RYOJIN KUROHANE; THE ABYSSAL MONARCH

Darkness loomed within Lysara's chambers, flickering candlelight casting elongated shadows upon the marble walls. The air was thick with incense, its fragrance cloying—meant to soothe the mind, yet it barely concealed the tension that hung in the air.

Seated at the table, Lysara tapped her fingers against the polished surface, her eyes deep in thought. She was a tactician who had shaped the fates of civilizations, yet now she sat in silence, her brow furrowed.

Across from her, Darius exhaled sharply, shifting in his seat. His bandaged body, wrapped tightly in divine cloth, was a testament to the wounds he had suffered in battle.

"How many of our forces fell?" Lysara's voice was cold, measured.

Darius' jaw tightened. "Too many." He clenched his fists, the movement sending a tremor of pain through his body. "We threw everything at him, and yet—"

"He walks free."

A long silence stretched between them.

Ryojin. The Godslayer.

A being who should not exist.

A being who defied the natural order.

Darius closed his eyes. The memory of their battle still burned behind his eyelids. He had seen gods fall, watched as Ryojin carved through divine flesh like a farmer reaping wheat. There had been no hesitation, no mercy.

"We need a plan," Lysara murmured. "One that ensures he never threatens us again."

Darius exhaled sharply. "Easier said than done. I think he is beyond us now. Even if we were to muster all the divine might of the Celestial Orde‐"

"It would be enough," Lysara finished.

Darius gritted his teeth. "You don't get it, we need high lord Seraphiel to deal with him immediately. Ryojin will not stop until all gods are killed and in the process he will sacrifice a lot of people just to wield abyssal energy."

Lysara's fingers drummed against the table. "Then we must think differently. A direct assault will only feed his wrath."

Darius looked away. "Then what do you propose?"

Before she could answer, the air in the room shifted.

A creeping cold spread through the chamber. A slow, deliberate sound—click. Click. Click—echoed through the space, like the sound of fangs snapping shut.

A figure stepped forward from the darkness.

Seraphis, the Black Fang.

She moved with an elegance that was inhuman. Her lips curled in a sharp, knowing smile, and her eyes were sharp as daggers .

Lysara's expression did not change. "Seraphis."

"How entertaining," Seraphis mused, her voice a silk-coated blade. "Two of the greatest minds of the Celestial Order, reduced to desperation."

Lysara's golden gaze met Seraphis' unflinchingly. "Speak plainly. If you have something to say, say it."

Seraphis chuckled, stepping forward. "Your problem is simple. You cannot kill him. You cannot overpower him. So why do you keep trying?"

Darius scowled. "If you have a solution, say it."

Seraphis smiled. "A prison. A domain built from divine power. A space where time flows differently. To us, a month will pass. But to him? Only hours."

Lysara's gaze sharpened.

"He will enter as a titan," Seraphis continued, her voice lilting with amusement. "And when we open the domain again, he will be nothing more than a relic of the past as his abyssal energy will degrade."

Silence.

Darius exhaled, his mind racing.

"A fractured stasis," Lysara murmured, thinking through the implications. "If we craft a space where time is unstable, he will not notice the shift until it is too late."

Seraphis spread her arms. "And by the time he does, it will be far too late."

A pause.

Then, Lysara nodded. "We will do it."

The Loom of Fate

Between the Demon Realm and the Godly Realm, there existed a place untouched by war.

A space where fate itself was woven.

Seraphiel moved through the endless void, the fabric of reality shifting around him like a great tapestry. The Loom of Fate lay ahead, its presence timeless, absolute, eternal.

Here, the Norns wove destiny itself.

As he approached, the air hummed with power. Countless threads shimmered in the darkness, stretching infinitely across the expanse. Each thread represented a life, a story, a future yet to be written.

The three figures stood before the great tapestry.

Urd, the past. Her face was marked with the weight of ages, her eyes seeing all that had been.

Verdandi, the present. Her hands moved swiftly, weaving the stories of those who still lived.

Skuld, the future. Shrouded in mystery, she alone held the threads of what was yet to come.

Seraphiel knelt before them. "Great weavers of fate."

Urd's voice was like the rustling of old parchment. "High Lord Seraphiel. "

Verdandi's fingers never ceased their work. "The realms tremble."

Seraphiel's expression darkened. " Ryojin?"

Skuld's voice was a whisper of wind through forgotten halls. "He has become a threat."

The threads shifted.

Before him, a strand appeared—dark and empty, a void where a destiny should be.

"We cannot weave his fate," Urd said.

Seraphiel frowned. "So he has become beyond fate itself?"

"But he is not alone," Verdandi murmured, weaving faster. "There is another, this one more dangerous."

A second strand appeared.

This one was divine. It shone like celestial fire—yet it, too, resisted the loom.

Seraphiel's breath caught. "A god?"

The Norns nodded.

"In the godly realm, among your kin, there is one whose fate we cannot weave," Skuld said gravely. "This being's existence will be the undoing of the gods."

Seraphiel's blood ran cold.

"Who?"

"We do not know," Verdandi admitted. "But this thread will lead you, it will glow when the being in question is before you."

The glowing strand curled around his wrist like a serpent.

"End them," Skuld whispered. "Before fate unravels."

Seraphiel clenched his fist.

The gods already had a problem to deal with - Ryojin Kurohane.

But now, a new question loomed—

Which of their own would bring about their end?