Koumajutsu: The Coming of Bagan

by C. L. Werner

The Scourge of the Super-saurs has ended and an ancient evil has returned to complete the destruction of Tokyo, once and for all!

4. III: Desolation

Koumajutsu

The Coming of Bagan

By C. L. Werner

Chapter III:

Desolation

The horned head rose from the rubble of the once beautiful city. Gaping, fanged jaws dropped wide and a sound like the roar of a volcano echoed from the burning valley. Bagan roared his triumph into the sooty sky. The sound rolled downwards from the rooftop of the world, its resonance setting off numerous avalanches all across the Himalayas. The sound horrified all those who heard it. For it was the sound of death.

In the steaming jungle, the old Indian man maneuvered through the lush foliage. Spry, hardy beyond his years, the old man knew he was the last of a vanishing breed. More and more of his tribe had married outsiders, thinning the already depleted Inca blood. He was the last of the long tradition of priests and it appeared that he would have no successor. Still, such was the way. Even the ancient calendars did not advance beyond the present.

The Inca priest set his thin hand against the cool stone that jutted from the jungle floor. For ages it had rested here, far longer than the smug Western scientists would believe. They were so very certain of so very much. They could not believe in an elder world, a world far more advanced in many ways than the polluted, technology obsessed modern world.

The priest smiled, his face splitting into a gap-toothed grin. It was peaceful to sit here, in the very shadow of one of the old gods. Perhaps it was ironic, for the god was the very oldest of the Inca war gods, hardly a being to inspire peaceful thoughts. But was not peace the final offspring of any war? The Indian priest considered this for a moment as he stared up at the craggy stone face of the squatting, mammoth statue.

It was enormous, rivaling any of the ruins of Machu Pichu or even the steppe pyramids of Mexico. That it was crafted from a single block of stone had caused great marvel when it had been discovered in the 1930's. But the idol did not fit neatly into Western scientific theory. It suggested, like the Crystal Skull, that the ancients were more advanced than they should have been. So, after the initial fervor and excitement, like the Crystal Skull, it was forgotten, a curiosity to fill the back pages of speculative, pseudo-science. Now, only the old Inca priest seemed to remember that it was still there, buried in the jungle.

In shape, the idol was like a huge man, though the proportions were broader and more squat than any man's, like some massively magnified dwarf. The fists were huge, massive blocks of gray stone. The head was the most awful to contemplate, however. It was a leering, demonic face; great chisel-like fangs hanging like huge stalactites in its cavernous maw. Above the mouth were two large opening suggesting bestial nostrils. Above these were two enormous round, saucer like eyes. The head was tipped by a crown of irregularly spaced stone spikes and massive ears jutted from the sides of the head, their edge pitted and jagged, as though they had been ritually scarred, even as the old priest's ears had been.

The Inca shaman considered the awful idol for a moment, and then noticed the tremor. It was slight, like a rumbling deep within the earth. Still, he was forced to lean against the idol for support. He withdrew his hand in shock when he found the stone to be hot to the touch. It had only been a brief moment of contact but it seemed to the priest that there was a suggestion of movement within the stone, as though blood was flowing beneath the surface.

The priest fled a few yards from the idol. He watched as the squatting god began to move, lifting its body into a standing position. An eerie white light glowed within the huge saucer eyes. As the priest watched, the animated stone giant began to stride through the jungle. The Inca followed, filled with wonder and awe rather than any actual fear. An hour later, after having frightened a bus-load of plantation workers from one of the big banana companies, the huge idol found itself faced with the Pacific ocean.

The old Inca priest was astonished again when the idol entered the water. He watched as the statue strode onwards, until at last even its crown of spikes disappeared beneath the sea.

'I wish you well,' the old Indian priest said to the departed idol. 'May you find victory in whatever coming battle has ended your slumber, Tuol.'

