Veol was in the backyard, alone, gripping his wooden sword with white-knuckled determination. His parents had gone to the market, leaving him to his quiet practice. Each swing sliced the air with a sharp, precise arc—silent, controlled, yet full of intent. Unlike other children, he never joined their noisy games; the clamor of laughter and shouting felt intrusive, almost unbearable. His world was one of movement and thought, of imagined battles and pages filled with knowledge.

A sudden dimming of the light froze him mid-swing. Veol’s eyes lifted, heart hammering against his chest. A shadow, vast and impossible, crawled across the kingdom, swallowing the sun’s warmth as if it were a fragile candle.

“…Is this… real?” he whispered, voice barely audible. “What… what is that covering the sky?”

The shadow thickened, devouring the sunlight until the world felt hollow, the air heavy with an unnatural stillness. And then, descending from that void, came the presence of something vast—a being whose very form seemed stitched from the endless night of the cosmos.

The voice came first—low, resonant, yet impossibly heavy, rolling across the kingdom like thunder slowed to a crawl.

“Ah… so this is what it looks like in this possibility. Not bad. The timeline seems torn from point to point… still, acceptable. People of Fhiola—do not gaze upon my true form. This is not a request, but for your own good. Those who do will be burned by the flames of hell.”

The warning alone shattered composure. Citizens dropped to their knees, pressing foreheads to the ground, trembling as their souls screamed in terror. Mothers clutched children close, merchants fell beside empty carts, and old men huddled against walls, praying to gods who now seemed silent.

But arrogance—or foolish courage—persisted.

A man’s voice rang out from the street, quivering with both fear and defiance. “Who are you to order us? Some god? If so, stop blocking the sun! My crops are dying. Or will you pay for my harvest, bastard?”

Even as he spoke, his knees shook, and sweat ran down his face.

Crest’s laughter rolled through the air, like a ripple across glass. “No, I am no god. My name is Crest. If you want the sun returned, then you—the one who dared speak—may look directly upon me.”

Against every instinct, the man lifted his gaze. The instant he did… there was nothing. Not ashes. Not bones. Only a silent emptiness where he had stood.

The street fell utterly still. Only the whisper of the wind dared move.

Crest’s star-filled body tilted, his gaze settling on a single child—Veol. Slowly, he descended, hovering above the boy with a presence that pressed on the very air.

“What is your name?” Crest asked, his voice calm but heavy with an unfathomable weight.

Veol’s lips moved faintly. “…Veol. Veol Windlock.”

From the moment Bert and Krim felt the presence of something vast and suffocating—something like Crest—they abandoned their baskets and sprinted toward home, hearts hammering, minds gripped with panic. Every step was desperate; every glance over the shoulder a stab of fear. They had to reach Veol, had to make sure he was safe.

Before Crest could finish, Bert threw himself between the boy and the entity. His body shook violently, legs unsteady, yet he forced himself to stand tall. His eyes remained fixed on the ground, or sometimes squeezed shut, unwilling to meet the abyssal gaze above him. Voice trembling, he cried, “If my son has done anything to anger you, please forgive him! Punish me instead! He’s only a child!”

Krim’s tears streamed down her cheeks, voice cracking. “Please… spare him!”

For a moment, Crest smiled—a wide, terrifying expression that seemed to stretch the space around him.

“Your son has indeed angered me. I will punish him with eternal pain and suffering. But even that feels… insufficient. Perhaps I should destroy this entire kingdom as well.”

Panic erupted. People wailed, begging, collapsing in terror.

Then Crest’s form shifted, shrinking into the shape of a human man.

“Kidding.”

Relief washed over the city. Krim and Bert clutched each other, trembling, hearts racing. But the moment of reprieve shattered instantly—their bodies jerked unnaturally, heads snapping skyward, blood spraying the earth.

Veol remained standing, frozen in shock. His wooden sword slipped from his fingers. Lips quivering, he whispered, “…Why?”

