The divine realm lay behind him like a dying sun.
Where temples of light had once pierced the heavens, only pillars of smoke now swayed in the slow wind. Shattered runes drifted through the air—glimmering fragments of vows that gods once made and broke. Auren did not look back. His arms were full.
Zephyxion's body was weightless, yet heavier than any crown he had ever worn. The faint warmth of divine blood had already fled; the white robes clung to his fingers like wet silk. Each beat of Auren's wings scattered black feathers that burned before they touched the ground.
Below the clouds, the world opened into an endless abyss. It was said that the path to the Netherworld appeared only to those who carried both sin and longing in equal measure. When he reached that edge, the air shivered—and the stairs unfolded.
They were vast, carved from obsidian and light, spiralling down into an ocean of mist. Every step pulsed faintly, as if echoing a heartbeat buried deep beneath the world.
Auren stepped onto the first stair.
The sky dimmed.
The sound of collapsing temples faded into a silence so complete it felt sacred. Shadows coiled around the hem of his robe; the air grew thick with the scent of rain and cinders. Somewhere below, a low chime rang—each note like a bell struck underwater.
He began to walk.
With every step, the divine weight around him loosened. His cape dragged against the stone, leaving a thin trail of dark light that soon dissolved. The deeper he went, the less his wings obeyed him. It did not matter. He would walk the rest of eternity if it meant reaching that gate.
The mist parted once, revealing the world above—his ruined palace, a sky cracked by lightning, the throne where he once ruled. He remembered the moment he built it, brick by brick, on the bones of men who had loved him. He remembered the first time Zephyxion had knelt there, eyes clear, voice calm:
"You have everything, my lord. Yet you look as if you have nothing."
He had not answered then. He could not answer now.
The stairs trembled as another vision gathered—just a flicker at the edge of sight: a garden heavy with spring air, pale blossoms falling on white marble. For a heartbeat the scent of flowers replaced the ash. He blinked, and it was gone, leaving only the ache behind his ribs.
He pressed Zephyxion closer. "You are still warm," he whispered, though he knew it was a lie. The words cracked in his throat like broken glass.
Wind rose from below, carrying the voices of those who had fallen before him. They whispered his many names—God of Spring, King of Ruins, Monarch of Darkness—each a crown, each a curse. He ignored them all and took the next step.
The light thinned to a dim aurora. He could see the faint outline of the river that marked the Netherworld's border—a ribbon of silver fire cutting through the dark. Beyond it waited the Gate of Reincarnation, its outline barely visible, vast and solemn as eternity itself.
But the gate was far, and the stairs endless.
And between each step lay a lifetime.
Auren kept walking, his breath slow, uneven.
Behind his closed lids, memories began to stir—petals turning in black water.
---
The silence of the Netherworld was not emptiness — it was a voice too vast to be heard. Auren's footsteps echoed softly against the obsidian stairs, each sound swallowed by the mist that curled around him like the whisper of forgotten prayers.
The body in his arms had grown cold, but the warmth of memory lingered, clinging to his palms like the last trace of sunlight before eternal night.
And then — the scent of spring.
It came faintly at first, drifting from the void like a lost melody: the fragrance of blooming irises, the song of unseen rivers. Auren halted mid-step. His crimson cloak brushed against the stone, and when he looked down, petals of white camellia were falling through the dark.
The first vision began.
The stair beneath his feet turned to marble, radiant and pure. A golden sky stretched open, bright as morning dew upon the world's first garden. And there — standing among the flowers, barefoot and serene — was himself, the God of Spring.
That divine reflection stood with unshaken calm, sunlight woven through his hair, his robe flowing like the wind of dawn. Behind him, rivers of crystal cut through emerald plains where no death had ever tread. Every petal, every blade of grass, carried his breath.
And beside that god stood a dragon.
Zephyxion.
The dragon's form shimmered — silver scales laced with veins of gold, wings that unfurled like pages of ancient scripture. His eyes were quiet, not fierce. They held the kind of peace Auren could never command.
Back then, Zephyxion's presence was not born of chains. He came to the divine garden willingly — as companion, not as servant. Every morning, he lay by the spring pools while Auren, in his godhood, shaped flowers and restored the dying. Their words were few, yet silence itself was their vow.
"You are my beginning and my end," the god had once said.
Zephyxion had smiled then, with a sadness only eternity could carry. "And you are the spring that never ends. So I will stay — until you no longer need me."
Auren's chest tightened as the scene flickered. The steps of Hell reappeared beneath his boots, but the fragrance of blossoms remained. His divine reflection lingered a moment longer — proud, radiant, untouched by mortality.
And Auren — now mortal, tainted, the Monarch of Ruins — reached toward that fading god.
But the vision collapsed like a mirror shattering under the weight of regret. Petals turned to ash. Rivers turned to blood. The divine sky darkened to a cavernous red.
