Chapter 2: The Veil of the New World
The first thing that greeted him was silence.
Not the kind that comes after death, but the kind that precedes creation. Time itself paused as he stepped through the gate between worlds—no longer mortal, no longer summoned.
He was reborn.
Not as a servant. Not as a man.
But as a god.
He stood alone atop a floating platform of obsidian and crystal, suspended in the skies of a world untouched by other gods. The sky above him bled red and gold, burning like a canvas of judgment. Strange winds circled him, reverent and afraid.
His bare feet touched the black stone. With each step, red spider lilies
bloomed in his wake—delicate, beautiful, and poisonous. They curled and danced in the wind like spirits, trailing behind him like memories of his betrayal.
And there he stood, in his new form.
A boy.
No taller than a young teen—thirteen, maybe fifteen at most—yet he carried the weight of a god behind his small frame. His hair burned vibrant crimson, falling in unruly locks that danced like flames around his pale face. But his eyes… they were pure white, glowing faintly without pupil or iris, like twin mirrors reflecting the void.
He was not born of love or lineage. He was born from will. From the moment he tore the divine heart out of the god who summoned him, he had rewritten what it meant to exist. This form, this childlike vessel, was not weakness—it was control. A god hiding in innocence.
Behind his youthful face was **power older than the stars**.
He lifted a small hand, and the air itself rippled. Energy—pure, raw, living—formed into threads. With them, he began to weave something: a body, a shell, a clone. It resembled his old self, a mortal reflection, but empty inside.
"You will walk the earth," the boy-god whispered. "Let them see what they never understood."
His voice was soft, but it echoed like thunder.
The clone opened its eyes—gray and lifeless for now—but it would move soon, speak soon, live soon. And when the time came, it would burn the world in his name.
As the boy turned away, his cloak shimmered into form—woven from starlight and shadow, embroidered with dancing lilies in red thread. It flowed behind him without wind. His footsteps left behind glowing marks, which slowly faded into the black stone.
He looked up at the vast world below—sleeping villages, distant mountains, forests untouched by war or god.
It would change.
They would all change.
As he raised his hand, the clone was sent hurtling down like a comet, wrapped in red fire. In its wake trailed hundreds of red spider lilies, scattering like blood petals through the sky.
And the boy stood above it all, no longer just a figure of vengeance, but a god in the body of a child—a being of image and creation, betrayal and rebirth.
This was his world now.
And he would shape it not with mercy, but with will.