Martin stood atop the crumbling clocktower, which jutted like a broken fang into the roiling heavens, surveying the destruction unfolding below. Ash drifted in thick curtains across the sky, mingling with smoke from collapsed buildings and mana burn. The acrid taste of ozone clung to the air.
He adjusted his tie.
Behind him, the bell gave one final groan before it tore loose from its frame and plummeted into the ruined street, shattering cobblestones and silence alike.
A thunderclap cracked the sky.
Belisarius crashed through a stone wall like a boulder fired from a siege weapon, ambient mana flaring around his plated form. Every step the Warden took fractured stone and air.
"NO, YOU DON'T!"
Martin leaned sideways with an almost lazy grace, backflipping off the tower's edge just as Belisarius's blade carved through the spire's spine. The blow split the structure down the middle. Debris screamed into the streets.
"How the hell do you keep finding me?" Martin asked midair, casting a hover spell to soften his descent. He landed on a lower rooftop, coat flapping behind him.
"Clever rat," Belisarius snarled. He stepped from the smoke, eyes glowing behind the visor. "But not clever enough to hide from Compliance."
The gauntlets shimmered with runes, tracking the unique magical signature of Martin's Cod-Act spellcraft. Varncrest's legendary lie-breaking artifact had never failed.
"If it weren't for that ritual lattice you built," Belisarius continued, "you'd be a smear by now."
Martin rolled his shoulders. "Preparation is half the battle, Warden."
"Coward."
"I prefer 'undefeated,'" Martin said with a grin, withdrawing a medallion from his coat—blackened brass, etched in twisted circuits. It hummed in the mana-choked air like a restrained storm.
"Also," he muttered, activating a wind glyph, "I'm done with the setup."
Before Belisarius could react, a concentrated wind burst launched him like a ragdoll across the city, smashing through several buildings before a distant impact rumbled through the streets.
Martin exhaled.
"Now," he murmured to the medallion, "Let's see what all the fuss is about."
The medallion's face rippled with light—arcane glyphs dancing in precise sequences. Each pattern was a spell, pre-encoded, drawn directly from the spell lattice that enveloped the city like a net.
With a flick of his wrist, Martin activated the core function.
Summoning.
Air distorted. Mana spiraled into a column as a massive cannon emerged from concealment atop the city's outer wall. Arcane turbines spun into motion. Lines of compressed mana surged through the weapon like blood through arteries.
On a distant rooftop, Belisarius stared at the weapon in disbelief.
"What in the Seven Circles…"
Martin spoke softly but clearly. "Let's see how much power a single projectile can handle."
"You arrogant child," Belisarius whispered, eyes wide.
The cannon's runes glowed like molten steel. The barrel roared to life.
Then—
Crack.
A whistle split the air.
Then silence.
Then:
The world screamed.
The projectile—a rod forged not from mundane metal but layered mana-stabilizing alloys—didn't travel so much as consume the space before it. Shockwaves shattered glass across Markand. Reality bent in its wake.
Hundreds died instantly.
Zealots evaporated mid-prayer.
Ritual circles imploded.
Soldiers burst like overripe fruit from internal mana backlash.
At the epicenter, Storm's Creed's divine array fractured like ancient porcelain.
The fortress on the mountain—once surrounded by sacred sigils and centuries-old protections—cracked, groaned, and fell in on itself. A divine stillbirth, now nothing but ruin.
Martin stood tall, medallion humming with residual heat, and let out a slow, satisfied sigh.
"There. Now I just need to walk in and take the artifact."
But before he could take a step, blue chains of mana wrapped around him—tight, burning with sanctified authority.
A voice spoke directly into his mind, hard and cold.
"Do not proceed."
Martin frowned. "Belisarius?"
The Warden's voice continued, unwavering. "By Varncrest decree, your interference is now formally acknowledged. You are under detainment for unauthorized high-grade spellcraft on foreign sovereign soil."
Martin slumped. "You piggybacked my own lattice to cast that? That's low. Even for you."
"You've made a mess. I will clean it up. And you, boy, will explain where you learned how to compress divine resonance into a projectile."
Martin tilted his head. "It's just a metal rod, filled with enough mana to fake an apotheosis."
"That's not possible," Belisarius barked. "Only stabilized relics can channel that much power—"
"Ask your gauntlets," Martin interrupted, tapping the medallion.
The Compliance gauntlets glowed red. Then pulsed.
True.
Belisarius faltered. "But… no one outside Varncrest's deepest vaults—"
"I cheated," Martin shrugged. "Cod-Act compression. Modern magecraft, not whatever dusty scribbles your order still sings lullabies to."
"You arrogant—"
Martin snapped his fingers.
The spell lattice surged.
A second pulse—this one not concentrated, but wide and unfocused—exploded across the city. A mana shockwave engulfed Markand, flattening what remained of defensive wards, sensory arrays, and any surviving magical infrastructure.
The fortress, already broken, became a crater.
Silence.
But silence never lasts.
From deep within the mountain ruins… came a pulse.
A heartbeat.
Then—lightning.
The sky cracked open as divinity, unbound and enraged, tore through the remains of the ritual. What emerged was no longer just a spirit—it was a newly-formed god-embryo, birthed in chaos, pain, and power.
Its form was unstable—a swirling storm of flesh, shadow, and divine energy. Its eyes were lightning. Its scream shattered air and sanity alike.
Not pain.
Freedom.
Martin's pupils dilated, his grin feral. "Now that... that is interesting."
From a ruined cathedral tower, Belisarius clutched a crumbling wall, face pale behind his helmet.
"You fool," the Warden muttered.
The divine-being twisted, scanning the wreckage.
Its gaze landed on Martin.
A pause.
Recognition.
Martin raised one eyebrow. "Huh. Me?"
The storm roared.
And descended.