The temple was ancient, broken, and buried beneath the crust of a forgotten planet. Kor Vaal had not seen the light of a sun for millennia. Its inhabitants were long dead, their names erased by time and decay. Yet within the planet's core, deep beneath the rubble and bones, there was a whisper—a hum of forbidden magic, ancient and profound.
Morvannis stood in the heart of the temple, his robes torn by the overwhelming forces tugging at his reality. His hands trembled as he traced the final lines of the forbidden sigil etched across the floor in blood-black ink. The incantations had already been recited, the last words spoken from tongues that had never tasted a mortal breath. The ritual was complete. But something was wrong.
The air crackled, warping in time itself. Morvannis's mind screamed as he felt the reality begin to stretch, tearing like paper at the edges of the multiverse.
A blinding light shot from the sigil, and the world around him twisted. Morvannis gasped as his body felt the strain of the breach. The blood-red light poured out of the cracks in the fabric of reality like a river unleashed, flooding the temple with a heat that burned his very soul. He could hear the voices, distant whispers from realms beyond, calling out to him.
"No…"
But it was too late.
With a deafening roar, the sigil exploded. The energy ripped open the universe itself, and from the void, a figure emerged.
It was not a creature. It was not even a god. It was something older, something far beyond comprehension.
Mahoraga.
The eight-handled wheel on his back spun slowly, its blades glowing with an eerie, unnatural light. His massive, divine form tore through the torn fabric of space-time, filling the chamber with an overwhelming pressure. He stepped forward, his gaze piercing, but his movements were slow, as though his mind and body were still adapting to the new reality.
He stood still for a moment, the cosmic energy surrounding him flickering with every heartbeat. The warlock, Morvannis, lay in a heap of broken bones at his feet. His lifeless eyes stared up at the divine being who had been summoned—not by any mortal's will, but by a rip in time itself.
Mahoraga's senses flared. There was no master. No summoner. No familiar forces to guide him. Only an alien world that reeked of untapped power.
He felt it then—the tugging sensation in his chest, the pull of something familiar, something he had known before the endless cycles of rebirth. It wasn't fear. It wasn't pain. It was a whisper—soft, calling from the edges of his mind, an echo of a promise once made.
"Where is she?"
His voice was not one of rage, nor even of confusion. It was the calm, patient voice of something eternal. His eyes, golden and unblinking, scanned the broken temple as if searching for an answer in the rubble. His form, colossal and heavy, seemed to shift with each passing moment as his body struggled to adapt to this new, unfamiliar reality.
He was not meant to exist here.
Not in this universe.
And yet, the universe had made room for him.
---
Outside, a storm raged across the barren world, its winds howling like the lost voices of the past. In the distant city of Gotham, far from the wreckage of Kor Vaal, John Constantine stood in front of a mirror, adjusting his tie. His gaze was distracted—his mind still wrapped in thoughts of a new job he'd been offered. It wasn't much, but it had its mysteries. And mysteries, well, that was something Constantine couldn't resist.
The mirror cracked.
A chill ran down Constantine's spine. He turned sharply, reaching instinctively for a pack of cigarettes.
Something was wrong.
The crack in the mirror grew wider, then burst open, sending shards cascading across the room. From the shards, a swirl of black mist began to form, coalescing into something—or someone.
Constantine's eyes narrowed. He reached for his lighter, but his hand stilled. The man—no, the thing—standing in front of him wasn't human. It wasn't even a creature from any world Constantine had encountered. It was something far older.
The figure was tall—too tall—his presence overwhelming. A wheel, eight-handled and glowing with ethereal light, spun slowly on his back. Each of his hands was gripped around a hilt that seemed to pulse with ancient power.
"Bloody hell," Constantine muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief.
The figure's golden eyes locked onto him, seeing him in ways that Constantine knew he couldn't comprehend.
"Who are you?" Constantine said, his voice steady despite the chill creeping into his bones.
The creature—Mahoraga—did not answer at first. His gaze flickered with some kind of inner knowledge, like he was trying to piece together a puzzle he didn't understand. He took a step forward, the ground beneath his feet cracking from the weight of his presence.
"I…" Mahoraga's voice was deep, heavy, as if every word carried the weight of a thousand years. "Where is she? Where is… Death?"
Constantine raised an eyebrow. "You're asking the wrong person, mate. But I think I know who you're talking about."
Mahoraga's gaze remained locked on him, unblinking. The silence stretched on, thick with tension, before Constantine's lips curled into a wry smile.
"You don't belong here," Constantine said, flicking the lighter in his hand. "None of us do."
Mahoraga's eyes flickered, a strange sense of realization washing over him. He was not yet accustomed to this world. He did not know its rules, its truths, or its lies. All he knew was the pull he felt, a force beyond time and space—a force that was calling him.
He needed to find her.
Mahoraga's form shifted again, his body beginning to vibrate with an intensity that felt like reality itself was on the verge of unraveling.
"What are you?" Constantine muttered, taking a step back, his fingers tight around the edges of a spellbook he kept close at hand.
The divine shikigami stepped forward again, his movements unnaturally fluid for such a massive being. The air around him grew thick, charged with an energy Constantine had never felt before.
"I am… Mahoraga," the being spoke slowly. "And I seek Death."