Herman and Evelyn stood about ten meters from the grand hall, where the flickering firelight danced along the walls. Herman could clearly make out the prayers coming from within—his hearing was far sharper than any normal human's. Evelyn, on the other hand, could only see the distant glow of the flames.
Still, that alone was enough to make her tense up.
"Someone's in there!? Is it that group of mutated humans diggers from earlier?" Evelyn immediately ducked behind Herman, pressing close to his back.
When faced with danger or the unknown, she reacted like a startled bird, instinctively treating Herman as her source of safety. For all his rough edges and questionable personality, her "wizard employer" had already proven to be terrifyingly capable in a fight.
Peeking from behind him, Evelyn craned her neck toward the great hall, her curiosity as obvious as her nervousness.
"They're mutants, not mutated humans. And no—only the one sleeping inside, Apocalypse, is a mutant. The rest are just ordinary human followers."
Herman corrected her casually.
"Same thing, same thing," Evelyn muttered, blinking as she waved off the correction. She was far more interested in what might be inside. Could that really be the powerful mutant Herman had mentioned earlier?
Her mind began to wander—what did ancient humans even look like? Were they shorter? More ape-like in appearance? The thought sent her imagination spiraling.
Clearly, she'd studied evolution—though not in much depth.
"I've been meaning to ask," Evelyn whispered, nudging Herman's back. "The name Apocalypse—I thought that came from the Bible. Did ancient Egypt really use that name too?"
Her gentle prodding was more than just curiosity—it was her way of getting him to move closer to the hall. She wanted to see the interior for herself, to understand what kind of place could hold a being like Apocalypse.
"Maybe real ancient history isn't quite what you think," Herman said with a soft chuckle. "Some things seem to repeat across the world—patterns that show up everywhere."
He didn't bother explaining that gods like Yahweh, Zeus, and Odin all existed for real. If he told her that, she'd probably faint on the spot.
"Wait—how do you even know what's inside?" Evelyn asked suddenly, pushing him forward. "You're standing just as far out here as I am, and yet you act like you've seen everything already."
"Take a guess," Herman said, smirking as he arched a brow.
Under Evelyn's hesitant pushing, he began walking toward the hall at a calm, unhurried pace. He knew perfectly well that if he told her the truth—that he could see through solid walls—Evelyn would scream and immediately cover herself with both hands.
"Guess what? I'm not guessing," she muttered, but thankfully didn't press further.
Wizards, after all, were supposed to have their mysterious tricks.
"Omniscient and almighty God of Apocalypse," came a chorus of voices from within, "may Your divine majesty protect us, guide us toward prosperity and glory, and lead us to the blessed shore beyond."
"Supreme Lord En Sabah Nur, awaken from the realm of slumber! The world needs Your rule and purification!"
As Herman and Evelyn drew closer, Evelyn could finally hear the chanting clearly.
Dozens of voices overlapped, fervent and unyielding, repeating the same words again and again. The sound filled the hall, echoing with near-religious madness.
They were speaking in ancient Egyptian—a ritual prayer format established back when Apocalypse had still walked among mortals.
After proclaiming himself the one true god, Apocalypse had created his own "divine doctrine," borrowing heavily from the religions of other pantheons.
In truth, there wasn't much to criticize about that. Most divine faiths in history had followers who revered their gods as supreme beings—that much was natural.
But declaring all other gods false while claiming to be the only true one? That was uniquely the mark of Apocalypse's Church—something that existed nowhere else in the Marvel universe.
It all stemmed from Apocalypse's ignorance.
Arrogant and self-deluded—that was En Sabah Nur, strutting across the small patch of Earth he ruled in ancient times, a self-proclaimed Skyfather so insignificant that even the real gods of heaven couldn't be bothered to notice him.
Apocalypse—the so-called Mutant monarch—was nothing more than a Sky Father–class being born from the accumulation of power, a product of quantity turning into quality. Compared to true Sky Father-level entities, he was leagues beneath them, and naturally, few among that tier ever bothered to take him seriously.
In the Marvel Universe, the power gap between beings of the same "level" can be staggering—Apocalypse and the true Sky Fathers being a perfect example.
At its core, this disparity exists because the term Sky Father-level is little more than a loose label—an imprecise way of classifying life forms that have reached a certain magnitude of power.
Strictly speaking, these so-called power tiers originated from fan interpretation rather than anything clearly defined in official lore.
Meet a certain set of vague conditions, and you're dubbed a "Sky Father." But in the canon itself, there's never been a strict, universal hierarchy among powerful beings.
