Karl Olsan stood in the inner sanctum of his citadel and did nothing.
That, in itself, was an act of rebellion.
The chamber was designed for invocation—an amphitheater of obsidian ribs curving upward like the inside of a colossal beast.
Runes burned faintly along the floor, fed by centuries of despair siphoned from conquered lands. This was where he had always come to receive power.
Tonight, he refused to kneel.
The darkness pressed against him immediately.
It did not rage.
It did not scream.
It waited.
Like a predator that knew patience always outlived resistance.
You feel her absence, the Evil God murmured at last, its voice sliding through Karl's thoughts like oil through water. The saintess was a tether. Now she is broken.
There is nothing left to distract you.
Karl closed his eyes.
And for the first time, he did not answer.
The silence stretched—unnatural, straining.
The runes along the floor flickered, destabilizing without his active will to anchor them. Power pooled restlessly around him, directionless.
Speak, the god commanded.
Karl exhaled slowly.
"I remember," he said.
The darkness stilled.
"I remember being human," Karl continued. "I remember wanting escape—not domination. I wanted meaning, not worship."
Memories surged—not summoned by the god this time, but by Karl himself.
A narrow bed.
A cracked ceiling.
A boy staring into imagined skies because the real one offered nothing.
The Evil God recoiled slightly.
Sentiment, it scoffed. That life was a failure.
"Yes," Karl agreed. "But it was mine."
The chamber trembled.
"You took that pain," Karl said, opening his eyes, "and told me it was destiny. You told me hatred was clarity."
The god's presence thickened, coils tightening.
Hatred is truth, it hissed. Humans deserve the world they create.
Karl stepped forward.
"And yet," he said quietly, "you need me to act it out."
That struck deeper than rage ever could.
The god surged violently, darkness flooding the chamber, slamming Karl backward into a pillar. Stone exploded. Blood sprayed from his mouth as the impact cracked ribs even divine power could not fully shield.
You exist because I allow it, the god thundered. You are a crown forged to sit upon my will!
Karl laughed—bloodied, breathless, unbowed.
"Then why," he asked, dragging himself upright, "do you sound afraid?"
The darkness faltered.
For the first time, Karl did not draw power from the god.
He redirected it.
Not outward.
Inward.
He plunged his will into the core of the connection—the parasitic bond where despair had been threaded into his soul like barbed wire
. Pain detonated instantly. His vision white-blinded. He screamed as the god shrieked with him, the sound tearing through dimensions.
Stop! the god roared. You will unravel us both!
"Good," Karl snarled.
He saw it then—not a god, not truly.
A wound.
A consciousness born from humanity's first collective refusal to hope. A thing that fed not on evil, but on surrender. It did not rule Karl because it was stronger.
It ruled because he had let it.
Karl collapsed to one knee, gasping, blood dripping onto the runes.
"I am not your vessel," he said hoarsely. "I am your limit."
The darkness withdrew—not gone, but wounded.
Watching.
Waiting.
Karl knew the truth now.
He could not destroy the god yet.
But he could deny it obedience.
And denial, to a god of despair, was poison.
Far away, beneath sanctified stone and hymns sung without mercy, Alice Vortex dreamed.
Not of light.
Of falling.
She lay curled on the cold floor of her cell, body wrapped in bruises and exhaustion. The seal the Church had placed upon her light burned constantly—an ache beneath the skin, like a limb that had been severed but still screamed.
In the dream, she stood in a vast cathedral made of shadow and flame.
A figure approached—tall, armored, eyes burning red.
Karl.
"You shouldn't be here," she said.
"I know," he replied.
The dream fractured.
Alice jolted awake as the world above her screamed.
Stone groaned.
Bells rang in panicked dissonance. The air shuddered with pressure so immense it drove breath from her lungs. Dust rained from the ceiling as something hit the cathedral from above.
Not gently.
Not ceremonially.
With intent.
The Church of Radiant Accord had never imagined itself falling.
Its spires had stood for over a thousand years, warded by prayers layered so thick they distorted reality itself.
Armies had broken against its outer sanctums. Kings had knelt at its gates.
Karl did not approach the gates.
He descended through the sky like judgment.
Darkness tore open above the central spire, a vertical wound in the heavens. From it, Karl fell—not uncontrolled, but deliberate—slamming into the upper sanctum with force that shattered holy barriers like glass.
Light exploded outward, colliding violently with shadow. Priests screamed as wards collapsed. Inquisitors were flung from balconies, their screams cut short by stone.
Karl rose from the crater, cloak billowing, eyes blazing.
"Do not kneel," he said, voice echoing unnaturally. "I am not here to rule you."
The Church answered with fire.
Lances of sanctified light tore through the air, ripping chunks from Karl's armor, burning into flesh. He staggered—but did not fall.
Inside him, the Evil God surged eagerly.
Yes, it purred. Let me answer them.
"No," Karl whispered.
He endured.
Every strike burned. Every spell screamed righteousness. This was not an army defending territory.
This was an institution defending authority.
Karl advanced through the upper halls, tearing through walls rather than corridors, refusing to let the Church dictate his path. He crushed Luminaries with gravity spells that pinned them helplessly to the floor—not killing, not sparing, simply passing through.
"Where is she?" he demanded of a cardinal pinned beneath collapsed stone.
Fear poured off the man in waves.
"The dungeons," he gasped. "Below the sanctum—sealed by divine law."
Karl smiled thinly.
"So is everything."
He plunged downward.
Alice felt him before she heard him.
The seal around her light reacted—not tightening, but trembling. Something brushed against it from the outside, warm and stubborn.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Heavy.
Unhurried.
The guards never screamed.
The cell door melted.
Karl stood there, armor cracked, blood streaking his jaw, eyes glowing with restrained fury.
Alice stared at him in disbelief.
"You came," she whispered.
He looked at her—really looked.
Chained. Bruised. Light sealed not by darkness, but by dogma.
Something inside him went very still.
"I told you I would," he said.
She laughed weakly, tears spilling over.
"You're attacking the Church."
"I'm extracting a variable," Karl replied flatly.
He stepped forward and placed his hand over the seal on her chest.
The Evil God surged in protest.
Do not undo what they have done! She weakens you!
Karl ignored it.
He did not break the seal with force.
He understood it.
The seal unraveled—not shattered, but released, responding not to divinity, but to recognition. Alice gasped as warmth flooded back into her veins, light blooming softly, painfully.
She collapsed into him.
Karl caught her without hesitation.
For a moment—just one—he allowed himself to hold another person without dominance, without command.
The cathedral shook violently above them.
"We have to go," Alice whispered.
Karl nodded.
As he turned, the Evil God's voice rose—furious, wounded, desperate.
If you walk this path, it warned, you will lose everything.
Karl glanced back at the burning seal marks fading from Alice's skin.
"Then it was never mine to begin with," he said.
He stepped into the shadows with her in his arms.
And for the first time since his rebirth, the god within him did not feel like a crown.
It felt like a chain—breaking fom his soul that enveloped Ihim in chains of despair.