The world had grown quiet around Kael.
Not the quiet of peace.
The quiet of anticipation.
Of something beneath all known things listening again. Watching.
After reclaiming the Oathblade, Kael did not rest. He did not look back. He walked into the northern wastes, where the skies hung low and clouds forgot to drift. This was the Skyrend Expanse, a cursed region where no divine being had ever set foot—because the sky above it had been wounded.
Once.
Long ago.
And never healed.
---
They said it was here the first rebellion began.
That a mortal tried to strike the heavens and was swallowed by the clouds in response.
That the blow never landed.
That the sky was still waiting.
And now, Kael approached with no apology.
The land around him was cracked obsidian, shattered in spiral formations. Every step triggered echoes of cries—warped voices from another age, trapped in stone.
He did not flinch.
When he reached the Rift of Falling Suns, the wind stopped.
Not slowed.
Ceased.
And before him stood a monument of pure stillness—an altar carved not from stone, but from the absence of time. Upon it rested a chain-bound relic that had not seen motion since the rebellion: a gauntlet of gleaming voidsteel, encasing a heart that still beat.
> "Only one who defied the sky may wear it," the wind whispered.
Kael raised his hand.
And for the first time, the sky flinched.
---
The gauntlet accepted him.
Not because of lineage.
Not because of strength.
But because he no longer believed the sky was above him.
As he clasped it onto his left arm, the sky above him cracked.
A great line of violet fire tore through the clouds—no lightning, no roar, just a thin fracture splitting the heavens like porcelain.
Kael raised his gaze and whispered:
> "You're late."
Then he struck the air above with his palm.
A shockwave of rejection rippled across the heavens. Qi across continents reversed for a breath. Cultivators hundreds of miles away dropped to their knees as their daos forgot themselves.
The sky bled from the wound.
And within that bleeding rift—something opened its eye.
A presence. Not a god. Not a realm-being. Something older. It looked down upon Kael not with curiosity or wrath…
…but recognition.
> "The Heir of Hollow Flame has arrived."
Kael's hair drifted with weightless motion. The gauntlet pulsed. The Oathblade hummed behind him. The sigil on his back blazed with a rune that had never been spoken aloud.
He stepped onto the air. It did not resist.
And he ascended again—this time not toward heaven, but toward the space beyond skies.
Toward the realm no name dared bind.
The Unshaped Veil.