The room was dark — not pitch‑black, but dim in a way that made every shadow feel heavier than it should.
Faint mana lamps lined the walls, their pale glow flickering like dying stars, barely strong enough to push back the darkness.
The chamber itself was massive.
Tall stone walls rose upward, carved from black volcanic rock. The surface wasn't smooth — it was uneven, cracked in places, as if the room had been shaped by pressure rather than tools. Thin veins of black mana pulsed faintly through the stone, like distant lightning trapped beneath the surface. Old markings — runes, symbols, claw‑like scratches — covered sections of the walls, some faded, some glowing softly.
The floor was made of the same black stone, cold and solid beneath the faint light. Mana dust collected in the grooves between the slabs, shimmering faintly when the lamps flickered. The stone carried a subtle vibration, as if something deep beneath the room was breathing.
High above, the ceiling disappeared into darkness. Only the occasional glint of mana crystal reflected the lamp light, hinting at its height. Chains hung from the upper beams — not restraining anything, just remnants of old mechanisms or forgotten structures.
The air was cold, still, and heavy with mana. Every sound echoed — the trembling, the soft whimpers, the sound of crunching, the shifting of feet on stone. It felt like a place built to contain power, or to test it. A place where silence had weight.
Stone pillars lined the sides of the room, thick and ancient, supporting the unseen ceiling. A long, low table of black stone sat near the center, covered in dust and faint mana residue. Shelves carved directly into the walls held old scrolls, cracked crystals, and relics wrapped in cloth. A single open doorway stood at the far end — tall, narrow stone etched with glowing runes.
The room felt old.
Older than a castle.
Older than a clan.
A place meant for secrets, rituals, or memories too heavy for the outside world.
A place where trembling made sense.
Where whimpers didn't echo out of weakness — but out of fear.
And at the far end of the room—
A massive throne sat atop a raised platform.
A figure rested on it.
A figure as large and wide as an ogre, draped in black pants and a torn red cape that spilled behind him like dried blood.
He sat barefoot, his enormous feet pressed against the cold stone.
A faint crunch echoed through the room — sharp, deliberate, unsettling — as he bit down on Seraphyx's skull, her bloody, naked body lay not too far from the throne, with other limbs cracked, twisted, ripped, making her look unrecognized.
Beside him, two enormous blades leaned against the throne, connected by a heavy chain that glinted in the dim light.
His fangs hung past his lips.
A long scar ran from his lower right waist, across his torso, and up toward his heart — a mark that looked like it should have killed him.
Even suppressed, his aura filled the room like a storm waiting to break.
It pressed against the walls.
It pressed against their lungs.
It pressed against their souls.
He wanted them to feel it.
Umbrael, Vae'Torin, Elyndra, and Zephyron stood before him, trembling on the cold stone floor.
All of them stared at their feet.
Except Zephyron.
He stared directly at Civilar — into those black eyes with glowing blue pupils that held no warmth, no mercy, no life.
They stared for what felt like an eternity.
Then—
Zephyron's breath hitched.
His vision blurred.
His knees buckled.
Blood spilled out of his mouth like a waterfall.
He collapsed onto the stone floor, his robe spreading around him like a fallen shadow.
His eyes remained open.
But he did not move again.
Elyndra's breath caught.
Her eyes widened.
Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might burst.
That's it.
I can't take this anymore.
She stepped back.
Then another step.
Then she turned and ran toward the open doors—
A metallic snap echoed through the room.
A chain tightened around her neck, yanking her off her feet.
She gasped, clawing at it, eyes wide with terror.
Civilar hadn't moved from his throne.
He simply held one end of the chain; the other wrapped around her throat.
"What an idiot," he said, voice low and amused. "You really thought you could run?"
The chain jerked once.
And a sickening crack echoed into the room, as her spine and head ripped off her body.
The room fell silent.
Her body collapsed onto the stone floor, her staff clattering beside her.
Civilar swung the chains back to him.
His hand snapped up, catching the chain mid‑air with effortless precision.
Metal clinked softly as he reeled it in, the links sliding across his palm with a low, scraping whisper.
He unwrapped the chain slowly, deliberately — each movement calm, almost bored — revealing Elyndra's bloody spine and head.
He examined it with a cold, analytical curiosity, as if studying a tool rather than a person who had stood before him moments ago.
"Hm," he murmured, tilting his head slightly. "Look at that."
His glowing blue pupils narrowed with amusement.
"Don't you think this'll make a nice trophy?"
Umbrael and Vae'Torin didn't dare look up.
They didn't breathe.
They didn't move.
Civilar tossed the remains aside with a flick of his wrist.
They hit the far wall with a dull, echoing thud before sliding to the floor.
He leaned his massive blades back against the throne, settling into the seat as if nothing had happened.
