The news traveled faster than any messenger.Before the Crusaders' bodies had even gone cold…Before the echoes of battle had faded…
The entire world already knew:
The gods' chosen had fallen.
It wasn't just a military defeat.It was a shattered symbol.A brutal reminder that even the mightiest heroes could bleed… and die.
In temples and cathedrals, bells rang out with a hollow, almost funereal toll.The faithful fell to their knees, trembling.
High priests argued between fear and fury:some called for divine vengeance,others whispered doubts that could cost them their lives.
Had the gods changed?Could their will no longer protect them?
Meanwhile, kings summoned their councils,and nobles debated whether to fortify their borders—or make pacts with ancient heresies.
Fear spread in silence,insidious,like a black river that could not be contained.
In the wildlands, mana-sensitive beasts grew restless.Flocks veered from their paths,and ancient creatures lifted their heads, sensing an invisible fracture.
Shamans heard whispers in the roots of trees:
"The balance has shifted… something has broken."
On the islands of the mages, the alarm was even greater.The Crusaders had been created to face the impossible.If even they had fallen…
What hope remained for ordinary mortals?
Archmages scoured forgotten prophecies.Portals trembled, unstable, as if the natural flow of mana had lost its rhythm.
And then it happened.
A vertical light tore through the sky in every nation.Language, climate, continent—none of it mattered.It was as if an invisible hand had opened a gateway between worlds.
The voice came after.
Deep.Resonant.Vibrating through bone, flesh, and soul:
"The chosen have fallen.The balance fractures.The gods demand new champions."
In crowded plazas, people knelt without thinking.Children wept.The elderly raised trembling hands toward the light.
The Heralds descended, wrapped in cloaks of light or shadow.Their eyes burned with celestial fire or ethereal mist.They did not need to shout:
"The faithful shall gather.The selection begins.Only the worthy shall walk among gods."
It was not an invitation.
It was a decree.
The Tournament of Selection had been proclaimed.The gods could not allow a vacuum of power.Ancient enemies were already stirring in the shadows.
Candidates would come—from sacred orders, remote villages, warrior clans, arcane academies, and forgotten peoples.The trials would be brutal: physical, magical, spiritual.The soul itself would be judged.
Everyone could feel it.
The gods were desperate.
And when gods grow desperate…mortals tremble.
The Heralds vanished as swiftly as they had arrived.The light took minutes to fade.
The world held its breath.
The fall of the Crusaders had not been an end.
It was a signal.
The beginning of a new divine conflict…a race to fill the void left by the fallen heroes.
And among mortals, wise and foolish alike whispered the same words:
"The world has changed… and no god will be able to undo it."
While fear spread among mortals, high above in the Celestial Realm—where oceans were made of light and the firmament was upheld by unseen laws—the nineteen great thrones convened.
Each radiated a presence capable of warping reality…
…except one.
The throne that had belonged to Kheris remained empty, shattered at its base, as if its essence had disintegrated from within.A silent, unbearable reminder:
One god had died.Another had been erased.Both by mortal hands.
Something that had not happened since the birth of the world.
Aeltharis, God of Order, rose.When he spoke, his voice was the force that calmed storms:
"Velyrion has been slain. Kheris has vanished forever. No fragments remain. No remnants. Both… removed from the cycle."
A murmur rippled through the thrones like a contained earthquake.
Seraphyne, Goddess of Life, frowned, holding back a tremor she rarely showed.
"Artureos…" she said, her voice edged with reproach. "Why didn't you strip that girl of your blessing?"
Artureos, God of Strength, inclined his head slightly, a cold smile on his lips.
"I like her… she's strong." His eyes gleamed with untamed fire. "But she chose to stand with that demon. Her decisions don't concern me."
Seraphyne stared at him in disbelief.
"And it doesn't worry you that you might die because of her?"
Artureos shrugged, as calm as if speaking of another age.
"I can wait for the next world cycle. I'm not that old."
Aeltharis intervened, his authority heavy with centuries.
"Silence." His voice resonated, firm and absolute. "We must address the true danger."
Therem, God of War, struck his throne—the impact shook the heavens.
"Enough talk about the Fallen! Kheris is gone. What matters is what he left behind."
They all knew what he meant.
A mortal.
A human who now carried fragments of divinity.
Lusian.
"He created an illegitimate heir," Therem continued. "A demigod not born of faith, nor worship, nor devotion."
Aeltharis spoke, his voice grave, each word carved into eternity:
"And that is the true problem. A being that does not depend on believers… is a god that cannot die."
The thrones trembled.
A god without faith was a paradox. A threat. A living heresy.
Ignivar, God of Primordial Fire, added in a low voice:
"Humans are already adapting to mana. Each year they rely less on our blessings… and our threats.If they find in that demigod a symbol… an alternative…"
The silence that followed weighed heavier than any judgment.
If humans began to believe in Lusian—if they saw him as protector, as justice, as hope—if they revered him, even instinctively…
The pantheon would lose power.Lose spiritual territory.Lose dominion.
And with it…
They would begin to fade.
At last, Aeltharis spoke, cold and absolute:
"We must prevent that mortal… no, that demigod… from becoming a pillar for humanity.We must erase his influence before it takes root."
Seraphyne hesitated.
"Kill him?"
Therem did not.
"If necessary. A god fell by his hand. The seed of the Fallen lives within him. We cannot allow him to become an alternative faith."
Lyria folded her hands, calculating, cold.
"And we must act quickly. Before humanity understands what he represents: a divinity that walks among them… and does not need them to exist."
Aeltharis rose, his presence illuminating the infinite:
"The Council decrees:Lusian Douglas of Mondring shall be eliminated."
The decree etched itself into the fabric of the sky, burning like an unbreakable pact.
One by one, the thrones dimmed.The light receded.Eternal silence returned.
Only Kheris's broken throne remained.
Still.Silent.
Heavy with something no god dared to name:
Fear.