The news spread faster than any messenger could carry it. Before the crusaders' bodies had even cooled and the echoes of battle had faded from the air, the entire world already knew: the gods' chosen had fallen. This was not merely a military defeat, but a shattered symbol; a brutal reminder that even the mightiest champions could bleed and succumb.
In temples and cathedrals, bells rang with a hollow, mournful toll. The faithful fell to their knees in trembling fear while the high priests wrestled between rage and dread. Some demanded immediate divine vengeance; others whispered heretical doubts that could cost them their lives. Had the gods changed? Was their will no longer enough to protect them?
Meanwhile, monarchs summoned their war councils, and the nobility split between fortifying their borders and negotiating with ancient, forbidden sects. Fear advanced in silence, insidious and relentless, like a black river that could not be contained.
In the wilderness, mana-sensitive beasts grew restless. Entire flocks altered their migration routes, while ancient creatures raised their heads, sensing an invisible fracture in reality. Deep within the forests, shamans heard whispers among the roots:
"The balance has shifted... something in creation has broken."
In the strongholds of the mages, the alarm was even worse. The crusaders had been created to face the impossible; if they had perished, what hope remained for ordinary mortals? The archmages dusted off forgotten prophecies while the arcane portals vibrated unstably, as though the very flow of magic had lost its pulse.
And then the miracle occurred.
A column of light tore through the sky above every nation. Regardless of the weather, continent, or language, it was as though an invisible hand had opened a rift between worlds. Then came the voice: deep, resonant, reverberating through the bones, flesh, and spirit of every living being:
"The chosen have fallen. The balance is fractured. The gods demand new champions."
In crowded squares, the masses fell to their knees on instinct. Children wept, and the elderly stretched trembling hands toward the radiance. From the light descended the Heralds, wrapped in cloaks of celestial brilliance or ethereal darkness, their eyes burning like sacred fire. They did not need to raise their voices to proclaim their command:
"The faithful shall come forth. The selection shall begin. Only the worthy shall walk among the gods."
It was neither a summons nor an invitation: it was an absolute decree.
The Tournament of Selection was hereby proclaimed. The gods could not afford a power vacuum while ancient horrors were already awakening in the shadows. Aspirants from holy orders, remote villages, warrior clans, and arcane academies would answer the call. The trials would be merciless, testing magic, body, and the very essence of the soul.
Everyone could feel the truth hidden behind the decree: the gods were desperate. And when the gods feel fear... mortals tremble.
The Heralds vanished as quickly as they had appeared, leaving behind a trail of light that took minutes to fade. The entire world held its breath. The fall of the crusaders had not been the end of the story, but the signal for the beginning of a new divine conflict; a ruthless race to claim the vacant throne of the fallen heroes.
And at the farthest reaches of the earth, sages and fools alike whispered the exact same words:
"The world has changed... and not even a god can turn it back."
While terror spread among mortals, at the summit of the Celestial World, the nineteen Greater Thrones remained gathered.
There were no stars in the firmament because none were needed. There, above an infinite expanse of light and shadow, the original laws of the universe had been engraved: the principles governing matter, time, life, and death. And there sat those who had been acknowledged by those very forces.
Seventeen thrones were occupied.
Two remained empty.
Velyrion's.
Kheris's.
The first had been reduced to a blackened, fractured mass. The second was worse: the Throne of Darkness lay shattered from its very foundation, as though the law sustaining it had been violated. Beside it stood a figure draped in a black cloak: the Goddess of Darkness. She could not sit, and no one asked why. The throne did not accept her. As long as the Law of Darkness continued to recognize Kheris as its lord, the seat belonged to no one else.
Aeltharis, God of Order, broke the silence.
—Velyrion is dead.
No one moved.
—And Kheris... has disappeared.
A tense murmur swept through the hall.
—We found no trace of his essence —Aeltharis continued—. No body, no soul, not even a fragment of divinity to confirm his end.
Seraphyne intertwined her fingers.
—Then he could still be alive.
—And if Kheris is still alive? —Therem, God of War, interrupted, leaning forward.
—Then we cannot know what he is preparing.
—What if he is waiting for us to descend?
Therem fell silent. That was the real problem: none of them knew. Kheris had been exiled centuries ago, stripped of rank, believers, and power. Yet he had just confronted Velyrion in the mortal world.
The result: Velyrion dead and Kheris vanished.
An unprecedented event.
Lyria finally spoke.
—What if this is exactly what Kheris planned?
Several gods raised their heads.
—A trap? —Ignivar asked.
—A trap to force us to descend.
Silence fell instantly. They had all thought the same thing. If Kheris had prepared some mechanism before his fall—some hidden authority, curse, or law ready to activate at the slightest celestial contact—the first god to descend might never return.
Therem clenched his teeth.
—We don't know whether he left something behind.
—Exactly —Aeltharis declared—. And we will not risk a Greater Deity just to find out.
No one protested. The gods would not descend. Not because they were incapable of doing so, but because none of them was willing to risk their own existence.
Seraphyne broke the silence again.
—Then we must withdraw our blessings.
Several deities looked at her in surprise.
—From all of them?
—From the survivors.
Artureos let out a laugh.
—No.
Seraphyne glared at him.
—No?
—I will not withdraw mine.
