Somewhere in the vast expanse of space, amid a mesmerizing ballet of drifting asteroids and radiant nebulae, lay the Divine Federation. Here, a multitude of celestial vessels—pilgrims embarking on sacred quests—filled the void, each ship a testament to the universe's boundless mysteries.
Amidst this cosmic tapestry, a floating temple commanded awe and reverence. Resting atop a colossal meteorite—its massive form rivaling that of an island—the temple ascended like a beacon of divine light. Its structure, reminiscent of a towering spire, was crafted entirely of godsteel, a fabled metal imbued with the essence of divinity. This celestial alloy was renowned as the most powerful substance in the cosmos, its creation steeped in ancient lore and celestial rites.
Intricate divine runes adorned the godsteel, their luminous script naturally inscribed upon its surface. These sacred symbols pulsed with an ethereal glow, serving as conduits for the divine energy coursing through the metal. Every rune, every gleaming facet of the temple, resonated with a mystical power that spoke of the union between creation and the divine, transforming the floating edifice into a living testament to the boundless spirituality of the universe.
In this remote corner of space, where the fabric of reality intertwined with the mysteries of the divine, the temple stood as an enduring symbol of hope, transcendence, and the eternal quest for enlightenment.
Pilgrims from across the galaxies ventured to this sacred temple, drawn by the whispers of eternity. They came seeking guidance, answers, and blessings—hoping to catch even a glimpse of the wisdom said to flow from the gods and the Divine Emperor himself, the mythic being who, according to legend, had sculpted existence from the infinite darkness of the void.
Among these seekers, one figure stood apart.
Clad in a tight black battle suit that shimmered faintly with defensive sigils, and draped in a tattered obsidian cloak that danced in the low gravity, the figure ascended the dazzling golden-bronze stairs in silence. His face remained hidden behind a bullhorned mask of unknown alloy, giving him the appearance of a forgotten war god. Yet his posture carried no arrogance—only solemnity and humility, like a penitent knight returning to the cradle of divinity.
As he climbed, he was greeted by a magnificent tapestry that stretched across an entire wall, woven with threads of starlight and memory. It depicted the epic saga of the cosmos: celestial wars waged before time, the births of gods and titans, and the forging of worlds in the furnace of eternity. Primordial beasts soared through the weave, ancient heroes clashed with chaos, and in the center—towering above all—stood the Divine Emperor, casting light into the void.
The interior of the temple radiated reverence and grandeur. White flames floated in mid-air, suspended in elegant crystal basins, illuminating the chamber with a holy brilliance. The walls were lined with statues—each a god of the Annunaki pantheon. Some bore the visages of warriors, their weapons raised in glory; others had serene expressions, cloaked in wisdom and mystery. Their stone forms were etched with runes and glyphs, pulsating faintly with divine energy.
The scent of sacred incense curled through the air—earthy, ancient, and calming. It spoke of forgotten rites and long-lost prayers, lulling the spirit into reverence. Every step within the temple felt like stepping deeper into legend, into a realm where mortals might catch echoes of the divine.
And yet, for the masked pilgrim, this was not his first time beneath these sacred flames. His steps were silent, yet deliberate, each footfall echoing like a distant bell through the hallowed corridors. As he ascended to the temple's uppermost floor—a level forbidden even to the Supreme Pontiff without express sanction—his aura shifted. The humility remained, but it was now laced with purpose, with memory.
This was not a visit of devotion. It was a return.
Mallus, commander of the elusive and feared Sector Zero, walked the corridor with the bearing of one who knew the weight of cosmic secrets. His black cloak fluttered faintly in the sterile air as he reached the chamber at the end of the corridor—the heart of the temple, sealed to all but the most exalted.
The door opened without sound, revealing the Sanctum of Thrones.
Twelve godsteel thrones dominated the massive chamber, each a relic of impossible craftsmanship. Eleven stood grounded in a semicircle formation, while the twelfth—immense and resplendent—hovered high above them, suspended in divine energy. Each of the lower thrones cradled a golden skeleton, their bones glinting like sacred relics under the flickering white flames. They were draped in pristine white garments, untouched by time or decay.
The throne above had once borne a black crown—the Crown of Dominion, forged from obsidian star-ore and divine sorrow. But that crown was now absent.
Mallus's gaze lingered on the space where it had once rested. He thought of the Crown of Thorns he had gifted to Hekate—his final act of faith, or perhaps his greatest mistake. The memory bit into him like a cold blade. He quickly cast it aside. There was no room for regret here.
His attention shifted to the central throne among the eleven. Though the figure upon it was as still and lifeless as the others, it radiated a profound presence—as if the soul of its occupant still watched, still listened. Mallus could feel it: the weight of divinity compressed into the brittle architecture of bone.
These were the Divine Saints—legendary beings who had once walked among mortals, said to be the founders of the Twelve Celestial Houses that formed the pillars of the Divine Federation. In life, they had conquered worlds, shaped faith, and touched the stars. In death, they had been granted godhood by the Divine Emperor himself.
Their mortal remains had undergone Deification, an ancient and forbidden rite that allowed their bodies to serve as living conduits—mediums through which their immortal forms could descend when called. Even now, their thrones pulsed faintly with divine resonance, like the slow heartbeat of sleeping gods.
Mallus knelt.
Not out of worship, but reverence—for what they were, and for what he would soon become.
