The echo of divine bells resounded through the void, a melancholic toll that rolled across the vast astral skies of Empyrealis — the Kingdom of Gods. Though there was no sun, light bathed the endless, shifting heavens in surreal hues, illuminating ancient citadels and floating sanctuaries that defied logic and gravity alike. Cathedrals of chained marble floated beside obsidian fortresses that bled ethereal light. Every structure told the tale of a different god's dominion.
Lucian stood atop a broken arch suspended in space, his presence cloaked beneath layers of divine illusion. He had long since discarded the false appearance of a low-tier god and now posed as a middle-ranking deity from the Domain of Lost Stars — a fabricated identity crafted with impeccable precision. In his hand, he clenched the Ring of Death, already claimed in the depths of the Silent Vault beneath the Azure Spire in Chapter 1. Its black gem pulsed with a heartbeat that wasn't his, echoing with whispers of the God of Darkness.
His infiltration had begun with careful subterfuge, but now he advanced into the very arteries of godly civilization. The Cathedral of Chains — his current destination — was not merely a place of worship. It was a paradox: a temple and a prison, a sanctum of divine communion and the heart of divine torment.
Lucian moved quietly through a procession of chained angels. Their wings were torn, their eyes stitched shut by threads of divine law. They sang hymns without melody, a haunting echo carried on breathless voices. Their pain fed the gods who listened above, and their suffering was deemed sacred.
He entered the cathedral gates unnoticed, passing under arches sculpted from the bones of lesser gods. Every pillar was etched with runes of dominance, symbols that enforced control over divine spirits and higher souls alike. Suspended from the ceiling were thousands of cages, each holding mortals, demigods, and lesser deities in various states of mutilation — eternal punishment for blasphemy, or merely for amusement.
Inside, gods sat on pews of iron obsidian, their bodies resplendent with divine symbols and cruel auras. Their conversations were not of benevolence or justice, but of wagers.
"How long do you think that mortal will last in the Furnace of Silence?" asked one god draped in golden vines, his eyes replaced with spinning glyphs.
"A day at best," replied another with a laugh, sipping soul wine from a chalice made of screaming crystal. "The last one lasted an hour. This one looks weak. My bet is seven burns before his mind shatters."
Lucian watched them with calm disinterest. He saw gods debate the destruction of civilizations as casual entertainment. He heard plans to flood mortal worlds with cursed relics just to see what chaos would unfold. And all of this took place beneath the shadow of their holiest shrine.
A divine execution unfolded on the center altar — a chained goddess of compassion had dared to question the decree of the High Tribunal. Her punishment? To be unmade in fragments, piece by divine piece, for an eternity. Gods gathered in reverent silence as each scream from her lips turned to rose-shaped flames, drifting into the incense-laden air.
Lucian moved on.
Beyond the cathedral was the Gallery of Judgement, where murals depicted gods slaughtering their worshippers for faltering faith. The murals moved, showing scenes anew with every passing minute — no truth eternal, only rewritten obedience.
In the courtyard of the Obsidian Wellspring, Lucian observed a ritual where a young mortal girl — abducted from a conquered realm — was offered to a god as a living chalice. Her soul was turned into nectar, consumed with applause. The ritual was considered a 'divine refreshment.'
This was daily life in Empyrealis. Power was sustenance. Pain was coin.
Lucian's expression remained unreadable, but inside, his resolve hardened. He had known the gods were corrupt — but this… this was rot at a cosmic level.
He moved on toward the Chronicles of Flesh, a library not of books but of skinned memories — each page a sentient fragment of a victim's experience. Gods fed on memories there, reliving final moments, stolen joys, and ultimate betrayals. The guardians of this library were priest-like entities with flayed bodies and quill-fingers, forever transcribing.
He noticed them flinch when he walked by. The Ring of Death pulsed under his glove.
From the shadows behind Lucian, a figure emerged without a sound — a ripple in the void, draped in a cloak woven from dusk and silence.
"My Lord," Thomas spoke, his voice low and composed, like the soft toll of a warning bell. "The four Candidates of the God of Light have convened at Sol Aeternum. An official gathering."
