The Return Of the Beast

There are worlds that are conquered.

This one was ruled.

On the night of September 17th, a crack split the skies above Tokyo. Reality itself shattered, and through that wound came a gateway between two planets: Earth and Varkor.

Within months, the Varkonians—ruthless invaders who looked like humans but bore unmistakable signs of something alien—seized control. They looked exactly like men and women, except for their eyes. Their irises glowed a venomous green, and their pupils were vertical slits, sharp and predatory, like those of a beast that hunted for pleasure.

By December 25th, humanity’s last defenses fell.

The Varkonians established their dominion with terrifying swiftness. First, they had 195 tyrants—one ruling each country. But they were killed. Then, they appointed seven Tyrants, one for each continent—each blessed with powers beyond mortal comprehension. From towering fortresses called Rings, erected in the hearts of the great capital cities, the Tyrants ruled. They crushed rebellion, devoured hope, and turned cities into monuments of submission.

The world suffered beneath their heels.

But the Varkonians had overlooked one truth:

On that same day, September 17th, 2178, as reality tore itself open, a child was born.

A child, destined to free Earth.

A child, who's sole goal was the freedom of Humans from Varkonians.

Two centuries passed. Human technology did not advance—it regressed. The Varkonians outlawed innovation, shut down industries, and halted production. Humanity was left centuries behind, stripped of progress, while their oppressors bled Earth’s resources dry and advanced their own infernal craft.

And then… two hundred years later…

[Present Day]

[12th August, 2396 A.D.]

[Rebel Jail, Hong Kong]

The blackout came without warning.

One heartbeat, the lights glared harshly over the prison cells; the next, all of Hong Kong drowned in darkness. Generators failed. Lights died. The air grew heavy with humidity and unease.

Inside Rebel Jail, Varkonian guards cursed and sweated in frustration. Their eyes glowing green in the dark hallways.

“Damn it!” one spat, wiping his forehead. “These generators won’t work! It’s been an hour! I’m cooking in here!”

His partner gave a nervous laugh. “Relax, man. The lights’ll come back soon.”

And they did.

The overhead lamps flickered and flared to life. Relief washed through the guards—only to vanish in an instant when the alarms roared.

But it was not the familiar siren. This sound was deeper, heavier, brutal—a resonance no one in the prison had ever heard before.

The first guard frowned. “Wait… what is that? Is that a new alarm?”

The second went pale, his eyes wide with dread. His voice cracked.

“N-No… That’s the containment breach alarm…”

The first stared at him. “Containment of what!?”

The second whispered, trembling, “Him…”

The guards rushed toward the central chamber. There, at the front, stood the Army Sergeant, his face carved with tension as he barked orders.

“Everyone listen! The cryogenic chamber malfunctioned during the blackout. He’s escaped. But he’s still in this room. When I open the door—open fire immediately!”

But the Sergeant never finished.

The chamber door exploded. One punch shattered reinforced steel like glass, blasting the Sergeant beneath the wreckage. Cracks spider-webbed through the wall, rubble raining down. Smoke choked the air.

Through the haze, a figure emerged.

A boy.

No older than eighteen, barefoot, calm, his lean body unscarred by age or battle. Yet in his poise lingered an aura of power unreal, terrifying. His clothes—pure black, ragged, torn from struggles long past—clung to him. His hair hung in wild, unkempt strands, framing a face set in unwavering seriousness.

But it was his eyes that froze every guard where they stood.

Scarlet. Burning like blood beneath a storm. The color deepened toward the pupils, a darkness at their core. Just one glance, and the guards trembled. Their hands shook as if the boy’s very gaze hollowed out their courage.

Panic took over. They opened fire.

The boy leapt. Faster than sight, faster than thought. He flipped overhead, and in that single motion the bullets tore through their comrades instead. Friendly fire consumed them in a spray of blood.

When the smoke cleared, one guard remained standing—alone, shaking.

The boy approached him. His voice was calm, steady.

“Where am I?”

The guard stammered, “H-Hong… Kong…”

“Where’s the control room?”

With trembling fingers, the guard pointed down a corridor.

