Chapter 1 ashes and wings

The gods didn’t fall.

They turned.

Solen was burning.

Not from fire—but from divinity.

Holy light rained from the heavens like judgment. What once was the capital of a proud kingdom was now a smoking carcass. Monasteries were split in half by divine lances. Temples wept blood from their walls. Screams echoed between collapsed towers.

And still, no god spoke.

Erevan stumbled through ash and shattered stone, dragging a cracked greatsword through the rubble. His armor was broken—pauldrons shattered, his lion crest torn from the chestplate. His vision swam with dust and blood.

He wasn’t looking for victory.

He was looking for something buried.

He entered what remained of the Grand Cathedral.

Once the beating heart of the Holy Order, now a tomb of light. Its stained glass windows were melted inwards, the saints twisted into mockeries. Scorched corpses lay in prayer, some still clutching rosaries turned to rust.

At the altar’s base, buried under stone and charred robes, he found it:

The Nullblade.

Wrapped in cloth, humming faintly. It wasn’t blessed—it was banned.

A weapon forged not to channel divinity, but to silence it.

Erevan pulled it free, and the air around him warped—like reality rejecting the blade’s existence.

“Let’s see if you still hate gods,” he muttered.

Wings.

He turned.

Descending from the fractured dome were three Halo Sentinels—angelic enforcers of the First God. Their bodies were plated in white-gold armor, faces hidden behind smooth masks, and their wings shone with fire.

Their voices rang like church bells.

“Heretic knight. You are unrecognized. Kneel, and your soul will be recycled into light.”

Erevan tightened his grip.

“No.”

The first angel lunged.

It came like lightning—too fast for mortal eyes.

Erevan dodged by instinct, the cathedral floor splitting behind him. He rolled, drew the Nullblade, and brought it up just as the second Sentinel struck.

The clash was wrong.

Their holy spear bent—twisted—screamed like it was alive. The Nullblade defied it, not by force, but by unmaking its power. The angel staggered.

Erevan stepped forward and drove the blade into its chest.

Light poured out—then vanished.

The angel shattered.

The third tackled him through a pillar.

Stone exploded. Erevan gasped as divine weight crushed him. The Sentinel raised its burning halberd to finish him—

A scroll exploded in midair.

Chains of dark ink wrapped around the angel, dragging it backward.

“Still alive, idiot?” said a voice.

From the shadows, Kalei stepped in—cloak tattered, eyes sharp. She held another scroll between her fingers, a mischievous smirk on her face.

“You took too long,” she said. “Again.”

“You followed me,” Erevan groaned.

“And you’d be dead if I didn’t.”

The last angel broke the chains, screamed, and lunged.

Kalei flicked her wrist. A sigil ignited beneath the Sentinel, swallowing it in black flame.

The cathedral fell silent.

Later.

They sat under the crumbled dome, staring at the sky through broken glass.

The rain finally came.

Erevan’s hand rested on the Nullblade, still sheathed. Kalei leaned against a collapsed statue, sipping tea brewed over magical fire.

“You still plan to fight the Six?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

“Erevan. They’re gods.”

He finally looked up. His eyes burned with something deeper than rage.

“They ruled us like insects. Burned our kingdoms. Called it mercy.”

She watched him for a long moment. Then pulled out a map—old, sacred, marked with six tower-shaped thrones.

“They’re waiting.”

Erevan stood.

The rain washed blood from his armor, but the silence of the gods lingered in the air.

He didn’t care about glory.

Only one thing mattered now.

Making them fall.