Auren stumbled forward, clutching Zephyxion's body closer. His breath was rough, his voice hoarse with a thousand unspoken names.
He was mine... even then.
That was the truth he had once believed — that to love was to possess, that to hold was to own. Yet as the visions faded and Hell's mist closed in, he realized the cruel symmetry of fate: the dragon who once knelt beside a god now lay lifeless in the arms of a tyrant.
The scent of spring vanished completely.
Auren stood again before the endless descent — the Steps of Hell that wound into eternity. For every step he took now, another memory would awaken.
And so, with the weight of his beloved against his heart, he began to walk again — into the next vision.
---
The scent of spring was gone.
In its place — iron, fire, and rot.
When Auren lifted his gaze, the marble steps had darkened into molten stone, their glow like veins of burning coals. The air rippled with screams — faint, echoing, the kind that never truly reached the ears but haunted the marrow.
He blinked once, and the Underworld twisted around him. The mist parted, revealing the black banners of a mortal kingdom. His mortal kingdom.
The Kingdom of Ruins.
He saw himself again — not as the serene god of spring, but as the Monarch of Darkness, clad in obsidian armor, his eyes a storm of hunger and pride. He sat upon a throne made from the bones of his enemies, a crown of thorns pressing into his forehead like punishment he had never accepted.
Around him, the court bowed, trembling beneath the aura of one who had conquered gods and men alike. But on the dais below the throne stood a man — a dragon in human skin, his silver hair bound loosely at the nape, his expression still and calm.
Zephyxion.
His shadow. His loyal sword. His only truth.
In that lifetime, the dragon remembered nothing of divinity. He did not recall the gentle god of spring nor the promise made by the poolside. He knew only that he had been bound by blood to serve the Monarch of Ruins — to kill for him, die for him, and remain at his side as shadow until eternity turned to dust.
And Auren — proud, desperate, half-mad from power — mistook devotion for destiny.
He loved him in silence, loved him with cruelty, loved him as one might love a blade.
He gave him no kindness, no peace.
Only command.
"You belong to me."
That was what he had said — over and over, through war and blood and madness.
And Zephyxion had only bowed, his voice soft: "As you wish, My King."
But Auren remembered the eyes that never truly looked at him — the quiet defiance that grew beneath obedience.
Until that night.
The vision shifted. The court disappeared. The battlefield stretched wide, under a blood-red sky where the world itself seemed to cry. The Monarch of Ruins stood amidst the corpses of his enemies, his hands drenched in crimson. His laughter had long turned hollow — the kind that filled the hollows of the dead.
Zephyxion stood before him — sword in hand, tears streaming unnoticed down his face.
"Stop," he had begged, voice breaking, wings unfurled in pain. "You've lost yourself. This isn't you."
"Then who am I, if not the one who conquered death?" Auren's voice had roared.
The dragon trembled, his heart bleeding as he raised his sword. "Then let me teach you what it means to lose."
And before the Monarch could move, the blade pierced through his chest — not Auren's, but Zephyxion's own. He had turned the sword upon himself, not his master.
The blade that had once sworn loyalty now gleamed with sacrifice.
Blood splattered against the Monarch's face.
For the first time in lifetimes, Auren had screamed.
The vision cracked like glass. Auren fell to his knees on the steps of Hell, gasping, clutching Zephyxion's cold body tighter against him — as though holding him now could undo that moment in the mortal realm.
He killed himself to save me.
He died to make me understand love.
But the lesson had come too late.
He pressed his lips to the corpse's hair, trembling, whispering through clenched teeth,
"Even if the heavens refuse me, even if the gods shun me, I will not forget. I will follow you beyond the end."
The flames of the Underworld rose around him, burning against his skin but leaving no mark. The next step awaited — the deepest layer, where the Gate of Reincarnation awaited souls who had severed all bonds.
He began to walk again, the body in his arms weightless yet heavier than eternity.
And as he descended, his vow echoed through every layer of Hell —
a vow born not of redemption, but of undying obsession.
---
The further Auren descended, the more the air turned heavy — thick with whispers, thick with remembrance.
Each step bled sound.
Each breath tasted of ash.
The Stairway of the Damned spiraled endlessly into an abyss where no light could reach. Souls flitted through the cracks of the molten stone, pale and translucent, whispering fragments of their final regrets.
Auren paid them no mind. His world had narrowed to the weight in his arms — Zephyxion's body, limp and cold, eyes forever sealed in peace he had never known in life.
The flames did not touch him.
Hell itself hesitated before the Monarch of Ruins.
And yet, he felt powerless — for the first time, truly powerless.
All his kingdoms, his crowns, his divine blood — none could buy the warmth of a heartbeat.
He reached the Seventh Gate, where the rivers of memory flowed backward, swallowing names and faces whole.
The gatekeeper was there — a towering figure draped in black robes, face obscured, eyes burning with hollow gold.
