1099—
Cleonic, Eulacyda, Rivens—
The skies of Rivens glimmered with the sheen of eternity, the kind of light that didn't simply brighten but defined existence. The heavens were built from fragments of immortal song, rivers of astral light weaving across the void, their hum resonating in the bones of gods and mortals alike. On one of the high terraces of this eternal expanse, Moritra, goddess of war, leaned forward over the marble railing, her crimson mantle spilling downward like fresh blood staining the white stone.
Her eyes, sharp as drawn blades, gazed toward the mortal realm below.
There, the goddess Grantora was already halfway through her ritual—a summoning unlike any she had ever dared before. The circle of divine fire churned on the mortal plane, pulsing, glowing, bending the air around it. The other gods felt it as a hum under their ribs, a gnawing curiosity tugging at their immortal attention.
Moritra smirked faintly.
Always predictable, Grantora. Always the goddess of champions, the one who raised walls of flesh and steel against the tide of demons. Her ritual was usually straightforward. She chose the stalwart, the unbending, the guardian types. Champions with the heart of a protector, shields of willpower, and stubborn conviction carved so deep into their souls that even gods looked at them with a grudging nod of respect.
But this time?
This time the air stank of deviation.
Grantora wasn't pulling some righteous hero from the ether. She wanted something different—someone different. A mortal who could rival Caligo, the newest and strongest Demon Lord to crawl out of the abyss, wrapped in shadows and logic colder than any abyssal flame.
It was madness.
And yet… gods thrive on madness.
A soft scrape broke Moritra's focus. She turned and found Gellud, the god of wisdom, easing down beside her. His white robe pooled around him, his legs dangling over the edge of the heavenly terrace like some idle mortal boy perched on a city wall. He exhaled, long and audible, as if he had been holding it in for hours.
"So," Gellud asked without preamble, "what do you make of her choice this time?"
Moritra didn't answer right away. Her heart thudded with an impatient rhythm she despised—it wasn't hers. It was the ritual's fault. The anticipation of seeing what in the hells Grantora thought she was doing.
Finally, she smirked. "I was wondering the same thing myself. But I'll admit… I'm intrigued."
"You?" Gellud arched a brow. His face was carved in lines of thought, yet his eyes sparkled like a mischievous child who already knew the answer to his own question. "Intrigued, are you? Then I take it you already know something about the mortal?"
Moritra's gaze drifted downward again. "Only the basics. She comes from a place called… Earth."
Gellud stiffened slightly. His brow climbed higher. "Earth?" He echoed, as if tasting the syllables. "The same world where Yahweh hails from?"
"The one and only." Moritra's voice dropped a note, carrying an edge of distaste. She licked her lips, then narrowed her eyes, letting her thoughts spool out. "Grantora's champion this time is unlike the others. She's not a knight, not a saint, not even a mercenary. She's… a sinner. A vile creature."
Gellud tilted his head, curious. "How so?"
Moritra let the disgust roll over her tongue like venom. "She's what the mortals of her world call an organ harvester. A butcher hiding under the mask of profession. She murders innocents, dismembers them, and sells their parts like wares at a market stall. Her world doesn't have magic, only knowledge and science, and she uses both like a scalpel dipped in filth."
Instead of recoiling, Gellud leaned in. His lips curved faintly. "Fascinating. Did her world, then, achieve advanced understanding in their sciences?"
"Apparently." Moritra spat the word. "But listen well, brother. I have led tens of thousands of campaigns against demons, seen blood enough to drown continents, blessed mortals and torn them apart alike. I have watched children die in their mothers' arms and men crawl through their own entrails to strike one more blow. And yet—" her voice hardened like a hammer on an anvil, "—this mortal disgusts me more than anything I've ever seen. She has no honor. No desire for redemption. Threaten her with eternal torment in the deepest pit of the underworld and she would laugh."
Gellud regarded her, eyes narrowing with something between pity and skepticism. "So, you'll never support her? Is that how you feel?"
