Chapter 36 – The Storm Above, the Grave Below

  The sea was black.

  Not dark. Black.

  A writhing, endless sheet of fury, heaving and crashing beneath a sky just as unforgiving.

  The winds howled like fallen gods.

  The rain didn’t fall; it stabbed. And from every corner of the world, thunder answered with a voice that split the air in two.

  But something else moved.

  Something cut through the storm like it didn’t exist.

  Four shadows. Barely visible at first—just streaks against the clouds.

  They moved fast. Faster than anything human.

  Each one surged through the chaos with a presence that didn’t match physics. Like gravity bent to avoid them.

  Then came the fifth.

  Larger. Slower.

  Not because it couldn’t match their speed—but because it didn’t need to.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The clouds tore open in its wake.

  Lightning split and vanished. Wind halted.

  The sea itself quieted.

  Not calmed—suppressed. As if existence had remembered its place.

  Above, through the thinning storm, the aurora bled across the sky—green, violet, gold—flickering like the northern sky watched, but afraid.

  The POV broke past them. Past gods in transit.

  And ahead, far below, was land.

  Not land. Ice.

  White. Silent. Waiting.

  Cut to black.

  —

  Four sets of footsteps crunched against the frozen ground.

  Ash led the group, her cloak fluttering in the freezing air, Lazaro beside her with that half-lidded stare of someone who was here only physically.

  Mammon walked like the ground should move for him. Belzeebub, fingers twitching, spinning a thin blade between them like he was carving symbols into the wind.

  Behind them, the fifth moved.

  Leviathan.

  Not a part of the group. Not trailing either. Just... walking. Separate. No one spoke to him.

  Ash reached into her cloak, slow, deliberate.

  She pulled out the document—weathered, curled, ancient.

  Its script writhed slightly, unreadable to anyone who didn’t already know what it said.

  "Is that it?" Lazaro asked, voice low, uninterested.

  She didn’t answer.

  Belzeebub snatched it from her hands, his grin spreading like a knife had learned to smile.

  The thin blade between his fingers—no longer than a thumb. Ornate. Dull in color, but not in intent.

  Without hesitation, he dragged it across his fingertip. The skin split. Blood welled.

  One drop.

  That was all it took.

  It hit the parchment.

  And the writing burned.

  A red glow, a thousand curses awakened, pulsed through the ancient text.

  The letters danced, shimmered—and then the glow vanished.

  And from the silence around them, something answered.

  A glow. Faint. Distant. Deep beneath the ice, a massive, slow flickering light—red, buried, but breathing.

  The ground beneath them groaned.

  It wasn’t a glow.

  It was a treasure.

  A giant.

  And it had woken up.

  —