The news was not announced, it did not echo through the Realms, nor did it reach the thrones of the hybrids. There were no thunderclaps in the sky, no earthquakes on the ground.
But there was silence.
A silence that took root in the foundations of the Supernatural world. A silence not empty, but heavy, as if time itself held its breath.
They returned. Five. One by one. None made a fuss. None demanded anything.
The ancient El mansion, isolated at the summit of the Black Column, opened its gates for the first time in four millennia. Only the members of the lineage felt the weight of their return. The patriarchs trembled. The younger siblings fell silent. And the parents… said nothing.
"He… really came back," murmured the eighth son, not knowing to whom.
At the entrance, the eldest stood, without armor, without weapons, without words. But it was as if Death itself had returned home.
The second, with eyes that never sleep, carried in his gaze the screams of a thousand nightmares.
The third, the fourth, the fifth… all bearing scars from wars no one remembered. None of them seemed interested in the throne, nor in politics, nor in respect.
They seemed… tired.
But something was wrong. Very wrong.
The house of El, once a sacred place where even the air was cleansed of fear, now felt heavy. As if the earth wept in silence, recognizing the return of children who should never have left.
And in the world beyond… unbeknownst to anyone, the omens began: nightmares haunting ancient fairies, dreams of war plaguing witch children, the howling of wolves without cause. The Black Column burned in the distance—not with fire, but with memory.
For Death does not return in celebration. It returns… when the time has come.
The 4,000 Years That Separated Them
While the first five children faced horrors beyond comprehension—ruined worlds, torn realities, entities that even Heaven dared not name—the supernatural world lived… in peace.
Four millennia of treaties. Fragile alliances. Diplomatic councils. The supreme hybrids claimed the Throne with promises of balance. Wars ceased. Weapons were sealed. Generations were born in safety.
And the Els?
They had five more children.
Children raised with honor, yes—but also with ceremonies, comfort, and reverence. They grew as princes in a silent court, revered, protected, far from the wounds their older siblings would carry forever.
Time became an abyss.
For while the first five bled in silence, the other five learned to master their essence in gardens of white stone, amid masters and protocols.
And now that the veterans had returned, that difference weighed like a sentence.
The eldest, the living Death, did not even regard his younger siblings as equals. When he looked at them, it was with tired, cold eyes—not out of contempt, but out of pain. For him, that home was no longer a home.
The second brother, lord of dreams and nightmares, spoke little. But his mere presence unsettled everyone—the world refused to sleep while he was awake.
And the younger ones… felt ashamed.
"We… didn't know," the seventh son tried to justify.
"You knew," replied the third. "You just chose to forget."
For the 4,000 years were not merely a physical distance. They were years of forgetting. Of imposed silence. Of pretending the first five children did not exist.
But now they were back. Not as heroes. Nor as monsters. But as living memories of a time everyone wished to bury.
And worse: they were different.
More powerful than anyone could bear.
Colder than anyone could comprehend.
And more real than anyone could face for long.
The Silence of the Returned
They did not speak. They only watched. Overwhelming presences. Eyes that had seen the end—and returned to tell, yet refused to do so.
The younger siblings hid in the corners of the palace. The mere presence of the first five made the air heavy. The house of El, once a center of reverence, now trembled in silence.
Only she dared to cross that threshold.
The seventh.
Thin, pale, forgotten. The sick one. The one who could barely climb stairs. Ignored at gatherings, protected out of pity.
But with the return of the five monsters, something in her changed.
No one understood how, but she could approach them. She slept in the lap of the second, the lord of nightmares, and he—who could plunge even gods into endless torment—allowed it. At times, she made him smile. A feat no other being had achieved in four millennia.
And the most unthinkable: she touched the Firstborn, Death itself. He did not push her away. He did not ignore her. He watched.
"You feel less fear than you should," he murmured once.
"Perhaps you feel more pain than you wish," she replied, resting her head on his shoulder.
And in that brief exchange, something awakened.
Her breathing grew strong. Her skin ceased to be translucent. The illness that gnawed at her seemed to vanish, as if the burden of the returning monsters was the antidote she had always needed.
But it was not just healing.
She began to perceive the world differently. The voices of essence, the pulse of reality, the nightmares that once tormented her now obeyed. The ground trembled when she grew angry. And slowly, the most attuned began to notice:
She was awakening.
And the elders… watched. Not with pride. Nor with fear. But with a silence that felt like recognition.
For perhaps, among them all, she was the bridge.
The one who could walk between two worlds: that of war and that of peace. The living fracture of a lineage that should never have existed.
The Awakening of the Seventh
In the hall of the Els, her steps remained light, but no longer frail. The illness had finally left her. Her breathing was steady, her gaze firm—yet not arrogant. Simply… awake.
She sensed the world around her differently. Where once there were only shadows and pain, now there were layers. Pure essence. Forgotten voices. Fragments of what was and what could be.
The Nightmare—the second—followed her like a silent shadow. And Death—the first—watched her from afar. Not as an older brother, but as a soldier assessing the arrival of an oracle.
She was no longer a child. She was an echo that even the Firstborn did not fully grasp.
And then, on that sunless morning, everything changed.
They were all gathered. The house of El, for the first time in centuries, full.
The eighth, ever playful, tossed a sharp remark, laughing with a "So how are you feeling?" The hall fell silent. A thick, heavy silence.
The seventh did not reply. She merely raised her gaze.
And in that instant, everyone dreamed at once.
They dreamed of their own fears, their own ends. But it was not the terror of the second brother. It was… something deeper. Each saw a reflection of themselves—and realized they were being seen as well.
When they awoke, they were sweating. The ground trembled faintly beneath her feet.
