image [https://i.imgur.com/ZXEdWgy.jpeg]
“The day will come when they return, when humanity will need to fight once more.”
JUNE 2014, DESERTS OF IRAQ.
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Joel Nier stood at the tent’s edge, shoulders tense as cold desert moonlight painted the ruins with a silver hue. Three weeks in Iraq had taken their toll, visible in his clenched fists, the rough fabric of his fatigues tightening against white knuckles. The stark beauty of the unearthed Mesopotamian temple pulled his brow tighter, a reflection of the weight pressing on him. More than another mission, this temple was a bridge to history—something sacred waiting to be reclaimed. His jaw tightened as he considered the enormity of it all, excitement smothered by responsibility.
The familiar hum of duty echoed in his mind. Assist the Department of Defense scientists. Report findings. That was his role as a warrant officer. But beneath the uniform, Joel was a history enthusiast. The thought of uncovering lost relics sparked his pulse. But as his gaze moved from the temple’s carvings to his men’s weary faces, that spark dimmed. His grip tightened.
Each man had a story, reasons for being here, and Joel knew those stories as well as his own. Daniels, the joker, had a wife and two kids waiting back home. No matter how oppressive the heat or grim the situation, Daniels could lighten it with a joke. Joel’s lips tugged slightly as he watched him banter.
Then there was Corporal Dennin—quiet, reliable, and walking in his father’s military footsteps. He rarely mentioned it, but Joel knew every mission was a tribute to the man who raised him. Joel’s fingers unconsciously grazed the dog tags around his neck, a gesture born from years of leadership pressing down on him like the desert heat.
The wind swept across the dunes, carrying the night’s chill with it, brushing against Joel’s skin as he exhaled slowly. Inside the mess tent, the familiar aroma of rehydrated rations and the laughter of his men provided a temporary escape from the mission's weight.
“And then I did a backflip and broke the bad guy’s neck!” Daniels’ voice rose above the clatter of utensils and the low hum of the generator.
“Sure you did,” Dennin replied, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “Just like you threw out your back lifting a box of rations.”
Joel chuckled, raising his canteen in mock salute as he entered the tent. “To Daniels’ bad back and even worse stories.”
Laughter filled the tent, rolling like a wave of relief over their tired souls. Joel leaned back, letting the camaraderie soak in.
As the laughter quieted, Joel’s hand found its way back to his dog tags, thumb brushing the engraved letters. A quiet pride burned in his chest, steady and unwavering.
The temple, though, refused to leave his thoughts. Towering columns of granite stretched toward the sky, their surfaces worn by time but still adorned with intricate carvings. The massive spherical relief in the central chamber seemed to pulse, as though the stone remembered the gods it once honored. Every night, Joel found himself drawn to it, tracing the ancient stories etched in stone, trying to decipher the past it concealed.
On the seventh night, curiosity had overtaken him. He’d asked one of the scientists about the carvings. The scientist, equally enthralled, pointed to the figure on the left—Tehom-Raash, the god of chaos. To the right stood the Pantheon of Nine. The names alone brought the carvings to life, sparking Joel’s imagination. Forgotten wars. Divine battles.
Now, as he stared out at the temple once more, the ruins tugged at him. What stories do you hide? he wondered. He hadn’t noticed Specialist Adams' approach until the soldier’s voice pulled him from his reverie.
“Another night with the ghosts, sir?” Adams grinned.
Joel chuckled. “That obvious?”
“Pretty much,” Adams replied, glancing toward the ruins. “Bet you were that kid who dressed as Indiana Jones for Halloween.”
Joel smiled, shaking his head. “Guilty. If I wasn’t here, I’d probably be at the Smithsonian.”
“Figures. You definitely belong in a museum.” Adams laughed, his tone softening as he glanced back at the temple. “Go on then.”
Joel nodded, recognizing the same pull in Adams’ eyes. He began his trek up the sandy path, the cold desert air biting at him as the wind picked up. The temple seemed to beckon him closer with each step.
Inside, moonlight poured through the fractured ceiling, casting beams over the relief carvings. Shadows flickered, giving the ancient figures a life of their own. Joel approached Tehom-Raash’s carving, tracing paper in hand. As he pressed it to the stone, a jolt shot through his fingertips, startling him. His hand hovered, feeling warmth radiate from the stone—unnatural in the cold night air.
