Tarn hated the silence.
It wasn't natural.
No bugs. No birds. No wind through leaves.Just stillness. And pressure.The sky here didn't breathe. It watched.
He stood in the Hall of Sparks.A wide, glowing arena surrounded by floating runes.Other gods watched from above—silent, distant, judging.
He wasn't one of them.
Not yet.
The woman from before stepped forward.She hadn't given her name. Didn't matter.She was his handler now. Trainer. Babysitter.
"You've awakened as a Vanyrian. But you're a newborn," she said."You need to learn what your spark can do."
"I don't want it."
"That doesn't matter. You have it."
She raised a hand. A wave of force struck him in the gut—sent him flying.Tarn hit the ground hard, rolled, and growled.
"This is divine pressure," she said calmly."If you can't resist that, you won't survive the Lower Rings, much less face the Sky King."
Tarn stood. Spat blood.
"Again."
She attacked.
Waves of pure force.Cuts made of wind.Burning light that peeled the skin.
Tarn didn't fight back at first.He took it. Felt it. Absorbed every piece of pain.
Until something changed.
His skin started to glow—not fire. Not Lifefire.
Something deeper.
His veins lit up—like lava running under rock.His hands trembled. His breath slowed.
Then it burst.
A wave of red energy exploded around him—raw and wild.
The woman stumbled back, surprised.
Tarn looked down.
The cloud floor had cracked beneath his feet.
He wasn't using Lifefire anymore.
This was something else.
"That's your Divine Core," the woman said, regaining her stance."Every god has one. It replaces the soul you had before."
"Then what is this?" Tarn asked, voice low.
"Your spark has bonded with your will. It's not refined. Not shaped."
She circled him like a predator.
"Most Vanyrians control light, thought, gravity. Clean, sharp powers.""But you? You're… different."
Tarn raised his hand. Red energy pulsed.It looked like flame—but it wasn't hot.It bent space around it.Made the air shake.
"This isn't just power," he muttered."It's rage."
"Yes. And rage must be focused."
The rest of the day was brutal.
He trained.
He fought against illusions. Simulations.Shadow-versions of gods.Each one stronger than the last.
He learned to shape his power.
It responded to emotions. Not thought.Not commands.Feeling.
When he burned with hate—it grew claws.When he remembered his people—it became armor.When he screamed—it exploded.
He had no name for it.
But it wasn't divine.
It was something deeper.Older.
A Wrath Spark.
That night, Tarn sat alone.
The stars above flickered like they were afraid.
He clenched his fist.
The red power glowed again.Alive. Breathing. Hungry.
"I don't need to be a god," he whispered.
"I just need to be strong enough to kill one."