"It is completed…"The demon's voice was a low, guttural rasp, echoing unnaturally across the chamber's blood-stained stone."Our end of the deal is fulfilled, O man of God. Now… it is your turn."
The one he addressed—Norman, once a respected clergy of the Church of Fera, goddess of love and marriage—stood stiffly, hands trembling inside his ceremonial white gloves. His robe, normally pristine, was damp with sweat and tinged red from the air, thick with the coppery scent of blood and burning incense. The underground temple beneath Has had long since ceased to feel sacred. Its once-carved murals of saints had cracked, warped, twisted into leering faces with too many eyes and mouths that seemed to grin when no one was looking.
Norman stared at the center of the ritual circle.A girl lay there.No—a beastfolk, no more than ten years old in appearance, with delicate fox-like ears and a tail curled protectively around her tiny frame. Her fur was a silvery-white, almost ethereal. She looked peaceful. As if simply asleep.
(I can't believe it…)His thoughts turned frantic, jagged like broken glass.(To think a day would come where I—I—a servant of the goddess of love, would stand side by side with demons… Surely I will burn. Surely I have already doomed myself. But… surely Fera has a plan. She must. Why else would the Holy Pope Ferdinand send me here before his death?)
The air was cold and wet with decay, but Norman's body burned from within. Guilt. Doubt. And something else—something darker.
He turned his gaze to the girl again.She wasn't just any child. She had been bred for this moment—cultivated, in secret, by Ferdinand himself.A vessel.A key.
The ritual blade—a twisted dagger made from obsidian and bone—gleamed under the infernal light of the ritual circle. Norman handed it to the demon beside him. The creature grinned, exposing rows of jagged, needle-thin teeth that clicked together like wind chimes made of fangs.
Without a moment's hesitation, the demon stepped forward. The circle flared crimson. Whispered voices filled the chamber, not in one tongue but many—some human, some older, some wrong.
The girl's eyes fluttered open. Only for a moment.A faint, confused squeak left her lips.And then—
Schlick.
The blade slid through her neck like parchment.A moment of silence followed.And then her head fell, rolling lazily across the stones, eyes still half-lidded. Blood, thick and black-red, poured from her neck in a slow, deliberate gush, as though the earth itself was drinking from her.
The demons did not flinch.Instead, they began to chant—low and deep, in a tongue that predated man."Ssa'tor velek… nah'miru rethaal… Zoth-dral'kan azeth..."The blood shimmered, rising unnaturally into the air, forming spirals and glyphs above the circle. Shadows crawled unnaturally along the walls. The girl's body jerked once, twice, before going still.
And something else began to rise.
From beneath the circle, a shape—twisting and coalescing out of smoke and tar and memory.A soul?A spirit?Or something far worse?
Norman took a step back, heart hammering, lips moving in silent prayer.He could already feel it: the presence. Vast, ancient, hungry.It was not the girl returning.It was not Ferdinand, not yet.It was whatever needed the girl's blood to open the way.
The ground trembled.Stone cracked.A laugh echoed from the shadows. Not a demon's voice this time.
Something else had arrived.And it remembered Norman.
The chanting ceased.
A terrible stillness fell upon the ritual chamber. The air itself held its breath.
And then—light.
A searing, golden radiance exploded from the center of the circle, forcing even the demons to stagger back and hiss. It wasn't merely bright—it was blinding, like the first sun after a thousand years of darkness. It wasn't warm or holy. It was painful, radiant in a way that stripped the soul bare and left skin tingling and minds reeling.
Norman dropped to one knee, eyes squinted, breath caught in his throat. The light was divine—but not comforting. No, it was commanding. A force that demanded worship. A power that devoured weakness.
The girl's blood had vanished, evaporated into golden mist. Her body was gone. Her sacrifice… complete.
When the light finally dimmed, when the gold faded to an echo, a figure remained standing in the center of the circle.
It was… inhuman.
