The city of Mercuri was alive with sound. Lanterns glowed like scattered stars across the cobbled streets, musicians plucked their strings, and laughter rose into the night sky. The festival had reached its height. People danced, cups clashed, incense smoke curled upward, and roasted meat sizzled on open fires. Every breath of the crowd was heavy with wine and joy.
At the center of it all stood a statue—tall, unyielding, sacred. A god carved in stone.
Crimson.
To the mortals of Mercuri, Crimson was light, Crimson was hope. They whispered prayers beneath his gaze, laying down their harvests as offerings: golden fruits, baskets of grain, barrels of wine. They bowed until their foreheads touched the earth, blind to the truth.
For Crimson was no savior. He was a mask.
Above the city, the night sky split apart.
A single streak of red light tore through the darkness like a scar across the heavens. The people gasped, some falling to their knees, others crying with joy.
"The god blesses us!" shouted the priests.
"Behold, Crimson answers!"
But this was no divine blessing.
The light fell faster, brighter, until the world itself trembled. It crashed beyond the city, shaking the mountains, toppling trees, and splitting stone. The festival silenced in an instant. Music, laughter, even the breath of the mortals froze. All that remained was the echo of the impact.
The Silent Valley had awoken.
And within the crater lay a figure.
A man, though not quite mortal. His white robes were torn, his silver hair clung to his blood-stained skin, and his chest rose and fell in painful rhythm. His eyes—glowing faintly crimson—stared upward at the stars he had once called home.
Raizel.
Once a god praised for his compassion. Now forsaken. Betrayed. Cast down.
His lips moved, a whisper breaking through the dust.
"Crimson… You two-faced liar… You will pay."
The soil beneath him quivered. A growl slithered through the darkness.
From the shadowed trees came a presence—massive, oppressive, hungry. A beast stepped forward, its eyes glowing like molten embers, its breath steaming in the cold air. The ground seemed to bend beneath its weight.
The creature circled him slowly. Raizel's body was broken, his strength scattered, his bones screaming in protest. He could not lift his blade. He could barely stand.
And yet he met the beast's gaze without flinching.
"Do it," he muttered. "End me here. Let this cursed exile finish."
The creature leapt.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
But within that darkness—something stirred.
A voice. Ancient. Patient. Full of venom.
"Raizel… Do you wish for vengeance?"
The sound slithered through his mind. It was not a question, but a temptation.
"Accept me. Take the blade. I am wrath. I am despair. I am the weapon the heavens feared. Wield me, and the false gods will tremble."
Memories burned across his vision. The judgment. The chains. The cold eyes of Crimson as the other gods turned away. The spear through his body. The fall.
His chest burned with hatred.
"Yes…" His voice thundered in the void. "If vengeance is the only truth left, then let the heavens shatter. Give me your blade."
Light erupted.
The valley shook as a surge of crimson energy split the night. Dust rose like a storm, trees bowed under unseen pressure, and the stars themselves seemed to dim.
From the crater rose Raizel.
Reborn.
The wounds were gone. His body radiated with strength. In his hand rested a blade of impossible design—woven from shadow, streaked with red veins that pulsed like living fire. The God-Slayer.
The air screamed as the weapon hummed with power. The ground fractured beneath his feet. Birds scattered into the night sky, fleeing the aura that blanketed the valley.
Raizel raised his head, silver hair whipping in the storm of his own power.
"This," he said softly, "is only the beginning. Mortals. Priests. Gods. All will fall. None shall be spared."
The silence broke again.
Heavy footsteps echoed through the valley, deeper than thunder. Trees collapsed in waves. Stones rolled from the mountains. The earth seemed to groan under the weight of something colossal.
They came.
Giant Earthlings.
Monstrous figures of stone and soil, taller than towers, their bodies carved like mountains. Their eyes glowed faintly as they looked down upon the lone figure standing amidst the shattered land.
One laughed, voice booming like a drum. "What is this insect?"
Another sneered, "A mortal dares disturb our slumber?"
Their laughter shook the valley. The ground cracked beneath their steps.
Raizel's crimson eyes narrowed. He lowered his head, his grip tightening on the God-Slayer. His aura thickened, pressing against the night.
With a single breath, he whispered:
"Solomon Quik."
The earth split.
In a heartbeat, Raizel vanished from sight.
A flash of crimson light tore through the valley. The air screamed as the mountains themselves quivered. In the silence that followed, the giants froze—staring in disbelief. Their colossal forms wavered as cracks spread across their bodies.
Then, like statues breaking apart, they collapsed. The sound was like worlds crumbling.
When the dust settled, Raizel stood alone amidst the ruin. His blade gleamed faintly in the moonlight, his aura radiating like a storm that refused to fade.
He lifted his gaze to the heavens, eyes burning with a fury that could never be quenched.
"This is my path," he declared, his voice carrying through the valley. "The path of the Forsaken. A path of vengeance. Until Crimson falls."
The wind carried his words back to Mercuri. Priests stiffened, children clung to their mothers, lantern flames flickered. Even the city's festival laughter turned uneasy, as though the mortals felt a shadow creeping upon them.
And in the divine realm above, where gods feasted on prayers, a ripple spread. For the first time in an age, fear stirred among them.
The Forsaken God had risen.
And his hunt had only just begun.
[End of Chapter 1]