Lucian turned his head slightly, the divine illusions veiling his form flickering with subtle distortions. "How timely," he mused, a flicker of amusement crossing his features. "They only gather once a cycle... and that cycle comes but once every hundred thousand years, in mortal reckoning."
Thomas offered a respectful nod. "Indeed. A rare convergence. One reserved for matters deemed worthy of divine scrutiny."
Lucian's fingers tightened briefly around the Ring of Death. Its obsidian gem pulsed once, as if stirred by the mention of their names. "Then it seems the stage is set," he said, his tone growing colder. "No need to watch them wallow in indulgence any longer."
Thomas stepped aside, his cloak whispering against the marble bones beneath their feet. "Shall we begin, my liege?"
Lucian didn't respond immediately. He gazed out at the shifting heavens of Empyrealis, watching as distant cathedrals turned like planets across the astral sea. Then, with a smile devoid of warmth, he replied:
"Yes. Let's pay our dear hosts a visit… before their tea grows cold."
The Garden of Sol Aeternum was nothing like a mortal garden. It was a cradle of aether woven from the sighs of newborn stars, where cosmic roses bloomed in patterns of constellations and the grass shimmered with the light of vanished galaxies. Trees grew from pure solar essence, their leaves rustling with divine equations whispered in ancient tongues. Time moved slower here—if it moved at all.
In the center of this celestial haven sat the Four Candidates of the God of Light, sipping tea brewed from the liquefied virtues of saintly souls. The teacups shimmered with a soft luminescence, each forged from the heart of a collapsed sun.
Sera, the Dawnblade Saint, leaned back with a serene sigh, her golden hair cascading like sunbeams across her shoulder.
"Mm. The souls taste sweeter today," she mused, twirling her cup between her fingers. "Must be from that monastery realm—their martyrs always had the best aftertaste."
Caelthuron, The Arbiter of Flame, rolled his eyes.
"You waste divine time on flavor notes? We're not here to hold a damned tea ceremony. Some of us have judgments to pass."
Valtar, The Spear of Radiance, smirked slightly.
"Let her enjoy herself, Caelthuron. There's plenty of screaming mortals left to extract flavor from."
Isolde, the Hallowed Oracle, gently stirred her tea with a finger made of crystallized prophecy.
"The winds of fate shift oddly today… a ripple in the current. Something approaches."
Just then, shadows stretched unnaturally across the starlit ground. A quiet hum rolled through the divine lounge, followed by the soft click of footsteps—measured, deliberate.
From the edges of warped space walked a man clad in a long black linecoat trimmed with blood-red sigils. His eyes held the weight of dead realms, and his smile? An insult dressed as charm.
He conjured a chair from nothing, elegant and obsidian-edged, and sat at their divine table as if invited.
Valtar's voice was calm, but sharp as glass. "Who dares intrude?"
Lucian leaned back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other.
"Just an old acquaintance of your master," he said smoothly. "Thought I'd drop in before tea time ended."
Caelthuron's tone darkened.
"Then allow us to welcome you properly."
Suddenly, space above them fractured—a legion of golden-armored soldiers descended in perfect formation, tens of thousands strong, weapons gleaming with divine intent.
Lucian blinked lazily.
"Ah, a military parade? I didn't bring confetti."
In a single moment, all the soldiers split in half, cleaved by an unseen force—no swing, no flash, just a quiet moment of annihilation.
Lucian didn't move from his chair.
Caelthuron stood up, brushing golden ash from his robe.
"Apologies for such an uncouth greeting. We rarely entertain guests."
Lucian gave a mock bow.
"Hospitality noted. I'll be sure to rate it… poorly."
Without warning, Valtar and Sera moved in tandem. Light burst from their weapons as they struck—blades of searing radiance descending from both sides.
Lucian didn't flinch. He lifted two fingers.
The divine weapons froze, held effortlessly between his digits.
"Now, now," Lucian said, almost bored. "Why ruin the tea? Finish your drinks first."
He released them and stood, brushing imaginary dust from his coat.
Isolde raised her hand silently—a thousand glyphs lit the sky, forming an array of apocalyptic scale.
"May the Light accept you."
Lucian stood still in the center of the garden.
