Even The Gods Fear My Return
Chapter Nine: The Oath Unbroken
The moment of reckoning approached, not surrounded by the roaring flames of cataclysm, but rather enveloped in an eerie, all-consuming silence that hung in the air like an unspoken curse.
This stillness seeped into the fabric of reality itself, a slow, insidious toxin that coursed through the veins of existence—cold, unyielding, and relentless. Across vast lands, the clarion call of trumpets went unplayed, ferocious beasts remained eerily silent, and even the celestial stars seemed to hesitate in their eternal dance across the night sky, refusing to fall from grace. The earth itself seemed to hold its breath in suspense, while the heavens above dimmed as if anticipating a moment of profound significance, akin to an audience poised to witness the unravelling of a truth long concealed beneath layers of deception.
And far to the west, where the relentless waves of the sea devoured the sun, casting it into a churning abyss of blood-red tides, stood a solitary figure at the brink of all existence.
Kazuren.
The wind howled around him, its furious gusts tearing through the fabric of his midnight-black cloak like blades slicing through delicate silk threads. Yet he remained resolute, anchored in place as if the ferocity of the storm itself dared not lay a hand upon him. Behind him lay a stretch of devastation—once-thriving cities reduced to trembling shadows of their former selves, majestic temples that had once echoed with the melodic praises of the divine now mere whispers carried off by the wind, and faithful mortals jolting awake from dreams that had never truly belonged to them or their waking lives.
Before him loomed the imposing presence of the Monument of the Oath.
Older than the gods whose whims dictated the cosmos. Ancient beyond the reaches of collective memory. Enigmatic, perhaps, even to the very concept of truth itself.
Engraved into its colossal, cyclopean visage were the solemn words that had once tethered the Twelve, etched not with tools but through sheer willpower, a testament to the pact they dared to forge amongst themselves:
We shall not kneel to one of our own.
We shall not unmake what was born of the Flame of First Breath.
We shall not fear what we forged.
Kazuren's gaze was fixed on those fractured, shattered words, as rain cascaded down his face like the heartbreak of a sky that could no longer contain its sorrow.
"And yet," he murmured, his voice a low rumble akin to distant thunder, "you did all three."
His hand pressed firmly against the cold, weathered stone, and the Monument responded not as inanimate rock, but as a living entity, something ancient and sentient that still remembered the fervor of its origins.
A deep tremor pulsed through the very core of the peninsula, shaking the earth with an urgency that reverberated across the landscape. In an instinctive retreat, the ocean recoiled, pulling back hundreds of yards in sudden, primal fear. Above, the once-stalwart crimson sky cracked wide, fissures appearing like shards in glass, giving way to an unsettling vision of chaos unfurling.
The Oath, once held sacred, had been touched.
And with that contact, it began to crumble.
Elsewhere, in the ethereal confines of the Celestial Citadel, chaos erupted within the vast Hall of Names.
The sacred runes inscribed into the Grand Ledger—each symbol representing a divine covenant that had been forged in the fires of ambition—ignited violently, their radiant threads unraveling in an act of defiance like veins severed and bleeding starlight into the void. The gods, timeless beings who had long reigned without question or challenge, found themselves engulfed in disbelief as they witnessed the unraveling of their most hallowed law right before their very eyes.
Virelya, regal and composed, crumpled to her knees, her breath taken away, as though the weight of a thousand realities had pressed down upon her. "No… it cannot be undone. Not by a mortal," she gasped, her voice trembling with disbelief.
"He's not a mortal," Erethur interjected, his voice colder than the sharpest steel. "Not anymore."
His eyes darted to his fellow deities, fingers tightening around Veredictum, the sword of inexorable judgment that had been engraved with the histories of the heavens. The blade throbbed faintly, sensing the encroaching storm of fate that had arrived uninvited.
"The Oath has fallen," Erethur proclaimed with stark urgency. "He will come for the Heart of the World next."
"Then we stop him," declared Oronai, the fiery Goddess of Valor, rising to her full height, her eyes ablaze with determination and righteous fury.
Yet Erethur's gaze remained fixed upon the dying runes, their light flickering like the last gasps of a beaten warrior.
"You don't understand," he cautioned. "He isn't coming for vengeance."
"He's coming to correct a lie."
Deep beneath the monumental ruins, something primal and ancient stirred from its long slumber.
The very bones of the world began to tremble—massive, dormant forces that had lain still since the dawn of time, when the first gods ascended to their thrones among the stars. The ground itself ruptured in a spiraling descent into endless darkness, and rising from this abyss emerged a staircase wrought from shimmering fragments of shattered time. Kazuren, undeterred and resolute, descended this daunting staircase with an unyielding stride, his boots striking sparks upon each step, every movement unraveling the intricate geas the gods had painstakingly woven to conceal what they feared most from the light of day.
