The Phaelosian slums were still reeling from the bloodshed and fear of the morning. Pools of blood and gore were drying in the warm light of the star forges. The light of the Warworldian dusk, with its pink hues, colored the rusty neighborhood into a curious mix of orange, red, and peach pink. Warm tones of the evening dominated the surroundings.
The streets were full of different smells. One of the prominent ones was smell of food, cooked by housewives and single fathers, a regular occurrence of the Slums. The food smelled of herbs, potatoes and rice. There was an occasional smell of meat, but it was very rare.
Soon, the star engines above would flicker in uneven rhythm, indicating the coming of night. And then the coat of dim amber light would perish. The planet will be cast in complete darkness of the artificial night. No stars and no moons were visible here, as the outer shell of the planet not only protected it from the dangers of space, but it also protected it from the beauty of starlight and the endless void of the cosmos.
What passed for night here was merely the period of exhaustion of the engines put into their rest cycle; it was as if the planet's heartbeat would come to a sudden stop for 8 hours.
The streets of Crucible town were not built for New Gods, or any creature of their size. The streets were narrow and crowded; walking through them was not a pastime full of pleasantries and sightseeing.
Despite that, slowly, but full of determination, Darkseid moved through those streets in silence, his towering form reaching the tops of most houses. His short purple cloak was casting a shadow on the metallic floor, that moved with the artificial wind, as if his towering figure grew wings.
The Furies followed behind him. Their usually pristine armor was carrying traces of travel and fighting, signs of an eventful day. Although their faces were still solemn and sharp. As always, their footsteps were measured and heavy. And due to their rigorous military training, there was no sign of exhaustion in their movement.
Darkseid was satisfied with their performance during their quest. Each of them showed their proficiency in the battle. He had no doubts that Furies would eventually become titans in their own right if their discipline was to remain the same.
Currently, the group was moving to the Crucible Arena, where the Necropolis was said to be hidden from plain sight.
After their earlier altercation on the street, they decided to choose a longer path from the rebel hideout to the Crucible Arena. It took them through the slums without entering the main roads and districts populated by the clans, so they would escape detection.
As it turned out, Warzoons were decent smiths, evident by the constant sound of metal hitting the anvil. Often, between rugged and worn-down houses, a smithy or an armorer shop would pop up. Rarer were the tanneries, perhaps because of their disgusting stench. Fires burned inside the hulls of the workshops, feeding on oil to keep light through the night. The air in these parts was heavy, tasting of iron, oil, and leather.
As they passed through one of the broader streets, one where Phaelosian section of the slums and the Warzoon one met, a faint light glowed ahead. The orange-colored street sprung alive with the murmur of children's voices.
A group of Phaelosian children sat cross-legged in a wide ring, facing a single man. An old Warzoon with a long silver beard, his orange skin faded to the color of baked clay. His eyes were clouded white with blindness. He was telling a story. The old man's voice rasped like an old violin, still chirpy and melodic, but the damage of time and the wear were evident in each sound.
"The House of El has always stood before the evils of the galaxy unbent and unbroken, as the protectors of the unfortunate. There is a reason their crest meant hope. As even in the darkest hour, the hope would survive, and so will the House of El. The greatest house of all, the house of scientists and warriors. It is said that even stars bow to their mind and courage."
The Phaelosian children listened in awe, the stories of the home planet of their folk fascinated them immensely. Inspired whispers were passed between the old man's words.
The fire at the center of the street crackled, serving as a great accompaniment to the peace of evening. The familiar noise of various machinery from the workshops hummed, its chaos adding to the surreal feel of the moment.
Darkseid's gaze lingered, caught by the serenity of the scene. A faint shadow of contempt passed across his face. Such nonsensical stories irritated him. Hope surviving through the darkest times? If only destiny wished so. He moved to continue forward, but the old man's tone shifted.
"But before the Houses," the elder continued, "before the rise of Krypton, or Warworld, or even the fiery pits of Apokolips, and the golden gardens of New Genesis… there was another world. The world of the Old Gods."
Darkseid stopped. Slowly, he turned his head back toward the voice.
The deep white eyes of the old man pierced Darkseid's with a cryptic shine to them. Something unseen within them stirred, seemingly reflecting Darkseid's own in them. Eerily triumphant, they were waiting for a reaction out of the New God.
"Olgrun…" the old man continued, his voice shifted from a warm tone to a low sound resembling that of a rusty sword grinding against sandpaper. "The Sculptor. The Maker of the Old World. The worlds of his design were vast and brilliant, until he fell prey to his own madness. And then the other gods had united against him. Their revenge devoured Olgrun, shattering him into pieces, and his world with him. And the New Gods rose like phoenixes from the ashes of the old world."
