165

Chapter: Apocalypse

Forseti pondered briefly before turning over and heading towards the next room. Other residents also emerged, some already knocking impatiently: "Hey, what are they doing in there? They're keeping us awake."

After a while, the door creaked open, revealing a stern-looking man stepping out. It was none other than the gladiator Howlett, whom Forseti had seen earlier in the arena.

"You're... Howlett?" someone recognized him.

"Sorry, my son is ill," Howlett replied. "I'll leave now."

With that, he turned and hurriedly departed, carrying a boy in his arms. The child's skin was an unnatural shade of purple, crying incessantly, clearly in great pain.

Everyone stood stunned for a moment, then dispersed back to their rooms, leaving the matter unaddressed.

Forseti stroked his chin thoughtfully, then followed quietly as Howlett left the hotel.

Howlett carried his son to a secluded corner of the city, away from dwellings. As his son cried, Howlett's face twisted with anxiety and pain. All he could do was comfort him, "It'll be alright, son, it'll be alright..."

"What's wrong with him?" Forseti approached from behind.

Howlett turned, furrowing his brow, and after a moment replied, "I wish I knew."

"Let me try something." Forseti stepped forward, cautioning, "You shouldn't speak of this freely, understand?"

Magic was strictly prohibited under Apocalypse's rule. While Forseti posed no threat to most humans, any leaked information could cause trouble.

Howlett hesitated, then, seeing the holy light in Forseti's hand, quickly promised, "I swear on my honor and my life, I'll keep this secret."

Forseti said nothing, allowing the holy light to envelop the boy's body. Gradually, the child's expression eased, ceasing to cry but still tightly shut-eyed and frowning.

Observing this, Howlett's eyes welled with tears of relief.

Yet Forseti frowned.

The complexity of the boy's illness surpassed his expectations. With his current abilities, a complete cure seemed impossible.

After thirty minutes of treatment, though the purplish hue faded to a lighter red, it didn't disappear entirely.

"I'm afraid I can't completely heal him," Forseti admitted.

Howlett's disappointment was evident, but he managed a grateful, "Thank you... It seems only Apocalypse can save my son now."

Forseti gently corrected him, "Apocalypse is a rather disrespectful title. You don't know the true nature of Apocalypse."

Howlett fell silent.

Forseti continued, "Given that, why place your hope in him?"

"He's the most powerful being in the world. Only he can save my son. Once he's cured, nothing else matters," Howlett replied.

Forseti paused, knowing his cousin Eir might have a solution for this mysterious illness. But bringing Howlett and his son to Asgard, not being Asgardians themselves, posed challenges.

Finally, he advised, "Think carefully. It might be best not to go."

On the way back, Forseti gathered some stones to stock Shilut's sanctuary.

The next morning, he departed Sparta and sailed to Sebenitus, the capital of Egypt.

Separated only by the Mediterranean Sea, the journey south from Sparta led to the Nile Delta in northern Egypt, where Sebenitus sprawled.

Sebenitus was heavily fortified, with towering walls and strict checkpoints. Forseti resorted, as before, to scaling the walls under cover of night.

By day, he frequented crowded taverns to gather intelligence.

As Egypt's capital and a hub of commerce, Sebenitus thrived. Opulent buildings lined the streets, and its denizens, richly attired, exuded wealth and status.

Even the tavern fare surpassed that of Athens and Sparta, albeit at a premium.

Over a meal, Forseti struck up conversation with fellow patrons.

"I heard a gladiator was recently received by the gods. How is he now?"

"Surely he's basking in divine favor."

Forseti asked, "Does he reside in Sebenitus now?"

"I suppose... Why would I know?"

Despite inquiries, he gleaned little, with few even recognizing the name Diops. Clearly, Apocalypse controlled the spread of such information.

Days passed in Sebenitus with scant results, leaving Forseti disheartened.

That night, he slipped out his hotel window, intent on surveying the city's layout.

Apocalypse had refrained from conducting rebirth ceremonies recently. If Diops had been claimed as a vessel, he likely remained imprisoned.

Silently navigating streets and alleys, Forseti eventually arrived at a brightly illuminated site—the grand, golden palace nearly a hundred meters high, heavily guarded. This was Apocalypse's palace.

Within its confines...

Seated on a throne was a man of indeterminate age, clad in dark blue attire. His skin matched, giving him a cold, menacing presence reminiscent of a cobra—the Egyptian deity worshipped by many.

This blue-skinned figure was none other than Egypt's ruler, Apocalypse.

Appearing frail, he gazed at an elderly man in white robes, speaking slowly, "Still no progress with his eye?"

"He hails from Asgard. Our treatments are futile against his kind," the old man replied, hesitating, "Master, though he's lost an eye, being a god, impervious to weapons and with a lifespan of five thousand years..."

Apocalypse cut him off angrily, "You expect me to bear the stigma of one-eyed for five millennia?"

The white-robed man dared not respond.

"Fools!" Apocalypse fumed. "Even Asgardians cannot recognize him. Captured, blinded, and useless!"

At that moment, a woman entered.

"My death knight," Apocalypse acknowledged.

"Master," she knelt reverently, her face bearing half-healed, mesh-like scars—her visage a testament to past wounds.