Miki Saegusa awoke, her body drenched in sweat. She looked over to the figure beside her, but her distress had not disturbed her companion. Lieutenant Shinjo slept on. Miki slipped from their bed, leaning heavily against the wall, fighting down the urge to retch. Never in all her life, even in the presence of Space Godzilla, even when facing the terrible Destroyah, even during the rampage of the true King Ghidorah, had she felt such a sense of fear. Her mind seemed to wither from the enormous evil she had sensed. She knew that whatever had caused her to awaken was far away, yet still its tremendous power had effected her.

A tiny shape appeared, sparkling upon her dresser. As the psychic watched, a bright, sparkling image manifested, glowing brilliantly before splitting in two to become the diminutive, delicate figures of the Shobijin, the twin fairy priestesses of Mothra. The normally upbeat fairies wore grim, frightened faces.

'You sensed it too?' Miki managed to ask, although she knew it was a foolish question. The Cosmos were much more powerful psychics than she was. If whatever had happened had struck her so hard, she did not want to think about how it had been felt by the Cosmos.

'It was like a terrible scream wailing within our souls,' Lora said, responding to Miki's unspoken impressions. 'The greatest evil this planet has ever known has returned.'

'Bagan,' gasped Moll. 'It was supposed to never be freed again. The ancients tried to ensure that no accident would ever allow it to live again.'

'Then how has this beast been released?' Miki wondered.

'A very evil man has restored a shard of the monster's demon soul to it,' Moll replied.

'It was never imagined that anyone could be insane enough to want Bagan returned to life,' Lora stated, nodding her head grimly. 'But such a man has come to be, a man who is almost as much a demon as the destroyer he has released.'

'We were warned of this,' Miki realized. She had read the transcript from Master Hoichi's meeting with the Japanese security council. She felt a touch of shame at having doubted the old mystic's words. 'How can this monster be stopped?' The Cosmos faced each other, their faces wrinkled with concern.

'Long ago, when dragons still roamed this world, the ancient civilizations realized what Bagan was becoming. Before he could muster his full power, they sent great and mighty guardians to destroy him. Even the life-force of the Earth tried to destroy the monster. It took seven to battle Bagan, to stop him from achieving his final power.'

'Only three of them survived,' Moll said. 'Before he could be defeated, Bagan killed the other four.'

'But their deaths were not in vain,' continued Lora. 'The fallen guardians were able to weaken Bagan. The others were at last able to defeat the evil beast.'

'Afterwards,' the Cosmos said in unison, 'mighty sorcerers gathered the essence of the terrible demon and bound it within four great gems. The awful power that would have completed the demon's transformation was also locked away within an enchanted stone.'

'Bagan's body was sealed away within a glacier. What remained of the ancient Meh-teh built one last great city near Bagan's tomb, to guard against the event that the monster could somehow return,' Lora said.

'But there was only one way Bagan could return,' Moll added. 'Someone would have to restore the dragon to life, and only with the great sapphire, one of the five hearts of the dragon, could this be done. The sapphire held the element of water taken from Bagan, the very life-force of the beast.'

'Then this necromancer, this Kato that master Hoichi speaks of,' said Miki, 'he has found this sapphire and freed the monster. But what will he do now?'

The Cosmos looked at each other. 'He may have some influence over Bagan,' they said at last. 'But no force can completely control the devil-beast. Bagan will seek out the other shards of his soul, the other hearts of the dragon.'

'What will happen if Bagan gains these stones?' Miki asked, afraid to know the answer.

'Each one will restore some of his power,' Moll declared. 'Fire, earth, and air have yet to be restored to the monster.'

'But worst will be if Bagan is given the last shard, the power that was denied him in the ancient days.' Lora seemed to shudder as she contemplated that event.

'The last element,' the Cosmos said, 'is the power of Death. If Bagan gains it, it will be the end of us all.'

'It has started,' declared the young technician. He handed a set of photographs to Commander Aso. The grim Japanese officer looked at the grainy satellite photos.

'It is just as the crazy old man said,' he muttered under his breath.

'No, sir,' corrected the technician. 'These photos show the monster in the Himalayas, but it is moving west, sir. Away from Japan.'

