The battlefield had ended in silence. The Abyss-born horrors fled, their screams vanishing into the cracked horizon, leaving only bodies, blood, and the weight of Kael's presence.
Word traveled faster than fire. By the time the last cry of battle faded, whispers spread across kingdoms: The Celestial God has risen.
Kael stood at the heart of the ruined plain, chains glowing faintly around him, his aura like a storm pressing against the sky. The soldiers—those who lived—dropped to one knee. Even the generals, hardened by decades of war, bowed without hesitation.
The sight struck Lyra like a blade. The man she had once known as Kael, the brother-in-arms she laughed with beneath temple stars, now stood as something entirely other. Not just leader, not just warrior. God.
His voice thundered, carried by power rather than breath. "Raise your heads. This war is not won. The Abyss will rise again, and when it does, we will be ready. No man, no beast, no god will stand in the way of what must be done."
The crowd erupted with fervor, chanting his name—Kael. Kael. Kael. The sound carried like rolling thunder, echoing into the broken sky.
But far from the battlefield, in the depths of the unseen realms, the true gods stirred.
In a hall carved from starlight and shadow, beings older than mortal history gathered. Their forms shifted between flame, stone, storm, and endless dark. They had watched Kael's ascension, their silence now broken.
"He dares to name himself god," one voice rumbled, its form a mountain wrapped in lightning. "A mortal clothed in stolen power."
Another, a figure woven from pure night, whispered like silk, "Not stolen—claimed. He has bound the Abyss to his soul. That is no small feat."
A third, a radiant shape whose eyes burned like a dying sun, spat with disdain. "And therein lies the danger. He is both divine and tainted. If he falters, he could unravel the balance we have preserved for eons."
Whispers slithered through the council. Some gods spoke of destroying him before his roots reached too deep. Others—bolder, hungrier—spoke of drawing him into their fold, bending him to their cause.
But one voice cut through the chaos. A calm, resonant tone, filled with ancient authority.
"Leave him."
The gods turned toward the speaker—an old figure cloaked in constellations, eyes reflecting the infinite sky.
"Why?" the storm rumbled.
The old god's lips curved into a faint smile. "Because he has only just begun. Whether he becomes salvation or ruin… will depend on whether he remembers who he was before calling himself divine."
Back on the mortal field, Kael's gaze drifted upward, as though he felt the weight of eyes beyond the stars. The chains at his wrists tightened, humming with both defiance and hunger.
And in that silence, he whispered to himself—too low for any but the shadows to hear:
"I will not kneel."
The chains pulsed. The shadows laughed.