Chapter 61
Magnus stood amid the ruin of the outer defenses, his sword lowered at his side, its edge still faintly glowing from the force he had poured through it. The cold remorselessness that once defined him had not vanished, but it had changed. Where there had once been only detachment, now there was purpose. His eyes no longer looked like those of a distant entity; they carried resolve, the kind born from choice rather than instinct.
The virus he commanded had already done what it was meant to do. It had swept through the residential district with terrifying speed, forcing the Dark Elves to witness what their own methods of cruelty felt like when turned back upon them. Streets that once echoed with daily life now lay silent, emptied not by flame or steel, but by consequence. Magnus did not revel in it. He did not even watch for long. His task was not to indulge in destruction, it was to make them understand it.
Each step he took forward caused the corrupted air to recede behind him, as if the plague itself feared crossing his path without command. Fifty meters of shattered road passed beneath his feet in less than a quarter of an hour. Towers that once spat spells into the sky now lay cracked and smoking. The main gate, once sealed by layered enchantments, had already been forced open, its metal twisted outward like paper. Beyond it, the heart of the city waited.
From the inner walls came renewed resistance.
Bolts of light, arcs of lightning, and waves of compressed wind slammed into Magnus as he emerged onto the central avenue. The magical barrage struck like a storm, tearing chunks from buildings and ripping the pavement apart. Entire balconies collapsed under the pressure of misdirected spells. Dark Elf defenders shouted orders from the ramparts, their voices sharp with panic.
Magnus did not rush.
He raised his hand once.
The incoming magic bent. Not dispersed, bent. Fire veered aside, lightning curved into the sky, and shards of condensed ice shattered harmlessly against an invisible plane before him. The defenders stared as their strongest attacks were turned into nothing more than wasted effort.
Then he advanced.
At the military barracks, the remaining paladins and elite infantry formed ranks, enchanted shields locking together in disciplined lines. War banners fluttered above them, and behind the formation stood siege-mages already preparing another volley.
Magnus stepped into their range.
He did not unleash a cataclysm.
He used his blade.
The first line broke when he moved among them, not as a blur of slaughter, but as a force that simply could not be stopped. Shields were split apart. Enchanted armor dented inward as if struck by invisible hammers. Knights were thrown aside by the shock of his strikes, not torn apart, but rendered unable to rise. Each movement was deliberate: a step, a turn, a single precise cut, and another defender fell.
Spells exploded around him, tearing holes in the street, collapsing nearby watchtowers, and shattering windows across the district. Several of the wounded Dark Elves—those already weakened by the virus, were caught in their own people's desperate magic and fell where they lay. Panic spread through the ranks as quickly as the plague had spread through the city.
When the siege-mages released their stored power, Magnus finally lifted his free hand.
A wave of heat rushed forward, not wild flame, but a focused storm of burning projectiles shaped like arrows of pure fire. They did not scatter. They struck only the firing lines of mages and archers, shattering spell circles and silencing casting voices in an instant. The barrage stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
By the time the last line collapsed, the barracks were in ruins, and the central avenue was littered with broken weapons and abandoned banners. The defenders that remained alive were either fleeing deeper into the city or frozen in place, staring at him in horror.
Nearly a third of the Dark Elf population had already been lost, some to the virus, some to their own failed resistance, some to Magnus' blade.
The smoke had not yet settled when the next formation emerged from the inner avenues.
These were not the broken ranks from the barracks. Their armor was pristine, engraved with sigils of lineage and authority. Banners bearing noble crests fluttered behind them, and at their center walked Aeliryn Flameleaf, flanked by her father and brother. Their relic armor shimmered with layered enchantments, and each carried weapons that radiated ancient power—treasures meant to symbolize permanence, not survival.
Aeliryn's hands shook around the haft of her spear.
