Qaritas knelt in the mire, chest heaving, lungs scraping like they'd filled with ash. The world smelled of iron and rot. Steam coiled off his body where blood met cold air, and beneath his torn skin, faint purple light pulsed — not steady, but erratic, like a dying star refusing to fade.
His skin began to harden in places, stone-like and cracking in others. The light beneath it fractured through each break, glowing through the fissures like molten veins. Every twitch sent ripples of agony up his spine — his divine body rejecting mortality, fighting itself to survive.
The forest pulsed with silence for a heartbeat. Then, two shapes peeled out of the fog — the remaining Bzluagh. Their hearts swung like lanterns of meat, pumping thick red vapor into the air.
Eon's laughter slithered through the cage of Qaritas's ribs.
"Move faster, little corpse. Let me show you what a god's heartbeat sounds like when it drowns."
Qaritas staggered to his feet, nearly slipping in the black mud. The first creature lunged. He twisted aside — too slow — its claws grazed his ribs, peeling a strip of skin away. He bit back a scream, blood streaming between his fingers.
Zcain's voice rumbled through the world like thunder echoing inside a cathedral.
"Most mortals would die to one. You've faced a swarm. Even stone would break by now."
Qaritas spat blood, laughing through the pain. "You're Sin itself. I figured you'd enjoy the view."
A low, almost weary breath passed through the forest — the sound of trees bowing to something ancient.
"Sin is not a choice, Qaritas," Zcain replied. "It's the shadow cast when survival blocks the light."
The words carried weight enough to still the air. Even Eon went quiet for a moment. The glow beneath Qaritas's skin dimmed, then flared again — a heartbeat of defiance.
The second Bzluagh circled behind him, drooling steam. Qaritas braced, but Zcain's voice rose again, softer now, threaded with something almost… human.
"Many believe sin is corruption," Zcain said. "But I have seen mortals sin for love. For protection. For hunger. When there's no choice, even mercy wears a stain."
A claw tore across Qaritas's back. He cried out, stumbling forward, but Zcain continued as if the lesson mattered more than the fight.
"Mortals would sacrifice anything — even their own souls — if it meant saving what they love. That isn't evil. That's instinct. The curse of care."
The forest light flickered. The Bzluagh moved closer.
"I sinned once too," Zcain said, his tone breaking like old stone. "The day your mother died in her mortal body."
Qaritas froze mid-breath.
The world slowed. Even Eon fell silent, his usual mockery suspended in the weight of the admission.
"I thought I could save her," Zcain murmured. "I traded divinity for rage. I unmade what I was. For one heartbeat, I was not a god — I was a man who wanted her back. And that moment… damned me."
The wind shuddered through the forest. Leaves fell upward, caught in unseen gravity.
Qaritas turned, blood running down his chin. "You — you're saying sin is mercy?"
"No," Zcain said quietly. "I'm saying mercy has teeth."
The trees groaned. The ground cracked beneath him.
Eon exhaled a dark laugh, voice curling like smoke.
"And you thought he didn't understand you, little vessel. The Sin God bleeds just like the rest of us."
Qaritas clenched his fists, the glow under his skin flaring hotter, violet bleeding into gold.
"Then I'll bleed, too."
Zcain's voice was a whisper and a command all at once:
"Then fight."
And the forest answered by roaring back to life.
The forest began to die.
Light bled out of the trees like veins emptying into shadow. Even the fog seemed to recoil. Qaritas felt it before he saw it—pressure, like the air itself was bowing to something vast and ancient.
Zcain's voice rolled through the darkness, neither warning nor mercy.
"The next trial begins."
The Bzluagh froze mid-motion, their heads jerking toward the soundless horizon. Then they scattered, crawling back into the rot that birthed them.
Qaritas turned slowly, every muscle screaming, his purple-lit veins pulsing through cracked, stone-hard flesh.
"What now?" he rasped.
Eon purred, low and delighted.
"Something older. Something that doesn't crawl—it reigns."
The ground trembled. Trees buckled inward, their roots lifting from the earth like veins torn from flesh. A line of frost hissed across the soil, devouring sound itself.
Then it came.
The Nythraen.
The Serpent of Eternal Night.
