Fiction

EnZi Part One Odesa Chapter 19 The Presentation

by Stanislav Dema
02/01/26
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Die Apokalyptischen Reiter - Hört mich an

We stood in the central part of the island, at the spot where the paths diverged in different directions—to the Coast Guard outpost, to the lighthouse, to the obelisk with a memorial inscription, to the old steps that led straight into the sea.

Before us loomed the ruins of the temple: the foundation, piles of white marble fragments, broken capitals, blocks whose facets were once masterfully polished. Now all these elements of the once majestic building lay in ruins; beauty was destroyed, and a quiet despondency reigned over everything.

Vasilis led me to some bushes, parted the branches, and pointed to a dark gap in the ground. It was fenced off by thin wooden stakes, on one of which hung a sign: "Do not enter — archaeological excavations."

— Here it is, — said Vasilis. — The entrance to the underground part of the temple.

— Last year, archaeologists from Kyiv came here, — he continued calmly. — They studied the dungeon. They said there is a long tunnel ending in a dead end. Nothing more.

I took out the map Zusya had given me and decided to check. On the map, this corridor was not a dead end—it branched into a network of passages, halls, and voids: a complex structure, in one of the rooms of which the key was kept.

"So, they missed something," I muttered to myself.

Vasilis looked me straight in the eyes, like a man used to assessing risks and calculating odds.

— Well then, the time has come to act, — he said calmly. — It is one in the afternoon now. If you do not return in two hours, I will come looking.

He shook my hand—firmly, comradely—and walked along one of the paths, dissolving among the thickets.

I remained before the entrance, with a shovel in one hand and a lantern in the other. Cold and dampness breathed from the gap. Seagulls circled overhead; they seemed to scream at me: beware, beware! Somewhere nearby, the gentle sea glistened.

But in this gap, in the cold maw of the entrance, there was, as it were, its own separate dimension—a world of darkness and mystery.

I looked around carefully, then cautiously stepped over the fence. Remnants of steps made of black stone led down—uneven, broken, covered with moss in places. It was evident that the entrance was once beautifully decorated, but time had not spared this place.

I slowly descended the steps and found myself in a wide, straight corridor. The walls were laid with black shiny stone, and overhead they converged into an even vault. Underfoot, stone slabs echoed hollowly—similar to that volcanic lava from which Odesa sidewalks are made.

I walked about fifty meters and hit a wall. Further—nothing. A dead end. For the first moment, a slight disappointment seized me: could it really end so simply?

But then, looking closer, I noticed that the floor at the end of the corridor differed from the rest—instead of slabs, it was covered with fine stone chips, well-packed. This immediately caught the eye. Everything around was made with perfect precision, not a single flaw, and only this square strewn with crushed stone disturbed the harmony.

I set down the lantern, took the shovel, and began clearing away the rubble. The work proved difficult. I was not digging, but rather picking, scraping layer by layer. It went slowly, and in the underground silence, I lost track of time. About thirty minutes later, my persistence was rewarded: the shovel clanged against metal.

My heart beat faster. The sound was resonant, confident—there was clearly something beneath me. I doubled my efforts, cleared a hole about half a meter deep, and under a thin layer of stone chips, a square hatch appeared. It was made of an incomprehensible metal—no trace of rust, no patina, as if this alloy knew no age.

I pulled the ring—to no avail. Then I looked closer: the handle I was pulling rotated on an axis. I tried turning it, and a few seconds later a dull click was heard. After that, the lid gave way.

The hatch opened without a creak, smoothly, as if someone had oiled the mechanism just yesterday. Beneath it, a well darkened, from which coolness drafted. A narrow spiral staircase went down.

I secured the lantern on my chest, tied a rope to the hatch handle to have insurance in case the stairs proved damaged, and began the descent. The stone steps were narrow, slippery in places. The rope helped me not to fall. The air became increasingly humid. I descended for quite a long time—it felt like fifteen meters—until the stairs led me into a huge hall hewn straight into the island's rock.

