The village was gone.
Ash floated in the air like black snow, settling on the boy's hair, his skin, the smoldering ruins around him. He stood in silence, the mark on his neck burning with heat that wasn't his own. The gods had fled, but not far. Their rage lingered in the air, a storm of divine hatred circling above the clouds.
The boy's small hands clenched. He had no name, no family, no place. Yet in the hollow of his chest burned something that did not belong to mortals. A hunger. A command. A voice without words telling him to fight.
And then the ground split.
A spear of fire erupted, forcing him back. From the fissure rose the God of Flame, his form towering and molten, his eyes blazing like suns. The others had withdrawn, but one had stayed behind. One had chosen to finish the task.
"You are an abomination," the god's voice thundered, shaking the earth. "You will not walk this world."
The boy's feet trembled. His breath caught. The god's presence was suffocating, every word pressing against his chest like stone. He should have fallen. He should have knelt.
But the shadow stirred.
Black tendrils coiled from his neck, wrapping down his arms, twisting around his legs. The fire around him dimmed as the darkness spread. He raised his hand—not in knowledge, not in training, but in instinct. And the shadow obeyed.
The god hurled a torrent of fire, an inferno that should have swallowed the boy whole. But the shadow surged upward, splitting the flames, drinking them as though they were nothing but smoke. The god staggered, his infernal crown flickering.
The boy's eyes widened. He felt it—the power entering him. The fire did not burn. It sank into his veins, filling him, remaking him. For a heartbeat, he could feel the god's essence, wild and furious, but his own now.
The god roared in fury. "You dare steal from me, mortal?!"
The boy said nothing. He only stepped forward, his small frame dwarfed by the giant. His shadow lashed outward, forming a blade of pure darkness in his hand. The god struck with a flaming fist, enough to shatter mountains. The boy met it with his blade.
The world cracked.
Flame and shadow collided, blasting the ruins apart. A shockwave tore through the valley, flattening trees, sending ash into the heavens. The god reeled, clutching at his burning chest where the shadow had cut him. The wound did not close. It spread, black veins crawling across his divine body.
The boy felt it again—that hunger. The shadow whispered louder, feeding him the god's weakness. He leapt, impossibly high for his small body, and drove the blade deep into the god's chest.
A scream echoed across the skies. The God of Flame staggered, collapsing to one knee, his crown of fire sputtering to embers. The boy did not stop. He pressed the blade deeper, the shadow surging, devouring, consuming.
Light burst from the god's body, swallowed whole by darkness. The valley glowed red, then dimmed to black. When the scream faded, silence fell again.
The God of Flame was gone.
The boy stood alone, trembling, the shadow flickering wildly around him. In his chest, he felt it—the first spark of divinity. Not borrowed. Stolen. His body ached, his lungs burned, but in his veins flowed fire that was not his own.
He looked up. Far above, beyond the clouds, the other six gods watched in horror. Their thrones trembled. Their voices shook the sky.
"The curse lives…"
"He has slain one of us…"
"This cannot be!"
The boy met their gaze. He did not smile. He did not speak. He only raised his black blade toward the heavens, as if daring them to descend.
For the first time in eternity, the gods hesitated.