Chapter 2: The Chains of the Gods
The sky healed itself with lies.
From the cracks of shattered heavens, golden threads stitched together an illusion of peace. To mortals who looked up, the multiverse appeared unbroken — stars still burned, realms still turned, destinies still unfolded. But he could see the truth hidden beneath the patchwork: a cosmos bound in chains, strangled by the gods' will.
The gods did not forgive.
They despised him not merely for cutting his fate, but for proving it could be done. The Threads of Infinity — their sacred law — had been untouchable since the dawn of creation. By breaking it, he had exposed their weakness, shattered their perfection, and birthed the possibility of rebellion.
And the gods hated nothing more than rebellion.
He remembered the moment they cast their judgment. A hall of blinding light, pillars carved from dead stars, thrones that stretched beyond sight. Dozens of gods had sat above him, their voices echoing like knives in his mind.
"Immortal, you have committed the First Sin. You severed your thread."
"You have corrupted the loom of infinity. Your selfishness has cost countless worlds their balance."
"Your punishment shall be eternal regression. You will walk through every failure, every end, until even you beg for your existence to be erased."
He had not begged then. He did not beg now.
But as he stood among the rubble of fallen worlds, he could feel their eyes upon him still. The gods no longer watched from their thrones; they hunted from the shadows of time itself. Every cycle of regression was their cruelty made manifest. Every apocalypse he relived was their scorn, sharpened into a blade.
This cycle, however, felt different.
The gods were not merely observing — they were tightening the leash. The threads of destiny quivered around him like chains pulled taut. When he reached toward them, arcs of golden fire lanced across his skin, burning the reminder of his crime into his immortal flesh.
And then he heard it — a whisper that was not a whisper, a decree that rang in every atom of his being:
"You will never be free."
The gods' hatred pressed down like gravity, turning the ruins into a prison. He staggered, his immortal body cracking under the weight of divine loathing. Even time itself seemed to recoil from him, shoving him toward regression, toward another cycle of despair.
But hate was a weapon with two edges.
The gods thought their cruelty would break him. Instead, it fed the fire he had been trying to smother. Rage surged through him — not wild, but sharp, controlled. He would not endure their punishments forever. He would turn their hatred against them, use it to sharpen his resolve until it could cut even divinity apart.
The red sky darkened as he straightened, defying the pressure of the gods. His wounds glowed, not with their punishment, but with something else — something they feared: the possibility that he could escape their cycle.
He clenched his fists, the remnants of creation dripping from his hands.
"If the gods wish to chain me," he whispered, "then I will tear the heavens apart link by link."
And the multiverse trembled at his vow.
For the first time, the gods' hatred did not crush him. It awakened him.
And somewhere beyond the veils of reality, the gods stirred on their thrones — their wrath burning brighter.
They had created a sinner.
They had cursed a regressor.
But now, they had forged a rebel.
And a rebel was far more dangerous than a god.
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