The hall was round, with smooth walls going up into the darkness. From it, like rays, eight tunnels diverged.

I stood in the very heart of the dungeon, and now I had to decide which of these passages to take.

I took a compass from my pocket, opened the lid, and waited until the needle stopped trembling. Aligned the map north-south. Now everything became clear: the necessary corridor went to the northwest.

I stood for a few seconds, listening. It suddenly seemed to me that I caught someone's presence—a barely audible rustle, a movement of air. Agitation rose somewhere from the depths of my heart, as before jumping into icy water. The lantern snatched smooth walls and diverging tunnels from the darkness. I directed the beam of light toward the necessary passage, took a couple of deep breaths, slowly exhaled—and stepped forward.

I walked along a strange corridor. The walls did not resemble what I had seen before—no seams, no traces of tools. It seemed they were woven from thick vines that had turned to stone over time, as if life itself had frozen here forever.

The corridor gradually widened and led me into a large oval-shaped hall. Niches ran along the perimeter, with a statue in each. I walked closer. The lantern light glided over black marble, picking out faces, muscle relief, folds of clothing. It was Achilles—at different ages, in different situations.

I walked slowly through the hall, examining the sculptures: Achilles in armor, Achilles at a feast with a goblet in hand, Achilles bending over a fallen comrade. The stone came alive for a moment in the lantern light, then merged with the darkness again.

On the walls were bas-reliefs—battle scenes, feasts, religious rites. Everything executed with incredible skill, but I had not come for beauty. I needed the key.

I took out the map, unfolded it, and checked the plan. Everything matched: the shape of the hall, the arrangement of niches, orientation to the cardinal points. So, this was the place. The key was somewhere here.

Finally, my gaze stopped on one bas-relief—it immediately stood out from the general row.

On a round elevation lay the contorted body of a man; it seemed he was dead. Nearby—two chambers, executed with such detail as if copied from a technical manual.

In one, in a fetal position, curled a man with a face distorted by pain—by all appearances, that very medium the legends mentioned. In the other, strapped to a chair, half-lay Achilles. On his head—a strange helmet from which a thick bundle of wires departed, disappearing into the bowels of a mysterious mechanism.

But what struck me most was the expression on his face—tense, focused, with wide-open insane eyes. There was no fear in them—only cold determination. I stepped closer, raised the lantern. Everything indicated that Achilles was connected to the Soul Eater and controlled it like an operator controls a machine.

So that’s what it looked like. Not a myth, not an allegory—but reality frozen in stone.

I stood before the bas-relief for a long time, studying the minutest details—the intertwining of wires, the mysterious mechanism, the tense tendons on Achilles' neck.

While I examined the bas-relief, a strange tension gradually grew inside. Not fear, not anxiety—just a sensation that a pressure point had appeared in the space behind my back. Not pain—but as if a thin invisible beam rested against the skin of my neck, barely perceptible, but persistent.

I heard no steps, felt no movement of air, but knew for sure: someone was there. This feeling does not come from ordinary senses—it comes from that place where the human body still remembers the instincts of a beast. As if between the spine and consciousness there is a thin string, and someone plucked it slightly.

For some time this feeling did not let go—dense, persistent, as if someone really stood behind my back and looked straight at the back of my head. The pressure was not physical, but the skin felt it as a slight discomfort. I turned sharply and illuminated the entrance to the hall. The lantern beam cut through the darkness, ran over the marble figures, and was lost in the void. No one.

Must have imagined it. Evidently, my imagination was playing tricks. This scene on the wall really causes anxiety.

I returned to the bas-relief. Still the same face of Achilles, but now I looked more intently and his gaze seemed to change—the eyes seemed alive, alert. There was something unnatural in them. I leaned closer, raised the lantern, and noticed that the eyes barely noticeably differed in texture from the rest of the stone, as if inserted separately.

