Egypt, outskirts of Cairo.
Yellow الرمال churned as heatwaves distorted the air.
An archaeological team bustled around a newly discovered ruin. Shovels and brushes were piled inside a temporary shed. Thirty meters underground, in a stone chamber, the walls were covered in ancient hieroglyphs. Murals depicted a blue-skinned giant standing atop a pyramid, with countless people kneeling at his feet.
The team leader, Abdul, crouched before a stone slab, illuminating the inscriptions with a flashlight. His assistant snapped photos, the flash flickering repeatedly.
"This script… it's older than anything I've seen," Abdul muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "At least five thousand years."
"Professor, this—" the assistant pointed to a symbol in the corner of the wall. A warning mark:
Do Not Awaken.
Abdul walked to the center of the chamber. There lay a stone sarcophagus, its surface coated in dust. He brushed it away, revealing a carved eye symbol—its pupil an inverted triangle.
"Open it."
"But the warning—"
"Superstition," Abdul cut him off. "We're scientists."
The three of them pried open the lid together. It crashed onto the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust that made them cough.
Inside lay a mummified corpse—blue-gray skin wrapped in decayed linen. It was preserved too well… almost as if it had died only days ago.
Abdul leaned in, shining his flashlight on its face. Broad forehead. Deep eye sockets. Lips tightly shut.
"The bone structure… something's off," the assistant said.
Before he could finish—
The chamber shook.
Sand trickled from the ceiling. The murals began to glow faintly, symbols lighting up one after another.
"Earthquake?" someone shouted.
"No."
The vibration came from the sarcophagus.
The corpse's finger twitched—first the index finger, then the whole hand. Its dried muscles filled out, its skin shifting from ashen gray to pale blue. Its chest rose and fell.
Abdul stumbled back, dropping his flashlight.
The corpse opened its eyes.
Pure white. No pupils. Blinding light radiated from within.
It sat up, its neck cracking audibly.
"Run!"
Too late.
The blue-skinned figure raised a hand. The air froze. The three men were pinned in place, unable even to breathe.
Apocalypse rose from the sarcophagus, levitating as the stone beneath his feet crumbled into dust. His gaze swept across the chamber—murals, modern humans—then settled on the exit.
"Five thousand years…" he spoke in ancient Egyptian, his voice low and rasping.
The three archaeologists collapsed into ash.
Apocalypse absorbed their knowledge—modern language, technology, politics, weapons.
He waved his hand. The chamber ceiling exploded. Rock and sand cascaded down, only to be repelled before touching him.
He burst out into the open desert, hovering in the air.
The midday sun blazed overhead. He narrowed his eyes, then opened them fully, scanning the horizon.
In the distance lay Cairo—its skyline dense with modern buildings.
"Five thousand years… and this is all?" he murmured. "Taller structures. More weapons. The essence remains unchanged. Still weak."
He closed his eyes.
His psychic power spread outward, covering Egypt, the Middle East—then the entire planet. The thoughts of seven billion minds wove into a vast network within his consciousness.
He searched for mutants.
Ordinary mutants flickered like fireflies—dim. But among them were stars.
Cairo—a young girl stealing food, using small clouds to block surveillance.
Warsaw—a woman fighting in an underground arena, manifesting pink psychic blades.
Apocalypse locked onto them.
He vanished from the desert—and appeared in a slum alley in Cairo.
The alley was narrow, with crumbling walls and garbage piled along the ground. The air reeked.
A teenage girl crouched in the corner, clutching stolen bread. Dark-skinned, disheveled hair, wary eyes.
Ororo Munroe.
"Your power is wasted," Apocalypse said behind her.
Ororo spun around. The bread fell from her hands.
A tall, blue-skinned man stood there in tattered linen robes, white eyes glowing.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"Your future."
Apocalypse raised his hand. Golden light gathered in his palm.
Ororo tried to run—but her legs felt like lead. The light struck her forehead. Warm energy surged into her, awakening something deep within.
The sky darkened instantly.
