zawish the unseen

The storm hadn't stopped. It hung over the twisted skyline like a brooding god, growling with thunder and bleeding violet lightning into the sky. Zawish stood at the edge of the city's last standing skyscraper, his black glove pulsing faintly, a whisper of Dar Metal's ancient energy flickering between his fingers. Blood streaked his face, a gift from the last fight. But the blood wasn't his.

Down below, what used to be a street was now a crater of half-melted concrete and crushed vehicles. The air stank of scorched steel and panic. But there was no time to breathe it in. Not tonight. Not when the sky was splitting open.

Behind him, a crackling vortex opened like a wound in space. The Dark Magician's work. The bastard was still alive, still out there feeding on the chaos he'd unleashed across Earth. But before Zawish could chase the trail, something unexpected interrupted the hunt.

The city's emergency broadcast system, long silent, fizzled to life. Every screen, every phone, every radio channel blared the same message — not from a military general, not from the president. But from a man calling himself Arwaah.

His face was human. His voice was strong. But his eyes… his eyes held something else.

"My fellow Earthlings," Arwaah said, standing in what looked like a government building seized by force, "you've been lied to. The being called Zawish… he is not your savior. He is your captor. A cosmic tyrant who has inserted himself into our fate. He claims to save us — yet what has he truly done? He attracts war. He brings gods and monsters. And now… our world bleeds."

The crowd behind Arwaah — thousands, maybe millions — were silent. They were watching. Listening.

"I say enough," he roared. "I will not be ruled by a phantom with glowing gloves and mysterious powers. I will not let Earth become a playground for celestial demons!"

Zawish narrowed his eyes. "Well… damn," he muttered. "That's new."

The Dark Magician was bad. But this? This was something worse. A lie wrapped in patriotism, sharpened into a weapon. Earth was turning on him.

Suddenly, the roof beneath him exploded upward.

Zawish barely leapt in time as a colossal mechanical claw burst through the steel and concrete. It wasn't cosmic. It wasn't divine. It was man-made. Reinforced. Brutal.

The rest of the machine followed — a humanoid exosuit, twenty feet tall, painted in Arwaah's rebellion colors: ash grey and war-red. It moved with terrifying efficiency. Inside, Arwaah himself controlled it, eyes locked onto Zawish from within a curved glass cockpit.

"I figured you'd come," Zawish said, somersaulting back and landing on a metal beam. "You could've at least knocked."

"I don't knock on doors that don't belong to Earth," Arwaah barked, launching a plasma spear from the mech's wrist.

Zawish ducked. The spear sliced the air above his head, burning it red.

"Plasma toys? You sure you're not just mad you don't glow like me?"

Arwaah responded with a missile barrage.

The building shook as explosions danced along the rooftop. Zawish dashed forward, sprinting across falling debris. He jumped, landed on the mech's arm, ran up the forearm like a tightrope — and drove his Dar Metal glove straight into the armor.

It didn't melt.

"What the—?"

Arwaah laughed. "Dar Metal? You think I didn't study you, freak?"

With a jolt, the mech's arm electrified. Zawish's body spasmed as 30,000 volts shot through him. He let go and was thrown across the rooftop, crashing through a steel pillar.

Smoke curled off his hoodie. "Okay. That was new."

Arwaah approached, mech-stomp shaking the earth.

"I don't need magic. I don't need gods. I just need humanity. And we've had enough of your alien circus."

Zawish wiped his mouth. Blood.

He stood.

"I'm not a god," he said quietly. "I'm not your ruler."

His voice deepened. The ground around him began to crack.

"But I am the one thing standing between you and the monsters you can't see. You think I wanted this? You think I asked for your world's nightmares to knock on my door?"

The glove pulsed. Energy surged through his arm.

"I came here because this world reminded me of something I lost. And now… I'm losing it again."

Zawish vanished.

A heartbeat later, he reappeared behind the mech — drove his elbow into the cockpit. Glass shattered. Arwaah roared and launched the machine into a spin, trying to crush him.

Zawish was already in the air, twisting, flipping — he grabbed a falling support beam and swung it like a baseball bat.

CRACK.

The mech's right leg bent the wrong way. Sparks flew.

"You're strong," Zawish muttered, panting. "But you forgot something."

He landed square on the mech's chest, just inches from Arwaah's face through the cracked screen.

"I've fought gods that eat stars."

He reared back his fist.

"And you… talk too much."

He punched.

But stopped.

Fist trembling, inches from Arwaah's chest.

The man was just… human. Scared. Angry. Misled. Zawish could see it now — the propaganda, the fear, the manipulation. Arwaah believed his cause. But he was still wrong.

"I'm not your enemy," Zawish said softly.

He leapt away, disappearing into the shadows of the ruined city.

Arwaah, coughing, slumped inside the sparking mech. Around him, sirens wailed. The resistance had failed. But the war of perception… that had only begun.

And high above, in the swirling clouds, someone was watching.

The Dark Magician grinned from a floating citadel of bones and black crystal.

"So… the champion spares his enemies. How poetic."

He raised a finger. The storm obeyed.

"Let's see how long that heart of his lasts… before I carve it out."