Tall, impossibly so, and draped in robes that shimmered like molten silk. His skin glowed faintly, as though light was trapped beneath the surface. His hair burned white, not with age but like the hottest flame, searing and alive. His eyes—if one could call them that—were bottomless pools of darkness, glistening and deep like the void between stars.
And his form… it was perfect. Unnervingly so. Sculpted like a god's idea of man, without flaw or blemish, without age or imperfection. Looking at him too long made Norman's heart twist painfully with awe, envy, fear.
Then the being smiled—a crooked, familiar smile.
"Ahh, Norman…" the voice purred, smooth as honey, sharp as glass."You have done well. You've succeeded… though you seem unsure."
Norman's mouth opened, but no words came. His brain knew that voice.That voice had once chanted wedding rites in cracked tones. Had once laughed over wine and fallen asleep in mid-sermon. Had once belonged to—
"W-what…?" Norman's voice cracked. "That can't be…"
The being stepped forward, arms outstretched like a performer greeting his audience.
"Don't recognize your own Pope?" the figure asked with a mocking grin. "It is I. Ferdinand. Or, as I am now known…"He raised his hands skyward."…the newly anointed Angel of Fera."
The demons bowed, not in reverence, but in acknowledgment—a predator recognizing a greater one.
Norman stared, sweat rolling down his brow. His stomach churned. That thing in front of him bore the Pope's voice. His humor. Even the glint of arrogance that Ferdinand always carried, buried under layers of faux humility.
But the body—it was not the same.That perfect, divine frame... That immaculate, divine corruption...
That was no man of the cloth.
And yet—Norman fell to his knees.
What else could he do?
He had summoned an angel.He had killed a child to do it.And worst of all…
He could no longer tell if this was the will of the Goddess
"Hmmm…"
The figure's head tilted ever so slightly, those abyssal eyes narrowing with something between amusement and concern.
"I sense your faith has weakened, Norman."
His voice was still velvet and fire, gentle yet overwhelming. Like a hymn whispered over a battlefield.
He stepped closer—bare feet gliding above the blood-stained floor, robes flowing like smoke—and placed a hand on Norman's trembling shoulder.
"Be not afraid, my friend," he said, voice soothing like the memory of prayer."You have done the Goddess—and me—a great service. Without your devotion, none of this could be."
Norman shivered beneath the touch. It was cold, like marble—but alive. Beating faintly, like it held a heart… or something worse.
The so-called angel smiled.
"And if your heart still trembles, then take comfort in this: your actions will be rewarded. If not in this life, then in the one to come. The Goddess sees all. She remembers loyalty."
Norman's lips parted. The words fell out like cracked pottery.
"I… I don't know if this is the right thing to do, my lord."
There it was. The doubt. The very thing he feared voicing, yet could no longer keep down. His heart was heavy. Was it guilt? Or something more ancient—an instinct screaming wrong from deep within?
Ferdinand's laughter came light and warm, like a grandfather's chuckle.
"Ahaha… That is to be expected."He pulled back, arms wide now, as if to embrace the entire world. "Faith is not forged in certainty. It is made strong in the furnace of doubt. You have already proven yours, Norman. You obeyed, did you not? You sacrificed. You bled for something greater."
His shadow stretched unnaturally across the ritual circle. It twisted like it had too many limbs.
"And your faith—yes, your trembling, flickering faith—has created a miracle."
Ferdinand's voice deepened, taking on an echo that didn't match the chamber.
"And soon, it will create history."
He lowered his arms, his eyes burning now with something far beyond mortal fire.
"I will carry out the will of the Goddess. I will become her voice. Through me, Fera will speak to the world anew. And you, Norman… you shall be remembered. Whether as saint or martyr…"
He smiled again, teeth just a little too sharp.
"Well. That depends on how long your faith lasts."
____________________
"Hmm? …How troublesome."
Uruua's voice drifted above the roar of the crowd like an afterthought.
