Chapter 2 — The Masked Monster
From The Divine Book of Forgotten Suns — Cycle of The Flame That Burns Itself
Inscribed by the Angel of the Damned
The Flame spoke: "I burn because I remember, and memory is hunger."
"Surrender yourself, demon!"
The Harpy command cracked through the dungeon clearing. Mana surged, lighting veins of stone and broken earth.
Four monsters faced a fifth—one cloaked, motionless, and far too quiet.
The squad crouched behind a ridge of rock, eyes fixed on the scene. "Captain, the monsters—"
"I see them. Don't speak." His voice was low, tight. "That one in the center—it's not like the rest."
The others nodded, watching mana readings spike on their wrist gauges.
"Four king-class entities, maybe higher. The cloaked one's mana is… it's wrong. It's pulling in everything around it."
"Emperor-class?" "Worse. I don't know what I'm looking at."
The harpy shrieked overhead, wind bending into blades that carved grooves into the ground.
The lich king raised a staff burning with black frost, the death knight standing beside him in heavy silence.
A berserker lumbered forward, eyes pale with rage. All of them surrounded the masked figure.
The captain's hand shook as he recorded the scene.
"Confirmed sighting. Four targets, one unknown. Reporting back—no engagement. We're retreating."
The team turned to leave, but curiosity held them. They lingered long enough to see the berserker rush the cloaked monster.
That was their first mistake.
---
[First-Person — The Masked Monster]
He comes at me screaming. I hear the fear more than the fury—his heartbeat hammering against the laws he doesn't understand.
I let him come closer.
My spear forms from shadow. One step, one motion, and he stops existing. The black edge burns without fire; each strike leaves silence instead of wounds.
His body falls in pieces. The noise follows later.
The others hesitate. Good. I take a breath, slow, measured.
The robe falls heavy around me—cloth meant to mourn gods, not monsters. Its folds drink the light; even the shadows hide beneath it.
The harpy dives. Her wings carry wind thick enough to distort space. I raise my arm.
Gold sigils ripple beneath ebony skin, coiling like living words. The wind meets my palm and unravels.
She blinks once before her head leaves her shoulders.
The lich and death knight advance together. Frost and fire twist around them, trying to cage my own.
Their magic dies before reaching me—snuffed out like a lie told in church. I catch their eyes through the masks of bone.
"Back to your graves," I whisper. They crumble into dust, their gods deaf to their screams.
The ground quiets. The air steadies. Only the smell of iron remains. I kneel and pick up the harpy's glowing core.
It flickers out as soon as I touch it. "Worthless," I mutter. "They didn't even send beasts this time. Just offerings."
Then I feel it—the pulse of a portal, a wound in space not far above, the scent of fresh air, living trees, and too many mortals clustered in fear.
A defense line. A test. Earth.
"So that's where you're hiding," I whisper. "Fine. Let's see if your students can survive a glimpse."
The dungeon folds away. Darkness stretches—and I step through it.
---
[Third-Person — The Forest-Clearing Portal]
The forest above churns with chaos. Wind, fire, and mana storms clash where monsters flood from broken rifts.
Teachers bark orders; students scramble behind barriers that crack under strain.
"Containment's collapsing!" "It's breaking the portal lock!" "If an Emperor-class crosses, the outbreak hits Earth!"
In the heart of the storm, the portal twists—a black wound in the air, collapsing and expanding at once.
And then he appears.
The masked monster steps through the shimmer without sound. His robe—funereal black, frayed at the hem—moves against no wind.
Each fold settles like a verdict. From beneath the hood spill ropes of dread-black hair, glinting bronze in stray light.
Golden markings trace his dark arms in living lines, joining across his back like chains.
His hands are sheathed in bone gauntlets, claws dulled by age but still deadly.
A broken horn juts forward from beneath the hood; the other curves backward into a crown of ruin.
He stops before the portal and lays one clawed hand against it.
"Get away from the portal!" the lead instructor shouts. "You'll tear open the barrier!"
"You misunderstand," the masked monster declares.
The storm stops. Leaves hang in place. Mana freezes, unable to move.
Then the portal folds inward on itself—black breaking into calm teal. Runes flare beneath his feet, perfect circles cut into the dirt.
"It broke the lock!" "But it's stabilizing!" "That's impossible!"
He lowers his hand. Shadows along the trees pull back, hiding from him.
The mortals don't notice—they think it's only the gate's glow.
"The path home is open," he declares.
"If we let it cross, Earth's barrier will fail!" "Then strengthen your world," he says, and even the air seems to agree.
He draws back the hood. The motion is small, human. The shadows retreat farther.
His dread hair slips free; the gold along his arms gleams faintly under the teal light.
"You have time," he says softly. "Use it well."
The portal thrums, sound like a distant heartbeat. He looks into its horizon and, quieter still:
"I'm just going home."
Light folds around him; the world exhales. When he's gone, the clearing dims, and every sound returns except for fear.
He'd never come to destroy. He'd simply left for home.
From The Divine Book of Forgotten Suns — Cycle of The Star Who Fell
Inscribed by the Angel of Life
When all fires spent themselves, the Star did not fade—
it simply remembered the first light and folded the heavens closed.
The suns bowed their crowns; the seas unlearned their tides.
Even silence forgot its name.
Then the Star spoke, and the words became stillness:
"I have reached the far edge of duty.
There is no horizon left to cross.
I am the breath between endings."
