The boy's steps were light, yet something in them felt too precise for a child. His frame was slight, no more than twelve years of age. Hair black as midnight framed a pale face, and his eyes — deep, unblinking — burned with a strange violet sheen that no human gaze should hold.
Umbrael walked beside the towering spires of Dawncrest Academy, his childlike hands clasped behind his back. He looked not at the gates or the students within, but beyond, past the horizon — as though the Academy itself were no more than a fleeting distraction.
His feet carried him deeper, into the Forest Ruins.
Black stone rose like the ribs of some long-dead god, fractured and veined with ivy. Ancient carvings scarred their surfaces, remnants of an age long buried. Once a grand cathedral, now only skeletal arches stood, sunlight painting them in firelight and shadow.
Umbrael paused, gazing upon the ruin with faint amusement.
"…Yes. Still beautiful in its brokenness."
His lips curled into a smile, sharp yet boyish. From the folds of his tattered tunic, he drew forth a mask — the same pale, bone-white visage Gareth once wore. Cracked along the cheek, smooth and faceless, it seemed to drink in the light itself.
Umbrael raised it slowly, pressing it over his childlike features. His form shimmered, fractured, then knit together anew. When the distortion faded, Gareth's frame stood where the boy had been, cloaked, masked, faceless yet commanding.
With a flick of his hand, a portal bloomed — a wound in the air itself, silver and black light spilling from its edges. He stepped through, and the Forest Ruins dissolved behind him.
He entered the Vault.
Vast. Endless. A cathedral beneath the earth, its size defying reason. Pillars of black stone reached higher than sight, lit by thousands of lanterns that burned with cold flame. It was both here and not here, a sanctum suspended between worlds.
And within — the faithful.
Over fifty thousand gathered in ranks that seemed without end. Cloaked figures bowed low, their foreheads pressed to the obsidian floor. The moment they beheld him, their voices rose in unison, a single chant that shook the chamber walls:
"God. God. God."
The sound rolled like thunder. Umbrael, in Gareth's likeness, strode forward. With every step he took, the multitudes bent deeper, the echo of their devotion swelling.
At last, he reached the dais. Upon it stood a throne of black stone and gold, carved with glyphs that writhed faintly when gazed upon. Its back rose like the wings of some dark seraph, flaring outward, fractured yet divine.
He lowered himself upon the throne, folding into it as though it had always belonged to him. The chanting ceased in an instant. Silence reigned.
Umbrael's gaze swept over the kneeling masses, voice resonant yet calm.
"You have been scattered. You have been rudderless. But today, the order is renewed."
He lifted a hand. Shadows rippled outward, forming three circles before the throne.
"First — the Guardians. You shall stand as shields of our secret. No outsider shall pierce our veil. Yours is the burden of silence, and the duty of blood."
The first circle bowed lower, cloaks brushing the floor.
"Second — the Legion. Soldiers, pawns, instruments of war. You are my hands. When I command, you strike. When I march, you crush."
The second circle raised their fists to their chests, a low growl of unity rising from them.
"And third — the Seers. Minds sharpened like blades, you will read what others cannot. You will guide, invent, weave truths from the chaos. Genius is your weapon, and foresight your gift."
The third circle lifted their heads, eyes gleaming in the dim light.
Umbrael leaned back, fingers drumming against the throne's armrest.
"Three pillars. Three purposes. Together, you are no mere cult." His masked visage tilted slightly, voice cutting through the chamber."You are the Eclipse reborn."
Again, the chant rose, deafening, unstoppable:
"God. God. God."
Umbrael said nothing more. He only sat, cloaked in Gareth's form, masked and silent, as the multitudes trembled with devotion at his feet.
The great cathedral-vault was silent save for the hiss of torches. Tens of thousands knelt, foreheads pressed to the cold stone, their chant of "God… God… God…" fading to a hush as Umbrael lifted his hand.
The mask gleamed pale in the firelight, Gareth's form cast larger-than-life, yet it was not Gareth who spoke. The voice that poured forth was deeper, layered, heavy with echoes — Umbrael's own.
"Children of the Eclipse," he said, words rolling like thunder across the nave, "you kneel in faith, but faith without trial is fragile. Faith without teeth is a song with no blade."
His gaze swept the congregation, unreadable. Then his tone sharpened.
"From among you, I have chosen five. Five whose will did not break, whose blood did not falter, whose souls burn hotter than any sun. They are gone from here — beyond these walls, beyond this veil. Even now, they train in silence, far from your sight."
Murmurs rippled through the kneeling crowd. Heads lifted, eyes wide with awe and envy.
Umbrael's voice cut them down to silence.
"They train not as men. Not as mortals. But as vessels."
The air grew colder. Shadows along the black ribs of the cathedral-ruin stretched and quivered.
"Each has been bound to a weapon of veil-consciousness. Each devours themselves to master it. They bleed, they starve, they burn — for you. For me. For the destiny of the boy who carries my mark."
His masked face tilted, the faint smile cold and serene.
"When they return, they will not be men. They will be Pillars."
The cult bowed deeper, whispers trembling on every lip: "Pillars… Pillars of the Eclipse…"
Umbrael leaned back upon the throne, the black stone groaning faintly under the weight of his presence. His final words rang absolute:
"Five now walk the path of annihilation. When they emerge, the world will know them as the strongest of the dawn bearer cult. And the earth itself will kneel — or break."