At the very base of the spiraling edifice lay an expansive chamber devoid of walls—an enigmatic space that defied the conventional notions of structure and boundaries. Here, reality itself unraveled; no ceiling loomed overhead to enclose the void, nor was there a floor beneath, granting the sensation that one floated within an infinite abyss. This was not merely an empty expanse; it was saturated with whispers of the past, resonating with the echoes of lost memories and the voices of the deceased, each sound weaving a tapestry of sorrow and history.
Suspended in the very heart of this surreal realm was an extraordinary sight—a magnificent artifact known as the Chain of Oath. It twinkled ethereally, hovering delicately within a latticework of ancient, shimmering light. This radiant, living coil was not forged by just one deity but was a breathtaking creation born from the unity of all Twelve gods, designed with the profoundly solemn purpose of sealing away an ancient truth long buried: the harrowing acknowledgment that they had once harbored a deep-seated fear of one among their own.
With determination and awe intertwining in his heart, Kazuren reached out, his fingers stretching towards this luminous chain. But as he did, the chain, a symbol of their collective bond, responded with a piercing scream that reverberated through the chamber, a sound that seemed to pierce the very fabric of existence itself.
In that singular, pivotal moment, a wave of change coursed through the realms—the mortal and the divine alike. Beings of all kinds instinctively succumbed to gravity, dropping to their knees in surrender, not from a sense of reverence for the gods, but rather from an undeniable, primal instinct that churned uneasily in their souls.
The atmosphere thickened, growing thin and frail, as if the very essence of life had been drained. Flames flickered and refused to burn, while water stilled into an unnatural calm; the universe itself held its breath, sensing that something monumental had shifted in the balance of reality.
At the venerable monastery of Aetherwind, an ancient bell tolled, resonating through the air as if touched by an unseen hand. In the derelict halls of the Order of the Blind Star, a thousand long-forgotten prophecies began to inscribe themselves once more, flaring into life with a vivid intensity, illuminating the shadows of obscurity. Simultaneously, in the dreams of both kings and beggars, a singular vision ignited—a haunting image of a golden-eyed man striding confidently through a world that could no longer ignore his presence, a harbinger of change.
Meanwhile, within the hallowed confines of the Citadel, Iserion, the God of Fate, stood transfixed before his Loom. Here, the once-swirling threads of destiny that danced vibrantly across the fabric of existence had fallen eerily still, their joyous movement stilled by an unseen hand. The gentle wind that usually accompanied their flow had vanished, replaced with an unsettling silence.
Only one thread remained—solitary and starkly black, thrumming like a heartbeat within the void.
"It's not fate," he murmured softly, his words a whispered prayer to the empty expanse surrounding him. "It's will."
In that moment, he understood the gravity of the situation, realizing that destiny had taken a backseat to the raw power of intention.
Back in the abyssal chamber, Kazuren grasped the Chain of Oath tightly in his hand—a gesture that would alter the course of history. But instead of crumbling to dust, the chain disintegrated into an extraordinary phenomenon: it transformed not into ash, but into a flood of memory that surged into him with relentless fervor. Each link of the chain rushed into his very being, not to constrain or imprison him, but to serve and obey him.
As he absorbed the chain's essence, his form began to shimmer with an otherworldly brilliance, reminiscent of a dying star that had found the spark to reignite. His eyes blazed with a fierce golden fire, radiating power and purpose. Around him, the void, once cold and indifferent, began to fold and twist as if recognizing him as its long-lost master.
"You erased my name," he spoke quietly, almost mournfully. "So I made a new one." His words hung in the air, reverberating like a prophecy unspoken.
High above, in the last bastion of divine order, the Eleven thrones quaked in their longstanding power. One by one, fissures erupted across their surfaces, echoing a profound disquiet. The throne of flame, once a blazing testament to vigor, vanished into nothingness. The throne of fate flickered and dimmed, its vibrant colors extinguished in a moment of uncertainty. Yet, in stark contrast, the central throne—once banished, now re-emerging from the tenebrous depths—materialized before all in an obsidian gold that gleamed malevolently, shrouded in mystery.
This throne stood empty—an ominous invitation, waiting patiently for its rightful occupant.
In that harrowing moment, the gods understood with chilling clarity that nothing could divert the impending storm that loomed on the horizon. Not time—its relentless march could not hinder what was to come. Not prophecy—their futile foresight offered no refuge against the tide of change. And certainly, not even themselves, for they sensed that the very balance of their world was shifting irrevocably underfoot.
To be continued...