The Firstborn, still seated, murmured:
"She doesn't need to be stronger… She knows where to strike."
That was when they understood: she had not inherited the power of Death, nor the dominion of Dreams. She had inherited the Soul.
She could walk through living souls, discern their cracks, amplify or mend them. Not with brute force, but with precision.
She would not defeat her elder brothers in combat. But she could unbalance any foe before the battle even began.
And for the first time in 4,000 years, the house of El held both hope—and fear—of a single person.
The Council of Thrones
It was the first time in four thousand years that the ten El siblings were seen together in public. The summoning of the Supernatural Council was tense—no one knew exactly why the children of Famine and Death had returned. But they knew the world's balance had trembled ever since.
The Council's hall was a living temple. Each race had its throne carved from ancestral essence. The supreme hybrids, crowns of the eight races, sat at the center. And the Els… arrived last.
Silence. As if time itself held its breath.
They entered together. Tall. Silent. Unbreakable. Their eyes carried eons. The eldest led—the living Death. The others followed like shadows of a cataclysm.
That was when he saw her.
The heiress of the supreme hybrids.
And something within him shattered.
The voice that erupted from his mouth was neither soft nor deliberate. It was a thunderclap:
"Mine."
The ground quaked. The Council froze. The word sliced through the air like both a curse and a blessing.
Wings burst from his back. Three meters of light and shadow. One white as the dawn of Eden. The other, black as the void before creation.
A pure Nephilim. Of angel and demon. One alone.
She faltered. Her brother—brave or foolish—stepped forward, just one step. An instinctive move.
A mistake.
In a blink, the Firstborn's hand was buried in the young man's chest, fingers grazing his heart. Death had already begun to spread. The world paled around them.
But before it could end, the second brother—the Nightmare—appeared, gripping the eldest's arm with titanic force.
"Not here," he said, his voice layered with the echoes of shattered dreams.
The hall dissolved into murmurs. The air grew thin. None dared move.
The hybrid prince collapsed to his knees, breathing raggedly. Alive… by a thread.
The heiress finally spoke, her voice steady despite her fear:
"You cannot claim me like this."
And the Firstborn, eyes still locked on her, replied with brutal calm:
"I do not claim. I recognize."
The meeting did not conclude that day. But a new era began. A war, perhaps, or an impossible union.
The Council realized what all feared: The Els were back. And love, among beings forged for war, could prove more dangerous than any battle.
The Council Meeting Continued
The silence following the brothers' display was thick, almost tangible. None dared break it. Until the eldest Councilor rose, leaning on a staff of amber and dread.
"They… are returning."
The words rang like a premature dirge.
"The Seven Kings of Hell," added another, younger, but with eyes worn by horror. "They are no longer the same. They are not mere demons. They are… something worse. Something ancient. They have transcended the limits even the hells imposed."
Holograms flickered above the Council's table. Distorted images, recordings bought with hundreds of lives. Figures cloaked in black flames, crowds kneeling, entire cities swallowed by the void.
"The supernatural world is unprepared. Not for one of them, let alone all seven. And their generals… are legion. Each King can now corrupt entire realities."
A silence fell.
Then all eyes turned, inevitably, to the side of the room where the El siblings stood.
The Firstborn ignored them, tracing the ends of the hybrid heiress's hair as she lay asleep in his lap. The Nightmare toyed with the air, as if sketching a new slaughter in his mind. The others remained still, like statues of barely restrained power.
Their father, grave-faced, spoke for all present:
"The Kings will come in person. They send no armies. They come… to conquer."
One word landed like a stone on the chests of the race representatives:
"The supernatural world will be but the first throne."
Fear rippled outward in unseen waves. The quickened breaths of leaders filled the air. Pale vampires, sweating werewolves, sorcerers with hands trembling beneath the tables.
"We must unite. Now. We need weapons, strategies, alliances… and perhaps…" he swallowed hard, "perhaps it is time to ask the children of Death and Famine to lead the battlefront."
A murmur cut through the room like a blade.
All looked to them.
But the children of Death… had yet to speak.
They only watched.
And that was the most terrifying thing of all.
A Year and a Half Later
The supernatural world was no longer the same. Cities were fortified. Armies trained. Each race revived its oldest traditions of war. But nothing could prepare them for what was coming.
The Seven Kings of Hell arrived as living plagues.
Flames that could not be quenched. Thunder that shattered souls. Pestilence, madness, illusion, emptiness. Each was a kingdom unto itself. Each marched with tens of thousands of generals and ancient monstrosities.
The Council fell. Walls crumbled. The supreme hybrids were forced onto the defensive.
Then… they arrived.
The First, the Second, and the Seventh.
"They called… now listen," said the Nightmare, his eyes blazing like abysses.
"We have come," added the Seventh, her voice firm for the first time.
"And Hell will learn to fear," murmured the eldest, unleashing his presence like an eclipse.
The War Front
Three Kings of Hell were triumphing together: the King of Wrath, the King of Lust, and the King of Envy. Entire armies fell in seconds.
The Firstborn walked toward them alone.
"Three against one…" sneered the King of Envy.
"Let me guess… you think you'll kill us?" laughed the King of Wrath.
"No," he replied. "I will show… why even Sataniel lacked the courage to come."
And then the sky split apart.
Three Kings. One warrior.
The Second faced the King of Sloth, who wove a field where time stood still. The Nightmare danced through shadows and madness.
The Seventh confronted the King of Pestilence, shielding the front lines. Each touch of the enemy corrupted life. But she, with her presence, healed. With a touch, purified.
The world watched—and feared.
But… where was Sataniel?
Why did the King of Pride not lead his own army?
Hell had a plan. And it was waiting… for something.
Or someone.