The first strike came not from the sky—but from silence.
The skies above the Obsidian Gate turned white as if bleeding light. For a breathless moment, everything stilled. Then the heavens screamed. A column of divine fire split the clouds, tearing through the barrier between realms, crashing into the eastern wall of the Ash Fortress.
The war had begun.
Valaria stood on the battlements, her silver-blonde hair whipping in the wind, the light behind her eyes dimming with focus. She raised her hand and the soldiers behind her—demons, shadows, exiles, and oath-bound warriors—readied their weapons. She could feel it in her bones: this was no skirmish. It was the first move of extermination.
"Do not break ranks!" she shouted. "Protect the gate! For Shadow!"
Below, Lidow watched in awe. Only ten years old, he had no business being this close to the battle. But Shadow had allowed it—he wanted his son to see what power meant. Not just in strength, but in sacrifice.
From the rupture in the sky, angelic hosts descended. Wings of glass and flame. Armor like polished suns. Leading them was a being who glowed so brightly, his face could not be seen.
Saint Armathiel, one of Xarthor's chosen.
Shadow stepped through the Black Gate, his cloak trailing like smoke across marble scorched from past wars. His eyes, no longer fully mortal, reflected the burning sky.
"You brought your saints to my door?" Shadow said, his voice low like distant thunder. "You forgot what happened the last time Heaven bled."
Saint Armathiel raised his blade—a spear of crystallized light. "You are the blasphemy that stains eternity. I am the answer."
Without another word, the angel dived.
The ground erupted as Shadow caught the blade mid-flight, his bare hand burning. Valaria leapt from the battlements, her twin daggers igniting with corrupted grace. Lidow clenched his fists, and for a moment, just a flicker, both light and darkness shimmered around his hands.
Below the battlefield, Lan dragged a wounded demon soldier into cover. "This isn't just another fight," he whispered, "this is the reckoning."
Above them all, the sky screamed again.
Saint Armathiel was dead within seven minutes.
His armor cracked under Shadow's power. His wings torn by Valaria's precision. And his soul, scattered like ash when Lidow—without understanding how—struck a final pulse of light-shadow through his core.
Shadow stood tall in the silence that followed, eyes glowing dimly.
"Heaven has bled," he said. "And it will bleed again."
Ash still fell from the skies like black snow. The battlefield, hours after the slaughter, had gone quiet—but not peaceful.
Saint Armathiel's wings lay shattered on the obsidian stone, their holy feathers withering into cinders. His body had already been taken by the light, erased like all who served the Divine. Only the silence remained, heavy and accusing.
Shadow stood alone at the center of the ruins.
His cloak clung to him like mist. His gauntlet, still steaming from divine contact, slowly uncurled. He did not speak. He did not move.
He simply stared at the bloodstained ground beneath his feet. Some of it was angelic. Some of it was demon. None of it mattered anymore.
Behind him, Valaria approached carefully. "You didn't have to kill him like that."
Shadow turned his head, slowly.
"I did," he said. "So they'd remember."
She didn't reply at first. The quiet between them was familiar now—more honest than words. Finally, she whispered, "They will come again."
"They always do," Shadow said.
Not far away, Lidow sat on a fractured piece of the wall, hugging his knees to his chest. He hadn't spoken since the light faded from Armathiel's eyes.
Lan sat beside him, quietly sharpening his blade. "You did what none of us could. You're stronger than you know."
"But I didn't mean to," Lidow murmured. "I didn't want to kill him."
Lan paused. "Wanting doesn't matter, Lidow. You're a son of war. Sooner or later, it finds you."
The boy stared at his hands—one glowing faintly gold, the other pulsing dark. His breath came in shaky rhythm.
"What am I?" he whispered.
Shadow appeared before him. No footsteps. No sound. Just presence.
"You are mine," Shadow said.
"And hers," Valaria added gently, kneeling beside her son.
Lidow looked up. His parents—demon and fallen light—both scarred, both brutal, both broken. But standing.
"I don't want to fight," he said.
"You will," Shadow replied. "But not because I tell you. Because the world will give you no choice."
A long silence passed.
Then, Lidow asked, "Will there ever be peace?"
Shadow looked up to the sky—now stitched shut, the holy rift sealed in darkness.
"No," he said. "But there will be balance."
Atop the cliffs above the battlefield, a figure watched. Hooded. Wrapped in cloth burned with sigils. His hands glowed with ancient ink. His face bore no expression, but his eyes—two pits of hollow light—narrowed.
"So the child awakens…" the figure murmured.
He turned and vanished into the mist.
