Lucien woke to the smell of smoke and herbs.
The air was warm, heavy with incense and rain-soaked wood. He blinked, his vision a haze of shifting gold and shadow. For a long moment, he didn't know if he was still falling. His body felt weightless and yet unbearably heavy, as though the ground itself refused to bear him.
Then pain reminded him he was alive.
A searing pulse tore through his back — six points of agony where wings had once bloomed. His chest ached with every breath, ribs grinding beneath layers of bandages. The faintest attempt to move made his muscles convulse, and a low groan escaped his lips before he could stifle it.
Light filtered through the wooden walls, soft and mortal — sunlight, not divine radiance. It felt dim, almost pitiful… but it was real.
Lucien turned his head. He lay upon a straw mattress covered with clean cloth. Shelves lined the small stone room, crowded with jars of herbs and old scrolls. A fire burned in the hearth, crackling gently. Rain whispered beyond the window, tapping rhythmically against the glass.
He exhaled slowly. So this is the mortal realm…
He tried to sit up. The pain bit into him like divine chains, and he hissed sharply.
"Ah, don't," a voice said softly.
Lucien's head tilted toward the sound. The door had opened, letting in a faint breeze and the scent of wet earth.
A woman stepped inside, carrying a clay bowl and a bundle of fresh linen. She moved with quiet confidence, every motion practiced and deliberate.
Her hair was dark — not black, but the deep shade of a river at night. It cascaded loosely around her shoulders, still damp from the rain. Her eyes were a strange color, a blend of silver and green that caught the firelight like polished jade. She wore simple robes of cream and gold, tied with a crimson sash at the waist. Her hands, though small, bore faint scars along the knuckles — the hands of someone who worked, healed, lived.
"You're awake," she said, relief softening her tone. "I was beginning to think the light had finally left you."
Lucien studied her in silence. His mind was still clouded, his instincts wary. "You found me," he rasped. His voice was rough, broken like cracked stone. "Out in the field."
The woman nodded, setting the bowl beside him. "You were barely breathing. Your skin was… burned beyond recognition, and there was so much blood I thought no one could survive it."
Lucien's lips curled faintly, a bitter attempt at humor. "And yet I did. Something must have gone wrong."
She smiled — faintly, knowingly. "Something did, I think. You're a stubborn one."
He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling. "What is your name?"
"Serena," she replied, dipping a cloth into the water and wringing it out. "I live in the nearby village. I brought you here two days ago. You've been unconscious since."
Two days.
Lucien's mind stirred uneasily. He had no memory after tearing open the veil — only the storm, the fall, the pain.
Serena pressed the damp cloth gently to his arm, cleaning the dried blood. "You were lucky," she murmured. "If I hadn't found you when I did, the rain would have drowned you where you lay."
He watched her silently, noting how calm she was — not frightened, not curious, just… steady.
At length, Serena broke the quiet. "Who are you, really?" she asked. "And what happened to you?"
Lucien hesitated. The truth clawed at his throat, but to speak it aloud would sound like madness. Heaven's name had no meaning here; his wings, his halo, his sin — all distant relics of a realm that would sooner destroy him than be remembered.
He searched for words. "My name is Lucien," he said finally, voice low. "I came from… a war. In a nearby town."
Serena paused, her eyes narrowing just slightly. Then she shook her head. "That's a poor lie."
Lucien's gaze sharpened. "What?"
"I may live among farmers and merchants, but I'm not blind." Her tone was calm, but firm. "I saw the six wounds across your back. The burns are too clean — not made by fire or steel. And there's something else."
She leaned forward, and for a moment her eyes reflected the glow of the hearth. "Your halo. It's broken, isn't it?"
Lucien froze. His breath caught in his chest. The bandages over his temple pulsed faintly with a hidden light — the faint shimmer of shattered divinity.
"…How do you see it?" he asked slowly.
Serena's gaze softened. "Because I am a priestess," she said quietly. "Of the old ways — those who still listen for the echoes of the divine. To most, you would appear as a wounded traveler. But to me…" She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "To me, you are something far more complicated."
Lucien looked away, the faintest shadow crossing his face. "Then you know what I am."
"I know what you were," she corrected gently. "Whatever you are now… I think even you don't know yet."
For the first time since his fall, Lucien almost smiled. It was small, strained, but genuine. "You speak as if you've seen angels before."