Storm clouds gathered from all directions, covering Cairo in seconds. Lightning roared. Thunder shook the ground.
Ororo's eyes turned pure white—just like his.
She felt it—the connection to the sky.
"This… is true power," Apocalypse said. "Come with me, and you will become one of this world's rulers."
Ororo stared at her hands, arcs of lightning dancing across them. She had never felt this strong.
"What do you want me to do?" Fear turned into anticipation.
"Change the world."
Apocalypse turned. "First, I need more followers."
Space split open—a golden portal.
On the other side: an underground fight club in Warsaw. Dim lights. The smell of sweat and blood.
Psylocke stood in the ring, clad in a purple bodysuit. A pink psychic blade dripped with blood. Opposite her, a burly man lay collapsed, his chest torn open.
The crowd roared—some celebrating winnings, others cursing losses.
Psylocke stepped out of the cage, wiping her face with a towel. Her name was Betsy Braddock. Once a model, she had been sold here after her X-gene awakened. For three years, she had survived through killing.
"You're up again in ten minutes!" the bookmaker shouted.
She didn't respond. She was tired—mentally.
A golden portal opened before her.
The entire venue froze.
Apocalypse stepped out, Ororo behind him. His gaze swept the room before settling on Psylocke.
"Your power should not exist to entertain the worthless."
The bookmaker snapped out of it. "Kill them!"
Six guards opened fire.
The bullets stopped midair, frozen three meters from Apocalypse.
He waved his hand.
The bullets reversed direction. Six guards dropped instantly.
The crowd screamed, stampeding toward the exits.
Psylocke didn't move.
Looking into those white eyes… she felt an inexplicable sense of release.
"Do you want freedom?" Apocalypse asked.
"What's the price?" she replied calmly.
"Serve me. Help me rebuild the world."
Psylocke was silent for three seconds. Her gaze swept over the corpses, the fleeing crowd—then returned to him.
"Deal."
Apocalypse raised his hand again. Stronger golden light surged forth, striking her forehead.
She gritted her teeth as her abilities were forcibly amplified. Her short blade extended into a long sword—then split into dual weapons.
Her psychic power expanded. What had once been limited to close combat now extended effortlessly over a kilometer.
"Good."
Apocalypse turned. Another portal opened.
"Two more remain," he said. "Four Horsemen. Now there are two."
Ororo and Psylocke exchanged glances, then followed him into the portal. Light swallowed the three of them.
Silence returned to the arena.
---
Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters – Underground Training Room
Charles sat before Cerebro, sweat beading on his forehead. His psychic power scanned the globe, locking onto Apocalypse. On the screen, points of light represented mutants across the world—several were moving at unnatural speeds.
"I've found him," Charles said, his voice tense. "Cairo, Warsaw… and Berlin. He's recruiting followers—faster than we expected."
Hang stood in the corner, arms crossed, expression unreadable as he watched the screen. He could sense that ancient, overwhelming presence from afar—stronger than when he had sealed it before.
"How strong is he now?" Scott asked, already suited up, visor in place.
"I'd classify him as early peak Skyfather level," Hang said. "Among mutants, that's peak Omega-level. His ability amplification can strengthen his followers. Once he gathers all four Horsemen, their combined combat power will reach mid Omega-level."
"Then what are our chances…" Hank adjusted his glasses, uneasy.
"Fifty-fifty." Hang's gaze shifted to Jean.
She stood at the back, pale, fists clenched.
"…assuming Jean holds."
Jean lifted her head, meeting Hang's eyes.
The power inside her churned violently. Every breath felt like swallowing fire. Charles's psychic restraints had already cracked by a third—the rest was on the verge of collapse.
"I can," she said softly—but firmly.
Hang nodded.
He knew the real test hadn't begun yet.
Apocalypse was only warming up—adapting to the era, choosing his pieces. When he was ready, he would launch his true assault.
And when that moment came—
The Phoenix Force within Jean would be pushed to its absolute limit.
Awaken… or be destroyed.
There was no third path.
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