Far from the scorched remains of the battlefield, across the iron skies and bone-ridden lands of the Ashveil Expanse, something ancient stirred beneath the world's crust.
In a cave lit by crimson roots and flowing magma, he awoke.
He who had no name anymore. He who bore the sigil of the Third Flame—a fire neither from Hell nor Heaven, but something forgotten, something older.
He opened his eyes.
And the world flinched.
At the gates of Infernum, Shadow stood atop the Obsidian Throne, one hand cradling the edge of his blade, the other resting on the armrest as if it were a beast's neck. Before him, the newly formed council of demon generals and war-scarred lieutenants knelt.
Lan. Valaria. The new Wraith Twins. Even the silent Infernal Smith, whose forge burned day and night to prepare for a war that hadn't been named yet.
"All of you feel it," Shadow said calmly.
None answered. But all had.
He continued. "There is movement in the Old Layer. Something that calls fire from beneath the roots of the realms."
Valaria frowned. "Do you think it's one of theirs?"
"No." Shadow's voice was cold, sure. "This doesn't belong to Heaven."
Lan shifted. "Then what is it?"
Shadow's red gaze narrowed.
"A survivor," he said. "A rival flame."
Miles below the crust of the known world, the Stranger stepped into a ruined cathedral buried in stone. His skin glowed with markings—runic, jagged, like the brands of a fallen god.
Before him stood three figures in chains—remnants of the old war. They had once served the Nine. One bore wings made of bone. Another had no mouth, but many eyes. The last was made of pure shadowglass.
"You called," said the winged one. "You should not exist."
The Stranger smiled. "Yet I burn."
He walked toward them slowly, power bleeding from every step.
"You seek vengeance," whispered the eyeless thing.
"No," the Stranger said. "I seek correction."
Then he raised his hand—and flame, grey as the void and ancient as myth, consumed the three.
Back in Infernum, Shadow's grip tightened.
Valaria stood beside him. "You've felt him."
"He's close," Shadow murmured.
"Another war?"
"No." He stood. "Not war."
He stared out into the horizon where the firestorm raged like a broken heart.
"This is prophecy."
Meanwhile, Lidow sat in the silent library below the throne, flipping pages of ancient prophecy, unaware that every name written in the margins had already died.
Until one name reappeared—scrawled in fresh blood.
"The Third Flame returns. Not to rule. Not to serve.
But to burn the thrones themselves."
And underneath it, written shakily:
"Shadow will fall.
The child will choose."
Lidow blinked.
And somewhere, the Stranger smiled.
The obsidian walls of the Infernal Keep flickered red, shadows dancing like whispers from old ghosts. Shadow sat alone in the high chamber, where no fire dared burn without his will. He had not slept in years.
Tonight, sleep came.
But not peace.
He found himself in a place he did not recognize—a realm between flame and void. The ground beneath his feet was cracked glass, glowing faintly with dying light. The air was heavy, yet still. Silent, yet screaming.
And then… he was not alone.
A figure emerged from the swirling ash.
Tall. Cloaked. Eyes like twin embers carved from ancient judgment.
"You are late," the figure said.
Shadow said nothing. His blade appeared in his hand, as natural as breath.
The figure did not flinch. "You cannot kill me here."
"Then what are you?"
"I am flame," the voice replied, "older than your throne, your wars, your crown. I am the fire before fire."
Shadow narrowed his eyes. "You are a threat."
The figure stepped forward. The ash beneath his feet sizzled away.
"I am a test."
Back in the real world, Lidow awoke in a cold sweat. Something had stirred in him—like someone had whispered his name across a burning river.
He left his bed and walked through the silent halls of the Keep. The guards bowed. The air was quiet.
Until he heard it.
The whispers.
From the sealed library vault.
In the dream realm, Shadow circled the stranger.
"You seek war?"
"I seek fire unshaped," the stranger replied, "and you… are in my way."
Shadow lunged.
But the blade passed through.
Not because the stranger dodged—but because he wasn't there in the way mortals understood.
"You burn with vengeance," the figure said, unmoved. "But vengeance is a candle. I am the sun."
Shadow snarled. "I've killed gods. I've killed kings. You will not speak to me like I'm a child."
"You were a child, once," the stranger whispered. "So was I. But we are not children anymore. We are destiny shaped by ruin."
Then, the stranger paused.
"You have a son."
Shadow froze.
He didn't speak—but his aura flared, violent and red.
"I will not touch him," the figure said calmly. "He will come to me on his own. Fire recognizes fire."
Shadow's voice was ice. "Stay away from him."
"You can't protect him forever, King of Ash."
