Chaos [1]

Micheal raised the hoe and struck the earth. Clang! The rusty iron sank into the dry ground; dust scattered into the air, stinging his eyes. In that moment, the sky tore open. A thunderclap shook the world; the red sky split in two as if sliced by a knife. From the rift, a blinding light poured forth—white, but cold, as if a god's eye had opened. Michael froze. The digging slaves collapsed one by one; some trembled in fear, others fainted, crumpling onto the dusty ground. Michael, instinctively, followed suit, dropping to his knees. His heart pounded in his chest; his breath, raspy and clogged with dust. What is this?

From the rift, an army emerged. They advanced through the sky like a wave—hundreds, perhaps thousands of figures, their armor glinting in the candlelight. At the forefront stood an armored woman. Her stature was superhuman; her silver armor clung to her body like liquid metal, each curve as sharp as a blade. Her face was covered by a mask—smooth, devoid of expression, but her eye sockets burned with purple fire. Her long, black hair flowed in the windless air, as if it had a will of its own. She scanned the surroundings sharply; her gaze pierced the earth, stripping the slaves' souls bare. Michael averted his eyes, but her presence weighed on his skin—mysterious, terrifying, divine.

The woman snapped her fingers. A sharp chime sliced through the air; all the hoes—rusty, heavy, cursed irons in the slaves' hands—vanished instantly. Michael's palms jolted with emptiness. A second snap shook the sky. The hoes reappeared in the red sky—hundreds, thousands, floating like a cloud. The rusty irons gleamed like spears, then surged forward, charging toward an invisible target. Whoosh! A whistling sound tore through the air, deafening; the hoes vanished into the horizon, as if rushing to slay an enemy. The woman and her army glided through the sky—their steps silent, but each movement heralded a storm. Michael stole a glance at them, leaning against a small hill. His eyes widened with awe and fear. Can a human do this? His mind churned with the shadows of PTSD—reality felt as fragile as a dream.

The army bypassed the slaves, gliding toward the direction of the hoes. Suddenly, the realm trembled. The earth shook like the back of a beast; the gray ground cracked and split. A thick dust cloud enveloped everything—stinging eyes, choking throats. From the dust, a colossal figure rose—camel-like, yet human, yet monstrous. Twenty meters tall, hunched, bony; its skin was gray and mottled, like rotting flesh. Its face was a caricature of a nightmare—a single red, swollen eye, the other socket empty; its mouth, filled with crooked teeth, dripped saliva. Its armor, woven from rusty iron and bone fragments, clinked with chains and crunched with bones at every movement. "HAHAHAHA! YOU FINALLY MANAGED TO DISTURB ME, FOOLISH BITCH!" it roared. Its voice was an earthquake—bursting eardrums, rattling bones. Most slaves screamed and fainted; some collapsed, blood trickling from their noses. Michael pressed his back against the hill, his hands trembling. His heart hammered in his chest. What is this? But fear kept him upright; he didn't faint, he watched.

The battle erupted like an apocalypse. The armored woman's army attacked the colossal man like a wave. The front-line soldiers approached with long swords and spears; their silver and black armor gleamed in the sky's red hue. Swords grazed the man's gray skin; each strike scraped flesh with a sickening crunch, splattering green, vile liquid. But the man was a mountain. With a single swipe of his massive, clawed hand, he hurled dozens of soldiers into the air. Bodies arced through the sky; some crashed into the ground with bone-cracking thuds, others vanished in the dust cloud. But the soldiers were relentless. New waves thrust their spears; archers rained fiery arrows from the sky. The arrows embedded in the man's skin, flames searing his gray flesh, but he kept laughing—a horrific, grotesque cackle that shook the world.

The armored woman stood at the army's forefront. Her hands moved in a dance-like motion; at her fingertips, dark energy gathered. A black hole—small, but like an infinite void—appeared in the air, swallowing the surrounding light. The air warped with a moan; dust was sucked into the hole, vanishing. The woman pointed at the man. Suddenly, an airburst—thunderous, but sharper, wilder—tore through the air. The black hole flared for a moment, then vanished. At the same instant, a massive chunk of flesh tore from the man's right shoulder, as if an invisible blade had devoured it. Green liquid gushed like a waterfall; the man staggered, but his laughter didn't stop. "IS THAT ALL?" he roared, his voice cracking the earth.

