High above the mortal skies, past the veils of clouds, spirit realms, and the celestial gate, there was a silence that had not been broken for an eon.
Now, it screamed.
In the Hallowed Conclave of Eternal Thrones, seven seats burned with divine light. One had cracked. Another had gone dim. And at the center, where no name had been spoken for a million years, an eye opened—a lidless, endless eye that saw through souls, time, and rot.
The angel Seraphiel's fall had broken not just protocol, but faith itself.
A voice older than heaven spoke:
"Bring forth the Oathbearers."
"Break the silence."
"Wake the Eldest."
And so, for the first time since the forging of stars, the Old Gods stirred.
Back on the mortal plane, Lucien stood alone at the peak of his temple, the blackened halo of Seraphiel hovering above his brow.
He could feel it.
The shift.
Something beyond Tribunal, beyond angels, beyond even gods of this age—an ancient gravity pressing down on reality itself. His flames flickered. Talia clutched her womb and moaned in pain, the brand on her flesh pulsing violently.
He grinned.
"They're coming."
The first to arrive was not a god, but a herald—a thing cloaked in starless cloth, with a face like broken mirrors. It appeared at the edge of Hollow Petal and spoke to the wind:
"The Dreaming God opens one eye."
"Your blasphemy echoes in His void."
"He offers you this—kneel, and you will be devoured last."
Lucien laughed, descending barefoot into the dust, robes dragging flame.
"Tell your master," he said, "I don't kneel. I ride gods."
He raised a hand.
The herald exploded into smoke and bone.
That night, the moon bled.
Talia's dreams were filled with whispers in dead languages. Priestesses began waking up possessed, eyes rolled back, tongues lashing holy names into ash.
Lucien did not stop it.
He embraced it.
The second Old God revealed itself through a rift in the temple's deepest crypt: a serpent with a thousand faces, each one weeping memories from those it had devoured.
It slithered into the sanctuary.
Lucien stood in its path.
"I know you," he said.
The serpent replied with voices stolen from mothers, lovers, and gods.
"Lucien. Flame of Flesh. King of Sin."
"You were not born. You were kindled."
Lucien smiled. "Then let me burn you."
He stepped forward, kissed the serpent's central eye, and drove his Qi straight into its mind.
It screamed.
It shattered.
It joined him.
The next day, statues wept blood across the continent.
Prophets screamed. Oracles gouged their eyes. The heavens trembled.
And the last Old God—He Who Watches Through Flame—opened his maw above the sky.
He was so vast, only one tooth could be seen in the clouds.
Lucien looked up.
And smiled wider than ever.
"This is it, then," he whispered. "The end of faith as they know it."
He turned to his followers.
"To your knees."
They obeyed.
But not in fear.
In hunger.
Together, they would ride the firestorm to the heavens.
And burn the gods clean.