The flames in Gravemoor had not yet dissipated, and already the scent of burning flesh had become the city's new incense. The once-vibrant streets, now reduced to ruins, echoed with the crackling of fire, the sound of ruin, and the distant wails of the damned. Missionaries hung from broken church arches, their bodies blackened by radiant fire. The symbol of Kael's inverted halo had been seared from the walls, scrubbed by sword and sanctified flame. Over it, a new glyph glowed in gold—neither holy nor divine, but possessed, dark and unnatural in its fervor.
The Divine Inquisition had made its first statement.
And Kael heard it clearly.
Atop the Obsidian Spire, Kael sat in his war room, reviewing the reports with meticulous care. His generals argued—some demanded a strike back, others advised retreat from holy territories. The chaos that had begun in Gravemoor was spreading. Seraphina, seated beside him in crimson imperial attire, watched quietly, her fingers steepled in thought as they debated tactics, while Elyndra stood a few steps behind, ever watchful and calculating.
Kael remained still, his eyes scanning the detailed maps of the continent that were sprawled across the table. The room buzzed with noise—discussions of strategy, assessments of strength, debates on how to respond to this unprecedented attack. But Kael did not speak. Not until everyone else had exhausted their noise.
When he finally rose, the room fell into silence.
"They've created a weapon," he said flatly, his voice carrying the weight of cold clarity. "Not a champion. Not a hero. A vessel."
Elyndra, now wholly his, narrowed her eyes in understanding. "The man in Gravemoor. The reports say his presence nullifies our abyssal wards. Our agents couldn't even approach him."
"They called him Aelros the Purged," Seraphina added, her voice steady. "A former Inquisitor, executed decades ago for questioning divine mandates. They've resurrected him, Kael. With corrupted grace."
Kael looked at the map once again, his finger trailing toward Gravemoor. "They've begun forging their own gods."
The words hung in the air, each one carrying an ominous weight. The idea of mortals playing with the divine was not new, but it had never been attempted on this scale. The balance of power was shifting once again, and Kael knew that he would have to act quickly, or risk being caught off guard.
In the hollow chambers beneath the Eclipsed Cathedral, where only the desperate dared go, the gods whispered—fractured, afraid, and vengeful. The air was thick with the smell of incense and blood, the very essence of divine decay. The God of Chains, once a mighty celestial patron, now spoke through cracked marble, his voice filled with static agony. "They must not rise… he walks with the Abyss…"
"They follow him," echoed another voice, deep and trembling with fear, "not through fear—but conviction. Mortals have forgotten their place."
The Grand Cardinal knelt in the center of the chamber, his hands trembling, his eyes bleeding as he gazed upon the shattered remains of what had once been divine artifacts. He held up a shard of the First Halo, a relic long forbidden. "Then we make them remember," he whispered.
A sickening silence followed, broken only by the sound of the shard being placed upon the altar. The room trembled, and the priesthood began chanting—voices rising in unison, blending with the crackle of corrupted divinity that filled the space.
"We create saints again—not born, but burned into being."
The ritual had begun.
Elsewhere, far from the ruins of Gravemoor, Kael stood alone atop his private balcony, gazing over the vast lands that now bent to his will. The wind carried whispers of prayers—not to gods, but to him. His empire stretched beyond the horizon, yet the uncertainty of the Divine Inquisition's power unsettled him. He had never wanted worship, only control. But belief had now become a powerful tool—an uncontrollable force. And the more it spread, the more dangerous it became.
Lilith emerged from the shadows, her presence intoxicating, her every movement a symphony of temptation. She approached him with a predatory grace, her eyes gleaming in the pale moonlight. "You're building a religion, Kael," she said, her voice a soft purr. "And religions… require sacrifices."
Kael did not flinch. He had long since learned to remain unmoved in her presence. "They require martyrs," he corrected, his voice calm but laced with something colder, more deliberate. "And I have no shortage of fools willing to die for an idea."
Lilith's lips curled into a smile, dark and seductive. "But what happens when gods begin to bleed?"
Kael turned to face her, his eyes cold as the heart of winter. "Then I remind them who taught them how."
Far from Kael's empire, deep within the holy lands, the Divine Inquisition marched. Their new warriors were not men but constructs of divine fury and madness. Saints, not blessed, but rebuilt—fragments of once-sacred beings who had been torn apart and reforged by the hands of those who sought to play god themselves.
Each new "saint" bore names once spoken in reverence: Saint Liora of the Flame, Blessed Talon the Shepherd, The Silver Veil of Oren. Now they moved as monsters—limbs twisted with holy fire, faces masked by radiant steel, eyes glowing with an otherworldly light.
Behind them, the priesthood sang in madness, their prayers a symphony of divine rage—a cacophony of righteousness warped into insanity.
And leading them—Aelros the Purged, now called the God-Breaker, walked with a grim certainty. His eyes burned with celestial fire, his form cloaked in the flames of corrupted grace. His every step left a trail of ash in his wake.
Kael stood before a chamber of his New Creed, a group of philosophers, mages, strategists, and converted clergy. They had gathered to discuss the emerging threat. Kael spoke not in prophecy, but in sharp clarity. His voice cut through the room, his words precise and ruthless.
"They believe we threaten their heavens. Good. Let them believe."
He unfurled a scroll, the names of every remaining high cleric across the Dominion written in dark ink. His finger traced the list as he spoke. "We break their gods the same way we broke their thrones: not with swords—but with doubt."
At his side, Seraphina and Elyndra exchanged glances. His ambition, they realized, had crossed into something far greater. He was not just dismantling thrones; he was dismantling the divine itself. He was attacking the very foundation upon which the world had been built.
In the heart of Vaelmoor, Kael's forces faced the Divine Inquisition for the first time. The city was alive with tension, the air thick with anticipation. No banners flew, no truce was offered. There was no negotiation. Only a line of flame and silence.
Aelros, the God-Breaker, stepped forward, his presence a stark contrast to Kael's calculated calm. His voice, filled with righteous fury, boomed across the battlefield. "Your faith is rot," he declared, his words carrying the weight of a thousand prayers. "And I am the cleansing flame."
Kael appeared not with an army, but with truth.
"You are not flame," he said, his voice echoing over the hills. "You are what remains when gods run out of ideas."
The two forces collided with a deafening roar, the sound of holy fire and abyssal shadow crashing together in a cataclysmic storm. The ground beneath them shook, the sky cracked open, and the earth itself seemed to tremble as if the very fabric of reality was being torn asunder.
And Kael stood at the center of it all, unyielding, watching the gods themselves burn.
To be continued...