Chapter 3: The Forsaken
Dax extended his hand slowly, fingers splayed against the crimson-soaked air. The black hole that had devoured the blood-rain obeyed his silent command, compressing with a low, ominous hum. It shrank, folding in on itself until it was no larger than a dark marble, pulsing obediently in his palm.
"I'm not sure your world truly understands this concept…" A cruel, razor-edged smile curled at the corners of his lips, eyes glinting with predatory delight. "Let me show you."
Without hesitation, he pressed the condensed sphere directly into his chest.
"Synthesis."
His fist struck his own sternum—hard, unyielding, deliberate.
Power erupted.
Raw. Violent. Unrestrained.
It surged through every vein, every cell, a cataclysmic flood that threatened to tear him apart from within. His muscles seized. His bones creaked under the strain. A storm of pure, primordial energy raged inside his flesh.
Master… you are insane.
Even Inerous, ancient and unflinching, could not hide the tremor in her voice.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
×900.
The sound echoed across the plains like the breaking of a thousand chains forged in the deepest abyss.
Congratulations. You have broken 1000 layers of your shackles.
Commencing trait completion.
Insatiable Hunger → Origin Eater.
Race change commencing.
"Ahhhhhh!"
Dax's scream ripped through the Vabos Plain—a primal, guttural wail that carried the agony of a star collapsing into itself. It shook the earth, scattered carrion birds from the sky, and made the very air tremble.
Mount Gahena
High above the bloodied plains, in a temple carved from sacred white marble and gilded with the light of a thousand eternal flames, the Church of Light's First Ancestor—Lord Blink—knelt in prayer.
Lord Micah Blink, once the strongest human to ever walk the realm, the chosen champion of Sterion, the God of Light himself, now wept openly.
Tears carved silent paths down his weathered face, yet his posture remained unbroken—knees pressed to cold stone, back straight beneath the crushing weight of golden armor that had once been a badge of divine favor.
He had been everything humanity aspired to: invincible, righteous, beloved.
Now he was reduced to begging.
"Please… my Lord," he whispered, voice hoarse from hours of supplication. "I served you all my life… do not forsake me now."
He lifted his head—
Boom!
A divine backlash—sudden, merciless—hurled him backward out of the temple. He crashed onto the stone terrace, armor clanging against rock.
"One thing…" His voice cracked like fragile glass. "I begged for one thing. And you strip me of your grace."
"When I needed you most, you vanished—like smoke in the wind. How cruel."
"I gave you my soul. I brought honor to your name. I razed kingdoms that dared offend your shadow."
A bitter laugh escaped him, hollow and broken.
"So this is the truth… I was nothing to you."
Tears welled again, but he forced them back, jaw clenched.
"All I asked… was for you to heal my granddaughter. To grant her your blood."
The sky screamed.
A rift tore open above the mountain, and an angel descended—radiant, terrible, wings of pure light unfurling like judgment itself. A spear of divine flame aimed straight at Micah's heart.
"Micah," the angel intoned, voice resonant with celestial authority. "As your friend, I advise you to leave. I do not wish to kill you."
Their golden eyes met.
Without his mask of faith, Micah looked no different from the angel—same sharp features, same unyielding gaze.
"My friend," Micah replied softly, rising slowly to his feet, "I cannot let her die. She is all I have left."
The angel sighed, sorrow flickering across its perfect face.
"I see you've made up your mind."
With a subtle gesture, four more figures materialized—golden angels cloaked in blinding radiance. They surrounded Micah in an instant, forming a perfect circle of judgment.
Aron, the leader, drew forth a white bell inscribed with ancient sacred runes. He rang it once.
Bang.
The sound reverberated through reality itself.
The four angels raised their spears, channeling the raw laws of creation. Light condensed at the tips—pure, world-shaping power.
"Darkness," Aron commanded.
Their golden auras dimmed, twisted, inverted—turning black, heavy, suffocating. The air grew thick with corruption.
"All this for an old man," Micah chuckled, voice laced with dark amusement. "You honor me."
Then—
"Move forward, darling."
A gentle voice.
A voice from beyond the grave.
"Helga…"
A beautiful, translucent woman materialized behind him, arms wrapping around his shoulders in a tender embrace.
Sob.
Sob.
"Helga… I'm sorry," Micah whispered, voice breaking. "I'm sorry I let you die."