It slid through the blackness like a dream refusing to end. Its scales shimmered faintly, catching the light of unseen stars—iridescent and wet, like oil upon the cosmos. Its eyes burned with twin moons, casting ghostlight across its body. Each movement was fluid and immense, as if gravity itself dared not bind it.
Eon whispered, almost reverent.
"Oh, I remember this one. It used to eat suns for breakfast."
The serpent's body coiled around the forest clearing. Its presence warped the space—bending the horizon inward, making the trees appear smaller, weaker.
And with a guttural, vibrating roar, it summoned the Bzluagh back.
They poured from the soil like worms from a wound, shrieking as they took formation beneath the Nythraen's shadow. Their hearts beat in unison—blood spraying steam that carried the serpent's scent.
Zcain's voice thundered from above and below, shaking bark from the trees.
"If you are going to fight, then fight with everything you have. Otherwise, there's no point in fighting at all."
Eon laughed, wild and sharp.
"He's right, little brother. You've always wanted to feel alive—now bleed for it."
The Bzluagh attacked first—twenty at once, their limbs folding like broken wings. Qaritas snatched a jagged branch from the ground and swung, splintering bone and bile. The impact cracked his shoulder. His skin split; blood hissed out, glowing faintly violet.
The serpent moved next—its tail sweeping through the clearing like a comet. He dove aside, rolling through mud and bone fragments as a tree shattered where he'd stood.
His body was breaking—divinity and mortality tearing at each other inside him. His back erupted in cracks of light; chunks of rock fell from his skin, revealing gold and purple veins pulsing beneath. His body tried to heal—tried to return to its true form—but it couldn't. Not without killing itself.
"Beautiful," Eon whispered. "You're becoming both—god and man. A creature even I can't define."
"Shut up," Qaritas spat, swinging a piece of stone into a Bzluagh's heart. The creature exploded in black mist.
For hours—or maybe eternity—he fought. Time lost shape. Each breath burned. Each motion tore something new inside him.
The serpent's scales reflected his movements back at him, taunting, as though the darkness itself mocked his struggle. He used what he could—rocks, broken roots, even the severed limb of a Bzluagh.
Zcain's voice returned, steady and relentless.
"You think power is what makes gods. It isn't. It's endurance. Faith in the fight even when there's no chance of victory."
Qaritas stumbled toward a cave—the one place untouched by the serpent's frost. He collapsed inside, gasping, his body half stone, half bleeding meat. His purple glow pulsed weaker now—more ember than fire.
Eon's voice softened, almost affectionate.
"You can rest, you know. Just let it end. Let me take the reins."
"Never," Qaritas hissed.
He tore a shard of rock from the wall and began sharpening it against another, the scrape echoing in the hollow dark. His hands shook. His fingers were torn down to the bone.
He tied the stone to a broken branch with strips of his own hair.
The makeshift spear gleamed faintly—primitive, ugly, perfect.
Zcain's voice rumbled through the cave.
"Ten minutes."
Qaritas didn't question it. He just breathed, sharpening the rock until his fingers bled, the scent of his own iron mixing with the decay around him.
"Ten minutes are up," Zcain said.
The air turned red. The walls breathed once—then melted away.
He was back in the clearing.
The serpent loomed again, its mouth open wide enough to swallow the stars. The Bzluagh howled in its wake, surrounding him once more.
Qaritas raised his crude spear, every nerve on fire, every breath a prayer to no one.
Eon whispered, low and eager.
"Round two, my dear vessel. Let's make it art."
And as the forest screamed around him, Qaritas charged into the dark—
glowing, cracking, breaking—
but fighting.
The world changed without warning.
The forest, the serpent, the blood — all blurred into red light. Then, abruptly, silence.
When it cleared, Qaritas stood in a clearing untouched by rot. The air was still. Too still. The scent of decay replaced by something unbearably human — sweat, fear, and desperation.
Ten mortals stood before him.
Different races. Different worlds. One with scaled skin, another with glassy eyes, one barely old enough to walk. Each shaking, hollow-eyed, their clothes torn from some unseen struggle.
"Please," one said — a woman with feathers instead of hair. "Please help us."
He blinked, disoriented. His arm trembled around the stone spear. The mud still clung to him, drying like rust on his skin.
"Zcain," he rasped. "What is this?"