'But it doesn't make any sense,' Commander Aso mused. 'If this Kato Yasunori really did revive this monster to destroy Tokyo, why is it heading in the other direction?'

'Perhaps he was only able to free the beast, not control it,' suggested a junior UNGCC officer from behind Commander Aso. 'I hardly think we can take every bit of this superstitious nonsense the wizard told the security council at face value.'

'Hmph,' snorted Commander Aso. 'You did not see his trick with the shapeshifter. It was very convincing.' The UNGCC officer looked over at the communications center. 'Any word on what the Americans are doing? They have a fleet in the area as well as a lot of ground forces in Pakistan.'

'No, sir,' responded the communications officer. 'It seems they are remaining poised for military action of a more conventional sort.'

Commander Aso could imagine. The Taliban regime in Afghanistan was on borrowed time. The Americans, indeed, much of the world was howling for blood and the Taliban were stubbornly refusing to turn over the villain responsible for the outrage that had struck New York and Washington. It was only a matter of time before war struck the region. Commander Aso only hoped that with all eyes on human evil, the new threat of this new monster was not ignored until it was too late.

'Has the security council authorized deployment of the new weapon?' the junior officer asked.

'No, not yet,' Commander Aso replied. 'Minister Segawa wants to wait until the threat to Japan is firmly established. Still, I hear that the Super X-3 has been made ready. It seems he wants to keep our new toy a secret still, until we have no other choice but to use it.'

Commander Aso stared again at the photos. He had gotten his unspoken wish, a new monster to field the UNGCC's awesome weapon against. Now the commander wished he had not allowed his thoughts to stray in such a direction.

The dingy room was sweltering, the heat almost visibly rising from the floor. It seemed impossible that winter was in the air, for the icy north wind had as yet shown no hint of its presence in the desert wastes. The mud brick structure was without electrical air conditioning or the luxury of powered fans. Like most of the buildings in this backward and forsaken land, the only refuge offered was the thin thatch roof overhead that blocked out the direct fury of the sun's fiery light.

The room was not unique, by any count. The floor was dirt, the furnishings shabby and few, consisting largely of a large wooden table and a few chairs. A rug tacked to one wall masqueraded as a tapestry, hiding the stitch-like pattern of a Soviet assault rifle's discharge that had marred the surface of the interior wall for nearly two decades.

The men who stood in the room were as savage and primitive as the building they occupied. Swarthy men with thick, unkempt beards, rag-tag fatigues sloppily repaired in knee and crotch where years of constant wear had worn the fabric thin. Coarse turbans held the men's long hair close against their heads. Two of the men sported ill-maintained Soviet AK-47's while one of their companions held a long-barreled musket dating from the days of British Empire over his shoulder. The men cast sullen, hateful looks at the tall figure who stood at the center of the room, simmering in the presence of an infidel.

The scene was interrupted when another swarthy man entered the room. This one was not so poorly dressed as the others, woolen robes of black garbed his bulky frame and a turban of like material clothed his head. The man's black beard was showing the first taint of gray. Like his armed comrades, however, he too cast contemptuous eyes upon the outlander in his presence. The Muslim heretic smiled, but it was not a pleasant expression.

'What brings this infidel dog?' the zealot snarled. 'Seeking the blood money of your Jew and American masters?'

'I do no man's bidding,' the tall figure said, his voice low and sinister. Kato Yasunori raised his head, focusing his inhuman eyes upon the Taliban fanatic. 'I would have something that has been in your hands.'

'You will not find him,' the fanatic fairly spat, puffing himself up, and casting sidewise looks at his henchmen. 'We will not listen to the demands of infidels! We are the only true followers of Islam, and no nation can stand against us! The hands of our enemies shall become dust should they strike us!'

'I care not what hole your verminous masters hide within,' the necromancer hissed. 'I seek what you found when the Pun-chan Buddha was reduced to rubble. I seek the heart of the dragon.'

