Lightning tore through the sky of Dagan-Nur, slicing through the velvet darkness with flashes of white light. The Gate trembled on the brink of opening—a vast, piercing rift in the fabric of the universe through which the four Deniers would step toward their next victim. He walked second, following Brog; ahead lay another journey, another land, another small death for the world that would fall into their black harvest. K'arkh could hear the pulse of past campaigns beneath his skin: the groans of the dying, the clang of broken bones, the smell of blood and ancient rot. His very flesh was saturated with power and hatred—the same hatred of life that fed his bestial joy.
A warm arousal spread through his body—that familiar, heated surrender when the hunt is approaching and nothing can interfere with the pleasure. He stepped toward the portal; the darkness around him responded with a coldness, compressed like steel. At that moment, Illissa's voice, carried through the noise of the wind and the scent of ozone, sounded sharply from behind.
"You're too self-assured, K'arkh, one of the Four Deniers of Existence!" Her words were like a thread that could be torn with a glance. "Turn around. This will be the last time you'll see this sky."
Yalyssa the Weaver—queen of a distant planet and bearer of the wrath of prophecies—always spoke harshly, but now her voice held not confidence, but fear. K'arkh snorted. Her foresight was important, but not indisputable. He knew himself better than any seer: he knew his desires, his powers, and his destiny. Everything would proceed as usual: the four Deniers would swallow the world, and he would return once again to the abyss of Dagan-Nur—with proof of his worth and new trophies of souls.
He stepped into the Portal. The darkness contracted like a retracting curtain, and immediately gave way to the brightest light. His receptors, accustomed to the darkness, cried out—the brightness cut like a knife. The Gate tore the Deniers straight into the heart of the Dominion. And the game began.
The Dominion greeted them with a scream: screams, blood, panic—faces caught off guard. For K'arkh, it was like coming home: a deadly dance around his victims, the smell of fresh blood and the thrill of power. He didn't just kill—he tasted death; anger and pleasure merged into one, a source of profound pleasure. He watched the world break apart beneath his feet, and with each blow, a new, malicious spark ignited in his chest.
And suddenly—a quiet, icy whisper behind him. The voice of the Judge, whose form he knew better than his own thoughts. K'arkh turned away, forced by habit—greatness confronted greatness.
"Do you remember me, K'arkh?" the Judge said. He spoke calmly; there was no threat in his voice, more like a forced confession. "Do you remember?"
"Yes, Judge," K'arkh replied, and the word held a mournful mockery. He straightened, examining his opponent. The Judge was still the same—steady, with a piercing gaze—but now a weariness slid through him, like a crack in bronze.
"The Dominion is a place where paths cross," the Judge continued. "Perhaps this is a sign that fate cannot be cheated? Remember when HE said you would protect those you fiercely hate? You laughed, calling it childish nonsense. Today it will come true."
Lightning flashed across the Judge's body, revealing new lines of weariness on his face. There was no anger in his words—only cold certainty and a hint of despair. He spoke of the disappearance of God, of a trail lost in the fog, of the great harmony being disrupted. And, most importantly, he spoke of K'arkh's weakness: how it was slipping away, how its strength was thinning, how even the empires of the Deniers were beginning to crack.
The words pierced K'arkh's mind like needles. He tried to dismiss them as vile words, but the truth lay like a heavy burden on his shoulders. How many times had he allowed his enemies to wound him? How often had his own mistakes brought chaos to the Deniers' ranks? Blasphemy welled up within him—not against the world, not against the Judge, not against the Creator; he frowned with a dull, sharp hatred of himself: of his weakness, of his doubts, of the moments when power slipped away.
Yalyssa, Brog the Conqueror, and Vajar—his partners—will never forgive any sign of weakness. They will remember and torment if they find a reason. But what is more important than all honor—when the life of K'arkh itself is at stake? The desire to survive, to not allow one's strength to fade completely—that is a more compelling motive than pride.
"What's it to me?" he barked, his face contorted with contempt. "Find Osh yourself, Judge. I don't care."
The judge responded with a bitter smile, merciless. "Admit it: your power is already fading. With the Creator gone, the world has fallen apart; the laws have ceased to function. We are losing our bearings. Help us find him—and perhaps your power will return. For now, your greatness and terror are only temporary; how long will this illusory superiority last?"
K'arkh heard the truth and refused to accept it. His pride was torn like old armor, and the fear of loss, like cold water, flowed beneath his bones. He hated people, he hated the Judge and his companions, he hated the Creator and all order that had vanished with a weary sigh. But most of all, he hated the feeling of helplessness when a bone breaks and cannot be burned back into whole.
"Come on," he said, his voice laced with a stifled threat. "I'll help you, but only as long as it serves my interests. When that goal is achieved, I'll tear this world to shreds and take everything that's left of it."
His words were both an oath and a promise of betrayal. The sky of Dagan-Nur, as if sensing the new course of events, began to thicken with a blanket of clouds. The first drops of rain fell into the abyss, as if they were the tears of the world itself—small, heavy, they fell and drowned in eternal darkness. The downpour began quietly, but soon turned into a whisper that grew louder, drowning out the echoes of the battle.
Their union was forged. But a union between shadow and weariness is a precarious thing. No one knew how this new path would lead: salvation or ultimate destruction. The sky was torn by lightning, the gates glowed with a bloody light, and K'arkh moved forward—toward a new world, to a new hunt, and to what he preferred to call his destiny.