As Mallus bowed, the weight of divine presence pressed down upon him like a star collapsing inwards. It was not just a spiritual force—it was a metaphysical pressure, one that cracked through the layers of his soul and gnawed at the edges of his sanity. He gritted his teeth behind the bullhorned mask, every instinct screaming to collapse beneath the crushing intensity. But he endured, as he always had.
Then the voice came—an echo not of sound, but of will. It pierced directly into his mind, bypassing the need for language, stripping away defenses he didn't know he still had. His internal senses, honed from decades of cultivation and warfare, flared in alarm. It was like having a star's core ignited inside his consciousness.
If the mask hadn't covered his face, one would have seen the grimace, the twitch in his jaw, the flicker of pain in his eyes. The expression of a man enduring a divine storm with no shelter.
The mouth of the golden skeleton did not move, but the voice thundered in his soul.
"You have returned to us… not in success, but in failure."
It was Krios, the General of the Divine Saints—first among the Twelve, second only to the Divine Emperor himself. His voice was law. His judgment, unshakable.
"Leon Haravok, heir to the Lost Empire, has transcended his mortal form and is approaching godhood.And so is Terra, that blasphemous planet."
The last word laced with disgust, as though the very name soiled the sanctum.
Mallus did not lift his head. He bowed lower, pressing a fist to his chest.
"Forgive me, O Divine Servants of the Most High… but I underestimated the witch."
He could not say her name without bitterness—Julia Haravok. His mind flared with old thoughts, old failures. Once, he had considered ending her after killing her husband, Jonathan Haravok, a warrior noble and key resistance leader. He thought removing him would be enough. She was insignificant, a grieving widow barely clinging to life.
He had been wrong. She had survived. And worse, she had become a threat. Mallus clenched his jaw as the memories came unbidden. He remembered the ritual, the curse—a construct of entropy woven with soul-venom and anchored in temporal decay. A curse designed to unravel Leon Haravok from the inside out.
It should have worked. But the boy's will was unnatural. He clung to life with a tenacity that defied fate itself. And that defiance—his survival—had been the catalyst. It gave Julia conviction. Enough to step beyond the veil. Enough to walk the forbidden path of fate alteration. Enough… to become a threat beyond Mallus's original calculations.
He did not voice these thoughts aloud. He did not need to. The Divine Saints knew. Their minds were like mirrors to the soul. He could only bow deeper, trembling beneath the shadow of judgment.
"Hmph! So you underestimated a mother's love for her child," Another voice rang through Mallus's mind—cutting, cold, laced with scorn. "Not only have you failed to eliminate the last of the Noavellion bloodline or the Asha'Yee, but you've allowed a mortal to trespass upon the domain of the gods and toy with fate itself."
It was Karkinos, the Divine Saint of the Cancer House—known for her brutal honesty and unforgiving tongue. Her mind voice slithered like a blade across Mallus's thoughts, seeking guilt, weakness, and shame. And for a moment, it found all three.
"Enough, Karkinos." Krios's voice struck through the sanctum like thunder wrapped in calm."There is no need to recite his litany of sins. What matters now… is how he will respond to this failure."
Mallus lifted his chin slightly—just enough to speak, never enough to be seen as insolent.
"I understand the gravity of what I've allowed to happen," he said. "But know this—Sector Zero will not falter. We will make certain that Terra falls into the hands of the Divine Federation. Every opposition will be crushed. The light of the Divine Emperor will spread across the Milky Way, and I—" his voice tightened, his soul bracing against his own vow, "—I will personally hunt down Leon Haravok… and erase him."
A silence followed. Then—
"No."
The word came like a decree of fate, sealing Mallus's future in stone.
"The time has come… for us to take action." Krios's voice was heavier now, resolute and ancient. "The Celestial Realignment is still underway. Terra has stirred, yes, but its full awakening has not yet been completed. The Asha'Yee… remains unready. Therefore, in this narrowing window, we, the Divine Saints, shall descend once more."
A pulse of blinding light shot down from the heavens, striking one of the lower thrones with divine authority.
The chamber trembled.
The white flames flickered wildly as the skeletal figure within the throne began to move—bones knitting together with inhuman speed, divine energy weaving organs, muscle, veins, and tendons with masterful precision. A heartbeat echoed across the room like a war drum, followed by the bloom of flesh—pale, perfect, ageless.
The white garment dissolved into radiant particles, replaced by armor forged of starlight and silver essence, glimmering with constellations that moved across its surface like living maps of fate. A longbow, engraved with runes of pursuit and destiny, formed behind him, slung in a silver arc over his shoulder. A quiver of chromatic arrows hung at his back—each arrow capable of erasing a continent, or restoring life.
In his hand, he held a spear of amethyst, its shaft humming with restrained divinity. Its spearhead gleamed like crystallized willpower, and its presence radiated ancient judgment. It was a relic from the days before the Federation, before even the Divine Emperor had risen—when gods still hunted each other across galaxies.
Violet hair shimmered down his back, eyes of amaranth flame locking onto Mallus like the gaze of a predator assessing its prey.
Krotus, the Divine Saint of Sagittarius House—the Huntsman of the Divine Emperor—had descended.
The chamber bowed to his presence. Even the authority Krios had once held was eclipsed, swallowed by Krotus's sheer divine weight. Mallus immediately dropped lower into his bow, every fiber of his being screaming obedience. He dared not speak. He dared not move. He had asked for a second chance. But now the gods were no longer watching.
They were moving.