The sky did not darken; it folded.
Across every realm the light bent inward, as if the heavens themselves bowed to an unseen monarch.
Mountains moaned. Seas lost their reflections. Even silence seemed afraid.
In the temple-cities of men, priests fell to their knees. "The Black Sun moves," they whispered.
Among the dragons, old scales cracked beneath sudden cold.
And far above, the angelic hosts turned their eyes away—because to look upon the center of the storm was to remember fear.
That was where Azael Voidborn stood: the wound of creation shaped like a man.
The air refused to touch him; space fractured around the rhythm of his breathing.
Where his steps landed, reality stuttered.
"So this is what remains of your world," he said—his voice neither loud nor soft, but vast, spreading through every living mind like an echo that had waited an eternity to be heard.
"You've worshiped light for too long. Let me remind you what birthed it."
The words carried no anger, only statement—cold, absolute. Yet the power beneath them rolled outward like thunder trapped under skin.
Azael looked down at his hand. Fragments of light still clung to his fingers—remnants of those who had challenged him moments before. They flickered once, then dissolved into black sparks.
He exhaled. The world shuddered again.
From distant citadels, arch-mages felt their barriers die.
From ruined skies, dragons recoiled mid-flight.
From the deepest oceans, elemental kings whispered one name they had never learned and yet somehow remembered: Azael.
In the stillness that followed, a faint sound threaded the void—a note of warmth, almost songlike. It trembled against his senses, alien and haunting. He did not recognize it, yet something in him paused.
A spark that was not hunger. Not cruelty. Merely…curiosity.
And then it was gone, leaving only silence.
Far above that silence, another presence stirred. Heavy. Abyssal. Divine.
A whisper rippled through the broken clouds—language older than gods, shaped like wings forged from darkness.
He understood none of it, but his bloodline did. The resonance crawled through his veins like recognition.
Something vast had noticed him.
Something that might one day stand beside him—or against him.
He smiled, a thin curve of shadow and teeth.
"Let them watch," he murmured. "Let them tremble."
The void around him pulsed. The ground turned to glass where his feet touched, and the horizon split open as if the world tried to flee its own creation. Across nations, people looked to the sky and found it looking back.
Kings called for armies. Prophets screamed prophecies that burned their tongues.
And somewhere beyond all mortal prayer, a single god dared to speak his name aloud. The sound ended him.
Azael lifted his gaze toward the unseen heavens.
"Let the weak rebuild what they worship," he said. "I will come for their gods next."
The words rolled across existence like a promise carved in thunder.
And the world trembled once more.
The silence that followed was not silence at all. It was the trembling breath of creation recoiling from what it had just witnessed. The skies bled black, the soil split like torn flesh, and the air stank of burnt divinity. Every scream, every prayer, every heartbeat that had existed within the realm now seemed to echo one name—mine.
Azael Voidborn.
The godless being who defied the stars.
I stood amid the smoldering ruins of what had once been a holy battlefield. The corpses of divine champions lay strewn across the shattered ground—angelic wings melted into tar, draconic scales cracked and dim, elemental blood turning to ash upon contact with the shadow around me. The sound of dripping ichor was almost rhythmic, each drop marking the death of another so-called eternal.
I exhaled, my breath curling into the dark mist like smoke from an ancient forge. The glow of the black sun above shimmered faintly in my eyes, painting my expression in something close to serenity. My platinum fangs caught the dim light as I spoke—not with rage, but with quiet amusement.
"Is this all your gods could muster?"
The words traveled farther than sound should allow, spreading through the dying winds until they reached cities, mountains, and temples. Mortals froze mid-prayer. Beasts whimpered in their dens. Even the stars seemed to flicker, hesitant to shine upon me.
Far away, deep within the bastion of the Seraphim Order, a grand cathedral shook. Its archbishop, eyes glowing with holy fire, slammed his hand upon the altar. "He speaks," the old man rasped. "The Void's child… the one who turned gods to dust."
Another voice trembled, belonging to a woman clad in gold and glass. "Then the prophecy… it was real. The Black Sun descends not as omen—but as ruler."
Their words meant nothing to me.
My focus drifted inward, into the vast ocean of resonance I now controlled. Power pulsed beneath my skin like molten obsidian, but it was fractured—imperfect. Every time I drew upon the Void's depth, I could feel resistance, like a door half-open yet barred by unseen chains. I was strong enough to tear down worlds… but not yet to rebuild them.
Not yet complete.
A low groan escaped from one of the fallen champions near my feet. A dragonkin, scales shattered and half its face missing, tried to lift its head. Its eyes burned with defiance even through its agony.
"Monster…" it choked. "You… you don't belong to this realm."
I crouched beside him. "Neither do you."
I placed a single finger upon his forehead. The resonance rippled. Flesh peeled. Bones liquefied. His scream was swallowed by the Void. When the echo faded, nothing remained—not even ash. Only silence… and the faint hum of power now absorbed into me.
