CHAPTER 48: The Fugitive Part 19

CHAPTER 48: The Fugitive Part 19

The room wasn't a laboratory. It was a consecration chamber, carved from darkness and the muscular power of Antigen. The light didn't come from chandeliers, but from pulsating runes etched into the black stone walls, emitting a sinister crimson glow that made the shadows throb. The air was thick, heavy with the smell of copper, bitter incense, and ozone, like after a lightning storm.

In the center of the room, a circular basin of polished obsidian, not a bathtub, rose from the floor. Inside, a thick, scarlet liquid, too viscous to be just blood, bubbled lazily, as if it were alive. Adam—in Marcus's body—was submerged in it up to his neck. His eyes were closed, but a smile of pure, depraved ecstasy curved his host's lips.

Irene stood at the edge of the basin, motionless as a statue. Her impeccable black suit was the only note of order in the ritualistic chaos. The symbol of her cult—a triangular eye with a serpent's pupil—hung from her neck, glowing with the same red light as the runes.

Adam opened his eyes. Not Marcus's red eyes, but pits of absolute darkness from which the same crimson glow of the room emanated. He played with the thick liquid, scooping up a handful and letting it drip between his fingers.

"You know, Irene?" his voice was a hoarse whisper that resonated in the stone, a vibration more than a sound. "My... friend... always insisted on the revitalizing power of these baths. Said the soul feeds on vital essence as much as the body. I considered her a obtuse sentimentalist." He paused, enjoying the sensation. "But I must admit... there is a certain... primal truth to it. A deep satisfaction."

Irene inclined her head slightly, her devotion a cold, calculated thing.

"Eva clung to the old traditions. But her legacy... pales before your glory, my lord. If this ritual strengthens you, then its purpose is fulfilled."

Adam rose slowly. The scarlet liquid, instead of dripping off, seemed to be absorbed by his skin, leaving a wet, metallic sheen on Marcus's now hypertrophied and perfectly defined muscles. Every fiber seemed carved from living steel. With a contemptuous gesture, he waved away a group of hooded acolytes approaching with black towels.

"This vessel..." Adam said, examining Marcus's arms with clinical approval. "Is finally complete. The pure essence you provided has completely subjugated this boy's residual soul." A low laugh escaped his lips. "Poor Marcus. His resistance was... touching. Useless, but touching."

Irene offered a thin smile, a flash of pride in her cold eyes.

Adam descended from the basin, his bare feet leaving no prints on the cold stone. A servant handed him a heavy black silk robe, which he donned with the careless elegance of an emperor.

"The next move is obvious," he declared, his tone now that of a divine strategist. "The White House. Not just for the symbolism, though... the irony of corrupting the heart of human power amuses me deeply. It's strategic. From that pedestal, I can unleash the necessary chaos to rewrite this world. When the leaders of this era see the absolute abyss they face, they will kneel. Not by my order, but by pure survival instinct."

"And if some resist, my lord?" asked Irene, her voice a neutral echo. "Human stupidity sometimes overrides instinct."

Adam stopped before a polished obsidian mirror, admiring not his reflection, but the living work of art he now inhabited.

"Then they will suffer," he replied, with the simplicity of someone announcing it will rain. "The fascinating thing about your species is that your stubbornness is always tied to a thread of hope. Cut that thread... and they disintegrate." He turned to look at her, and the darkness in his eyes was infinite. "I will make an example, if necessary. A spectacle so devastating it will extinguish any spark of rebellion for generations to come. And this body..." he clenched his fist, and the air crackled around him. "This body has enough power to pulverize any army that dares challenge me. All thanks to your gift, Irene. Incomplete as it was, it was... adequate."

Irene nodded, satisfied.

"Preparations are well advanced, my lord. Our devotees are positioned at the critical levels of their government. When you give the signal, their structure will collapse from within."

"Perfect," murmured Adam, walking towards a large arched window. "Then it's time to give this race of worms a new dawn. They've played at being masters of their destiny for too long. It's time to remind them of their place."

Irene knelt again, bowing her head until it touched the cold floor.

"It shall be done as you command, my lord Adam. The world will prostrate itself."

Adam didn't respond immediately. His smile widened, showing a row of teeth that seemed too sharp.

"Fénix will try to stop me," he said, as if reading a boring script. "He is predictable. He sees his obstinacy as strength. I see it as a structural flaw. As long as he hesitates, as long as he clings to his sentimental ties like a castaway to debris, it will be his undoing. And that of all who foolishly follow him."

His laugh, when it came, wasn't a sound, but a pressure in the air that made the windowpanes vibrate. It was the laugh of entropy itself, of the end of all things.

He stood by the apocalyptic vista, a god on his private balcony overlooking the end of the world. Irene remained prostrate, waiting.

"Once the White House falls," Adam continued, his voice now a thoughtful hum, "the rest will be a formality."