Silence.
The kind that follows the end of worlds.
Smoke curled upward from the ruins of the divine city. The air still shimmered from the clash between man and god, and in the middle of it all stood Rondan, his body marked by glowing sigils that pulsed like a heartbeat.
When he exhaled, embers scattered across the ground.
Not a single wound bled. His very blood had turned into liquid flame.
He looked down at his trembling hand. The gold-and-crimson fire burned beneath his skin, moving as if it had a will of its own.
> "So this… is the power of a god."
His voice sounded different—deeper, echoing faintly, like two beings speaking as one. The remnants of Erythros, the Flame That Devoured Heaven, now lived inside him.
And yet, Rondan could feel it—it wasn't submission.
It was coexistence.
A faint whisper lingered in his mind.
> "You carry my wrath, mortal. Use it wisely… or let it consume you."
He clenched his fist. "Then I'll master it."
From the horizon, the clouds split apart. The dawn's first light fell upon the ruins, illuminating his figure. His cloak fluttered, and behind him, the faint image of burning wings shimmered in the air—ethereal, divine, yet untamed.
Leina appeared from the distance, her steps quick and uncertain. Her eyes widened when she saw him.
"Rondan… what have you become?"
He turned, and for a moment, she saw something in his gaze—not just power, but a haunting loneliness.
> "Something that can finally change this world," he said softly.
"Or destroy it."
The wind picked up, scattering ash like snow.
From far beyond the mountains, old powers stirred—ancient clans, divine remnants, and unseen rulers who felt the awakening of the Flameborne.
Some would bow.
Others would hunt.
But all would remember this day—
The day a mortal challenged godhood and survived.