There was an age when gods walked among mortals. They ruled empires, bent rivers to their will, and commanded storms with a thought. Humanity served them with worship and fear until, without warning, they vanished. No thunderous farewell, no cataclysm. Just absence. Sacrifices rotted on temple steps. Prayers drifted unanswered into empty skies.
That was when the visions began.
No one knew their purpose, only that those who received one would vanish the next day. Some claimed the gods were calling their chosen home. Others whispered the visions were a curse, the gods' final cruelty before abandoning the world.
Malik Sufan believed the latter. The gods had never lifted a finger for him. When hunger gnawed at his ribs, they didn't help him as he bled in the pits. If they were real, that would mean they were content to watch him suffer.
He clung to that conviction right up until the day he opened his eyes in a place no map dared claim. It was a desert of black sky and glowing sands, where bones the size of towers jutted from the dunes. There was no sun, no stars, only a heatless, alien light and the crushing certainty that he was not alone.
Nothing Malik saw felt real.
Yet the dry air still burned his throat. The silence pressed down like dead weight.
He looked down at his chest; bare, scarred, and glowing. Someone had seared a symbol into his skin: a falcon's eye surrounded by four wings. It pulsed with light, a heartbeat trying to replace his own.
What the hell is this?
Footsteps approached from behind.
He turned.
A figure walked across the glass-sand as if it were solid stone. Tall. Broad. Covered in armor, the color of dried blood and old gold. A crown of falcon wings sat atop his head. No shadow followed him across the burning sand.
The man stopped a few feet away.
"Your life embodies survival itself," he said. His voice wasn't loud but carried, like it had nowhere else to echo in this empty place.
Malik didn't move. Didn't speak.
He was still trying to understand if this was a dream, but he couldn't remember falling asleep. He began to think this was some trick of his mind, but maybe from the injury he'd suffered the other day, but even that didn't explain the otherworldly aura radiating from this man.
The figure studied him with unblinking intensity.
"This is no dream, but an opportunity to finally escape this dreadful world. You've been crawling in the dirt for so long, you've forgotten what standing means."
"But I have seen the strength of your will to survive." His eyes locked on the mark burned across Malik's chest. "I have chosen you, Malik, to wield my power so that you may claim victory and honor before the gods themselves."
The mark flared hotter.
Images crashed through Malik's skull:
Blades.Fire.A coliseum carved from starlight.Warriors of unknown origins.Screaming crowds.A crown of light and gold.And finally he saw himself, he down't know how, but he was standing among them.
Then, there was nothing but Darkness.
His eyes snapped open to a different world, and he began coughing up blood. His ribs screamed as pain seared up his side. His throat tasted of iron and copper. He could hear a massive crowd yelling. The desert that surrounded him was gone. He was now kneeling in a run-down arena, his vision spinning wildly. The cheers from the crowd above had turned to confused shouts.
That's right. I was in a pit fight, but I took a nasty hit to my side and my head.
The Pit roared around him, it looked the same as it always does. There is rust-colored sand on the floor, chain-link walls, and a dome of scrap metal and broken floodlights. Walking toward him, already winding up for another strike, was Razaad the Mutilator. Seven feet of stitched muscle and ritual scars, wielding a curved chain blade that could launch and retract back to its hilt. His armor was scorched metal and torn bone charms. Half his face was burned away. The other half grinned.
"You freeze up on me, you lowly dog?" Razaad spat.
Malik blinked. He was still kneeling.
The dream. The vision. It had felt like minutes. Hours, maybe.
But here?
Only seconds had passed.
He'd been standing just before Razaad's blade crashed into his ribs, and his head was still spinning from the shield bash that had dropped him to his knees. The mark on his chest still burned beneath his shirt.
I don't have time to think about what happened; I have to move, or I'm dead. He thought to himself.
He rolled sideways, barely dodging the follow-up strike. A broad sweep that kicked up sand and sparked off the wall's edge. The crowd erupted with noise, slamming fists on the steel above.
"Kill him!"
"Rip his spine out, Razaad!"
Malik forced himself to stand. His lungs wheezed.
No time to think. No time to process.
He just had to survive.
Again.
Malik's grip tightened on his blade. His weapon was nothing more than a rust-bitten gladius with teeth filed into the edge. Razaad's weapon could snap in half if he blocked incorrectly.
So he wouldn't block.
He'd move.
Razaad came at him again. He was fast for a man of his size. The curved blade swept in low. Malik dropped, rolling under it, and came up behind the brute's left flank. He slashed once, clean across the ribs. Sparks and blood sprayed. Razaad roared and spun, shield swinging wide. Malik ducked under the arc and drove his shoulder into the bigger man's gut, slamming them against the cage wall. Metal rattled. The crowd roared.
"Cut his throat!"
