The world ripped around Kane. There was no sound, only a silent, internal scream as his body tore itself apart.
It started in his bones...a thousand tiny fractures, a grinding agony as calcium splintered and cartilage ripped. His skull felt like it was being squeezed, then violently expanded.
He tasted bile, sharp and rusty, as his organs twisted and boiled, then snapped back into place with sickening precision. This was the cost of time travel, the twenty-four-hour toll for each temporal jump.
He hadn't endured such pain in his entire life, each jump was a fresh descent into a personalized hell.
The healing factor, a brutal gift of the curse, knitted him back together instantly, leaving him whole but raw and covered in scars, every nerve ending screaming.
When the world around him solidified, the pain receded, leaving only a phantom ache and profound disorientation. The smell of acid and garlic, the lingering scent of a freshly opened temporal wound, filled his nostrils. He blinked, vision blurry, and then the assault began.
He stood in what appeared to be a main street, though it was unlike any he had ever known. Buildings of glass and steel stretched high into a sky filled with shimmering, multi-colored light. Glowing metal vehicles soared through the air without sound, a sharp contrast to the thunder of horse-drawn carts he was used to.
The ground under his worn leather boots hummed with an unseen energy. People, an enormous crowd, moved past him. Their clothing was strange, and their faces were lit by small, glowing rectangular devices they held to their ears. This was pure chaos.
Kane clutched Zigor, his sacred hammer. Its cold, familiar weight was the only thing he could understand in this overwhelming place.
The polished iron felt solid against his calloused palm. He was still wearing his heavy wool coat, leather gauntlets, and tricorn hat, a clear sign of his old era against this impossibly advanced new world.
He was a ghost in their future, an anomaly.
"By the Saints," he muttered, his voice a low growl, lost in the noise around him and the dehydration he felt.
"What new damnation is this?"
His internal clock, a relentless counter, had already begun. Twenty-three hours, fifty-eight minutes, and counting. Twelve souls. Twelve demons to banish, or face eternal damnation in the Realm of Avoidance, that place of eternal stillness where failures and cursed entities went to be forgotten. The thought sent a cold shiver through him.
He raised his left hand, the worn leather of his gauntlet revealing the Scale of Penance embedded there. It was a small, ornate balance, made from dark, moringa wood and polished brass, no larger than his palm.
He held it out, murmuring the ancient incantation of Maccabi. The brass pan on the right side of the scale dipped almost imperceptibly, and then, with a faint vibration, a sickly red glow came from within its carvings. It pulsed, and the device slowly, began to tilt to the right, pointing.
A demon. Already. The hunt was on.
The Scale's silent direction pulled him through the crowd. He moved awkwardly, his old-world walking pattern clashing with the hurried footsteps of the people in this future.
They stared, some shocked, others pulling out their glowing rectangles to record his strange presence.
Kane ignored them, his gaze fixed on the invisible path that the Scale showed him. It led him through narrow alleys filled with moving advertisements, past glowing pipes that hummed with power, and finally, into a quieter, more exclusive area.
Here, the air was cleaner, the light softer, and the buildings were more artful.
The Scale dipped sharply, pointing towards a building of sleek, jade glass that seemed to blend into the evening sky.
A single, illuminated symbol, elegant and sharp, was at its top: a twin-headed serpent.
He recognized the symbol or a twisted version of it. The mark of Tar-shish. The time demon, the cause of his endless torment, was never far from his corrupted followers.
A security drone, a silver orb with a single, red eye, buzzed toward him. "Unauthorized individual detected. State your business." Its voice was artificial and emotionless.
Kane did not stop. He raised Zigor, not to strike, but to warn. The hammer, carved with mystical symbols, pulsed with a faint purple light. The drone emitted a high-pitched whine, then sharply moved away, as if pushed by a forcefield.
Mortal technology, no matter how advanced, rarely stood against the consecrated.
He slipped through a side entrance, the door hissing open and closed quickly. The inside was a wide lobby, lit by soft ambient lights.