Across the realm, those attuned to divine energies felt the theft. Mages collapsed mid-ritual. Oracles clawed at their own eyes, seeing visions of a throne built from stars collapsing inward. The world itself began to whisper a new name into its winds.
The Void Dominion.
And yet, amidst the destruction, something stirred—a faint glimmer that did not belong to the Void. It was soft, melodic, like a heartbeat from another dimension. I turned, gaze piercing the horizon. The resonance of it brushed against me—gentle yet ancient. A frequency unlike anything I had felt before.
Her.
Not yet near, not yet seen. But there. A presence vast and elegant, whispering through the fractures between realms.
I smirked. "So you've noticed me."
Lightning cracked across the heavens in answer.
The ground quaked again—not from my will this time, but from something external. I looked down. My shadow stretched unnaturally long, snaking across the battlefield until it met the others still hiding within the fog. Survivors. A cluster of them—celestials, specters, and ancient beings of forgotten order—rising in defiance. Their combined glow painted the mist in gold and crimson hues.
They had regrouped.
One, with four arms and a body made of crystallized flame, stepped forward. His voice boomed, shaking the ruins. "Azael Voidborn! You are an infection upon this realm. Your power defies law. We will erase you, even if it costs our eternity!"
The others roared in unison, divine weapons igniting.
I rose slowly, my gaze unblinking. "Then burn for it."
They charged.
The sky exploded with light as the first wave struck—blades of creation clashing against the breath of the Void. I moved without motion, appearing behind one of them as his spine turned to dust. My hand tore through another's chest, pulling free his shimmering heart and crushing it into vapor.
But even gods learn. Their combined resonance surged, forcing me backward, their synchronized strike cutting through my aura and into flesh. My vision blurred for a fraction of a second. Pain—sharp, cold, real—seeped into my body.
Blood.
It had been long since I'd bled.
The crystalline warrior laughed. "You bleed, false god! You bleed!"
I looked down at the black ichor staining my hand. For a moment, I felt a spark of something human—a faint irritation. Then I smiled.
"Do you think that makes you victorious?"
I inhaled deeply. The blood evaporated into mist. I spoke a single phrase in the language of the Void—[ᚷᚨᚾᚾ ᚢᚾᛞᛖᚱ ᚨᛚᛚ]. The air shattered. Their light flickered. Resonance manipulation at its purest—I bent their own frequencies into discord. The gods screamed as their energy turned inward, devouring them from within.
In one instant, the battlefield became a graveyard of unmaking.
Still, the effort tore through me. The resonance backlash burned my veins; the sky dimmed as I fell to one knee.
Far beyond, mortals watched the storm of destruction in awe. In the city of Ryn'Tal, children pointed at the heavens as a black vortex consumed the stars. In the Tower of Mourn, archmages whispered prayers to nameless entities, their voices trembling.
"What… is he?" one asked.
"A god."
"No," the elder replied, eyes hollow. "Something beyond gods."
The realm quaked once more. My vision flickered. Through the haze, I saw the remnants of my foes—disintegrating into luminous dust that swirled toward me, feeding the growing shadow within. The wind howled, carrying my name across continents.
Azael Voidborn. The End that Breathes.
I rose, every motion slow, deliberate. The dark mist coiled around me, forming the faint outline of a throne behind my back—an echo of a dominion not yet built but destined to exist.
And through it all, that other resonance pulsed again. Stronger now. Feminine. Ancient.
A voice whispered across the rift of my consciousness—soft, distant, sorrowful.
"You walk toward ruin, Azael of the Black Sun…"
I tilted my head, eyes narrowing. "Then ruin shall be my kingdom."
The air rippled. The stars above collapsed inward, swallowed by the silhouette of my growing domain. Yet, beneath the vast roar of collapsing light, I could feel it—the faint tug of exhaustion. Power limitless, but body fractured. The battle had drained me, left cracks in my vessel.
Still… I stood.
The realm was broken, but it was mine.
The surviving gods, hidden in their sanctums, felt it too. A presence too heavy to ignore. The Seraphim, the Draconic Ancients, even the Elemental Courts—all watched the newborn dominion rising like a wound upon their heavens.
And in the deepest recess of that trembling world, where time itself hesitated to move, a shadow stirred—one not of the Void, but of something older. A different resonance. One that resonated like thunder against my pulse.
The race of my third wife.
A race not bound by form or flesh—beings of pure resonance, capable of rewriting the laws of existence through sound and will. They slumbered now, hidden beneath collapsed worlds. But I could feel their hum joining mine, faintly, like a promise whispered by eternity itself.
I smiled again, quietly, cruelly.
"This realm will learn what it means to tremble."
The dark sun blazed overhead, its black light searing across the shattered clouds. The battlefield became still—no more screams, no more gods, no more defiance. Only the echo of my breath, the rhythm of a new age beginning.
And though my body weakened, though cracks spidered through the armor of my being, I knew the truth: this was only the beginning.
The Void had touched the world… and the world would never recover.