Smoke rose from Trial Pit 7.
Not natural smoke.Not wood or oil.This was divine. Red, thick, and angry.
It came from him.
Tarn stood in the center of the pit. Alone. Surrounded.Above, dozens of Vanyrian enforcers hovered, cloaked in light.They circled like vultures. Flashy armor. Clean faces. Fake power.
One floated down. Eyes glowing gold.A younger god, wings made of crystal light.
"Step away from the mortals. This is your final warning."
Tarn's voice rumbled like thunder before a storm.
"Did you give them a warning?"
The god raised his hand.
Tarn's blood boiled. The red inside him surged.
"I said—"
"Burn."
Tarn didn't wait.
The spark exploded from his chest like a broken dam.
It hit like a storm of blades.
The god screamed. The light around him shattered.He dropped—smoking. Barely breathing.
The other enforcers hesitated.
They weren't used to one of their own falling.
Tarn raised his hand again.
"You want to brand something?"
He pointed to the mark on one prisoner's back.
"Try me."
The pit erupted into chaos.
Vanyrians opened fire—beams of compressed divinity.Tarn didn't dodge.
He welcomed it.
Each hit made him angrier. Stronger.
The divine energy fed his Wrath Spark.It twisted, morphed, sharpened.
He roared.
The sound cracked the god-tech towers.Sent them tumbling like sandcastles in a tide.
He jumped.
One punch. A crater.Another god fell—arm twisted, crying out like a child.
The mortals in the pit didn't move. Couldn't.Too stunned.
Tarn turned to them. His eyes—glowing red now—met theirs.
"Go."
"But they'll—"
"Go. I'll handle this."
He climbed out of the pit.
His feet dragged red fire with each step.
Ten more Vanyrians landed in front of him.
One, older. Clearly the leader. Skin like moonstone.
"You dare raise your hand against your own kind?"
Tarn didn't blink.
"I'm not your kind."
"You carry a divine spark."
"And I'll burn it myself if it means putting you down."
The god snarled. Drew a blade made of starlight.
Tarn just smiled.
"Let's test which fire burns brighter."
They clashed.
Divine speed. Divine pressure.
But Tarn had something more.
Hate.
He moved like a storm.Took hits that would've killed mortals.Took more. Let the pain build.
The more he bled, the hotter his flame got.
The older god's sword shattered.His body broke.
Tarn stood over him.
"What do you call yourselves? Kings? Saints? Gods?"
"You're nothing but tyrants with clean robes."
He looked back to the pit—now empty. Freed.
"I've seen your heaven."
"Now I'll bring it down."
The clouds above began to shift.Something was watching.
Something bigger.
He didn't care.
Let them send more.
He would burn every ring in the sky if that's what it took.