"Lucian is here."
The words rang in Zerathos' ears like a church bell.
The others might take the Primordial Realm lightly,
but he knew better.
He and Ray both did.
Zerathos' face darkened. "Are you insane!?" His voice tore through the bar like thunder.
Ray didn't flinch. "It wasn't me," he said quietly. "It was the Mother's will."
That name, The Mother, hung heavy in the air.
Orton.
She wasn't even in Heaven anymore. She was out there, far beyond, locked in battle within the Void, guarding Origin's creation.
But if she had willed it, then every protest was useless.
Still, Zerathos' rage burned. "If he stays too long in the mortal realm…"
"I know." Ray's calm voice cut in smoothly. "He went through the Path of Reincarnation."
Zerathos blinked, then exhaled, a sharp, heavy breath.
Relief, yes. But not enough.
"Bullshit," he growled. "You and I both know it can't seal his power."
Ray's lips curved faintly, not in mockery, but in understanding.
"Lucian is stronger than he realizes, brother. His thoughts are his weakness. He still sees power as levels, limits, realms. But Origin's power was never bound by those things. He created everything through thought alone."
Zerathos fell silent. For all his fury, he could never deny truth.
"I came here to tell you this," Ray said softly, "and to ask one thing."
He met Zerathos' eyes. "Watch over him. Protect him from the stronger Void beings, those beyond even god-kings."
Zerathos' gaze hardened. Ray's voice, calm and firm, carried the tone of command. A habit. Not arrogance. Just centuries of leading.
Still, to a Warborn, tone was everything.
"Are you ordering me, Ray?" Zerathos asked, each word low and dangerous. His fist clenched, the air around him rumbling.
Ray held his stare. "No. I'm asking as a brother, not an emperor."
The words lingered. Soft. Honest.
And then Ray was gone, fading like mist in sunlight.
The bar was silent again.
Zerathos stood there, staring at the spot where his brother vanished. Then he sighed, long and low.
From the corner of his eye, he saw movement, mortals in black uniforms entering, silver shields stitched on their chests.
The Shield.
Zerathos reached into his pocket, tossed them a few gold coins. They bowed slightly, distracted. Mortals never changed. Give them a reason, and they'd forget the world burning around them.
He turned his gaze north, eyes narrowing. "Something big is coming."
Lucian's descent wasn't just a mission. That was a lie dressed up in light. Ray's Red Knight and the Lance could've handled any Void attack.
Sending Lucian meant more.
"They either want him to awaken as Origin," Zerathos muttered, "or Heaven's tearing itself apart."
If it was awakening, Ray would be preparing the heavens, rallying gods and Otaenians alike. But if it was war, he'd be free, too free, to roam.
A grin crept up Zerathos' face.
"Dragons… it has to be the dragons. Oh, I love a good ruckus."
His laugh echoed through the bar, wild and boyish, like a child planning mischief. Just like his nephew.
Like uncle, like nephew.
He shook his head, still smiling. "That kid…"
Lucian. The apple of his eye.
He didn't care if the realms burned, as long as the boy was safe.
"Alright," Zerathos said finally, stretching his arms. "Let's see what the kid's up to."
Unlike Ray, who used Blink, the Emperor's instant teleport, Zerathos preferred the old way.
He simply spoke to the Primordial Spirit, and it obeyed.
Hands crossed behind his head, he strolled out of the bar, humming softly, the night air wrapping around him.
"He's not far, south side." He smiled. "Just a few blocks for me."
He took a few steps, then paused, thoughtful. "I'll just visit once…"
A mischievous grin curled his lips. "Maybe a few times. A few times isn't a number, right?"
And with a flicker of shadow and laughter, the Devil of Two Realms vanished into the night.