She could see the road behind Magnus, the collapsed towers, the fallen soldiers, the scorched stone. She could feel the pressure in the air, the way reality itself seemed to lean toward him. Every instinct in her screamed that this was not an enemy meant to be faced.
Yet her father placed a steady hand on her shoulder.
"Do not look at the ruin," he said quietly. "Look at your duty."
Her brother lifted his blade, its crystal edge glowing. "Our artifacts were forged to resist curses and plagues. Whatever poison he spreads, we will endure it."
Magnus watched them approach.
Not with hatred.
With disbelief.
"This," he repeated, his voice echoing through the broken street, "is the cost of what you chose to be."
Then his gaze fixed on their raised weapons.
"I have already ended nearly a third of your people," he said, not proudly, but wearily. "And still… you point steel at me."
He exhaled slowly, a sound heavy with something dangerously close to disappointment.
"Is this arrogance," he asked, "or simply the inability to accept that you are no longer the ones who decide how this ends?"
The noble warriors halted twenty meters from him, forming a protective arc around Aeliryn and her family. Their enchanted shields flared to life, runes forming a luminous barrier between them and Magnus. Spell circles ignited behind the line as council mages prepared their support.
Aeliryn swallowed.
Her eyes drifted, not to Magnus, but to the silent streets behind him. To the shattered homes. To the stillness where screams had once been.
"…Father," she whispered, "why is he still standing?"
Her father did not answer immediately.
Instead, he raised his weapon.
"You speak of cost," he called out, voice strong despite the tremor beneath it. "But you are the one who brought death into our streets. You claim restraint while spreading suffering. Do not pretend this is justice."
Magnus looked at him.
Truly looked at him.
"I did not bring death," Magnus replied. "I revealed it. You were already living by it. I merely removed the illusion that it was distant."
The virus, still dormant at his command, stirred faintly in the air—just enough for the nobles to feel its presence like a pressure in their lungs. The wards on their armor flared brighter in response.
Aeliryn flinched.
She could feel it now.
Not pain.
Judgment.
Magnus stepped forward once.
Only once.
The noble line instinctively tightened, shields locking together.
"I did not come to slaughter you," he said. "I came to see if you could still choose something else."
His eyes met Aeliryn's.
"You tremble," he said to her directly. "That means you understand what the others refuse to."
Her breath caught.
She did not lower her weapon.
But she did not raise it either.
Her brother shouted, "Do not listen to him! He is breaking your will!"
Magnus' gaze returned to the formation as a whole.
"You believe your relics make you untouchable," he said. "You believe resistance is courage. And you believe that if you strike hard enough, reality will bend back into the shape you prefer."
His voice hardened.
"That belief has already killed your people."
The silence that followed was not empty.
It was heavy.
Aeliryn felt something crack inside her, not fear, but certainty. Not of victory or defeat, but of truth.
This was not a battle for territory.
This was a confrontation with consequence.
And Magnus, standing alone in the ruined avenue, was not pressing forward.
He was waiting.
Not to destroy them.
But to see whether they would finally understand what their weapons were really pointed at.
Aeliryn Flameleaf suddenly broke from the rigid formation.
Her breath hitched once, then she screamed.
Not a battle cry.Not a command.A scream torn straight from her chest.
"STOP IT!"
Her voice echoed through the ruined avenue, cutting through the crackle of lingering magic and the distant groans of the dying city.
"STOP PRETENDING THIS IS HONOR!"
Her father turned sharply. "Aeliryn"
"No!" she shouted, spinning toward him, tears streaking down her face. "Look around you! Look at what's left! Our streets are graves, our people are ash, and you're still talking about duty like it's some shield that will save us!"
Her spear shook in her hands as she pointed it, not at Magnus, but at the broken city behind him.
"This is what our pride bought us!"
Her brother stepped forward. "You don't understand"
"I UNDERSTAND TOO WELL!" she cried. "We enslaved. We harvested. We fed on suffering and called it survival. And now something stronger than us is showing us what that feels like!"