The Taliban 'cleric's' eyes grew wide with alarm. 'We are faithful servants of Allah, disciples of the prophet, we would not sully our hands with any pagan image's works.'

Kato laughed, his voice echoing within the dingy room. 'Amusing. Such altruism is rare amongst even the purest holy men, much less a heretic rabble of half-literate fanatics. The heart of the dragon was hidden beneath the Buddha because even after a thousand years, no holy man in all China could bring himself to destroy it. Am I to believe that you have proven yourself of greater piety? Or am I to believe that you have chosen to keep the largest ruby the world has ever seen for yourselves?'

There was no mistaking the fury in the dervish's eyes now. 'Believe whatever you will, lap-dog of the devil!' The Islamic zealot snarled at his henchmen. The three militiamen raised their weapons and fired upon the Japanese sorcerer. The room became filled with the acrid stench of gunpowder, the air obscured by the gray smoke of the weapons' discharge.

When the smoke cleared, the necromancer stood unharmed. Kato's grin grew still wider, displaying his sharp, canine fangs. His eyes glowed in the shadow cast by the brim of his peaked cap.

'That,' the necromancer growled, 'was unwise.'

'It is heading into Afghanistan,' the soldier monitoring the satellite display announced. 'It is also destroying anything in its path, but seems to be following a pretty straightforward path.'

The control center was a frenzy of activity. Russian soldiers bustled about, trying to monitor all of the reports and information coming in. Suddenly, every man in the room went ridged, snapping to attention. Four guards, dressed in long red, double-breasted coats and sporting peaked caps adorned with an eagle entered the command center. Behind them came a short, broad and powerful-looking man. The man wore a dark green uniform fairly dripping with medals and a large fur hat of the sort a Cossack might have worn. A large scar ran down one side of the man's face, which was somewhat pudgy, though the nose was long and sharp. Tiny eyes glared at the Russian soldiers in the room. The new arrival removed his own heavy coat and threw it to one of the saluting soldiers. Then, his boots rasping on the tile floor, the man stormed over to the commanding officer.

Things had changed yet again in Russia. The faltering economy, rampant crime and corrupt politics had created a new despair in the long-suffering nation. From that despair had emerged General Ivan Vladimir Vasalov. Vasalov had lead the new revolution, a military junta that placed the government of Russia in the hands of the army. Vasalov had become ruler of the once mighty nation, declaring himself 'despot'. It was a fearsome, even loathsome title, but one that immediately commanded both fear and respect. His timing had been perfect. The world was on the brink of war and those foreign powers that might have protested the military coup most were desperate for having Russia firmly on their side. So, the death of democracy in Russia was hardly even reported in the West. It was just as well, Vasalov thought. He did not need the condemnation of the west just now. His people were almost on the point of starvation, Moscow was still in such a state of ruin that the capital had been moved to St. Petersburg, and he was still consolidating his power base. Russia was not ready for democracy, Vasalov believed. The mob had yet to understand the power of voting, and exploiters and criminals were running rampant in the meantime. No, his beloved Motherland needed a single guiding vision. That of Ivan Vladimir Vasalov.

'What is this about a new monster appearing in the Himalayas?' the ruler of Russia demanded. The general he addressed visibly winced at his leader's demand.

'We only just spotted it, your Excellency,' the general stuttered. Vasalov waved off his subject's excuses.

'I was told about this two hours ago my some of my Smursh men. What I want to know is what is it doing and where is it going?' Vasalov glared at the general, as if daring the man to refuse to answer his questions.

'It seems to be heading into Afghanistan,' the Russian officer dutifully responded. He noticed that all of the other soldiers in the room were looking away from the exchange, not willing to spy on the conversation and earn the wrath of their leader.

'Seems to be? I want certainty!' Vasalov roared. The small man raised his fist into the air and stabbed a finger at the sky. 'If there is even the slightest chance that this thing is heading towards the southern republics, I want Perun's Axe activated!' The declaration brought a shocked gasp from the general.

'But Excellency, the weapon's system could cause more destruction than the monster,' he protested.

