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- Unknown Deserted Location, Greenland -
- May 6, 1937 | Evening -
Beyond the invisible barrier enveloping the area around the strange massive tree, twenty or so Deviants loomed—mutated, twisted, each a malformed reflection of something once familiar. Their skin stretched in unnatural patterns, some had extra limbs, others shifted their form like liquid clay, their eyes a sickly green glow of primal hunger. They weren't waiting. They couldn't.
Kingo's grand entrance—bright, bold, almost reckless—had caught their attention like a flame in the dark. He stood tall, his golden armor gleaming, fingers crackling with plasma. One of the Deviants tilted its grotesque head and screeched, a high-pitched signal that echoed across the stillness. The others surged forward with raw instinct, moving like predators, unified by a singular need: eliminate the threat.
But they weren't fast enough.
A ripple tore through reality like silk being slit, and from it stepped Aryan, calm yet fierce, flanked by the others. He didn't shout. He didn't raise his hand. He simply looked. That was enough.
Nalini's eyes lit up like twin moons—pure white, unblinking. The moment her gaze sharpened, the skies answered. Clouds churned violently, thunder cracked like a war drum, and bolts of lightning as thick as tree trunks rained down with divine fury. The blast lit up the entire field, the scream of scorched earth and metal melding into a single roar. The Deviants buckled under the sheer force. Some staggered, others collapsed momentarily—stunned, twitching, disoriented.
Shakti sensing a moment to try some new innovative methods that Aryan had previously taught her, did not hesitate. In that fleeting pause, she struck. Her aura flared, the Power Cosmic enveloping her like a living storm. She extended her hands, and unseen threads of energy slithered into the Deviants. Molecules twisted. Structures unraveled. Their inner balance trembled. A few howled in agony as their forms flickered like disrupted signals.
But then... her breath faltered. Her hands trembled slightly. The manipulation wasn't holding. It was working—but only partially, enough to significantly weaken them. Her control wavered under the weight of cosmic complexity.
Aryan was at her side before she could fall. His hand cupped the back of her neck gently, channeling energy with a warmth that steadied her nerves and cleared the fog from her mind.
"You did great," he whispered with a soft smile, his voice a calming balm. "You're getting stronger. You'll master it soon—just keep pushing."
Energy pulsed from him to her, a golden thread of life mending her frayed synapses, healing not her body, but her mind—the very core where exhaustion clings deepest.
Reassured, Shakti smiled warmly at him and nodded, standing taller once more.
Elsewhere, the battle had already shifted.
Karna, sensing the moment to strike the weakened Deviants, moved like a streak of blinding light, his body a blur. Every step cracked the ground, every swing of his blade sent shockwaves. He wove his Photokinesis into his strikes, turning beams of light into sharpened javelins, mirages, and radiant traps that exploded on contact. Each motion was an elegant blend of fury and focus—like a dancer armed with the sun.
Beside him, Kingo fought with explosive flair. Plasma discs spun from his hands with practiced ease, his movements dramatic yet precise. No longer on the defensive, he now fought with purpose, energy coursing through him, his eyes lit with confidence.
As the last of the Deviants tried to regroup, Nalini once again stepped in. Her hands glowed with emerald green, inspired by ancient nature magic she had merged with. Vines made of hardened energy and glowing bark surged from the ground, wrapping around the remaining Deviants. The vines pulsed once—then began absorbing their energy, tightening with every breath they took.
Some Deviants burst apart from within, unable to sustain themselves.
The others didn't last long. Shakti's energy projection cut through them like spears of starlight. Karna's blows shattered bone and hide. Kingo finished the rest with precision strikes, vaporizing them into ash.
When it ended, the field fell silent. The clouds parted above. The air smelled of ozone and scorched metal.
They stood together, battered but unbroken—united not just in battle, but in belief.
The battlefield had fallen quiet, littered with the ashen remains of the defeated Deviants. Aryan exhaled slowly, his eyes scanning the now-still perimeter, sensing the shift in the air—not relief, but tension. Unspoken, taut, and growing.
Something was watching them. Not from the sky. Not from the ruins. But from below.
The ground beneath their feet vibrated ever so faintly, like a breath being held. Then they all felt it—the subtle pulse of something alive. Something vast. Not just buried beneath the earth, but entwined in it.
Kingo turned, his face tightening. "Seems you were right Aryan," he said. "The tree's a living, sentient being."
Beyond the clearing, the parasitic tree loomed, gnarled and monstrous, its roots sprawling like veins across the scorched earth. The bark was dark and pulsing faintly, as if blood flowed just beneath its surface. Leaves like withered tongues swayed without wind, whispering secrets in a language only the cursed could understand.
This was no tree. It was a body.
Deep beneath it, in a cavern carved by the roots themselves, the Core Deviant slept. Towering at ten feet tall, its body was a grotesque fusion of muscle, bone, and warped elegance. Once perhaps animal or humanoid, now something entirely new. Its chest rose and fell in slow rhythm, but its true awareness pulsed outward through the roots—through the tree.
The Core was dreaming, but dreaming awake. Its consciousness flowed through every vine, every branch, every whisper of leaf. Through it, it could sense Aryan and the others—feel their energy, their movement, the way the earth trembled beneath their steps. It didn't move. It didn't have to. Not yet.
In a separate chamber beneath the roots, the other Eternals—Ajak, Gilgamesh, Sprite, Thena, Druig, Phastos, Makkari, Ikaris and Sersi—hung suspended like trophies. Vines had morphed into sinewy cords, piercing into their bodies, not to kill, but to siphon. Their life-force, their cosmic essence, all fed back into the tree and, by extension, into the Core Deviant.
Their faces were pale, bodies weak. Yet their eyes still burned with resistance.
Standing in the center of the room, monitoring their slow drain, was another Deviant. Taller than a man, lean and wicked, with sharp angles to his face and serpentine movements. His skin glimmered like molten ore, constantly shifting between shades. He was the most powerful among the Deviants aside from the Core—the one trusted to lead while the Core slept.
He had named himself Varak. A name born not from memory, but from hunger.
It was Varak who had planned this. Varak who had chosen to bait and capture the Eternals one by one—starting with the quietest, the loneliest. He had played on their pride, their isolation, their need to act. Each had walked into his traps, believing they could save the others.
He looked up now, eyes glowing a deep violet as the tree whispered the news:
Kingo was alive. Kingo was outside. Kingo had help.
And worse—his Deviants had been slaughtered.
His lips curled into a snarl, not of rage, but resolve.
"They've come further than expected," Varak muttered, almost amused. His voice was smooth, but it slithered like poison through the chamber. "But they've only delayed what's coming."
He stepped toward the surface tunnel, his claws clicking against the organic floor as he moved. He could feel the Core's silent approval.
If the outsiders wanted to meddle—if the Eternal wanted to defy him—then he would meet them himself. He would rip Kingo apart and drag him here in front of his allies. And the pests?
They would feed the roots.
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