"Support?" Moritra scoffed, her crimson mantle whipping as she turned away. "Grantora is making a terrible mistake. This mortal is the type of soldier who abandons her men if it stalls the enemy for one more second. The kind of general who razes cities because the ashes make easier battlegrounds. Chains cannot hold her, not divine, not mortal. One day—if she runs out of sentiment for mortals—she will bare her teeth not at Caligo, but at Grantora herself."
Gellud stayed quiet, but his eyes sharpened. He had lived eternity with her. He knew when her words carried more weight than she wanted to admit. "You're hiding something," he said softly. "Tell me."
Moritra paced, boots clacking on marble. Her jaw was set, but eventually she muttered, "The mortal has a younger sister. Useless, frail, but she's the only tether keeping her sane."
"Ahhh." Gellud chuckled, the sound warm but chilling. "So Grantora already has her collateral. She'll dangle the sister like a leash around the beast's neck. Clever."
"Clever?" Moritra's lips curled. "It's desperation. Rage may drive her, but it's hollow. That sister dies, and the mortal becomes a storm with nothing to lose. When one has nothing left to fight for, to care for, to live for—one is no longer one."
Their argument was interrupted by the sound of silk brushing stone. Promini, goddess of arts and craftsmanship, approached, her robes alive with patterns that shifted like molten glass. Where Moritra was steel and Gellud was ink, Promini was color, every step painting the air with softness.
"You two again?" she teased, her voice melodic as wind chimes. "Still gnawing over Grantora's champion? Days have passed, and you haven't tired of this debate?"
Moritra shot her a sharp glare. "It's not debate. It's a warning. This mortal is ruin waiting to bloom."
Promini only smiled knowingly. "Ah, Krista Morrigan—the organ harvester. Pragmatist, killer, survivor. An artist in her own right, if you squint. Interesting choice, don't you think?"
"Interesting," Gellud echoed. "Necessary, perhaps."
Promini's brow arched. "You seem far too calm about this, brother. Even Moritra's fury hasn't shaken you?"
"They are valid concerns," Gellud admitted. His eyes flicked to Moritra, then back. "But Grantora rarely acts without reason. What matters now is not who Krista was, but what Grantora intends to make of her."
Promini's smile turned sly. "As it happens, I know something."
Moritra, despite herself, leaned forward. "Speak."
Promini giggled softly. "Grantora overheard Krista mocking her sister's favorite entertainments—what mortals call… isekai tales. Krista said the most broken ability in such stories was summoning. She called it the ultimate power. She even mentioned something else—something called a command console. I don't quite understand it, but she seemed convinced it was stronger."
Gellud chuckled. "So Grantora listened?"
Promini nodded, eyes twinkling. "She intends to grant Krista summoning."
Moritra threw up her hands. "Of course. Summoning—the ultimate wildcard. Give a butcher like her the most versatile weapon in existence and you might as well carve our gravestones."
Promini only hummed. "Ah, but with limits. She can only summon items available through Earth's marketplaces. Ten per day. No forbidden relics, no divine armories."
Gellud tilted his head thoughtfully. "So firearms? Knives? Tools?"
"Exactly," Promini said with a grin. "Daniel Defense rifles, Kimber pistols, Springfield handguns, the whole Home Depot stock. Whatever her world allows."
Moritra barked a laugh without humor. "Limits? Her sister is a prodigy in computer science. Pair that with Krista's brain, and those limits won't last a week. They'll bend the rules, break them, exploit them. She'll summon with precision, with calculation. And when she does, not Caligo, not even Grantora herself, will control her."
Promini shrugged with the serenity of a painter flicking colors onto canvas. "Perhaps. But Caligo is chaos incarnate. Only someone equally unpredictable can match him. Maybe even exceed him."
Gellud's eyes gleamed. "Then the board is set."
Moritra stared downward at the glow of the ritual circle, jaw tight. "Board? This isn't a game, you buffoons. This is war."