'If you think I am going to spare some Afghan bastards so that the southern republics can be this thing's stomping ground, I will start looking for your replacement right now!' Vasalov barked, stepping so that he was in the shaken general's face. 'The safety of my people comes before anyone! You have Perun's Axe activated and ready. If that thing so much as looks north, I expect you to follow my orders.'

General Vasalov, Despot of all the Russias, turned to leave the command center.

'If you don't, I'll shoot you myself,' Vasalov snarled as he left the room.

Kato Yasunori watched from a small hilltop as the massive figure of Bagan stomped across the desert. Overhead, some of the antiquated Taliban attack planes screamed like a swarm of angry flies. At first, the ancient devil-beast had tried to attack the planes, but as soon as the dragon realized that the fighters could do him no harm with their feeble missiles and cannons, he came to ignore them. Even the three suicide attackers had done nothing more than waste their lives; the planes had impacted upon the monster's armored gray hide, exploding into a shower of metal shrapnel and debris. A more gruesome fate had befallen the tank crews of the Taliban militia. These had also been unable to harm the unstoppable Bagan, but, unlike the fighters, they were unable to escape the beast's anger. Bagan had pounced upon the tanks, seizing them one at a time. Lifting them high into the air in his clawed hands, Bagan had slowly crushed the armored vehicles, compacting them as surely and thoroughly as any car crusher. The men trapped inside were slowly reduced to a gory jelly.

The necromancer spared no pity on the doomed fanatics. It was because of their stupidity that he had not secured the ruby. Even after watching as Kato caused his guards to immolate by internal combustion, a most horrible death, the Taliban cleric had refused to tell Kato what he wanted to know. The zealot's death would be spoken of in these lands for centuries. If Bagan left anyone alive to pass on the tale.

The dragon instinctively knew where to find the heart of the dragon, the shard of his soul. It would have been much quicker if Kato had been able to secure it and give it to the devil-beast himself, but Bagan would find it on his own. Indeed, perhaps these stubborn vermin deserved what would happen to them. His vengeance upon Tokyo was being needlessly delayed while Bagan sought the heart of the dragon. Kato saw no reason to overly concern himself with the fate of those who had caused this delay.

Another suicide pilot veered downwards, slamming his plane into Bagan's thick, horned skull. The plane exploded, a plume of fire rising from the dragon-demon's head. Bagan grunted lowly, annoyed at the momentary obscurement of his vision as the black smoke and white fire engulfed his face. Like everything else, it was but a momentary delay. Bagan would have what he was looking for, and there was nothing that was going to stop him.

On Ogasawara Island, Mothra turned her head skywards. Her massive mandibles opened and she uttered a shrill cry. Beneath her huge, gossamer-like wings, the grub-like form of her offspring wriggled forward, emerging into the feeble light that penetrated the huge tarp that covered Mothra's nest. The egg had hatched the previous night, far too early. The caterpillar was very weak. It had been yet another effect of Bagan's release. The sudden surge of evil had so disturbed the incubating pupa that it had forced its way to liberty. Fortunately, the caterpillar was formed enough to survive the premature hatching.

Mothra stared downwards, favoring the hideous worm-like creature with her brilliant blue multi-faceted eyes. The moth goddess chirped a second time, more lowly and softly than before, trying to reassure the caterpillar. She stared again at the nearby figure that thought to sulk in the jungle canopy. Once already the ever-hungry Baragon had tried to snatch the caterpillar from Mothra's protection. Even the super-saurs' advanced healing would take weeks to repair the damage. Still, the voracious beast was not willing to give up his idea of making a meal of the weak moth-larva.

Mothra shrieked again, fanning her wings. The evil had awakened again, but it was still weak. She had no time to waste if Bagan was to be stopped. If the monster grew in power, it might prove unbeatable, especially since she did not know if any of her ancient allies would still be able to aid her in such a battle. No, Mothra would have to act and act swiftly if she was to stop Bagan before the demon-dragon grew too powerful to be stopped.

