Vikram's body slammed into the black sands with bone-jarring force.
Pain exploded through him—raw, immediate, blinding. The impact echoed in his skull like a thunderclap, nerves alight with fire. He gasped, his breath caught somewhere between a scream and a sob, as agony clawed at every inch of him.
The world spun. Sky. Sand. Sky again.
Groaning, he rolled onto his side, each movement scraping against the edges of consciousness. His limbs felt heavy, uncooperative, as if they belonged to someone else. But he forced them to move. He had to.
One breath. Then another.
Gritting his teeth, Vikram pushed against the shifting sand, his arms trembling, muscles shrieking in protest. Every motion was a rebellion. Every breath tasted of iron and ash. But still, inch by inch, he rose.
Then—it began.
Something stirred within him.
It wasn't pain. Not quite.
It was worse.
A raw, convulsing pressure churned in his chest—violent, alive. It felt as if something wrong, was trying to rip its way out from inside. His spine arched, and he collapsed again, driven to his knees.
No.
He hated this position. Hated the helplessness it implied. But there was no resisting it. Not this time.
His hands clutched at his chest, nails digging into flesh, as if he could claw out whatever was awakening inside. The sensation only grew. Heat and cold warred in his veins. His vision blurred at the edges.
His own body was rebelling.
Despite the torment roaring through every nerve, Vikram clenched his jaw and stood his ground—refusing to kneel to despair.
The pain was relentless, chewing through muscle, grinding into bone. But he bore it with a fire in his eyes, a grim defiance carved into his expression. Every instinct screamed at him to give in, to end this, to make it stop.
His hand trembled as it lifted the small, battered pack.
Inside: the green powder.
A single dose would silence the agony. A gift. A mercy. A trap.
His fingers hovered, clenched, then pulled away.
No.
Not like this.
With a shuddering breath, Vikram let the pouch fall to the ground. The wind caught a few grains of powder, scattering them like ash.
He chose the pain.
And the pain answered.
His chest convulsed—twisting, bulging unnaturally. Bones groaned. Flesh tore beneath the surface. A scream clawed its way up his throat but died in the cage of his clenched teeth. He collapsed forward, the sand swallowing his knees, his hands digging into it as if he could anchor himself.
Pressure built. Then surged.
It felt like his body was unraveling from the inside out.
Panic flared.
His mind raced, frantic, clawing for an answer—for anything to hold onto. But there was nothing.
With a heavy heart, Vikram's gaze swept across the desolate sea of black sand. It stretched endlessly in every direction, a graveyard for the hopeful. His shoulders slumped, breath shallow. His once-bright eyes dulled, shadowed by resignation.
Then something cracked.
A glint sparked in his gaze—wild, unhinged. A grin—twisted and raw—slid across his face.
If I'm going to die… then let me take something with me.
Without hesitation, Vikram plunged his hand into the sand and scooped up a fistful of that cursed blackness.
And swallowed it.
The effect was instant.
The grains surged down his throat like glass shards, jagged and alive. They tore into him, each grain a sliver of pure malevolence. Agony flared as the sands erupted inside him, crawling like a swarm of devouring insects, venomous and vengeful.
They hated him. Hated his warmth, his blood, his beating heart.
But then—
Something inside Vikram pushed back.
An ancient force stirred—alien, dormant until now. As the black sands flooded deeper, they slammed into this hidden core. And in that collision, everything changed.
It wasn't just pain anymore.
It was war.
The invaders met a force just as cruel, just as hungry. Within Vikram's shattered body, two monsters collided—one birthed from desolation, the other from defiance.
They lunged at each other, no negotiation, no quarter.
They went for each other's throat like sworn enemies reunited after centuries of hate.
And Vikram… was the battlefield.
The tearing pain that had gripped Vikram's body began to fade.
Not entirely—but enough for him to notice. The searing torment of the black sand, the feeling of being shredded from the inside, had dulled. Blunted. He could feel it—something was winning.
