered in disciplined ranks beneath the faded sun. They wore bronze and black, ceremonial armor marked with cuneiform glyphs, sand-colored cloaks, and obsidian-trimmed weapons pulsing with divine resonance.
At the center stood two figures, tall and unmistakably touched by gods. Their presence pressed on the world like old thunder.
The first was Izzar, the Chosen of Anu, god of the sky and judge of fates. His silver helm bore the sigil of the eight-pointed star. His skin shimmered with starlight, and behind his words echoed distant thunderclaps.
The second was Areshen, Chosen of Enki, god of waters, knowledge, and magic. She wore no armor, only flowing azure robes etched in sacred patterns that changed when not looked at directly. Her voice was calm, precise, and cold.
Behind them stood other luminaries: the Chosen of Ninhursag, clad in thorns and bone; the Chosen of Nergal, radiating heat and death; the warrior sons of Inanna, gilded and blood-spattered; and the priests of Utu, their eyes burning like miniature suns.
Izzar raised his hand. The crowd silenced instantly.
"We have awakened old wards because the veil itself is cracking," he said. "Tartarus has opened. The Watchers stir. Olympus burns. And now…" His eyes scanned the sky. "Kur rises again."
Murmurs swept the Chosen.
Areshen stepped forward. "This is no reincarnated beast. The mortal who carries Kur's bones has devoured a goddess. Hecate is gone. Consumed. Her essence now burns in this 'Mike.'"
"Is he a vessel?" asked one of the Inanna guards.
"No," said a priest of Utu. "He is becoming the vessel."
"He is the vessel," corrected the Chosen of Nergal. "A walking domain. A living echo of the First Flame."
"There are prophecies," said another. "Scrolls sealed since the flood. They speak of a dragon who consumes the divine. Of a flame that does not flicker, only devours."
"He must be destroyed."
"No," Areshen said, and her voice silenced them. "He must be watched. Perhaps contained. But not destroyed. Not yet. The gods have warred before. But if Kur truly walks again, then this is not a time for vengeance. It is a time for survival."
Izzar nodded. "We do not join Olympus. Nor the Watchers. Nor the angels or the djinn. We watch. And we remember."
Areshen's gaze turned to the horizon. "And if Kur threatens the root of the world, we end him."
The Chosen stood in silence. The ancient oaths hummed in the air. Old gods turned their eyes to the dust-blown cradle where it all began.
The Hollow – Exit Steps Below the Dusk Palace
Mike knelt at the threshold of the Hollow, one clawed hand dragging along the cold stone. The green fire was gone. The paths had darkened behind him. But the air still pulsed with the memory of Hecate's will.
He shifted into his human form, breathing heavily. Steam escaped his lips, his skin faintly glowing with internal fire.
And then the pain began.
It started behind his eyes. A throb. A pulse. Then a flash, a memory not his own.
"You will carry the soul-bound runes to the eastern gates," Hecate whispered.
"But Mistress, the barrier is weakening." Persephone's voice. Younger. Hesitant.
"Then we shall burn the barrier as an offering."
Mike's breath caught.
His head cracked with white-hot pain. He pressed his palms against his temples.
More memories. Not his. Not Kur's.
Hecate's.
"They are blind, Persephone. Hades sees only bones. Zeus sees only power. But we—"
"We weave fate?"
"No. We break it."
Mike groaned, stumbling forward onto the steps. His eyes blurred. The world flickered, torches melting, stone writhing.
He collapsed, gasping.
Bahamut's voice, heavy and calm, filled his mind.
"You have consumed divine essence. You must learn to absorb it."
"It hurts," Mike growled through his teeth.
"It will tear you apart. Your body is the crucible. Your mind is the seal. If you fail, you die screaming… and take a portion of the underworld with you."
Mike curled onto his side. Black veins spidered across his arms, his neck, his face. His back arched as convulsions seized his muscles. His skin blistered, then healed, then blistered again.
He felt Hecate's voice in his mind.
"You were only ever meant to burn."
His jaw clenched. Teeth cracked. He forced himself upright and collapsed again.
The Dusk Palace – Throne Hall
Hades walked in silence.
The torches flared as he passed, casting shadows that recoiled from his steps. He did not rush. He never did.
Outside the throne room, just beyond the arch entrance to the Hollow, he found Mike.
Collapsed.
Twitching. Veins glowing. Eyes wide with pain.
The god of the dead crouched slowly, robes brushing the stone. He studied Mike for a moment, as if observing a particularly interesting skull.
Then, with two fingers, he pressed gently against Mike's forehead.
The convulsions stopped.
The black veins pulsed once. Then faded.
Mike's breath came in ragged gasps.
Hades tilted his head.
"You carry too much, little dragon," he said. "You consumed a god's soul and didn't think there would be consequence?"
Mike groaned as Hades continued speaking with no emotion in his voice.
"You claim what was hers now. That includes her burdens. Her memories. Her madness."
The god's voice stayed cold, emotionless.
"To consume a god means you wear their sins. Learn to claim them… or go mad and destroy the world."
Mike opened his eyes, bloodshot, wild.
"Is that what you want?" he rasped.
Hades straightened, turning back toward the palace.
"I want nothing. I simply watch. If you fail, the destruction from your madness will amuse me. If you succeed…" He paused. "That may amuse me more."
He vanished into shadow.
Mike stayed on the steps, coughing smoke, fists trembling.
The pain had lessened. But the voices remained.
He closed his eyes again.
"Burn the veil," Hecate's voice whispered.
"And watch them fall."
Mike's jaw clenched.
"No," he muttered. "You're gone. You're done."
Bahamut's voice rumbled again, lower now. Distant.
"Control it, or it controls you. You are no longer a man. You are no longer a vessel. You are fire bound to a shape. Do not forget."
Mike sat in silence at the foot of the Dusk Palace. Trying to regain himself.