"We buried their bones under fire. But fire only feeds the ancient."
— Unknown survivor of the Second Awakening
Southern Ridge – Overlooking the Battlefield
At first, they thought it was wind.
The soldiers, still nursing wounds and burning the priest corpses, paused. Something felt… wrong. The dogs whimpered, ears pinned, tails low. Even the air changed—thicker, charged, metallic.
Adam stood barefoot in the mud, eyes wide.
"No… no no no… they were gone."
He clutched his head as a low hum began to rise from the earth—like a hundred thousand voices breathing in unison. Not chanting. Waiting.
And then—
The ground ruptured.
Not in one place.
In hundreds.
Like boils erupting across the land, fissures tore open in the hills, deserts, cities, oceans.
From each one, they came.
They Were Not the Same
These were not the priests the world had faced.
These were older, leaner, taller.
Their skin was not pale—it glowed faintly, veins like liquid bronze beneath translucent flesh.
Their faces were hidden behind masks of gold, each carved differently: sorrow, wrath, silence, hunger.
They moved in silence—perfect silence.
Mike raised his rifle.
The nearest figure turned its head.
No mouth.
No eyes.
But he felt it inside his bones.
Panic in the Ranks
"Fall back!" General Marcus screamed.
"This is NOT the same enemy!"
But orders meant nothing now.
The ground cracked and rose into monoliths. Shadows moved faster than bullets. Some dogs howled and collapsed instantly—not dead, but blind, as if light had been sucked from their eyes.
One soldier fired an explosive round into the heart of a golden-masked figure. It shattered. The creature paused… and reassembled. Backwards.
Screams rippled across the ranks.
Soldiers broke.
Units collapsed.
Only Adam stood frozen.
The Frequency Returns
From deep in his mind, he heard a tone—low, harmonic, ancient.
Not from his ears.
From below his heart.
"They're… singing," he whispered.
"Not with sound. With memory."
One of the new creatures turned toward him. The mask shimmered. For a moment, he saw something underneath. His own face, burned, older, crying.
He collapsed.
In the Ruins of Command
Sarah tried to reach him, dragging his unconscious body through mud and ash as the world fell apart around them.
The priests—the original ones—stood at the edge of the battlefield, watching.
Laughing.
Their wounds healed.
Their numbers doubled.
And now, they bowed.
To the golden-masked ones.
Final Scene: Deep Beneath Luxor
The priest known as "Nabi" stood at the awakening chamber.
The crimson spear trembled in his hands.
The statues surrounding him began to whisper.
Stone flaked.
Eyes opened.
"Too early," he murmured.
"They were not supposed to rise yet. Not without the boy."
And behind him, one voice echoed through the tomb:
"He is already theirs."