Chapter 8: The Sandstormers

As the sandstorm settled behind him, Apocalypse emerged from the Ka Temple, the Ka Stone emanating softly from his forehead. The ancient relic pulsed with energy, a rhythm that now mirrored his own heartbeat. He had achieved what he set out to do, claiming the artifact of unimaginable power and securing his place as a force to be reckoned with. Yet, as the temple disappeared behind him and the desert stretched out before him, a sense of unease tugged at his mind.

For all the knowledge and power he had gained, something felt… wrong. A shadow, a whisper at the edge of his consciousness, gnawed at him. It was as if the Ka Stone, though conquered, was trying to warn him of something else. Data, probabilities, and cosmic calculations flowed through him, telling him something was amiss.

But there was no time for doubt.

Apocalypse's journey back to his tribe, the Sandstormers, was swift. His mind buzzed with the potential of the Ka Stone, and yet that persistent feeling of dread loomed closer with each step he took across the desert. It was a feeling he hadn't known in centuries—a feeling of loss.

When he finally reached the camp, the wind carried with it an eerie stillness. The usual sounds of life—the laughter of children, the bustle of warriors, the crackling of the evening fire—were gone. The scene that awaited him sent a shiver down his spine.

The Sandstormers were dead.

Bodies lay strewn across the sand, blood staining the golden dunes a deep crimson. His people, his tribe, slaughtered. Men, women, and children—none were spared. Apocalypse's heart hardened as he surveyed the devastation, anger swelling within him. Whoever was responsible would pay. The Ka Stone on his forehead glinted, and the power within it flared, matching his fury.

But as he continued forward, another shape caught his eye. Among the lifeless forms, a figure moved weakly—Baal, his adoptive father and leader of the Sandstormers. Apocalypse rushed to his side.

Baal's breathing was ragged, his body broken and battered from the attack. Blood seeped from his wounds, and it was clear that he did not have long to live. Apocalypse knelt beside him, his eyes burning with a mix of fury and sorrow.

"Baal…" Apocalypse's voice was low, filled with a rare sense of vulnerability.

Baal's eyes fluttered open, a faint glimmer of recognition flickering in them. He tried to speak, but the words came slowly, weighed down by the pain that wracked his body.

"It was… Rama-Tut," Baal whispered, the name barely audible over the wind. "He came… from nowhere. Strangers from the future… His soldiers… They slaughtered everyone. All but me."

Apocalypse's eyes narrowed. He had heard of Rama-Tut—the strange pharaoh from the future, a man who claimed dominion over Egypt. But what could he want with the Sandstormers?

"Why did he spare you?" Apocalypse asked, his voice edged with both curiosity and rage.

Baal coughed, blood flecking his lips. "He wanted me… to give you a message." Baal's eyes locked onto Apocalypse's with a fierce intensity, his voice shaking with effort. "Rama-Tut knows of you, En Sabah Nur. He knows of your strength… and the power you've claimed. He waits… for you."

Apocalypse's expression darkened, his anger boiling beneath the surface. Rama-Tut had not only killed his tribe, but he had the audacity to leave Baal alive to taunt him, to lure him into a confrontation.

Baal's hand reached out weakly, grasping Apocalypse's arm. "You… must be careful, En Sabah Nur. Rama-Tut is not just a man… He is from a time… far beyond ours. He commands forces… we cannot comprehend."

But Apocalypse was not afraid. He had faced tribulations, and he had emerged victorious each time. Now, with the power of the Ka Stone at his fingertips and the knowledge of Steven Haking guiding his thoughts, he knew that no one, not even a time-traveling pharaoh, could stand against him.

"I will end him," Apocalypse growled, his voice cold and final.

Baal's grip on his arm tightened for a brief moment before his strength gave out. His hand fell away, his eyes growing dim as life slipped from him. With a final, shallow breath, Baal was gone.

For a long moment, Apocalypse knelt there, the weight of Baal's death settling heavily on his shoulders. His anger, his desire for revenge burned hotter than ever, but beneath it all, there was a hollow ache. Baal had been more than a leader—he had been the man who had raised him, trained him, and shaped him into who he was today. And now he was gone, taken by a man from the future who sought to challenge him.

Apocalypse stood, his eyes hardening as he looked over the bodies of his people. There would be no mourning, no tears. There was only vengeance. Rama-Tut had made a fatal error in leaving him alive.

With a single thought, Apocalypse tapped into the power of the Ka Stone, sending a wave of energy through the desert. The sands shifted and rumbled beneath him, responding to his will. He would find Rama-Tut, and he would make him pay for what he had done.

As he stood amidst the fallen, a cold wind swept through the camp, carrying with it the weight of loss and the promise of retribution. Apocalypse's mind raced with possibilities—Rama-Tut was no ordinary man. He was from the future, a time that even Steven Haking's knowledge had not fully grasped. But Apocalypse had the power to adapt.

With the Ka Stone in his possession, the boundaries of reality and thought no longer applied to him. He could sense the threads of reality bending to his will, and he would use that power to track down Rama-Tut. His mind, sharp and calculating, began piecing together the next steps—how to manipulate the reality alteration abilities he had gained and bring Rama-Tut to his knees.

"I will find you, Nathaniel Richards," Apocalypse whispered into the wind. "And when I do, I will show you the meaning of true power."

With a final glance at Baal's lifeless form, Apocalypse turned and began his journey. His steps were steady, filled with purpose, as he moved toward his destiny—a confrontation with Rama-Tut, the man who would one day be known as Kang the Conqueror.

The desert around him seemed to respond to his will, the sands shifting in his wake. The world would soon know that Apocalypse, the Morning Light, had been awakened. And those who stood in his way would fall, just as the Sandstormers had fallen.

For in the face of Apocalypse, no one could stand.