The sky ruptured—not with violence, but with harmony.
A chord of light struck the battlefield, silencing everything. The clash between Thal'Zir and Leviathan froze in place, the broken stars pausing mid-collapse, like all of creation had suddenly remembered something holy.
A second sun rose—silver and radiant, yet without heat.
From its core descended a boy, floating on wings made of geometric halos. Not feathers—just perfect rings, each spinning in sequence like the movement of divine machinery.
His hair was silver-white, catching starlight and reflecting constellations. His eyes were glowing cerulean, so bright they left afterimages. A serene expression sat on his youthful face—calm, detached, unfazed.
He was around Azire's age.
But he felt ancient.
His bare feet touched the air itself, and reality solidified beneath him, forming a silver platform of light with every step.
"Your discord has echoed long enough," he said softly, voice like wind over a mountaintop.
"I have come to silence it."
Thal'Zir growled, still twisted into his celestial godform. "Another parasite…?"
"I am not parasite." The boy looked him in the eye. "I am Caelum of the Highest Choir. Born from the Will of the First Creation. Taught by the Prime Archons. Crowned by the god Above All Names."
"I am what Azire might have been."
Then he moved.
Faster than thought.
Caelum raised a hand, and the battlefield blinked.
Thal'Zir screamed.
His god-body twisted as something invaded it—a hymn, a sequence of divine equations that pulled apart his form on a molecular gospel level.
Caelum didn't fight with brute force.
He rewrote reality with elegance.
"Equation 7: No Sin Shall Echo Twice."
Chains of pure light spiraled from Caelum's fingertips, binding Thal'Zir's arms, legs, neck, and heart—each one engraved with holy script.
Leviathan, bloodied and kneeling, looked up in disbelief. "You—you're just a boy—"
"Not just," Caelum said, gently. "But I am young. Like him."
He turned his gaze to Azire below.
Their eyes met.
Azire flinched.
Because in Caelum's gaze, there was no hatred—only pity.
"So you are the one Martha placed her hope in."
He slowly descended, landing before Azire. Even at rest, Caelum radiated pressure like a divine waterfall.
"I have watched your journey. The stolen Book. The pact with darkness. The corruption."
"I see strength in you… but not clarity."
Azire stood, fists clenched, refusing to look away.
"You're strong. But don't talk like I don't know pain—"
Caelum raised a single finger.
Azire collapsed to his knees.
Not from injury—but from the weight of Caelum's soul.
"I am not belittling your suffering. I am your suffering."
"I am what you must surpass, Azire. And you are nowhere near ready."
The words hit like knives. But Caelum's tone remained tranquil.
Behind them, Thal'Zir broke free of one chain—only to be slammed back by a gesture from Caelum.
"Do not interfere," he said to the god.
"This is a conversation between potential."
Azire gasped for breath. "Then… why help Leviathan?"
Caelum's eyes flickered—just a hint of fire beneath serenity.
"Because I still believe in this world. In your future. And I do not allow abominations like Thal'Zir to speak on behalf of gods."
He turned, facing the void-corrupted deity again.
"Now be silent."
He raised both hands.
The sky became a harp.
And Caelum played it.
Each pluck was a note from the First Language, a sound used when reality was still liquid and stars were ideas. And with each note, Thal'Zir broke. His wings shattered. His body unraveled. His will cracked.
It wasn't violent.
It was graceful obliteration.
And Caelum never once looked angry. Only focused.
By the time the light dimmed…
Thal'Zir was gone.
Leviathan had collapsed, barely breathing.
Maya and Daiki knelt beside Azire.
And Caelum hovered, still radiant.
"You are not my enemy," he said, eyes still locked on Azire. "Not yet."
He floated higher, wings spinning like heavenly gyros.
"But when you are ready, Azire… come find me."
"And pray you're more than just a shadow of my path."
Then, like a memory, he vanished.
The silver sun dimmed.
And all that remained was the silence left in his wake.
