Chapter 10 - Throne of the Devourer King

The sky broke. It didn't crack like glass or rumble like thunder. It shattered like a soul that had been torn too many times. Purple lightning shot across the world like veins of a god bleeding from the heavens, and the clouds above the Blackfang Mountains twisted into the shape of a crown. The throne had awakened, and it was calling its heir. Ceyr stood at the edge of the mountain, his eyes fixed on the storm, his arms hanging by his sides as black smoke curled from his fingertips like a living thing. The Trial's hunger had changed him, but this—this was beyond even that. His body was no longer just flesh and bone, it was now a cage barely holding in the Will of the Devourer. Every step he took left behind a burning mark in the air, and every breath he exhaled made the trees below bend as if bowing in fear. The air was too heavy. Magic was boiling like hot blood through the land, and the sky was screaming with every second. Across the world, kings looked to the horizon, and their hearts shook. In the Flame Citadel, the Crimson Prince opened his eyes, and fire leaked from his mouth. In the Mirror Valley, the Archlord of Chains broke three seals just to watch what was coming. But none of them dared to move. None dared to stop what had already begun. Because the throne had chosen. And Ceyr was already walking toward it. The mountain trembled with every step. Below, an army of demon hybrids waited like insects before a flood. They didn't understand what was coming. They were trained to kill monsters, not gods. But they had been sent by the Void Hand to slow him. "Delay the heir," was the order. It was a stupid order. Ceyr reached the cliff and jumped. He didn't fall. He dropped like a sword. The wind didn't catch him. The ground didn't fight him. Gravity bent around him. And when he landed, the entire valley cracked like dry bones. The demons screamed, charged, surrounded him in a storm of blades, teeth, claws, poison, fire—but none of it mattered. Ceyr raised his hand, and the symbols across his body lit up like dying stars. Reality warped. The demons didn't even die. They vanished, erased from existence like chalk washed from a board. Their screams didn't echo. Time itself didn't allow it. And above, the throne shimmered into view. Not a seat. Not a thing made of gold or stone. It was a crown-shaped tear in the sky, held open by broken stars, and at its center was a twisting, burning world of red and black—the Devourer Realm. It had waited for its King. Now it opened its mouth like a beast ready to consume everything. Ceyr looked up. He wasn't afraid. His heartbeat was slow. Too slow. Like the world around him was moving too fast. And then he heard it. A voice. Not from outside. From inside. The original Devourer, buried inside him since the Trial, finally spoke with full power. "Throne is open… take it… become more…" Ceyr closed his eyes. He saw everything. All the lives he had failed. All the people he lost. All the power he had refused to use. And then he saw something else—himself, but not as he was now. A version of him with horns, wings of ash, eyes like collapsed suns. A true King of Devourers. A god that even the heavens would fear. But he shook his head. "I am not your puppet." The voice laughed, deep and cruel. "You are my heir." Ceyr took a step forward. "Then I will sit on your throne and destroy your name." The crown in the sky roared. The ground lifted. Mountains bent like kneeling knights. And from the burning clouds, three figures descended—Guardians of the Throne. They were made of ancient war metal, fused with dead god parts. One had a heart of lightning. One carried a blade that cut fate. The third had no face—only a hole that devoured everything. They didn't speak. They didn't threaten. They attacked. Together. Ceyr stood alone. He didn't block. He didn't run. He raised his hand—and the Devourer Will inside him exploded. Not like a bomb. Like a black sun. The valley vanished. The forest turned to ash. The sky turned red. The Guardians clashed with him in a battle that didn't look like a fight—it looked like the end of a world. Blades tore mountains apart. Time froze and restarted. Magic reversed. The faceless one grabbed Ceyr and tried to pull him into the void. But Ceyr pulled back—and pulled the void into himself. He screamed, not from pain but from pure rage. He didn't want power. He wanted freedom. He didn't want to be feared. He wanted to choose his fate. And so he roared—louder than thunder—and shattered the faceless Guardian. The one with the lightning heart stabbed him through the chest, but Ceyr didn't stop. He grabbed the blade, broke it, and used it to rip the second Guardian apart. The last one, the fate-cutter, swung down—and Ceyr caught the blade with both hands. Blood poured from his arms, but he smiled. "I choose my fate." And he snapped the blade in half. The throne shivered. The storm broke. Silence fell. And then the voice returned. But this time, it was soft. "Then he sit, King." Ceyr rose into the air, body broken, blood dripping, soul screaming — and entered the throne. The sky sealed shut behind him. For one hour, the world held its breath. Then the heavens cracked open once more. But not with storm. With silence. Ceyr stepped out. Eyes glowing. No more voice inside. No more hunger he couldn't control. The throne was his. The Will was his. He was not the Devourer King's heir anymore. He was the new Devourer King. And the war had just begun.