Long after the floodwaters had receded, when the tongues of men had been scattered and the cities of Shinar lay abandoned, the earth entered a time of fractures. Kingdoms rose and fell like the tides, and new rulers claimed the lands of the old world. To mortal eyes, they were kings and priests, but to the higher realms, their true nature was known. Many of those worshipped as gods were not gods at all — they were remnants of rebellion, ancient beings, exiled from the heights of Heaven yet still burning with desire.
I moved across the earth in those years. I walked unseen among the ruins of the drowned cities, past forests grown over the bones of Atlantis, Lemuria, and Eridu. I watched kingdoms form from the ashes, temples built upon the bones of the old world, and mortals who knew nothing of the powers that still stirred beneath their feet. Egypt, Sumer, Akkad, Canaan — they each reached for the divine, raising stone and clay in worship of beings they called gods. But the architects of this deception were not mortal. They were the fallen angels, disguised now in forms the eyes of men could bear, moving silently across the world, whispering, corrupting, bending hearts toward pride and blood.
In Egypt, the names Osiris, Isis, Set, and Horus were spoken with reverence. Yet beneath the Nile and the pyramids lay remnants of pre-Flood power — relics hidden by the survivors of Atlantis, fragments of the Shards, and artifacts wrought by the Nephilim. The priests, cloaked in linen and gold, muttered names that no mortal should know. They called upon powers older than time, and the Nile itself carried a faint, unnatural hum, as if remembering the voices of the drowned.
Canaan, too, became a land of old shadows. Baal, Moloch, and Astarte demanded offerings, and the rites of the Nephilim were remembered once more. In secret chambers beneath the city-states, children were offered to fires. Their screams rose to the void, voices touching the ears of unseen things who had long awaited such devotion. Men whispered of curses, of places where the veil between worlds thinned. I felt it — the chill of the watchers, the flicker of power not meant for human hands.
The Norse lands, in the north, had their own specters. Odin, Loki, and Thor walked among men, wielding ancient weapons forged in the first wars. Their songs were of fire and chaos, of a Ragnarok yet to come. Mountains shook at their passing, rivers swelled at their anger, and mortals bent their knees in fear, not understanding why the air smelled of smoke and iron when these beings were near.
Greece was no different. Zeus, Hades, Athena, and Apollo — the Olympians — perched upon their high mountaintops, cloaked in the guise of gods. But the wisdom they claimed had been stolen from celestial libraries, secrets plucked from the higher realms, whispered to men who thought them mere legends. With each stolen secret, mortals glimpsed power they were not ready to bear, and some reached too far, calling forth shadows that had slept since the fall of Atlantis.
Yet not all were deceived. From the line of Shem came prophets and seers. Abraham, Isaac, Jacob — names later spoken by men as chosen and blessed — walked among these lands, carrying the flame of the Architect. They moved quietly, guided by visions, carrying words older than mountains, passing on knowledge in whispers that could not be corrupted by the old gods. Joseph, son of Jacob, rose in Egypt, protecting the bloodline and ensuring the covenant endured amidst dens of false deities. Through famine, through slavery, through generations of toil, the promise survived.
But the world darkened, as it always does when the old powers awaken. The Shards of the Word, seven in number, lay hidden in secret places: under mountains, beneath rivers, in ruins of drowned cities. Their power pulsed faintly, awakening old sorcerers, men who whispered to ghosts, who listened for the echo of the Architect's will in dreams. Prophecies spoke of one who would gather these fragments, rending the veil between worlds. And the old gods, sensing this stirring, moved to secure their dominion.
Wars erupted among them. In Egypt, Osiris and Set clashed, their armies of priests and mortal soldiers tearing fields and cities apart. In Canaan, Baal sought to dominate the neighboring tribes, Moloch's fire claiming villages whole. The Norse gods battled Titans of old who had survived the Flood in hidden pockets of the north. Greek Olympians fought shadows from the east, cults and warlords who claimed knowledge from the ruins of Atlantis and Lemuria. These wars were unseen by mortal eyes, yet their consequences fell upon the earth. Storms came without warning. Earthquakes shattered villages. Rivers rose and fell. Crops failed. Men prayed to gods they barely understood, and some whispered of spirits that should not have walked the land again.