The sky ruptured—not with violence, but with harmony.
A chord of light struck the battlefield, silencing everything. The clash between Thal'Zir and Leviathan froze in place, the broken stars pausing mid-collapse, like all of creation had suddenly remembered something holy.
A second sun rose—silver and radiant, yet without heat.
From its core descended a boy, floating on wings made of geometric halos. Not feathers—just perfect rings, each spinning in sequence like the movement of divine machinery.
His hair was silver-white, catching starlight and reflecting constellations. His eyes were glowing cerulean, so bright they left afterimages. A serene expression sat on his youthful face—calm, detached, unfazed.
He was around Azire's age.
But he felt ancient.
His bare feet touched the air itself, and reality solidified beneath him, forming a silver platform of light with every step.
"Your discord has echoed long enough," he said softly, voice like wind over a mountaintop.
"I have come to silence it."
Thal'Zir growled, still twisted into his celestial godform. "Another parasite…?"
"I am not parasite." The boy looked him in the eye. "I am Caelum of the Highest Choir. Born from the Will of the First Creation. Taught by the Prime Archons. Crowned by the god Above All Names."
"I am what Azire might have been."
Then he moved.
Faster than thought.
Caelum raised a hand, and the battlefield blinked.
Thal'Zir screamed.
His god-body twisted as something invaded it—a hymn, a sequence of divine equations that pulled apart his form on a molecular gospel level.
Caelum didn't fight with brute force.
He rewrote reality with elegance.
"Equation 7: No Sin Shall Echo Twice."
Chains of pure light spiraled from Caelum's fingertips, binding Thal'Zir's arms, legs, neck, and heart—each one engraved with holy script.
Leviathan, bloodied and kneeling, looked up in disbelief. "You—you're just a boy—"
"Not just," Caelum said, gently. "But I am young. Like him."
He turned his gaze to Azire below.
Their eyes met.
Azire flinched.
Because in Caelum's gaze, there was no hatred—only pity.
"So you are the one Martha placed her hope in."
He slowly descended, landing before Azire. Even at rest, Caelum radiated pressure like a divine waterfall.
"I have watched your journey. The stolen Book. The pact with darkness. The corruption."
"I see strength in you… but not clarity."
Azire stood, fists clenched, refusing to look away.
"You're strong. But don't talk like I don't know pain—"
Caelum raised a single finger.
Azire collapsed to his knees.
Not from injury—but from the weight of Caelum's soul.
"I am not belittling your suffering. I am your suffering."
"I am what you must surpass, Azire. And you are nowhere near ready."
The words hit like knives. But Caelum's tone remained tranquil.
Behind them, Thal'Zir broke free of one chain—only to be slammed back by a gesture from Caelum.
"Do not interfere," he said to the god.
"This is a conversation between potential."
Azire gasped for breath. "Then… why help Leviathan?"
Caelum's eyes flickered—just a hint of fire beneath serenity.
"Because I still believe in this world. In your future. And I do not allow abominations like Thal'Zir to speak on behalf of gods."
He turned, facing the void-corrupted deity again.
"Now be silent."
He raised both hands.
The sky became a harp.
And Caelum played it.
Each pluck was a note from the First Language, a sound used when reality was still liquid and stars were ideas. And with each note, Thal'Zir broke. His wings shattered. His body unraveled. His will cracked.
It wasn't violent.
It was graceful obliteration.
And Caelum never once looked angry. Only focused.
By the time the light dimmed…
Thal'Zir was gone.
Leviathan had collapsed, barely breathing.
Maya and Daiki knelt beside Azire.
And Caelum hovered, still radiant.
"You are not my enemy," he said, eyes still locked on Azire. "Not yet."
He floated higher, wings spinning like heavenly gyros.
"But when you are ready, Azire… come find me."
"And pray you're more than just a shadow of my path."
Then, like a memory, he vanished.
The silver sun dimmed.
And all that remained was the silence left in his wake.