The heavens were not made for mortal comprehension.
Tenkai—realm of the gods, the seat of divinity—was a place of impossible grandeur, where the very concept of space and time bent to the will of those who resided within it.
It was a city of shrines and temples, spires of gold and ivory rising endlessly into a sky that burned with colors unseen by mortal eyes. Clouds flowed like rivers, shifting between liquid and mist, carrying whispers of divine intent. The air hummed with power, thick with a presence that made even the strongest mortal souls tremble in reverence.
And in the heart of it all, there stood a temple of fire.
Not forged in fire. Not wreathed in it. But made of it.
Flames licked at the sky, frozen mid-motion, sculpted into towering pillars that shimmered between infernal reds, celestial golds, and the deep, mournful blue of divine lament. The very ground was forged from white-hot embers, yet it did not burn—only glowed with the weight of something ancient, something holy.
This was Hestia's domain.
A temple that reflected its goddess.
And within it, kneeling in the center of the roaring inferno, was Hestia herself.
The Goddess of the Hearth
Hestia had always been small. Among her divine kin, she was a flickering candle against raging storms. A quiet warmth in a pantheon of warriors and rulers.
But here, in this moment, she was undeniably a goddess.
Her presence outshone the fire itself, her form untouched by the searing heat that surrounded her. Midnight hair tumbled down her back in waves, interwoven with glimmers of light that danced like embers caught in the wind. Her skin, pale and flawless, held the glow of something not quite human—soft and inviting, yet unbreakable, as if shaped from the very heart of a star.
Her eyes, usually so bright and full of life, were now dim.
And in their depths, tears fell.
Not water, but gold.
Liquid divinity, streaming down her cheeks in glistening rivers, soaking into the embers below.
She did not wipe them away.
She only stared at the soul sprawled before her, hands trembling, her lips forming a silent prayer that she already knew would go unanswered.
Bell lay before her.
Or rather, what remained of him.
His soul was an ethereal thing, translucent, flickering, a pale echo of the boy he had once been. His form was there—recognizable, familiar—but it was hollow. His body rose and fell in the stillness of a breath that did not need air, his expression frozen in something too distant to be called sleep.
No dreams stirred within him.
No presence answered her voice.
His soul should not have been here.
And it was her fault.
Her tears fell faster.
"I'm sorry."
The words came as a whisper, choked and fragile, lost in the crackling of the eternal fire.
"I'm so sorry."
Her fingers curled against the embers beneath her, gripping at nothing, at something, at the weight of her own failure. Her shoulders trembled, but she did not turn away.
She had no right to.
She had failed him.
She had doomed him.
Not by choice. Not by intent. But what did that matter?
The weight of it crushed her regardless.
Her hands, so small against the vastness of the world, reached forward—hesitant, reverent. She cradled his face, her fingers passing through the insubstantial glow of his form.
There was no warmth.
No recognition.
Only stillness.
Hestia inhaled sharply.
Then, she steeled herself.
She was a goddess.
She was his goddess.
And she would not—could not—let this be the end.
Not like this.
Not after everything.
Her hands lifted.
Divinity surged.
It was not magic.
It was not a spell.
It was something beyond those things—older, greater. A power that belonged solely to the divine, something that could not be measured in numbers or levels.
Hestia poured everything she had into it.
Every ounce of her existence.
Every spark of her divinity.
Every last fragment of power that she could call her own.
The temple burned brighter.
The heavens trembled.
Light flooded from her hands, wrapping around Bell's soul, sinking into the cracks, into the emptiness, into the silent void where he should have been.
She gave him everything.
She begged.
But—
Nothing happened.
No response.
No change.
Just emptiness.
The light faded.
The fire dimmed.
And Hestia—
Hestia collapsed.
She knelt there, hands trembling, drained, hollow.
Her breath shuddered out of her lungs, weak and ragged, though her body did not need air to sustain itself. Her divinity was spent.
Her tears had run dry.
And Bell…
Bell remained as he was.
Silent.
Unmoving.
Lost.
And Hestia, for the first time in her existence, felt truly, utterly powerless.
The flames of her temple flickered, dimming in sympathy.
She was a goddess.
But what did that matter—
If she could not even save the one she loved most?
A sigh, long and weary, drifted through the quiet temple.
It was the kind of sigh that carried the weight of centuries—the exhaustion of a being who had seen too much, lost too much, and yet still endured.
Zeus.
The old god stood behind Hestia, his form bent with age yet unbowed by time. His long white beard flowed down his chest like a river of silver, and his eyes—once alight with mischief and laughter—held only somber understanding.
Without a word, he knelt beside her.
His large, calloused hand settled on her back, a silent anchor amidst the storm raging inside her.
For a while, neither spoke.
They simply stared at the soul before them.
At him.
At Bell Cranel.
