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On the eve of the Blood Monsoon
By the second year, the war had broken the Uncharted Wilds.
The land no longer resembled earth—it had become a shifting nightmare of golden ichor and blackened lightning scars. The air itself had grown thick with the God of Sacrifice's presence, each breath tasting of copper and burnt offerings.
Prophet watched from the ruins of a shattered mountain, his eyes tracking the battle raging across three planes of existence simultaneously. The fight was high speed he couldn't follow much of itonly catching glimpses here and there.
Above him, the sky wept.
Not rain. Not water.
Blood.
The God of Sacrifice hovered at the eye of the storm, his form now fully merged with his Divine Kingdom. His body stretched across the horizon, a grotesque tapestry of molten gold and screaming faces. With a gesture, he unleashed the Blood Monsoon ,a downpour of crimson droplets, each one carrying the weight of a thousand sacrifices.
Where they struck:
- The earth dissolved into bubbling pits of gore
-The few remaining trees twisted into living martyrs, their bark splitting to reveal human mouths
- The air itself congealed into strands of bloody mist
The Patriarch stood unmoved at the storm's heart, his cloak flaring against the onslaught. A droplet struck his cheek—
—And his flesh peeled back, revealing bone for the briefest moment before his regeneration sealed the wound.
"Is this your answer?" His voice carried the weight of collapsing stars. "You're not even a true God that ascended to Godhood step by step. You'rejust a concept given form.Yet you drown the world in what you've stolen? "
The God of Sacrifice's laughter shook the battlefield.
"I return what was freely given!"
The Patriarch raised his hand.
Space rippled.
Then
Silence.
Every droplet hung suspended, trembling in the air like a million crimson daggers. The Blood Monsoon had been stopped, frozen between heartbeats by the Patriarch's will.
Prophet felt his own breath catch. This wasn't mere power—this was dominion.
With a flick of his wrist, the Patriarch reversed the storm.
A billion droplets became a billion razors, hurtling back toward their master with the force of divine retribution. The God of Sacrifice's form shredded, his golden flesh flaying apart in ribbons...
...Only to reform moments later, his laughter now edged with something darker.
"You cannot drown a god in blood, Kane. I am blood."
The Patriarch's eyes darkened.
"Then we'll try something else."
---
"You know that I have an army , the Sacrificial Legion shall descend."
The God of Sacrifice slammed his palms together.
The sound wasn't physical—it was the echo of every sacrificial knife ever falling, multiplied infinitely.
From the bleeding earth rose the Sacrificial Legion:
- Ancient kings clad in rusted armor, their crowns fused to their skulls
- Martyrs with hollow eyes and mouths sewn shut with golden thread
- Warriors whose weapons were still embedded in their own chests
Millions. All chanting in unison, their voices the sound of dying breaths.
The Patriarch didn't move.
He didn't need to.
From the void , two figures descended.
Kael Veydran landed first, his boot cracking the earth for miles. His Gravity's End flared—
—And the battlefield curved inward.
Space itself compressed, the Sacrificial Legion's forms stretching grotesquely as they were dragged toward an invisible point. Their screams rose in pitch—
—Then stopped as they were crushed into a singularity no larger than a pebble.
Kael closed his fist.
The singularity vanished.
Lysara Veydran stepped forward, her blue flames casting eerie shadows across the broken land. Where she walked, the air itself burned ,not with heat, but with the raw combustion of souls.
The few remaining martyrs *ignited*, their essences fueling her wrath.
"Father," she said, her voice cool. "End this."
The Patriarch's gaze locked onto the God of Sacrifice.
The god's golden eyes flickered with something like fear.
---
The God of sacrifice had one final gambit in him.
The God of Sacrifice knew he was losing.
His followers were gone.And knowing the Veydrans next theyd target his kingdom on his realm. His storms had failed. His legion had been erased.
But gods do not surrender.
With a roar that shook the Divine Kingdom, he dug his fingers into his own chest. Golden ichor sprayed as he ripped himself open, revealing the Heart of Sacrifice,a pulsing, grotesque organ etched with the names of every soul ever offered to him.
"You want my power, Kane?" he howled.
"Then take it!"
He detonatedthe heart.
The explosion unmade reality.
Light bent. Sound died. The very fabric of the Divine Kingdom peeled away like burning parchment. The Patriarch's lightning shield shattered, the backlash hurling him backward through space itself. Kael and Lysara were thrown like ragdolls, their forms vanishing into the golden firestorm.
And in that moment of chaos...
...The God of Sacrifice struck.
His scythe, now forged from his own divine core, pierced the Patriarch's chest.
Golden light erupted, a geyser of raw divinity.
The god laughed, his voice triumphant.
"Even god-slayers can die."
Then
The Patriarch's hand clamped around the blade.
His fingers, slick with his own blood, tightened.
And he pulled himself forward , the scythe driving deeper, until he stood nose-to-nose with the god, their breaths mingling, their eyes locked.
"Pathetic,"the Patriarch spat.
Lightning erupted from his wound, black and searing, burning through the god's essence. The God of Sacrifice screamed, his golden flesh blackening, his form unraveling...
...But the battle was far from over.
---
The Breaking point had finally happened for the God of Sacrifice.
The explosion's aftermath left a crater miles wide, its edges glowing with molten gold.
Kael hauled himself from the rubble, his armor cracked, his face streaked with blood. Lysara emerged beside him, her blue flames dim but unextinguished.
They found their father kneeling at the crater's heart, the God of Sacrifice's scythe still embedded in his chest. Golden light pulsed from the wound, mingling with the black lightning that coiled around him.
"Father—" Lysara began.
The Patriarch raised a hand, silencing her.
His voice, when he spoke, was a rasp.
"He is not done yet.For now take one legion and go to his realm and destroy everything."
And as if summoned by his words, the God of Sacrifice reformed, his body stitching itself back together from the remnants of his own shattered divinity.
But he was weaker now.
Smaller.
Mortal.
The Patriarch stood, gripping the scythe's hilt.
"Three years," he said. "You lasted longer than most."
Then
He yanked the blade free.
And the final battle began.
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