Before I could think why this was done, my fingers reached for them on their own. I pressed lightly.

The eyes gave way. A dry click rang out—short, like the sound of a camera shutter.

From the area where Achilles' mouth was carved, something fell out and hit the stone floor with a ring.

My heart pounded wildly. I knelt, shone the lantern parallel to the floor, and saw a disk. Small, dull, of unfamiliar metal, covered in writing. My hands trembled as I picked it up.

As soon as I brought the disk closer to my eyes, the surface came to life—thin grooves glowed with soft blue light, as if energy had awakened inside. In the next instant, numbness shackled my body, muscles ceased to obey. A chill ran down my spine.

It went dark in my eyes. And suddenly, as if someone opened a floodgate in memory, images began to flow before my inner gaze—real, alive, from another life. Mine.

We had been working in the trench for the third hour, soaked through with sweat and dust. There were eleven of us. Before us—German positions, a dark line of tangled barbed wire. The sun hung directly overhead, white, merciless.

— Get up, Lefebvre, — shouted the sergeant. — Bring the machine gun, move it!

We silently set to work. Pickaxes struck the stony ground hollowly, red dust rose. The air was so dry that even sweat evaporated before soaking the tunic.

— They won't kill us, — croaked Gautier. — We'll croak here ourselves.

I answered nothing. My head felt constricted by an iron hoop. The sergeant stood behind the parapet, peering into the distance, and it seemed to me—he already knew we would perish here.

When the machine gun was set in position, the earth shuddered. At first quietly—as if someone struck with a fist underground. Then a rumble rang out, and the sound of steam engines rolled across the steppe. As if dozens of locomotives were rushing at us. From clouds of dust appeared German self-propelled forts. Behind them—chains of infantry.

— Get down! — shouted the sergeant, and immediately a torrent of fire and steel crashed down on us from the sky.

First came the whistle, then—the roar. The earth heaved, a squall of stones and shrapnel passed overhead. The air smelled of melinite and burnt meat. I managed to see one of the recruits fall face down without even crying out. The second was torn apart by an explosion—simply disappeared.

I pressed myself into the trench wall, covered my head with my hands. Gautier lay nearby, looking straight at me, eyes insane, lips trembling.

— That's it, — he whispered, — the end.

At that moment, someone fell onto my legs. Two from the neighboring squad, wounded, barely breathing. One raised his head, managed to say only:

— The whole line—to dust... — and slumped like a sack.

We tried to drag the bodies into a shallow niche, but the blast wave pinned us to the ground again. The trench was buried. Someone was screaming:

— Help!

— Get us out!

I took out my medical bag and began treating the wounded.

When the roar subsided, silence fell for a moment. Then the hum of engines was heard. These were our armored cars—French. They came from the left, shelling the advancing self-propelled forts from the flank and cutting off the infantry. Our attack planes appeared in the sky. We yelled—not from joy, but from relief that we were still alive and help had come in time.

For a few minutes, everything looked as if a turning point had occurred in the battle. The sergeant climbed out of the niche, looked around, and shouted:

— Hold the position! No one retreats!

I looked around—eight men remained of the platoon. The rest lay in the dust like torn heaps of flesh. The entire terrain before us was pitted with craters. The air vibrated from the heat.

Then the artillery opened fire again.

A new series of explosions passed very close, so the trench shook as if from an earthquake. I was thrown to the opposite wall, hit my shoulder, my arm went numb. Breathing became difficult, as if someone squeezed my chest in a vice.

Time stopped. There was only infernal roar. Dust, fire, screams.

I saw Gautier, with a distorted face, stand up, aim the machine gun at the sky, and start firing into the void. The sergeant rushed to him, yelled, but he didn't hear. The others just sat staring at the ground, without a single word.

By evening the shelling weakened. We lay, half-dead, and watched the sunset—red as a wound. Someone prayed quietly, someone whispered the name of a loved one. I couldn't say anything, just watched the day die slowly.

