Fear of the Immortal Mind
In the unreachable center of the Hive's consciousness—
—where flesh had become will
—where memories of a billion devoured worlds pulsed in psychic rhythm
—the Overmind awakened from stillness.
Its countless eyes opened across folds of time, watching this singular being—this Zion—walk through the heart of its army.
Not run.
Not fight.
Just walk.
And every Hive spawn he approached—warriors bred from divine blood, generals crafted from extinct worlds—trembled. They could not move. They could not think. And worst of all…
They could not resist.
Zion stepped into their ranks. One after another, with a single touch, a flick of his rusted blade, a glance filled with divine fury—
They fell.
No theatrics.
No grand declarations.
Only precision.
And silence.
The Hive's most primal instincts—coded from the First Feast before stars were born—screamed:
FLEE.
But they could not.
Because even the Overmind was afraid.
"He has not yet Awakened," the Overmind whispered across its synaptic net.
"And still… he hunts like the First Predator."
"What sleeps in him? What did Ginen make?"
And then… the fear turned into calculations.
"We must adapt."
The Reawakening of the Priestesses
Amid the battlefield, five fallen stars stirred.
Where death should have claimed them, something deeper rose.
Ayola, Ayomi, Sael, Thalia, and Elis—wounded, drained, grief-stricken—felt something ancient surge within them.
Not just power.
Not just rage.
But the heartbeat of Ginen.
Their gods did not call them.
Their sigils did not glow.
They remembered.
They remembered the promises made beneath ancestral trees, whispered over rivers that had no beginning. They remembered the Lwa not as deities but as family, and Zion not as a king but as the boy who knelt beside them during their darkest nights.
Their eyes opened.
Five priestesses stood.
Ayola's voice cracked thunder as her staff returned to her hand.
Ayomi's tears turned into blue flame that danced across her skin.
Sael bled light from her palms and turned every drop into a blade.
Elis' feet left the earth, and her laughter twisted reality.
And Thalia—though still wounded—smiled. Her body broken, her spirit unyielding.
They rose—not to fight.
But to finish what had been interrupted.
Justice for the Betrayal
The Egyptian pantheon had gathered, silent. Not in grief. Not in anger.
But in shame.
The traitor chosen, now trembling, was held in place by the weight of Zion's gaze and the hands of the priestesses who had once fought beside him.
He screamed for forgiveness.
And his god did not answer.
But his patron did.
He appeared behind the chosen in a form too vast for the battlefield to hold, coiling reality in burning ink and dust. A god older than pyramids, wrapped in eternity.
"You feared death," the god whispered.
"Now feel it… fully."
No blade struck. No lightning fell.
The chosen began to come undone.
One cell at a time.
His bones unknit.
His nerves unraveled.
His screams became static across the battlefield.
His blood boiled, then froze.
His eyes wept centuries.
He remembered every cruel word he'd ever spoken.
He felt every life he'd betrayed.
And through it all, the god watched with no emotion.
"No disciple of mine shall live as a coward."
And when it was done… not even dust remained.
The Battlefield, Still
Zion said nothing.
He nodded once to the Egyptian god, who simply vanished.
Then he turned, raised his blade, and spoke to the 99, to the priestesses, to the allies:
"No more mercy."
The war changed.
And somewhere, in the center of the Hive, the Overmind flinched