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- Northern Ireland – Hidden Tomb -
The tomb was deathly silent. The only sound was the soft clink of boots on ancient stone, echoing faintly off the carved walls as the mercenaries moved deeper into the darkness.
Gorr'Thrak walked near the center of their formation, head held high, his confidence unshaken by the creeping cold or the centuries-old staleness of the air. He believed in brute force, in control, in the power of the relic he carried. And now, with the barrier broken by the Sands of Time, he was sure—nothing would stop him.
Ahead, his men fanned out, weapons drawn, scanning each shadow with growing unease. Strange symbols marked the walls, glowing faintly. The air thickened the deeper they went, like wading into memory.
At the rear, Raxx flanked them quietly. He didn't speak. He rarely did. To the others, he was simply loyal—the silent knife beside their leader.
But no one saw the curl of his lips.
No one except the eyes hiding in the stone.
The Deviant, clinging to the ceiling like a stain of shadow, observed it all. His presence was seamless, his form shifting with the color and texture of the surroundings. He was a predator—silent, patient, and curious.
He had felt something twisted in each of them. Greed. Rage. Ambition. But Raxx... there was something more. Deeper. Colder. A delight in betrayal. A hunger not just for power, but for theatrics.
The Deviant's grin widened. 'This is going to be fun'.
They finally reached the heart of the tomb.
A vast chamber, circular, with pillars like ribs holding up the world. At its center hovered a sphere—round and vast as a small house, pulsing faintly with soft gold light. It floated above an altar of obsidian and metal, locked within a glowing barrier that hummed with cosmic energy.
Gorr'Thrak stepped forward, awe briefly touching his hardened features. "That's it," he whispered. "The Sphere."
He barked orders. His men moved quickly, deploying devices, scanners, disruptors—none of which made a dent in the barrier. The tech hissed, sparked, and fizzled.
"Back," Gorr'Thrak growled. He pulled out the Sands once again, letting them swirl around his hand. The same ritual repeated. Time bent. The barrier cracked and faded.
He reached into his coat, pulling out the dimensional pocket—a shimmering patch of Celestial tech, granted by the Collector for this exact purpose. He cast it forward.
The Sphere shuddered—and was pulled in, vanishing into the pocket like a star collapsing into itself.
Success. Clean. Easy.
But even Gorr'Thrak hesitated.
He stared at the pouch now glowing faintly with golden light, tempted to open it then and there—to see what treasure the Collector had so desperately wanted. Why he had traded away items he once claimed would never leave his vault.
The Earth was no ordinary backwater. Gods walked its lands. Sorcerers twisted reality. And even whispers of certain names sent shivers across the galaxies.
He would wait. He would examine it safely on the Red Maw.
Turning back, he barely had time to move.
A flash—bright, searing, sudden.
Instincts screamed. He leapt back, armor deploying just as something tore through the air.
Blood sprayed the stone floor.
His subordinates—every last one of them—were already dead. Dismembered. Their bodies scattered like broken dolls.
Pain exploded through his side. He staggered, clutching a deep wound. Systems failing. Alerts blaring in his cybernetic eye.
Calmly stepping forward, holding a strange device. A weapon no one had seen him carry. Compact. Devastating.
Gorr'Thrak's eyes burned with disbelief and fury. "You... I raised you. Took you from the gutter. Gave you power. A name."
Raxx tilted his head, unfazed. "You did, Captain. And I thank you for that."
He walked toward the pouch lying on the ground. Gorr'Thrak had dropped it in his scramble to survive.
"You trained me well. Taught me to take what I want. And now I'll have it all." His voice was calm, almost bored.
He picked up the pouch, brushing it with admiration. The Sands. The Sphere.
Then, he raised his weapon again and stepped closer.
"Goodbye, Captain," he said with a mocking smile. "I'll build a statue for you. Maybe. Probably not."
The gun touched Gorr'Thrak's forehead.
The shot echoed like thunder in a coffin.
He fell—silent. Just another corpse among the stones.
"Hahaha." Raxx laughed. Short, sharp. Victorious.
A sharp gasp escaped him as something tore through his chest from behind.
His body went limp before he even turned.
The Deviant stood over him, a clawed hand bathed in blood, eyes gleaming like molten emeralds.
"Such drama," he sneered. "Pathetic mortals and their petty plays."
He crouched beside the corpse, prying the pouch from Raxx's stiffening fingers. The Sands shimmered inside. The dimensional pocket pulsed faintly.
The Deviant chuckled. "Thank you for this... both of you."
He held up the pouch and sniffed. The Sphere inside radiated something ancient. Something Celestial.