And with that, the realm began to collapse. Fire turned to smoke. Smoke to dust.
The last thing Shadow saw before waking was the figure's final words, painted across the black sky in flame:
"Your legacy ends with him. Or begins anew."
In the vault, Lidow stood before the sealed stone gate, his hands trembling.
The whispering had stopped.
Only one sentence echoed now, deep in his thoughts, not his ears:
"He waits."
He didn't know who.
But he knew why.
Lidow stood before the sealed vault door. The whispering had faded, but the pressure in the air had not. His fingers hovered over the infernal sigils etched into the stone—ancient markings even his father rarely touched.
Behind that door was knowledge forbidden.
And calling him.
One breath.
One decision.
The door opened not with a scream, but a sigh—like something relieved to be seen again.
The chamber inside was lit by no flame, yet glowed faintly with red and violet hues. Books floated in silent orbits, chained by runes of containment. Weapons from a thousand fallen realms were mounted like trophies. At the center stood a pedestal. Upon it, a crystal—dark, pulsing, alive.
Lidow stepped forward.
The crystal responded. A spark, then a flare.
And suddenly—
He saw.
A burning city.
Screaming skies.
A mountain split by light and darkness entwined.
He saw himself standing alone against a figure wreathed in golden flame, yet crowned in shadow.
He saw Shadow—his father—bleeding.
He saw Valaria—his mother—fighting something unseen.
He saw himself, older. Stronger. But with eyes filled not with rage… but sorrow.
Then it all shattered.
He collapsed to the floor, gasping, heart racing.
The crystal dimmed.
But it had done its work.
Lidow rose slowly. His eyes now glowed faintly—not just with shadow. With light. His body hummed with something awakened.
Something chosen.
Far above, Shadow stood in his throne room.
He felt it.
Not fear.
Not danger.
Something else.
"Lidow…" he whispered.
Valaria entered quietly behind him. "He felt it too, didn't he?"
Shadow turned to her. "Yes. It has begun."
Valaria touched his shoulder. "Then we prepare him."
Shadow didn't respond immediately. His gaze lingered on the burning horizon beyond the infernal windows.
"He'll need more than training," he finally said. "He'll need to understand why the world fears us."
Valaria nodded.
"He'll need to see what they did to us."
Later that night, Lidow sat on the edge of his bed, clutching the small pendant his mother had given him. It burned slightly against his chest now.
A knock.
The door opened. Shadow stood there, more silhouette than man.
"You opened the vault," he said.
Lidow didn't deny it.
Shadow stepped in, sitting beside him. For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then:
"You saw him, didn't you?" Shadow asked quietly.
Lidow nodded. "Who is he?"
Shadow's jaw clenched. "Someone I thought was gone. Someone older than me. Older than this world."
"A god?"
"No," Shadow whispered. "Something worse."
Silence.
Then Lidow asked, "What do I do?"
Shadow finally looked at him—not as a boy, not even as his son.
But as something becoming.
"You learn," he said. "You bleed. You become what they fear—and more."
He placed a hand on Lidow's shoulder.
"And when the time comes… you choose who you truly are. Not light. Not shadow."
Shadow's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Something new."
The air shimmered in the Voidlands.
A cracked land where light had never touched, where screams echoed from battles long forgotten. Lidow stood in the center, sweat soaking through his dark tunic, his hands clenched tightly around a twin-bladed staff of shadowsteel.
Across from him stood Kaor, unmoving, his demonic horns glinting with embers, his eyes filled with the fire of ancient war.
"Again," Kaor growled.
Lidow gritted his teeth. His legs ached. His chest burned. But he charged forward anyway, spinning the staff in his grip, channeling the flickers of light energy through its core. It clashed with Kaor's obsidian axe, sending a wave of black and gold outward into the cracked valley.
From a nearby cliff, Valaria watched silently. Her armor shimmered between light and dark—like her son. A paradox made flesh.
"His balance is improving," she said, voice calm. "But he still hesitates when he draws from the light."
Kaor huffed. "Because it's not his. He was born in the fire of the Hells, not in the dreams of angels."
"No," Valaria replied. "He was born in between. That is what makes him dangerous."
Lidow dropped to one knee, panting. "You said I needed both. Light and shadow."
Kaor stepped forward. "And I say the light will betray you. Just like it did your mother. Just like it did us all."
The boy looked at his hands, glowing faintly. His shadow rippled beneath him—alive, aware. "I don't want to become like you. Or them. I want something else."
Valaria approached. "Then you must first survive what's coming."
Later that night
The Voidlands slept uneasily. Even the stars looked foreign here.