The man grabbed an axe—not a weapon, but a piece of a mountain. Rusty, bone-encrusted, its jagged edges tore through the air with each swing. He raised it and swung at the woman. The air screamed; the wind was so fierce that Michael's blond hair whipped upward, unable to shield his eyes from the dust. The woman tried to stop the axe with one hand; her armored gauntlet gripped the metal, but the axe descended with unstoppable force. She was dragged from the sky to the ground; the impact was an earthquake. The earth cracked; dust clouds rose like a wave. Michael was flung backward by the wind's force. His hands clawed at the ground; his nails broke on the stones, but he couldn't hold on. His body tumbled across the dusty ground; the whip marks bled anew, and he groaned in pain. He crashed into the small hill, his breath cut off. When he opened his eyes, the battle raged on like an apocalypse.

Soldiers surrounded the man; spears, swords, fiery arrows pierced his gray skin. But he was godlike. Each swipe crushed dozens of soldiers; bone-cracking sounds mingled with screams. Green liquid poured onto the ground, turning the gray earth into a toxic swamp. The woman rose from the dust cloud; her armor was scratched, but her mask remained expressionless. Her hands moved again; this time, a storm gathered in the sky. Red clouds swirled; black and purple lightning struck the man. Each bolt was an explosion; the air filled with the smell of burned flesh. The man staggered, but swung his axe. The woman slipped like a shadow, but the axe cleaved the earth; a massive chasm split the gray ground in two.

The woman sprang into action. She launched through the sky like a shadow, climbing the man's colossal frame. Her movements were swift as a dance, deadly as a predator. Her fingers curled; a black hole, small but infinite, reappeared. The surrounding air moaned and warped; dust and light were sucked into it. At that moment, the man vanished. He dissipated like smoke, then reformed—as if reality bent to his will. His massive, clawed hand seized the woman. She was like a scrap of paper in his grip—her armor crumpled, fragile. Michael's breath caught; his heart pounded with fear. How is this possible? But the woman didn't yield. Suddenly, all light—the sky's red, the candles' blue flames, even the slaves' faint breaths—gathered around her. The earth plunged into darkness for a moment; the world fell silent, as if swearing an oath. The woman blazed like a star—her silver armor burned with blinding white. The man roared and hurled her forward, but it was futile. The light surged at him like a flood. His left arm existed one moment, then vanished—as if reality had erased it. Green liquid poured onto the ground like a waterfall; the gray earth became a toxic swamp.

The man roared one final time. His voice was an earthquake—bone-rattling, ear-deafening. "IS THIS ALL?" he bellowed, but his voice was not rage, but a challenge. He dropped his axe; the rusty, bone-encrusted weapon sank into the ground, cracking it. In that moment, his body collapsed. His gray skin melted into a grotesque sludge—dissolving flesh, bone fragments, green liquid flowed into the earth, as if a swamp swallowed him. The stench was nauseating—rotting flesh, poison, and burned bone poisoned the air. The ground, tainted by his remains, pulsed as if alive. Michael froze.

The woman rose from the dust cloud. Her armor was scratched, but her mask remained expressionless. She shouted in a voice like a hymn, yet sharp as a curse: "BRING FORTH THE ARCANE! THE TAITAN IS MOVING!" The sky tore open again. A thunderclap shook the world; the red sky parted as if sliced by a knife. From the rift, a colossal coffin emerged. Luxurious, yet sinister—black, polished obsidian, etched with golden veins, its edges glowing with strange, pulsing runes. Its surface mirrored the sky, but within hid a dark void. The coffin's lid opened slowly. Cracks echoed like breaking bones; then, a grotesque creak—a sound that bloodied ears and pierced minds. Michael pressed his hands to his ears; his teeth locked in pain. The sound was so intense he could hear nothing—not his own breath, not the slaves' moans. The world fell silent for a moment.

In that instant, his instincts kicked in. Survive. His mind was a storm, but survival instinct crushed all else. He sprang to his feet and ran toward the woman. Four, perhaps five kilometers separated them; the gray earth swallowed his feet like a swamp. Each step reopened his whip marks; blood seeped into his robe, hot and sticky. His arms, trembling from the exhaustion of digging, and his legs, numb, faltered. His breath, raspy and clogged with dust, tightened his chest. But he didn't stop. As he ran, the landscape was a nightmare. Green liquid—the man's remains—erupted from the ground, rising like lava, swallowing slaves. Bodies melted; skin, bone, everything turned to grotesque sludge. Screams were muffled, weak—the slaves had no strength to cry out. Some knelt, awaiting dissolution; their eyes, empty, welcomed death as a mercy. The stench burned his nostrils—poison, rotting flesh, burned bone. Michael felt his stomach lurch, but there was nothing left to vomit. Don't stop. You mustn't stop, he thought.