The silence of the underworld was no longer comforting. It was eerie—too still, as if the very shadows were holding their breath. Masaru Izuku stood before the scorched remains of the Temple of Nox, its charred pillars clawing toward the blood-red sky. The battle from the previous day had left the land tainted. Blackened corpses of corrupted celestials still smoldered, the stench of burned divine flesh lingering.
Adolpha, his demonic wolf companion, stood silently beside him. Her once-brilliant silver fur was now singed and stained with blood, both hers and the enemy's. She gave a low growl.
"They won't give us time to breathe," she said, her voice echoing in Masaru's mind.
Masaru nodded. His obsidian eyes glowed faintly. The power of Death and Rebirth coiled within him like a serpent ready to strike. His body ached from the battles he had fought, but his will remained unwavering.
From the distance, Aisha approached, wrapped in her tattered healer's robe, her golden staff pulsing faintly with life magic. "We can't stay here. This temple's destruction will draw the attention of the Celestial Hunters."
"Good," Masaru replied sharply. "Let them come."
Aisha flinched at his tone but said nothing. She could see the changes in him—the darkness spreading deeper, the vengeance consuming him inch by inch.
Before anyone could speak, a pulse of power swept through the air. The ground trembled, and a sudden gust of wind kicked up the ashes. Vaerion, the ancient dragon of flame, descended from the blood-soaked clouds above, his wings casting massive shadows. His crimson scales glinted with fury.
"Masaru," he rumbled, his voice like thunder. "The Creator has sent another Archon. A new executioner."
Masaru's lips curled. "Let him come."
"This one is not like the others. His name is Seraphis. He was once the god of mercy," Vaerion said gravely.
Adolpha growled again. "Mercy? Then why would he fight for the Creator?"
"Because mercy has become twisted in the heavens," Vaerion answered. "They believe eradicating us is a kindness to the world."
Masaru turned toward the eastern hills, where a silver glow was rising. The divine light shimmered unnaturally, thick with judgment.
"Prepare everyone," he ordered. "This won't be a battle. It'll be a massacre. And I refuse to be on the receiving end."
Aisha stepped closer. "You're pushing them too hard. They're exhausted. Let them rest. Even demons need time."
"There is no time. Every second we waste gives the gods more ground. And Seraphis... he will show no mercy."
The ground beneath them rumbled again. From the ashes, black vines twisted upward. Masaru recognized the spell
The portal flickered with unstable energy, rippling with a blend of crimson and indigo light. As Azael stepped through, followed closely by the remnants of his loyal shadows, the air shifted—heavier, denser—as if pressing against the very soul. This was not the world he had left. It was the beginning of the Creator's Realm, where time bled differently and the echoes of forgotten truths lingered in every breath.
Before them stood a sprawling citadel of obsidian, looming in the void like a godless monument. Veins of golden light throbbed beneath its surface, alive and watching. Azael didn't flinch. He had seen illusions, had survived divine wrath, and now he was beyond fear. His black cloak rustled as he took the first step forward, eyes narrowed, voice cold. "We go together. Until the end."
Riven, the Death Reaper, trailed close behind, his skeletal hands gripping a twisted scythe. He didn't speak—words were useless in this realm. It was the air that whispered now, telling stories only those born of death could understand. Kiera, once the Oracle of Despair, pressed a protective hand to her chest. "Something's wrong. The Creator's presence... it feels fractured."
Azael's lips curved into a small, humorless smile. "Then he's weakening. Good. That means we're close."
Inside the citadel, the atmosphere was worse. The corridor spiraled in impossible angles, walls breathing like living skin. They walked in silence, the glow from Azael's eyes illuminating the way. Shadows twisted around them, forming faces of the damned. A thousand voices tried to claw into their minds. But Azael's will was ironclad. He'd come too far to fall now.
Suddenly, they reached a grand chamber where time itself seemed frozen. Suspended in the center was a crystalline sphere, pulsing with chaotic energy. Inside it, trapped and twitching, was a figure—barely human, barely alive. Long silver hair, tattered robes, and glowing chains wrapped around his limbs. The Creator.
"This... this is not what I expected," whispered Kiera.
The Creator looked up, his face contorted in agony. He coughed, blood staining his lips. "So, you've come, Reaper King."
Azael stared at him with contempt. "You who played with the strings of life, who cast souls into torment for amusement... is this your end? Chained like a dog by your own power?"
The Creator's eyes gleamed faintly. "You don't understand, Azael. I didn't create the cycle. I was born into it, cursed to continue it. The true enemy... is still out there."
Riven let out a low growl. "Lies."
But Azael held up a hand. "Speak, god. But know this—if I sense deceit, you will beg for oblivion."
The Creator coughed again, then raised a trembling hand toward the chamber's ceiling. With a surge of will, a vision unfolded—a cosmic battlefield, where titanic beings clashed. Among them, a figure cloaked in gold and violet, face hidden, wielding a blade made of starlight.
"He is the First Architect. The one who made the laws we gods must obey. I was chosen to enforce the system, not create it. I rebelled, tried to break the chains. And for that, he imprisoned me here, feeding off my essence to maintain control."
Azael frowned. "Why should I believe you?"
"Because your power—your reincarnation—it was his design. He wanted you to reach this place, to think you had won, so he could use your soul to reboot the cycle anew. You are the key, Azael."
For a moment, silence fell over the chamber.
Kiera stepped forward. "Azael... if he's telling the truth—"
"Then I've been played all along," Azael finished, voice low, eyes narrowed. "But it doesn't matter. I'll burn it all. The Architect. This realm. Even fate itself."
The Creator's head fell, lips curling into a sad smile. "Then you're truly death incarnate. But beware—if you kill me, the seal will shatter, and he will awaken. He will come for you."
Azael drew his blade, its edge humming with forbidden energy. "Then let him come. I've already died once."
With one clean motion, he drove the blade into the sphere. It shattered in a storm of light and thunder. The Creator's body disintegrated, screaming not in pain, but in relief. The room trembled. The citadel cracked. Outside, the skies tore open with golden fire.
Far beyond, in the deepest chamber of the void, a single eye opened. And it smiled.