"Break him!"
Malik didn't listen. He never did.
His ears rang with something else, but it was not from the crowd's bloodlust, but the echo of the god's voice.
"Your life embodies survival itself."
Razaad's elbow cracked against the side of his face. Malik stumbled backwards as blood flooded his mouth. The brute raised his blade for the killing blow. Malik spun low and drove his boot into Razaad's kneecap. Something cracked. Razaad screamed and dropped to one knee. Malik was already moving to launch his next attack. He flipped his gladius to a reverse grip and jammed the blade up through Razaad's neck. Razaad clawed at Malik's wrist, trying to stop him from driving deeper, but Malik twisted the blade and ended it. He pulled his blade free from Razaad's neck. Razaad collapsed, his blood soaking into the sand beneath him. The match was over.
Malik stood motionless for a long moment, staring down at the body. His chest rose and fell. The wound in his ribs throbbed with each breath, and his head felt like someone had driven a thousand knives through his skull. Above, the crowd roared and some proceeded to throw down trash, others just screamed for more blood.
But he didn't hear them.
Not really.
His fingers found the burn beneath his shirt. The mark that hadn't existed until a few moments ago.
That wasn't a dream. It was one of those visions.
This wasn't good. If the rumors hold, then he would disappear the following day. That means whoever that man was is not finished with him yet. He headed to the showers, which were just rusted pipes jutting from a concrete wall. The water still worked most days, but today, it sputtered out in bursts: half boiling, half freezing.
Malik didn't care.
He let it cascade over his bloodied shoulders, washing away sweat, grit, and whatever still clung to him from the pit. His fingers traced the edge of the mark on his chest again. It was still there and was faintly warm.
What is this thing? He thinks to himself.
He remembered the heat. The voice. The sand that glowed and pulsed like a heartbeat. He remembered Anhur's and the things he said to him. The way the man spoke was unusual, It was not like a prophet or ruler but like something ancient and forgotten.
"I have chosen you."
Chosen me for what?
He closed his eyes, letting the water sting his face.
If I ever see him again, he thought, I want answers.
He dried off with a threadbare towel, tightened his ribs with bandage scraps, and limped back through the cracked corridors to his bunk. The noise of the Pit had faded to silence. The victors got fed and the losers, well, there weren't usually many left to worry about.
Malik collapsed onto his cot.
The ceiling above him was nothing but pipework and rusted mesh. His eyes traced the tangled lines until sleep dragged him under. However, when he opened them again, he wasn't in his cot but lying on a smooth surface. The ceiling above his cot and the walls that surrounded it were gone. He stood up and saw that he was on a platform of polished stone suspended in a sky without a horizon. Towers floated in every direction; some upside down, others spiraling endlessly upward. Rivers of light flowed between them like veins in the air. The wind carried no scent. The sky stretched like a canvas of gold and blue; eternity folded into a perfect circle.
At the center of it all rose a monolithic structure. It was a spire of impossible height, shaped like a divine compass, pointing in every direction at once, and Malik was still barefoot, bandaged, and stood at its threshold. Everywhere he looked, something caught his eye. Like in his earlier vision, there were no clouds or sun just light that felt… aware of their presence. The air was warm without being too hot or cold. He turned slowly, bare feet echoing against the smooth stone beneath him. Every inch of the platform shimmered with runes too complex for any language he knew. They shifted when he blinked, as if they were alive. Far beyond the edge, bridges of starlight connected floating islands. Some carried palaces. Others held coliseums. One looked like a garden woven from constellations.
Malik exhaled slowly.
"No way this is real."
He examined his hands. Still bruised. His chest? Still wrapped in bandages.
This is a dream. It has to be. He thought to himself.
His body felt weightless, but not the way sleep made you think. More like the world had broken free from gravity and logic; maybe he was dead. Maybe Razaad had cracked his skull, and this was his brain's final spark before everything went dark.
Still.
He reached down and jabbed his side hard. White-hot pain shot through his ribs. His breath hitched.
"Shit!"
He doubled over, teeth clenched, eyes watering. That felt real enough. The pain didn't fade quickly either. It throbbed and pulsed, anchoring him to the moment like a chain. He straightened himself up slowly, his breath was unsteady, and he looked around again.
"Alright," he muttered. "So I'm not dreaming."
The silence offered no answer, but he felt like something was watching. He could feel it, a presence pressing against the edges of his awareness like a held breath. A low hum vibrated beneath Malik's feet. He stepped back instinctively, but the runes across the stone surface had already blazed to life. Golden circuits of energy spiraling outward in geometric waves.
He didn't know why the platform was doing this. Then, as if it had been signaled, the platform shuddered and rocketed upward. This was not like the automated machines in New Cairo, as there was no noise, no heat, no crushing acceleration. It was just pure motion. The platform moved fast and silently as it headed towards its intended destination. Malik soared toward the unknown spire like a moth drawn to flame.
