Massive chains lined the throne room’s walls, not as decorations, but as remnants of something ancient once been bound. Fires, cold and red, burned in floating braziers that gave no heat. The air was thick with decay and purpose.
At the center sat Noel, his obsidian armor glowing faintly with molten veins, his helm crowned with jagged, blade-like horns. His eyes—two collapsing stars—watched the air in front of him as eight sigils ignited in a circle.
Each sigil twisted open into a portal, and from each stepped a figure of impossible power.
The Eight Generals had arrived.
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Cien, cloaked in silence, her eyes hollow, her presence like a void where sound went to die.
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Clara, draped in chains of stardust, carrying a staff of bones and flame.
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Astharoth, the smiling devil in crimson silk, whose laughter was said to make mountains weep.
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Sentinel, a living fortress of steel and spirit, faceless and unmoving.
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Adam, the eternal warrior with burning tattoos across his chest that never stopped bleeding light.
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Norah, pale and dreamlike, her words shaped reality itself.
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Sora, twin blades spinning in the air around her like planets, her footsteps leaving frost in their wake.
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Adi and Hugo, bound together by fate, two minds in one body—one furious, one serene.
They knelt—if only out of respect for the one who broke them.
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Noel stood, the floor trembling beneath his feet.
“The time of stillness is over,” he said, voice like broken stone grinding against itself. “A war long delayed is now upon us.”
None of them flinched. These were not soldiers. These were executioners—once protectors of the universe’s Creator, now twisted into the will of a god of endings.
“We have lingered too long in patience,” Noel continued. “The world reshapes itself. A being is stirring—one we thought lost.”
A murmur moved through the ranks. Cien tilted her head. Adam flexed his fists.
Astharoth laughed. “So… who dares to stir the beast’s grave?”
Noel’s voice darkened.
“The one who sealed me to this throne is awake again.”
The temperature dropped.
Even Sentinel, who had never spoken in a thousand years, shifted slightly.
“He walks again. He remembers little… but that will not last.”
Norah whispered, “Shadow…”
Noel nodded once.
“We cannot allow him to reach his full self. One of you must take the lead. Hunt him. Eliminate him before he becomes what he was.”
He looked to the generals.
“Who among you will take the first blood?”
Back beyond the gate of flame, in the illusion-wrapped village, Shadow and Varn stood in the ornate hallway of the mansion.
The air buzzed with static and magic.
An old man stepped forward—robes too long for his frame, hair wild, beard braided with metal rings that hummed faintly. His eyes sparked with both madness and genius.
“Welcome, welcome,” he said, arms wide. “You’re right on time!”
Varn raised an eyebrow. “You always greet strangers like this?”
The old man chuckled. “Only the dangerous ones.”
Shadow took a step forward, his voice sharp.
“What did you mean when you said ‘We were expected?’”
The man bowed theatrically. “Ah, yes, forgive me. Allow me to introduce myself.”
He snapped his fingers. The walls pulsed once, revealing layers of machinery and floating blueprints beneath the illusion of fine marble.
“I am Todd,” he said proudly. “The Mad Scientist. Inventor, chronicle-keeper, and part-time reality bender.”
Varn let out a low laugh. “Of course you are.”
Shadow narrowed his eyes. “You opened the gate.”
Todd nodded. “Correct. I’ve been watching you both since you stepped onto the water path. That gate was sealed centuries ago—until the right soul walked close enough to awaken it.”
Shadow’s voice dropped. “Why?”
Todd’s smile faded into something more serious.
“Because, Shadow… the world is changing. And you are at the center of it.”
To be continued...