The great vault trembled as hooves struck stone. Out of the black came the giant rider — the Devil's Viking. Seven feet of muscle and beard, blindfolded, visor gleaming, horse black as ash and smoke.
He dismounted slowly. Each step forward made the floor groan beneath his weight. The congregation of 53,000 hushed, a thousand breaths caught in throats.
Then — the smile. Crooked. Sadistic.
His voice rolled like thunder:"I am number 2250… from the Eradicate."
The crowd recoiled. The word Eradicate tasted like rot, like something forbidden.
He lifted his gun slowly, but spoke before firing."The leader said… exterminate."
One naive follower — trembling, brave, foolish — stumbled forward."Stop! You— you can't do this!"
The Devil's Viking tilted his head, then in one fluid swing, split the man clean in half — brain down to groin. The scream never finished. The body fell apart in two wet pieces.
Panic. Screams. The vault erupted into chaos.
And he laughed. He laughed deep, guttural, as if the carnage was wine to his throat.
Umbrael rose from the throne, the mask of Gareth glowing faintly with veil-light. His voice cracked across the chamber:"Enough!"
The Viking didn't move. Yet when Umbrael struck, when blades of veil-energy lashed out, the man swatted them aside without stepping. Then he lunged. His fists were meteors. Umbrael staggered, beaten blow after blow.
Faith cracked like glass. Followers began to whisper — then to doubt.
Desperate, Umbrael roared and pulled wide a portal, trapping the Viking inside. But horror filled him as he saw the man's massive hands pry the void barrier open like paper, splitting reality with brute force.
Terror. Umbrael's hand trembled. His last resort: the Relic of Stolen Time.
Chanting fast, voice shaking, he offered up his own hours, his own life. The vault froze. Time bent. Stillness swallowed all.
For one heartbeat, Umbrael breathed. Relief.
But then — a sound.
Crack.
The Devil's Viking moved. Walked through the frozen world as if it were water. Smiling. He raised his fist, slow, deliberate — and punched Umbrael in the face.
Time shattered. Reality lurched back into motion.
Gasps. Screams.
Umbrael reeled, blood spilling beneath Gareth's mask. The Viking hammered him again and again. A loyal follower tried to run forward, crying out, hand outstretched—
CRACK.The man's body folded around the Viking's punch, lifeless before it hit the floor.
The cult broke. Panic surged. Doubt rotted.
Umbrael, cornered, broken, raised his hand one final time. With a snap of his fingers, the vast vault shuddered. The entire 53,000 — every believer, every priest, every cardinal — vanished into his portal. The grand cathedral-house collapsed into silence.
And then Umbrael himself disappeared — fleeing into the void, abandoning the battlefield.
Left behind, in the empty ruin…The Devil's Viking stood alone. His horse exhaled smoke. And he laughed.
The Vault was gone.
One instant, the Devil's Viking's laughter shook the broken cathedral, and the next — Umbrael snapped his fingers and folded the world.
The 53,000+ faithful, the cardinals, the black-throned cathedral itself — all of it tore from stone and shadow, swallowed into the veil of his portal.
Darkness, then—
They reappeared, not beneath the ruin, but in Yimen, buried deep within a forgotten valley. Sheer cliffs enclosed the land like jagged fangs, mists curling low over pine and river. There, the cathedral's black ribs jutted upward once more, reborn in silence. The faithful stumbled out, shaken, breathless.
But the murmur began.
Whispers that curled sharp as knives.
"He bled."
"He was struck down."
"The Viking… he laughed."
Eyes lowered, not in reverence but in doubt. For the first time, faith cracked inside them, not from outside threats, but from within.
One young follower clenched his fists, his inner voice trembling like glass: He promised strength… he promised eternity… but he bled like us. Perhaps he is no god at all.
Another knelt, tears streaking her cheeks, whispering only to herself: I gave him everything, my family, my name, and still—still he falls before one man.
Shadows clung to the cathedral walls. They entered. They hid. They clung to their crumbling faith.
But Umbrael did not follow.
He remained outside the valley, alone. Cloaked in Gareth's form, the mask cracked and pale upon his face, his body broken and bleeding. His breaths rattled, each one seared with failure.
The boy's godhood had faltered. And he knew it.
Umbrael staggered. His hand rose, and with the last shreds of his strength, he split the air once more. A new portal gaped, jagged with instability, pulling him through like a man fleeing his own shadow.
The world shuddered—
And then the alley reformed.
Draemond's stones glistened with last night's rain. The lamps hissed faintly in the mist. Gareth walked alone, lost in thought, his steps echoing soft and hollow against the sleeping city.
And then Umbrael appeared.
Collapsed. Bloodied. Still wearing Gareth's form, still shrouded in the pale mask. The two figures met in the alley's heart — one real, one echo.
Umbrael raised his head. The mask's hollow face tilted, and from beneath it, his voice emerged, ragged, almost human.
"Master…" He staggered closer, shadows dripping like tar from his steps. "Master… it is very… very wrong."
The mask cracked further as he spoke, veins of light crawling across its surface like fractures in bone.
His voice lowered, trembling with fear and something darker.
"We may even die… but we need to act."
The alley swallowed the words. Silence. The mist coiled tighter.