Gods among us

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, yet the war raged on. The king's armies kept coming, each wave stronger than the last. Their weapons gleamed under the blood-red sun, their battle cries echoing through the ruined lands. The resistance was dwindling, but the king's hunger for absolute dominion knew no bounds.

Desperate for power beyond mortal comprehension, the king sought the Mother of Death, the ancient and feared entity whispered about in forbidden tongues. He knelt before her, his armor stained with the blood of countless warriors. He pleaded for the gift of immortality, for the power to rule not just the kingdoms of men, but the very threads of existence itself.

The Mother of Death listened, her hollow eyes peering into his soul. Finally, she spoke, her voice like rusted blades scraping against bone.

"The price is your only begotten daughter."

A tremor coursed through the king's body. His heart, a fortress of iron, cracked at the thought. But he was a man of conquest, and conquest demanded sacrifice. With tear-filled eyes and a heart made of ice, he summoned his courage and brought his daughter before the Mother Devil.

The ritual was horrifying. She ordered him to tear out his daughter's purity and consume it raw. His hands trembled as he obeyed, the taste of his own sin burning his throat. Darkness consumed him, and he collapsed into an abyss of nightmares.

When he awoke, he was no longer in his kingdom. He was in Oru-Ama—the Land of the Army of Death. The skies were blackened with swirling storms, and the ground pulsed like living flesh beneath his feet. In the distance, an altar of bone and shadow stood, where the blood of the ancients pooled. There, the Witch of the Eternal Night waited, her skeletal fingers hovering over a chalice filled with the cursed blood of immortality.

Determined, the king pushed forward. But the path was treacherous. A monstrous Kangal Lion, larger than any beast he had ever faced, emerged from the abyss. Its crimson eyes burned with fury, its fangs dripping with venom. The king did not falter. With a roar that shook the heavens, he lunged into battle.

The beast struck first, sending him hurtling into the stone walls of the cursed city. Blood gushed from his wounds, his ribs cracked, but his will remained unbroken. He would not die. He would not be defeated. With newfound rage, he charged forward, tearing into the lion's flesh, severing its legs, spilling its blackened blood onto the sacred ground. The monster howled in agony, but the king showed no mercy. With one final, devastating strike, he split the beast in two.

Panting, broken but victorious, he staggered to the altar. The witch watched him with cold amusement as he reached for the chalice. With one final gulp, he drank the cursed blood. Power surged through his veins, his wounds sealed, his flesh reborn in darkness. He had become eternal. He had become Death itself.

---

Meanwhile, in Ammasoma…

Marr had been training Natasha, the fierce and enigmatic woman he had rescued from the merciless streets. That night, as the fire crackled in their makeshift shelter, something beyond mere survival took hold of them. Desire. Need. Fate.

They fell into each other's arms, the tension of battle melting into something primal, something forbidden. Her touch was skilled, her hunger insatiable. Marr had never known a woman like her before—one who commanded pleasure like a warrior commands a blade.

Her lips traced fire along his skin, her hands grasped him like he was hers to conquer. She took him deep, drank him like a goddess worshiping her deity, her moans vibrating against his core. Marr, unable to hold back, returned the favor, his tongue dancing between her thighs until she shattered beneath him. She came three times, each cry of pleasure louder than the last, until they finally collapsed into each other, their bodies tangled in heat and exhaustion.

As dawn broke, the world outside their moment of bliss came crashing down.

Jorge stormed into the tent, his face pale with terror.

"Marr, wake up! The King is coming!"

The war was far from over. And now, they would face an enemy who could not die.

The night was thick with fog, curling like ghostly fingers around the jagged peaks of the Dark Mountain. Jorge and Marr moved swiftly, their cloaks billowing behind them, their breaths shallow and careful. They had come here to escape—to hide from the king's wrath. But something was wrong. Too quiet. Too still.

Then, like a whisper of death on the wind, they saw them.

The king's elite warriors stood in formation, their armor gleaming even in the dim moonlight. Shields raised. Swords drawn. Their presence alone turned the air heavy, the weight of an inevitable battle pressing down on Marr's chest.

"Did you really think the king wouldn't predict your cowardice?" a deep voice echoed from the front. It was General Kael, the king's most trusted warrior, his smirk sharp as the blade he wielded.

Jorge tightened his grip on his sword. "Marr, we fight," he said, determination burning in his eyes.

And then—they clashed.

The battlefield became chaos, the sound of steel ringing through the night. Jorge moved like a shadow, dodging and parrying, but these were no ordinary soldiers. These were the king's best.

Marr used the terrain to his advantage, summoning torrents of water from the mountain's hidden springs, forming spears and whips that lashed at the enemies. But the warriors were relentless, cutting through the waves with brute force.

Then—it happened.

Jorge, distracted for just a moment, didn't see Kael's sword coming. The blade struck him hard across the chest, sending him flying back into the cold rock. His body crumpled. He didn't move.

Marr's breath hitched.

"Jorge!" he shouted, running toward him—but Kael stood in his way, sword dripping with Jorge's blood.

"Still standing, are you?" Kael sneered.

Something inside Marr snapped.

His heartbeat slowed. His vision turned cold. He could feel it—the water inside him—boiling, seething, demanding to be unleashed.

And then, he let go.

A deafening roar filled the mountain as Marr's power exploded outward, the air turning into a violent storm of crashing waves and spiraling water. The ground trembled as towering columns of water rose from the very earth, twisting like serpents of destruction.

The warriors—strong, trained, fearless—never stood a chance.

One by one, they were consumed. Their screams were drowned as the water struck like a merciless executioner, crushing them, pulling them into an abyss of endless blue.

Kael's eyes widened in horror, his confidence shattering in the face of this unstoppable fury. He turned to run—too late. A massive wave swallowed him whole, slamming him against the rocks with a force that shattered his armor like glass. He let out one last gasp before sinking into the water's deadly embrace.

And then—silence.

The mountain was empty. The king's warriors were no more.

Marr stood there, chest heaving, his power still roaring in his veins. The water around him settled, dripping from the rocks like the tears of the fallen. And then, he turned—to Jorge.

His friend still breathed, but barely.

Marr knelt beside him, hands trembling as he pressed against Jorge's wound. "Hold on," he whispered, his voice raw. "You're not dying here. Not today."

With a deep breath, he called upon the water once more. This time, it was not for destruction—but for healing.

And as the moon shone down upon the battlefield, the legend of Marr—the Water God of the Dark Mountain—was born.