Ancestral Lineage

The celestial plateau trembled.

From the seven points of the star, the god-essence had grown so potent it warped reality itself. Time fractured. Light bled into shadow. The laws that governed the planes of existence began to blur.

At the center, Vorden's eyes opened.

They glowed not with a single color, but with every god-art fused into harmony—Fire, Shadow, Transfiguration, Metal, Psychic, Light, and more. He had long surpassed the concept of dual awakening. He was approaching a realm where even classification was meaningless.

One by one, the others opened their eyes.

Alma's hair whipped around her like a divine maelstrom, her Wind God-Art merging with the essence of balance itself. Her twin blades hovered beside her, singing with celestial resonance.

Lith purred as his feline form dissolved, replaced by something half-spirit, half-reality. His grin said he remembered mischief, but his aura made even spirits bow instinctively.

Radar's body was like a mountain carved from the bones of titans, his connection to Earth forged with unshakable determination. Keira hovered beside him, her crimson aura rich with ancestral power—Blood and Curse entwined in divine elegance.

Kyle stood like a pillar of resolve, and Kira, ever quiet, radiated a silence so deep it erased sound. All of them had reached the boundary.

And then… they crossed it.

BOOM—

A great hum reverberated across the realms as the Seven Chosen ascended.

The stars blinked. The void trembled. And from the cracks between realms, a presence stirred.

Above even the celestial realms, beyond the stars, a domain untouched by mortals—the Sanctum of the True Gods—rippled like disturbed water.

They felt it.

The Anointed Seven were breaking the final barrier.

The throne room of the gods was vast, crystalline, and infinite. At its center sat twelve thrones, each one forged from a primordial concept—Order, Chaos, Time, Death, Light, Shadow, Flame, Wind, Earth, Blood, Mind, and Void.

From the throne of Order, a man stirred. His eyes were stars, his beard a flowing river of time. His name was Oru'thal, the Architect, First of the Twelve.

"They've touched the boundary," he spoke, his voice the echo of laws.

From the throne of Flame, a woman cloaked in solar fire snarled, eyes glowing with fury.

"They dare steal what is divine!"

From Shadow, laughter echoed—dry, amused, and cruel.

"No… they've earned it. But if they step higher—"

"Then they become equals," Oru'thal interrupted grimly.

A whisper spread across the chamber. A silent decision.

The Twelve were no longer divided.

"Then let us descend… and remind the mortals why we are gods."

...

Back on the celestial plateau, the Seven had not yet spoken. They all felt it.

The air twisted. The realm shook. And from above—a divine crack appeared in the sky, like a shattered mirror bleeding gold and silver light.

From it, they came.

Twelve divine beings, cloaked in majesty and terror, emerged in silent formation. Their presence alone warped the fabric of existence. Worlds trembled just at their footsteps.

They looked down at the Seven… not with scorn, but with inevitability.

"You were warned once," Oru'thal's voice echoed, heard across time and space. "Ascension belongs only to the Divine. "You have defied the Order."

Vorden stood first, cloak of light and shadow flowing behind him.

"We didn't defy anything. We surpassed it."

Lith grinned, flames dancing in his palms.

"We climbed because your thrones were empty when we needed you."

Alma raised her blades.

"We will not bow."

And Radar said simply,

"Try and stop us."

The Chosen stood, not as mortals…But as rivals to the gods.

And in that instant, the skies split again.

Battle had come.

Not just of power…But of right. Of legacy. Of whom truly deserved to rule.

The divine winds shrieked.

The sky had no color—only pressure.

Twelve radiant beings descended, each one bearing the overwhelming weight of a concept. The Twelve Thrones had sent their avatars—living incarnations of divine law.

The Seven Chosen stood at the center of a fractured realm, no longer mortals, not yet gods.

The battle began without words.

Isephos was pure brilliance—his body a star clad in armor, wings of sunfire blazing behind him. He descended like judgment itself.

"You are unworthy of Light, mortal. Only the pure may wield it."

But Vorden stepped forward, his aura shifting—light and shadow coiling around him in divine harmony. His Psychic domain expanded in a burst, creating a translucent dome around them that slowed time and heightened his awareness.

"I'm not pure," he said calmly. "I'm whole."

Isephos attacked, a radiant blade carving through space, but Vorden vanished, reappearing behind him. He summoned a massive shadow beast, part-wolf, part-celestial—its howl disrupted the very law of gravity.

Then he merged with it.

