The discovery of the shrine became a turning point. It was no longer a desperate flight; it was a crusade. Ravi's followers, who now numbered close to a hundred, saw the murals and finally understood. Their Ashen One was not just a powerful being; he was the original being. The truth gave their desperation a core of righteous, unshakeable fury.
For a week, they used the shrine as a base. Ravi taught them nothing, yet they learned everything. They watched him, saw his utter disregard for the false gods, and their own lifelong fear began to erode. They scavenged weapons, trained under Velvara's unforgiving eye, and transformed from a mob of victims into a small, jagged army of zealots.
Then, Ravi began to walk toward the surface. It was time. The slum revolts, sparked by his actions, had reached a fever pitch. The districts were in chaos. It was the perfect moment to strike at the heart of the Theogarchy's power in the Ruinspire Ward: The Temple of the Gilded Sigh.
The temple was a monstrous, half-finished structure of white marble and gold leaf that loomed over the squalor like a sneer. Its steps were stained with the blood of the day's riots. Hundreds of slum dwellers, armed with clubs and torches, threw themselves against the temple's massive bronze doors, only to be cut down by the disciplined ranks of Temple Guards holding the line.
Ravi's small army emerged from the sewer grates and joined the fray. Velvara was a crimson whirlwind at their head, her blade singing a hymn of death. Jugthar was a roaring beast, his massive fists crushing helmets and breastplates. The mute girl moved like a phantom, her small knife finding the weak points in armor with unnerving precision.
But Ravi did not join them.
He watched as his followers were cut down, as their blood painted the steps, as their desperate war cries were silenced. He felt each death, not with sadness, but as an accountant tallies a necessary expense. This was their sacrifice. Their test of faith.
While the battle raged at the doors, Ravi walked to the side of the temple, a sheer wall of polished marble that rose a hundred feet into the air. He placed his hand on its surface.
"Let stone remember its liquid heart," he whispered.
The marble beneath his palm rippled like water. He pushed his hand into the wall, then his arm, and then his entire body, melting into the solid stone without a sound. He passed through the temple's foundation as if it were fog, re-emerging on the other side, inside the main sanctuary.
He was alone.
The chamber was immense, a cavern of gold and white. Light streamed from an oculus high above, illuminating a golden altar where three figures stood waiting. They were not priests or guards. They were the Bishops of Ruinspire, the temple's masters, and they were clad in consecrated battle armor, glowing with divine energy. Each of them held a weapon that hummed with captured solar fire—a spear, an axe, and a greatsword.
"So, the False Spark reveals itself," the lead Bishop, a man named Valerius with a face like a hawk, said. His voice was calm, arrogant. "You reek of the Pit, heretic. Did you truly think you could walk into our sanctum unchallenged?"
Ravi said nothing. He simply started walking toward them.
"You have blasphemed, incited rebellion, and murdered servants of the Light," Valerius continued, raising his spear of golden flame. "Your judgment is here."
He hurled the spear. It flew through the air not as a projectile, but as a bolt of pure, solidified sunlight, leaving a trail of burning air in its wake. It was aimed directly at Ravi's heart.
Ravi did not dodge. He did not raise a hand to block it. He continued his slow, deliberate walk and let the spear hit him.
It struck him dead center in the chest, the impact echoing like a thunderclap. The spearhead of pure energy pierced his flesh and tore through his back, pinning him like an insect. For a moment, he was silhouetted against its blinding light, a hole of burning energy bored straight through his torso.
The Bishops smiled, their victory assured.
But Ravi did not fall. He didn't even flinch. He simply stopped walking. He looked down at the spear of divine flame protruding from his chest with a look of mild curiosity, as if examining a peculiar splinter.
A third fragment of his power, drawn out by the direct assault, awoke in his soul. It was a law of his own being, a truth he had long forgotten.
His quiet voice filled the sanctuary. "Let wounds deny time."
The effect was instantaneous and horrifying. The fiery, gaping wound did not heal. It unhappened. Time reversed itself on his flesh. The torn muscle, the shattered bone, the vaporized organs—they flowed backward through causality, re-knitting themselves into a pristine state. The spear, now embedded in whole, untouched flesh, was rejected. It began to dissolve, its divine energy unraveling, turning to rust and harmless dust while still inside him. In a matter of seconds, it was gone. His ragged tunic fell back into place over a chest that bore no mark, no scratch, not even a speck of blood.
The Bishops' smiles vanished, replaced by stark, abject terror.
"Impossible…" one of them stammered. "That was the Sun's Wrath! No mortal can—"
He never finished the sentence. Ravi was moving. He closed the distance between them in a blink, a silent phantom of vengeance. He grabbed the Bishop's head in one hand. There was no grand display of power, just a simple, brutal exertion of physical force. A sharp twist. A sound like a thick branch snapping. The Bishop fell, his head lolling at an unnatural angle.
The second Bishop swung his greatsword of fire in a desperate, panicked arc. Ravi sidestepped it, the blade of pure heat passing so close it should have incinerated him. He brought his hand up in a simple, open-palmed strike against the flat of the blade. The resulting shockwave shattered the weapon into a thousand glittering shards of light and sent the Bishop staggering backward, his arms numb. Ravi followed, his hand clamping over the man's face, and simply… squeezed. The Bishop's helmet crumpled like paper, and his head collapsed under the pressure.
Valerius, the last one standing, was frozen in place, his aristocratic arrogance completely shattered. He could only stare as Ravi, his face a mask of cold indifference, dropped the headless corpse and turned to face him.
Just then, the great bronze doors of the sanctuary burst open. Velvara stood there, covered in blood—her own and that of her enemies. Behind her, the remnants of their small army stared in horror and awe. They had won the battle at the gates, but they had arrived too late to help their god.
Tears of fear and frustration welled in Velvara's eyes. Fear not for him, but that he had been forced to face this danger alone. "My lord!" she cried out, taking a step forward.
Ravi held up a hand, and she stopped. His attention was solely on the terrified Bishop Valerius. He took one final, slow step forward until he was face-to-face with the last bastion of the Theogarchy's power in this ward.
Then, and only then, did he deign to speak to his enemy.
"You are judged," he said, his voice a quiet death knell.
And his hand, quicker than sight, shot forward and tore out the Bishop's throat.