Night moved like a blade across the human lands — not loud, not boastful, but inevitable.

Jexy Bakian preferred it that way: the silence that carried ruin, the kind that let the dead speak without the clutter of trumpets.

He floated on a whisper of black wind above a city that had once slept under banners and bells. Now the banners were aflame, the bells bent and singing a slow, broken note.

He did not storm the gates. He did not roar or declare some grand justice.

He walked through the streets as if searching for a bar that had closed early — and every step left a bruise on the world.

Houses collapsed into yawning mouths. Spires toppled like knives.

Where people ran, the air tasted of copper and regret.

When they finally understood who moved among them, it was too late.

Jexy watched from a ruined balcony while gold and black fire licked the horizon.

The faces he saw — mothers, priests, captains — were not strangers. They were debts.

On the day of his wedding, in Emberhold where laughter should have drowned the noise, many of his kin had gathered to celebrate.

Instead, human priests offered them to the gods, burning their souls to summon the “ancient heavens.”

He did not cry. He did not curse.

He collected the grief and turned it into a map — each city a mark to erase.

He began with the port towns.

The ocean itself trembled; ships buckled and the prayers carved on their hulls ignited.

Then he moved inland, where faith built fortresses and arrogance called itself divine.

Those fortresses fell like teeth.

“Why?” an old sentinel gasped when Jexy let himself be seen.

“Because they thought their gods were a bargain,” he said. “Because they bought power with blood and called it righteousness.”

Far away, in the black halls of the Demon Court, ten thrones debated.

The Tenfold Lords — the pillars of the demon realm — argued over the unthinkable.

“Summon the ancient demons?” Lord Vaedrin spat. “That path leads to extinction.”

“Extinction,” replied Lord Dalph Bakian, “is already here. My grandson merely walks ahead of it.”

They all knew. Jexy had not asked for permission. He never did.

He was not an envoy of diplomacy — he was a consequence.

Meanwhile, the human kings and their Seven Blades met beneath divine light.

Around them stood the Twelve Ancient Gods — newly awakened and utterly silent.

Ardyn Crossfield slammed his fist on the marble table.

“They slaughter our cities — do we stand idle?”

Rinea Valden’s eyes were cold. “You opened the gates to heaven. Did you think heaven would stay polite?”

Extor N’Valque smiled faintly.

“You call for war because you are afraid. Then fight — and fear properly.”

And so they did.

The Seven and the Twelve began to weave their retaliation,

their holy banners pointed toward the abyss.

While they schemed, Jexy walked on.

The name *Emberhold* lingered on his tongue — once home, now tomb.

He had no pity left, only arithmetic.

One ruined city for every soul burned.

He passed like a rumor that grew teeth.

Temples folded in on themselves. Watchtowers became moons of fire.

No banners. No speeches. Only the sound of the world remembering its debt.

Far above, the wind carried his voice — calm, lazy, cruel.

“Bring them all,” he murmured.

“Let every god, king, and elder learn how it tastes when the price is repaid.”

The first horns of war were still weeks away,

but the silence that devoured cities had already announced it:

The spoiled heir of the Demon Realm was done being a joke.

He would be the reckoning.