His grief cracked the world.
Crack!
The ground within a fifty-meter radius shattered like glass beneath an invisible hammer.
Micah vanished—moving faster than sound itself. His heavy armor clanked comically as he stepped through the air, each footfall a thunderclap.
Aron froze mid-strike.
He saw her—Helga—holding Micah, guiding his movements with spectral grace.
Impossible. The dead could not cross the veil unaided.
"How…?"
Rain began to fall.
Pat.
Pat.
Pat.
Aron lifted his hand. Scarlet droplets stained his flawless palm.
"No… this is blood."
"Excalibur."
In Micah's grasp, a blade of ocean-blue steel materialized—radiating overwhelming, ancient glory. Its edge hummed with power that made the very air bow.
"If you stay with your master, you will fall and become a demonic sword," Aron warned, voice tight.
The rain intensified.
Silence stretched like a drawn bowstring.
"Excalibur… he is right," Micah murmured, staring at the blade.
But the sword answered—with the pure, innocent voice of a child.
"Even if I am destroyed… I will stay with Master. He saved me from my loneliness. I will never leave him."
Excalibur hummed softly, its aura swelling with divine authority—a relic that remembered its master's soul across lifetimes.
"Even the gods fear its presence," Aron muttered, golden eyes narrowing. "Yet he wields it without hesitation."
Micah inhaled deeply. Helga's embrace steadied him, her ethereal warmth seeping into his bones. Righteous fury and bottomless grief intertwined, sharpening his will into something unbreakable.
He advanced.
Each footstep cracked the earth. The four angels—now shrouded in corrupted darkness—braced their spears.
"Excalibur… show them your wrath."
The blade ignited.
Bang!
A torrent of radiant light exploded outward, tearing through the blackened auras like dawn piercing night. Two angels were hurled backward, their divine forms scorched and fracturing.
"Impossible…" Aron gasped, stepping forward to shield the others.
Micah moved like a storm given form—fluid, relentless, devastating. Every swing of Excalibur cleaved deeper than flesh: it severed laws, shattered bindings, unraveled the very essence holding the angels together.
Helga remained at his back, silent guardian, her spectral hands weaving faint barriers that turned aside lethal strikes.
"Your master has given you power beyond comprehension," Aron said grimly. "But that does not excuse your interference, Helga."
The brief hesitation was all Micah needed.
He blurred forward.
Crack!
Boom!
One angel's spear shattered into fragments of light. Another lost an arm at the elbow, golden ichor spraying across the rain.
"Falma," Micah commanded, voice ringing with ancient authority.
Helga's presence flared. The air thickened, swirling into a vortex of holy and corrupted energy. The angels staggered, formations crumbling.
"Even now…" Aron growled, "he fights not for vengeance, but for restoration. Such power… is not human."
"I fight for her," Micah said quietly, eyes blazing with gold and silver fire. "And for all who were taken from me."
The blood-rain fell harder.
Excalibur whispered again:
Master, do not falter. They cannot comprehend our bond. They will break before your will.
A low, resonant hum built within the blade. Its aura rippled outward in concentric waves, warping reality—trees splintered, rocks exploded, the ground fractured into a maze of destruction.
Aron's eyes widened. "This is… essence manipulation. Spiritual resonance. It bends the laws of this world!"
"Enough!"
Micah roared.
He surged forward—faster than thought, a blur that shattered sound barriers. Excalibur blazed like a falling star.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
One by one, the angels fell—their divine forms torn apart, reduced to fading sparks and smoldering remnants.
The storm began to quiet. The blood-rain slowed to a drizzle.
Micah lowered Excalibur, breath steady despite the battle. Helga's form faded gently, leaving only lingering warmth.
Aron, broken and bloodied, sank to his knees. "You… are no mere human. You wield forces… that should not exist."
"I am what remains," Micah replied softly. "And I will not let her die again."
Helga's whisper drifted on the wind:
"Master… our journey is far from over. But today, we have begun to reclaim what was stolen."
The plains fell silent once more—washed clean by blood and rain, scarred by a power the heavens themselves feared.
Far in the distance, unseen, Dax watched.
His newly evolved eyes pierced the storm, the mountain, the chaos.
A slow, calculating smile spread across his face.
The board was set.
And the true reckoning had only just begun.