The entity that first inhabited this body was holding its ground.
Good.
Vikram didn't want it to die. Not yet.
A scream built in his throat but never escaped. He clutched his head as a fresh wave of blinding pain tore through him, the aftershock of that internal war. Blood poured from his ears, nose, and even the corners of his eyes—thick, dark rivulets staining the sand beneath him.
That was good, too.
The pain kept him focused.
Thud.
A heavy footfall echoed behind him.
Thud. Thud-thud.
They were coming. The Hulk. The three Grunts. He could hear them now, drawing closer with each slam into those black jagged rocks.
Vikram didn't look back. He had work to do.
The black leaf he'd brushed against his body earlier—he remembered it now. Its surface had been slick with the mucus of those worms he'd seen burrowing in and out of the dunes. Mucus that made sand stick.
That, too, was good.
Without hesitation, Vikram rolled his battered body across the black sands. The grains clung to him, layer by layer, covering his skin like armor.
By the time he staggered to his feet, his form was almost unrecognizable.
A small, crude figure, that seemed to look like... a golem?
Every inch of his body screamed in protest, each breath a battle, each movement a miracle.
But the cave was there—distant, half-swallowed by the horizon. Salvation, or something close enough to pretend.
So he limped.
Behind him, the world rumbled.
Thud.
Then another. And another.
The tremors reached him before the sound did, each one jarring his already fractured frame. Even hidden beneath his crude shell of sand and blood, it was clear to anyone watching—this little golem was dragging himself forward with nothing but stubborn hope and sheer, stupid will.
Then came the roar.
"RAAMEEEESSS!!"
It tore through the desert like a beast awakened, raw and jagged, echoing with something not quite human. Vikram froze mid-step, his heart thudding in his ears. That voice—it was his name, twisted by fury, by something demonic and cold.
Dread crawled up his spine. He tried to move faster—had to—but his foot caught on something, and he went down hard, face-first into the sand. Grit scraped his teeth. Blood filled his mouth.
He tasted the end.
Behind him, the black sands shuddered. And then split.
The Hulk rose.
A mountain of muscle and fury, bruised and bloodied, face streaked with crimson, head matted with blood. Bones jutted from his arms in sickening angles—but none of it dulled the fire in his eyes.
Hate. Pure, incandescent hate.
And it was all for Vikram.
Gasping, Vikram tried to push himself up.
His arms buckled.
He slammed back down, chin first, body limp with exhaustion.
The thunderous footsteps behind him were a countdown to death.
He lifted his head, heart pounding like a war drum, and stared at the cave ahead. It was closer now, yet still far enough to feel unreachable. And now that he was within its radius, he felt it—an oppressive pressure leaking from its depths.
Dread. Slaughter. Madness.
It wasn't a place meant for the living.
He didn't want to go there. Not even a step.
But that didn't matter.
This wasn't about wanting. It was about needing.
He needed to reach that cave.
Breathing hard, Vikram pressed his hand into the black sand beneath him. It was cool to the touch, almost soothing—but he knew better. It was waiting.
"It's time to get up, right?"
The desert answered.
The black sands shivered.
Then they stirred.
Something ancient… awoke.
The ground rippled. The air grew heavy. The sand—no longer just sand—began to clump and rise, solidifying as though animated by unseen will. Grain by grain, they pulled together into something dense. Something purposeful.
A form emerged. Then another. And another.
The black sands... they were responding.
Directly in front of Vikram, one such form took shape. A crude, towering humanoid, forged from packed, obsidian sand and rock. Its limbs were jagged, its surface coarse. And on its head—two gaping, hollow eye sockets.
Within those sockets: fire.
Not a gentle flame, but a mad, red blaze. Wild. Hungry. Sentient.
Vikram stared up at it through a haze of pain and awe.
This was no mere accident.
It was the first of many.
And it looked exactly like him—
A small, black golem.