Even The Gods Fear My Return
Chapter Eight: The Reverberation of the Forgotten
The world did not surrender to sleep that ominous night.
It did not dare to let its guard down, even for the briefest of moments.
Under the night sky, which now bore a disturbing hue of sickly crimson, entire civilizations writhed in an uneasy slumber—or perhaps it was more accurate to say that they did not sleep at all. In every corner of the globe, shadows loomed large, and a palpable apprehension gripped the hearts of many. The wind was no longer a gentle whisper threading through the leaves of trees; instead, it howled through the streets of cities, carrying a heavy, almost primordial echo of something that had been long banished but was now on the cusp of rising again. In the rustle of leaves stirred by the fierce gusts, in the crackling traces of fire flickering in homes, and in the fervent prayers muttered behind trembling lips, there lingered one unmistakable sensation that hung like a specter in the air:
Kazuren walks once more.
Deep within the crumbling vestiges of the Grand Observatory of Nareth, a once-revered sanctuary used by seers to decipher the destinies inscribed in the stars, a miraculous phenomenon was taking place. The observatory had become a hauntingly beautiful fragment of the past, but now, its glass lenses were beginning to bleed light—not in a figurative sense, but in a spectacularly literal manifestation. True, radiant tears of starlight streamed down fractured glass, pooling at the heart of the observatory's grand celestial dial. The intricate symbols embossed upon the dial twisted and wriggled like sentient beings rebelling against their stasis. Then, with an astonishing fluidity, these symbols reformed into a new and enigmatic shape—one that scholars and sages alike had not glimpsed in millennia, a shape so foreign that it sparked fear and intrigue in equal measure.
A sigil emerged, wreathed in a crown of flame that danced silently, resonating with a chilling finality.
In the majestic floating city of Aezaleth, where angels once soared effortlessly amongst the ethereal translucent bridges and luminous spires that kissed the sky, an unimaginable event transpired. The heavens above cracked open like an ancient parchment worn thin by the passage of time. No booming thunder or blinding flash of lightning announced this cataclysmic occurrence—only a soundless fracture, reminiscent of glass splintering beneath the weight of a crushing reality.
From this rift did not descend a fearsome creature nor a divine ambassador.
Instead, what emerged was a memory.
A haunting, almost sacred memory, so vivid and palpable that it left indelible scars upon the very fabric of the world simply by reemerging into consciousness.
A wave of citizens collapsed where they stood, their bodies overwhelmed by overwhelming visions. They were struck by memories that were never meant for their minds—visions of gods shrieking in terror, thrones splintering into countless pieces, and a name resonating across the void, spoken in a language so ancient that even time itself seemed to falter.
Kazuren.
And just like that, the heavens above sealed themselves once more.
But the damage had already been wrought, and the world was forever altered.
Beneath the surface of the Earth, in the heart of existence itself, an ancient altar located beneath the buried ruins of the First Temple—the fabled ground where deities had once trod during their infancy—awoke from its slumber. This was no ordinary awakening; the altar ignited, not in a blaze of conventional fire, but in illuminating truth, a revelation that sent tremors through the ages. The stone upon which this sacred structure was built began to fracture, revealing an inner slab that glistened with a sheen of living gold, an artifact imbued with relentless power.
Once, twelve names had been inscribed deep into its hallowed surface, symbols of divine promise and celestial legacy.
Now, only eleven remained etched in that radiant stone.
And where the twelfth name had once resided, an obsidian flame flickered violently… its hunger insatiable, as if desperate for sustenance that only chaos could provide.
Above in the lofty heights of the Celestial Citadel, the pantheon of gods convened once more—though not a single one dared to claim their throne.
Not after the tragic fate of Vaelios.
Erethur, a titan among the deities, stood at the precipice of the expansive Celestial Prism, a vast balcony that offered an eternal view of the realms far below. His gaze did not reflect wonder or curiosity; rather, it was cold, calculating, and deeply contemplative. Behind him, the gods engaged in fervent discourse—some murmuring in hushed tones, while others raised their voices in fervor—but he held his silence, an island amidst a turbulent sea of arguments.
Then, without prelude, a bolt of pure, inky black lightning cleaved through the fabric of the sky beneath them.
The gods froze in unison, caught off guard by the sudden and terrifying display.
"That came from the mortal realm," one of them whispered, peering down in disbelief.
"No," Erethur interjected, his voice devoid of emotion. "That energy came from beneath it."
All eyes turned upon him, the weight of their collective unease thick in the air.
"Then what lies buried beneath the surface?" asked Iserion, the God of Fate, his voice underlined with trepidation.
Erethur's gaze grew steely, narrowing with intent. "Something we locked away before any of us bore these names."
Far below, in the desolated and scorched remains of the Vale of Silence, a solitary figure trudged through the desolate black sands, each step laden with palpable foreboding.
Kazuren.
His dark cape billowed behind him like tendrils of smoke unfurling from the remnants of a dying star. With every stride he took, the very land beneath him began to shift and reform—dead flowers sprang back to life only to wither away once more in an endless cycle of bloom and decay. Time itself contorted around him, attempting fruitlessly to capture his essence, to categorize him within its relentless march. Yet he was no longer tethered to the timeline; he had transcended the limitations of such constructs.
He came to a halt before a mirror—no ordinary reflection but a relic of the gods, an object they had forsaken when they sought to erase him from memory.
The mirror shimmered and glowed enticingly.
And in its reflective surface, Kazuren beheld not his current form…
…but the remnants of the man he once was—a man who had knelt in abject submission before twelve radiant beings, pleading for mercy and understanding.
He stared long and hard into that reflection, and with a surge of defiance, he raised a hand, commanding the space that had once chained him.
"I no longer kneel," he declared, the words echoing with irrevocable strength.
In response, the mirror shattered into a cascade of stardust, scattering remnants of his past across the cosmos in a dazzling display.
Meanwhile, in a distant monastery nestled within a rugged landscape, a young monk jolted awake from a restless sleep, his breath quickening in the stillness of the night.
He had never encountered Kazuren, nor had he ever heard his name uttered aloud before this moment.
But in his vivid dream, he had stood shoulder to shoulder with a golden-eyed man as the entire heavens trembled and quaked in their presence.
Tears streamed down his cheeks, unbidden and warm.
And he whispered into the darkened corners of the night, his voice trembling with the echo of a profound realization….
To be continued...