The morning sun made a desperate attempt to salvage Addis Ababa, but the sky had become a mausoleum where light went to die. Hidden behind a suffocating veil of silence and thick, oily smoke, the city showed no signs of life. Not even a ghost moved through the ruins.
The earth of Addis Ababa seemed to yearn for the dawn, but the concept of morning light had become a myth, a tale lost to the history books. In its place was a bruised, violet sky and a shroud of volcanic ash that draped over the city like a cheap burial shroud.
Above the Entoto Mountains, flickers of sunlight struggled to pierce the soot-laden fog, only to be strangled by a ceiling of volcanic debris and chemical smog miles before they could touch the ground. Below, the world was trapped in a perpetual, sickly twilight.
Once the beating heart of a nation, the city now looked like the victim of a celestial execution. Periodic roars of unseen beasts and the sudden, thunderous eruptions of distant explosions rattled the foundations of the hollowed metropolis.
Skyscrapers stood like excavated, blackened skeletons. The monolithic Commercial Bank of Ethiopia building and its surrounding towers had lost their glass skins; in their place were twisted remains of steel and concrete, reaching upward like the charred limbs of cursed trees. The structures were scorched beyond recognition, turned into pillars of obsidian soot.
The empty window frames stared down like the hollow eye sockets of a skull, surveying a city of absolute ruin. The air didn't just smell of rot; it had a metallic, sulfurous taste that clung to the back of the throat.
Below, the streets were deathly still. The roar of engines, the chatter of millions, the pulse of life—all had been swallowed by a void. All that remained was a fire that refused to die, smoldering within the mangled shells of cars like a slow-moving plague. The asphalt was slick, not with rain, but with the dark, tacky residue of dried blood that clung to the soles of any who dared walk upon it.
Does humanity still draw breath here? Or is this merely a monument to its extinction?
Deep beneath the ruins, within the bowels of the famous Omega Laboratory—now transformed into a subterranean slaughterhouse—the air was hot enough to peel skin. This was no ordinary heat. It was thick, humid, and reeked of the metallic scent of divine ichor.
In the center of the vast, hollowed-out hall, the ten Sovereigns were suspended like butchered meat. They weren't bound by iron or rope, but by living, pulsating chains of magma. The molten rock coiled around their joints, searing their immortal flesh as it held them captive.
A terrifying energy flowed through the shackles—a liquid light the color of molten gold. It moved like a river of divine anti-matter, siphoning their essence drop by agonizing drop. The destination of this power sat upon a throne carved from light-eating obsidian.
Daruel. The Sovereign of Shadows sat with the relaxed predatory grace of a beast that had already won the war. He wasn't just sitting; he was a black hole within the room, a void that consumed every stray photon. As the stolen divinity surged into his veins, his skin began to shimmer. The golden anti-matter of the gods moved beneath his surface, bringing a lethal, glowing life to his soot-colored limbs.
He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. As the essence of the gods nourished his form, he took a long, deep breath, savoring the influx of power like a connoisseur tasting a vintage wine after a century of thirst.
In the midst of this dark communion, the heavy iron doors at the end of the hall didn't just open; they groaned and shuddered under an immense weight. Three figures scrambled into the hall. They were clad in light-absorbing, heat-resistant black armor, but they didn't enter with the discipline of soldiers. They stumbled, their movements frantic with the knowledge that death was no longer a possibility, but a certainty.
Reaching the foot of Daruel's throne, the dark angels collapsed. The sound of their knees hitting the stone echoed like a crack in the floor. They pressed their foreheads to the ground in a desperate show of submission.
"My Lord!" the leader of the group cried out, his voice trembling so violently it rattled his mask. Sweat dripped from his brow, pooling on the floor. "The Time Machine... we reached the coordinates you gave us. But... it is ash. Ruins..." He swallowed hard, the sound amplified by the silence. "It is completely obliterated. Beyond any hope of repair."
Daruel turned his head with agonizing slowness. Terror seized the messengers. The temperature in the room plummeted instantly. In a violent contradiction to the magma chains, frost began to crawl across the obsidian throne. The golden light in the room shifted, turning into a sickly, bruised red.
A low, guttural vibration started in Daruel's chest. It wasn't a human sound; it was the rumble of a tectonic plate shifting—a frequency that made the messengers' teeth rattle in their skulls.
Sensing his own execution in his master's silence, the second messenger spoke up frantically. "But! My Lord... please! We found something! We recovered Dr. Toram's private notebook!" He pulled out a small, black leather-bound book with shaking hands. The edges were scorched, but the contents remained intact.
Daruel opened his eyes. His pupils had narrowed into feline slits, burning with a sapphire hellfire. He didn't speak. He simply reached out a hand. The book was snatched from the messenger's grip by an invisible force, flying through the air into Daruel's palm. He did not offer thanks. He ran his long, obsidian fingers over the cover, his gaze piercing the secrets held within.
"This is not enough," Daruel's voice fell like a landslide. "Tear this laboratory apart. Every wall. Every floor. Every brick. Shatter every locked door and bring me what remains."
"It shall be done, my Lord!" the captain of the guards replied, bowing repeatedly.
Daruel leaned forward, the magma chains behind him flaring bright and casting demonic shadows across the vaulted ceiling. "There will be hidden chambers. Find them. And bring me every living quantum physicist left on this wretched planet. Drag them from their holes. And if they are dead, bring me their heads; I will siphon the lingering memories from their rotting brains myself."
"AS YOU COMMAND, MY LORD!" the three bellowed in unison, their foreheads scraping the stone.
As the messengers scrambled backward to exit, a sound cut through the tension. It was a laugh. Weak. Ragged. Saturated with blood. But it was undeniably mocking. Among the suspended prisoners, a man with a shattered wing looked up. It was Ratuel.
His body was a hollow shell of its former self. His skin had turned a dull gray, and his hair, once a mane of living fire, now looked like cold ash. But his eyes... his eyes still held a spark of suicidal defiance. He began to speak through a throat choked with blood.
"She is coming for you," Ratuel rasped. A thick glob of golden blood slid from his lip and hissed against the magma chain. "Do you think a book will save you? She is coming... and she is armed with the suit and the blades."
Daruel rose slowly from his throne. His movement was unnatural—too fluid, too silent. The chains connecting him to the prisoners clattered like the bones of the dead. He glided toward Ratuel without a sound, the stolen radiance swirling around him in a vortex of doom.
"I am not waiting for Dr. Toram," Daruel whispered, stopping an inch from Ratuel's face. The heat radiating from Daruel was enough to sear mortal flesh. "I am going to her. I will tear through the Blood-Network Zagura has woven. I will leap through the machine. And I will see then who is left to stop me."
Daruel's hand shot out, gripping Ratuel's skull. His fingers sank into the bone. "AAAGH!" Ratuel's scream wasn't just a sound; it was a physical force that shook the hall.
Daruel accelerated the siphoning. Ratuel's essence was violently torn from his body. It flowed like electrical lava, shredding muscle and soul as it merged into Daruel's arm. The prisoner thrashed, his spine twisting until it threatened to snap, his scream echoing until his vocal cords tore... and then, there was silence.
Ratuel went limp, a discarded husk. Beside him, the other captive Sovereigns, their strength drained to the brink of extinction, couldn't even raise their heads to witness the end. They hung in a state of living death.
Daruel looked upward, his form expanding with the stolen power. "Toram, I am coming. Just as the Earth is mine, Rama shall be mine as well. Wait for me."
He unleashed a primal, monstrous roar that shook the very foundation of the laboratory, echoing through the ruins of Addis Ababa and into the dark void of the sky.
To be continued…..