The god's voice rolled through the trees — quieter now, but heavy as ever.
"A lesson. Sometimes you must make impossible choices. But if your cause is true, regret has no place in it."
Eon chuckled softly in his skull.
"He means: bleed for the ones you can't save."
Qaritas's jaw tightened. He stepped toward the group. "We need to move. Now."
But the forest answered first.
The ground split open. From it, the Bzluagh swarmed once more — dozens this time, their hearts pulsing in rhythm with the serpent's low, humming growl as it slithered back into view, colossal and patient, watching from the shadows like a god of ruin.
Five mortals died before they could scream.
The rest scattered. One tripped and fell; another vanished beneath a wave of claws and teeth. Qaritas roared, lunging forward, his body bursting with pain and fury.
He drove the spear through the chest of one creature, then tore it free and swung at another. His left arm caught a blow meant for his heart — bone snapped, skin split.
He didn't stop.
He fought like he'd forgotten what restraint was — a storm of broken movements and ragged breath.
Zcain's voice echoed faintly over the carnage.
"Even gods can't save everyone. But they must choose whom they fight for."
Eon's laughter laced through it, cruel and beautiful.
"Little brother, look at you. Half man, half stone. Half dead. Entirely mine."
A claw struck his back, sending him sprawling. His arm hung useless, shredded to the bone. He rolled, grabbed the spear with his other hand, and drove it upward into a Bzluagh's mouth.
The creature shrieked and fell, black bile spilling over him like oil.
He couldn't see. Could barely breathe. His body ached like a collapsing star. The remaining mortals screamed as the serpent surged forward — a tidal wave of scales and starlight.
Qaritas turned to meet it.
"Come on, then," he hissed.
The serpent lunged. Teeth brighter than moons. A shadow so vast it swallowed everything.
And then—
Pain.
Blinding, absolute.
The Nythraen's jaws closed around him.
His head was severed cleanly, the world spinning away into light and silence.
Darkness.
Then breath.
Qaritas gasped — air tearing into his lungs as he jolted upright. The scent of rot was gone. In its place came the clean, metallic tang of the Develdion's chamber.
His body was whole again. His hands unbroken. The faint hum of machinery sang through the air like a heartbeat.
Zcain's voice, softer now:
"Good job. You lasted longer than expected."
Qaritas blinked. His voice rasped out weakly. "Longer? I died."
"And you'll die again," Zcain replied simply. "We'll break for lunch."
Qaritas stared at nothing. "Lunch?"
"Yes. An hour. Then we continue."
The light around him widened. The training pods dissolved into open space.
A long, gleaming table stretched across the center of the room — fifteen feet of carved starlight, overflowing with food that shimmered like molten jewels and steamed with spices from a thousand worlds.
Rivax leaned against a column, his metal arm dimmed to bronze. "You all look like you've been through hell."
Tavren snorted. "That's generous. They are hell."
The others stumbled from their pods — Ayla, Cree, Hydeius, Komus, Niraí, Daviyi — every one of them pale, clothes torn, eyes wild. The silence between them was thick with exhaustion and disbelief.
Komus was the first to break it. He slammed a goblet onto the table and groaned, "Hell? You have no idea. Nyqomi is hell incarnate. I've been running from horrors that smile for twelve straight hours!"
Niraí winced, sipping her drink. "Only twelve?"
Daviyi's laugh cracked mid-breath. "Xasna made me drown in my own nebula. Twice."
That was all it took. The table erupted in grim laughter — not joy, but release.
Even Ayla smiled faintly, her veil half-burned, light flickering along its edges. She looked at Qaritas, eyes soft. "You survived."
"Barely," he murmured.
Eon's voice slithered through his chest again.
"Don't get too cozy, little nightmare. Lunch is mercy. And mercy never lasts."
Qaritas looked around the table — these broken, laughing gods — and for the first time, he felt something shift. Not divinity. Not duty. Something smaller. He almost smiled.
Across the chamber, Zcain's voice rose again — calm, absolute.
"Enjoy your meal. When the hour ends… back to the pods."
The laughter died down, replaced by quiet chewing, the scrape of plates, and the low hum of the Develdion awakening once more.
The light dimmed, golden at first, then violet.
And somewhere beneath it all, Qaritas swore he could still hear the serpent breathing.