The heavens opened—a barrage of 11th-class divine spells, beams of light so dense they could collapse stars, thundered toward him.
He whispered, barely audible:
"Paradox Reversal."
Reality twisted. Every spell reversed its path, unraveling mid-flight into particles of radiant origin, collapsing back into silence.
Isolde's breath caught.
"He reversed divine time… Is he a candidate of the God of Time?"
Caelthuron snarled.
"It doesn't matter. He's declared war with that trick."
"Domain Expansion! Solar Crucible – Throne of Eternal Judgment!"
The realm tore open.
The grass beneath them transfigured into a molten sea of divine magma, tiled with radiant glyphs of judgment. From above, liquid light rained like golden fire, each droplet capable of sentencing a world.
At the center, Caelthuron ascended onto a throne of obsidian wrapped in halos, his presence seething with holy retribution.
Sera whispered an incantation, and four star-forged orbs lit behind her—each orbiting in sacred synchronicity with her breath.
Every swing of her blade became a cosmic slash, trailing stellar destruction in its wake, harmonized by a choir of constellations humming through the void.
Valtar, silent until now, raised his hands.
A bolt of divine lightning struck him, encasing his body in living armor made of thunder itself.
"Let's finish this," he said with cold finality.
Lucian tilted his head, his shadow stretching far beyond the reach of the gods' light.
"Well then," he said with a smirk.
"Looks like playtime's over."
The very fabric of Empyrealis trembled.
Lower gods across the divine planes faltered mid-flight, their rituals collapsing, divine glyphs unraveling into dust. They turned their gaze toward the epicenter of the rupture — the Divine Lounge of the Chosen — where a storm of impossible power had just been unleashed.
An emergency congregation began.
Thousands of armored soldiers of Light, clad in radiant gold and blessed steel, mobilized with disciplined fury, converging upon the disturbance like a flood of celestial order. Their banners shimmered with sigils of judgment, law, and flame.
And at the heart of it all, standing alone in the very center of Sol Aeternum's divine courtyard, was Thomas — Lucian's shadow.
He raised his hand, conjuring a perfectly symmetrical crimson orb, its surface spiraling with ancient runic sequences, humming with forbidden resonance. Then, with a single wordless command, he hurled it downward.
The sphere struck the floor with a soft chime — and exploded in absolute silence.
A wave of crimson light surged outward, sweeping through the divine city like an invisible tide. Wherever it passed, lower gods dropped to their knees, their divine cores shuddering. Their magic was gone — sealed. Cut off. Nullified.
Panic rippled like wildfire. Screams of confusion echoed from silver towers and floating sanctums. It was no ordinary spell. It was an 11th-Class Seal, a forbidden technique of the high gods… and yet it had been flawlessly executed by a mere "attendant."
Thomas exhaled slowly, the red glow fading from his palm. "Your powers are suspended," he said softly, as if stating the weather. "Consider it... a precaution."
The advancing soldiers didn't get far.
A pulse of darkness halted them mid-charge — an oppressive force heavier than gravity itself. Above the Divine Lounge of the Chosen, two figures stood against the backdrop of the golden sky, cloaked in shadows that shimmered like heatwaves across reality.
Baek Mu-sang and Seraphion Valtor.
The Iron Shadow and the Eternal Aegis.
Both emanated an aura so dense it twisted the air itself, suffocating in its presence — like the breath of ancient titans.
Baek Mu-sang stepped forward in the air, his blade resting lazily across his shoulder, his expression bored yet razor-sharp. "I suggest you halt, vermin of Light," he called out, voice amplified by the force of dark qi. "This is no longer your affair."
One of the golden-clad generals sneered, stepping forward with contempt. "You dare threaten us? A pair of mongrels barking in the shadow of gods?"
Baek Mu-sang grinned — and vanished.
In a blink, a vertical slash carved through reality itself, leaving a trail of absolute void. A heartbeat later, screams rang out — and a full regiment of soldiers vanished in a torrent of black light. No blood. No remnants. Just silence.
Hovering once more above the stunned army, Baek Mu-sang sheathed his blade with a soft click.
"A mere bug?" he echoed, voice dripping with cold amusement. "Try again."