Lidow sat alone, holding a fragment of light in his palm. It pulsed with warmth. A memory. A whisper.
He closed his eyes… and saw.
A tower, burning in golden flame.
Soldiers with wings of silver.
A man with white eyes raising a blade of reality.
And Shadow—his father—on his knees, wounded. Screaming not in pain, but rage.
He snapped awake, gasping.
"A vision," came a voice behind him.
Vey, the silent prophet, stood at the edge of the camp. His robes flowed unnaturally. "You saw the Saint."
Lidow blinked. "The man with the white eyes?"
Vey nodded. "He comes to end all. Light twisted beyond mercy. He has named you the Betrayer's Heir."
Lidow stood slowly, fists clenched. "Then I'll show him what that means."
The wind howled over the broken plains of Virell.
Where once stood towers of ancient gods, only bone and dust remained. The earth whispered secrets of a war that never ended, and above all… the sky bled crimson.
Shadow stood at the edge of a black ridge, his crimson cape billowing behind him like wings of war. His eyes—those infernal embers—scanned the horizon as war drums echoed like thunder.
Behind him, the Obsidian Legion waited.
Demons, warforged beasts, forgotten titans—his army.
But not just his.
Valaria stood to his left, wrapped in a cloak of radiant shadow. And beside her, Kaor and Nyssa, the two new generals—Kaor of Ash, Nyssa of Bone and Chains.
"They come," Shadow said.
Across the dark horizon, a river of banners began to move—lightborn, paladins, angels turned zealots. At the front rode the Saint, his blade of dawn raised, his horse a thing woven of holy fire.
And with him… hundreds of chosen from the Allied Realms.
Back in the camp
Lidow sat sharpening his blade, the runes on it glowing in pulses of dark and light. Vey stood nearby, whispering words in a forgotten tongue.
Valaria approached. "You should not go to the front lines."
Lidow looked up, defiant. "He's coming for me."
Shadow entered, the ground itself bending slightly beneath his steps.
"He comes for all of us," Shadow said, voice like thunder caught in steel. "But he will find only ruin."
He looked at his son.
"Stay alive, Lidow. The future needs you more than this war does."
The March Begins
The gates of the Obsidian Fortress opened. The army of Hell, reborn under Shadow's command, surged forward. Demonic banners flared, infernal horns rang out. From the skies, creatures without names descended—some once angels, now corrupted, others born in nightmares.
Shadow rode ahead on Dreadmourne, his steed of flame and bone. Beside him, Valaria flew with wings of pure dusk, a sword made from her own fallen light in her hand.
"No mercy," Shadow declared. "Only fire. Let the Saint see that Heaven is no longer holy."
The two armies met at the Fields of Velmor.
Once a holy ground, now blackened by prophecy and soaked in the blood of three wars.
Heaven's host stood radiant—armor forged in starlight, banners of gold, prayers chanted loud enough to shake the wind.
Facing them: the abyss.
Shadow at the front, his obsidian armor humming with raw power. Valaria to his left, Kaor and Nyssa behind him, their demonic battalions ready to rip the world in two.
Then came the Saint.
He descended like a comet, light piercing the clouds, landing with a shockwave that cracked the earth.
"You are no king, demon," he spat.
Shadow stepped forward, slow and calm. "Then kneel me, Saint. Show your gods what strength means."
The two clashed—light and shadow, silence and wrath. Their blades met, divine flame against the edge of pure void. The battlefield exploded with power, sending demons and angels alike flying.
Amid the Chaos
Lidow stood with Vey and the Shadowguard, watching the skies burn. He clenched his fists.
"He's going to die if we don't help."
Vey narrowed her eyes. "No. Your father doesn't fall. Not here. Not today."
Yet the battle was brutal.
Kaor was struck down by an archangel's spear, roaring as his body dissolved into ash. Nyssa was impaled, smiling as she dragged her killer into the Abyss with her.
Valaria screamed in fury and unleashed her forbidden magic—Lightflame, the cursed union of her former and current power. Dozens fell before her, blinded by beauty, consumed by fire.
But the Saint…
He broke through.
The Saint vs. Shadow
They clashed again, and this time, the sky split open. Shadow was pushed back, blood on his mouth, cracks in his armor.
The Saint raised his sword for the final strike—
—and Shadow caught it with one hand.
Power flooded the field.
"You speak of light," he growled, "but I have lived through every shade of hell. You speak of gods—where were they when I burned?"
He crushed the blade, piece by piece.
Then came a single strike. Fast. Silent. Divine.
Shadow moved.
And the Saint fell.