The first time Abas Khan of Afghanistan came in contact with a human that truly stood apart from all others was when he first met who would later take the name of the Wrath of God.

When the Black Death splintered that man’s home’s ruling class into petty warlords, he sought to rise above all others, and allied with the neighbouring Khan to bring the land beneath his heel, till he was ultimately betrayed by the Khan in favour of the Khan’s son, and fled to Afghanistan to bring its warriors and his banner, and take his home back once more.

Unfavourable whispers spoke of the lame would-be-conqueror’s weakness of body and intellect, a cripple ousted so easily from his kingdom by his betters, until the whispers learned to fear his name passing their very lips under the force of his wanton cruelty.

Abas joined the warriors that would go on to take Transoxiana, where Timur declared himself Emir, distinguishing himself, though he declined every offer of a role of governance, much preferring the feeling of the blood rushing beneath his temple as he charged in the fray of battle.

It was in Timur’s service that Abas died for the first time, taken by surprise by Tokhtamysh’s betrayal, and he came to life back in the thick of it, covered head to toe and nearly drowning in blood, naked save for the blade in his hand, which he later learned had been bathing in the blood of the traitor Khan’s armies for three entire days, the wounds he himself suffered completely ignored, and somehow healed on their own as he lost himself in the frenzy of battle.

That was the first time his mentor, whose name he would later learn to be Nikita Balandin, a kind of man he had never seen before, of paper white skin and golden hair, appeared in his dreams as a spectre to impart wisdom.

Abas did not know what to make of this strange Djinn; perhaps the heat and the continued strain of battle had finally taken his mind, as it had the minds of so many before him, and Abas took to drowning himself in intoxication to keep the ghost at bay, but nothing would work, and his body would rid itself the toxin, never allowing body or mind to waste away, while the golden-haired spectre merely mocked his efforts with an indulgent smile.

So, bereft of options, Abas began to listen, and the secrets of the universe were laid bare before him.

His other mentor remained just as instructional, as Timur demonstrated the power of his ability to inspire fear once more, and cowed by his sheer brutality, Tokhtamysh’s own people served him up to be slaughtered.

The sum of these teaching culminated in Delhi, facing down the Sultan’s army of elephants, and Timur used fear, this time of fire, clad and delivered through the backs of camels, against the fearsome army of pachyderms that panicked and crushed their own armies underfoot.

Timur slaughtered the men, but for Abas, this was not enough, as he personally took to the field among the beasts, and put his newfound powers to use, bringing his strength to bear to slaughter the elephants themselves, as he saw no sport in the broken men of the Sultan.

The sack of Delhi, too, was an important lesson, teaching Abas what folly this overreliance on the strength one did not truly command could lead to, and so he began to see the cracks across the face of his own crippled lord, claiming himself as the will and blade of God, instead of taking the mantle of God himself despite all he had to his name, and dissatisfied, he left, to find what power the golden-haired man beckoning to him from across the fog of his dreams could impart.

Stolen novel; please report.

There, Abas first learnt of the war of man against gods, or as the magi called them, Fae, born of dreams, and finally, he had both a true purpose for the power that flowed within his soul, and better prey than weak and unworthy mortal men.

For a time, he studied at Nikita’s feet, and learnt more of magic, learning more about what the Fae were capable of, and how he might match them, till he had deemed himself learned enough to finally face his first challenge, and headed to Japan.

A dragon of storms, it’s serpentine form less flesh and more white vapour, accentuated by crackling lightning, stood to oppose him, and Abas, armed with armour and weapons the likes of which he had never used before, roaring with the force of a storm and spitting fire and lightning, and the strength of his own arms augmented by the power coursing within his soul, faced down the god like beast before him and charged.

A dragon-beast born of nightmares that had laid waste to some of the greatest invading forces the world had ever seen, not once but twice, felling tens of thousands underneath the lashings of it’s rage as it sought to repel parasites from its territory, now roared as it faced down a single man.

Roaring pellets of metal and flame proved insufficient to harm the beast, so Abas took the blade his mentor had sworn would never break, iron reinforced with the power of his soul, and fell upon the beast in battle madness.

For three days and three nights they fought, just as he had when he had first awoken to the power within him, and reshaped the very land around them with strength of limbs and lashing winds.

Flames and noxious fumes seared Abas’ skin even as they robbed the breath from his lungs, but still he persevered, his skin knitting back together, his senses dulled from the pain, and his need for air gone, taken away by the spells he had prepared, and he retaliated with illusory sensations and sensory overloads, psychic attacks that seemed to rattle the creature’s reptilian mind not at all.

The power of his blade was another matter, backed up by reinforced limbs, each blow powerful enough to rend boulders to dust, and carving great furrows across the dragon’s hide.

Uncanny speed and strength evenly matched, flesh torn and scarred, both warriors succumbed to their wounds, and Abas died for the second time, but not before he had the satisfaction of seeing the beast brought low before him.

And then Nikita Balandin unmade his very death, restoring him before his soul could entirely pass on, as only a Master of Death could.

“You have done well for your first Fae, my apprentice. You have earned your passage to our heaven.”

“Heaven exists?”

“Heaven exists, and the throne of God is straddled by man. You too, can sit upon that throne, and dictate the fate of the world according to your will.”

Abas considered this, before telling him he had to see to one last thing.

He laid eyes on Timur the Lame for one final time, a decrepit old man, and saw many tiny organisms within his lungs, devouring him, inside out even as he clawed against his own inevitable fate for one final piece of glory.

Laid low by creatures similar to the ones that had brought about his first ascension, as Abas learned, the universe apparently delighting in irony.

Having had his fill of what Nikita called Hollows, and their failings and limitations, Abas finally took the opportunity to soar beyond the skies and take his rightful place as a god.

Abas Khan never looked back.