Below her, the stadium pulsed with energy. Thousands of voices rose in chorus, cheering on the brutal spectacle of the tournament's third-to-final night. The battlefield was soaked in sweat, sparks, and pride—but her thoughts were far removed.
The champion would be crowned in two days.
She exhaled slowly, her breath almost lost in the noise.Beside her, Martimus squealed with delight, bouncing in his seat like a child. His eyes glittered with glee as one fighter hurled another into the arena wall.
"Ooh! Did you see that? Right into the pillar! Amazing!"
Uruua sighed again—longer this time. She had no patience for tournaments. Not now.
With a flick of her wrist, reality bent around her. In a blink of light and air, she vanished.
She reappeared a heartbeat later beside a tall figure crouched on the rooftop of a stone spire, overlooking the city beyond the stadium. The sounds of the crowd were faint now, replaced by the whispering winds of Has.
"Diyanna." Uruua's voice cut clean through the dusk.
The wolf beast-folk, head of Has's National Security, didn't flinch. She was watching something in the distance with narrowed golden eyes—tracking movements that no normal eyes could catch.
"You've been monitoring them, haven't you?" Uruua continued."The demons. They've been hiding among the crowds since the start of the festival, but their patience is running out. Prepare all forces. Something annoying is coming."
She paused, her expression unreadable.
"It's related to your little infestation problem. Get everyone. Your father too."Her voice dropped to a growl. "And get that old bird to show up with his aerial forces. We're going to need eyes in the sky… and claws on the ground."
Diyanna turned, her piercing gaze meeting Uruua's with a grunt.
No words.
She nodded once, then let out a deep, resonant howl that echoed across the rooftops of Has.
From the shadows below, several wolf-folk emerged—silent, swift, and armed. At her signal, they vanished in different directions, darting toward the Council Headquarters.
There, communication devices—old magic fused with modern design—waited in the hands of each Council member. Diyanna would awaken them all.
A storm was coming.
And Uruua hated storms.
_______________________
"Son… tell me, how has the Archime Academy been?"The voice was paper-thin, trembling with age and illness. Each word came with effort, and a faint, rattling cough punctuated the silence.
The old man's hand, frail and cold, clung to another—larger, stronger, and full of life.
The other figure sat quietly at his bedside, a mountain of muscle and posture. Towering. Composed. Unflinching.
"It's going fine, Father," the son said, voice devoid of inflection. "I'm expected to reach the top within the year."
A small smile flickered across the dying man's lips. His clouded eyes searched his son's face for warmth, for emotion, for anything—and found none. Still, he hummed softly.
"I see… I see… And—have you made any friends?"
The son nodded, a lie passed without hesitation. But it was enough.
The old man relaxed, a long breath escaping his brittle chest."That's good… I'm glad… I'm happy..."
His grip on the hand tightened—not by strength, but by desperation.
"Please… live well, my son… I… I have been a terrible father. I know that now. I wanted so much, but gave you so little. Forgive me… for all the things I could not be..."
His eyes turned to the dim ceiling. His voice softened into a whisper.
"Heh… not that it matters much. I don't have long left. So listen…"
A pause. His lungs rattled again.
"Forget my dreams… forget that foolish fantasy of becoming king of the Has Empire. It was meaningless. Empty. Just… just live your own life. Be more than I ever was."
The silence that followed was heavy.
The son said nothing. His hand remained steady.
The old man closed his eyes, content to drift in the warmth of the lie.
_______________________
"...Something just happened."
Adam's voice was barely more than a whisper, but it cut through the air like a blade. His senses were on fire—tingling in his skin, buzzing in his bones, coiling like smoke behind his eyes. Every instinct screamed the same message, over and over.
Something just happened.
His breath caught. His heartbeat quickened. The world around him—cheering crowds, warm food stands, friendly chatter—faded into white noise as a cold, invisible thread tugged at his core. It wasn't just dread. It was certainty. A familiar kind of gravity pulling him home.
He stood up abruptly, his chair screeching behind him.