"Auren of Ruin," the voice rumbled, neither kind nor cruel. "The one who sought dominion over gods, men, and death itself. Why do you come bearing what cannot be returned?"
Auren's gaze was unflinching. He knelt, setting Zephyxion's body upon the ground as though laying down an offering.
His hand lingered at the dragon's cheek, thumb brushing away the soot that clung to his lashes.
"He was mine," Auren said. His voice cracked — not with pride, but with ache. "My shadow, my blade, my beloved. I came to take him back."
The Gatekeeper's robes stirred like waves of shadow.
"The soul of the dragon has already crossed the Path of Rebirth. His wish was clear — to sever the chain that bound him to you. Would you defy even his final will?"
Silence.
Auren's jaw tightened. His black wings trembled — feathers burning, falling, disintegrating into sparks.
"He wished to be free," the Monarch whispered. "But I— I cannot let him vanish into nothing. If freedom means forgetting, then I will follow him into the next life and remind him of who we were."
"And what if he never wishes to remember?"
Auren's lips curled, half in sorrow, half in defiance.
"Then I will learn to love him differently."
The Gatekeeper tilted their head, as though considering.
The flames flickered between them, weaving shapes — past lives, lost realms, promises buried in time.
"You seek a forbidden vow," said the Keeper. "One that even gods fear to speak. The Reincarnation Gate exists to cleanse memory, not to preserve it. Should your soul bind itself to another, your punishment will be eternal wandering — you will know no heaven, no rest, only the echo of what you lost."
Auren rose slowly, his eyes gleaming like shards of obsidian under dying stars.
"Then let it be eternal."
He extended his hand, and from the darkness of his chest emerged a flicker — a shard of soul, burning blue and cold. He held it out, unflinching.
"Bind this to his essence. Wherever Zephyxion goes, let this light follow him — unseen, unremembered, but near."
The Gatekeeper's gaze darkened. The ground quaked as if Hell itself protested.
"Do you understand what you offer? This is not love, Monarch. This is the curse of devotion."
"Then let devotion curse me."
The Keeper reached out — a bony hand, ancient as the first shadow — and grasped the shard. The air screamed. The rivers stilled. For a moment, even eternity seemed to hold its breath.
When the Keeper spoke again, it was softer.
"Very well. The thread between you shall not break. You will be reborn where he walks, though he may never see you. You will remember him, though he may not remember you. This is your vow — and your damnation."
Auren closed his eyes, relief flickering through the ruin of his heart. He knelt once more, pressing his lips to Zephyxion's forehead — a final, trembling kiss.
"Even if you forget me… I'll find you again."
The body began to fade — light scattering like pollen in the wind. His hands closed on nothing.
But he did not cry this time.
As the Gate opened, Auren spread his scorched wings and stepped forward.
The Underworld swallowed him whole, and only one whisper lingered behind:
"Wherever you are, my shadow, I will walk beside you again."
---
The air changed.
The roar of the Underworld faded into silence — not peace, but an endless pause before fate's next stroke. The Reincarnation Gate loomed before Auren, vast and blinding, its surface alive with rivers of light that flowed backward, carrying souls to their next beginning.
He stood at its edge, no longer the Monarch of Ruins, no longer the fallen god of spring — only a man stripped bare of crown, divinity, and name.
Only his vow remained.
Zephyxion's soul had already crossed beyond, scattered like starlight into the current.
Auren could still feel the trace of him — faint, like the last warmth of a flame in winter.
The Gatekeeper's voice drifted behind him, low as thunder rolling through centuries.
"Once you cross, memory will cease to exist. Your name, your pain, your promise — all will dissolve."
Auren's hand hovered over the threshold. His wings, charred and torn, fell away as dust.
Still, he smiled.
"If I can't carry my name, I'll carry the feeling."
The light burned brighter — golden veins stretching like cracks across the void. His form began to dissolve, threads of shadow pulling away from his body, unraveling into the Gate's current.
The first memory to vanish was his kingdom.
The second, his face.
The last, Zephyxion's voice.
And yet — as his consciousness scattered, something in him refused to let go.
A single spark of defiance remained — a faint pulse beneath the torrent of erasure. The shard of soul he had offered began to glow, resisting the flood of forgetfulness. It quivered, holding against the current, whispering in silence:
Even if I forget… I will find you again.
The Gate trembled. The light wavered. Somewhere, deep within the river of rebirth, a faint answering pulse stirred — Zephyxion's soul, brushing against his for a breath of eternity.
It was gone in an instant.
But it was enough.
The Gatekeeper turned away, robes sweeping through the dark like storm clouds. The Underworld groaned with ancient pity.
"How tragic," the Keeper murmured, voice fading into the abyss. "Two souls bound by love and ruin, doomed to meet where memory cannot reach. What fate awaits them — to love each other again… without remembering why?"
The Gate burst into light.
The last image was Auren's soul fragment sinking into the current — and then the world went white.