The phrase "Sky Father-level" came from how the leaders of various mythological pantheons—figures like Odin, Zeus, or Vishnu—were each called the "Sky Father" of their respective realms. Since their strengths were roughly comparable, fans grouped them under one tier.
And so the term was born.
The same logic applies to the "Universal-level" and "Multiversal-level" classifications: possess power on that scale, and the title follows. But such vague distinctions mean the range within a single tier is enormous. That's how you end up with any random self-important fool calling himself a god.
And yes, I'm talking about that shameless narcissist—Apocalypse.
"This place looks exactly like a cult gathering!" Evelyn whispered as she peeked through the entrance of the grand hall.
Inside, dozens of people were kneeling before a massive stone slab, chanting prayers with eyes tightly shut and expressions twisted in ecstatic devotion. Their voices rose and fell in feverish unison as they bowed repeatedly toward the figure lying on the slab. A man dressed like a priest paced around it, reciting an unending stream of words to guide the ritual.
The crowd formed a dense circle, blocking Evelyn's view. No matter how far she leaned, she couldn't quite see who—or what—lay on that stone altar. What she could see were the runes carved into the slab: intricate symbols she couldn't recognize, yet which radiated a sense of ancient, unfathomable power.
"It's a cult, alright," Herman said flatly, his tone devoid of surprise.
His eyes lingered briefly on the slab before shifting to the golden platform supporting it—a structure about a meter high, gleaming with divine luster.
That platform was a miniature pyramid reactor—an ancient device Apocalypse used to drain power and transfer his consciousness between bodies.
The runes carved across it pulsed faintly with energy. Herman could feel the vast cosmic laws woven into them, though even he couldn't decipher their full meaning in such a short time.
"It's definitely a relic of the Celestials," he murmured. The power flowing through the reactor was too pure, too grand—undeniably the work of a being far beyond Apocalypse himself.
While Herman's thoughts briefly wandered, Evelyn leaned forward again, trying to catch a better look at the slab's occupant. Her focus entirely on the scene inside, she didn't notice her elbow brushing against a tall decorative vase near the doorway.
Crash!
The shattering sound echoed sharply through the vast underground chamber.
Every cultist inside froze, then turned as one toward the entrance.
"Oh no."
Evelyn's stomach dropped. She could feel dozens of eyes locking onto her at once.
"This is straight out of The Mummy…" Herman sighed, glancing at the broken vase. It really was uncanny—Evelyn seemed to have carried her trademark clumsiness straight from that movie universe into this one.
Even in the Marvel Universe, some habits just never changed.
"Damn it! What's happening out there!?" the priest leading the ceremony shouted. "Who let these intruders slip in!? This is blasphemy against the great God Apocalypse!"
He instantly spotted Herman and Evelyn standing at the doorway, his expression twisting into fury.
"For the glory of the great God Apocalypse!" he bellowed. "Kill the blasphemers!"
Clearly, this man held considerable authority within the cult—his command was all it took for the worshippers to rise from their knees in unison.
Dozens of zealots drew weapons, faces contorted with righteous rage.
"Those who defile the divine must be punished!"
"They've disrupted the sacred ritual to awaken our great Lord!"
"Kill them! Offer their blood as a sacrifice to the Master!"
The hall erupted in chaos as the fanatics advanced, chanting as they raised their guns toward the intruders.
…
The believers' faces contorted into twisted, fanatical grimaces.
Their devotion to Apocalypse—and their outrage at Herman and Evelyn for desecrating the resurrection ritual—completely consumed their reason. None of them even stopped to wonder why the two outsiders were here in the first place.
"Can you even handle this?"
Evelyn's voice trembled as she watched the cultists draw their guns. She instinctively grabbed Herman's arm, trying to drag him behind a massive statue for cover. She might not have understood the limits of superpowers or the true might of magic, but she knew one thing for certain—guns could kill.
"No problem."
Herman remained perfectly calm.
He gestured for Evelyn to hide behind the statue and then, completely unbothered by the murderous glares from the mob in the hall, strolled into the ritual chamber as though he were taking a casual walk.
"He's begging for death! Kill him!"
The ceremony's leader shouted furiously, pulling a pistol from his belt. Without hesitation, he fired straight at Herman.
Bang!
Behind the statue, Evelyn's heart jumped into her throat. She dared not look but heard the shot ring out—and when no sound of a body hitting the ground followed, she exhaled shakily.
