The One Who Faced God

Grampy Odd (in a voice rough like rusted metal):

"After feasting upon the blood of his believers, Skarveth returned to the deep trench… to the abyss that had once been his cradle."

[The waters split like they feared him. The deep swallowed him whole.]

But he did not sleep.

From beneath the ocean floor, his crimson hair began to grow.

It slithered like serpents of silk, pulsing with stolen blood. First through the sea… then breaching the waves… and then…

It touched the land.

[Across continents, Skarveth's bloodied hair slithered over soil, concrete, and bone. It tore through cities. It split skyscrapers in half, sliced tanks like butter, and wrapped around everything—man, woman, child, old, young, priest or sinner.]

It did not discriminate.

A god does not choose.

He judges all.

[One by one, humans were lifted—some screaming, some silent—wrapped in divine strands that glowed with ancient fury.]

And then… the draining began.

Their blood vanished. Their skin collapsed. Their bones cracked and crumbled into ash. No memorial. No mercy.

And Skarveth laughed.

It wasn't joy. It wasn't cruelty. It was the kind of laughter that comes when pain has become too ancient to feel. The kind of laughter that makes gods into monsters.

The entire world heard it—not through ears, but through bones.

But Then…

Reeza (shouting in the distance):

"AZAEL! Azael! Where are you?

Let's go—it's time for lunch!"

[The burning forests, the screaming skies, and the crimson death halted—frozen mid-frame like a dream cracking apart.]

Azael (Unamed Kid 1) (panicked):

"Oh no! Grampy Odd—it's my mom! Please, hurry! I don't have much time—what happened in the end?!"

Grampy Odd (clears throat, suddenly a touch more human, less myth):

"Mmmhmm. It's getting late now, boy. Go on. I'll finish it… some other day."

Azael (groaning):

"No, pleeeeease! Luna, say something!"

Luna (Unamed Kid 2) (grinning):

"Yes, Grampy Odd! I have to go too, just tell us the ending!"

Ash (Unamed Kid 3) (sighs, arms behind his head, looking unimpressed):

"Ahh whatever. I knew it was a lame story. Demon gods and magic hair… total waste."

Grampy Odd (irritated, eyes twitching slightly):

"So you want an ending, huh? Fine!"

"A hero came. From nowhere. He fought Skarveth.

He won.

He left.

The end. Happy now?"

Azael and Luna (together):

"Eeeeehhh?! What?! That's the ending?! Grampy, that's sooo lazy! You ruined it!"

Ash (laughing lazily):

"Told you. Waste of time. Should've gone home early."

Grampy Odd (quiet now, voice like stone):

"Go on. Your mother's calling, Azael."

[The kids began walking away, still bickering, their boots crunching on snow and dirt.]

But Azael glanced back once.

Grampy Odd wasn't smiling anymore.

His eyes were closed.

Present Day — Sigarellum

Beneath the vast grey dome that encased the Duke Dome of Sigarellum, the winds whispered low across the moss-laced spires of Castle KUFAS. That dome—neither natural nor entirely arcane—held back the wild skies that once plagued the outer lands, now calmed only by duty and innovation. The sun, like a wounded soldier, bled its final crimson hues over the high ramparts of the citadel.

Within the castle's east wing, by the arched gothic windows etched with faded sigils, two men stood silently. Their silhouettes were framed by the amber light, shadows long and tense.

Marquess Alric, ever upright in both posture and thought, folded his arms with military precision. His eyes scanned the bustling courtyard below, where banners from every noble house of Sigarellum were assembling—one by one.

By his side stood Marquess Rex, broader in build, his cloak rustling faintly against the marble tiles. He leaned in slightly, his voice no louder than the breeze, yet laced with urgency.

"Alric… what do you think this sudden gathering is for?"

"The Duke rarely summons all his subjects without reason."

Alric didn't turn. His sharp gaze never left the fluttering standards gathering like storm clouds before a tempest.

"I suspect it concerns the new invention—the supersonic blaster," he replied coolly.

"I believe the Duke intends to begin its first military test."

A small pause.

Rex's tone dropped lower, almost inaudible.

