The green liquid devoured the earth like a monster. Born from the sludge of the man's remains, this poison rose like lava, consuming every living thing. The slaves melted one by one—their skin stripped by the liquid, bones turning to mud, eyes frozen in empty horror. Screams were weak and muffled; some sank into the ground without the strength to cry out. All that remained was smoke—gray, vile mist, as if their souls had been swallowed too. The stench burned the nostrils—poison, rotting flesh, acid. Michael glanced around as he ran. The earth cracked and split; the gray ground was stained with the liquid's green splotches. Each step was like running through a swamp; his feet sank into the dust, his knees trembled. Sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes, blurring his vision with a salty sting. Each drop seemed to steal his strength; his body was melting like a candle. Don't give up. But he was cold—his bones shivered with the chill of malnutrition, his skin prickled.
Suddenly, a wave of green liquid surged before him. Like a tsunami, slow but unstoppable, it came to swallow him. His heart clenched with fear; his breath locked in his throat. With all his strength, he leapt. The air froze for a moment; his legs, in a final effort, carried him forward. The wave passed beneath his feet, but the liquid grazed his soles. Pain struck like lightning. His foot soles melted—the skin stripped by the liquid, muscles exposed, bones aching. Blood, hot and vile, dripped onto the ground; each step pressed melted flesh into the earth, stabbing like needles. His heart twisted with agony; his chest tightened like a vise. He wanted to scream, but his voice died in his throat. If I exhale, it's over. He clenched his teeth; his infected gums bled, filling his mouth with a metallic taste. He kept running. The earth's rough texture scraped his melted soles; each step was a knife, but he didn't stop. Survive.
As he ran, something pierced his foot. A small, hard, strange seed—black, glossy, like an insect's shell. It was buried in the ground, but its tip lodged into Michael's melted sole. The pain was so sharp his body convulsed with a spasm. The seed embedded in his flesh; it felt alive, pulsing like a heartbeat. For a moment, his leg went numb; then, a vile ache spread from muscle to bone. His mind blurred. What is this? The seed wasn't just physical pain; a strange, sinister energy coursed through his veins, settling in his heart like a weight. His body swayed; his knees buckled. But the liquid was behind him. A green wave rose, like a hungry beast. Michael gritted his teeth and kept running. The seed stayed in his sole, scraping his flesh with each step, but time didn't forgive pausing.
The green liquid gained speed. Michael glanced back—a mistake. A wave struck his left arm. The pain was unimaginable. His skin peeled like paper; muscles melted in the liquid, his bone, white and bare, appeared for a moment before turning to sludge. His arm tore from his shoulder; blood spurted like a fountain, splattering the ground. Michael screamed—with all his breath, tearing his throat. The sound was lost in the chaos; no one heard. His chest tightened with panic; his eyes darkened, the world vanishing for a moment. But he didn't fall. Survive. He bit his parched lips; his teeth tore cracked skin, blood filling his mouth. The salt and metallic taste briefly sharpened his mind. But the pain of his arm overwhelmed everything—like molten iron poured into his shoulder, pulsing with fire. Blood seeped into his robe, hot and vile. His body was losing control; his chaotic mind teetered into an abyss. But he didn't give up. He kept running.
In that moment, the sky trembled. The obsidian coffin floated in the red sky; its golden veins pulsed with light, its runes glowing with a vile hymn. The lid opened wider. The creak was a nightmare's scream—bones breaking, chains snapping, a god awakening. The sound was so intense that Michael's already ruptured eardrums ached like a knife. He could hear nothing—not his raspy breath, not the melting slaves' screams, not the earth's cracking. But an instinctual shiver froze his spine. His heart stopped for a moment; his skin prickled, as if a god's eye was watching him. From the coffin, a dark mist seeped—alive, pulsing, swallowing the world. The sky darkened; the red wound vanished in the mist. The runes turned blood-red, each pulsing like a heart. What is this? The fear was so immense it crushed his soul. His body was losing control; his legs trembled, his shoulder burned. But the blood on his lips kept him upright. Run.
His run was a final effort in a desert. The earth cracked beneath his feet, dust clouds stinging his eyes. The green liquid pursued him; waves rose like a ravenous beast. Around him, the slaves' smoke mingled with the air; the gray ground turned into a toxic swamp. In the distance, the armored woman stood at the head of her army.
Almost there. You have to endure.
Was he comforting himself? Or was this the last spark of survival instinct? He didn't know. A weight in his chest, a sliver of hope, stirred. His hearing miraculously returned; the chaos's sounds flooded his ears like a torrent. The slaves' muffled screams, the liquid's splatter, the earth's cracking—all formed a nightmare symphony. But above all, the coffin's sound—the obsidian coffin floated in the sky, its golden veins pulsing, its runes turned blood-red. The lid's creak was absolute terror—neither fading nor growing, as if it were the universe's own heartbeat. Bones breaking, chains snapping, a god awakening. The sound pierced Michael's mind; his ruptured eardrums ached like a knife, but this sound wasn't physical—it was a divine curse seeping into the soul. As he neared, the sound didn't change; absolute, immutable, like a god's command.