"Yes!" she whispered, pumping a fist, her face lighting up in relief and excitement. "I knew it—he really is that powerful! Even bullets can't hurt him!"
"What the hell? Did I miss?"
The cult leader froze in disbelief, staring at his gun. He didn't even consider that something supernatural might be at play—he simply assumed his aim had failed.
"I do enjoy a dramatic welcome," Herman said lightly.
In front of him, a bullet floated motionless in midair, its kinetic energy halted by his telekinesis. He wasn't afraid of bullets, of course—but since he was wearing a rather expensive casual outfit, he wasn't about to let them ruin it. Catching bullets with his body had gotten boring long ago.
"Lucky bastard! Let's see you dodge this!" one of the fanatics shouted, hefting up a machine gun and opening fire.
Ratatatatat!
A storm of bullets poured forth—but before they could reach him, every round froze in midair, suspended in front of Herman in a deadly, glittering wall.
Only then did the zealots, whose eyes were wide with confusion and fear, finally understand why the first bullet hadn't struck him down. This man… he had powers—powers like the church's own so-called "holy guardians."
"Kill him! Offer his soul as a gift to the Awakened Lord!" the ceremony leader cried out, his expression wild with fanatic delight rather than fear.
As one of the higher-ranking members of the Apocalypse Church, he knew more than the average follower… though still not the full truth.
He knew that Apocalypse loved it when believers offered up those with special powers—but he wrongly believed what Apocalypse wanted were their souls.
The reality—that Apocalypse devoured the powers of mutants—was something these fanatics had never learned. Perhaps only a few of the ancient mutant bloodlines still knew the truth.
"You people really are… courting death."
The bullets before Herman burned away into ash, a faint gleam of divine light flickering in his eyes.
Then—
One by one, every Apocalypse cultist who had been firing at him suddenly dropped where they stood, their skulls bursting under the crushing force of his psychic power. They never even had time to scream before collapsing into headless corpses, blood spurting across the temple floor.
"Do not fear! This is the Lord's test!"
"With unshakable faith, the Lord will guide our souls to paradise beyond!"
The ritual leader tried to rouse what courage his followers had left, but as he looked around, he realized there was no one left standing.
"Your Lord doesn't have that kind of power."
Stepping over the sprawled bodies, Herman entered the grand hall, his gaze calmly settling on the lone officiant. "You've got something on you that's shielding you from my psychic influence. Let's see what it is."
As Herman drew closer, the leader's face twitched with panic, though he still tried to maintain a defiant glare.
"I—I'm not afraid of you! The Lord will protect me! Even if you kill me, my soul will ascend to the heavenly shores!"
Fanatics could be so absurd.
Muttering his own words of comfort, the man steadied himself, his fear fading into wild zeal. "Heretic! The Lord will deliver divine judgment upon you!"
He raised his weapon, finger tightening on the trigger—but his body didn't move. Somewhere between one breath and the next, Herman's telekinesis had wrapped around him, freezing every muscle in place.
"W-what's happening!? What did you do to me!?" the leader shouted, his voice cracking as he struggled against invisible chains.
Herman stopped in front of him, looking faintly amused.
"You want to go to heaven? I can arrange that."
With a subtle flick of telekinetic force, there was a sickening crack. The leader's head twisted unnaturally, his body slumping lifelessly to the ground.
While his psychic influence couldn't penetrate this one's mind, Herman had more than one trick at his disposal. Even if his telekinesis hadn't worked, one solid punch would've reduced the man to a smear of blood and bone dust—but this way was cleaner.
At least Evelyn wouldn't have to see anything too grotesque later.
"Of course," Herman murmured as he watched the man's soul being torn free and drawn toward the [Realm of the Dead], "the heaven I'm sending you to… might not be what you imagined."
He smiled faintly at the terrified soul as it was sucked into the dark vortex.
"After all, your ticket to paradise comes from me—the Lord of the Dead. My heaven… is your eternal hell."
As his words faded, the man's soul vanished from mortal sight, swallowed completely by the swirling gates of the [Realm of the Dead].
Ordinary souls like his held little real value within that realm—but since everyone slain by Herman was claimed by it, perhaps endless torment there counted as a form of penance.
After all—
Blasphemy was a serious crime.
"…A loot drop from a minor mob?"
Herman glanced down at the corpse. Around the fanatic's neck hung a crystal pendant, faintly glowing, pulsing with a strange, residual energy.
So this was it—
The object that had managed to block his psychic power.
...
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