As the holo-communicator on the ground shut off, Aiden listened to the silence.
The air carried a gentle, warm breeze, and the rhythmic crash of ocean waves against the rocky coastline echoed in the distance. For a moment, it was serene. But for a man like Aiden, serenity was a stagnant pool. He preferred the storm.
Aiden's mind drifted back to the moment he had looked upon Lia's face for what he thought was the last time. He remembered the sting of her energy-blade, the warmth of his own blood, and the look of cold, dutiful sorrow in her purple eyes.
"I felt my body go limp, and the world went dark," he whispered to the wind. "It was peaceful. Time stretched on for what felt like an eternity. I was at peace, one with the universe... and then all that pain came rushing back at once. I was dragged back into the light, back to the place of my defeat."
He looked down at his hands. They were no longer the simple granite of a soldier. They were obsidian—darker, denser, and filled with a hunger that years of "death" had only sharpened.
"Lord Apex."
A voice sliced through the peace. "Please let me know if there is anything else that you need."
Aiden was slightly miffed that his moment had been interrupted, but he kept his expression neutral. He turned to look at the man standing before him. Nkosinathi stood a few paces back, his posture a careful blend of a noble leader and a terrified servant.
"I'm fine, King. You and your tribe have done enough already."
"Please, Lord Apex, you can't call me that! It's illegal!" Nkosinathi pleaded, his eyes darting around as if the very air might report the forbidden title to the revolutionary councils.
"Your name is Nkosinathi, right?" Aiden's face contorted into a smirk, though the warmth didn't reach his eyes. "Its meaning—God is with us. That is why I call you King. Because I am here."
"Let's play a little game, King. Since you're a king and I'm a god, will you bow down to me?"
Aiden's voice was suddenly thick with bloodlust. Nkosinathi hesitated for an instant, taken aback by the sudden shift in his powerful ally. An instant was all Aiden needed.
With a speed that defied his massive frame, Aiden closed his hand around Nkosinathi's neck. He lifted the tall, slim man into the air like he was made of feathers.
Nkosinathi's face went pale, but he managed a strained smile even as he suffocated. Suddenly, his body dissolved into a swirl of tiny, shimmering grains of sand, slipping through Aiden's obsidian fingers. He rematerialised a few metres away, gasping for air, and immediately dropped to one knee.
"Forgive me, Lord Apex. You simply caught me by surprise. I know you are far more powerful than I," Nkosinathi said, struggling to regain his composure.
Aiden watched him, unimpressed. He knew the People of the Sand were the most formidable faction in Southern Africa. He had begun courting them long before the final battle on Table Mountain, sensing the fracture in the revolution's ideals.
Their population consisted of the most exceptional healers on the planet, but it was their Shaman who was the true prize. A soul-manipulator of terrifying calibre. It was through their forbidden rites—the chanting, the blood-earth magic, and the spiritual tethering—that Aiden's soul had been stitched back into his broken and bloodied remains.
The Shaman hadn't just healed him; he had changed him. Aiden couldn't shake the feeling that something inside him was missing but, he didn't care. He had his shot at retribution and a second shot at global domination.
While the rest of the world embraced the new way of life—thriving in a horizontal economy of mutual aid where no man stood above another—many in the south remained deeply invested in their cultural roots. They believed that the revolution had hollowed out their identity. To them, chiefs and kings weren't symbols of oppression; they were the pillars of society.
This belief turned the southern tip of the continent into a volatile chessboard. It was a constant tug-of-war between the ambitious factions who coveted the old ways of power and the anarchist settlements that fought to preserve individual autonomy.
"King, how large is the People of the Sand faction now?" Aiden asked. He could feel it—the hum of fifty thousand hearts beating in rhythm with his own.
"About fifty thousand strong, Lord Apex. It is all going according to your plan; the people are grateful for your... assistance."
The "assistance" was clear: Aiden was their legend. He was the "Apex" they could point to when the revolutionary councils tried to dismantle their traditions. In return, their collective devotion was a battery. Every time a child in the tribe was told of his "heroic" deeds, Aiden felt his granite skin grow harder, his strength increase and his senses sharpen.
"What about those people you spoke to on the communicator?" Nkosinathi asked, his brow furrowed. "How will we fight against them? Aren't they strong?"
"They are," Aiden replied, his gaze drifting back toward the horizon, toward the memory of a tavern and a woman with purple eyes. "They are the strongest people I've ever known. That's why their fall has to be the loudest."
"These things take time, King. I've told you how my power works, right?" Aiden paced the rocky shore, his footsteps leaving deep indentations in the stone. "As long as the People of the Sand keep growing in number, and as long as they keep their... admiration for me, I'll keep growing stronger. I will protect you all."
He paused, a dark glint in his eyes. "I may have made the first move to threaten them, but The Hand will come for me. I know them all too well. I'm well aware of Oracle and her cold, calculating ways. I know she will take her time, mapping out every probability, thinking she's two steps ahead."
He began to laugh—a low, guttural sound that vibrated in the chests of everyone within a mile. "I'm counting on it. She'll spend her days planning for the man I was during the war. She won't be ready for what I've become."
"This will be The Hand's downfall!"
Aiden's laughter peaked, and the ground beneath them buckled. A sharp earth tremor rippled through the coastline, sending birds screaming into the sky and cracking the very rocks they stood upon.
He stood tall, his obsidian skin catching the afternoon light. It didn't just reflect the sun; it seemed to swallow it.
"Strength is a gift, King. But it's wasted on those who want to be equal. I'm going to show them that some people were born to stand, and the rest..."
He looked down at the kneeling Nkosinathi, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper.
"...the rest were born to kneel."