She turned back to Magnus, her knees almost giving out beneath her.
"You asked if this is arrogance or foolishness," she said, her voice cracking. "It's both. We were taught that power meant we could never be wrong. That being Dark Elves meant we were entitled to take."
Her gaze dropped to the ground.
"And now… we are paying for it."
The noble line wavered. Shields lowered slightly. Several soldiers looked away, unable to meet her eyes.
Her father's jaw tightened. "You shame your bloodline."
She whirled on him. "No. I am trying to save it."
Then she faced Magnus fully.
"You could kill us all," she said hoarsely. "We know that now. You've proven it. You don't need poison. You don't need curses. You don't even need to raise your hand."
Her voice softened.
"So if this is judgment… then finish it."
The street went silent.
Even the virus seemed to still.
Aeliryn dropped to one knee.
"But if this is consequence," she continued, "then let us live long enough to understand it."
Her spear clattered from her grasp.
"I don't want my people to be remembered as creatures who only learned when it was too late."
The noble warriors stood frozen.
Some lowered their weapons.
Others trembled, torn between loyalty and truth.
Magnus watched her for a long moment.
And for the first time since he entered the city, the pressure in the air shifted.
Not toward destruction.
Toward decision.
A voice suddenly pierced the tense silence, and Magnus immediately recognized the interference. His eyes narrowed.
"So, you are the one manipulating them," he said coldly. "Feeding the Dark Elves' hostility, letting their arrogance swell and overflow."
"They were already like this," the voice replied smoothly.
"I was just… nudging them toward action," it added.
Magnus' gaze hardened. "Being a god of your kind does not grant you the authority to use them as pawns. They are the ones who gave you form, who gave you authority, Dökkálfar."
A low, amused rumble echoed. "Ah… so you know who I am, then?"
"Yes," Magnus said evenly. "You are just one of countless gods that emerged from these beings."
Dökkálfar stiffened. "Me? I am their god, their creator. They came from me."
Magnus' lips curved into a faint smile. "And you really believe that?"
Dökkálfar laughed, a sound that reverberated like breaking stone. "Such arrogance… to speak to a god this way!"
Magnus' voice remained calm, deliberate. "Like them, you are also bound by the rules of the High Imperial."
The god bristled. "Bound? Control? Preposterous! I am a god!"
Magnus' tone sharpened. "A lesser god."
Fury flared in Dökkálfar's eyes. "Foolish mortal! I am ten thousand years old! How dare you insult me! I have been gracious enough to"
"You are entertaining, yes," Magnus interrupted slowly, letting each word land with measured force, "but your arrogance is not divinity. It is weakness. You confuse manipulation with mastery. You believe controlling others makes you powerful. It does not. It makes you predictable."
Dökkálfar manifested, his form coalescing like living shadow and molten crystal, flickering between shapes that no mortal eye could fully comprehend. His body was tall, elongated beyond natural proportion, with skin that shimmered like black opal streaked with veins of violet energy. Wisps of shadow curled from his shoulders and limbs, trailing into the air like smoke caught in a storm. His eyes glowed with a cold, piercing light, yet there was a raw, untamed curiosity behind them, an eagerness, almost childlike, that betrayed his immaturity despite his ten thousand years of existence.
Even as a god born of the energy, faith, and stories of the race he had created, Dökkálfar had no real understanding of the being standing before him. Magnus, to his eyes, was merely another awakened mortal, a powerful one, but a mortal nonetheless. He did not yet comprehend the scope, the restraint, the awareness behind Magnus' every movement.
Dökkálfar's personality was a turbulent mixture of arrogance and naivety. He radiated confidence and dominance, a god used to being obeyed and feared, yet there was a subtle undercurrent of uncertainty. He was impulsive, quick to assume superiority, and lacked the experience to recognize the depth of restraint and calculation Magnus employed. To him, everything Magnus did, the careful steps, the controlled aura, the un manifested potential, was mundane, even incomprehensible.
