The peace was never built to last.
It had held for six years—fragile, strained, but real. The heavens remained distant, licking their wounds. The mortal kingdoms grew quiet, their spies reporting nothing but silence from the black throne. And the demons? They obeyed. Not from fear, but from belief. Shadow was not just a ruler. He was inevitable.
But peace does not keep the ambitious asleep.
It was Lidow's sixteenth year. The boy was no longer a boy. Though his heart still carried the weight of innocence, his eyes—those inherited from a father and mother of flame and light—held too much wisdom for someone his age.
He trained each day with Valarie. He sparred in the Lower Rings with the elite demons, and sometimes he sat in silence beside the Throne, watching his father rule with a presence that could crush entire worlds without a word.
But whispers had begun to return.
A new priesthood, somewhere deep in the western desert, began preaching a name thought buried: "The Saint of Chains."
A figure who claimed to have spoken to the heavens.
A prophet—or a weapon.
Shadow had heard the name once before.
In the First War, it was a title the light never dared use—one tied to ancient punishment, divine wrath. If the heavens had chosen to raise this figure now, it could only mean one thing:
They were moving again.
Lidow stood at the obsidian balcony, overlooking the seas of black fire. He felt it in the wind.
Change.
A tremble in the soul of the world.
Valarie joined him, her hair glowing faintly under the twin moons. "You feel it too?"
"Yes," he said. "Something is calling."
"Not calling," she corrected softly. "Warning."
Meanwhile, in the Temple of the Saint, robed acolytes chanted in a circle. Chains hung from their arms, their backs, even their faces.
At the center of the altar stood a man with no eyes, yet he saw through time.
He smiled.
"The Child of Shadow and Light walks blind. We shall give him vision… in fire."
A new war would not begin with soldiers.
It would begin with faith.
And faith is the deadliest weapon of a
The desert winds howled with a voice ancient and cruel. Sandstorms swept endlessly across a barren land, burying the bones of kingdoms long forgotten. In the heart of this cursed expanse, nestled between blackened spires of obsidian rock, stood the Temple of Chains—a monument not built, but grown from pain, forged by forgotten prayers and cursed blood.
Inside, the walls wept. Not with moisture, but with memory—old battles, broken vows, screams of angels and demons alike, etched forever into the stone. Braziers burned with silver-blue flame. The smell of incense and rusted iron filled the air.
At the center of the temple stood the Saint.
Clad in robes of woven ash and chain, his body was hunched, his face covered in a white, featureless mask. From his back sprouted six iron chains—two pierced into his own flesh, four hanging loose like wings. He never walked. He drifted. His presence distorted reality, as if hope itself bent around him.
Before him knelt his followers. Hundreds. Mortals, fallen angels, cursed warriors, all whispering in unison:
"He will burn. The false king will burn."
A young woman stepped forward—Eliah, his High Acolyte. Her eyes glowed with holy fire, but her skin bore infernal runes.
"Father," she said, kneeling. "The scouts report movement in the south. The child—Lidow—has begun his journey. Should we strike now?"
The Saint's voice echoed like metal grinding bone.
"No. Let him walk. Let him believe he is free. For every step he takes toward strength, he walks further from salvation."
He raised one hand, and chains rattled across the temple floor, coiling around a captive demon brought before him—one of Shadow's spies. The creature snarled, black blood dripping from its mouth.
"You'll get nothing from me," the demon spat.
The Saint leaned in, and without touching the creature, the chains slithered like serpents, coiling around its neck, eyes, tongue.
"Your screams will be a hymn."
Far from the desert, Lidow awoke from a nightmare. Sweat clung to his skin. He could still hear the sound of chains in his ears, the burning presence of something ancient… holy, but wrong.
Valarie entered the room in an instant. "What happened?"
He sat up slowly. "I saw him. I don't know how, but I saw him."
"Who?"
Lidow's voice was quiet.
"The one who wants to kill Father."
—
Meanwhile, in the throne chamber, Shadow stood alone. His eyes were fixed on the horizon beyond the gate of Hell. He had felt it, too—the shift. The approaching storm.
"So… they've sent him," he whispered.
His shadows curled tighter around his throne.
"Let them come."
The skies above the mortal realm trembled. Clouds churned with unnatural energy—half golden, half black. Somewhere between Heaven and Earth, the veil between light and shadow thinned, and in that fragile silence… the chains began to move.
In the ruined chapel atop the Cliffs of Oras, Lidow stood, sword drawn, breath steady. At sixteen, he no longer resembled the child raised in secrecy—he was his father's son. And Valarie's. His aura shimmered with an eerie balance: a halo of silver and a crown of shadow.
Behind him stood Valarie, older, wiser, her gaze hard. She sensed it too—the coming descent. "He's found a way to tear through the veil," she said.
Lidow gritted his teeth. "The Saint?"
She nodded.
Suddenly, the sky above the chapel cracked like glass.
A rift opened—a gaping wound between the worlds. From within it descended a cathedral of chains, floating on storm clouds, its bells ringing a dissonant hymn. From its heart emerged the Saint, no longer shrouded.
He was terrifying in his serenity. His mask gone, revealing a face of light—beautiful, holy… and completely hollow.
"Lidow," he spoke, his voice calm as still water, "You carry both sins. Light that abandoned Heaven. Shadow that denied Hell. You must be unmade."
Valarie stepped forward. "Over my dead body."
The Saint smiled gently. "That, too, can be arranged."
Without warning, the chains lashed forward.
—
Elsewhere – Throne of Embers, Hell
Shadow stirred. The shadows that slumbered beneath his throne began to howl. He rose from the obsidian seat, his armor alive with ancient magic, his cloak trailing sparks of forgotten stars.
"They touched my son," he growled.
One of his generals appeared beside him—Thorn, once a traitor, now reformed. "My king, the Saint has broken the border between Heaven and Earth."
Shadow's eyes ignited. "Then we will break it further."
The air around him shattered. A tear opened across reality.
Shadow stepped through.
—
Back on the cliffs
The battle was chaos. Valarie held the Saint at bay with pillars of blinding light, but her strength waned. Lidow fought alongside her, tapping deeper into the unstable power within him. Chains wrapped around his wrist, but he melted them with a blast of darkfire.
But the Saint was unrelenting. His power was law. His presence twisted the world—trees died, earth cracked, even angels watching from afar turned to stone in despair.
Then—
The sky roared.
Shadow descended.
Landing between his family and the Saint, his power knocked the air from the lungs of every creature nearby.
The Saint hissed. "You always arrive too late."
Shadow looked at Lidow. At Valarie. At the chains binding their world.
"No," he said. "I arrive when it hurts most."
The fight was titanic. Light and chain versus void and flame. The Saint summoned celestial blades, and Shadow met them with wings of molten darkness. Mountains fell. Oceans boiled. The sky split again.
But in the end… Shadow stood. Bleeding, barely breathing—but victorious.
The Saint lay broken, his chains rusted, his cathedral crumbling.
Shadow looked down at him. "Chains break. Kings endure."
With one final strike, the Saint was consumed by shadowlight.
—
Later, in a quiet forest
Lidow sat beside a stream, his arms bandaged. Valarie leaned on him, tired but smiling. Shadow stood watch, silent, eyes on the sky.
No words were spoken.
But peace… however brief… had been won.