18-

18 - Nightmare

Darkness swelled on the horizon like the breath of a catastrophe yet to be born. The sky was silent; even the stars seemed to avert their gaze. Every slight movement in the silence trembled like a taut bowstring. Everyone—everything—was waiting. But for what, no one truly knew.

And then, a figure stepped forward, his eyes carrying the fury of the ages.

V.

Lines etched sharply into his face, pupils drowned in endless darkness… Standing atop the ashes of a razed village, even the Eternals arrayed around him recoiled for a moment. For in that instant, it wasn’t a god who drew breath—but a curse.

Phoros stood like a mountain of bronze. His armor drank the light from the sky, casting a chilling silence that rang with the cold whistle of metal. His very presence weighed heavy, like war made manifest. The Deviant legion beside him stood still, awaiting orders. But Phoros did not speak. His eyes were locked on V. Was it curiosity in his gaze? Contempt? Or perhaps a patience forged from pure arrogance.

V took a step.

The barren earth cracked beneath his foot. Shadows rose from the ground like black tongues curling around his ankles. His staff trembled in his fingers. The wind stopped. Time withdrew. And rage—rage beyond reckoning—erupted from his chest.

“I did not come for you…” V growled, his voice like thunder, “…but I will take you nonetheless.”

And in that moment, thought burned. Reason fell silent. Darkness decided.

V struck his staff against the ground.

The earth tore open. Shadows went berserk. And V surged forward like lightning piercing the heavens.

“Stop!” Thena shouted, but her voice was swallowed by the dark.

Makkari leapt, but she was too late.

Sersi raised her magic, but it was already over.

Before V could reach Phoros, the earth vomited forth.

Like a black tide, hundreds of Deviants burst from hills, crevices, and shadowed depths. Fangs, claws, howls, screams… The ground had split, and a cursed army spewed from beneath. This was not a declaration of war—this was war being born. The moment when time cracked, and fate began to be written in blood.

The Deviants attacked. The sky darkened. Flames rose.

The Eternals moved.

Sersi turned nearby stones into massive walls.

Druig sent a psychic command—some Deviants turned on each other.

Thena, her spear of light slicing through a shield-bearing creature, split it in two.

Kingo launched blasts of energy from his fingertips, while Makkari danced through the inferno, faster than the wind.

But at the heart of all this chaos, there was only one focal point: V and Phoros.

Their first clash was like a mountain collapsing.

V swung his staff—Phoros blocked with his right hand. The impact hurled surrounding Deviants into the air. Phoros’s armor darkened but did not crack. He was a warlord, forged in the breath of a god of destruction.

He retaliated.

His fist struck V’s chest—bones cracked. V flew back, but before hitting the ground, shadows caught him, lifting him again. Furious, unrestrained, deadly.

Ikaris arrived.

Energy shot from his eyes, striking Phoros’s back, but barely left a scratch.

Phoros turned and punched him. Ikaris crashed down, then rose again.

This was not just a battle.

This was the unraveling of an age.

V attacked again. He turned shadows into blades, chains, spiked whips. Each lashed at Phoros. Phoros used a Deviant corpse as a shield, then conjured a massive inferno. Shadows burned. V screamed—but did not retreat.

With every step, they wore each other down.

The Deviants pressed on. The battlefield was awash in blood. The Eternals fell, one by one. They fought back, but the enemy was endless. Phoros’s legion was burying an age.

And V… V was reaching his limit.

His lungs burned. His skin split. His staff grew heavy. Each breath was like lifting a mountain.

But he didn’t back down.

What was left to lose? His village was gone. His people were dead. His will had narrowed to a single point:

“Fight. Fight. Fight.”

And then… a whisper.

Darkness stirred in his veins. A presence awoke deep in his chest.

“Call me…”

That voice… he knew it. It had whispered to him when he first fell into Midgard, when he screamed for the first time, when he was most alone.

It was darkness itself.

And V knelt, raising his staff toward the sky.

He screamed.

The sky tore open.

In the dead center of night, a darkness darker than stars opened. A rift… a gate… a summons. And from within, a colossal figure descended. Its shoulders were woven from the night itself. Its eyes did not glow—they reflected only oblivion. With its arrival, wind died. Time pulled away.

Nightmare.

This time, the titan of ruin stood beside V.

It had yielded to his will.

The Deviants froze. Some fell to their knees. Others tried to flee—but it was too late.

Nightmare rose into the sky, opened its mouth, and exhaled darkness.

The sky twisted into a vast vortex. Shadows attacked reality. Phoros’s army was crushed, one by one. Around Nightmare, time bent. Screams rose like prayers.

And Phoros… retreated for the first time.

But V stood there, beneath Nightmare’s shadow, no longer the same.

His eyes were empty.

The light within him was long gone—replaced by endless darkness.

His staff had turned into a black spear.

The air around him was sharp, heavy, almost poisonous.

He wasn’t a god. He was a funeral rite.

He clashed with Phoros once more.

The impact shook the cosmos.

With each strike, V grew darker, more lost.

But at last… an opening.

He plunged the spear into Phoros’s chest.

Nightmare screamed from above.

And Phoros’s body exploded.

Silence. Endless silence.

The Deviants were gone. The darkness dispersed.

Nightmare slowly withdrew into the sky’s rift. It looked at V one last time, nodded in approval—

And vanished.

V fell to his knees. His staff slipped from his hands. The Eternals watched from afar.

None approached.

They all saw—he was someone else now.

V lifted his head.

The sky was slowly returning to normal.

But the sky within him… was dark forevermore.

He had crossed another threshold. The Fourth Level.

But it had a price.

No village.

No people.

No heart.

He no longer sought power to survive.

He sought power—because it was now his.

He rose in silence. And without a word, without a glance, he left the battlefield like a shadow born from ruin.

⸻

Thus ends the first arc.

The next one will center on forgotten gods exiled to Earth. A war will break out among them—and V will be caught in the heart of it.