Zeus had always known death was not the end. Not truly. Heroes fell, their stories written into legend, only to be reborn when the world called for them again.
Bell had been no different.
Argonaut had lived once.
Then again.
And now…
Zeus exhaled slowly.
And now, nothing.
Simple death was no tragedy. That was a cycle, an inevitability. A soul could be wiped clean, remade, returned. Even the gods, bound by their own laws, could still watch over their chosen heroes as they walked new paths.
But this…
This was something else entirely.
The hole at the core of Bell's soul—black, endless, wrong—gnawed at the edges of reality itself. Even here, in the divine realm, it remained untouched by the vast power surrounding it.
Even Hestia's desperate prayers had done nothing.
That alone told Zeus everything he needed to know.
This was not the work of a god's Arcanum.
How peculiar.
Zeus closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts, before finally breaking the silence.
"This is quite the shit show."
Hestia let out a broken laugh, barely more than a breath. She didn't lift her head, didn't stop staring at Bell's soul. "That's all you have to say?"
Zeus hummed. "Would you prefer I lied?"
She didn't answer.
He sighed again, rubbing his chin. "I've seen a lot of things in my time, little one. But this?" His eyes sharpened. "This is new."
Hestia clenched her hands in her lap. "I just… I don't understand. Even if he was killed, even if his soul was damaged, he should heal. Souls always heal."
"Aye," Zeus agreed. "They do."
A pause.
Then—
"But not this one."
His gaze lingered on Bell's motionless form, the gaping wound in his very being. It was like looking at something that should not exist—an absence so absolute that even the divine could not fill it.
Zeus rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Well, no helping it," he muttered. "I'll have to contact Ouranos."
Hestia stiffened. "You think he'll know what to do?"
Zeus shrugged. "Doubtful. But he's the only one who might have an idea."
Hestia fell silent again.
Zeus watched her for a moment before sighing, shifting to sit beside her. "Tell me again, little one. This mortal who did this… what was he?"
Her hands trembled. "I don't know."
Zeus waited.
Hestia swallowed. "I only saw him for a moment. He wasn't strong—not compared to others..." Her voice cracked. "But he ate him, Zeus. Like an animal. Ripped his heart out and devoured it."
A deep frown pulled at the old god's face. "Not a god."
"No," she whispered.
"Not a monster."
"No."
He clicked his tongue. "Then what the hell is he?"
Hestia's arms wrapped around herself. "…A mistake."
Zeus was quiet for a long time.
Then, softly, "Perhaps."
They both watched the unmoving soul before them.
Hestia curled in on herself, voice so small it barely reached him.
"I just wanted him to be happy."
Zeus closed his eyes.
And for once—
He had nothing to say.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
Hestia's hands trembled as they clenched over her lap, her divine form still kneeling before the empty husk of Bell's soul.
Then—
She moved.
Slowly at first, shoulders shaking, before she rose to her feet.
Her head lifted, and for the first time since Zeus had arrived, her eyes locked onto his.
Zeus stilled.
That look—
It was not grief.
It was not despair.
It was something far, far more dangerous.
"Hestia…" He reached out, gentle, careful. "Come now, little one. There's nothing more you can do."
She didn't answer.
Her small fingers curled into fists, her breath shallow, erratic. The golden light of her tears still stained her cheeks, but the sorrow in her gaze had turned to something else.
Conviction.
"I have decided," she whispered.
The air cracked.
A ripple of heat flared from her body, twisting the temple's fire in unnatural ways. It swayed—no, it knelt—to her will, as if waiting for her command.
Zeus's stomach dropped.
"…Hestia?"
The flames surged.
A tremor ran through the divine realm.
Zeus staggered back as the very foundation of the heavens quaked beneath them. A pulse of raw, unchecked divinity roared to life around Hestia, her form alight with a fire so immense that even the gods watching from afar took notice.
His eyes widened.
This—this was—
No.
His heart clenched in panic. "Are you mad?!" His voice thundered through the temple, nearly drowned out by the deafening roar of her power. "You would—you would sacrifice your divinity—"
She did not listen.
She did not even look at him.
Her arms moved with reverence, her fingers tracing the outline of Bell's ethereal form. The broken remnants of his soul flickered at her touch.
The temple's fire surged toward her, swirling around her body in a spiraling inferno.
Then, all at once—
The heavens split.
A dozen divine presences descended upon her, their pressure suffocating, unrelenting. Their voices echoed across the realm—furious, pleading, demanding—
"Hestia, STOP."
"This is sacrilege—"
"You must not—"
"You cannot—"
They grasped at her, desperate
to restrain her, to pull her back from the precipice.
But they could not.
Because this was her choice to make.
And she had already decided.
Hestia cradled Bell's soul closer, her fire burning brighter, her form dissolving.
A single, final whisper left her lips.
"My child… I shall bring you back to me."
And then—
Everything was consumed by light.