So the Angel wrote: "He stood where eternity ends and found no god above him."
Chapter 2 — The Masked Monster
From The Divine Book of Forgotten Suns — Cycle of The Flame That Burns Itself
Inscribed by the Angel of the Damned
The Flame spoke: "I burn because I remember, and memory is hunger."
"Surrender yourself, demon!"
The captain's command cracked through the dungeon clearing. Mana surged, lighting veins of stone and broken earth.
Four monsters faced a fifth—one cloaked, motionless, and far too quiet.
The squad crouched behind a ridge of rock, eyes fixed on the scene. "Captain, the monsters—"
"I see them. Don't speak." His voice was low, tight. "That one in the center—it's not like the rest."
The others nodded, watching mana readings spike on their wrist gauges.
"Four king-class entities, maybe higher. The cloaked one's mana is… it's wrong. It's pulling in everything around it."
"Emperor-class?" "Worse. I don't know what I'm looking at."
The harpy shrieked overhead, wind bending into blades that carved grooves into the ground.
The lich king raised a staff burning with black frost, the death knight standing beside him in heavy silence.
A berserker lumbered forward, eyes pale with rage. All of them surrounded the masked figure.
The captain's hand shook as he recorded the scene.
"Confirmed sighting. Four targets, one unknown. Reporting back—no engagement. We're retreating."
The team turned to leave, but curiosity held them. They lingered long enough to see the berserker rush the cloaked monster.
That was their first mistake.
---
[First-Person — The Masked Monster]
He comes at me screaming. I hear the fear more than the fury—his heartbeat hammering against the laws he doesn't understand.
I let him come closer.
My spear forms from shadow. One step, one motion, and he stops existing. The black edge burns without fire; each strike leaves silence instead of wounds.
His body falls in pieces. The noise follows later.
The others hesitate. Good. I take a breath, slow, measured.
The robe falls heavy around me—cloth meant to mourn gods, not monsters. Its folds drink the light; even the shadows hide beneath it.
The harpy dives. Her wings carry wind thick enough to distort space. I raise my arm.
Gold sigils ripple beneath ebony skin, coiling like living words. The wind meets my palm and unravels.
She blinks once before her head leaves her shoulders.
The lich and death knight advance together. Frost and fire twist around them, trying to cage my own.
Their magic dies before reaching me—snuffed out like a lie told in church. I catch their eyes through the masks of bone.
"Back to your graves," I whisper. They crumble into dust, their gods deaf to their screams.
The ground quiets. The air steadies. Only the smell of iron remains. I kneel and pick up the harpy's glowing core.
It flickers out as soon as I touch it. "Worthless," I mutter. "They didn't even send Divine beasts this time. Just offerings."
Then I feel it—the pulse of a portal, a wound in space not far above, the scent of fresh air, living trees, and too many mortals clustered in fear.
A defense line. A test. Earth.
The dungeon folds away. Darkness stretches—and I step through it.
---
[Third-Person — The Forest-Clearing Portal]
The forest above churns with chaos. Wind, fire, and mana storms clash where monsters flood from broken rifts.
Teachers bark orders; students scramble behind barriers that crack under strain.
"Containment's collapsing!" "It's breaking the portal lock!" "If an Emperor-class crosses, the outbreak hits Earth!"
In the heart of the storm, the portal twists—a black wound in the air, collapsing and expanding at once.
And then he appears.
The masked monster steps through the shimmer without sound. His robe—funereal black, frayed at the hem—moves against no wind.
Each fold settles like a verdict.
From beneath the hood spill ropes of dread-black hair, glinting bronze in stray light.
Golden markings trace his dark arms in living lines, joining across his back like chains.
His hands are sheathed in bone gauntlets, claws dulled by age but still deadly.
A broken horn juts forward from beneath the hood; the other curves backward into a crown of ruin.
He stops before the portal and lays one clawed hand against it.
"Get away from the portal!" the lead instructor shouts. "You'll tear open the barrier!"
"You misunderstand," the masked monster declares.
The storm stops. Leaves hang in place. Mana freezes, unable to move.
Then the portal folds inward on itself—black breaking into calm teal. Runes flare beneath his feet, perfect circles cut into the dirt.
"It broke the lock!" "But it's stabilizing!" "That's impossible!"
He lowers his hand. Shadows along the trees pull back, hiding from him.
The mortals don't notice—they think it's only the gate's glow.
"The path home is open," he declares.
"If we let it cross, Earth's barrier will fail!" "Then strengthen your world," he says, and even the air seems to agree.
He draws back the hood. The motion is small, human. The shadows retreat farther.
His dread hair slips free; the gold along his arms gleams faintly under the teal light.
"You have time," he says softly. "Use it well."
The portal thrums, sound like a distant heartbeat. He looks into its horizon and, quieter still:
"I'm just going home."
Light folds around him; the world exhales. When he's gone, the clearing dims, and every sound returns except for fear.
He'd never come to destroy. He'd simply left for home.
From The Divine Book of Forgotten Suns — Cycle of The Star Who Fell
Inscribed by the Angel of Life
When all fires spent themselves, the Star did not fade—
it simply remembered the first light and folded the heavens closed.
The suns bowed their crowns; the seas unlearned their tides.
Even silence forgot its name.
Then the Star spoke, and the words became stillness:
"I have reached the far edge of duty.
There is no horizon left to cross.
I am the breath between endings."
So the Angel wrote: "He stood where eternity ends and found no god above him."