Then his voice dropped — low, calm, and terrifyingly casual.
"Now… I have a question."
Silence swallowed the room.
"How strong is he right now? Eiden, I mean."
Umbrael swallowed hard.
"He's… changed."
Civilar raised an eyebrow.
"Changed how?"
Vae'Torin spoke next, voice trembling.
"He's as strong as he was thirty‑two years ago… but his combat is different. He doesn't fight with excitement anymore. No smirk. No playfulness. His face was unreadable. And he—"
He hesitated.
"—he can counter attacks now. Perfectly. As if he knows what you're going to do before you do it."
Civilar's smile widened.
A deep, rumbling laugh rolled out of him — first short, then louder, then echoing through the entire chamber like thunder.
Umbrael and Vae'Torin kept their eyes glued to the floor.
They didn't dare do anything else.
Civilar rose from his throne.
Twelve feet tall.
Shoulders five feet wide.
A walking mountain of grey muscle and quiet malice.
The stone floor groaned beneath his weight as he stepped forward, each footfall echoing through the chamber like distant thunder.
He stopped in front of Umbrael and Vae'Torin.
"Thank you," he said calmly.
Umbrael dared to lift his head — just enough to see Civilar's massive left hand settle against the side of his face.
Vae'Torin felt the same on his own cheek — Civilar's right hand, cold and heavy as stone.
Then—
Civilar moved.
He collided both heads into each other repeatedly.
A loud crunch echoed into the room, the sound of flesh sliding against each other, before he let them both go.
Both their bodies dropped with a heavy thud.
Silence swallowed the chamber.
Civilar looked down at his bloody palms, flexing his fingers once.
Black fire ignited across his hands, burning away the blood in a hiss of dark flame.
With a flick of his wrist, his dual blades dissolved into black mist, vanishing from sight.
He turned away from the fallen Celestials without a second glance, walking out of the chamber, his torn red cape dragging behind him like a trail of dried blood.
Outside, he stepped onto the green grass of the ruined castle grounds.
The sun shone brightly overhead — warm, peaceful, almost mocking.
Ahead of him stretched a vast plain of bright green grass.
Civilar exhaled once, slow and steady.
The world felt calm.
Too calm.
Civilar raised his palm to teleport.
But something felt wrong.
The sky shifted — grey clouds rolling in unnaturally fast, swallowing the sunlight in seconds.
The air thickened.
The wind sharpened.
Civilar lowered his hand slowly.
He felt it.
No—
He knew it.
Someone was here.
He summoned both of his massive blades, chains rattling as the wind roared across the green grass.
His black hair whipped behind him, torn red cape snapping like a banner of war.
And in the distance—
Two figures appeared on the plain.
Both in black robes.
One as large as Civilar.
The other tall and lean, elf‑like in stature.
Civilar squinted, then smirked.
A short, amused "heh" escaped him.
"Krythos, the Celestial of Eternity…"
His eyes shifted.
"And Seraphel, the Celestial of Creations."
He smiled — soft, but dangerous.
"It's nice to see you."
The wind howled.
Krythos's long grey hair swayed behind him, red eyes half‑lit with fury.
He summoned a colossal longsword etched with ancient runes.
Seraphel raised a spear humming with creation magic, orange eyes glowing with lethal intent.
Their mana surged.
Two overwhelming forces merging into one suffocating pressure that rolled across the field like a tidal wave.
Civilar felt it.
And it reminded him of someone.
A warrior he desperately wanted to kill.
Eiden.
The First Divinity.
Civilar's smile faded.
His posture shifted.
His aura thickened like a storm cloud ready to burst.
He wasn't playful anymore.
Because now he stood against two of the three most powerful Celestials.
Damn, if I'm going to fight them, I need to think carefully...
The wind howled.
The sky churned.
The air vibrated with mana so dense it felt like breathing through water.
Then—
They moved.
Civilar lunged first, tearing across the field with monstrous speed.
His blades dragged behind him, carving trenches into the earth.
Krythos stepped forward, Eternity's sword glowing with red‑white runes.
Seraphel vanished in a flicker of purple light.
Civilar swung both blades downward—
Krythos met him head‑on.
The ground cracked open, shockwaves rippling across the field.
Krythos slid back, boots digging into the dirt.
Civilar pressed forward, aura flaring like black fire.
Seraphel reappeared behind Civilar, spear glowing.
"Vey'thalan."
A sphere of purple aura shot toward Civilar.
Civilar snapped his head toward it, raised one blade, and struck the projectile aside.
It flew across the field—
Four beams erupted from the impact point.
Civilar felt it instantly.
Four new presences.
When the smoke cleared—
Four perfect duplicates of Seraphel hovered above the ground.
Not illusions.
Not weak copies.
Perfect duplicates.