Mothra sent her thoughts slithering across the island. She had already attempted to manipulate Baragon into leaving her larva alone, but the brute's hunger had proven too overwhelming to subdue. Now Mothra decided to try a different approach. She reached out, prodding a slumbering mind into awareness, drawing one of Monsterland's other denizens towards her nest.

The low, howl-like bark sounded as the armored reptile charged the lurking Baragon. Baragon roared his anger, but did not stand his ground. He had already learned that he was no match for this new adversary, and Baragon was not a beast that repeated his mistakes. With a last snarl, the floppy-eared monster retreated back towards the nearby cliff and the huge tunnel that he had dug for himself.

Mothra flapped her wings and emerged from beneath the canopy. She chirped again, a sound meant to thank Anguirus for his aid, though the other monster had no way of understanding the sound. The spike-backed dinosaur moved to the mouth of the shelter, preventing the caterpillar from emerging and pursuing its parent. Satisfied that her offspring would be looked after, that Anguirus was fully within the thrall of her mental suggestion, the huge insect deity rose into the sky. She circled the island once before speeding away northwards and the horrible fiend she, like her long-ago ancestor, was destined to face.

Below, Mothra's larva uttered a shrill, mournful cry.

'Sir, the monster Bagan appears to be heading towards a village just north-west of Kabul,' the US Navy ensign reported to the admiral.

'Shall we scramble the flight crews?' one of the other navy officers asked.

'No,' replied the admiral. 'Have them on stand-by, but don't put them on alert just yet. If that creature starts heading towards Pakistan, then we will strike, but I am not about to let any of our boys die defending that Taliban scum.'

The admiral sighed heavily. 'These people have chosen to make themselves our enemy. Now they can deal with that.' The admiral's face grew still grimmer. With the power of an entire aircraft carrier task force at his command, a disturbing realization had entered the officer's mind. 'Besides, from what the reports have told us about this monster, I am not so very certain that we can hurt it anyway.'

The woman wore a heavy blue veil that hung from the top of her head to just below her knees. It was twilight, and the woman was hurrying home, desperate to have dinner ready for her husband less she receive another beating at his hands. A few thin rounded loaves of bread were tucked under her arm as she hurried through the narrow dirt streets of the village. Then, the woman stopped, the bread falling from her hands. In horror, she removed the heavy, obscuring veil and its narrow, gauze-like slit to gaze upon the site with her own eyes. A turbaned man saw her and immediately raced over, a heavy stick in his hand. Shouting obscenities, the bearded man began to viciously beat the woman. Still, the woman's eyes were locked upon the sight that had so unnerved her, even as a bone in her arm snapped under the stick's impact.

Bestial eyes glared downwards from a great height, staring at the sorry spectacle of the Taliban enforcer beating the woman. The huge demon drank in the woman's pain and horror, savoring it as a man might enjoy fine wine. The moment passed and Bagan advanced once more upon the village. His heavy armored foot descended, blotting out the light. The Taliban enforcer had enough time to look up and begin to scream before the foot crushed both himself and his victim into nothingness.

Bagan snorted, the sound echoing across the village. Terrified people leaned from their windows, shocked to see the enormous beast standing on the outskirts of their settlement. Some fainted, others raced out into the darkening night, running for their lives. Many darted back into their homes, cowering in terror within their mud-brick homes. Bagan stood still, savoring the terror of the villagers, sucking in their fear like an opium addict at his pipe.

Bagan leaned downwards, his head only feet from the roofs of the village. His nostrils flared as he smelled the cowering souls within the buildings. The monster opened his jaws, thick ropes of saliva drooling downwards to form corrosive puddles in the dirt streets. Then the demon roared.

From so very near, the sound was like the boom of a supersonic plane. Eardrums exploded as the vibration struck. Men, women and children perished where they hid after a second of intense agony. Bagan swirled his body around, roaring again and again, harvesting the souls of the village with his hideous assault. The monster's claws and tail smashed down the mud buildings, crushing them into dust. With a snarl, Bagan reared upwards again, marching relentlessly towards the only structure that still stood, the village mosque.

