Even The Gods Fear My Return
Chapter Six: The First Throne Shall Fall
The storm had not yet swept across the lands, but the entire world was in the throes of a premonition that sent tremors through its very core. A collective memory, long-sealed and buried, began to awaken within the hearts of all living creatures.
Across the expanse of the mortal realms, ancient and sacred temples began to crack, their stone facades fissuring under an invisible weight. Oceans, usually proud and formidable, receded back from shores in a display of fear, only to surge upward in a wild rebellion, their waves crashing higher than ever before against the sky. Mountains groaned under the pressure of forgotten names echoing hauntingly from the void; their ancient peaks seemed to shudder, recalling glories and sorrows lost to time. Amidst this cosmic upheaval, in some humble dwelling, a child was born, the first sound from her tiny lips was a piercing scream—not of pain, but as if she was resonating with an echo of a truth that had long been silenced, a truth that the world had desperately tried to forget.
High above, in the vast expanse of the twilight sky, a solitary star wept blood, its crimson trails painting a haunting picture against the tapestry of the heavens.
In the Celestial Citadel, a magnificent structure woven of light and shadow where the gods ruled the fabric of existence as if they were bored monarchs nursing aged wines in their gilded goblets, one among them stood apart from the rest—alone and untouched by the revelry of eternity.
Vaelios, the formidable God of Flame, had not uttered a single word since the moment Kazuren's return shattered the delicate peace of the cosmos.
His silence was not born of a lack of thoughts to express; rather, it stemmed from an all-consuming fear—that to give voice to his thoughts would render the dire situation irreversibly real and tangible before him.
He stood in his chamber, a sanctuary of ever-burning light where flames danced like celestial beings against the backdrop of molten creation. It was a cathedral of fire suspended in a chasm of divine essence, its walls inhaling heat as if they were alive, while the floor glimmered with sacred embers. Surrounding him was a breathtaking display of countless weapons, relics forged in the fires of battles long before mortals had learned the art of speech, and ages before dragons had bent their knees in submission.
And still, his hands quivered, betraying the calm he sought to portray.
Not due to fear's touch, but rather, from the heavy weight of memory.
"He looked at me…"
He spoke aloud, though there was no one to hear him. The lonely echo of his voice faded into the ether, met only with a silence that was heavier than the burdens of eons.
Then, as if the cosmos itself held its breath, the flames fell silent.
It was not the brisk chill of cold that intruded upon the chamber; rather, it was an overwhelming absence, a gnawing reminder emerging from the depths of primordial instinct, like fire recollecting its own frailty—the consciousness of mortality. The vibrant glow dimmed, and reality seemed to contract as though it were drawing in a long-held breath.
And from that engulfing darkness, Kazuren emerged.
His presence did not announce itself with sound or heraldry; there were no resounding incantations, no cataclysmic explosions, nor any storm heralding his entrance.
It was simply a presence—a force that seemed to command respect and reverence.
The air itself recoiled at his approach.
The sacred relics of war, so proudly encircling Vaelios, began to shatter one by one, erupting like fragile glass under the inexorable weight of silence. The floor beneath Kazuren's boot fractured, splintering under the anticipation of his very presence before it even made contact.
His golden eyes, glowing like twin suns, regarded the God of Flame before him—not with the animosity that one might expect, but with the unyielding gaze of truth, the kind that cuts deeper than blade or fire.
Vaelios summoned his greatsword, Pyros Sanctum, a weapon forged from the very heart of a newborn star—an artifact of unimaginable might.
"I burned your memory," he declared, his voice laden with the gravity of divine pride and the sorrow of bygone eras. "I erased your name from the tongues of priests and prophets. In this world, you should not exist."
Kazuren took a step forward, unarmed and resolute.
"Then draw your blade," he urged, his voice steady and unwavering. "And prove that I do not."
In that moment, the God of Flame erupted.
His body transformed into an inferno, an unstoppable cascade of heat and light. Wings made of solar flame unfurled grandly behind him, each feather a raging sun in its own right. His form towered against the dimness, exuding such brilliance that mortal eyes would be turned to ash merely by glimpsing his resplendence.
He descended upon Kazuren like an inevitable act of divine judgment, a force of nature unleashed.
But Kazuren remained still, unwavering.
He merely raised his hand, a motion so simple yet profound.
And he caught the sun.
The great, infernal sword, swirling with the fury of creation itself, slammed into his palm.
In that instant, all that existed fractured around them.
Time splintered, each second stretching into infinitude. The flames roared and screeched in desperate protest, striving to consume the intruder.
And then—
With a surge of raw power, he crushed the blade.
The sword imploded violently. Vaelios was thrown backward, forced through his own cathedral walls in a spectacular explosion of holy fire. The impact resonated through the very fabric of the heavens, sending tremors that were felt in every corner of existence. Shards of divine flame showered across the mortal realm like a breathtaking display of falling stars—both beautiful and terrifying.
Yet Kazuren was already before him once more.
Seizing the god by the throat, he lifted him effortlessly off the ground. The flames roared and clawed around him, attempting to resist, to envelop and consume.
Kazuren leaned in, his words dripping with chilling intensity, a mere whisper that resonated like the stillness that resides between lightning and thunder.
"You burned my name from the world."
"Now feel what it's like to be forgotten."
His eyes ignited not with the fury of flame, but with a deep, primordial essence of unmaking—a void that could unravel existence itself.
And the God of Flame screamed, a sound that was more primal than any fire, more heart-wrenching than any storm.
Across the expanse of the Celestial Citadel, a throne—the Throne of Flame—exploded into nothingness, disintegrating into ash.
Its presence was no more.
And across all the realms below, mortals gazed upward, instinctively aware—without the need for prayers or prophecies—
A god had fallen.
Far above, the remaining Eleven gods watched in a profound silence that spoke volumes.
Erethur, the God of Judgment, was the first to break the stillness. He placed a steady hand upon the hilt of Veredictum, his illustrious weapon, the embodiment of his duty.
And he whispered—his voice barely above a breath:
"So it begins."
To be continued...