The god was imposing, a braided beard and twin war scythes in hand. Though time had eroded details of its face, the figure still seemed alive, shadows playing across the stone as though it moved with the light.
Joel’s breath slowed, a faint sense of unease creeping in. The temple felt smaller, suffocating. Something stirred, sending a chill up his spine. He froze.
A subtle shift in the air. Goosebumps rose on his arms. He spun, sweeping his flashlight across the room.
Nothing.
The silence pressed in harder, wrapping around him like a vice. Joel’s heart pounded as he tightened his grip on his sidearm.
A whisper cut through the air. “Son of Idim.”
Joel spun, breath hitching, as his light swept the room. The voice had been close—right next to him. His pulse raced.
Before he could move, the ground shook. An explosion ripped through the camp, sending debris flying.
Chaos followed.
Mortar shells rained down, the earth trembling beneath Joel’s boots. Gunfire cracked through the air, mixed with the desperate cries of the wounded.
Instinct took over. Joel sprinted toward the temple entrance, Beretta in hand, steady as ever. He spotted Daniels and Adams running toward him.
Daniels reached him first, panting as they ducked inside the temple. “Sir, there’s at least two dozen of them out there. Dennin’s dead.”
Joel’s chest tightened. Dennin... But there was no time for grief.
“Patrol still alive?” Joel rasped.
Adams shook his head. “No chance, sir.”
Another explosion hit, throwing Joel against the wall. Pain exploded in his back, his vision blurring. His ears rang, muting the world.
Blood soaked through his fatigues. He could hear Daniels groaning and Adams’ labored breaths. Fuck! No— I can’t die, not here. Not like this!
Joel’s body screamed in protest as he dragged himself across the temple floor to get away from the approaching men outside, their footsteps coming louder now. The weight of his limbs grew heavier with each breath. His blood smeared along the cold stone, each streak a mark of his struggle, dark and glistening under the faint moonlight filtering through the broken ceiling. Every movement was a battle. Pain seared through him, fire burning along the edges of torn muscle and shredded skin, but he couldn’t stop. Keep moving. Don’t stop. His breath came in shallow gasps, chest heaving as his hands dug into the gritty surface, pulling his broken body inch by inch.
His vision blurred, colors smearing together in the dim light. Sweat mixed with the blood on his skin, dripping onto the ground beneath him. His fingers scraped against the stone, nails bending, tearing as he clawed forward. The ground shifted beneath his touch, the air thickening with something ancient, something watching.
With every inch closer to the center, the temple came alive around him. The walls groaned, low and guttural, as if stirred by his blood. The stone floor beneath his palms began to shift, trembling in rhythm with his weakening pulse.
His blood—thick, warm—seeped into the carved grooves etched deep into the floor, tracing patterns that had long been forgotten by time. The moment his blood touched the central glyph, the carvings responded, glowing faintly. Runes, intricate and complex, began to light up one by one, an eerie, pulsing glow that cast the entire chamber in an otherworldly light.
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Joel’s fingers brushed against the center of the rune, and the air around him shuddered. The temperature plummeted, the chill biting into his skin, sinking into his bones. What the hell? But his thoughts were fractured, disjointed. The desperation clawed at him, sinking deeper than the pain.
With one last push, Joel reached the heart of the chamber. The air grew dense, almost solid, as if the temple itself held its breath. Beneath his fingers, the stone pulsed. The runes flared, their light growing brighter, searing into his vision as though the temple itself drank in his life’s essence.
A low hum began to build, vibrating through the floor, up his arms, and into his chest, resonating with the very beat of his heart. The runes shifted again, their glow twisting, coiling around him like tendrils of light. They moved with purpose, snaking up his body, curling around his arms, his legs, his throat. Joel’s breath caught, his lungs burning as the magic consumed him, ancient power pulling at his very core.
The temple walls began to warp and bend, the carvings shifting in the flickering light, almost as if they were watching him, whispering secrets long forgotten. The air was thick with energy, buzzing with life, crackling like static against his skin. His blood, still seeping into the floor, shimmered, bright and alive with the same ancient force that flowed through the temple.
The runes pulsated faster now, a rhythm that matched the frantic beat of Joel’s heart. Each pulse sent a wave of power surging through him, filling his veins with fire, with something primal, something beyond human understanding. The pain that had racked his body began to fade, replaced by a numbness, a deep, hollow cold that gnawed at his senses. He could feel the temple feeding off his blood, drawing strength from it.
