The world was not always ash and ruin.
Once, the heavens gleamed with golden light, and the earth basked in the warmth of divine favor. The gods sat upon their crystal thrones, watching from a realm above the clouds, their laughter echoing like distant bells. And below them, humanity knelt in reverence — small, grateful, blind.
They were a people who sang hymns to unseen skies. Farmers prayed for rain, and it came. Wounded soldiers begged for healing, and silver light closed their wounds. The gods gave them fire to drive away the cold, magic to shape the very stones beneath their feet, and blessings that stretched a man's life far beyond its natural span.
In those days, faith was not demanded — it was given freely. Or so mankind believed.
But even paradise can rot beneath its own perfection.
For every gift came with an unspoken rule. The fire burned only as long as it pleased the gods. The magic obeyed only because the heavens permitted it. The blessings lasted only for those who worshiped without question. And when the first man dared to wonder why, the skies grew silent.
Power demands obedience.
And obedience, over time, became chains.
Temples rose like mountains, and prayers turned to bargains. The gods' words were law, etched into the bones of men:
No human shall ascend beyond mortal limits.
No blade shall touch divine flesh.
No magic shall shine brighter than heaven's light.
Centuries passed beneath those laws, until the first sparks of rebellion flickered in secret places.
A scholar in a hidden library traced forbidden symbols on the floor, his fingers trembling as his blood completed the circle.
A warrior stood before a dying sun and felt something stir inside his veins — a strength that was not a gift from above.
A child spoke a word never heard by angels, and lightning bent to her will.
The gods looked down and trembled.
Their perfect order had begun to crack. Humanity was no longer kneeling. They were reaching.
And so the heavens made their decision.
If men would not bow… then men would burn.
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The First Sin
It began, not with war banners, but with a single scream.
A god descended upon a quiet village at dawn — a figure of blinding radiance, his wings stretching across the horizon. The people fell to their knees, weeping at the sight. His voice, sweet as thunder, carried a decree:
"The eldest of your children shall walk the path of offering. Their souls shall be my feast, their flesh my covenant."
The villagers stared in disbelief. Mothers clutched their sons. Fathers shielded their daughters. No one spoke — until an old woman stepped forward, her eyes hollow yet unyielding.
"We have given enough," she whispered.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then the god smiled — a cruel, radiant thing — and raised his hand.
Flames fell from the sky.
They were not the flames of mortal fire, but light itself, tearing through homes and hearts alike. The air screamed as it burned. Fields turned to glass. Children vanished in the blaze.
When the smoke cleared, the village no longer existed — only a crater of molten stone, and the faint scent of divine wrath.
The heavens watched in silence, unmoved.
But somewhere among the ruins, a man crawled from the ashes. His body was broken, his hands charred black. Yet in his eyes burned something the gods had never seen in mankind before — hatred.
That night, as blood and rain mingled on the earth, the survivors gathered. Mages who had lost their books. Swordsmen whose blades had melted in the fire. Scholars who had watched their knowledge burn. Warriors who had failed to protect those they loved.
They raised their hands to the heavens that had betrayed them.
"If gods are unjust," they swore, their voices trembling but united, "then we shall become the hands of justice."
And under that crimson sky — beneath the first night heaven ever bled — humanity changed forever.
The first godslayers were born.
The world screamed before it burned.
When the first god fell, his corpse became a mountain. His blood poured across the skies, staining the clouds crimson for seven days. From that moment, heaven and earth ceased to be separate realms — they became a single battlefield.
From the frostbitten wastes of the North to the golden dunes of the South, divine fire rained without mercy. The air itself shimmered with holy heat, melting armor and flesh alike. Mountains split open as if cleaved by invisible hands. Rivers boiled into steam. Cities sank into the sea.
And through that endless storm, humanity refused to kneel.
The gods called it blasphemy — the rebellion of ants against eternity.
But to humankind, it was not rebellion. It was freedom.
Banners of every mortal kingdom burned under the same sky. Warriors charged through falling ash, their faces streaked with soot and blood. Mages carved forbidden sigils into the air, summoning storms that devoured both angel and man. Choirs of angels descended like silver spears, their hymns shattering the ground. In answer, mortals raised war songs — hoarse, defiant, unholy.
For centuries, neither side yielded. The heavens lost their purity, the earth lost its peace, and both bled into one another until the stars themselves seemed to dim in mourning.
It was then that humanity discovered a weapon that could change everything.
Somewhere in the ruins of an ancient temple, a dying scholar traced divine runes into a blade. He mixed his blood with celestial dust, binding heaven's own essence to mortal steel. When the blade was raised, it sang — not in reverence, but in rebellion. It could wound the divine.
The secret spread like wildfire.
Swords began to glow with the light of stolen gods. Spears drank the essence of angels. Armor shimmered with captured halos. The war shifted.
Those rare few who mastered both the blade and the arcane — men and women who could swing steel and cast magic in a single breath — became nightmares to the divine. Wherever they walked, heaven trembled. They brought down seraphs with mortal hands, shattered sacred relics that had endured since creation, and tore open the gates of divine fortresses.
The gods cursed them as Apostates.
Humanity sang their names as Godslayers.
And among those names, two shone brighter than all others.
Rion Valeheart — the mortal king who had once knelt before the gods but now sought their end. His sword, Astraeus, was said to have been quenched in the blood of three angels. His voice could rally armies even when all hope was gone.
And Seraphina Valeheart — his wife, his equal, the witch of the crimson dawn. Her magic was poetry and ruin woven together; her beauty, a flame that could burn heaven itself. Together, they led humanity's final charge through the veil between worlds.
As the gates of heaven cracked and the constellations began to fall, Rion's war cry echoed through the celestial halls — a sound so fierce that even the archangels faltered.
But amid the thunder of wings and the clash of divine steel, Seraphina clutched her belly and staggered. Pain lanced through her body, sharp and rhythmic — not from battle, but from life itself.
The goddess of war was going into labor.
On the night heaven fell to ruin, as divine cities crumbled and the sky bled light, Seraphina Valeheart brought a child into the world — a child born between war and heavenfire.
A child whose first cry silenced the battlefield.