The world had knelt. But not all bowed.
As the black sun hung bleeding above the horizon, ten lights flared in defiance—each a beacon of pride, divinity, and desperation. They rose like burning comets through the dark, cutting through the veil of Azael's dominion.
The first was a seraph, wings made of molten gold. The second, a dragon cloaked in living storm. Then came the warden of flame, the god of thunder, the twin spirits of tide and frost, the shade of war, and three others whose names had been lost to forbidden scriptures.
Together, they were the Ten—champions of the Eternal Realms, forged in fear of prophecy.
POV: Seraph Kaelith, First Light of the Dawn
He hovered above the churning void, sword drawn, feathers falling like dying stars.
"It is true," he whispered. "The Voidborn walks."
Below him stood the figure that had shattered heaven's light. Azael Voidborn—horns like crescents of night, eyes swallowing starlight, aura rising in endless waves of pressure.
Kaelith clenched his blade. "If this is the end, then I will meet it standing."
He dived—wings igniting, blade roaring with divine flame.
POV: Azael Voidborn
The angel came fast. Too bright. Too pure.
Pathetic.
I raised my hand. His blade struck, cleaving through the space where I had been. But the void bent around me—space itself folded in obedience.
His wings melted before they even touched me.
I grasped him by the throat. His light screamed.
"You burn too easily," I said.
He tried to speak a prayer. I squeezed until it became a whimper. Then I dragged his body through his own flame, twisting his divinity into resonance.
The world shook as I fed.
His scream became music—frequencies breaking, folding, bleeding into my veins. My skin shimmered black and violet as resonance flared.
The seraph turned to ash.
"Next," I whispered.
The sky erupted. The storm dragon struck—scales of silver lightning tearing through the heavens.
Azael lifted his gaze, smiling faintly. "Ah… thunder tries to challenge the storm."
The beast's roar split the air. Bolts the size of mountains rained down. The ocean below boiled.
Azael moved through them, each strike leaving trails of afterimages that screamed like lost souls.
He appeared above the dragon, fist curling with voidlight. The air shattered around his blow.
The dragon coiled back, but too late—the punch broke through scale, through bone, through godhood. The sky bled blue fire.
The dragon fell in pieces, its soul screaming as Azael's resonance absorbed the remains.
"Your thunder is beautiful," Azael murmured. "But beauty dies like everything else."
POV: The Warden of Flame
The world is ending, he thought, watching the Voidborn devour creation.
Nine of us left. Nine against one.
He called the inferno, burning himself alive to become its vessel. The other champions screamed their battle-cries.
And together, they charged.
The sky broke. The earth split. The heavens tore open.
It was no battle—it was cataclysm.
Azael's laughter rolled through the chaos, low and cold, cutting through the roar of the gods.
"You come as one, yet you fall as fragments."
The Warden struck first, a tower of fire. His flames wrapped Azael, swallowing the black sun in light.
For a moment, the world saw hope.
Then came the sound—low, hungry, inevitable.
Azael stepped through the fire untouched. His skin rippled like smoke, aura bending reality itself.
He caught the Warden's blade and crushed it to dust.
"Fire burns bright," he said, eyes narrowing, "until it remembers who gave it life."
The void pulsed. The Warden imploded, flame collapsing inward, feeding the dark.
POV: Azael
I stood amid ruin. Blood fell from the sky like rain. My skin glowed with living shadow.
Nine… eight… seven…
Each kill made me stronger, but I could feel the fracture. My form wavered. Incomplete. Hungry.
And yet—somewhere in the collapse of sound—I felt her.
A resonance different from all others. Soft. Measured. It called from the edges of the battlefield—a note unlike the rest.
The second heartbeat.
The faint presence of the one who would one day see the world as he did.
First wife, I thought distantly. Your soul hums in rhythm with mine.
Then came another sensation—a silence between worlds, heavier than the void itself. Something watching, unseen. A presence that didn't exist, yet was everywhere.
The third.
I smiled.
Even incomplete, they could feel me.
Even unborn, they called back.
The last four champions struck together.
Steel. Light. Bone. Storm.
Their weapons found flesh—divine steel piercing Azael's shoulder, blood like liquid night spilling into the air.
He staggered. The sky trembled.
The mortals below saw him bleed.
And for a heartbeat, hope flickered.
Then Azael laughed.
"You think this pain makes me weak?" His voice cracked through the storm. "It reminds me I still have more to take."
He roared—and the void answered.
Tendrils of black fire burst from his wounds, wrapping around the four champions. Their screams harmonized with his heartbeat as he fed again.
The world turned silent.
When it ended, only Azael remained—kneeling, trembling, grinning through blood and shadow.
Incomplete. But inevitable.
POV: The Mortal Realm
They watched from below, eyes wide, mouths open in silent terror.
They saw ten lights rise. And only one remain.
They saw the heavens bleed, and the world burn black.
They saw the birth of a new god.
And though their hearts screamed to deny it, every soul knew one truth.
Dominion had begun.