*You never want to see another version of yourself standing over you, mocking every second you've wasted—reminding you that you never even had the right to waste them in the first place.
In every life, one truth remains absolute: your choices forge who you become.
And when they don't… someone else has already crossed the line and taken the pen from your hand.
That single thought once tickled my curiosity in this rotten world.*
The sky hangs black and bruised, swollen clouds sagging low, heavy with a grief that manifests as cold, relentless rain. At the jagged summit of a towering obsidian spire—a mountain forged from razor-edged black rock—rests a boulder the size of an entire villa, perched in impossible stillness.
Unknown to the storm-lashed world below, a lone figure balances beneath it in a handstand, the colossal weight pressing down against the bare soles of his feet. This is no ordinary inversion: only the five fingertips of each hand bite into the sheer vertical face of the mountain, while the needle-sharp peak looms inches above his head like a guillotine forged from midnight stone. His torso is bare, skin etched with a map of old scars—pale lightning bolts and ragged craters that tell of battles survived against death itself.
Up close, his face is serene, almost defiant in its calm; eyes sealed shut as though he were merely dreaming atop silk sheets rather than defying gravity on a ledge of knives. Rain lashes his skin, tracing icy rivulets along the ridges of muscle and scar alike.
To gaze downward from his position is to confront terror made solid: every inch of the mountain is armored in glossy, sword-sharp protrusions that glint wickedly even in the dim light, hungry for flesh. The peak pierces the clouds themselves, so high that the air thins to a biting chill, and the rain never ceases—pouring in silver sheets that feed an ever-present shroud of swirling fog.
*This is not the end.*
Then his eyes snap open—sharp, alive, unafraid. With a sudden explosive surge he drives both bare feet upward, kicking the massive boulder skyward as though it were mere driftwood. The stone hurtles into the storm, vanishing into the churning clouds.
In the same breath he springs, propelling himself downward with nothing but the strength of his fingers. Sharp black spines flash toward him, eager to impale, yet he meets them without hesitation—fingertips striking facets to deflect his fall, body twisting mid-air with inhuman precision. He dances with gravity itself, plummeting faster and faster, the wind howling past like a living beast. Rain stings his skin; fog swallows the world below. Still he falls, calm and deliberate—adjusting angle and momentum with flicks of his fingers against lethal stone, evading every deadly thrust, turning certain death into controlled descent.
***
ZOOM! CLIIIINK!
"Move!" a man bellowed.
The massive reinforced vault door screeched open. Boots struck the floor in perfect unison, the heavy thud reverberating like a herd of armored bears marching into formation. Muscular soldiers snapped into line, standing rigid and motionless. These were battle-hardened warriors, forged in the fires of countless hellish wars. Old scars etched every inch of exposed muscle, each one a silent story. Their faces were masks of stone—unyielding, as if the world's funniest joke wouldn't crack a smile. Elites through and through.
One full minute of dead silence followed as the soldiers took their positions along both sides, waiting for something—or someone—to walk the center path.
Then came slower, deliberate footsteps. Shoes that declared absolute authority with every strike. Each step carried confidence, a measured rhythm, and an unmistakable aura: everything was under control.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
An old man in a flawless black suit stepped into the light. Arms clasped behind his back, he moved as though this were just another ordinary day, yet every gesture radiated raw power. The deep wrinkles on his face looked carved by decades of iron will. Long white hair flowed like it carried a century of hard-earned wisdom. His mere presence pressed the air from weaker lungs.
"Captain," he said, his voice flat yet heavy enough to crush bone. Up close, his eyes blazed—bright, greedy, feverish with hunger.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in full tactical gear hurried forward and snapped to attention. Every muscle in his body coiled tight before the old man, as though a single flick of those aged fingers could end him.
"Report. Perimeter secure, sir," Captain Batal replied. A faint tremor undercut his hardened facade as a bead of cold sweat traced down his forehead.
"And it?" The old man's gaze never left the colossal sealed door ahead.
"Yes, sir. Everything is locked down… including that."
The words died in the captain's throat the moment the old man's glare cut into him. A shiver raced down Batal's spine; fear and regret flashed in his eyes for speaking too hastily.
"Stay here," the old man commanded, already moving forward. His stare remained fixed on the colossal metal door, as if it promised some monumental opportunity. Something stirred behind those burning eyes.
*Tsk. After all these decades… only raw strength and naked power carved this path for me. And after today—past, present, future—everything stays in my fist.*
A triumphant, twisted grin spread across the old man's face, his eyes gleaming with predatory delight. He had achieved something vast and grand; walking toward that door felt like claiming his prize.
Behind him, Captain Batal's jaw clenched until it ached. Dread and conflict churned in his mind. Worry etched his features—he knew that after this day, the world they lived in would never be the same.
BAM!
The massive door slammed shut. The soldiers instantly snapped to full alertness, remembering their duty. They fanned out, eliminating every blind spot. The chamber became an impregnable fortress, every inch scrutinized and guarded. Their orders were clear: protect this door at all costs. Not even a fly would pass.
"Are you thinking of something, Captain?"
An ice-cold voice sliced through the darkness. Tension spiked; the soldiers grew rigid, scanning frantically but seeing nothing—like a ghost speaking without form or trace. In unison, Captain Batal and his men whirled toward the tunnel entrance, rifles raised.
In the same heartbeat, every light in the chamber died.
Pitch black.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Bodies hit the floor one by one.
Takatakaboom!
The captain fired blindly into the void, muzzle flashes strobing hellish shadows across the walls.
Click.
The lights flared back to life.
Empty.
Horror surged through Batal's veins. Every one of his men lay dead. They hadn't even managed to fire a shot—it had all happened in the instant the lights vanished. A single black needle protruded from each throat.
"Black needles…" he whispered, voice breaking.
Thob. Thob. Thob.
His heart pounded like war drums as recognition struck. A name flashed in his mind.
"LETHAL BLACK!" he roared.
Something shifted behind him. He swung his rifle—then froze. A black blade pressed against his throat.
"Aha… Captain," the assassin purred, voice smooth as poison.
"Aren't you thinking about your little daughter right now?"
The words struck deeper than any blade, wrapping icy chains around Batal's heart. In that moment, they hurt far worse than the steel at his neck.
"You know… for years I found nothing to use against that old bastard. No family. No wife. No friends. Not even where he slept. I started wondering if the devil was human at all." Lethal Black's tone dripped with mockery. "Then… you showed up, Captain Batal."
Fear and doubt flooded the captain's eyes, but raw defiance surged to meet it.
*I won't let this monster anywhere near her!*
He summoned every ounce of will to fight, to kill the man who knew him too well. But his body refused to move.
"The knife," Batal realized through gritted teeth.
"Smart," Lethal Black whispered.
BAM.
Darkness swallowed the captain whole.
***
Clank. Clank. Clank.
BAM.
Gears ground harshly. Heavy locks disengaged with a final shudder. Another massive door swung open, revealing a vast, circular chamber. Every surface—walls, floor, ceiling—was clad in hard, unyielding metal, forged to protect whatever lay within at any cost. This was no ordinary vault; it was a fortress built to cradle the most priceless secret in existence.
In the center, suspended in mid-air, hovered a perfectly smooth black cube. No reflection danced across its surface. No seam marred its edges. No sound emanated from it. It simply existed—radiating an aura that felt ancient, immense, and ravenous.
The old man stared at it. A smile spread across his face, so wide and terrible it could stop the heart of any ordinary person.
To him, it meant only one thing.
"POWER."