I moved beneath it all, through every battle, every secret council of the old gods. I saw the clash of celestial power disguised as mortal might, and I felt the sorrow of the higher choirs, diminished by the fall of so many brethren. Heaven watched, but did not yet intervene, for the time of deliverance had not yet arrived. Even so, the whispers of Lucifer moved across the earth. Though imprisoned beyond the lower realms, his will bent the currents of rebellion still, shaping events through mortal hands, through cunning words and promises of power.
And so, centuries passed in this hidden war, centuries of shadow and subtle violence. The earth grew crowded with monuments to power, each stone and altar whispering of the old corruption. But among mortals, hope endured. One tribe, small and scattered, descended from Abraham, held onto the promise. They remembered the Architect's words, the warnings of the prophets, and the sacred songs passed down from Shem.
The war raged in silence, unseen by most, yet felt in every trembling leaf, in every whisper of the wind, in the restless cries of beasts. The old gods bled into the world, their desires and malice shaping rivers, forests, mountains. The Shards, sensing the stirrings of this chosen line, trembled in their hiding places. And the Nexus, fragile and waiting, stirred beneath the crust of the earth, as if recognizing the coming of one who would unite the scattered fragments.
Atlantis, though drowned, still cast its shadow. I felt its ruin beneath the ocean floor, fragments of its towers whispering through the waves. Lemuria, Eridu, and other cities, though buried and forgotten by men, hummed with old power. The echoes of the Shards and the blood of Cain's line threaded through the lands, lingering in shadows, in minds of sorcerers, in dreams of kings and warriors who would rise too soon.
And yet, from among this chaos, one humble line endured, protected by the Architect's unseen hand. They walked quietly through empires and kingdoms, through Egypt and Sumer, over mountains and rivers, learning, waiting. They preserved the knowledge of the Word, the warnings of Enoch, the stories of Noah, the truths hidden in the ruins of pre-Flood cities.
For every storm wrought by Osiris or Baal, for every famine and plague spread by Odin or Zeus, there was a witness, a record, a thread unbroken. And in time, these threads would gather, weaving a pattern that could withstand the deceit of the old gods.
I watched it all. I saw the armies march, the cities burn, the cults grow in secret chambers. I heard the prayers of men who could not name the Architect, yet cried to Him anyway. I felt the tremor of the Shards beneath mountains, the pulse of Atlantis' memory in the oceans.
The old gods did not fall quietly. They did not relent. They clawed at the earth and at men, testing hearts, bending wills, sowing fear. And for a thousand years, the world was caught between the echoes of the Flood and the memory of rebellion.
Yet the promise endured. The line of Shem, the descendants of Abraham, moved in secret, guided by visions and dreams, preserving the covenant in a world of shadows. The Shards, scattered and hidden, waited to answer the call of one who would come, gathering them to rend the veil between realms and confront the old powers once more.
I moved unseen in these centuries, as I always do, beneath the wars, beneath the fallen temples, beneath the screams and cries of the forgotten. I saw the rise of empires, the fall of kings, the trembling of mortal hearts under the gaze of beings too old to measure. I watched Atlantis whisper beneath the waves, Lemuria breathe under the mountains, and Eridu hum in buried ruins.
The war of the old gods would rage on. Their blood and fury would stain the earth. Yet the seed of hope remained, fragile, like a flame flickering in a storm, awaiting the one who would carry the Word into flesh and light.
And so it was, for all the centuries that passed between the Flood and the promise: unseen wars, old powers awakening, mortal hearts tempted, but the covenant endured. And I, as ever, moved among it all. I saw it, I felt it, and I recorded it.
The old gods did not vanish. They never would. But the story was not yet done. One line, small and enduring, carried the hope of the world yet to be born. And in the hidden places, the Shards pulsed, the old whispers moved, and the earth waited.
The war is not over.
Not yet.