"Ehem. I do apologize for my earlier tone. I had to… establish presence. You are Mr. Starfield, am I right?"
The caller's voice shifted without warning, its power folding into something warm, even friendly. Yet the sudden amiability rang hollow. Andrew wasn't moved; no one with sense would be. And somehow, the caller seemed to know this, for in the next breath, the facade collapsed, his voice steeped once more in seriousness, touched with a faint insanity.
"You, my dear boy, have been chosen. It may be difficult for you to grasp what I mean, but what does it matter? I'll say it anyway." A soft chuckle threaded through the receiver, too smooth to be entirely sane.
"You chose Self-Causality Manipulation and Visionary, yes? Or rather… you only chose Visionary, bound by its inherent limitation, Self-Casuality Manipulation. How daring—"
"How did you get my number, and how do you know what I chose? Did you hack my phone? Calling to brag about it?" Andrew cut him off, going straight to the point, amusement tainting his voice slightly. "Go on then, O Stranger. I'm entertained."
He was serious about that. Threats to his personal information didn't impress him; if anything, he would've given more away had the caller asked. He had nothing worth stealing, just some cash on hand and a hollow bank account. Fear of exposure? Laughable. What was there to expose about him? The name "Andrew" rang no bell. He was a nobody.
"Hm? No, no. You misunderstand, Mr. Andrew." The voice carried a strange gentleness now, almost parental. "I am perfectly serious. You've been chosen, one among many, to bear the powers of a god. A mortal granted a reprieve from mediocrity, a chance at Divinity. Temporary, yes, but still… what's wrong with playing God for a while, don't you think?"
Andrew let silence stretch for a moment before replying.
"Play God, you say? Intriguing. So tell me, am I meant to indulge your delusion, or humor you outright?" His voice carried no kindness. He rarely showed any, even to himself. Why offer it to others? Few wonder why he walked alone.
'Oh, but we are your friends. Who else could compare, dear Andrew?' whispered a thought in his own mind.
"Ah. So you won't be convinced of the Almighty's will to change your life…" The caller paused. Then laughter, low and measured, broke through. "I do sound like one of those zealots, don't I? Forgive the disrespect… though perhaps forgiveness isn't necessary. You're not religious, after all. Hahaha."
"What do you want, Stranger? You haven't even introduced yourself. Quite rude, considering you know mine." Andrew's words fell dry, a deliberate challenge.
"Oh, of course. I so rarely bother with introductions, I forget they matter to people like you–mortals. I'd tell you my true name, but, alas, that would tear you apart instantly, your death a grotesque spectacle even the censors would flinch from. Still, I can offer you a name that brushes close to the truth."
Andrew thought the man must be high. No sober mind spun such madness.
"That's insulting, Andrew. My mind is perfectly intact. And I'm sober."
Andrew froze. His thoughts, his very disbelief, reflected back at him.
Wait… did I say that aloud? No, I must have. His chest tightened. For the first time, fear pricked him, subtle but real.
"You didn't. And I don't read thoughts, not exactly. What I do—" the voice softened, almost indulgent. "—is beyond your current reach. As for my name: I am Maliketh. The Voice. You'll come to know who I truly am, in time. But for now, shall we discuss what matters? You amuse me, Andrew. Almost as much as I amuse you. You'd make a splendid Chosen."
His laughter, quiet and mocking, curled through the line.
Andrew exhaled slowly, his eyes sharpening, the haze slipping from them. "Let's assume your madness holds some truth. Why have you called me, Maliketh?"
"Straight to business… good. Those 'limitations' you read were merely distractions, little hooks to keep the audience entertained."
"So… no limitations at all, or—"
"Ah, there are limits, but they are greater, deeper. We seek to forge gods, Andrew, not unravel all reality. No true limit would mean annihilation. Limitless is not yours to grasp for that won't bode well for you nor your world. That aside, tell me… why choose Corruption among all traits?"
Andrew could almost picture Maliketh then–chin in hand, gaze intent, waiting for his answer.
"Really? You think so?" Maliketh's voice shifted. Oddly close.
Andrew blinked. The voice hadn't come from his phone. And yet, he had heard it.
What? Was that… telepathy? Impossible. His mind screamed though his expression stayed steady.
"Yes, I can speak into your mind. But not now." Maliketh's laughter trailed, close, too close. "I'm here, Andrew. Fist on chin, studying you… dear Andrew Starfield."
The voice came from behind him.
"Continue. I'm listening."
Andrew's body locked, his heart hammering hard enough to burst. Nerve endings blazed as though fire ran through them. Instinct surged–raw survival twisting his torso, his fist snapping toward the unseen threat.
Time dragged, syrup-slow. He didn't see, yet every nerve screamed of danger.
"How audacious."
Two words. Calm. Uttered with such ease they crushed the wild confidence adrenaline had lent him.
Then came the hand. An impossible grip, ironclad, yet casual, as if an adult restraining a child. Andrew was the child. His wrist burned with power far beyond him, and in that instant, he knew: Maliketh wasn't lying. He truly wasn't anything remotely human, his form deceived the eyes.
"This is no way to greet a guest, Andrew. Courtesy, youngling." His tone was careless, playful even. That was the horror–that he revealed nothing at all.
Maliketh released him, and Andrew massaged his wrist in silence before replying.