The closer he got, the bigger the spire got. It was bigger than any building he saw in New Cairo, including those in the old cities. The spire looked like a temple merged with a tower, layered in overlapping rings of light and stone. It didn't merely occupy space but commanded it, as it was bending reality around its very presence. As he approached the front of the spire, a gate materialized before him. It was massive and circular, forged from obsidian and gold, and in front of it floated a lone figure.
This being was tall and wore a hooded robe. He wore a half-mask of etched crystal that concealed a part of his face. One eye glowed dimly, while the other socket remained dark and empty. Malik landed softly before the gate, his bare feet touching down with no more sound than a whisper. The gatekeeper tilted their head slightly.
"Finally. I have been waiting, Champion of the Flame."
Malik stiffened. "Champion of the Flame?"
"Yes, you are the chosen mortal of Anhur."
"Chosen?" "Again with this, what do you mean by chosen?" Malik said, confused.
The mysterious being said, "Every millennium, a tournament is held, and participating gods must choose a mortal on Earth, usually from different periods, to represent them. Anhur, one of the participating Egyptian gods, has chosen you to represent him in this tournament."
"Are you serious? The gods who have done nothing for me now want me to fight for them?" Malik asked.
"I understand that you are upset, but I would tread carefully, boy; the gods here are prideful and arrogant. One wrong move and you could end up dead." The mysterious figure said cautiously
This is infuriating, Malik thought to himself
"Look at the bright side; at least you got a head start."
"What do you mean, head start?" Malik said.
"Well, for one, you already have a sponsor god; most champions are summoned randomly and are chosen by a god later. You also gained a unique ability to manipulate fire due to the nature of your soul. That's why you're known here as the Champion of the Flame." The figure said enthusiastically.
"How, in the world, did I gain a unique ability? I'm not special; all I ever did was fight in the pit and scavenge the desert for trash to sell." Malik said,
"Like I said, it was your soul's nature. When Anhur marked you, a portion of his power was bestowed upon you. This must have triggered something within you. Anhur is the god of war and hunting; therefore, the only thing you should have received was increased strength, durability, stamina, and martial prowess. The ability to conjure and control fire is all you," the figure said.
"Is that a good thing?" Malik asked.
"It's neither good nor bad, but it is pretty unique. Most chosen mortals receive powers that mirror their sponsor god's abilities, only weaker. But you've gained something entirely different."
"Well, I'll use it to the best of my ability," Malik said.
"But I have one more question: where am I?"
The mysterious being looked at him with pity; it was as if he were watching a lost puppy. The being then turned and gestured toward the enormous gate looming behind them.
"This is the Axis Nexus, the meeting point of all realms. You stand at the threshold to what lies beyond mortality. From this point forward, you are no longer Malik Sufan of New Cairo. You are a champion of Anhur, and Heaven's Arena awaits you."
Behind him, golden platforms began materializing in midair. One by one, more figures arrived; some looking confused, others remaining silent. All differed in shape, age, gender, and bearing. Malik turned to face them. Maybe two dozen now, all waiting.
The gatekeeper raised a hand. "You may enter."
The gate opened, but not like a door, but like a space wound, tearing apart. Blinding light poured out in infinite directions. Malik stepped forward and passed through. The light swallowed him. There was no warmth or pain, just absolute clarity. As he stepped through the radiant veil, everything changed. The burning sensation in his ribs vanished. His wounds closed without leaving so much as a scar. Fatigue fell away from his body like ash in the wind. He was no longer the man who'd fought in the Pit when he emerged. He stood tall, no longer barefoot; he now donned elegant black and gold light armor with divine geometry etched across its surface. A burgundy cape draped from his shoulders, swaying gently in the breeze of a realm that didn't obey mortal winds. The air felt unnaturally clean.
He took cautious steps, absorbing his surroundings. The platform beneath his feet curved into a vast corridor of glowing stones etched with runes that shifted and writhed like living things. Light danced through archways suspended in space, casting patterns without an earthly source. Above him, the sky shimmered with stars that pulsed like living eyes. At the center rose a coliseum. It was impossibly large.
Other would-be champions have arrived. There were dozens of them, champions pulled from across many different periods and from every corner of the world. Each one was unique, struggling to grasp what this place was.
Malik remained silent.
He simply breathed in the profound stillness. His fingers found the fabric of his cape, the familiar texture grounding him in this impossible, divine moment. The mark Anhur had seared onto his chest still pulsed beneath his armor. There was no pain, but a sacred purpose.
If this is the beginning…
He lifted his gaze to the sky, spiraling endlessly overhead.
Then I'm not turning back.