Magnus stood, his restrictions deliberate and intricate. Every skill, every ounce of mana or aura he allowed to radiate was carefully filtered, appearing to Dökkálfar as ordinary, even limited. The god's senses detected nothing extraordinary beyond the mortal threshold, reinforcing his arrogance and his underestimation.
This encounter, again, illustrated a truth Omega and Perpetua had long demonstrated: even the so-called gods were blind to the full reality of existence beyond their domains. Gods could act only within the limits of their own realm, bound by their origin, history, and the rules of their creation. Even a being ten thousand years old could not comprehend what lay outside its sphere.
And yet, in the multiverse, there were countless Dökkálfar. Each one was different, unique in appearance, form, and temperament, shaped by the world from which they were born. But Omega and Perpetua were constant, unchanging across all realities when it comes to authority and power, beyond law, beyond reason, beyond mortal or divine comprehension. Magnus' confrontation with this singular Dökkálfar was a mere glimpse into a cosmic hierarchy so vast that even gods could not grasp its scope.
Dökkálfar tilted his head, studying Magnus with suspicion and curiosity, unaware that the being he saw as a mortal was, in truth, operating on a scale beyond even his godly understanding.
Magnus' eyes swept over the shattered city, the smoke and debris reflecting the grim aftermath of the battle. Slowly, understanding settled in. The massive terraforming sentinel wasn't just a tool for shaping planets, it was something far more. It was a bridge between worlds, using the energy of belief and history to reach into other realities.
These beings, the Dark Elves, the Dökkálfar, and countless others, weren't just creatures or races. They were born from human faith, stories, and legends, shaped into life by the sentinel's power. The energy from Eclipthrone's artificial core focused this belief, giving form, power, and purpose to beings that had once only existed in myth. And because energy cannot be destroyed, it only changes shape and eventually returns to its source.
Magnus realized the full truth: these entities were a direct result of human imagination and history. They grew strong not just over time, but because mortals feared them, revered them, and gave them meaning. And now, through the sentinel, the magical Earth of legends was bleeding into his reality, bringing creatures like the Dökkálfar into a world that should never have seen them.
He allowed himself a faint smile. To most, this would seem like chaos. But to Magnus, it was a pattern. A puzzle. A problem that could be studied, understood, and, if needed, return to its source.
The High Imperial did not build the terraforming sentinel merely as a tool for reshaping planets, it was far more ambitious, and far more dangerous. They understood that the universe was shaped not only by matter and energy but also by consciousness, belief, and collective imagination. Legends, myths, and faith were not simply stories; they were seeds of power, capable of giving form to phenomena that exceeded ordinary reality. The sentinel's primary function was to reshape a planet both physically and metaphysically.
By tapping into the historical records, cultural memories, and mythologies of a world, it could harness latent power: every story, every belief, and every fear or reverence left behind by generations contained energy, and the sentinel could focus that energy into tangible force capable of altering landscapes, climates, and even reality itself.
Additionally, the sentinel could manifest potential threats or allies. By giving shape to entities that existed only in legend, the High Imperial could "summon" powerful beings to the world, some intended as guardians, others as controlled variables to test societies or enemies. It could also create a defensive feedback system: civilizations often remembered heroes, gods, or monsters for their deeds, and the sentinel could draw upon these memories to generate forces capable of defending the planet from extraterrestrial or interdimensional threats, effectively using human belief as a weapon.
The High Imperial also sought experiments in reality manipulation. They wanted knowledge that ordinary science could never provide, how faith, myth, and energy could intersect to produce life, power, and influence. By programming the sentinel this way, they could study the results in real time, shaping entire worlds as laboratories. Furthermore, by connecting a civilization's myths to real, actionable power, the High Imperial could subtly control the course of history, guiding societies to develop in ways that aligned with their strategic goals.
