The Rift pulsed.
Black veins of light stretched across the empty space between worlds.
It was not a place of time or shape.
It was between.
A crack in the universe where old things waited. Where ancient minds whispered. Where rules of life and death didn't matter.
And now… it boiled with anger.
A floating throne made of broken stars drifted in the dark.
Upon it sat a tall, thin figure wrapped in smoke. His skin was gray and cracked like dried clay. His eyes were closed, but he saw everything.
This was Veyrith, The Mind That Consumes — the Second General of the Conquerors.
He was not muscle like Rhazik.
He was mind, memory, and manipulation.
And he was not pleased.
Before him, the Rift rippled.
A red mist twisted into form.
A voice echoed across the void.
"Rhazik has failed."
"The gate was sealed."
"The Flameborn still lives."
Veyrith opened his eyes slowly.
They were empty.
But when he looked into the void, even the stars dimmed.
"Of course he failed," he said calmly. "He always rushes."
"Flame cannot be crushed with flame. It must be drowned in doubt."
Another figure emerged beside him.
She stepped lightly on nothing, as if walking on glass.
Her body was slender and sharp, like a blade in human shape. Long silver hair floated behind her. Her skin was pale, but her eyes bled violet light.
This was Nyxara, Queen of the Quiet Blades.
Third General.
Assassin of realms.
She smiled.
But it was not a kind smile.
"So," she said, "the legend survives."
"Eon is still alive."
"I hoped to kill him myself."
Veyrith did not look at her.
"I warned the others. He is not like the humans we've conquered before. He remembers the first war."
"And now," Nyxara added, "he is not alone."
A light flashed above them.
Rhazik's broken form returned to the Rift, torn and bent. His armor was cracked. His wings had vanished. His blade was gone.
He dropped to his knees before the throne.
Ash poured from his mouth.
"I… failed," he said.
Nyxara laughed lightly.
"I noticed."
Rhazik growled. "I could've won. But there was a surge—another flame."
Veyrith's voice was calm, but cold.
"She has awakened."
Rhazik looked up. "The girl?"
"She touched the gate. The Flame remembered her. Now, the spark grows."
A low hum echoed through the Rift.
Another voice.
Deeper.
Colder.
Darker.
"You speak of sparks while the universe bends."
From the shadows rose the fourth general — Gor'makh, The Titan of Endings.
He didn't walk.
He moved space around him.
Each step shook the Rift.
He had no face — only a jagged stone head filled with cracks of red light. His body was made of black rock and chained thunder. His arms were the size of towers.
"Flame or not," Gor'makh growled, "they are still mortal."
"Mortals die."
The four generals stood together now.
All different.
All dangerous.
All watching Earth.
The Rift showed a floating image of the world.
Its blue oceans.
Its green lands.
Its shining cities.
Veyrith raised one hand.
He pointed at the image of Eon.
"I remember when he was just a cell," Veyrith said softly. "Now he walks in flesh, mastering flame again."
"He is learning faster this time."
"Then we will stop him sooner," said Gor'makh.
"No," Nyxara said. "We will divide him."
The Rift shimmered.
New images appeared.
More gates forming.
Hidden in mountains.
Under oceans.
Inside cities.
"Let the humans taste fear," Nyxara said.
"Let their people turn against them."
"Let their leaders chase shadows."
"And while they panic…"
"We enter," Veyrith finished.
Behind them, a thousand shapes waited in silence.
Not generals.
Not beasts.
But something worse.
Conqueror Seeds.
Each one looked like a glowing egg wrapped in dark wires.
Each one held the soul of a world they had already devoured.
Veyrith reached toward one.
It pulsed with light.
"We shall plant these," he said. "And Earth will grow its own undoing."
Rhazik stood slowly.
"I will go again," he said. "Let me finish what I started."
Veyrith stared at him.
"No," he said.
"You lost the first strike."
"Now… we move as a legion."
Nyxara stepped forward and spread her arms.
Blades of light floated around her.
She smiled, her violet eyes glowing bright.
"I'll go next."
"They will never see me coming."
Gor'makh grunted.
"I'll break their cities. From below. Let the land itself betray them."
Veyrith raised his hand again.
The image of Rin appeared.
She was in her room, holding fire in her hand.
Unaware of the eyes watching her.
"She is young," he whispered. "But she is important."
"We must not let her awaken fully."
"Send the Whispers."
Suddenly, small forms appeared from the shadows.
Thin, pale creatures with no eyes and mouths filled with teeth.
They crouched like spiders but moved like mist.
The Whispers.
Assassins made of silence and nightmares.
They did not speak.
They simply bowed.
And vanished.
The Rift shook again.
This time, it pulsed with heat.
Not anger.
Excitement.
For the first time in thousands of years, the Conquerors moved together.
Not as monsters.
Not as gods.
But as a storm.
A force of unmaking.
And Earth… would soon feel their weight.
Far away, in a mountain range untouched by man, a small black flower bloomed.
It wasn't a flower at all.
It was a Seed.
And it began to whisper to the earth around it.
Calling things older than time.
In the skies, storm clouds gathered over cities with no rain.
Birds changed direction.
Animals grew restless.
Children dreamed of fire.
And the stars above Earth…
began to flicker.
Back in the Rift, Veyrith closed his eyes again.
He smiled a slow, cold smile.
"Let them hope," he said.
"Hope burns best when it dies last."