The snow had stopped.
The mountain no longer growled under the weight of unseen eyes, and the thick clouds that once choked the skies had cleared. Sunlight pierced the haze for the first time in weeks, casting long rays over the ruined village below.
Jalen stood at the edge of the crumbling stone path, his breath still ragged. The semi-awakened power had long since faded, leaving behind a hollow ache that ran through his bones. Every step hurt. But it was over.
Veyruun was gone.
Lucio walked beside him, his coat torn, knuckles still wrapped but bloodied and worn. Nathan lagged behind, one hand pressed against his ribs, the other flickering with unstable pulses of time. Kullen took up the rear, his cloak dragging through the dirt, eyes focused ahead.
They descended the mountain in silence.
As they reached the foot of the trail, the village greeted them not with dread, but peace. The once-glassy stares of its residents were now softened, alive. They blinked, breathed, touched the walls and one another with hesitant joy, as if returning from a dream.
One of the children approached, a girl no older than seven, her hands trembling as she held out a single flower to Jalen.
He knelt slowly, accepting it with a faint nod.
"Thank you for saving us," she whispered.
He didn't have the words. Just a tired smile and a gentle pat on her head.
From a distance, Ephraim stood near the withered tree at the village edge—no longer bound, no longer translucent. His form shimmered like morning fog.
"You've done more than break a god," he said softly. "You've unburdened an entire memory."
"Is that what you were?" Kullen asked.
Ephraim nodded once. "The voice of the village. A remnant, no longer needed." His gaze turned to Jalen. "You will face worse than judgment on your path forward. But now… you have more than power."
"What's that?" Jalen asked.
Ephraim smiled faintly. "Understanding."
And with that, he vanished. Not crumbled. Not shattered. Just… faded.
Gone.
Before the group departed, the villagers guided them to the center of the village, where a newly carved monument had been placed. Primitive, but heartfelt.
Four figures stood together in the stone.
Jalen was carved in the center, arms raised as if holding up the sky. The others flanked him—Lucio, rifle in hand; Nathan with his arm raised to the wind; and Kullen, head bowed like a strategist in prayer.
Below them were dozens of villagers, hands raised not in worship, but in thanks.
Lucio stared. "They made you taller."
Jalen smirked. "They're not wrong."
*Weeks Later – Everlock*
The wind howled across the castle spires. Kuromi sat alone in the war room, the candlelight flickering against the steel map etched into the table. Rhea sat cross-legged across from her, polishing her dagger, though her eyes had drifted toward the horizon more times than she cared to count.
A knock came at the door. One of the royal messengers stepped in with a scroll and a sealed box.
"From Lord Kullen," the courier said.
Kuromi snatched the scroll and tore it open, reading silently. Her eyes narrowed, lips twitching with something between exasperation and concern.
Rhea tilted her head. "Well?"
Kuromi handed the scroll over.
"Rhea—he says, 'Hi.' And that you better not move an inch. Which, considering it's Jalen, was written in all caps and smeared in ink like he fought a pen and lost."
Rhea smiled uncontrollably. "Of course he did. That's my big brother for you."
Kuromi turned back to the scroll, reading the rest aloud.
Kuromi, I'm sending this letter along with Veyruun's artifact—one of the keys we need to get everyone home. You'll find it secured in the box.
We're headed next to a land swallowed by war. The locals call it Zereth Kai. It's ruled by a god named Kieros—the God of War and Conquest.
He's no puzzle like Veyruun. He is fury incarnate. And from what we've heard, his land will not welcome strangers with questions or compassion.
Do not follow. Do not leave Everlock. Prepare the city for the worst, but pray for our success. Hopefully, we will return in about three to four months.
I will write again when we can.
— Kullen
Kuromi cracked the box open and lifted a dark, pulsating crystal shaped like a scale—a remnant of Veyruun's domain.
"A key…" Rhea murmured.
Kuromi nodded. "And they are off to another battlefield."
That night, Rhea sat in her room, the letter clutched in her hand. She read Jalen's message again and again.
"Tell Rhea I said hi. And tell her not to move. Not an inch. She's got people who need her there."
She folded the letter with care and whispered,"Don't change too much out there… okay?"
As the group traveled, stories began to spread—rumors of a group that brought down a god. Villagers and townsfolk began whispering a new title.
"The god who walks among mortals."
Jalen groaned when he heard it at an inn.
Nathan smirked. "You hear what they're calling you?"
"Please tell me it's not that god crap again."
Lucio raised a mug. "To the divine dumbass who doesn't know how to quit."
Kullen said nothing. He looked at Jalen with the quiet realization:
That title might stick.
Far across the continent, beyond mountains too jagged for trade and rivers too poisoned for crossing, there lay a land soaked in blood and shadow.
Zereth Kai.
It was not a kingdom. It was a wound.
Smoke curled endlessly into the sky, choking out the stars. Cities were nothing more than fractured ruins with banners nailed to their corpses—each one bearing the symbol of conquest: a crimson sword impaling a crown.
Fields once ripe with grain were now battlegrounds. Blades rusted in the earth. Bones peeked through the mud. Soldiers did not march—they staggered, armor cracked, skin blistered, eyes vacant from endless conflict.
Above it all, suspended in the sky like a divine omen, was the eye—red and burning, vast enough to blot out the sun. It watched without blinking, a god's gaze that made grown men forget their names.
They didn't speak of Kieros. They invoked him.
The God of War and Conquest did not give commands. He gave decrees.
Where Veyruun offered judgment…
Kieros offered only slaughter.
In a shattered outpost near the edge of the warfront, two soldiers stood atop a blood-soaked hill, watching the eye pulse like a living flame.
One clutched a broken sword, the other a cracked shield.
"Did you feel it?" the younger one murmured, his voice hoarse. "When Veyruun fell?"
The older man nodded once. "I did."
"You think it'll change anything?"
"No." He stared at the burning eye. "It means the next god is watching."
Far below, in the heart of Zereth Kai, war drums began to thunder—not from flesh, but from the earth itself. Each beat echoed across the ravaged land like a heartbeat.
Like a warning.
And from deep within a blackened fortress of smoke and steel, a voice spoke—drenched in conquest, sharpened by wrath:
"Let them come."