ZAWISH THE UNSEEN – PART 3: WRATH OF THE FORGOTTEN
The Sky Didn't Heal
The battlefield still smoldered.
Clouds of radioactive ash drifted over the wasteland where Zar had fallen — or more accurately, where Zawish had turned him into smoke and myth. The ground beneath Zawish's boots was cracked glass, broken from the heat of the atomic fusion, and still trembling from the residual power of the Dar Metal that surged through his veins.
Zawish stood in silence, surrounded by what used to be a city. His glove — scorched, humming, cracked at the knuckles — still pulsed with echoes of what it had done. His breath came slow, not from exhaustion, but from something worse: realization.
He had become more than a protector.
He had become a weapon.
A scream pierced the smoke behind him — a child's voice. Zawish blinked and turned. A girl was trapped under the twisted steel frame of what used to be a bridge. With one effortless motion, he vanished from the skyline and reappeared beside her, lifting the debris like it weighed nothing.
"Are you okay?" he asked softly, kneeling.
The girl stared at him with wide eyes. "You… you're the guy who punched a spaceship in half…"
He chuckled. "That's me."
Her small hands touched his glove. "It's warm," she whispered.
Zawish nodded. "That's because it remembers. It remembers pain. And victory."
As he lifted her gently into his arms and walked toward the emergency aid camp, he heard a crackling in the sky — like thunder, but sharper, meaner. Not natural.
His eyes darted upward.
The sky… was opening.
The Gate of Screams
Above Earth, a rift tore open. It wasn't like a wormhole or portal. This was violent — as if the universe was being clawed apart by something angry. Purple lightning slashed the atmosphere. Wind screamed. And from the dark mouth of the rift came a figure — no spaceship, no army, just a single being.
Humanoid.
Wearing something like ancient armor — black with glowing red veins, eyes hollow with fury.
The world's satellites failed to track him.
He simply appeared.
His name was whispered from dimensions that had no names.
Thragorr the Forgotten.
A being not born of Dar Metal… but betrayed by it.
He landed in the ocean with such force the tides reversed for ten seconds. Coastal cities were swallowed. Storms exploded into existence. And in the center of it all, Thragorr rose from the water like a nightmare the planet had forgotten it feared.
He roared — a sound that was more command than cry.
The world listened.
The War That Wasn't Supposed to Come
Zawish sat with President Rale at the emergency UN bunker in Greenland. The entire military command of the world had been reduced to one table and too much coffee.
"He's from the Dark Dimension?" Rale asked.
Zawish shook his head. "No. He's older than that. He was cast into the Dark Dimension. According to the glove, he was one of the original forgers of Dar Metal. The others betrayed him… and used his body as fuel to create the first batch. They called him the living ore."
Rale blinked. "So what you're saying is… we're screwed."
Zawish shrugged. "Not if I hit him hard enough."
"But last time, you almost died. Zar was powerful, but this… this thing dropped out of the sky like a nuke with anger issues."
Zawish cracked his knuckles. "Then I hit him harder."
: Fists of God, Heart of Fire
The battle began in the Himalayas.
Thragorr didn't wait.
He pulled an entire mountain into the air and hurled it at a city.
Zawish caught it mid-air, spinning as the glove absorbed its weight and momentum, then punched it back into orbit like a baseball launched by a god.
They met above the clouds.
Thragorr spoke first — his voice like metal grinding against screams.
"You wear the glove," he said. "Do you know what it was made from?"
"I don't care," Zawish said. "I only care what it can do."
"Then let's find out."
The air around them exploded as fists collided — one forged from rage, the other from destiny.
Thragorr was fast. His punches split the sky. His eyes glowed with hatred older than time. He swung a blade forged from the molten core of dead stars.
Zawish bled.
He bled a lot.
But he smiled.
"You call that a punch?" Zawish gasped. "I've been slapped harder by my grandma."
Thragorr roared and launched him into the moon.
Literally.
Zawish slammed into the lunar surface, skidding across craters, body broken — and then, as if to flex on physics, stood up again.
"You messed up, bro," he muttered, spitting out blood.
"You gave me time… to charge."
The glove lit up like a dying sun.
Chapter 5: Planet Breaker
Zawish flew back — faster than light, a comet of vengeance — and tackled Thragorr back to Earth. They hit the ground in Brazil, then Africa, then into the core of the Earth itself, punching each other so hard magma changed direction.
Every punch Zawish landed came with a line:
"That's for that mountain!"
BOOM!
"And this is for the moon!"
CRACK!
"And THIS—this is for interrupting my nap!"
WHAM!
Thragorr grabbed Zawish by the throat and roared, "You are nothing but a child of failure!"
Zawish grinned, blood pouring from his mouth.
"I'm not a child of failure…"
"I'm the last hope of the gods you betrayed."
He raised his hand, glove glowing, and whispered:
"Goodnight, metalhead."
And punched Thragorr so hard…
The Earth blinked.
Silence and Storm
When the dust settled, the oceans had calmed, the skies were blue again, and Thragorr was gone — sucked back into the prison dimension he'd escaped from.
Zawish stood over the crater of their final battle. He was burnt, bleeding, his glove cracked nearly beyond repair. But he was smiling.
He turned to the camera drones that had survived and said:
"To anyone else planning to invade Earth…"
He coughed blood.
"Don't."
He collapsed.