—Kara disobeyed direct orders —the goddess insisted—. She stood between Lusian and our champions.
—I know.
—And you're allowing her to keep your power?
Artureos settled back into his throne, calm.
—Because she is still useful to me.
Seraphyne narrowed her eyes.
—Useful?
—Kara is strong and thinks for herself. But above all, Lusian trusts her. —A faint smile crossed the god's face—. I don't need her to know that she still answers to me.
Seraphyne understood immediately.
—You want to use her as a spy.
—Not directly. —Artureos stared into the void—. I only need to know where Lusian is hiding.
The tension in the hall increased.
—Can you track him? —Ignivar asked.
—No.
The answer caught several of them off guard. Artureos continued:
—We can sense the presence of divine grace in the mortal world, but we cannot pinpoint its exact location from here.
—Then how do you intend to find him?
—We won't look for him. —Artureos smiled faintly—. Kara will lead us straight to him.
A new, sepulchral silence dominated the hall.
Aeltharis was the first to speak.
—Lusian remains our greatest obstacle.
—No —Lyria interjected—. Kheris remains the problem.
—Did he give him his divinity?
—I don't know.
Those three words reignited the alarm throughout the pantheon.
Not knowing.
The gods were accustomed to mastering the rules, twisting them, and exploiting them to their advantage. But Lusian was an anomaly. A loose piece in the machinery of the universe.
Therem slammed his fist against his throne.
—Then send another hero!
—Which one? —Seraphyne challenged.
—Anyone!
Aeltharis slowly shook his head.
—You don't understand how this works. —His gaze swept across the assembly—. Heroes are not irreplaceable pieces.
Some gods did not react; others smiled faintly.
—If a hero falls —Aeltharis continued—, we name another.
—And if the replacement dies —Ignivar added—, we choose a third.
Therem bared his teeth arrogantly.
—As long as there are mortals begging for our blessings, we will have an infinite army.
Lyria closed her eyes bitterly.
—And as long as we exist, there will always be new pawns.
That was the true horror of the conflict. There could be no end as long as the gods remained standing. Lusian could defeat one hero, execute ten, or annihilate an entire Crusade. None of it mattered: every death left a vacancy, and the gods would simply place a new piece on the board.
An eternal loop.
A war no one could win.
Aeltharis raised a hand, silencing any hint of further argument.
—We will convene the Selection.
A dense, radiant golden light swept across the celestial hall.
—We will reorganize the survivors. Those who have been stripped of our blessings will be replaced without hesitation. We will anoint new champions from among the mortal masses.
—And what will we do with those who are still alive? —Seraphyne asked, leaning slightly forward in her seat.
—They will continue performing the function for which they were created.
Not all the heroes had marched in the crusade. Several were in distant corners of the world; others were carrying out different orders... and a handful had survived the massacre in the Duchy.
Not all the chosen had fallen.
Leonardo was still alive.
Kara was as well.
And Emily, though now burdened with a curse, was still alive.
The conflict had not reached its end.
It had merely changed its skin.
But there was another dilemma. One that no god wanted to address: the distribution of divine power.
Lyria surveyed the room.
—Choosing new heroes will bring another problem.
—What? —Ignivar asked.
—Our own resources.
The gods' expressions changed instantly. Divinity was not infinite; every blessing came at a price. The power granted to the chosen came from the god's own essence, an energy that was difficult to recover. A god who depleted too much of themselves would not merely lose power: they could lose their very existence.
Each deity had its own followers, bloodlines, and clans. Thousands of mortals sought their favor, but none could receive what the god did not have to give.
Seraphyne spoke slowly:
—We cannot bless every candidate.
—We never could —Therem replied.
—Then we must decide who receives our power.
No one answered. They all knew the consequence: those who received a blessing would have a chance to survive; the others would be left behind. And for some, that meant watching their mana dwindle until their existence faded completely.
The competition among the gods was not merely about faith.
It was about their own survival.
They were not a family: they were rival clans. Nineteen powers forced to share the same sky, each trying to protect its own throne.
Aeltharis looked toward the Throne of Darkness, where the goddess remained standing.
—There is one final matter.
Every gaze turned toward the broken seat.
—Kheris has disappeared, but the Law still recognizes him.
The silence grew heavier. The throne remained empty, and none could occupy it. Power alone was not enough: the throne had to accept its bearer, and the Law had chosen no one.
Ignivar clenched his teeth.
—What will happen to the domain of Darkness?
Aeltharis did not answer, because no one knew. The throne remaining empty should not have been possible.
Lyria stared at the shattered structure.
—Unless...
She fell silent, but everyone understood the possibility: if Kheris had given away his divinity before disappearing...
Their gazes descended toward the mortal world.
If Kheris had transferred some of his divinity before vanishing, there was a possibility none of them dared voice.
What if the Law had found a new candidate for the Throne of Darkness?
Therem broke the tension.
—Then let us descend and find out.
—No.
Aeltharis's answer was immediate. Therem confronted him.
—Then what do you propose?
Aeltharis stared at the shattered throne for several seconds.
—We wait.
—For what?
—For the Law to decide.
No one replied.
Far away, in the mortal world, Lusian opened his eyes.
He did not know that a celestial throne remained unoccupied. Nor did he suspect that the Law of Darkness stood without a recognized bearer. And least of all could he comprehend what that would mean for his future.