In short, the High Imperial's ambition went far beyond terraforming land or supplying resources. They sought to tap into the metaphysical essence of existence itself. By linking the sentinel to the beliefs and histories of the planets, they created a bridge between mortal imagination and raw, godlike forces of reality. The unintended consequence was that beings like the Dökkálfar could manifest, creatures whose very existence was fueled by the faith, fear, and memories of the inhabitants themselves.
Each Awakened human carried within them a fragment of the power of these ancient beliefs, historical legends, and mythological beings. Long ago, when Earth was still young, the barrier separating the magical realm from the human world was thin, weak enough that energies, entities, and even consciousness could slip between the planes. Some of these beings crossed over, their forms and influence leaving traces in human history, stories, and faith. Over time, these echoes became dormant, latent, waiting for the right catalyst to awaken.
The High Imperial discovered this truth and exploited it. On countless worlds, they siphoned residual energy from the planet itself, linking it to myth and memory. On Earth, they went further: after gaining access to the planetary prison of Eclipthrone, the High Imperial tapped the residual energy stored there, amplifying the latent power embedded in humanity. This allowed ordinary humans to awaken abilities directly tied to the myths, legends, and histories of their world. Each Awakened human was not just a person, they were a living embodiment of belief, a conduit for forces that once existed only in stories.
The Khal'Ruun Synod, one of the three primordial races overseeing Eclipthrone, had granted the High Imperial this opportunity. With the sovereign Warden's consent, they could expand their forces, creating a primary army capable of supporting the three primordial races should Omega ever awaken. In this way, the Awakened were not mere soldiers; they were the bridge between the human world, mythic forces, and the will of the cosmos, a living testament to the power of faith, memory, and the stories that shaped reality itself.
Magnus took a deep breath and lifted his gaze toward the sky, the sun's warm noon rays brushing against his skin. The light seemed to illuminate the battlefield, yet it could not touch the aura that now descended upon the city.
Dökkálfar took out his weapon of choice , bow in hand, his presence immediately shifting the atmosphere. The Dark Elves froze, their words caught in their throats as they beheld their god manifest in full form. His descent was not gradual; it was sudden, decisive, and overwhelming, as though the very air had bent to make way for him.
The soldiers, still reeling from Magnus' earlier demonstration, felt an intoxicating surge of power the moment Dökkálfar appeared. Like wine to the senses, it clouded their fear and hesitation, replacing it with blind reverence. They were not merely obedient, they were exhilarated, drunk on the presence of a being whose authority needed no introduction. Even Magnus could sense it: the synchronization of aura, appearance, and raw power matched exactly the depictions in their sacred texts. Every story, every prophecy, every myth about Dökkálfar suddenly became real, palpable, undeniable.
Legends had always told that Dökkálfar would descend only under extraordinary circumstances, when the fate of the Dark Elf kind demanded his attention, when a new leader was crowned, or when dire threats required his intervention. His sudden appearance now, in the midst of chaos and ruin, confirmed what the Dark Elves already feared and hoped: their god had come.
And Magnus, standing among the fractured streets, understood the weight of the moment. The soldiers' fear had vanished, replaced by a loyalty and zeal that bordered on madness. The battlefield was no longer simply between him and the Dark Elves, it had become a collision of mortal will, awakened power, and divine intervention. Every heartbeat of the city seemed to echo with the magnitude of what was unfolding: the living had summoned the attention of a god, and that god had arrived.
Magnus could now feel the full weight of emotion flooding through him, raw and unfiltered, a stark contrast to before. He realized, with a strange clarity, that the twins weren't devoid of feeling; they simply lacked the tools to process it. Born as they were, shaped by inevitability and perfection, they had never known the slow accumulation of life, the subtle shaping force of failure, growth, and consequence.
