The void between worlds trembled as Lucian approached the edge of a forbidden realm—Empyrealis, the Supreme Divine Realm. There was no such thing as "earth" here. Empyrealis was a kingdom built upon the infinite expanse of the cosmos itself: great floating cathedrals drifted through stellar clouds, and ancient palaces shimmered within nebulae, suspended in the fabric of space. Here, the stars bowed to divine will, and the divine themselves played with the fates of entire universes as if toying with dice.
Lucian hovered silently at the border, cloaked in shadows that defied celestial recognition. His usual aura, a torrent of abyssal power, was sealed—compressed into a faint ember of divinity, tailored to impersonate a middle higher-level god. In this realm, even the smallest slip could trigger annihilation.
He whispered to himself, "Let the masquerade begin."
His eyes glinted with cold resolve. His mission was twofold: reclaim the Ring of Death, an ancient artifact containing forbidden weapons and a portion of the God of Darkness, and to announce his return to the multiverse by slaying four candidates of the God of Light.
But this would not be a tale of brute force—not yet. This was the game of gods.
Empyrealis sprawled endlessly, a patchwork of divine dominions orbiting one another in a twisted symphony. The heart of it was The High Sanctum, a palace forged from crystallized light and cosmic law. Surrounding it were domains like The Labyrinth Choir, The Arena of Celestial Valor, and The Infinite Garden of Providence, each ruled by gods steeped in pride and cruelty.
Lucian emerged within the Dawning Ascent Portico, a gate of white marble floating above a gas giant, where lesser and mid-tier gods arrived to register themselves. It was a glorified checkpoint—yet as critical as the gates of hell.
He had forged his credentials—"Xelarios, the God of Unseen Bonds"—a name that echoed softly with manufactured divinity. His fabricated domain? "Emotional Tethers and Loyalty." Obscure enough to avoid suspicion, yet oddly respectable.
At the portico, Lucian passed beneath massive winged statues—each bleeding light. The attending gods, robed in armor forged from starfire and vows, gazed at him with only fleeting interest.
"Another mid-tier, I see," one scoffed, barely lifting his brow.
Lucian bowed with calculated humility. "The tides of fate beckon us all."
He passed through.
Inside Empyrealis, divine life was surreal—and brutal.
Floating palaces hosted feasts where gods dined on the essence of dying stars, while games of cruelty played across entire mortal worlds. Middle gods enforced their domains with obsessive rituals, and the weak suffered endlessly.
Lucian saw it all in silence—the glamour, the vanity, the madness.
At the Celestial Archives, he brushed past Thalmera, Goddess of Harmony and Chains, as she calmly rewrote the will of an entire civilization. In the Sky Arena, he watched Velkran the Iron-Blood Tyrant command a legion of divine gladiators to tear apart a rebellious demigod limb by limb for sport.
"Monsters wearing halos," Lucian muttered.
He kept his distance, playing the part of a quiet observer, but his mind worked endlessly. The Ring of Death was hidden within the Vault of Withheld Fates, located beneath The Obelisk of Silent Judgement—a sanctum guarded by divine law and riddles older than galaxies.
Getting close was suicide.
Unless you were already within the divine system.
Lucian began working his way through the twisted social ladders of Empyrealis. He attended divine banquets, offered obscure prayers in the Temples of Recognition, and subtly manipulated divine bonds to build a network of influence.
It wasn't long before whispers of Xelarios, the Silent Binder reached the ears of a few notable gods.
"Quiet, polite, oddly insightful."
"He predicted my worshippers' rebellion before it happened. Curious."
And so, Lucian was summoned.
The Temple of Equinox—a grand floating structure suspended between two neutron stars—was the neutral ground of divine politics. Here sat Serisya, Weaver of Fatescales, and Kaelthar, God of Sacred Beasts, both known for their unpredictable cruelty.
Lucian knelt before them in ritual humility.
"Xelarios," Serisya purred, her voice like stardust caught in a storm. "What do you seek in Empyrealis?"
"Only to serve where needed. To strengthen divine accord."
Kaelthar laughed, sharp and beastly. "A rare attitude. Most gods come here clawing for prestige."
"I prefer threads over swords," Lucian said, eyes lowered.
They were intrigued.
Slowly, Lucian's name spread through the floating dominions. Not famous, but familiar. The perfect camouflage. More importantly, he gained access to the divine routes—cosmic roads that connected each major sanctum.
This was the key.
As the Aurora Couriers danced across the skies and temples sang their cruel hymns, Lucian walked alone, hidden in plain sight, mapping every barrier, every divine resonance, every lock that guarded the Vault of Withheld Fates.
Then, on the day of the Festival of Divine Illumination, when the gods would be distracted by their ceremonial purging of a hundred mortal worlds—Lucian made his move.
He stood before the Obelisk of Silent Judgement, cloaked in the illusion of ritual.
But this was no prayer.
It was infiltration.
The Obelisk pulsed like a heart, each beat emitting divine pressure. Any lower god would be vaporized in moments.
Lucian, cloaked in layers of forged divinity and illusions born of abyssal mastery, knelt in reverence while his mind and senses expanded. Every rune, every ripple in the stone, every fluctuation in sacred rhythm—he consumed them like data.
"This place is a prison for forbidden things," he whispered. "And I am the warden they never saw coming."
He pressed his hand to the base of the Obelisk. There was no lock to pick, no door to open. The Vault responded only to intent—to gods who understood the purpose behind secrets.
Lucian's mind echoed with memories—not of his past, but of the forgotten will of the God of Darkness.
"I reclaim what was once mine."
The ground below him dissolved into radiant mist, and Lucian dropped into a tunnel of light and shadow—the vault's inner sanctum.
Here floated the Ring of Death—a black band wrapped in invisible flame, suspended above a dais carved from the bones of fallen gods.
Around it stood the Guardians of Paradox—timeless constructs of divine logic, impossible to kill, impossible to fool.
Lucian didn't need to fight them.
He bowed and whispered in the dead language of pre-divine times. "I am the Shadow of the First Flame. I am the echo of the God they buried. I am the rightful bearer."
The constructs did not move. But a single pulse rang through the vault—a recognition.
The Ring descended into his hand.
And the moment it touched him—
The abyss awakened.
Power surged through Lucian's body. Memories, blades, screams—everything the God of Darkness had buried in the ring roared to life. Lucian's eyes flashed black with starlit veins, his aura pulsing like the birth of a black hole.
But it wasn't done yet.
The Vault began to collapse. The Guardians awakened, reacting too late.
Lucian vanished into the dark, just as the Obelisk exploded in radiant silence—
—and the gods began to notice.
"Something was taken."
"A heretic walks among us."
The stage was set.
The infiltration was complete.