"And is it true… that His Grace turns twenty-two next month?"

A faint smirk crossed Alric's lips—rare and fleeting.

"Yes. Though it's hard to believe," he said, voice tightening with a trace of reverence.

"At fourteen, he defended Castle KUFAS against a full-blown beast tide—with only seventy-four soldiers. And he alone slew over a hundred and twenty beasts."

Alric's eyes narrowed, mind drifting momentarily to the memory—blood-soaked walls, monster roars drowned by the scream of steel, and a boy with eyes like burning gold.

"It was then he earned the title—'Shield of KUFAS.' His brilliance on the battlefield crowned him Duke at an age when others still train."

Knock.

A single knock echoed against the heavy oak doors of the chamber, pulling both men from memory to moment.

The doors creaked open with grave dignity. Entered Mr. Benson, the Duke's long-serving butler—grey-haired, iron-spined, and calm as a lake in winter.

He bowed politely, voice measured.

"Gentlemen. His Grace awaits. The League has convened."

Rex and Alric exchanged one glance, unreadable and brief.

"We're coming, Mr. Benson," Rex replied, adjusting the collar of his navy cloak.

Inside the War Conference Hall

The chamber stood vast—far larger than a throne room, lined with memories carved into bone and banner. Chandeliers, forged from the skeletons of long-extinct wyverns, bathed the room in an eerie glow. The floor, inlaid with a mosaic of historical battles, shimmered beneath the boots of nobility who now took their places in grim silence.

At the far end, upon a throne of jagged obsidian—formed from volcanic glass pulled from the Heart Crater—sat the young Duke.

Alexander.

His golden eyes, clear and unshaken, surveyed the room like a hawk measuring wind. He stood slowly, his long cloak catching the faint draft that slipped through the dome's outer vents.

"What I am about to say," he began, voice deep and steady as mountain stone,

"...happened two hundred years ago."

The hall silenced. A hundred eyes sharpened. A hundred breaths stilled.

"An artifact of divine power, known as the Golden Tears, was scattered—its essence buried in twelve locations soaked in history and blood."

Alexander turned, extending one hand toward the grand map unfurled behind him. With a flick of his fingers, twelve blood-red sigils illuminated across the parchment.

Thermopylae

Gaugamela

Alesia

Cannae

Tours

Orléans

Vienna

Leipzig

Waterloo

Stalingrad

Normandy

Gettysburg

Each name seared with myth, war, and sacrifice.

"These," the Duke continued, "are the resting places of the fragments. Our mission is to retrieve each sample."

He stepped down from his throne, boots echoing across the obsidian floor.

"Not only to enhance human strength and extend life—but to possibly find cures for incurable diseases. We walk the edge of a new age."

A stillness lingered. Not from disbelief—but from the weight of history pressing upon every soul present.

Then—

"B-but, Your Grace…" came a stammer from the left side of the long table.

It was Viscount Liro, twitching nervously in his seat.

"The legends say… if we disturb those fragments... HE might return. The one whose name we—"

He cut himself short. Eyes wide. Mouth dry.

A cold breath moved through the chamber. The chandeliers flickered—not from wind, but from tension.

"Viscount Liro," Alexander said, flatly.

"Are you suffering from short-term memory loss?"

The Duke's steps rang louder now as he approached.

"I just explained… how HE died."

Liro visibly paled.

From the far end, Viscountess Rin jabbed her elbow hard into Liro's ribs.

"I told you not to say it, you idiot," she hissed.

Alexander turned away, gaze already distant again. He raised his hand, commanding silence not through power—but through the absence of fear.

"Each of you will lead a team to one location. Your goal: retrieve the sample."

"All twelve must be recovered and delivered to Mr. Benson—within a week."

"Failure is not an option."

The Duke returned to his throne. Sitting down slowly, he stared past the nobles, beyond the room—into something only he could see.

"You are dismissed."

The hall erupted in the sound of chairs shifting, boots thudding softly against stone, and whispered concerns veiled by stoic masks.

The nobles filed out in silence—some uncertain, others afraid. But none dared question the young man who once slew monsters with his bare hands…

And now dared to challenge the forgotten gods.

to be continued...