[DIVINE PLANE – UNKNOWN REALM]
The sky was fractured glass—black on one side, gold on the other. Between them stood two thrones suspended above a sea of stars, floating on the breath of eternity.
On the left, seated with arms crossed, was Kome, God of War.
Muscles like mountains. A lion's gaze. His breath carried embers.
On the right, lounging upside-down on his own throne, was Zen, God of Tricks.
Eyes glinting like crescent moons. A lazy smile painted on his pale face. Fingers endlessly twirling a coin made of starlight and shadow.
The silence between them hummed with unsaid truths.
Finally, Kome spoke—his voice a quake:
"Your little prophet has caused quite the mess, Trickster."
Zen's grin widened as he tossed the coin behind his back, letting it vanish midair.
"And yours just burned down a faith built in my name. You're not exactly preaching harmony, old friend."
Kome's gaze sharpened.
"This isn't a game, Zen. They're killing. Breaking the balance. The Tower shifts."
Zen's playful tone grew distant. Serious.
"And whose fault is that? You chose a weapon. I chose a mirror. They were both broken to begin with."
A pause.
The stars around them dimmed.
Kome rose slowly from his throne, fire rolling from his limbs.
"Zaine has clarity now. He saw through your puppet's lies. He won't fall."
Zen didn't move—but his shadow twisted into spirals behind him.
"Are you sure, Warbringer? Have you ever looked into his heart? It's not so different from mine."
"Besides..." Zen snapped his fingers. A tiny floating window shimmered between them—showing a slow-motion vision of Danjuro stabbing Alfred, then vanishing into light.
"We're both too late to stop what's begun."
Kome clenched his fist. The window cracked, then vanished.
"The Tower never used to allow this. We fought wars, yes. But this... this feels different."
Zen's grin faded, just for a moment.
"The Tower's will is no longer silent. It moves. Reacts. Bends around our champions."
"Almost like it's... watching."
They looked upward.
For a second, the sky above them blinked—like a colossal eye.
Neither god spoke.
Then Zen chuckled, trying to break the tension.
A sudden silence fell. Then, beneath them—in the unreachable depths of the Tower's foundation—a faint tremor pulsed through the void. Both gods felt it.
[SYSTEM NOTICE – SHRINE ACTIVITY DETECTED]
Source: Unknown
Divine Signature: Unregistered. Incomplete. Forming.
Kome stood slowly.
"That feeling... the shrine stirs."
Zen sat upright for the first time, his joking mask cracking.
"No mortal should be able to enter the core shrine without a god's hand."
"Unless," he added, frowning slightly, "something is being born from the Tower itself."
Kome clenched his fists. His voice dropped to a growl.
"A god with no parent... no chain. That's not rebirth—it's upheaval."
Zen's eyes narrowed, his smile gone.
Then his gaze drifted sideways—as if listening to something in the threads of fate itself.
"Wait…"
His voice was soft. Barely audible.
"That cocoon…"
A pause.
"There's something... familiar."
Kome turned toward him.
"Familiar? From where?"
Zen didn't answer immediately. His brow furrowed, troubled.
"I don't know. It's impossible. But I swear—I've felt that essence before."
He looked down into the Tower, unsettled.
"Like an echo of something I forgot to fear."
[SYSTEM NOTICE – UNKNOWN CONSTELLATION IN FORMATION]
Warning: The Divine Pantheon is no longer stable.
The faint, colorless flame at the heart of the Tower flickered stronger—still formless, but no longer silent.
Kome turned to Zen, their rivalry momentarily erased.
"Everything's about to change."
Zen whispered in return, one hand curling over his chest:
"And something I met… might be waking up."
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
The skies above the Central Cliff wept black feathers.
Once the heart of pride and dominance for the Central Bloodline, the cliff now trembled under the weight of grief. The air, once sharp with regal tension, was heavy—drenched in sorrow and fury.
Gilligan was dead.
The prince of the skies, the tyrant king in the making, had fallen in battle against none other than the Queen of the Demonic Bird Race. A clash so violent it split clouds and ignited winds. He was arrogance incarnate, strength perfected. But not even that had saved him.
His body—what remained of it—had been brought back by the last of his guards. Feathers torn, aura extinguished, his death left a scar in the heavens.
All throughout the cliff, the birds of the Central Race cried out in maddened shrieks. Buildings trembled, storm winds howled. The royal chambers echoed with the cries of a mourning monarch.
At the foot of the sacred nest, the priests of the wind gathered in panic. They watched the heavens swirl, watching clouds spiral in unnatural directions. Even the winds themselves seemed to mourn.
A prophecy, long buried, surfaced among the whispers of the elders:
"When the Prince of Feathers falls to the Queen of Flame, the sky shall crack, and a god shall be born from grief."
Within the royal shrine, the elders argued. Some demanded war—vengeance against the demonic bloodlines. Others feared collapse and suggested retreat and rebirth.
One voice, however, cut through the storm.
A young priestess—feathers red as Flames, eyes lit with crimson grief—stepped forward.
"We will not scatter like prey. We will rise. For Gilligan. For the sky. For vengeance!"
Her voice was met with screeches of affirmation.
[Name: Aravelle
Race: Mystic Bird (Central Bloodline)
Title: Cry of Mourning
Class: Royal
Bloodline Authority: [Central Dominance]
Affinity: Wind, Flame
Emotional State: Volatile / Ascending]