Chapter 1:
Heir of Flame: Ashes and Crowns
The world burned.
Once, this land had been lush with forests and seas that mirrored the sky. Cities carved of marble; towers of obsidian reached toward the heavens, each a monument to the gods who walked among mortals. Now the horizon was ash. Spires lay in heaps, and the air tasted of iron and smoke.
On an endless battlefield, gods fought gods. Their power was not the measured spellcraft of mortals or the desperate steel of soldiers, but storms that split mountains and flames that consumed the air. The earth itself screamed.
At the center stood the God of War and Fire.
His body glowed like a furnace, runes etched into his skin pulsing with molten light. Long black hair whipped in winds born of destruction. His eyes burned red, as if the heart of a volcano had found a vessel. Every step he took turned the ground to glass. He was terrifying and beautiful — battle, given shape.
He was alone.
Opposite him gathered a host of gods: Daisuke, God of Earth, a mountain in motion with every step birthing new stone; the Goddess of Shadow and Flame, scarlet hair flowing as wings of darkness unfurled; and the Goddess of Love and Wisdom, her silver eyes shimmering with sorrow.
Her shadow reached him first; the hand followed later.
Sigils spun into a ring; air flashed into orange glass and rained back as light. A thin line gathered along her blade — Glass Edge.
The world narrowed to pulse and breath. Her parry bit; he shifted stance, left foot forward — distance measured in heartbeats.
For seven days and nights they fought. Mountains fell, seas boiled; the sun itself seemed dimmed. Mortals prayed, demons howled, and the world trembled.
At last, on the eighth dawn, the God of War tasted the limit of his fire. His body faltered, runes cracking through flesh and bone. Laughter that had once been triumph now carried sorrow.
The Goddess of Love fell to her knees before him. "Please," she whispered. "You were never meant to carry this burden alone. Lay it down before all is lost."
For the first time, he looked at her — not as an enemy, but as something fragile, something worth remembering.
"My flame was never mine alone," he murmured. "It was born in every heart that longs to fight — and in every hand that dares to protect."
He drove his sword into the earth. The ground split for leagues and magma ran like blood. The gods staggered back, blinded by the brilliance; his body blazed brighter than the sun.
"I will not die," his voice thundered. "I will burn again. Not as a god, but as a man. When this world falls into shadow once more, my flame will rise to end it."
With a final roar, he burst into light. His body shattered to ash; the runes that had covered him split apart, embers scattering across the sky. They rained upon mountains, seas, and cities, vanishing into the world’s fabric. His sword dissolved into sparks that became stars.
Silence pooled between heartbeats.
The battlefield cooled to blackened stone and rivers of glass. The gods stood in awe — not victorious, but hollow — for they knew his vow lingered. Somewhere, someday, he would return.
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