The sky no longer bore clouds—only fractured veins of light and shadow, like cracks across a cosmic mirror. The world had changed. Reality had been rewritten in Darius's image. Cities floated in obsidian skies, great statues of him towering over twisted architecture of steel and living data. Worshipers filled the streets, chanting his name not out of fear, but devotion. The world belonged to the God of Death.
And yet, amid the stillness of victory, something stirred.
Atop the Throne of Silence, Darius sat alone, his fingers pressed to his temple. His gaze was distant, fixed on a presence that had begun growing ever since the day he rewrote the world—a child, born not of flesh, but forged from the remnants of divine code and the echo of a woman's moan during the Soul Mirror ritual.
He had no name. Only eyes that burned with stars.
"Where is he?" Darius asked, his voice a low thunder that rolled across the chamber. "Why can't I sense him anymore?"