Their existence was fixed, like a flawless machine running a perfect program. They could witness joy, fear, anger, and sorrow, but only as observers. Emotions passed over them like wind over water: visible, acknowledged, yet incapable of leaving ripples that altered their course. Detached, immune to the lessons life demands of mortals, they existed in potential. aware but untouched, like infants whose minds are fully formed yet never tested by consequence.
And yet, now, after countless eons roaming the multiverse, participating in the birth and death of worlds, Omega could process these emotions, not with full precision, not with the nuance of mortals, but with more understanding than at the very beginning, when the first universe had come into being. It was not mastery, nor was it complete comprehension. It was the first, faltering step toward truly feeling, a tremor of awareness that suggested even the eternal and perfect could learn, adapt, and evolve when confronted by its own question itself.
Dökkálfar's bow was no ordinary weapon, it was an extension of his very essence, forged from the memories and myths of the Dark Elves themselves. Its limbs shimmered with a black metal that seemed to drink in light, and veins of crackling energy ran along its surface, pulsating with the rhythm of a heartbeat that was impossibly vast. As he drew the string, the air around it warped, bending and shimmering as if reality itself recognized the weapon's authority.
Lightning danced along the bow's curve, coiling around the arrow like a living serpent, and the sky seemed to answer its call. Dark clouds swirled above, and the ground beneath Magnus's feet trembled in anticipation. Sparks erupted in bursts, arcs of electricity leaping into the surrounding air, singing like miniature storms. The bowstring groaned under the weight of raw power, holding back a force that could level mountains.
The arrow itself materialized as a column of pure lightning, bright enough to turn shadows into silhouettes, its energy so dense it hummed with the resonance of ancient magic. A low, thunderous vibration rolled through the clearing, rattling the ears of the Dark Elf army, forcing them instinctively to step back. Even the tallest trees quivered, their leaves singed from the bow's aura. The very air seemed charged, heavy with ozone and the promise of destruction.
Dökkálfar's voice carried over the hum of power. "My connection in this form is limited, as you can see… so I might as well kill you here!" The words, spoken with calm precision, were like a command to the storm itself. Every fiber of his being focused into the bow; every pulse of his heart and every thought he held manifested as a tangible, destructive force.
Magnus could feel the energy radiating off the weapon even without touching it. It was not merely lightning, it was the distilled wrath and authority of a god, the accumulated power of centuries of belief and myth, condensed into a single, lethal projectile. The air rippled and twisted around the bow, and for a fleeting moment, the battlefield felt infinitesimal compared to the vastness of the power concentrated before him.
The arrow shone like a second sun, ready to split the earth itself, crack the sky, and erase anything in its path. Even the Dark Elf soldiers, loyal and battle-hardened, instinctively lowered their heads, understanding that the might in front of them was beyond mortal reckoning.
Magnus' eyes narrowed, the faintest glint of resolve catching the sunlight as it spilled across the battlefield. The colossal arrow of pure lightning tore through the air, a jagged spear of energy that screamed like a dying star, cracking the heavens and leaving streaks of ozone and fire in its wake. Trees shivered, the ground beneath them scorched, and the air itself seemed to recoil from the raw power it carried.
And yet, Magnus did not flinch. He made no incantation, no sweeping gestures, no invocation of spells. He did not even tighten his grip on the hilt of his sword. He simply stood, fully exposed, and allowed the storm to meet him head-on.
The lightning struck with the force of a meteor. The sound was deafening, a rolling explosion that shattered the surrounding silence and sent waves of pressure outward like a tsunami. Magnus' body became the epicenter of destruction. The air screamed and twisted around him, debris and shards of earth and stone torn into a violent vortex. Yet, he remained upright, a solitary figure against an impossible storm.
The clothing and tactical armor he wore took the initial brunt of the strike, channels of energy rippling across its surface like molten metal. Sparks danced along his form, searing the air, but his stance never wavered. Magnus' aura flared, not in a grand spectacle, but in controlled, absolute precision. The lightning bent and fractured against the invisible fields of force radiating from him, dissipating in violent arcs before it could spread.
