The Descent of the Voidborn
(~2,000 words — poetic, mythic, dialogue-rich, cinematic)
The sky was no longer a sky.
It was a wound.
A living tear that bled black flame and sang in silence.
From that wound, something stepped through.
At first, mortals saw only the distortion — light bending, stars trembling, oceans retreating as if the world itself bowed in dread. But as the distortion condensed, they saw him.
A figure descending through the storm, his aura swallowing lightning, turning clouds to smoke. His eyes — twin abysses of cold creation — looked upon the world like one might gaze upon a forgotten toy.
The ground split beneath his unseen weight. Mountains wept molten stone.
The Voidborn had arrived.
High in the Radiant Pantheon, the gods fell silent. Their tongues — beings of pure light — dared not move.
Solmir whispered, "He has crossed the Divide."
"No…" replied Ethis, stepping forward, her translucent veil unraveling. "He has erased it."
They watched as the laws that governed existence bent around him. Magic died in his proximity; divine energy became soundless static. Every resonance bent toward him — the godlike equivalent of planets caught in gravitational collapse.
Then… he spoke.
"Your world hums too loudly."
The words did not come as sound — they struck as truth. Every syllable carried weight, each vibration rewriting the air itself.
He raised his hand, and the storm stilled.
Lightning hung frozen, mid-flash, the world caught in an unnatural pause. Even time hesitated, uncertain if it should dare continue.
From the farthest continent, within the black monoliths of the Elarin's fallen empire, the few surviving beings of light knelt instinctively. Their crystal forms cracked under invisible pressure.
A young Elarin priest, trembling, whispered to his elder,
"What… what is he?"
The elder's crystalline eyes dimmed.
"The answer to a question none of us should have asked."
In the void between realms, countless watchers stirred.
Forgotten pantheons. Dead titans.
And in the place where even chaos refused to dwell, something ancient laughed softly.
"At last… the Circle begins anew."
Azael stepped upon the fractured soil, black aura unfurling like living smoke. The land screamed — forests withering, rivers boiling, the very air convulsing in its own structure.
He looked upon it with disinterest, tilting his head slightly as if disappointed.
"So this is life."
His voice, though soft, cracked reality like a whip. The resonance of it traveled for leagues. Birds fell mid-flight. The wind forgot its name.
He crouched, running his clawed fingers through the dirt. Beneath his touch, the ground turned to glass.
"Weak… fleeting… noisy."
Then he looked up — and smiled.
A slow, thin smile, revealing fangs that gleamed like liquid platinum.
"Perfect."
Above, in Aetherion, panic fractured divinity.
"Strike now!" shouted Solmir. "While he anchors!"
But the Voice of Balance lifted a hand. "No… if we strike, he'll trace the attack back to its source."
Ethis turned, her hollow eyes fixed on the void below. "He already knows we're watching."
Indeed, Azael looked skyward. Directly at them. Through planes, through barriers, through meaning itself.
He raised his hand.
And the sky blinked.
For one heartbeat, the Radiant Pantheon saw his face up close — framed in stormlight, half-shadow, half-divine mockery.
It was beautiful. Terrible. Perfectly calm.
"Children playing god," he whispered.
"Let me show you what divinity costs."
Reality folded.
A ring of black fire erupted across the horizon, cutting the world into halves — one drenched in night, one drowned in silence.
From within it, voices screamed — divine, mortal, nameless. The very resonance of existence shattered and reshaped itself around his presence.
Mountains bowed. Oceans recoiled. The air fractured into shards of vibration, visible and alive.
For the first time since the dawn of creation, the gods felt mortal.
In the Holy City, priests screamed prayers to no one.
In the Shadow Courts, ancient monsters bent their knees in reverence.
And in the deepest crypt of the world, a whisper rose — soft, melodic, feminine.
"So… you've arrived."
Azael froze.
For a fraction of a moment, the rhythm of his aura faltered.
He turned his gaze toward the east — toward the whisper. It wasn't of this world, yet it brushed his resonance like a ghost across his pulse.
"…You."
The word slipped from him without thought, low and alien on his tongue.
That sensation — faint, fleeting — cut through the static cold within him.
And then it was gone.
His platinum fangs glimmered as his grin widened again.
"Another anomaly. I'll find you."
He turned back to the broken world before him, raising both hands slowly.
The sky bent toward him.
Stars dimmed. The moons cracked.
And somewhere beyond the veil of sound, beyond reason, the world's soul began to hum.
A tone deep and eternal — one that resonated with the same pattern as his own existence.
Resonance Manipulation, but deeper now.
He was not just bending frequencies — he was rewriting them.
"Let there be silence."
The hum ceased.
The world obeyed.
In Aetherion, Ethis fell to her knees. "He's learning too quickly," she whispered. "He's adapting."
Solmir slammed his fist down again. "Then we end him before he completes the adaptation."
"End him?" The Voice of Balance laughed bitterly. "You cannot end what refuses to be measured."
They watched as their divine map — the lattice of all known existence — folded in on itself. The black thread now encompassed everything.
The gods' light dimmed. Their sigils shattered.
Then, from the void below, his voice came again — calm, certain, absolute:
"If you cannot silence the noise… consume it."
The horizon vanished.
Everything was devoured by the sound of nothing.
End of Chapter 11