Rebellion Against Heaven - Part 10

Chapter 10: The Hunger for a God

After seeing all this, Ryuusei felt a little sorry. But that was the Aurion of twenty years ago. Now, at forty, I could no longer feel sorry for him.

But he had a plan.

"If he weakens when he doesn't get what he wants..." So there's a way to make it fall.

Death smiled with a mocking grin.

"That's what I like about you, Ryuusei. You don't waste time in the commotion. You go straight to what matters.

"How do you make sure that no one talks?" Ryuusei asked.

Death snapped his fingers. The room darkened, and in front of them appeared Aurion, surrounded by powerful men.

—Governments need it. If a victim speaks, he disappears. If a journalist investigates too much, he dies. Aurion is untouchable... or so he thinks.

The image changed. Aurion was in his penthouse, cigar in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. But his gaze was not that of a god. His fingers were trembling. His breathing was irregular.

"When he doesn't get what he wants, anxiety consumes him," Death said. He gets desperate, he becomes aggressive. Without their dose of adoration... he becomes a real monster.

The image disappeared.

"What if I force him to lose control?" Ryuusei whispered.

Death looked at him with interest.

"Do you have a plan?"

Ryuusei smiled dangerously.

"It's time for the world to stop kneeling before a false god.

Ryuusei paused when he heard Death's voice.

"Your plan is not impossible," he said in a curious tone, "but it would have to be a miracle.

Ryuusei narrowed his eyes.

"Miracle?"

Death smiled mockingly, walking slowly around him.

"Yes, a miracle... but not the kind people expect. You can't do it alone, Ryuusei. Aurion and his people are "the saviors of humanity." No matter how many crimes they commit, they will always find a way to twist the truth in their favor.

He paused in front of him, his gaze grim.

"You need a team. People like you. Beings who have seen the truth and are willing to get their hands dirty to change it.

Ryuusei folded his arms, considering his words.

"That will take time.

"Oh, yes," said Death, smiling. Maybe years.

The air became dense, as if reality itself understood the weight of that statement. Ryuusei knew that standing up to Aurion required more than strength: he needed allies, information, strategy.

"And where am I supposed to find these people?"

Death shrugged.

"The world is full of monsters that the heroes have tried to erase. People who do not fit into his "vision of peace". You just need to find them... and convince them that there is something greater than their own revenge.

Ryuusei looked out the window. Japan was still burning in the chaos that Aurion had left behind.

"Then..." I'll start looking.

Death smiled with satisfaction.

"That's the spirit. But remember, Ryuusei... A miracle doesn't happen overnight.

Ryuusei adjusted his Yin-Yang mask.

"I don't need it to be quick. I just need it to work.

And with those words, the plan to overthrow the "saviors of mankind" had begun.

But he paused for a moment before leaving.

Death smiled with amusement upon hearing Ryuusei's words, but he was not in the mood for his games.

He took a step forward, his voice firm and lacking in patience.

"You are Death. You know everything, or at least, enough. Don't waste my time telling me I should look for them. If you really want to see Aurion fall, tell me who they are. I know you have no intention of really helping me, you just want to see how long it takes me to figure it out on my own.

Death narrowed his eyes, and his smile faded for an instant.

"What if it were so?" he whispered. What if I want to see how much you can do without my help?

Ryuusei was undeterred.

"Then you're wasting my time and yours." Tell me, now.

The air cooled. For a moment, Doom watched him silently, as if he was assessing how much he could push him before it exploded. Then, he sighed.

"You're more impatient than I remembered... But you're right. I know of some people.

He turned slowly and snapped his fingers. Around him, shadows began to move, showing distorted figures of beings that seemed to be taken from a nightmare.

"Some are locked up, some are hidden, some have even been left for dead. But they all have something in common... power, and a reason to hate heroes.

Ryuusei looked at the figures. A few names resonated in his mind.

"Tell me."

Death smiled.

"Very good. But I'll warn you something, Ryuusei. These people are not like Aiko. They are not children with potential... they are real monsters.

Ryuusei did not hesitate.

"Perfect. Because the heroes we face... so are they.

Ryuusei was silent after the words of Beautiful Death. I knew he was right, I didn't have time to waste searching in the dark. She knew the fate of each individual who stood among humans as more than mere flesh and blood. With an almost maternal smile, the entity bowed its head.

"You must gather a miracle, Ryuusei. A team with the strength to challenge the self-proclaimed saviors of humanity. But be prepared, for their souls are broken and their pain is deep. Let's see if you can make them believe in your cause.

With a snap of his fingers, Death showed him visions of those he was to find. Their stories unfolded like memories engraved on a cursed parchment.

