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- Unknown Deserted Location, Greenland -
- May 6, 1937 | Continuation -
The battlefield lay quiet in the aftermath. The snow, once pristine, was now scorched and stained. Aryan lowered his hand slowly, the final wisps of Void Arcane dissolving into the air like a breath held too long and finally released.
There was no roar of victory. No celebration. Just silence.
A silence that echoed deeper than sound.
Varak was gone—completely, irreversibly unmade.
But Aryan's final blow hadn't just ended a life. It had sent ripples across the battlefield.
Even as he stood locked in battle, Aryan had controlled the weight of his Conqueror's Haki with terrifying precision. He let it crash down like a silent wave—but only against his enemies. None of his allies were touched by it. Not Karna, not Nalini, not Shakti. But the Deviants... they felt everything.
The weaker ones, barely hanging on in the chaos, couldn't withstand it. Their minds collapsed under the crushing will. They fell—mid-charge, mid-scream—faces contorted in terror before they slumped into the snow, unconscious or worse.
Others staggered, shaken, their instincts screaming at them to flee. Their focus shattered, their formation crumbled—and Aryan's forces didn't hesitate.
The Void Servants swept through like executioners. Karna moved like a blinding blade. Nalini's vines finished the rest with swift, unrelenting grace. Even Kingo, usually holding back with precision, now unleashed his fury in full. And Shakti—burning with a quiet wrath—flickered like a storm of light, erasing those who still stood.
Within moments, the battle was done.
The Deviants were no more.
But somewhere deep below the frozen earth, something trembled.
The Core had been watching.
Through the roots of the parasitic tree, through tendrils of corrupted life that extended far beyond human senses, he had felt every moment. And now—he reeled. Not from pain. But from something deeper.
His most trusted creation—his first—was gone.
Varak, the one who had stood beside him from the beginning. The one who had slaughtered many creatures for their souls, helped him nourish on them. The one who had helped modify the Deviants created by him, and eventually captured the Eternals. The one who had been vital to his awakening—erased, completely, like he had never existed.
The Core's fury shook the roots. His limbs curled inward in rage as more of the tree's bark peeled off unnaturally. The inside of the sphere pulsed erratically. But more than fury... he was alarmed.
This mortal—Aryan—he wasn't normal.
He could wield powers seemingly on a cosmic scale, manipulate reality through sheer will, and had access to techniques the Core couldn't comprehend.
What had that final strike been? It hadn't destroyed Varak. It had removed him. Like the laws of existence had simply... skipped over him. Unmaking.
Aryan clearly had more.
That realization settled in the Core like cold poison.
He couldn't afford another interruption. He couldn't risk facing Aryan again until his evolution was complete.
But the evolution was far from finished.
He turned his focus toward the hourglass embedded within the Roots of the tree around the Core—a device Varak had made for efficient usage of the Sands of Time. As it continued to be in constant usage to speed up his evolution, the sands inside shimmered with a dull gold hue.
Regrettably, they weren't limitless.
They weren't like the Infinity Stones, tied to the fabric of existence itself.
They were finite. A tool of ancient science—or magic—crafted by beings whose names had long faded. Each use consumed them. A minute stolen from the future, paid for in sand. And it was consistently used recklessly: to undo the barriers protecting the Sphere, unseal it, to leap his evolution forward by millennia.
Barely a handful remained.
Just enough for a few hours.
But he didn't hesitate.
He reached out, and the hourglass glowed as the last grains were consumed. Time bent around the parasitic tree. The evolution quickened. The Core's form twisted again—limbs stretching, spine breaking and reforming, bones reforging in silence.
It was agony. It was chaos. But it was necessary.
And it still wasn't enough.
Aryan would come for him soon. And so he bought time.
From deep within the tree's roots, he reached for the ones he still controlled.