Everything suddenly froze.

The noise of battle dissolved, and with it went the smells, heat, pain. The world around stood still, as if someone pressed pause.

Earth and sky began to melt, turning into a light haze. My body disappeared—I no longer felt hands or breath. And in this silence, a voice appeared.

It was calm, almost gentle, without accent, without age:

— Welcome to the En-zi system control portal.

An example of situation adjustment will now be demonstrated.

Please maintain concentration.

A panorama opened before me—I was lifted up as if I had become a bird soaring in the sky. Beneath me stretched the field, ragged lines of trenches, smoke, burnt wreckage of machines. The whole picture of the battle appeared like a map, and I saw it all at once.

Then I realized—people were marked by glowing dots.

Each person—a colored light trembling in the gray fog. Thousands of tiny impulses, each with its own frequency. The voice continued to speak softly, like a professor at a lecture:

— All objects scanned. You may proceed to correction.

Try to select an area of influence.

I did nothing with my hands—simply thought, and a light spot highlighted itself, as if space were controlled by the power of thought. The voice said:

— Confirmed. Selection fixed.

Input state.

I thought of fear.

An instant—and hundreds of lights faded, as if someone blew the life out of them. I felt how in those people hearts clenched with horror—they threw down weapons, ran, hid, wept.

Then I tried another: determination.

A flash—and the same souls lit up with a bright red flame. People stood up, walked into machine-gun fire, fell without feeling pain. Everything around moved to the rhythm of my thought, like a pulse, like breath.

— Excellent, — said the voice. — Now you understand the principle.

The mental state of objects can be corrected.

Each human specimen is a signal receiver.

Control.

I mentally approached—and the panorama began to descend slowly.

First—the front line, then separate groups, then faces.

I saw eyes—frightened, tired.

They were no longer points of light, they were living people again. Soldiers.

Their lips trembled, someone whispered a mother's name, someone simply stared into the void.

I felt heavy.

The voice still sounded—evenly, without a shadow of emotion:

— You can eliminate pain. Or multiply it.

Make a choice.

I did not answer. Just watched.

And the longer I watched, the stronger the feeling grew—not fear, not horror, but burning pity that made my heart clench.

And then everything cut off.

The light dimmed, the image dissolved, the voice disappeared.

I stood again in the dark hall under the temple, holding the cold disk in my hand.

It no longer glowed. Only matte metal, dull and lifeless.

As if everything I saw was not a demonstration of capabilities—but a temptation.

Someone seemed to flip a switch, and my body began to obey me again.

The transition was sharp, painful—muscles cramped, breath hitched, I collapsed on the floor, hit the back of my head on the stone. The world flashed, sparks swirled before my eyes.

I groaned, raised myself, felt my head, trying to gather my thoughts. The air was filled with the smell of ozone—as if after a thunderstorm.

And suddenly something changed.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement.

One of the statues—the one standing closer to the entrance—shuddered barely noticeably.

I froze. Stone does not move. That is impossible.

But the shadow really moved. Then again.

The statue stepped out of the niche.

It stepped forward—awkwardly, like a person who had stood motionless for a long time. I couldn't understand if this was reality or hallucinations caused by the disk were continuing.

Consciousness refused to accept what was happening.

Numbness covered me. I just sat, unable to move, watching the black figure walk toward me.

Its steps echoed hollowly in the emptiness of the hall.

In its hand was some oblong object. When the statue approached, the hand began to rise.

I saw the muscles on its shoulder tense—as if there was indeed life in it.

Time became viscous. Every movement seemed slowed down.

I watched without blinking, and suddenly realized: this is not a hallucination. This is reality.

Suddenly a scream rang out:

— Polundra!

The voice pierced the silence like a shot and seemed to break the numbness. Everything happened instantly. The veil fell from my eyes, and I finally saw—the figure was not a statue, but a man dressed in a dark tight-fitting wetsuit. In his hand—a revolver, which he held by the barrel. The blow was meant to land right on my head.

