The sky burned faintly, though no sun had risen. The constellations above Velgrath twisted in consternation. One star, known among its peers as Altherion, glimmered violently, thrumming with an anger that had not stirred for eons.
Altherion's mortal kin—the family of farmers, weavers, and simple folk—had been torn apart in a night of horrors beyond imagination. Every scream, every betrayal, every grotesque tableau was whispered back to the heavens through the Chains that Azkarel now carried.
Altherion's light flared, flickering with fury. The other constellations trembled in awe and fear. "Who dares stain my lineage with such… desecration?" the star boomed, voice echoing like crashing meteors.
The star's anger could not be contained. Shadows twisted, and spectral forms of its celestial underlings gathered, loyal agents forged from cosmic essence. "Go," Altherion thundered. "Hunt him down. Tear that wretch from the world and unmake him!"
But the constellations underestimated Azkarel.
The boy stood at the edge of the burned village, hands slick with the last remnants of the family's flesh, lips curled in a smile that held neither innocence nor mercy. His hunger was tempered by patience now. He did not flee; he waited.
System Message:[Next Quest: Evade Celestial Retribution – Observe, mislead, and survive.][Skill Ready: Tongue of Lies – Induce false visions and fear in those who hunt you.]
The celestial underlings descended, forms made of radiant energy and sharp intent. They struck with brilliance, slashing shadows, probing the world for the source of the mortal desecration. But Azkarel had learned subtlety. With a whispered thought and the power of Tongue of Lies, he twisted the minds of the underlings. They saw illusions of their own families bleeding, of their stars cracking, of their legacies dissolving into shadow.
Panic, terror, and confusion spread like wildfire. The underlings faltered, unsure which direction held reality. And Azkarel, small and silent, slipped through their senses, leaving only echoes of laughter in his wake.
Altherion roared from above, light cracking, reality bending under its fury. "You will not escape, Ash-born! I will purge you!"
Azkarel tilted his head, tasting fear once more. He whispered, soft as a lullaby, yet filled with the promise of doom:
"I am here. I see you. And your family… your line… will never forget me."
The star recoiled, the first tremor of doubt flickering through its brilliance. Azkarel had not gained raw strength—he was patient, methodical, and infinitely cruel. And the constellations, for all their cosmic might, had no idea the full extent of the nightmare that had begun to bloom in the mortal world.
The Chains pulsed faintly, hungry, waiting. The System recorded each heartbeat of the pursuing celestial agents, cataloging their fear, confusion, and doubt. Azkarel's path was still narrow, his power nascent—but the art of corruption had begun, and with it, the stage was set for horrors that would ripple across the heavens.
Zorvak's laughter drifted in, barely audible, yet immense. "Good. Let them rage. Let them strike blindly. Fear is a feast, and patience makes it perfect."
Azkarel's smile widened, black as midnight. The boy—Ash-born, Angel-Breaker, Devourer of Dawn—had tasted first victory against the stars themselves. And he was only beginning.