Rain drummed against the rusted corrugated metal roof of the abandoned warehouse, a rhythmic, metallic clatter that did nothing to drown out the ringing in Apollo's ears.
Inside the cramped, shadowy corner of the ruined structure, Apollo sat with his back pressed against a damp concrete pillar. Sensation in his fingertips had vanished hours ago, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache that pulsed in perfect sync with the artifact resting in his lap.
Shivering, Apollo pulled his threadbare trench coat tighter around his shoulders. The air of Animarium tasted of sulfur and cheap synthetic fuel, a toxic cocktail that coated the back of his throat like ash.
"Run," the old merchant had warned him back in the neon-soaked alleyways of the lower sectors. "Run before they realize what you have. Run before it consumes you."
But running required strength, and right now, Apollo felt entirely hollowed out.
Iron and copper. Those were the scents that dominated his senses now, cutting through the chemical smog of the slums. His predatory instincts, a curse he carried in his very marrow, clawed at the edges of his sanity. He was hungry, but not for bread or clean water.
His throat burned, a dry, agonizing itch that only one substance could soothe.
Clenching his jaw, he stared down at the small, glass vial held tightly in his dirty, calloused hand. Inside the reinforced glass, a thick, luminescent silver fluid swirled lazily. It was the blood of a Star-Stalker, a rare, crystalline arachnid native to the deep chasms of Animarium's dead moon.
Smugglers traded these vials for small fortunes, claiming the fluid possessed unique regenerative properties. To Apollo, it was simply an abomination he had managed to steal during the chaos of his last raid. He had intended to sell it, to buy himself another month of anonymity in the underbelly of this war-torn world.
Now, he wasn't so sure.
Holding the puzzle-like artifact in his other hand, he watched the faint, sluggish rhythm of its internal light. The device was cold, dead, almost mocking. Yet, whenever his own blood got near it, the metal warmed, whispering promises of power and answers.
"I am not a monster," he muttered to the empty warehouse, his voice cracking. "I am not."
But the hunger didn't care about his morals.
Sweat dripped from his brow, stinging his eyes as he popped the cork of the vial. The scent that exploded into the damp air was intoxicating, a sweet, electric aroma that made his fangs slide down from his gums, aching to bite, to tear, to feed.
Desperation finally broke his resolve.
Tilting his head back, Apollo poured the shimmering, silver fluid down his throat.
Fire exploded in his chest.
It wasn't like human blood, which was warm and grounding. This was pure, volatile cosmic energy, burning a path down his esophagus and tearing through his veins like liquid lightning. He fell forward, his hands slamming into the dirty concrete, his fingers clawing at the stone until his nails cracked and bled.
Gasps of pure agony escaped his lips as his vampiric biology fought to assimilate the foreign, potent substance. His vision blurred, colors shifting from dull grays to hyper-vivid shades of violet and crimson. Every nerve ending screamed, vibrating with a frequency that felt alien, wild, and incredibly dangerous.
Suddenly, the artifact in his lap reacted.
Like a starved leech sensing a vein, the cold metal device began to drink. It drew the excess energy directly from Apollo's skin, glowing with a brilliant, blinding white light that illuminated every dark corner of the warehouse.
Gravity seemed to lose its grip.
Apollo felt himself lifted, suspended in a state of sensory overload. The physical world melted away, replaced by a rushing tide of sensory data that poured directly into his subconscious.
Images, sharp and terrifyingly clear, began to paint themselves across his mind's eye.
He saw a sprawling, majestic metropolis, but it was nothing like the jagged, polluted metal spires of the Celestial Empire. This was a city of pure, polished white stone and glistening gold, built on a scale that defied imagination. Colossal statues of robed figures stood guard over vast plazas, their eyes carved from glittering gemstones.
High above the city, grand vessels shaped like mythological chariots sailed through the clouds, propelled not by dirty thrusters, but by streams of pure, condensed starlight. People walked the streets below, clad in garments of woven light, their expressions serene, devoid of the fear and misery that plagued Animarium.
This was an ancient, advanced civilization, operating at a level of technology and magic that made the Celestial Empire look like primitive scavengers.
But it didn't make sense.
According to the imperial archives, the Celestial Empire was the pinnacle of cosmic evolution, the first and only true bringers of order to a chaotic galaxy. The history books claimed that before their arrival, the stars were populated only by mindless beasts and warring tribes.
This vision was a direct contradiction, a beautiful, terrifying lie—or a buried truth.
As the vision shifted, Apollo saw a massive temple at the center of the golden city. Atop its highest tower stood a great throne made of solid lightning, crackling with a power that made his soul tremble. He felt an intense, overwhelming pull toward it, a sense of belonging so profound that tears pricked his eyes.
Then, the dream began to fracture.
Darkness crept in from the edges, a swarm of black, shadow-like vessels bearing the insignia of the Celestial Empire. He watched as the golden spires were systematically shattered, the beautiful people hunted down, their unique power signatures harvested like crops.
Anger, hot and feral, flared in Apollo's chest, mingling with his vampiric hunger. He wanted to fight. He wanted to tear those shadow vessels from the sky with his bare hands.
But he was just a spectator, trapped in a recording of a dead past.
Amplicons of pain suddenly flared through his physical body, snapping him back toward reality. The silver blood of the Star-Stalker was burning out, its energy depleted, and the connection to the artifact was beginning to tear.
Apollo gripped his head, groaning as the mental imagery shattered like glass, leaving him floating in a void of blinding pain.
He wanted to pull back, to sever the link before his brain fried, but the forbidden knowledge held him captive. He needed to know who built that city. He needed to know if he belonged to them, if his cursed blood was a remnant of that fallen, majestic empire.
"No more," he gasped, his body shaking violently as his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
His vampiric side screamed for more blood, more power, urging him to hunt down every rare beast on Animarium to fuel the artifact's fire. The sheer, corrupting allure of the power terrified him, whispering that he could be a god among the ashes if he just embraced the monster within.
struggling against the tide of his own desires, Apollo tried to drop the artifact, but his fingers were locked around the metal, fused by the intense heat of the energy transfer.
A sudden, agonizing surge of power from the artifact projects a single, crystalline word into Apollo’s mind: 'Z-E-U-S' – followed by a flash of a woman's face, her eyes identical to his own.