"Now… you have my attention. I won't say I'm convinced, but there's truth in you somewhere. After all—" He stopped. There was nothing more to say, Maliketh already knew the rest.
"Hahaha. Still you amuse me. But you wouldn't be so at ease if you saw what I am. Most creatures flee at a glimpse of me."
"Don't ask questions, boy. Let's be efficient. Your limitations are…"
And their conversation dissolved into a blur of words, their length unknowable. And elsewhere, across the world, others too were contacted by voices that should not have reached them.
*****
Time: 6:46 AM
Location: Frateran Continent, Republic of Sevuint, City of Demiule
In a skyscraper apartment, a seventeen-year-old boy sat cross-legged on his bed. His right hand stretched out before him, opening and closing with fascination.
"So it's true. Hahaha. It's real." His voice cracked into a manic laugh. "Maliketh… you didn't lie. I am akin to a god."
The walls shook with his mirth, fractures racing through plaster. Glass trembled, nearly bursting in its frame.
Rising into the air, still cross-legged, Demarcus hovered until he unfolded his legs and stood upright in the void.
"What now? What should I do with this?" His grin widened. "Who can stop me? Who dares?"
His laughter, thunderous and manic, filled the room.
Then his expression shifted, contemplative. Slowly, he raised his palm to the cracked window. "Come to me… Ruination."
For a moment, silence held. Then the sky split–clouds torn apart by a rushing force. In a blink, it pierced the glass wall and landed in his hand: a black marble staff, etched with branching-like engravings that pulsed gold.
It was no human creation. It radiated a beauty too alien, too exact, too alive.
Demarcus tested its weight with a casual swing. His grin deepened. "Wonderful."
The staff pulsed brighter in his grip.
"Let's see what you can do." His body vanished, followed by an explosion that tore the room apart.
Then his voice rolled out across the city–not a roar, not a sermon. Just calm, measured words that carried with them an authority no one could deny.
"Humans… for ages you have lingered beneath false lights, shackled by your own flaws, lulled into complacency by the shallow comforts of mediocrity. You have mistaken survival for triumph, habit for purpose, and noise for truth. Too long have you wandered blind in the corridors of repetition, too long have you worshipped the chains you wear.
But fret not. For today, one among you has stepped beyond the narrow veil of mundanity. I, Demarcus, have torn open the curtain and caught a glimpse of the Divine spark that lies just beyond your reach. And I return not with salvation, but with inevitability.
I do not come as a shepherd to guide the lost. I do not come as a savior to spare you from yourselves. I come as the herald of change–unrelenting, unyielding, and irreversible. What was will soon no longer be. What you cling to will dissolve. And in its place, something greater will rise."
There was no fire in his tone. No need for it. The sheer indifference made the words worse, heavier, like truths too simple to refute.
"Look upon your gods of stone and silence. They will not answer you. Only I will. Only I will bring you towards a greater path."
And…
The city did not resist, it answered in ruin. Towers bent and folded into dust, their proud spires collapsing like brittle bones. Fire roared with a hunger unbound, devouring street after street, while smoke rose thick and merciless, shrouding daylight in a counterfeit night. Beneath this veil, the chorus of humanity split in two: screams of the fleeing, a tide of desperation, and the silence of the fallen, innumerable, swallowed by the collapse.
Demarcus floated above the inferno, his smile faint, almost tender. The staff pulsed in rhythm with his heart.
"They scatter like ants, don't they, Ruination?" The staff glowed faintly in response, though whether it agreed or mocked him, no one could tell.
"For change to be more than a whisper, more than a hollow promise, it must be carved into the marrow of existence. Transformation demands sacrifice. A cleansing is required. Many are incapable of rising beyond the confines of their defects, bound so tightly to weakness, to fear, to stagnation, that they cannot be remade. Those flaws will not endure. They will be burned away, and in that fire, what remains will be worthy of the world to come."
His perception, sharpened beyond the norm, picked up a presence.
"Unfortunately, I am not alone. Others were chosen. But how can one be a god among equals? Divinity tolerates no rivals. The weak shall fall, the strong shall reign. And so—" His voice trailed into silence as his head turned, eyes narrowing at a presence stirring in the sky. Slowly, his lips curved into a grin.
"You shall be the first."
*****
Time: 10:00 AM
"Good evening. We bring urgent news from the Republic of Sevuint. The city of Demiule has suffered total devastation in what officials call one of the deadliest disasters in modern history.
"Casualties are estimated between five hundred and six hundred thousand, though the toll remains unconfirmed. Survivors claim the destruction was wrought by an individual calling himself 'God.' Authorities refuse to comment."
The broadcast droned on. Speculation, comparisons, mention of Syndrome Convertant. The world groped for an explanation.
Andrew sipped his coffee in silence, chewing toast. The television glared in the corner of the cafeteria.
Inside him, something cracked.
A name surfaced: Maliketh. The Voice. A man, or not a man, who had spoken of Chosens, of powers no human should wield.
He remembered nothing else. No details, no shape, no time. Only a name, heavy as lead.
His jaw clenched hard on the toast. Fuck.
"Are you alright, Andrew?" asked Sir Ronald, the old man with the old-fashioned glasses, owner of the cafeteria.
"It's nothing, Sir Ronald." Andrew waved him off.
But his thoughts burned. Are there really gods now–No, Not "God" but something of such similitude?
The name "Maliketh" once again flickered through his mind. Did I… did we truly speak? What the hell is happening?