The Furies stopped uneasily, clutching their fists and looking at their ruler expectantly. They heard whispers of such things. Myths buried deep in the folklore of Apokolips, burned with the cinders of the planet's fire deep into the unconscious of the Lowlies.
The blind man continued, voice low and certain.
"But the death of beings as strong as that is never eternal. The fire of Olgrun was never extinguished in full; after all, this world was created from his corpse. His power sleeps somewhere, dormant, but immense." The old man paused, drawing breath for the first time in his story.
"A prophecy was made. It's tale ominous, but curious indeed. It tells us about the savior that will bring salvation and the god who will bring destruction in his wane. The Hero. And the Destroyer."
The old man smiled, his eyes were set straight at Darkseid, and though unseeing, they were still looking at the very soul of the god before him.
"Some say the Destroyer's name is already known."
Previously still with fear, children cried out in eager wonder.
"Who? Who?" A multitude of child voices brought the eerily silent street to life. Several adults that had overheard the story paused their routines, looking expectedly at the mysterious storyteller.
Darkseid's lips tightened, becoming a thin line among his unshaven bristle. He turned away without a word, his cape wavering in the dusty wind. The old man's voice followed nonetheless, as if the fate itself was talking to the God of Apokolips.
Reluctantly, the Furies followed their master. But now and then their head and eyes were going back to the old storyteller behind them. Something inside them was telling them that they had witnessed something grand today. A history in the making.
Although none of them dared to disturb the resolve and fury their master was practically oozing with.
It seemed that today invisible eyes were following their every step. As if the universe itself was looking forward to their actions.
"The new Emperor of Apokolips. Darkseid".
***
They reached the Crucible Arena after the star engines had been turned off for the night. The massive structure of the Arena stood like a giant fortress, tier after tier of iron, adorned with banners that were unrecognizable in the darkness of the night.
The noise had changed, as they crossed the main streets to reach the Crucible. The shouting of crowds and quiet chatter of people going about their lives met the clash of steel of fighters training. The echo here was intense, as giant halls dominated the interior of the arena.
The Furies spread out around Darkseid as they walked into the halls of the Crucible, watching the shadows. Behind every nook, every corner could be an ambush. After all, one of the elites had escaped them during the morning fight. The one that was hiding in the shadows, she had surely notified Mongul of Darkseid's intervention by this point of time.
"Where do you think the entrance is hidden?" Aurelie asked, her voice echoing off the walls like a Ping-Pong ball bouncing off each surface.
"It should lead down," Darkseid said. "It's where I would hide my secrets."
The other two Furies had missed it (or decided not to dwell on it), but Aurelie had nodded to his words. The Emperor's personal chambers were situated in the dungeons, and Furies had not been permitted to enter them, guarding the entrance on the ground floor. There was something that he had been hiding from them, but that's not something that Aurelie wanted to know. Her job wasn't knowing everything, she was supposed to guard the Emperor, so she did.
Eventually, after what felt like a painfully long crawl of search, the group reached a long corridor lit by red strips of light. The walls here were not welded like the others; they were solid with no borders between the plates.
Darkseid looked closely, the metal rippled faintly, gleaming in the light. Most walls here had signs of wear on them, rust, dirt, dents. But this one was pristine clear.
The ruler of Apokolips reached out with his magic, scanning the surroundings. The farthest wall at the dead end felt warm. After spending a minute, trying to get a sense of any traps and not detecting any, he placed a hand upon the surface.
A faint pulse went through his grey skin, slow, deep, ancient.
"This wall…" he whispered, voicing his thoughts out loud. "It's alive."
Darkseid deepened his magic sense. The air here smelled of nothing, but with his magic he was able to sense a hint of ozone and salt coming out from behind the wall.
Suddenly a faint hum filled the air, a second vibration went through his palm, pushing it back to the surface of the wall.
"It rejected me," he said surprised. "This is a barrier."
The God Emperor of Apokolips only smiled in response; this barrier was cute. A work of amateur. Or it was so ancient that it lost all its power and grace.
His red eyes began to glow with shimmer of deep crimson, embers of a fire stirring to life. He impressed his will into the wall, making it open before him. Black smoke came off the wall. The hum deepened, the sound of the magic of the wall bending to his will.
He was not simply breaking a door; he was reprogramming the magic to recognize him as its master.
And it seemed to work just fine. The hum of protection died out, its texture slowly fading into nothingness. In the center of the wall a seam appeared, then widened, becoming an opening big enough to fit them.
Beyond it laid an almost too narrow spiral of steps that vanished down into blackness.
"Necropolis," he said. The smell of salt hit his nostrils like an ocean wave washing up ashore. Without hesitation, he stepped onto the stone of the stairwell. Material, that was impossible to find on Warworld.
The Furies silently followed him through.