"Whatever secrets you hold, I will uncover them. And then, perhaps, the stars will burn once more—with my fire."
And with that, he slipped into the shadows, leaving only blood and whispers behind.
- Bombay, Maharashtra, Bharat -
- May 5, 1937 – Late Evening -
The city's heart pulsed with the weary rhythm of twilight. The chaos of day had quieted to the hush of nighttime murmurings—until the sky ripped open above the old mill yard in Mazgaon, casting shadows that writhed like living things.
Kingo gritted his teeth, crimson light flickering at his fingertips. He had been completely cornered and tossed like a ragdoll towards a different area of the city, by the monster. He dodged another slash from the grotesque creature that lunged at him—a Deviant, but unlike any he had faced in centuries. Its body was shifting, unstable, as though it had consumed something far beyond its nature.
He fired another blast of energy, striking the beast in the chest. It barely staggered. Instead, it grinned—a twisted mockery of a human smile—and surged forward again, forcing Kingo back.
Blood dripped from a gash in his side. His glamoured shirt hung in tatters.
"Come on, answer..." Kingo muttered under his breath, clutching the communicator embedded in his ring. "Ajak? Sersi? Anyone?"
Static. Nothing. The line to the Eternals was dead.
Were they in danger too? Or... gone?
He pushed the thought away, dodging another attack that shattered the stone arch behind him. The streets were empty. Some people who had been here loitering around at this hour, had fled the moment the fight erupted, but if this thing wasn't stopped soon, the whole district could collapse.
He was fast. Agile. Strong. But even that wasn't enough tonight.
The Deviant roared, grabbing him by the shoulder mid-air and slamming him into the ground hard enough to crack the pavement.
Kingo groaned, vision blurring.
The creature opened its maw—wider than nature allowed, a pit of teeth and hunger.
Six blurs sliced through the dark.
A gust of heat and a whistle of wind echoed as the newcomers landed. Cloaked in dark combat gear, each bore a unique presence—an aura shaped by different elements, powers, and resolve.
The Deviant screeched, recoiling, sensing danger it hadn't expected.
From among the six, the leader stepped forward. A tall man with glowing eyes, his breath controlled, sharp and steady. His muscles tensed with purpose, each exhale syncing with a subtle inner rhythm. The breathing method—newly learned—guided the flow of his power like a tide locked to the moon.
He hadn't expected to find a battle here. Their mission was routine patrol—nothing more than a deterrent show of presence in a city still adjusting to Bharat's new rise. But when their teleporter, senses razor-sharp, felt the clash of energies, they moved without hesitation.
Now, as they stood before this stranger bleeding and battered on the ground, the leader's voice rang out—firm, clear.
"Get him to safety," he ordered one of his team.
Another—a female mutant with glowing tattoos that shimmered as she breathed—rushed to Kingo's side, lifting him gently.
The remaining four circled the Deviant, adjusting their stances, syncing their breaths. Their powers surged—flames kindled, energy shimmered, shadows danced, and the air crackled with thunder.
They attacked together.
It was not flawless. Their breathing rhythm faltered at times, their strikes misaligned. They were still learning. Still growing. But their unity made up for what they lacked in control.
The Deviant howled as strikes landed—cutting, burning, stunning. It lashed out, furious, a blur of tendrils and hate, but the Hidden Flame moved like a tide against it, relentless.
The leader leapt, driving a blade forged in mystic fire into the beast's shoulder, while the others followed with synchronized strikes. The Deviant staggered, clearly wounded for the first time.
It let out a frustrated roar, its body trembling—losing shape again.
And then—a pulse of darkness.
In an instant, it vanished.
Not fled. Not destroyed.
Like smoke snuffed by wind.
The alley fell quiet.
The team stood still, weapons raised, breaths ragged. The leader scanned the shadows. Nothing.
"It's gone," said the teleporter softly, gaze scanning the rooftop.
The leader nodded slowly. "For now."
They turned to the stranger, still weakened but conscious now, staring up at them with a mix of confusion and pain.
"Who are you?" he rasped.
The leader didn't answer immediately. He looked at his team—mutants, Inhumans, bound not just by powers but by purpose. They had taken a name: The Hidden Flame, soldiers of a new age.
And behind them stood a greater figure—Maheshvara, the man they followed, the godlike leader who had given them not just strength, but discipline through the breathing methods that made them more than the sum of their gifts.
"Let's get you patched up," the leader finally said, his voice calm again. "We'll talk after."
As they vanished into the night, carrying the Eternal with them, none of them noticed the thin trail of black mist curling upward into the sky—marking the path the Deviant had taken, and what might soon follow.
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