The Golden Hall was no longer a place of divinity; it was a tomb.
The pristine white pillars, which had stood for eons as symbols of unshakeable order, were now splattered with the ichor of the fallen. The bodies of Heaven Guards lay scattered across the marble floor like broken toys, their star-metal armor crushed inward, their eyes staring blankly at the ceiling they had sworn to protect.
The air tasted of copper and ozone the scent of dead gods and spent magic.
Sylus walked through the carnage with a slow, deliberate gait. His black robes trailed over the blood-slicked floor, leaving long, crimson streaks behind him. He didn't look down. He didn't relish the sight, nor did he mourn it. To him, this wasn't a tragedy. It was simply… cleaning.
"Where…"
The voice was faint, trembling under the weight of the crushing silence.
"Where are you going now?"
Arion Vale stood near the throne, his hands gripping the golden armrests so tightly that the metal groaned. He asked the question, but the dread in his eyes said he already knew the answer.
Sylus paused. He didn't turn fully. He simply tilted his head back, the dim light catching the sharp, cruel angle of his jaw.
He cast a glance over his shoulder at the Prince of Heaven. It was a look devoid of rivalry it was the look a wolf gives a sheep that has bleated too loudly.
His lips curled into a smile that promised the end of days.
"Death Spring Mountains."
The words didn't just hang in the air; they landed with the physical weight of a decree.
Outside, the heavens screamed. Thunder rolled across the sky, shaking the Citadel to its foundations. It was as if the world itself was recoiling, the weather bending to Sylus's dark intent. Wind howled through the broken gates, and rain began to fall heavy, black rain that washed the blood from the courtyard but could not wash away the stench of defeat.
The surviving gods stood frozen, their weapons lowered, their spirits shattered. They watched the monster walk away, and none dared to raise a hand.
Arion Vale lowered his head. He stared at the corpse of a commander he had known for centuries.
"We have to stop him," Arion whispered, his voice cracking. "No… we have to stop them."
He looked up, his golden eyes filled with a desperate, frantic realization.
"If we don't, peace is a memory. The world will simply become Sylus's playground."
He stepped down from the dais, his voice rising, trying to rally the terrified council.
"He isn't just going to fetch the boy. He is going to harvest him. He will force Jiyul to cultivate the Flower until it blooms, and then… he will consume the mortal whole. He will take the Flower and the Blood Ember."
A jagged bolt of lightning struck a tree outside the hall, splitting it down the middle with a deafening crack. The ground shuddered.
The gods flinched, looking at Arion as he continued, his voice dark with history.
Arion's breath came in ragged gasps.
"Sylus has tied that curse to the Flower of Askaroth, feeding destruction into creation. It is… cunning. It is madness."
He looked around the silent hall, his gaze piercing.
"But the question remains… who is Jiyul? A mortal body should have turned to ash the moment it touched the Ember. Yet he lives. Why?"
No one answered. The storm swallowed his question, leaving only the hollow echo of their own fear.
Arion clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms. He turned his back on the carnage, his robe dragging through the blood of his kin.
The heavy doors of the Golden Hall slammed shut behind him with a sound like a coffin lid closing.
Thousands of miles away, the Death Spring Mountains were screaming.
The storm here was not natural. The sky burned with unnatural red flashes, and the wind tore through the jagged peaks with the sound of a thousand dying beasts.
In the center of this maelstrom, Jiyul lay on the wet, black earth.
He wasn't moving. He was vibrating.
His body was a battlefield. Under his skin, muscles knotted and tore, bones cracked and knit back together in seconds. The Flower of Askaroth pumped golden liquid fire through his veins, demanding life, demanding growth. But the Blood Ember fought back with cold, black decay, demanding death, demanding emptiness.
Jiyul gasped, his fingers clawing deep into the mud, anchoring himself to the world as his soul was ripped in two.
Zekiel stood nearby, his massive trident planted in the ground like a grave marker. The Demon Warden watched in silence, his glowing eyes narrowed.
He could see it—the metaphysical war raging inside the boy's chest. It was agonizing just to witness.
"The powers will eat him alive before the night is over," Zekiel muttered to the wind.
Then, footsteps.
They were soft, rhythmic, and terrifyingly calm amidst the chaos of the storm.
"Long time no see… demon."
Zekiel froze. His blood ran cold. He knew that voice. It was the voice that had haunted the nightmares of the old world.
He turned and bowed low, his forehead nearly touching the mud.
"Welcome, Lord Sylus… It is an honor."
Zekiel gestured toward the writhing figure on the ground.
"That… is Han Jiyul."
Sylus stepped into the clearing. The rain seemed to avoid him, sliding off an invisible barrier around his form. His crimson eyes glowed in the darkness, fixation locked on the boy.
He walked closer, looming over Jiyul. He watched the veins in Jiyul's neck bulge—black, then gold, then crimson. He watched the smoke rising from Jiyul's skin as the rain evaporated on contact.
A cold, satisfied smirk curled Sylus's lips.
"Yes… I see it. The struggle."
He leaned down, his voice dropping to a whisper that cut through the thunder.
"The powers are burning his soul alive. Most men would have begged for death hours ago. But him?"
Sylus's eyes sharpened.
"I sense his will. It isn't hope. It isn't courage. It is pure, obstinate refusal. The will to survive… the will to destroy."
He straightened up, looking at the red lightning tearing the sky apart.
"He will endure."
Zekiel nodded slowly, sweat mixing with the rain on his face. "Yes… if he does not break, he will endure."
They stood in silence for a moment, the creator watching his creation suffer.
And then—
"RAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"
A roar tore out of Jiyul's throat. It wasn't human. It was the sound of something primal clawing its way out of a cage.
His body convulsed, arching off the ground.
"GOD… DAAAAMN… IIIIITTTTT!!"
BOOM.
A shockwave of energy blasted outward, flattening the grass and cracking the stones around him.
Jiyul's veins lit up—a blinding, chaotic web of red and black light.
And then, the screaming stopped.
Silence hung for a heartbeat.
Then, a sound bubbled up from his chest.
"Hahahahahahaha…"
It started low, broken like grinding glass.
"HAAHAHAHAHAHAHAA!!"
It rose, louder, wilder, echoing off the cliffs and drowning out the thunder. It was a hollow, jagged laugh. It wasn't the laughter of a man who had won. It was the laughter of a man who had looked into the abyss, realized he was made of the same darkness, and found it funny.
It was the laugh of a devil being born.
Sylus's smile widened, revealing teeth that looked too sharp in the lightning flashes.
Zekiel took an instinctive step back, dread pooling in his stomach.
On the ground, soaked in rain, blood, and forbidden light, Han Jiyul laughed at the sky