The rift hung in the void like a bleeding scar, a gateway forged between the endless Skies and the lightless Abyss. From its depths rolled the thunder of war drums—deep, relentless, the heartbeat of those born in the demonic realm, the Abyssals. Against it rose the soaring chants of Tor's host: The angelic Skyborn with wings of living flame and redeemed Abyssals who had sworn new allegiance, their voices braided into a single defiant hymn.
Tor stepped through the rift.
He was a figure carved from legend: tall, broad-shouldered, clad in dark armor etched with faint starlight. Power clung to him like a second skin, ancient and absolute. As he set foot on the shattered plain, the drums stuttered. The chants became a roar of recognition and reverence.
They had come for him.
Skyborn descended in gleaming ranks, blades of pure light drawn. Loyal Abyssals rose from shadow, eyes burning with fierce devotion. At the forefront stood his mightiest: Valdris, the Prince of Darkness, an Abyssal, tallest and strongest of all beneath Tor himself—skin like polished obsidian, wings of living night unfurled, eyes twin voids that swallowed hope. Beside him stood Caelar, second only to Valdris—a heavenly warrior of the old Skies, golden-haired and marble-muscled, beauty masking ferocity, his smile calm yet promising ruin.
And across the plain waited Valal, the Lord over all that is wicked and Evil.
He hovered above his seething legions, immaculate in a tailored suit of midnight silk—crisp white shirt, blood-red tie, shoes polished to mirrors. His face was a nightmare given form: elongated goat skull, curling horns of black glass, ember eyes glowing in deep sockets, a thin smile full of needle teeth. The air around him curdled. Colors faded. Wills bent. Even some of Tor's Skyborn faltered, hearing velvet promises coil in their minds.
The battle was already raging when Tor raised his hand.
A star was born in his palm—the **Chosen Sun**, vast and terrible, a sphere of white fire large enough to swallow cities. He hurled it.
It crossed the plain in silence at first, then struck with the voice of creation ending.
Half the battlefield vanished. Abyssals caught in its path had time only for one expression—terror laced with mad laughter, knowing the light they saw was the last thing they would ever see. The explosion glassed the ground, erased legions, and tore Valal in half. Suit shredded, body bisected, goat-skull face melted to bone.
But Valal... regenerated. Weaker flesh knit together, slower than before, reforming the impeccable suit thread by thread. A new smile bloomed from raw tissue, wider, more delighted.
"You fell for it, lord," he purred, voice smooth as silk over broken glass, laced with genuine amusement and venomous glee. "I have already written it above you. My law: Whoever strikes first shall perish."
The words hung in the air like judgment.
Black spikes erupted from Tor's body—slithering, corrupting lances of enforced fate. They pierced muscle, bone, core. Something deep inside him shattered. Power bled out like starlight through cracked stone.
Valal drifted closer, body twisting into something less human—part man, part possessing shade—until he hovered at Tor's side. He leaned in, almost intimate.
"We could have ruled together," he murmured, a clawed finger tracing the air near Tor's cheek. "All this strength wasted on restraint. The Skies and Abyss bowed beneath us. Empires broken, pleasures unbound. You with your might, me with my words. Think of it—eternal dominion, every desire fulfilled."
Tor's hand exploded free of the corruption, trailing shadow and blood. It punched through Valal's chest, closing around a pulsing heart of pure darkness. Then a gaze of authority, like a great lance cutting through Evil itself.
Valal's ember eyes widened. For one heartbeat, true fear flickered across that regenerating face. He shivered.
"Your words bind only those who look up to you," Tor growled, voice like grinding mountains. "I have never looked up."
"Seal."
With a surge of will that cracked the plain beneath them, Tor tore free half of Valal's essence, binding it with a sacrifice of his own fading power. The stolen darkness compressed into a radiant orb, locked against escape. He hurled it skyward, toward the distant spires of the Skies.
"Vaelor!" His roar echoed across realms, The ears of one particular Lord receive it. "Hold this in judgment!"
From the ridges, his followers charged.
Sylara—his lover and servant, body thrumming with power drawn from their fierce intimate nights together—screamed his name, unleashing arcs of stolen shadow-fire.
Valdris, the Prince of Darkness, surged forward like a black comet, wings blotting the sky, void-eyes blazing with fury.
Caelar followed, golden and terrible, light and shadow warring across his perfect form as he hurled spears of celestial wrath.
They would not reach him in time.
Valal recovered, fear swallowed behind that charismatic smile. He struck—an executioner's blow, a wave of absolute ending.
Tor fell.
The world dissolved into darkness.
And in the mortal realm far below, a man woke in cold mud as rain began to fall...