Bagan loomed above the mosque, a juggernaut of destruction. The demon paused for only an instant, as though trying to overcome the sanctity of the place. But, already defiled by decades of heresy, whatever protection the place might have once offered had long since been weakened. Contemptuously, Bagan swiped his claw through the tile roof and began to demolish the building.

Deep beneath the building, a man cowered. Dressed in military fatigues, a long white turban encasing his head, the cringing terrorist prayed to the god he served for salvation. It had been a long time since he had prayed to his god in any manner of sincerity. He was not a devoutly religious man. For him, religion was but a tool, a flag to wave before easily led men, an excuse to lead men to throw their lives away in some imagined bid to ascend to heaven. Islam had served him well; he had become one of the most feared men on the planet. That he was also the most hated did not concern him too much.

Again, the terrorist's eyes strayed to the huge gleaming ruby. It was a gift from the Taliban. Tribute, actually, since without him and the terror his name inspire, and the guns of his fanatic followers, the oppressed people of Afghanistan would have long ago risen up and torn these zealots to shreds with their bare hands. It was a joke, the rulership of the Taliban. In truth, the only ruler of this land was terror.

The ruby seemed to pulse and throb, the wooden stand it was upon began to smolder. The air around it began to warp, the way it would around a raging fire. The terrorist marveled at the sight. Perhaps the gem truly was accursed, just as that old Muslim priest had claimed when it had been found in the minutes before the Taliban had ordered the cleric stoned to death. The terrorist had always intended to sell the gem, to fund his plots and schemes. But he had never been able to bring himself to do so. Somehow the gem had always filled him with a sense of power. It was as though it had magnified his own personality, filling his mind with ever-greater visions of destruction, planting the seeds of ever grander and more horrible plots within his mind. Indeed, his entire vision had changed, if he was truthful to himself. His network of terrorists was no longer devoted to liberating any land, or pursuing any political goal. To be sure, these were the excuses and many of his followers truly believed them, but the real purpose was so much different. The real purpose was death and terror and destruction for its own sake, nothing more.

Perhaps, the Arab realized, he had kept the ruby too long.

The floor of the mosque crumbled, revealing the bunker below. Bagan snarled, a sound of triumph. The great demon reached into the hole-like depression with his claws and withdrew two things. In one claw, the dragon held the smoldering ruby, in the other he held the screaming body of the cringing man that had been lying within the hole.

Bagan crushed the ruby. It exploded in his hand, a great fiery conflagration that cast blazing tendrils all about the monster. Bagan hissed in pain as the fires swept inwards, sinking through his armored hide and slithering back into his body. The monster's gray armor remained the same somber hue, but the flesh beneath darkened, becoming a reddish hue. The monster's head reared backwards and he sent a great stream of fire shooting into the night sky.

The man in Bagan's paw cried in horror. The monster's head shot around, as though noticing the terrorist for the first time. Bagan's reptilian features crinkled into a hideous look of rage. This creature had touched his soul, had allowed a part of Bagan into itself. Awful energies streamed from Bagan's body and began to fill the screaming Arab. Then, Bagan's paw began to slowly close around the man's body.

First, the terrorist's ribcage cracked and splintered, skewering his internal organs with splinters of bone. A great blob of blood and bone drooled from the man's mouth, seeping into his beard. Bagan paused, savoring the man's agony, allowing more of his energy to seep into the man and prevent him from dying. Then, Bagan began to slowly squeeze once more. Soon, the sound of more bones cracking and splintering and again the monster paused, savoring the pain.

Many long minutes later, after every last drop of agony had been wrenched from the terrorist's body, Bagan's paw closed into a fist. A thin bloody paste dripped from the monster's hand, the pulverized mortal remains of the terrorist. Bagan roared and turned away. He could still sense the man's soul, writhing within the demon's heart like those of all his other victims, but in time that too would cease to be noticeable as it became fully engulfed in the hell of a demon's soul.