It was not an army that conquered the world, nor a king who claimed the throne of men. It was something older, something nameless. When the skies split and the sun bled red, all nations bent their knees—not to a man, but to "gods" without a name…
Elijah was only seven when the sky cracked open. The sun bled red, kingdoms fell in silence, and the world bent its knee to a god without a name. Men wept, women prayed, and children were taught to bow before the new ruler of heaven and earth.
But Elijah did not bow. Even as a child, something in him resisted. He stood when others knelt, his small hands clenched, his gaze unbroken. The Unknown God saw him then—not with wrath, not with mercy, but with something colder, something curious. The god left him alive. Perhaps it was amusement, perhaps disdain. But from that moment on, Elijah carried more than the memory of conquest—he carried his defiance, a spark the god had not extinguished. And in a world that worshiped silence, that spark was dangerous.
And then the heavens split again. Seven lights bled through the cracks of the sky, descending like falling stars. They were not stars at all, but gods—seven in number, each bearing an orb that glowed with impossible radiance. The orbs pulsed as if alive, each one a shard of infinity, each one a doorway to endless dimensions stacked beyond the mortal world.
The earth trembled beneath their arrival. The seas roared, mountains cracked, and men collapsed in worship. Elijah only stared, his heart pounding with the knowledge that the first god was not alone—there were others, and they had brought the weight of all existence with them.
But something in Elijah snapped. The air was thick with fear, with worship, with surrender—but not in him. His small fists trembled, not with terror, but with rage. He broke from the crowd, running forward when every other mortal pressed their faces to the ground. And then, in a moment of madness—or perhaps destiny—he struck at one of the gods.
His fist connected with nothing more than cold, unyielding flesh, like striking a mountain. The god barely blinked. A cruel smile curled across its face before a single backhand sent Elijah flying. The world spun, his body slammed against the earth, and his vision blurred red. The crowd gasped, not at the god's power, but at the audacity of a boy who dared to raise his hand against the divine.
The god loomed over Elijah's broken form, its shadow stretching like a storm across the trembling earth. With a voice that rattled the bones of all who heard it, the god spoke—not in anger, but in cold amusement.
"Mortal" God said, its words echoing through Elijah's skull, "your defiance is as fragile as your body. Strike at us again, and you will not rise from the ground. Know this—your courage is wasted, but I will allow you to keep it… for now."
The god turned away, dismissing him as one might brush aside a fly. Yet the words seared into Elijah's heart, not as a threat, but as a vow. For the first time, he had drawn a god's attention—and survived.
The god's warning lingered in the air when the orbs began to rise. Their glow deepened, threads of light unraveling into shapes too vast for mortal eyes to follow. The sky fractured again, but this time it wasn't destruction—it was creation.
The seven gods stretched their hands across the void, and reality itself trembled. Stars bent, oceans twisted, and mountains melted like wax beneath their touch. Space folded, time bled backward and forward at once, and the universe groaned as it was torn apart and remade in the same breath.
Elijah's heart pounded. He tried to hold on, to stay awake, but the brilliance of rebirth was too much. Around him, every man, woman, and child collapsed under the impossible weight of creation. His vision flickered, then faded, and Elijah, defiant even in the end, sank into the same black silence as the rest of the world.