Now part-beast, part-god, Vorden clashed with Isephos in a blinding, multi-dimensional dance of power. Light clashed with Light. But Vorden's was earned, not inherited.

He called his final fusion:

"Eclipsion Form."

And broke through to True Godhood, his aura folding into a core of balance.

Darkness, Light, Beast and Mind—all in perfect alignment.

...

KalDrax was a walking volcano—armor made from the bones of extinct stars, his fists melting dimensions.

"Fire is not yours, beastling. It belongs to me."

But Lith roared, his body expanding—titanic limbs of obsidian flame bursting from him. He no longer resembled anything fully human. His Fire god-art exploded in Titan Mode, fused with inherited Titan marrow from the Void Forge.

Each punch from KalDrax shattered mountains, but Lith grew stronger with every hit. He laughed through pain, his own flames becoming intelligent, coiling like dragons.

"You think fire's about rage? Nah... it's about freedom."

Lith devoured KalDrax's ultimate flame with a Titan's roar, then hurled it back as a Star-Eater Blast. He broke through his limits and ascended.

....

Tayriel hovered above like a goddess of the high sky, her form shapeless, dancing on endless currents.

"You mimic the wind, but you don't understand her."

Alma grinned.

"Then let me speak her language."

Her dual sabers melted into falcons made of emerald gale. Her Beast Summoning god-art awakened further—she called forth a Sky Hydra, its wings spanning entire valleys.

Tayriel tried to vanish into the storm, but Alma fused with the Hydra and became Stormborne Alma, her voice now part-thunder, part-command.

She called the Eye of the Worldwind, a technique lost to time—and shattered Tayriel's divine body with one final soaring slash.

Ascension greeted her with calm winds and endless sky.

...

Ornam rose from the ground like a golem made from time itself—bones, fossils, and history in his form.

"Earth is eternal. Death is its breath. You are a child."

Radar said nothing. His eyes burned. His staff glowed with necromantic runes and alchemy inscriptions.

He didn't fight. He built.

A massive alchemic formation appeared beneath them, weaving death, life, and matter into a single, terrifying machine. Skeletons made of iron and spirit fused into a Bone Leviathan, while Radar drew a rune in the air—

"Cycle Alchemy: Genesis Tomb."

Ornam tried to erase him with divine petrification, but Radar welcomed it—embraced the end—and came back anew, immortal through understanding.

He became the Architect of Eternity, and death bowed to him.

...

Valnir was blood incarnate—his form shifting between liquid and godsteel.

"You claim dominion over blood? It is I who wrote its laws!"

Keira merely smiled.

"I'm not here to read laws. I'm here to break them."

Her Curse, Sound, and Blood god-arts fused, her voice becoming a hymn that corroded reality. Every word she spoke infected Valnir's blood, twisting it into discord.

She danced—her movements silent, but each step brought devastation.

Valnir lunged, summoning Rivers of Crimson Judgement.

Keira raised a single hand and whispered:

"Bloodsong: Final Movement."

And the entire battlefield became a requiem. Valnir dissolved into music, cursed to echo forever in her voice.

...

Ironically, the two shared the same domains.

Luraeleth was chaos made art—singing galaxies into black holes.

"You think you understand the music? I am the first note and the final silence."

Kira's violin appeared.

"I'll show you a better song."

The air turned violet. Each note Kira played warped dimensions, and his Destruction god-art melded with his Bloodline.

He invoked Symphony Omega, a technique that transformed combat into orchestra.

They clashed not with blades, but with movements and notes—the world vibrating at their duel.

Kira played the Last Song of Mortals, and even Luraeleth bowed in awe as she dissolved.

...

Zhadaron was order and ruin—chains coiled from his spine, his presence aging stars.

"Puppeteer… how poetic. But you are still a puppet."

Kyle didn't respond. Strings shot from his fingers, latching onto the divine fabric of reality.

His Puppeteering expanded—not controlling bodies, but causality.

"Decay is not the end," he whispered, "It's release."

His puppets rose—fallen gods of old, recreated with Decay-infused souls. Zhadaron tried to break free—but found himself chained by his own fate.

Kyle rewrote him into a puppet. A tool. A lesson.

...

One by one, the Twelve Divine fell.

And as the Chosen stood victorious, their bodies shimmered—transcending.

They were no longer mortal.

No longer heirs.

They had become something new.

Not gods.

Not kings.

Not saviors.

They were Wills. Living Wills of the Cosmos.

And the stars bowed, awaiting their command.