"Damn," Civilar muttered. "Never knew you could do that."
He glanced at Krythos, still pushing against him.
Civilar looked bored.
"I'll deal with you later."
He flicked his blade.
An aura slash from Civilar's blade blasted cleanly through Krythos's blade, sending him flying across the field.
Civilar lowered his blades and embedded them into the ground, turning toward Seraphel and his clones.
Seraphel's eyes widened as he watched Krythos vanish into the distance.
He clenched his spear tighter.
"Very well."
He drove his spear into the ground.
"Creation Magic: Magic Cancelation — Civilar the Titan!"
Civilar's eyes widened.
The sky erupted into swirling purple clouds.
"Ohhh, that's interesting," Civilar said with a smirk.
He raised his palm.
Nothing.
No flame.
No aura.
He laughed softly.
"So it really cuts off magic. Even my items?"
He pulled out a circular block — a portable magic sword.
He squeezed it.
Nothing.
He tucked it away.
"Fascinating. I want that spell."
Seraphel's expression sharpened.
"You think it's just a cancellation spell?"
Civilar raised an eyebrow.
"Is it not?"
"My grimoire has a single page called Creation Magic. Speak a word, and the universe recognizes and accepts it. A spell is born. However, you can't do something like create life, like a plant or an organism, or world, or another dimension or timeline, you can only create things like spells that can affect a living organism or things already within the earth, and create objects or weapons with a specific ability, like for example I could summon a sword and have it infused with fire probably enough to burn you to ash."
Civilar narrowed his eyes.
"Oh? Then forget a fair fight—"
He turned to grab his blades.
They were gone.
"Right. No magical items."
Seraphel lifted his hand.
"Creation Magic: Evaporation Beam!"
The four clones fired simultaneously.
Eight beams.
From every direction.
Civilar ran.
Time slowed.
There was no opening.
The beams struck.
Smoke swallowed the field.
"Hmph," Seraphel said. "Bet he didn't get out of that."
The smoke cleared.
Civilar was gone.
Seraphel smirked, dispelling the clones and the cancellation field.
He rushed toward Krythos, who lay with a bloody slash across his chest, struggling to breathe as he choked on his blood.
"Creation Magic: Healing for—"
He didn't get to finish, he felt it... A blade pierced through his chest from behind.
"Seraphel!" Krythos yelped as he then tried to roll onto his stomach and push himself up, and once he had risen to his knees, he saw...
Civilar behind Seraphel, carrying his dual blades, one through Seraphel's chest, the other hanging.
He stood there with a smirk.
"Did you really think you had me?"
Civilar said, as he then took the blade out and back-handed Seraphel in the head, launching him across the field, his spear dragging with him.
"You're a damn devil!-"
Civilar kneeled and gripped his head, as he then began slamming, and slamming it until it bled, and then with the final slam, he crushed his skull completely.
Bits of his brain spilling out, and blood pooling around his crushed head.
Seraphel, in the distance, struggled to get up. He was about to die... But he can't let this man have his grimoire. No... He can't...
He forced himself onto his knees, facing his back towards the direction Civilar was.
Civilar, who had finished slamming Krythos's head, stood up, slowly approaching in the distance."What ya doin' over there? Praying for me to spare your life?" Civilar taunted, snickering with a wide, predatory grin.
Seraphel didn't answer.
He reached into his robe and pulled out his grimoire — the ancient white‑bound book glowing faintly in his trembling hands. With a sharp breath, he created a letter, slid it between the pages, and whispered a chant under his breath.
The grimoire reacted instantly.
Light burst from its surface — bright, pure, blinding — before the book shot upward like a streak of white lightning, vanishing into the sky.
Civilar slowed, eyes narrowing.
At first, he didn't understand what he was seeing.
Then he felt it.
Seraphel's aura flickered…
dimmed…
and then vanished entirely.
His magic — gone.
He had severed his bond to the grimoire.
He had sent it away.
Civilar's expression shifted, the grin fading into something colder.
"You really did it…" he muttered. "You actually gave it up."
Seraphel's body swayed, the last remnants of his mana dissolving into the air like mist.
And then Seraphel's body tipped forward, the last of his strength leaving him.
He collapsed onto the grass, utterly still — his presence fading from the world like a candle snuffed out.
For a moment, the field was silent.
Then Civilar's fury erupted.
Veins rose along his arms, his forehead, his hands — rage boiling through him.
He clenched his blades so tightly the chains rattled violently.
"Damn it!"
His roar tore across the open plain, echoing through the ruined landscape.
The one thing that could have stopped Eiden — the one grimoire that could have given Civilar the advantage — was gone.
Lost.
Sent to someone else.
Out of his reach.
Civilar stood alone in the grassy field, aura simmering with frustration, mind racing.
Where did Seraphel send the grimoire?