"Not angels," she said softly. "Only ruins of them."
The words lingered between them like fading incense.
Lucien tried again to move — to rise, to reclaim some shred of dignity — but pain tore through his spine. His muscles locked, and he sank back with a grimace.
Serena caught his arm gently, steadying him. "Don't. You'll reopen the wounds."
"I have endured worse," he muttered, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him.
"Maybe," she said. "But right now, you're not what you were. You need to rest."
He turned his head toward her, studying the faint glow of her eyes. "You mean me no harm?"
Serena shook her head. "If I did, I wouldn't have carried you through a thunderstorm."
"…Then why?" he asked, the question heavier than he meant it to be. "Why help me?"
She shrugged lightly, returning to her work. "Because that's what I do. I help those who fall."
Lucien was silent for a long while. He could feel she was hiding something — the way her gaze sometimes lingered too long on his wounds, the faint tremor in her hands when she spoke of the divine. But he was in no shape to pry.
Finally, Serena stood, gathering her herbs and linens. "I'll fetch more salve for your burns," she said. "Try not to move too much."
He nodded faintly, watching as she left the room. The door closed behind her with a quiet click.
Silence returned — heavy, familiar.
Lucien exhaled slowly and turned his gaze toward the faint shimmer hovering before his eyes. For the first time since the field, the Heavenforge System flickered into view.
A translucent sigil formed in the air — a spiral of golden runes orbiting a broken halo. Words unfolded, glowing softly against the dim light of the cabin.
---
[Heavenforge System: Online]
Status: Stabilizing Host Soul...
Synchronization: 7%
"If the gods can create through belief, then belief itself is my forge."
---
Lucien stared, silent, as lines of divine script filled his vision — the same voice that had spoken to him in the storm now woven into symbols of power.
---
When Lucien's halo shattered during his exile, the fragments fused with his soul, forming a living system — a hybrid of divine essence and mortal will.
It is a self-evolving divine mechanism that transforms faith, emotion, and spiritual essence into tangible power.
Only those with divine affinity — angels, demigods, prophets — can perceive it. Mortals, Lucien realized, would see only the miracles it produced, never the mechanism behind them.
---
Faith Engine
This module converts Faith Energy — drawn from mortal belief, prayer, or raw emotion — into usable divine power.
Lucien could almost feel the flow of it: faint, distant, like the whisper of mortals somewhere praying, hoping, fearing.
Every believer, every cry of desperation, was potential fuel.
Lucien's jaw tightened. So even despair can build Heaven… How poetic.
---
Heavenforge Core
The second emblem — a circular forge wreathed in light — pulsed softly.
It was the heart of the system, capable of transforming Faith Energy into Creation Sparks. With those, he could craft relics, purify souls, even build domains — fragments of paradise shaped by his will.
But the interface warned him: Core integrity is low. Authority unstable.
He was too weak to create anything yet. The forge within him was still fractured.
---
Authority Nexus
This final emblem glowed faintly, like a dying sun. It defined his divine standing — the Laws of Heaven he could still command.
Right now, it listed only one:
Law of Light (Fragmented) – Control over illumination and minor purification.
Lucien exhaled through his nose, a small, humorless smile touching his lips. "So that's all that remains of me…"
---
The sigils folded inward, forming a single glowing mark that hovered above his chest — the fractured halo that had become the Heavenforge Core.
A final message appeared:
[Stage I — Fallen Core]
[Primary Functions: Minor healing, soul purification, creation of one Lesser Angel.]
[Signature Ability: Light Reconstruction — repair life or matter using faith energy.]
[Rank: Fallen Seraph (Unranked).]
Then, silence. The light dimmed, and Lucien was alone again.
He stared up at the wooden ceiling, his mind a storm of pain and purpose.
The Heavenforge pulsed faintly in his chest, synchronizing with his heartbeat. It was weak — fragile — but it was his.
He clenched his fist, whispering to the empty room, "If the gods can forge worlds through faith… then so can I."
Outside, thunder rumbled across the valley. The storm was returning.
Lucien closed his eyes, feeling the faint echo of power stir within him. The world had cast him down — but soon, he thought, the world would remember the light of the Dawn.
And somewhere in the rain beyond the window, Serena paused mid-step, sensing the faint hum of divinity radiating from the cabin — and whispered to herself, almost in awe
"So… the fallen one still burns."