"Excuse me," he muttered, not even waiting for Ferosa's reply. She barely had time to glance up before Adam took off at a sprint, boots slamming against stone as he weaved through the crowd.
"It's from Earth," he thought, the words echoing in his mind like thunder."I don't know how… I don't know why… but I know. Something's broken. Something's breached. And it's coming—here."
People shouted as he pushed past them. A merchant cursed when Adam knocked over a cart of apples. A few guards shouted for him to slow down. He didn't. He couldn't.
________________
"This is bad... This is very bad. That should not be happening!"
The Goddess of Truth and Justice stood barefoot upon the mirrored floor of her celestial sanctum, her voice echoing through the infinite hall of prisms and verdicts. Before her hovered a radiant, golden embryo—cradled in a delicate lattice of divine energy, like a star trapped inside a shell of light.
It pulsed. Once… then again. Each pulse was stronger, more refined, more human.
Only moments ago, it had been little more than a shimmer—barely humanoid, little more than concept and potential. Now it had taken form. Fully. A child, complete in body and soul, was being born from light alone.
And worse… the light was divine.
She clenched her jaw, stepping back as the embryo gave off a pulse so powerful it cracked one of her mirrors. Light spilled out like wildfire, forcing her to raise a hand and chant a hasty containment phrase. Her mirrors snapped into motion—rotating, refracting, folding like blades of glass to trap and reflect the radiant light, buying her time.
"Something's happening in Has… again. That cursed place."
She turned sharply, pacing in her realm, the embroidered hem of her robe trailing stars behind her. Her golden eyes darted from reflection to reflection—visions of the mortal world flashing across each one.
And always… that golden light at the center.
She bit her nail in frustration. This isn't right. The child—the thing—was growing too quickly. It wasn't just divine. It was beyond divine. Something old. Something forbidden.
She reached out to the edges of the embryo's aura and tried to read it.
Nothing.No fate.No destiny.No threads.
Only... blinding possibility.
She hissed in fury. "Damn the elementals and their petty boundaries! I should be there already! Has is hanging by a thread and I'm trapped here, watching!"
The mirrors shuddered. The light pushed harder.
Her divine barriers were failing.
"Crap… crap… crap… this is not enough…" she muttered, eyes wild now, fingers glowing as she rewove the reflective cage with pure judgmental force.
She needed help. But she could trust no one. Not with this.
With a final gesture, she summoned an emergency protocol—something ancient, something she'd sworn never to use again. A cracked orb, hidden beneath the foundation of the sanctum, rose slowly. Inside it was a name, a warning, and a choice.
She didn't want to make it.
But the child was still growing.
And the light was getting brighter.
__________________
Crying.
Faint, at first.A single voice—soft, wounded.Then another.Then hundreds.Then thousands.
Layered.Twisting over one another like threads in a noose.
Infants screaming.Old men weeping.Priests chanting as they burn alive.Lovers whispering apologies as their hearts rot.Angels howling with mouths split too wide.Demons laughing through sobs.A mother.A child.A god.A devil.
All crying.And all from within.
The golden embryo pulsed as if it were alive. No—as if it had been alive long before life existed.It wept not tears, but concepts—raw, unfiltered hunger, divine thirst, infinite punishment, warped faith, corrupted love, collapsing divinity, and vengeance sharpened into a knife that screamed in the dark.
Something ancient. Something wrong.
It remembered before.It remembered the garden, the flame, the betrayal, the chains.
It was deity.It was devil.It was one in the same.And it was waking.
It hungered.It ached.It raged.It loved.It hated.
It remembered.
It had been sealed.Bound in golden lies and divine rules.Left to rot behind holy laws and forgotten songs.
And now—
It had sensed him.
A child. A fragment.A spark.Adam.
A copycat, painted in the image of divinity.A cheap echo of something pure, now lost.
Perfect.
Opportunity, whispered a million voices."Let me in.""Let me speak.""Let me wear your face.""Let me be born."
