The world of Nexus was not one world but many. Realms folded over each other like pages in a book, each ruled by a god with their own whims and ways. Some realms were seas of light. Others floated cities among endless skies. Some were so strange no mortal could even picture them.
Azraelion Veyl, a man born without magic, stood among mortals like a mountain among hills. Through strength, cunning, and sheer will, he became the sword of the strongest god in Nexus. People told stories of him stopping armies alone, his great blade carving through monsters that swallowed towns. Children named their wooden swords after him.
That day, Azraelion stood on a battlefield still wet with blood. The last enemy fell. Soldiers cheered. A messenger from the heavens arrived, wings shining like mirrors. "The High God summons you," the angel said.
Azraelion nodded, wiping his blade clean. His chest swelled with pride. A summons from the god he served meant honor. Perhaps reward. Perhaps rest after years of battle.
He climbed the silver stairs to the divine court, knees bending under the weight of holy presence. The gods sat like stars given shape. At their center: the High God, golden-eyed and cold as stone.
"Azraelion Veyl," the High God said. "Your strength has kept the balance. But your strength is now a danger to that balance."
Confusion struck Azraelion harder than any blade. "My lord, I have done nothing but serve."
"You have done everything," the god said. "Too well. Mortals speak your name with more awe than mine. They dream of you instead of worshiping me. That is a seed I cannot allow to grow."
Chains of light coiled around Azraelion's arms and chest before he could reach for his weapon. They burned cold, slicing into skin without spilling blood.
"By divine law," the High God said, "you will be cast into the Abyss, to fade and be forgotten."
Azraelion's jaw clenched. He looked each god in the eye. Not one looked back. "You fear me," he said quietly.
No answer. Only the sound of the Abyss opening — a void like a mouth, darker than night.
He stayed quiet for a heartbeat, then moved forward, the scrape of metal boots on stone breaking the silence. He stepped into the light — tall, armored, eyes like burning coals — not with surrender, but with fury boiling beneath the calm.
And then he fell.
He fell past realms of color, past screaming winds and breaking stars. He fell until his lungs burned from the pressure of nothingness. He screamed once — not in fear, but in rage — and the Abyss swallowed the sound.
Darkness claimed him, heavy and endless. Time lost meaning. His limbs ached. His heart pounded slower, slower, until even that felt like it might stop.
And in that silence, a voice whispered.
"Azraelion Veyl."
His eyes snapped open. No light. No shape. Only a presence, pressing against his mind.
"Do you want revenge?" the voice asked.
His lips cracked as he moved them. "Who are you?"
A low chuckle, like rocks grinding in the deep. "Soon, you will know who I am."
Warmth spread through his veins, cruel and sweet, like blood set on fire. Pain turned to strength. Cold turned to heat. Something inside him shifted.
"I will give you power," the voice said. "Enough to kill them all."
Azraelion bared his teeth in the dark. "Then give it."
The Abyss stirred. And the first scream of something not human echoed from below.