Crest said nothing, only watched him with an unreadable smile.

For the first time, Veol dared to raise his eyes. He looked directly into Crest’s human form—abyssal eyes meeting his—but nothing happened. His body didn’t burn. His soul didn’t wither.

Realization struck. Knuckles white, he gripped his sword, and with a strangled cry, hurled himself forward, swinging with all his strength.

The blade cut clean through Crest’s chest—but instead of blood, Veol felt agony tear through his own body. A sharp pain split his stomach; warm liquid spilled down his side. Staggering, he gasped, voice hoarse.

“How? I cut you—so why am I the one bleeding?”

Crest’s smile widened, voice soft and amused.

“Next time, answer me honestly. All hail the Supreme One.”

And then he vanished.

Veol collapsed to his knees, clutching his wound, vision blurring. He screamed into the night, rage and pain spilling from every word.

“No matter where you go—I will find you! I will make you suffer until even death rejects you!”

High above the chaos, the royal palace of Fhiola stood as a gleaming fortress of white stone and towering spires, its walls adorned with golden filigree that caught the last rays of sunlight. Inside, the king and his court of nobles watched the skies in horror, their children clinging to trembling hands. The grandeur of the palace—the opulent halls, crystal chandeliers, and echoing throne room—could not shield them from the terror that swept the streets. Even the heir-apparent, a young prince with bright eyes and a quick temper, pressed close to his mother, sensing the unnatural force looming over their city. Every noble and servant within the palace walls felt the pulse of Crest’s arrival, their hearts tightening with a dread that no wealth or power could ward off.

And then, in an instant, the same divine force that obliterated the common folk surged through the palace, leaving no one alive. Nobles, servants, children—none were spared. Screams echoed briefly, then vanished, swallowed by the weight of Crest’s presence. In the blink of an eye, the opulent halls, glittering chandeliers, and echoing corridors became silent tombs. The kingdom’s grandeur offered no defense against the unstoppable power descending upon it.

In the midst of the destruction, Oreq, Head Mage of Fhiola, reached the capital. The streets were a grisly tableau—bodies strewn across the stones, blood staining the market and cobblestones alike. Amid the carnage, one boy still breathed.

Oreq’s eyes widened. “…How? How is he alive?”

He rushed forward, lifting Veol carefully. The child’s small frame shivered, but his eyes, wide and unblinking, held no tears, no rage. Only shock.

“This power… this massacre… and only this child remains?” Oreq muttered, awe and fear threading his voice.

Mounting his flying staff, Oreq carried Veol to the palace for healing. As he treated the boy’s wounds, Veol’s eyes snapped open, panic flashing briefly across his face.

“Who are you? Where is that monster?!”

Oreq hesitated. “…Monster?”

Veol’s explanation came slowly, plainly, as though recounting events that had happened to someone else. No sobs, no outburst—just a chilling, detached clarity. Oreq listened silently, troubled. Crest… he had heard that name before. But more urgently, this child must survive.

By the time Veol finished, the towering walls of Elirion, one of the five great kingdoms of Elix, came into view.

Oreq handed Veol to his trusted friend, Azec, a priest of the Nine Gods. The boy was taken to the sacred temple, where nine colossal statues loomed over a glowing orb sealed in glass. Veol’s gaze lingered unusually on them, eyes bright with curiosity that belied the chaos he had witnessed.

Azec smiled gently. “Rest for now, child. I’ll explain everything tonight.”

But before he could speak further, another priest rushed in, whispering urgently. Azec’s expression darkened. He hurried to the orb, touching the glass—and vanished in an instant.

Veol blinked, wide-eyed. The temple fell into silence.

Slowly, he turned back to the statues. Four stood on the right, four on the left. But behind the orb… a ninth statue, broken at the upper half.

Alone once again, Veol stepped closer, gaze fixed upon the shattered god.