Darkness loomed within Lysara's chambers, flickering candlelight casting elongated shadows upon the marble walls. The air was thick with incense, its fragrance cloying—meant to soothe the mind, yet it barely concealed the tension that hung in the air.
Seated at the table, Lysara tapped her fingers against the polished surface, her eyes deep in thought. She was a tactician who had shaped the fates of civilizations, yet now she sat in silence, her brow furrowed.
Across from her, Darius exhaled sharply, shifting in his seat. His bandaged body, wrapped tightly in divine cloth, was a testament to the wounds he had suffered in battle.
"How many of our forces fell?" Lysara's voice was cold, measured.
Darius' jaw tightened. "Too many." He clenched his fists, the movement sending a tremor of pain through his body. "We threw everything at him, and yet—"
"He walks free."
A long silence stretched between them.
Ryojin. The Godslayer.
A being who should not exist.
A being who defied the natural order.
Darius closed his eyes. The memory of their battle still burned behind his eyelids. He had seen gods fall, watched as Ryojin carved through divine flesh like a farmer reaping wheat. There had been no hesitation, no mercy.
"We need a plan," Lysara murmured. "One that ensures he never threatens us again."
Darius exhaled sharply. "Easier said than done. I think he is beyond us now. Even if we were to muster all the divine might of the Celestial Orde‐"
"It would be enough," Lysara finished.
Darius gritted his teeth. "You don't get it, we need high lord Seraphiel to deal with him immediately. Ryojin will not stop until all gods are killed and in the process he will sacrifice a lot of people just to wield abyssal energy."
Lysara's fingers drummed against the table. "Then we must think differently. A direct assault will only feed his wrath."
Darius looked away. "Then what do you propose?"
Before she could answer, the air in the room shifted.
A creeping cold spread through the chamber. A slow, deliberate sound—click. Click. Click—echoed through the space, like the sound of fangs snapping shut.
A figure stepped forward from the darkness.
Seraphis, the Black Fang.
She moved with an elegance that was inhuman. Her lips curled in a sharp, knowing smile, and her eyes were sharp as daggers .
Lysara's expression did not change. "Seraphis."
"How entertaining," Seraphis mused, her voice a silk-coated blade. "Two of the greatest minds of the Celestial Order, reduced to desperation."
Lysara's golden gaze met Seraphis' unflinchingly. "Speak plainly. If you have something to say, say it."
Seraphis chuckled, stepping forward. "Your problem is simple. You cannot kill him. You cannot overpower him. So why do you keep trying?"
Darius scowled. "If you have a solution, say it."
Seraphis smiled. "A prison. A domain built from divine power. A space where time flows differently. To us, a month will pass. But to him? Only hours."
Lysara's gaze sharpened.
"He will enter as a titan," Seraphis continued, her voice lilting with amusement. "And when we open the domain again, he will be nothing more than a relic of the past as his abyssal energy will degrade."
Silence.
Darius exhaled, his mind racing.
"A fractured stasis," Lysara murmured, thinking through the implications. "If we craft a space where time is unstable, he will not notice the shift until it is too late."
Seraphis spread her arms. "And by the time he does, it will be far too late."
A pause.
Then, Lysara nodded. "We will do it."
TheLoomofFate
Between the Demon Realm and the Godly Realm, there existed a place untouched by war.
A space where fate itself was woven.
Seraphiel drifted through the void, his presence stirring the silence. The fabric of reality trembled in response, shifting like a great tapestry folding upon itself. Stars flickered in and out of existence, their light swallowed by the endless expanse.
Ahead, the Loom of Fate stood unmoved by time, a construct of absolute dominion. It stretched beyond mortal comprehension, its threads glimmering like rivers of stardust, each strand a story—woven, tangled, severed.
Here, destiny was shaped. Here, the Norns ruled.
The three figures awaited him at the heart of this cosmic loom.
Urd, the Past. Cloaked in the echoes of eternity, her ancient gaze was weary yet unyielding. She had seen all that had come before—every triumph, every betrayal, every cycle of ruin and rebirth. The weight of history pressed upon her, yet she wove on.
Verdandi, the Present. Her hands never ceased their work, fingers dancing across the threads of existence. With each delicate motion, lives were written into the ever-unfolding story of the cosmos. She was the balance, the ever-moving needle that refused to halt.
Skuld, the Future. Veiled in shadows, her presence was elusive, her face a mystery. The fate of all things lay within her grasp, yet none could see the full tapestry of what was to come—not even her.
Seraphiel descended before them, his vast wings folding as he knelt.
"Great weavers of fate," he intoned.
The Loom pulsed, responding to his presence.
Urd's voice was like brittle parchment crumbling beneath time's touch. "High Lord Seraphiel."
Verdandi wove faster, the golden threads of life slipping through her fingers. "The realms tremble."
Seraphiel's gaze hardened. "Ryojin?"
The threads shifted.
A single strand materialized before him—dark, empty, a void where a destiny should have been.
Skuld's voice drifted through the void like a whisper through forgotten ruins. "He has become a threat."
Seraphiel's expression darkened. "His fate cannot be written?"
Urd's eyes, deep as the abyss, met his. "No. He stands beyond fate itself."
The weight of those words pressed upon Seraphiel. Beyond fate. Beyond control. Ryojin Kurohane was an anomaly—a force that defied the very fabric of reality.
But the Loom was not finished.
Verdandi hesitated, her hands moving with a rare urgency. "He is not alone."
A second thread took form.
This one shone with a radiance unlike any other. Divine, untainted—yet it too resisted the loom, refusing to be woven into the grand design.
Seraphiel's breath caught. "A god?"
The Norns did not answer immediately. The Loom trembled as if recoiling from the very notion.
Finally, Skuld spoke. "Among your kin, there is one whose fate we cannot weave."
The words sent a chill through him. The gods were eternal, celestial, woven into the foundation of existence itself. Yet one among them stood outside the weave?
Seraphiel clenched his fists. "Who?"
Verdandi's hands stilled for the first time. "We do not know. But this thread will lead you. When you stand before the one who threatens the gods, it will glow."
As if in response, the celestial strand curled around his wrist, binding him with its silent decree.
A command. A warning. A fate yet to be written.
Skuld's voice was like a blade cutting through the silence. "End them. Before fate unravels."
Seraphiel exhaled slowly, his resolve hardening.
Ryojin Kurohane. Had now become a force beyond fate. A being that refused to be bound.
And now, within the very heart of the divine, a new question loomed—
Which of their own would bring about their end?