The Celestial Court's chamber was silent, but not with peace. Silence here always carried the weight of knives. Every noble, every godly figure, waited with anticipation—the kind reserved for public executions.
Kael Veyron stood at the center, bound by ethereal chains that bit into his wrists. He appeared young eighteen, maybe nineteen but his eyes held centuries of calculation. Every flicker of light, every shadow cast by the towering pillars, he noted. Every whisper in the air, every heartbeat in the room, he cataloged.
"You stand accused of attempting to assassinate Lord Oryan," intoned the head magistrate, voice dripping with righteousness and contempt. "How do you plead?"
Kael's lips curved into the faintest smile. "Guilty?" he murmured. Or was it mockery? Perhaps it was both.
The chamber erupted in gasps. Noble voices clashed:
"Monster!"
"Traitor!"
"Finally, justice!"
Kael didn't flinch. He had lived long enough to see betrayal in every shape and form. This was nothing new. In fact, it was predictable. Entirely predictable.
The headsman stepped forward, the blade of his ceremonial sword shimmering with divine light. Kael's chains rattled, a metallic whisper against his calm. The magistrate raised a hand.
"Execute him!"
The blade descended.
And the world shattered.
A light blazed—not from the sword, not from the gods—but from the heavens themselves. The Eclipse had begun. Time fractured. Space convulsed. The Celestial Court's chamber cracked, walls splintered, and the faces of all who condemned him twisted in terror and awe.
Kael's body twisted violently, bones breaking, soul tearing apart. And yet, his mind remained clear. Centuries of insight, knowledge of countless lives, all preserved within the Memory Shard that no mortal—or god—could touch.
When he opened his eyes again, the world had changed. He stood alone, amid a battlefield of corpses. Broken banners fluttered in a cold wind. Distant roars and the scent of blood reminded him: survival was not optional.
He flexed his fingers. No chains bound him now. No magistrate, no god, no law. The rules had shifted. Only the strong, the cunning, and the ruthless survived here.
Kael surveyed the battlefield. Among the fallen soldiers, he noted:
Their positions, their armor, their likely affiliations.
The paths predators might take to hunt survivors.
The weak spots in this minor realm's defenses.
He smiled again—cold, deliberate. Fear was a tool. Desperation, a weapon. Every weak-minded soldier, every petty warlord approaching this field, would play into his hands, if only he nudged them correctly.
From the shadows, a figure appeared—towering, heavily armored, radiating power far beyond the ordinary. A warlord, Kael guessed, testing the battlefield.
The others would panic. They always did. And Kael… he would not.
He stepped forward, voice low, carrying just enough weight to make it heard over the wind:
"You think you control this battlefield… but it bends to me already."
And in that moment, the first domino fell.
Kael's rebirth had begun. The Shattered Realms had no idea that a force capable of rewriting fate itself had just returned. And he was ready to play.