The boy’s expression didn’t change. “Would you prefer a painless death, or—”

BANG!

The guard pressed the trigger against his own head. He collapsed before the boy’s feet.

The boy went towards the control room, stepping over the guards.

The boy entered the control room and activated the prison-wide intercom. His voice echoed through every cell, every corridor.

“To all who dared to fight back against the Varkonians: You are free now. Go home. Be with your families. But remember this moment. Stand together—and fight back.

Before the dawn of next year, their rule will end. I swear it.”

He pressed the release switch.

All across the prison, locks disengaged. Doors swung open. Shackled rebels stumbled into freedom.

[Outside Rebel Jail: Courtyard]

The boy emerged into the courtyard.

Before him stood a wall of steel and flesh—a thousand guards, weapons raised, blocking the main exit. Their captain smirked, sneering with arrogance.

“This is where it ends for you! There’s no way you’re taking on all of us alone.”

The boy tilted his head slightly. A smirk ghosted across his lips.

“Who told you… That I was alone?”

From behind him, ten thousand inmates surged forth. A tidal wave of fury and desperation, roaring as one.

They crashed into the guards like a tsunami. Within a minute, the thousand defenders were crushed, broken beneath the flood of prisoners.

The guards screamed as they were being beaten. Their screams fades away.

The boy walked through the wreckage without looking back.

They all left.

[The scene shifts]

[Unknown Bunker: South Pole]

Far beneath the frozen wastelands, the seven Tyrants gathered.

Their faces serious, eyes staring a General that stood before them.

“Why are we summoned?” asked Riyaku, the Tyrant of Blood. He wore a plain black shirt and jeans, a crimson jeweled crown gleaming on his head. At his side rested a sword made of blood and bone.

A Varkonian General stepped forward. His voice shook.

“There was a power outage in Hong Kong. It triggered a failure in the cryogenic chamber.”

Yataro, Tyrant of Darkness, slammed his fist against his chair.

“No… Don’t tell me…”

Jinah, Tyrant of Poison, narrowed her eyes. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

Akuma, Tyrant of Ice, his long blue coat spiking like frozen blades, whispered, “You’re saying… he’s out?”

The General bowed his head. “Yes. He’s escaped. And the prisoners followed him.”

The chamber fell into silence.

Kurumi, the Jester Tyrant, broke it with mocking laughter. Painted face grinning, hammer slung across his back, he sneered.

“He’s just one man! We can crush him.”

A massive figure stepped forward. Gorokko, the Tyrant of Metal—three times the size of a normal man, encased in spiked golden armor with a silver helm and chestplate. His voice rumbled like thunder.

“You weren’t here two hundred years ago, Kurumi. We saw what he did back then. He killed 195 tyrants, the ones that ruled countries.”

Kurumi’s smile faltered. “But that’s impossible! How can someone be that strong and survive that long!?”

Gorokko’s eyes burned. “He’s no ordinary human. The gods gave him boons. He won’t age. He won’t die naturally. His strength is beyond reason. And when he regains his full powers… we’re finished.”

Izoto, Tyrant of the Dead, leaned forward, smirking. Dressed in a black suit beneath a tattered grey robe, his hand rested on the haft of his scythe.

“Relax. Right now, he’s just muscle. Remember? We extracted his flame powers before freezing him.”

The General’s voice cut in. “Regardless, our Lord commands you all: remain inside your Rings. Fortify your defenses. Do not engage him directly.”

The Tyrants vanished, each returning to their fortress.

[The scene shifts]

[Small Village, Near Rebel Jail]

The boy arrived in a nearby village. His ears caught the sound immediately—screams.

three Varkonian raiders were on the streets, dragging villagers from their homes.

In the center of the chaos, a child—barely fourteen—was bound to a wooden pole. The raiders had chained him. The boy’s gaze lingered on him.

He was standing behind a house, peeking from behind and was angry at seeing that. He said in voice low, steady.

“Varkonian raiders? Why chain a child?”

His hands rested casually against a pole. But the wood cracked beneath the pressure of his grip.

His scarlet eyes burned with fury.

To Be Continued…