Michael ran toward the armored woman. She stood at the head of her army; her silver armor, scratched, her purple-fire eyes locked on the coffin. Around her, there was no green liquid—the ground was clean, like a holy sanctuary. This ignited Michael's will. The red light from the coffin called to him—golden, yet cold, like a god's breath. The runes pulsed in the light, each beating like a heart. Suddenly, he felt movement in his left arm. Where it had been severed, skin, veins, and muscle were weaving back—slow, trembling, but alive. His shoulder prickled; new skin, pale and smooth, stretched like a snake's. The pain was vile yet mesmerizing—as if his body was resurrecting with the ritual's curse. What is this? Is this the ritual's purpose? His mind blurred with the Focus Stone's glow, the soup's vile taste. But there was no time to think. The arm's reformation sparked relief in his chest; it fueled his run. Keep going.
The green liquid pursued in waves. Michael, with a final surge, threw himself into the yellow light. The light touched his skin—cold, yet alive, like a soul's touch. For a moment, the world fell silent; the liquid's splatter, the screams, the coffin's creak—all vanished. But then, shadows stirred. The army's soldiers approached him. Their silver and black armor gleamed in the candlelight; their hands held long, serrated swords and spears, predatory and threatening. Michael's heart clenched with fear; his breath, raspy, locked in his throat. His melted soles trembled, oozing blood; his new arm pulsed with a strange ache. All he could do was raise his hands. "I'm not an enemy!" he shouted, his voice cracked, weak, lost in the chaos. The soldiers didn't stop. They spoke in a language he didn't understand—sharp, rhythmic. The words echoed in his mind, but their meaning slipped away like a shadow. His eyes began to darken; the world tilted for a moment. His legs collapsed; his melted soles sank into the ground, stinging vilely. His vision wavered—the soldiers' silhouettes blurred like a dream. I'm fainting. He didn't care. His body crumpled onto the gray ground; blood seeped from his robe, staining the earth. The soldiers approached unhurriedly; with cold, mechanical movements, they lifted him…
An Unknown Time Later
When Michael opened his eyes, he was in a dark void. The stretcher he lay on was cold and hard—black, metallic, its edges studded with rusty nails and strange, pulsing runes. Its surface was smooth as a coffin, but its touch froze his bones. The surroundings were pitch black; only faint, bluish light seeped from the stretcher's edges, like a machine's dying breath. The air was heavy with the scent of metal and a sour chemical tang; each breath burned the throat, leaving a vile taste. In the distance, the coffin's creak still echoed—absolute, unchanging. The sound seeped through the walls, piercing his mind, trembling his soul. The Titan was still there—invisible, but everywhere. Michael felt his heart pound with fear; memories swirled in his mind like a vortex—the ritual, slavery, the green liquid, the seeds, the Titan. The memories clashed like a storm; his head throbbed with piercing pain.
He tried to rise, but his right arm wouldn't move. He looked down; his arm was locked in a glass capsule—transparent, but filled with a strange, whitish liquid that rippled. The liquid moved as if pulsing, tiny bubbles popping on its surface; a sour, vile stench leaked from the capsule's cracks. The capsule was connected to a machine—rusty, mechanical, covered in pipes and gears, humming silently. The arm was different from the other—bright red, almost translucent, as if made from newborn skin. Up close, veins were stark, like a web; the skin was a shade paler than natural. This right arm was… something else.
He cleared his throat, trying to speak. His voice was cracked, a hoarse rasp—as if he hadn't spoken in centuries. "Is anyone there?" he whispered, but the sound vanished in the darkness. At that moment, a door opened. The creak mingled with the coffin's sound; a cold, metallic echo rang off the room's walls. Two figures entered. The first was a short, scrawny man; he wore pristine clothes, untouched by the war. A strange blue robe draped him, and his face bore a beauty unmarred by battle, his eyes gleaming with odd excitement. Beside him was a tall figure—armored, but different from the guards. The armor seemed carved from stone; gray, smooth, but every curve sharp, as if chiseled with a blade. The helmet hid their face entirely; only a narrow slit hinted at eyes. The armor crackled faintly with each movement, like a fusion of stone and metal. The man approached with heavy, resolute steps; the scrawny figure spoke incessantly—a language Michael didn't understand, fast, rhythmic, like a prayer, but threatening.
Michael held his breath. The armored man reached the stretcher; a cold, metallic gauntlet pressed lightly on his forehead. The touch was a shock—as if a needle pierced his mind. Suddenly, strange information flooded his thoughts like a torrent. Words, images, sounds—foreign, yet familiar. The language took shape in his mind; his forehead burned with a throbbing pain, but the ache passed in a moment. The man's voice, clear and heavy, echoed in his mind: "Good morning. You've been asleep for a long time." The speech was strange—as if the words were etched directly into his soul. The scrawny figure fell silent, as if sensing Michael's understanding. The room sank into an eerie silence; only the coffin's distant creak echoed like a curse.
Michael forced his throat to respond. "How long was I asleep?" His voice was weak, cracked, alien even to his own ears. The man paused; for a moment, a red glint flickered in the slit of his helmet. "It's been a year since the war began," he said. The words hit like a sledgehammer. Michael's mind froze. A year?