The crying grew louder.Impossible to locate.It was in the air.In the bones.In the soul.
The mirrors containing the embryo began to hum—then shriek—then shattered inwards, not from pressure, but from divine refusal. They would no longer contain it.
The shell of the embryo cracked, not in silence but with the sound of a world dying.From within poured light not golden—but white-hot, searing, the color of the first sunrise that ever melted a planet.
It screamed in the language of the first sin.It sang in the tone of fallen stars.The sanctum trembled.The divine realm bled.
Then came the voice:
"Soon, your god shall return.""Not the one you prayed to.""The one you forgot.""The one buried under your temples.""The one you locked behind your morality and bound in your hymns."
"I REMEMBER."
"And now the trumpets will toll."A thousand horns screamed in the distance of existence.
"The sinners will burn."Millions of eyes opened in the sky—crying blood, spitting fire.
"And the faithful will fall."Wings—once angelic—were torn to shreds mid-flight.
"The Enddays are not coming.""They are already here."
The entity stepped forth from the shell, not walking, not floating—but manifesting.Every movement rewrote the laws of the realm.Its form was too human and too not.Its smile was made of galaxies collapsing.Its eyes were windows into judgment itself.
And somewhere, Adam paused mid-run.
His heart skipped a beat.
Something had just looked back at him.
Then—Nothing.
Adam blinked.His chest still heaved from running, but he couldn't remember why.A moment ago he was rushing toward the arena like a man possessed, like his blood was on fire and his soul pulled by an invisible hand—But now?
Stillness.Like a string had been cut.Like the memory had never existed.Adam kept running, unaware that a part of his mind—his very soul—had been burned away.
Elsewhere—G.O.D screamed.
But not in fear.In rage.
"WHAT DARES?"
Its voice wasn't sound—it was revelation, a thunderous unmaking of silence that peeled the divine layers of reality like parchment.
Who dared?
What power existed still that could stop Him?
Before the question could even be shaped in its fullness, the answer came:
Chains.
Forged of jade, the color of ancient life, of divine law, of a promise once made to the stars themselves.They lashed across G.O.D's form—not flesh, but a concept too vast to hold shape.And the chains—unbreakable—anchored Him.
Then came the water.
Jade-colored, flowing like a river of serenity, not to drown, but to lull—to coax the unsleeping god into slumber.
But rage cannot be soothed by peace.Not this rage.Not the rage of a creator scorned by His own creation.
The water boiled away.The jade cracked, the chains screamed as they twisted.His fury melted stone, thought, and law alike.
Yet more came.
Mirrors—divine and ancient—appeared in a ring.Each reflected His anger back to Him—Not as shame, but as burden.As consequence.
He saw Himself.
He saw the first fall,The first tear,The first scream of a mother burying her child,The first lie spoken in His name—
And still, He did not repent.
Then came the orb.
It hovered above Him—black as a moonless void, pulsing with a hunger that only gods could fear.
It did not bind.It did not reflect.It consumed.
His love.His fury.His design.His pride.His name.
Everything He was—siphoned.
And yet—He laughed.
Not loud.
Not mad.
But low.Deep.Certain.
"This was always destined."
He spoke now not as wrath, but as truth.
"Before the stars knew their names…""Before sin drew its first breath…""Before the first human wept at the weight of free will…""I decreed this."
The chains trembled.The water shrank.The mirrors cracked.The orb pulsed harder, desperately feeding—but still it was not enough.
For He had authored all.
The garden.The fall.The flood.The flame.The cross.The silence.
"I made the first sinner.""I made the first mistake.""And I made them both on purpose."
And in the darkness of the sealed realm, bound yet undying, a whisper slithered out from the cracks in reality:
"You think you stopped me.""But you only delayed prophecy.""You only bought time—for judgment."
And somewhere, far away, a priest awoke screaming.The holy text on his chest bled ink.The statues in the temple turned their faces away.
The end is not coming.It was written into the beginning.