The Dark Ascendant

London, 3 Years Ago

The rain battered the city mercilessly, turning the cobblestone streets into rivers of glistening black. Inside a grand but decaying Victorian mansion, a single light burned late into the night. The study smelled of old books, leather, and faint traces of whiskey—a scent that clung to Raj Darkthrone like a second skin.

Raj sat slouched in his high-backed chair, staring at the cluttered desk before him. Maps were spread haphazardly, ancient texts stacked in leaning towers. Some were written in languages long dead, their secrets waiting to be unearthed. The room was a sanctuary of forgotten knowledge, a temple to his obsession.

He looked older than his fifty-five years. His face was lined with years of hardship, his eyes sunken but fierce—a cold, unrelenting stare that had broken lesser men. His hair, once thick and black, was now streaked with silver. The weight of countless expeditions, betrayals, and near-death experiences had left its mark, but none of that compared to the slow decay of his body.

Raj poured himself a glass of whiskey, watching the amber liquid swirl. The tremor in his hands was worse tonight. The disease was relentless. It had started with small things—a stumble, a weak grip—until it became impossible to ignore. The doctors had given him five years at most. That was three years ago.

He downed the whiskey in a single gulp, feeling the burn chase away the chill in his bones. Five years to live… now two.

He leaned back, letting his mind drift. He had lived a life most men could only dream of—a life of discovery, danger, and power. He had walked in the shadow of forgotten gods, held relics that could change the course of history, and uncovered secrets the world wasn't ready to hear.

But none of it mattered anymore. Fame and fortune meant nothing to a dying man.

The sickness had changed him, sharpening his already ruthless edge into something far darker. He had always been willing to break the rules, to do whatever it took to reach the truth. Now, he was willing to break anything—or anyone—who stood in his way.

Raj reached for the journal of Dr. Michael Greaves, an archaeologist whose obsession had mirrored his own. Greaves had vanished two decades ago while searching for the Tomb of Anuk'Thar, leaving behind only this battered journal.

The journal's brittle pages whispered promises of power and immortality.

"The Tomb of Anuk'Thar exists," Greaves had written. "It holds the Heart of Eternity—the key to life itself. But beware, for the tomb is alive, and it watches… waiting for those foolish enough to seek its secrets."

Raj closed the journal, his pulse quickening. This tomb could save him.

For the first time in years, he felt hope—dark and dangerous, but hope nonetheless. He could almost feel the artifact in his hands, its ancient power coursing through his veins, burning away the sickness.

He would go to the Amazon. He would find the tomb.

And if it meant sacrificing his team, his sanity, or even his soul, so be it.