He stood there, in the middle of an arid canyon where the wind and dust swept relentlessly across the surface.
His cheek pressed against the ground, trying to keep the blood from spilling out of his freshly torn belly.
His sword was planted just in front of his eyes, forcing him to watch himself slowly die in the reflection of its sharpened blade.
"I'm done, man…" thought Akram.
The corpses of his companions surrounded him—limbs torn off, heads severed, their last expressions frozen in terror…Yet the clash still raged on: the crash of blades, a terrifying laugh, screams, sobs…
Everything blended together in Akram's ears as he struggled to stay conscious, his breath ragged, inhaling the stench of rusted metal and blood that filled the air around him.
A body, limp and broken, was hurled violently through the air, crashing against the ground before Akram's vacant gaze.
It was Barid, one of Akram's companions, the last still standing against the natural disaster their group had stumbled into. Barid now lay sprawled on the ground, blood pooling all around him. A death almost merciful compared to what awaited Akram, if he didn't rise at once.
Akram took a deep breath and gathered his last strength. He pushed against the ground, his arms trembling as if seized by an earthquake, a body so weakened that a single push-up unleashed chaos within him. Barely upright, blood pouring from his wound, his forehead slick with sweat, Akram gripped his sword.
Footsteps echoed, or rather heavy crashes. They drew closer, step by step.
A massive silhouette took shape in the haze of dust before finally revealing itself. A colossus, easily seven feet three. Crimson skin, tribal tattoos covering his entire body, eyes blank and white. A vicious grin spread across his face, dripping with malice.
It was him, the natural disaster. Varog the Terrible, warlord of the cannibal clans of the Great Canyon. He loomed before Akram, who pulled his sword from the ground and raised it once more.
"You don't run. Strange,"
said Varog, stroking his chin.
"Why would I? No matter what I do, I'll end up as lunch," Akram replied, his gaze empty.
His voice didn't falter, but his body betrayed him. His arms and legs shook uncontrollably, and his blade wavered in his grip.Varog noticed, and let out a low chuckle.
"What are you going to do, little man? With that little sword of yours?"
He spread his arms wide, theatrically, before roaring at Akram. The young man staggered, startled by the thunderous sound, but didn't collapse.
"I only devour great warriors, true threats, LEGENDS!" Varog bellowed.
Then suddenly, he shifted to a calmer tone, his instability laid bare."So… which class do you belong to, little man?"
Akram spat a bloody wad straight at his face.
"The kind that improvises."
Varog tilted his head slightly. Rage boiled at this blatant insult. But before he could strike, Akram tossed two small spheres—seemingly harmless chestnuts—that exploded against the giant's face.
As Varog howled in pain, Akram instantly turned and ran.Yes, he ran, fled as fast as his body allowed, one hand pressed against his belly for fear his insides would spill out mid-stride.
Time slowed. Akram's eyes widened.
Right beside him was Varog, who had already caught up in a flash, fist drawn back, that same predatory grin on his face, his eyes still clouded by the explosion. The young man's face twisted in despair. He had only one thought:
"How… how did I end up here?"
Then the fist came crashing down. And everything went black.
***
Twenty years earlier.
The neon lights of the CME's main complex flickered faintly above the research hall. Hundreds of holographic screens cast their cold glow across the faces of scientists and researchers. The air smelled of ozone and heated metal.
At the center, standing before a board crowded with equations and schematics, a young man spoke in a clear, confident voice. Akram Crimson. Twenty-two years old, yet already leading the corporation's most prestigious department. His blond hair fell in messy strands across his forehead, and his eyes burned with the kind of spark found only in minds consumed by discovery.
"… If we manage to stabilize the energy flow here, then the output of the cybernetic frames will surpass anything we've ever built," he explained, his fingers gliding across the holographic interface to adjust a formula.
The others—graying veterans—listened with almost religious attention. Some scribbled frantically in their notes, others nodded silently.
At twenty-two, Akram was already dictating the course to those who had spent entire lifetimes in these laboratories.
Behind the reinforced glass that separated the research hall from the rest of the complex, the capital's towers stretched to the horizon. Fleets of military drones crossed the skies in silence. On every news screen, the face of King Azaroth—half-man, half-machine—reigned supreme.
And yet, even at the heart of this fortress of knowledge, the shadow of betrayal was spreading.
Rumors about the King had multiplied in recent weeks, so much that they filled most discussions in Akram's research cells—something that never failed to irritate him.
The King's AI, some whispered, was driving him to bizarre, even erratic decisions. His speeches, others claimed, had become increasingly unsettling… The whispers would not cease.
That evening, as Akram and his team finished their report, the complex lights flickered. The holographic screens scrambled, symbols and blinking lines of code appearing across them.
"A power surge?" one researcher asked.
Akram frowned. The CME's systems weren't supposed to glitch. Ever.
A deep rumble suddenly shook the walls. The glass panes trembled as alarms blared throughout the building. Beyond the reinforced barrier, across the capital's skyline, Akram saw a crimson light spread across the horizon like an open wound.
And then, a voice echoed through every loudspeaker—cold, inhuman."LET US END THIS."
The ground began to quake. Akram understood it was already too late.