"Let's begin," said Death, "the first one is:

Sergei Volkhov: The Spectre of Russia

Born in the cold and desolate lands of Vladivostok, Sergei Volkhov did not know the warmth of a home. He grew up in the shadows of war, fueled by the echo of gunfire and blood spilled on the asphalt. His father, a disgraced ex-military man, became an arms dealer for the Russian mafia, and his heroin-consumed mother barely looked at him. At the age of seven, Sergei saw his father executed in front of him, a punishment for an unpaid debt. That day, he learned that life was worth nothing if you didn't know how to take it from someone else.

By fifteen, he was already an expert on violence. He joined an underground paramilitary group in Chechnya, trained in combat, infiltration, and extermination tactics. His accuracy with the rifle made him a valuable asset. He was soon nicknamed "The Spectre" for the way he appeared and disappeared on the battlefield, leaving behind dismembered bodies and stares frozen in horror. However, what set him apart was not only his brutality, but the coldness with which he executed his enemies. There was no hatred in his actions, only efficiency.

On one of his missions in Dagestan, his unit was betrayed. A corrupt general sold them to Western mercenaries. Sergei watched each of his companions die in the most merciless way: some skinned alive, others burned with improvised napalm. He himself was captured and tortured for days. They pulled out his fingernails, broke his fingers one by one and cut his cheek open with a rusty bayonet, leaving the scar that he carries today as an indelible reminder. But he survived. When his chance came, he used the very broken bones of his hands to strangle his captor and, with a stolen knife, slit the throats of the guards as they slept. He came out covered in blood and with the smell of burnt flesh impregnated in his clothes.

After that massacre, Sergei disappeared from official radars. He became a ghost in the world of conflict, moving between wars as a mercenary without a flag. He never sought revenge, because for him revenge did not exist, only survival. He took refuge in the cold forests of Siberia, where he learned to live with solitude, hunting for food and enduring the winter with the most basic resources.

But the world does not forget the effective killers. One group found him, offering him something he thought was lost: a purpose. Not for money, not for patriotism. But because, after everything he had seen, he understood that his only function in the world was war. Death is the one thing that never failed him, and he was ready to keep giving it to her.

Sergei Volkhov is neither a hero nor a villain. He is the man who appears on the battlefield when hope has died and only chaos remains. A Spectre that walks among the living, waiting for the day when he will finally join the dead he left behind.

"And how we convinced him to join," said Ryuusei

"I suggest you show him your powers and if it doesn't work, take a lot of dollars with you and buy it," she said in a happy voice

"Well, who's next?"

"The next one is," said Death

Brad Clayton: The Lord of the Earth

In the depths of the Romanian Carpathians, where fog devours valleys and mountains hide ancestral secrets, Brad Clayton was born. His mother, a British archaeologist obsessed with ancient myths, died giving birth to him in a cursed excavation. His father, a rootless mercenary, abandoned him to his fate. He grew up in an orphanage run by monks who saw him as an aberration. It was always different: his body developed with superhuman strength, and at a young age, he discovered that the earth responded to his will.

At the age of twelve, a group of armed men raided the orphanage in search of ancient relics. The monks were mercilessly massacred. Brad, in a fit of rage, felt the mountain throb inside him and, with a single scream, the ground opened up under the invaders, devouring them in a pit of stone and sharp roots. Covered in blood and dust, he left the ruins behind and wandered aimlessly, feared like a demon by those who encountered him.

He spent his youth in Romania's underground circles, surviving as a fighter in fights to the death. His body was an unstoppable machine, his blows could fracture skulls with a single impact. But his real advantage was his connection to the land: every step he took resounded like a war drum, every fist thrown could turn the ground into a lethal weapon. They called him "Atlas" because he held his destiny on shoulders of stone and ash.

That's when a group of cultists tried to capture him. They wanted his blood, his essence, to awaken to something ancient and evil. They drugged him, chained him, and took him to a stone altar deep in the mountains. In his delirium, he heard voices that were not human, whispering forgotten secrets to him. When he woke up, the earth around him was dyed red. Without remembering how, he had caused the mountains to collapse, burying the cultists in an endless tomb.

Since then, Brad has ceased to be a mere man. He became a force of nature, a titan without a homeland or loyalties. He roamed the world, selling his skills to the highest bidder, but never finding any real purpose. Until someone offered him something different: no money, no revenge... but a cause.

Brad Clayton, "Atlas," is neither a savior nor a monster. It is the fury of the incarnate earth, a colossus that walks among men, waiting for the moment when the world trembles under its weight.