His vision dimmed, the edges of the world growing darker, closing in around him as he fought to keep his eyes open. The temple rumbled beneath him, a deep, resonant vibration that shook the ground, shaking loose dust from the walls as the floor cracked open beneath him.
And then, with a final, shuddering pulse, the world tilted. The ground collapsed under him, the light flaring, bright and blinding before the darkness swallowed him whole.
image [https://i.imgur.com/xjvodNV.jpeg]
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When Joel regained consciousness, a wave of pain surged through him, igniting every nerve like a live wire. His muscles burned, raw and battered from the ordeal. His head throbbed with the force of a hammer striking against his skull. The air was heavy, thick with the smell of decay—a pungent mix of rotting flesh and earth that churned his stomach, filling his mouth with a sour tang. Each shallow breath felt like dragging sludge into his lungs, choking him.
He tried to push himself up, but his arms buckled beneath him, trembling uncontrollably as his strength faltered. His entire body felt useless, muscles weak and unresponsive. The cold, smooth stone beneath his palms felt slick with moisture. He barely managed to raise himself to his knees, dizziness overtaking him, his breaths ragged and labored.
The vastness of the space around him pressed down like an invisible weight. Dark, obsidian walls loomed on all sides, reflecting faint, distorted light. Shadows stretched endlessly, blurring the boundaries of the room, erasing any sense of where he was or how far he had fallen. The oppressive silence gnawed at his mind, heightening the creeping sense of dread clawing at his gut.
His heartbeat pounded in his ears, each thud reverberating against the hollow silence. With a sharp breath, he forced himself to look around, squinting against the suffocating darkness. The vast, unnatural hall that surrounded him felt alive in its stillness. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.
A shuffling sound broke the silence, faint but unmistakable. Joel’s pulse spiked as a figure emerged from the shadows, cloaked in chains that clinked softly with every movement. It was impossible to discern a form—its body seemed to shift, a swirling mass of shadows that rippled and flowed with an eerie, otherworldly grace. Its eyes… God, those eyes. They burned, glowing with an intense, unrelenting golden fire. He could feel the heat of their gaze searing through him, as though peeling back layers of his soul.
The temperature around him dropped, the air so cold that each exhale sent a cloud of vapor from his lips. Every hair on his body stood on end as the spirits circling the figure whispered in a language he couldn’t understand—voices like brittle wind scraping across cracked stone.
His body trembled, a visceral fear bubbling up from the pit of his stomach.
The figure’s gaze bore into him, and Joel felt an invisible force strip him bare. His memories, his failures, his potential, all laid out before this being as if his soul had been dissected and displayed. Everything he was—every doubt, every regret—stood exposed under the weight of those burning eyes.
The figure slowly raised a hand, chains rattling as they dragged across the stone. Despite the terror flooding his mind, Joel felt his body move against his will, slowly rising to his feet. The weight of the air pressed down on him, each step toward the throne growing heavier, crushing his chest, suffocating him under its immense pressure.
“Kneel.” The figure’s voice rumbled like thunder, vibrating through his bones. The command was undeniable. Joel’s knees hit the ground, hard, the shock reverberating up his legs. He was too weak, too drained to fight it, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him like a boulder.
“At last, Son of Idim, you have come.” The figure’s smile curled, sinister and knowing, like a predator savoring the final moments before a kill.
Ugh—What— What do you want? The thoughts tangled in Joel’s mind, but he couldn’t form words. His throat felt dry, his body numb with fatigue and pain.
Is this real? The pain felt real enough—the searing ache in his bones, the cold biting at his skin—but his mind refused to make sense of the scene before him.
The figure leaned closer, its voice slicing through Joel’s thoughts. “Son of Idim, I will save you, grant you power. But you will owe me a life debt.”
Its gaze was unreadable, vast and endless, a void of understanding that seemed to swallow Joel whole. The words hung in the air like a sentence of doom. A life debt? What does that even mean? What will it cost me?
His mind whirled, grappling with the impossible decision. I’m dying, the realization pounded through his body, the blood seeping from his wounds a cruel reminder of how little time he had left. What other choice do I have? The weight of his injuries bore down like a suffocating blanket, the alternative—a cold, unforgiving void—looming closer. His body trembled, clinging desperately to the last vestiges of life.
