A blood-red sky loomed over the battlefield, cracking with the fury of gods. Screams echoed across the scorched land where chaos reigned. Gajan, once a hero of his world, now stood alone — battered, broken, betrayed. His cloak was torn, fluttering like a dying ember, and his eyes, once full of light, now dimmed with grim determination.
Before him stood a towering figure, both radiant and terrifying — one of the Twelve Lords, corrupted by ambition and false divinity. This Lord had once been known as "Divinus," the Lord of Light, worshipped across empires. But now... he was something else. Cloaked in golden flames and shadows, his wings were made of holy fire, his spear glowed with divine punishment.
"You were a fool to stand against us, Gajan," Divinus said, his voice echoing like thunder layered in silk. "This world was never yours to save."
Gajan coughed blood, clutching his cracked sword. The ground around him was littered with bodies — his comrades, innocent bystanders, those who believed in hope.
"Maybe," Gajan whispered, his voice hoarse. "But I was never fighting for this world. I fought for those who couldn't."
The Lord's face twisted with annoyance. "Sentiment. The weakness of mortals."
Gajan charged one final time. His steps were heavy, but his heart — defiant. As he swung his blade, Divinus moved faster than light, plunging his divine spear through Gajan's chest.
Time froze. Light filled the sky. Gajan's breath caught in his throat.
And then — darkness.
In the endless void, Gajan floated.
"I don't want to be weak."
"I don't want to feel fear again."
"Let me show you how far mortals can go..."
His soul drifted — until it touched something ancient. Something divine.
A spark.