The chill of dawn lingered over the charred skeleton of the airship, the remnants of a battle that marked the dawn of a new era. The world had yet to wake, save for the persistent whisper of wind weaving through the twisted metal and shattered steel. Ash floated in the air, a tangible reminder of memories that clung to the present, unwilling to fade. Smoke curled in thin spirals from the wreckage, reaching out towards a dim, overcast sky. While the last battle was over, Knull's war was just beginning.
He stood immobile, a statue amid ruin, as if the world itself had bowed to him in reverence.
Across from him, Ophelia Sarkissian surveyed the scene with steady, unblinking eyes. The symbiote cloak draped over her shoulders flickered with life, curling at the edges like coiled serpents eager for a command. This cloak was no mere garment; it breathed and pulsed with the essence of Knull's will, a gift born from their bond.
Her raven-black hair flowed wild, tangled from the night's chaos, but her posture remained unwavering. She stood like a blade forged in fire and tempered in blood. The faint glow of her green eyes cut through the shadows of early morning, sharp and calculating yet distant—haunted by past memories, grounded by a powerful resolve.
Their bond had transformed. No longer a chaotic tempest of cravings, it now pulsed steadily beneath their skin—a connection woven with purpose.
Knull stepped forward, brushing aside a stray strand of her hair, his touch a gentle contrast to the raw power that radiated from him.
"You know what to do," he instructed, his voice a low rumble layered with calm authority and something deeper.
Ophelia remained steadfast. "I remember their corridors. Their schedules. Their weak spots. Every lie they told me."
There was no fear in her tone; only a firm rhythm of conviction. She spoke not of vengeance, though she had ample reason; instead, she spoke of reclamation—of taking back what was unjustly denied.
Knull nodded. "Good. You'll rise through them. Slowly. Patiently. Until they forget what freedom smells like."
A small smirk played at the corners of his mouth. "Then you'll rule them."
Ophelia tilted her head slightly, a faint smile breaking through. "You make tyranny sound romantic."
He stepped back, shadows deepening around him. "Not tyranny," he corrected. "Order. One crafted from blood and precision."
Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer before she turned away, words unnecessary between them. They shared an understanding that transcended language.
Behind her, the system opened a gateway: a rift in reality woven from living shadow, a door carved through the Void itself. The light didn't escape; it was drawn in. A shimmering tunnel of black shimmered with unseen patterns, life pulsing through its dark geometry.
The system's voice echoed soft and clear:
[Voidwalk Activated: Destination - HYDRA Outer Facility, Eastern Command.]
Ophelia stepped forward, unfaltering.
With a single stride, she vanished into the dark.
The portal sealed behind her with a quiet hiss, leaving only the scent of ozone and the faint inversion of gravity in her absence.
Knull remained alone, the wind brushing against his coat, as if mourning her departure.
[Bond Thread: Active. Surveillance Maintained. Ophelia Sarkissian - Designation: Viper.]
He didn't need to request updates. He felt her presence intertwined with his, pulsing gently, a heartbeat shared. The connection would thrum stronger when she feasted on their fear, drawing closer to dominance.
He turned his gaze skyward. The stars began to fade, lost to the encroaching day. Yet his vision traversed beyond the sky—beyond space and time. Echoes of memories not his own flitted through his mind, whispers from the Craving Core buried deep within him, a core that yearned not for hunger but for design.
[Craving Core: Dormant. Remaining Threads: ∞. Directive: Seek Next Bond.]
Beneath that sterile command, something primal stirred.
He closed his eyes.
"System," he spoke, voice rough like steel along the spine of the universe. "Access temporal archives. Search for key figures tied to Project Rebirth."
[Query Confirmed. Locating: Subject - Steven Grant Rogers.]
[Status: Pre-Serum. Location: Brooklyn, New York. Estimated Year: 1942. Time Window: Approaching Serum Selection.]
Opening his eyes, Knull's gaze glinted with promise.
"Still fragile," he murmured. "Still moldable. And therein lies the opportunity."
Captain America—the epitome of freedom, the myth clad in red, white, and blue. But before that, he was merely a boy. Thin, sickly, overlooked.
To the world, Steve Rogers represented ideals of unwavering morality. To Knull, however, he was a seed, a soul yet unclaimed. Not an opportunity to destroy, but to reshape.
The serum was brilliance—an alchemy of science and belief. Flawed, narrow, and singular. Knull had no interest in replicating it.
No—he sought to rewrite it.
To forge a serum born of evolution and symbiotic perfection. One not bound by moral constraints or patriotic ideals, but by the law of dominance. His version would enhance not only the body but transform the very soul, imbuing it with unwavering loyalty, unmatched strength, and the will to conquer.
"Once I find him," Knull whispered, eyes turned distant, "I'll trace the source of the serum. And when the time is ripe… I'll seize it. Reshape it. And through it, mold all who follow me."
He envisioned it—a world standing behind a reimagined Captain America, unwittingly pledging allegiance to a new creed. A man revered globally, bearing Knull's seal just beneath the surface.
Not a puppet—a paragon.
A captain still, but one loyal to his true king.
Knull felt a tempest within him swirl. The future was no longer a nebulous idea; it was being crafted through his actions, etched into the movements of his bound souls, sealed in the radiant threads that connected them.
This was more than strength. This was not about vengeance or conquest.
It was the blueprint of a legacy.
He laid the groundwork for a dominion—an empire forged not on land, but on loyalty; one where every soul he touched became part of something far greater. A divinity that thrived not on worship but on symbiosis. Tethered fates, interlinked destinies.
An empire of gods, born in shadow. Refined in evolution.
And it had already begun.
He turned again to where Ophelia had disappeared, her presence still lingering in the void she left behind. Her name echoed softly from his lips—not as a command, not a plea.
Just a mark.
A recognition.
"Ophelia," he whispered. Then, he turned his focus eastward.
Toward America.