Behind him, Seraphion spoke for the first time, his deep voice like thunder beneath a cathedral dome. "This duel belongs to the divine… but the slaughter will be ours if you insist on interference."
The soldiers hesitated — some trembling, some stepping back.
For in that moment, they realized: this was no rebellion.
This was a reckoning.
Valtar's golden spear struck like a thunderbolt from the heavens — but to Lucian, it was a child's tantrum dressed in divine theatrics.
He raised a single hand, two fingers casually extended. The spear collided—no, stopped—millimeters from his fingertips. Not through resistance, but rejection. Space itself distorted, like a tide recoiling before a god.
Lucian tilted his head with a smirk, "Lightning? Really? That's cute. What's next? A thunderclap and a rainbow?"
Valtar growled, divine sparks crawling over his armor. "You mock the Light."
Lucian leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming, "No. I'm mocking you. There's a difference."
Without warning, a ripple echoed through reality.
Caelthuron's domain reacted. The golden rings above trembled as if detecting Lucian's irreverence as sacrilege. Judgement was encoded in the very light raining from above. One drop landed near Lucian — melting stone, tearing through divine shielding — a single bead of gold more potent than a collapsed star.
Lucian casually raised the Ring of Death.
A pulse. Darkness folded over the golden droplet.
Not consumed — but rewritten.
The molten light reemerged as a shadowy orb of anti-matter, hovering above his palm. It hummed like a forgotten truth, vibrating against the divine laws.
He tossed it up like a coin. "Nice judgment, Caelthuron. But I prefer my sentences with appeal."
The skies cracked.
Isolde had finished her incantation.
A curtain of holy light fell like a guillotine — a prism of layered time sequences, realities braided into spears. Each beam was an 11th-tier temporal stitch, capable of resetting cosmic events and collapsing causality.
"Be erased," she whispered. "May you return to the moment before you ever existed."
Lucian exhaled. One eye shimmered violet. The other, pitch black.
"Chrono Eclipse."
The light halted mid-air. Frozen. Then, reversed—rewound with a sharp tick, like a celestial clock had been forcibly turned backward.
The garden, the spears, the orbs—all reverted to ten seconds prior. Only Lucian remained unchanged, standing with arms folded as if bored by time itself.
"You'll need more than glorified light tricks," he said, eyeing Isolde. "You're all playing symphonies in a key I've already forgotten."
Suddenly—
Sera appeared beside him, moving faster than sound, than thought. Her blade arced toward his throat, the four star-forged orbs behind her leaving stellar trails across the garden. Each swing rippled with quantum harmonics, bending probability and forming afterimages that attacked simultaneously from alternate timelines.
Lucian turned slightly.
The blade reached his neck—
CLANG.
A black barrier stopped it.
Not conjured.
Not summoned.
Manifested from concept.
"Darkness," Lucian whispered, "isn't just shadow. It's the absence of rules."
He stepped forward through the strike. The air shattered like glass around him. One of Sera's star-orbs cracked.
She gasped. "Impossible…"
He smiled gently, "You shouldn't link your soul to objects in front of me. I collect things."
BOOM!
Valtar and Caelthuron both struck from either side — spear and magma-blade crashing into Lucian from two angles, timed perfectly.
The garden vanished in a sphere of light and fire.
A divine silence followed.
Dust cleared.
Lucian stood in the center — coat singed, a slash across his cheek.
He licked the blood. "Tch. Finally drew some."
A tremor moved across the entire divine plane.
Lucian unsheathed his sword.
A massive black blade laced with red sigils, glowing faintly — as though alive.
"Now then…" His voice dropped an octave, carrying gravity. "Let me show you what it means to wield a weapon forged in the heart of a dead reality."
He gripped it with both hands and drove the blade into the ground.
The ground cracked.
Chains erupted.
From beneath reality itself — The Grave Below — Lucian's personal power domain, began bleeding into Caelthuron's Solar Crucible.
Light and darkness merged, spiraling violently. Every divine law shrieked.
Above them, even the golden rings hesitated. The heavens dimmed.
Lucian's voice echoed, ancient and cruel.
"You four represent the light. So I must ask…
Why does it flicker… in my presence?"