Eiden sat at the long meeting table, surrounded by the full Council of Gods.
All nineteen thrones were occupied, forming a perfect, formidable circle. Each was carved from a distinct divine essence—obsidian, starlight, crystal, bone, flame, and wind—while above them, the ceiling shimmered like a living aurora, shifting in slow, rhythmic waves of color. In the center of the chamber hovered the Orb, the vessel of the Three Gods' collective voice.
Its glow pulsed with a measured, rhythmic light.
"Eiden," the Orb said, its three voices layered into a single, haunting chord. "We expect an explanation."
Eiden nodded. "Months ago, when I was first delivered to the Redcrest Clan by Bengie—the black dragon who aided me—I made a final request before we parted."
The gods leaned forward, their collective focus sharpening. The Sages watched him with bated breath.
"I asked him to find the infinite pocket bag," Eiden continued, resting a hand on the artifact at his belt. "And then, to roam every dungeon tied to the Three Gods. To retrieve every relic, every artifact, and every scrap of history they left behind. I delegated this because, as I predicted, I was too busy. Busy living my life with my spouses. Busy preparing for Civilar."
A murmur rippled through the council. The Orb flickered, its overlapping voices whispering in a brief, chaotic debate before settling.
"Very well," the Orb replied. "If that is the case, you now possess the Grimoire of Divinark. But Eiden, before you master its contents, we require a promise."
The air in the chamber grew heavy, the temperature plunging into a sudden, biting chill.
"That whatever power you wield," the Orb intoned, "you will not bring destruction to this world or its people. You will bring an end to Civilar. And you will use this power with absolute care. For within that grimoire lies the strongest force across all realities—and this world is the only one that holds it."
The Orb brightened until it was nearly blinding.
"You will be granted the power to become the God of Reality itself—and whatever came before it."
Eiden placed a hand over his chest, his gaze unwavering. "I promise. I will take down Civilar. I will use the grimoire responsibly."
A long, resonant sigh of relief echoed from the Orb. "Good. Now that this is settled..." Its glow sharpened into a piercing red. "We would like to know exactly why you and the Demon King are not enemies."
Eiden opened his mouth to speak—but the world shifted.
Thousands of Years Ago
The six of them rested in the center of a barren dirt plain, a small campfire crackling weakly against the vast, oppressive dark. The night was cold, the wind sharp as a blade. Eiden and Ou'weii walked away from the light of the fire.
Eiden's hair hung to his shoulders, stained with dried blood and lit by the orange flicker of the flames. Three blades rested at his sides. His face was a mask of cold exhaustion, the look of a man who had forgotten his purpose.
Ou'weii spoke first. "Eiden… I think it's time we handle Civilar. He has grown too powerful. We should end him."
Eiden turned his head slightly, his eyes hollow. "Why would I agree to that?"
"You said the monk gave you a prayer," Ou'weii reminded him. "You saw the six of us ruling these lands. You as the Emperor. But I thought your dream was to become a god. What happened?"
Eiden looked up at the moon—a thin, curved sliver like a bitten fingernail. "I realized that dream was a fantasy," he said, his voice flat. "Too high to reach. Why would I want to join their ranks anyway? They are powerful beings who do nothing to handle criminals like us. Pathetic."
Ou'weii stepped closer. "It isn't impossible. You just need a path. I can help you find it. But it must start with this…"
Eiden turned toward him, but his gaze drifted past Ou'weii to the camp—to the four sleeping figures who had once shaped the world alongside them.
Yajin lay on his back, his golden hair spread like spilled sunlight. Even in sleep, his jaw was set, his expression stern as if he were judging the world in his dreams. Beside him, the Sword of Judgment hummed softly, its pale gold veins glowing in response to his breath.
Reia was curled on her side, her black-and-white hair spilling across the dirt like a wild river. Her breathing was deep and animalistic, her fanged blade half-buried in the earth, its edge shimmering with a dormant, hungry power.
Uzak'me lay perfectly flat, arms folded over his chest. His pale skin reflected the moonlight, giving him a ghostly, ethereal radiance. His silver spear pulsed with a soft light that matched his heartbeat. He looked young, almost fragile—but the air around him felt ancient, older than the land itself.
And then there was Civilar.
He slept sitting upright against a massive stone, arms crossed over his mountain of a chest. His enormous frame cast a shadow that seemed to swallow the camp. His chained blades glinted in the firelight. Even in slumber, his presence was suffocating, a storm held in a state of precarious arrest. He looked peaceful, yet the very world seemed to hold its breath around him.
Eiden stared at them for a long time. These were his companions. His brothers and sisters in arms. The people he once thought he would rule the world with.
He turned back to Ou'weii. His expression was empty, his voice like ice.
"What is it you want me to start with?"