The moment they killed Lysia, the world made a choice.
They chose silence.They chose complicity.They chose to watch.
And so, Caelum Verrian made his choice, too.
If the world would not grieve for her,If the people would not speak for her,If the gods would not descend for her,
Then he would rise against all of them.
Seven Continents. One Target.
They didn't attack all at once.
At first, they denied the rumors.
Then they labeled him a myth.
Then they began to die.
Nobles with corrupted legacies.Archmages with sealed war-crimes.Inquisitors who cheered while Lysia bled.
Caelum did not scream or rage.
He simply appeared.Cut.And vanished.
Until the seven Empires gathered.
They called it The Unification Front.A holy alliance.
An army of eight billion souls marched beneath a single banner to kill one boy.
Every continent contributed:
Zephyraul, with their skyships and mana-mechs.
Druenval, with necromancers and plague forgers.
Elystar, with their divine-blessed holy knights.
Vaelus, with timefold assassins and sound-killers.
Myrrhvale, with beast-riders and blood alchemists.
Aezrith, with elemental titans and runeweavers.
And Tharion, the cursed land, with living weapons bred from death itself.
They sent mages, godsblessed, technarchs, high warpriests, and at last—
The Twenty-Seven Heroes of the World.Chosen by the gods.Famous, beautiful, powerful.Champions.
The same gods Lysia once prayed to.
Caelum stood alone.
No army.
No banners.
No speeches.
Only his blade.
The War That Broke the Sky
No written records remain.
Only echoes.
They say the battlefield stretched across the continent of Elystar, now a wasteland of glass and bone.
They say time itself collapsed during the fighting — that days passed in seconds, and seconds lasted years.
They say he fell from the skies like lightning.That he fought barefoot.That he bled stars.
It wasn't a war.
It was a massacre.
For both sides.
He cut through armies like fire through dry grass.
He broke the world's best mage with a whisper.Shattered a sky fortress with one sword swing.Fought the Tharion Bonebeast with only his hands.
He did not age.He did not sleep.He did not hesitate.
And when the Twenty-Seven Heroes came for him, they found only silence — and a field of their dead comrades.
Each of them wielded divine relics.
Caelum had only his blade.
And yet—
He killed them all.
Not with rage.
Not with hate.
But with clarity.
And when the last of the twenty-seven fell, Caelum stood there—bleeding, burnt, broken—but alive.
The End of the War
It took twenty-seven blades to bring him to his knees.
Each hero drove their weapon into his body as a final act of defiance.
They left them there — swords, spears, divine pikes — as trophies, hoping it would stop him from rising again.
But he did not fall.
He walked.Through fire.Through corpses.Through a sky turned black with smoke and ash.
He reached the center of the battlefield.And there, he collapsed onto his back.Alone.
Beneath the stars that once watched her die.
The clouds parted.
The sky shimmered.
And he looked up.
A long silence stretched.
Then—
He spoke.A whisper.A promise.A curse.
"If there truly is a god in the skies…"
His voice cracked — for the first time.
"…Then I promise you."
He clenched his bloodied fist.
"One day, I will come to claim your head."
"For letting something this cruel happen to her."
And with that, his breathing slowed.
His eyes closed.
But he did not die.
He could not.
The Curse of Eternity kept him bound.
Alone.
Alive.
Undying.
The World's Reaction
The Seven Empires did not claim victory.They claimed survival.
They buried the battlefield.Burned the histories.Sealed away every recording.
But whispers spread.
They say a man walks the world now.
Alone.
Scarred.
Unaging.
That wherever injustice takes root, his shadow follows.
That those who mock love, crush the innocent, or worship false gods…
Disappear.
And all that's left—
Is the mark of the broken crown.