First Act: Willem Finds Himself Seven Enemies

The forge’s heat wrapped around Willem like a second skin, yet the chill of the morning clung to his bones. He wiped the sweat from his head with an oil-streaked sleeve and stepped outside, squinting as a thin mist curled over the village ruins. The plague had taken everything.

Once, this place had thrived with laughter and song. Children’s feet pounded cobblestones, merchants sealed deals spices from distant lands and blacksmiths like Willem’s parents modernized shop. Now, it was a graveyard of shattered iron, cracked stone and whispers carried on the wind by the holes in the walls.

Willem was thirteen, though the loss of his loved ones had aged him far beyond his years. His hands, once clumsy with a hammer, were now calloused and steady from hours pounding iron in his father’s forge. But no craft could restore the family he lost or the village stolen by the gods wrath.

He inhaled deeply, the sharp scent of ash and damp earth filling his lungs. The morning air trembled with silence, a silence heavy with the presence of something unseen.

Willem’s gaze drifted to the center of the village, where a shattered altar lay half-buried in rubble. It was a relic from before the gods reign. Carved with strange, worn symbols. The villagers had once gathered here to pray, hoping for mercy that never came.

He moved toward the altar, his boots crunching on broken stone. Kneeling, he brushed away the dirt and debris with trembling fingers. Seven figures were etched deep into the granite, their faces worn by time but still powerful. The Seven Gods.

“Their faces,” Willem whispered, voice rough with emotion. “The ones who took everything.”

He traced the sun-worn carvings: a blazing sun with eyes like molten gold, a warrior’s helm cracked with bloodstains, a serpent coiled in shadows, a mountain crushed underfoot, a stormy wave crashing, a book bound in chains and a swirling gust that shattered trees.

Each god held control over a different part of the world and over the fate of mortals like him.

Willem rose slowly, heart pounding like as fast as a cheeta. He could still remember the plague’s first arrival. The fever that burned like fire, the coughing fits that wracked the village, the whispered prayers turning to screams. It had been punishment, they said. A divine scourge sent to cleanse the world of sins mortal eyes could not see.

His mother had died clutching his hand, her voice a fading breath begging forgiveness from gods who never answered. His father had tried to fight back, but even the strongest arms were no match for sickness that struck without mercy.

Now, only Willem remained. The boy who had lost everything to divine cruelty and in his chest burned a fire hotter than any forge.

They will pay.

The first step was understanding his enemies. The Seven Gods were not distant myths. They were living powers that ruled every breath of the Low Realms, shaping the world and its people for their own desires.

Willem’s gaze hardened. If he was to survive, if he was to fight. He would need a plan. But more than that, he needed a purpose.

The forge had been silent since his parents passed. Willem returned to it not for comfort but because the rhythm of hammer on anvil calmed the chaos inside of his head. Steel bent beneath his strikes, glowing red under his relentless blows. His hands worked automatically, but his mind was far away on the altar’s carvings, on the gods who had stolen his life.

“Willem.”

The voice was soft but sharp, breaking through the haze of memories. He turned to see Maarten, the village elder, stepping into the forge. His face was drawn, lines carved deeper by grief and time.

“You’re still here.”

“I have nowhere else to go,” Willem replied quietly.

Maarten nodded slowly. “The plague spared few, but you... you survived for a reason.”

Willem looked away. “It doesn’t feel like survival. It feels like a curse.”

The elder sighed. “Perhaps it is. But the gods do not rule forever. Their power is tied to faith and faith is a fragile thing. If someone can challenge them, it might be a child like you. Driven by loss, yes but also by hope.”

Willem’s heart clenched. Hope was a dangerous thing to hold, especially in a world ruled by gods who punished mortals without mercy.

“What can I do?” he asked trembling, holding his hammer steadily.

Maarten’s eyes held a steady, knowing look. “Learn everything you can. Knowledge is the first weapon against gods.”

Willem nodded slowly, feeling a fierce determination settle deep in his bones. Hard and unyielding, like the steel he shaped at the forge.

That night, sleep came slowly, weighed down by grief and fury. But in the restless dark, Willem was dragged into a dream. Vivid and terrible dream.

He stood in a vast hall of shimmering light and shadow, the air thick with power. Before him towered the Seven Gods, each larger than a mountain, their eyes blazing with cold fire.

The Sun God’s blazing gaze burned his skin, but Willem did not flinch. The God of War tightened his cracked helm, gripping a bloodstained sword. The Trickster smiled slyly, shadows twisting around his fingers. The Earth God’s massive hand crushed stone effortlessly. The Sea God’s waves crashed endlessly behind him. The God of Knowledge’s chained book hovered, pages flipping without wind. And the God of Winds stirred a tempest that shattered pillars.

Willem’s voice echoed across the hall. “You have destroyed my home. I am no longer a boy. I am your reckoning!”

The gods laughed, a sound like thunder and breaking glass.

“Mortals cannot challenge us,” the Sun God spoke steadily. “You are dust beneath our feet.”

But Willem stood firm, heart blazing brighter than any god’s flame.

“I will find your weakness. I will tear down your thrones. And I will make you answer for the blood you have spilled.”

The gods laughter faded, replaced by a cold silence. Willem woke with a start, chest heaving, sweat cold on his skin.

Days passed. Willem moved through the village ruins, seeking signs of life and whispers of resistance. The survivors were few, scattered, broken but not defeated or dead. But when night fell, the same battle continued in dreams. Relentless, cruel, and draining.

Each night, Willem was dragged back to the vast hall of shimmering light and shadow. The Seven Gods loomed larger than life, their eyes piercing and cold.

Solmaris' voice thundered, “You are dust. You cannot challenge eternity.”

Derkold snarled, “Your strength is nothing but a flicker before my blade.”

Nimrek whispered lies, twisting doubts into daggers aimed at Willem’s heart.

Gravenor’s voice rumbled like an earthquake, shaking the ground beneath Willem’s feet.

Mareveld’s storms crashed around him, threatening to drown his resolve.

Wisthar’s cold gaze pierced through his mind, revealing every fear, every failure.

Veyndra’s winds tore at his very soul, trying to scatter his thoughts like leaves in a storm.

Each god spoke with venomous certainty. That he would fail, that his fight was meaningless, that he was powerless against them.

But Willem stood his ground.

Though exhaustion weighed on his body and his mind screamed for respite, he faced the gods with a stubborn fire. “I will not break. I will not fall.”

Yet, each morning, he awoke more drained, the invisible toll of these dreams gnawing at his spirit.

The days blurred into one another. His hands shook slightly as he hammered steel, his mind fraying at the edges. But still, he refused to surrender.

One evening, by a dying campfire, Willem sat with Maarten, the shadows flickering across his face. His thoughts were heavy with the weight of what lay ahead. The gods who had taken everything from him.

He looked up at Maarten and said, “I don’t know if I’m ready... but I have to try.”

The elder gave a faint, encouraging smile. “Then your path begins now. No matter how dark, it starts with the first step.”

Willem’s journey had begun, but the road ahead was filled with danger. The Seven Gods watched from their celestial thrones, their eyes cold and unyielding. They had ruled for centuries. Unchallenged and unquestioned.

But Willem was no longer just a boy. He was a spark. A growing fire that threatened to burn down the gods reign.

And he would find each of the seven gods, one by one, until justice was served.