Before he could find his voice, the air around him shifted. It pulsed with an ancient energy, raw and primal, as though the darkness itself vibrated with power. The surge slammed into him, a jolt of electricity that ignited every nerve in his body. His heart staggered as the force rippled through him, his senses ablaze. Like standing on the brink of a storm, right before the sky tears itself apart, he thought, struggling to make sense of it.
Suddenly, blinding golden text flashed in front of him: System: Inheritor chosen.
His breath caught, the world spinning. What the hell is this? The words echoed in his mind, but they felt far away, drowned out by the thunderous beating of his heart and the overwhelming flood of energy surging through his veins. He looked up at the figure before him, its eyes gleaming with dark triumph, the atmosphere dense with anticipation.
Panting, his body shaking, Joel’s resolve wavered, fear and the desperate will to survive warring within him. I don’t want to die. The admission stung, but he couldn’t deny it. Not here in this hell. Not like this!
His voice cracked as he rasped, “Then save me.” The words barely left his lips, dry and trembling, his body too weak to properly form them. But they were spoken—cast into the oppressive void.
A deep, rumbling laugh filled the hall, reverberating through the stone like an ancient echo. It was a sound that crawled through his skin, cold and timeless, as if this being had waited for millennia for this moment.
Pain detonated across his forehead, a searing heat like molten metal branding his skin. He screamed, the sound raw and jagged, reverberating off the chamber walls. The agony rushed through him, racing down his spine, spreading like fire through his veins. His muscles locked up, every fiber of his being alive with electricity, as though he was being torn apart and rebuilt from within.
His skin tingled, sharp and searing, as strange symbols burned themselves into his flesh, glowing with a fierce golden light. They etched themselves deeper, brighter, until it felt as if he might ignite from the intensity. What the fuck is happening to me!? The thought was fractured, chaotic, his senses overwhelmed by the pain and the power. The magic surged through him, ancient and alive, reshaping him, leaving him on the edge of something unimaginable and terrifying.
He gasped, his body spasming as the symbols sank into his skin, leaving behind only the faintest trace of warmth. His vision blurred, the hall spinning as the shadows grew darker, pressing in around him. Just as consciousness began to slip away, the figure’s voice resonated once more, quieter now, filled with an unexpected warmth.
"Thank you, Son of Idim," Tehom-Raash said, his tone carrying a weight of genuine gratitude and reverence, as if acknowledging a bond far older than Joel could comprehend.
Then, the world went black.
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Voices echoed in the distance, muffled and indistinct, as if they were coming from underwater. Joel dimly registered the sensation of being lifted, his body jostling with every step. Each movement sent fresh waves of agony radiating through his shattered form.
"He's alive! We've got him!" a voice shouted urgently, slicing through the thick fog of his mind. The rough texture of the stretcher scraped against his skin as they hoisted him up, the sensation a sharp contrast to the numbness creeping over him.
"Hang in there. You're going to make it," another voice urged, closer now, filled with a desperate determination that Joel tried to cling to.
But it was hard—so hard—to hold on. The hum of a helicopter grew louder, a dull roar that consumed everything else. Wind whipped across his face as the blades thumped above him, the vibrations rattling his already fragile body. Hands secured him to the stretcher, straps digging into his chest as the ground fell away beneath them.
"Stay with us," a medic insisted, their faces swimming into Joel’s blurry vision, eyes steady and unwavering. Joel tried to focus on those eyes, finding an odd comfort in their steadiness—a lifeline in the chaos.
But the pain was relentless, dragging him under. Delirium clawed at his mind as blood loss and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. The medics’ frantic efforts blurred into the background, their voices a disjointed soundtrack to his fading reality. He felt the sting of needles, the tightening of bandages, but it all seemed so distant, like it was happening to someone else—a version of him that was slipping away.
"He's stable for now. Let’s get him to the base," one of the medics said, a note of relief in their voice that barely registered.
As they soared through the desert sky, Joel’s thoughts drifted back to the ancient god, the echo of that voice lingering at the edges of his consciousness. It was a haunting whisper, a reminder of the promise made—a promise that felt more like a curse. Even in his weakened state, he could sense that his fate had been irrevocably altered, tied to something far beyond his understanding.