They had been bound long ago—buried under the Arctic, siphoned slowly of soul and energy. Ajak, Thena, Ikaris, Sersi, Gilgamesh, Phastos, Makkari, Druig, and Sprite—all entangled in the Core's roots, their divine circuits distorted, corrupted just enough to keep them docile, their energies feeding the parasite's growth.
But now he would awaken them.
Their minds were clouded, tethered to his will. They rose with hollow eyes and broken conviction.
They would not stop Aryan forever.
But they would delay him.
And that was all the Core needed.
Enough to become something no mortal could touch.
The snow had barely begun to settle when Aryan's eyes narrowed.
He couldn't explain it in words—only that the world felt... off. The air had thickened, the rhythm of reality disturbed. Even the hum of silence carried tension, like time itself had quickened its breath.
Aryan turned his gaze to the tree.
It pulsed—no longer dormant, but alive with erratic energy. He could feel it: the Core was doing something unnatural. He had used something... ancient. Dangerous. Time was accelerating.
He stepped forward, Excalibur still in hand, his other palm drawing in quiet arcs of void energy as he prepared to strike—this time, not at a person, but at the very thing feeding this horror.
The parasitic tree had to be stopped.
He took one more step.
But the earth beneath him trembled.
A low rumble cracked through the snow near the base of the tree—a jagged wound opening at its roots, the same place from where Varak had once emerged.
And out of that darkness came the last people Aryan expected.
Nine figures—each radiant, familiar to the cosmos.
Ajak. Thena. Ikaris. Sersi. Phastos. Gilgamesh. Druig. Makkari. Sprite.
Their bodies moved with grace, but their eyes were hollow, glazed with a strange sheen. Root-like tendrils pulsed along their limbs and backs, merging into the icy ground behind them—into the parasitic tree itself.
They weren't walking of their own will.
"Ajak?" Kingo whispered in disbelief, his voice breaking as he stumbled forward, half a step, then two more. "Thena? Sersi—"
But Aryan's instincts screamed louder.
In a flash, he appeared beside Kingo—just in time.
Without wasting a moment, he yanked Kingo away, teleporting a few metres apart.
A searing blast of energy passed through the place Kingo had stood just a heartbeat ago—bright, brutal.
His eyes still glowed with golden rage—but they weren't his. They were the tree's.
Aryan and Kingo reappeared a short distance away in a swirl of shadow and air, landing with a sharp crunch in the snow. Kingo stumbled, disoriented. He looked back—saw the scorched crater where he'd been—and then saw Ikaris hovering just above it.
Not hesitating. Not recognizing.
Karna was the first to reach them, his armor glowing with light. "What happened?"
Nalini arrived next, roots coiling around her arms defensively, eyes wary but focused. "Are those—?"
"They're the Eternals," Aryan said grimly. "But they're not themselves."
A moment later, Shakti landed beside them, cosmic light flickering across her shoulders, her expression hardened by recognition.
Aryan continued, eyes locked on the advancing group. "The tree has its roots in them. It's siphoning their energy... their souls. It's controlling them."
Kingo's hands were shaking. His eyes hadn't left them. "They're alive. They're right there. I came all this way—I thought they were lost—"
"I know," Aryan said gently. "But right now... they're weapons pointed at us."
Another blast fired—Thena this time, a spear of pure energy cleaving through the air.
Aryan raised his hand, conjuring a shimmering void barrier that absorbed the strike, rippling with dark light. The force still sent tremors under their feet.
"They're still in there," Nalini said quietly, stepping closer to Kingo. "I can feel it. Like a flicker of who they were."
"That's what makes this harder," Aryan said. "And what makes it dangerous. They won't stop until the Core is done using them."
The Eternals closed the distance slowly, methodically. Their steps were not desperate. They were guided—like windblown leaves. Every movement smooth. Efficient. Controlled.
Kingo clenched his fists. "Then we get them back. Whatever it takes."
Aryan nodded once, eyes sharp as steel. "Then we fight. But we do it our way. We protect, even when we're under attack."
The team fanned out—battle-worn, hearts heavy—but purpose igniting once more.
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