The hand with the weapon began to descend, but my body reacted on its own: I instinctively curled up, fell down. Instead of my skull, the revolver hit my shoulder—a dull, painful blow, like a hammer. Pain pierced my arm, but it was pain that returned clarity of mind.

The attacker realized he missed and raised his hand for a second blow—but didn't have time.

A pop rang out, then a sharp hiss, and a blindingly red fireball flew into the hall. It began to beat chaotically against the walls, leaving a smoky trail and the smell of burnt phosphorus behind.

The opponent recoiled, covering his face, cursed. At that moment, he kicked me in the ribs with such force that I thought a horse had kicked me. I curled up on the floor, gasping, feeling heat spill across my chest. While I tried to inhale, the man bent down, snatched the disk from my hand—and ran for the exit. Lantern light was visible in the tunnel, and my mysterious opponent fired twice. The lantern went out, the sound of a falling body was heard.

Then he ran on.

But suddenly the sound of steps broke off, my enemy stumbled and fell. Sounds of struggle rang out, blows, curses in German and Rusyn, heavy breathing.

Finally, I heard a stifled cry of pain. A few seconds—silence, then steps again, going further away.

I sat up somehow, gasping for air, my shoulder ached, my chest was splitting. It felt like a steamroller had run over me. My eyes watered from the smoke.

And suddenly a man with a lantern appeared in the passage.

The light hit my eyes, I squinted, and only then heard an anxious voice:

— Chelago, are you alive?!

I raised my head. Before me stood Kostya.

I was glad to see him, but there was no time for greetings.

— He has the key! — I shouted, gasping. — Leave me, catch him!

Kostya understood everything instantly. Without saying a word, he turned and dashed toward the exit.

I remained sitting on the floor, rubbing my bruised shoulder. Adrenaline drove blood through my veins, my head buzzed, my legs trembled.

— Merde… — I cursed and tried to stand up.

With difficulty, leaning on the wall, I hobbled to the exit. Every step echoed in my ribs with pain, but stopping was impossible. I had to see how it all ended.

The air outside hit with freshness, smelling of the sea and heated grass.

I climbed out onto the surface—just at the moment when a red fireball shot into the sky. A second signal flare. I already understood, this was Kostya. Means he is marking himself so I know where to run.

I hobbled, stumbling, down the path to the sea. In the distance, right by the water, I noticed movement: a dark figure slipped into the water and dove. Like a seal—silently, gracefully.

I stopped, gasping for air, and realized—catching up was already impossible.

Where did he go? — flashed in my mind. Must hurry.

I ran up to Kostya. He stood by the water, pale, with eyes popping out. We both stared silently at the smooth surface of the sea. A few seconds later, we saw a thin line of bubbles moving away from the shore—the trail of a swimmer's underwater vehicle.

— There he is, — Kostya said hoarsely. — Going into the open sea...

I only nodded. And then the incredible happened.

The water suddenly boiled, churned, and right in front of us, a huge black hulk rose from the depths. The whistle of compressed air—an underwater cruiser surfaced. A special spongy coating on the hull plating created the effect of leviathan skin.

With a clang, a hatch opened, men in black wetsuits appeared from it; they skillfully conducted the operation to take the swimmer on board. Their actions were precise and fast. Our opponent on the mini-torpedo came right to the side—sailors grabbed him, pulled him onto the deck. He instantly jumped up, disappeared into the hatch, then the sailors returned to the ship and the hatch lid slammed shut. All these actions took a few minutes, and the cruiser began to submerge.

Kostya and I stood without moving.

— Did you see that? — Kostya finally exhaled.

— I saw it... — I answered. — And I still don't believe it.

We exchanged glances—two grimy, beaten, astonished men standing on the rocks. Then, without a word, we turned and walked toward the Coast Guard outpost.