People in tailored, ceramic glaze suits moved with quiet grace, their hushed conversations broken by the faint sound of clinking glass.
The Scale pulled him towards a raised platform, where a man was speaking to a small, attentive audience.
He was charismatic, with silver hair and eyes that seemed to glow. His amplified voice was smooth, speaking of progress, unity, and a future built by collective will.
Kane knew better. He saw the subtle vibration in the man's shadow, the way the air around him seemed to blur the edges of his form. A soul core, disguised as a visionary.
"Brothers and sisters," the man's voice echoed through the lobby, "we stand at the start of a new era!"
Kane walks forward, and Zigor shakes ready. A gasp went through the crowd. Some pointed, others moved back, their glowing rectangles raised.
"You speak of a new era," Kane roared, his voice rough, filled with desperate anxiousness but confident in the power of Maccabi.
"But I see only darkness! You carry a plague upon your soul, demon!"
The man on the platform paused, his charismatic smile fading. His eyes, fixed on Kane, widened with sudden, raw fear. "Security! Remove this… this old thing!"
Before anyone could react, Kane was on him. He did not waste time with words. This was a hunt. This was survival. Flinging Zigor through the air like a bloodthirsty hurricane. The man shrieked, a sound that twisted from human terror into something far older, far more hideous and ancient.
His skin rippled, stretched beyond measure, then tore. Bones grew, flesh dissolved, and in less than a heartbeat, the polished corporate leader was gone, replaced by a scary mass of black muscle and glowing, evil eyes.
It looked like a giant, twisted cyclops, its limbs ending in sharp talons, its mouth a wide opening of needle teeth. The air grew cold, filled with the smell of fermented and rotten flesh.
"By the order of Maccabi, go into oblivion!" Kane yelled, bringing Zigor down with full force.
The hammer struck with the power of a dying star, shattering the demon's form. A shrieking scream, a sound that seemed to tear the veil of reality, came from the creature.
It convulsed, its monstrous shape dissolving into a cloud of shimmering black smoke.
The smoke did not disappear. Instead, it swirled, came together, and then, with an almost audible swoop, was pulled into the Scale of Penance.
The small device pulsed with a red glow after absorbing the demon's soul core. As the last wisp vanished, a burning heat spread on Kane's left forearm. He clenched his teeth screaming, the pain sharp and immediate. A pain tattoo formed, a small, dark dot appearing on his skin, marking the vanquished soul.
One down. Eleven to go.
Chaos broke out in the lobby. People screamed, scattering, overturning tables and chairs. Security robots, more advanced than the drone outside, whirred to life, their red eyes locking onto Kane. He did not hesitate. His goal was clear. He jumped over a railing, landing silently among the panicked crowd, and moved into the shadows of a service corridor.
He could hear the heavy thudding of security personnel and the whine of more drones. He had moments, not minutes. His mind was already calculating, the next twenty-three hours pressing down on him. The Scale of Penance remained silent, awaiting his next command.
As he ran through the winding corridors, a flash of something caught his eye. High above, embedded in the ceiling, was a small, almost invisible lens. For a brief instant, he felt an unseen gaze on him, a sense of quiet observation, without judgment. It was the feeling of someone or something watching him.
He saw no one, but the feeling stayed, like a faint presence across the ages.
He did not know the year he was in, only that it was far from his own.
He did not know the full extent of Tar-shish's game or curse, only that he was a pawn in it, fighting for his soul and the souls of countless innocent people.
The taste of garlic was still on his tongue, the phantom ache of broken bones still in his body.
One demon down. Eleven more before the sunset.
An immense hunger for water sets in.
Kane pushed open a heavy maintenance door, stepping out into a rain-slicked alleyway, the blinding neon lights reflecting in the puddles.
The clock was ticking. He raised the Scale of Penance, its polished brass shimmering in the colorful light, ready to point him towards his next victim, his next trial, his next step on the endless, cursed journey through time.