The resulting blast was catastrophic. A crater erupted where the arrow impacted, three meters deep, tens of meters across, molten rock and soil ejecting outward in a terrifying display of raw energy. Trees were reduced to splintered husks, and waves of heat radiated for hundreds of meters. The shockwave flattened the few remaining Dark Elf soldiers at the front, and the city walls shuddered as if acknowledging the might standing against them.
Yet Magnus walked forward from the crater as if treading through dust. Every step was deliberate, measured. The ground smoldered beneath him, the air crackled and stank of ozone, but he bore no wound beyond a shallow scratch that barely traced his cheek. His eyes, cold and resolute, scanned Dökkálfar's form, the arrow dissipated, the storm quelled, but the echo of the force remained, a reminder of the god's raw, untamed power.
The Dark Elf army could only stare, wide-eyed, as Magnus approached. He had taken a strike that could have annihilated an entire battalion, yet he moved forward as though walking through a warm breeze. Every instinct screamed at them, every lesson of fear and survival sharpened in their minds, they were witnessing something beyond comprehension.
Magnus' expression did not change. He did not gloat. He did not raise his sword in triumph. He simply walked, each step a quiet affirmation of the truth that had been made clear: raw power alone did not define dominance. Awareness, control, and the deliberate choice of action, that was what separated him from a god wielding all its fury, and a mortal standing at the apex of possibility.
And in that silent, molten aftermath, the battlefield itself seemed to bow—not to him, not to Dökkálfar, but to the quiet, terrifying mastery of a being who had learned restraint even in the face of annihilation. He had not blocked the strike. He had not dodged it. He had stood still and taken it, consciously placing himself in its path so that the god's fury would break upon him alone and never reach the distant campsite behind him.
The crater was proof of what he had endured.The untouched horizon was proof of why he had done it.
Dökkálfar expected thunder.He expected screams.He expected the awakened human to be erased.
Instead, when the lightning faded and the molten air cooled, Magnus was still there.
Standing.
Not kneeling.Not burned to ash.Not even driven back a single step.
The god's bowstring slackened slightly.
For the first time since his manifestation, doubt rippled through Dökkálfar's form. The sacred runes carved into his arms flickered, their glow unsteady, as if the belief sustaining them had stumbled. The Dark Elves behind him felt it too, a faint tremor in their chests where faith had once been absolute.
"…Impossible," Dökkálfar muttered.
Magnus lifted his gaze.
His shirt was scorched, his jacket burned away in ribbons of blackened fabric, and steam still rose from his skin—but his eyes were calm. Not angry. Not impressed.
Only focused.
"You aimed to kill me," Magnus said quietly. "So now you will learn what it means… to be aimed at."
He raised one hand.
No chant.No sigil.No gathering storm of mana.
The world itself seemed to inhale.
The air between Magnus and Dökkálfar warped, folding inward like glass pressed by an unseen thumb. Light bent. Sound thinned. Even the drifting ash was pulled into a narrow line pointing directly at the god standing before the last gate of the city.
Behind Dökkálfar loomed the royal castle, its spires jagged against the sky. Beyond that, the mountain range rose like the spine of the world, the same towering peaks where High Imperial soldiers once watched the Noid incursion unfold.
Magnus pointed.
And reality answered.
A beam of condensed force tore forward, not fire, not lightning, but compressed space and heat, as if a fragment of a star had been carved into a single direction. It did not explode outward. It cut forward, carving a glowing scar through the battlefield straight toward Dökkálfar.
The god reacted on instinct.
He slammed the butt of his bow into the ground, summoning every thread of faith, every prayer, every story ever told of him. A barrier of radiant sigils erupted in front of him, layered shields made of myth and worship, each one shimmering with ancient authority.
The beam struck.
The first layer shattered like crystal.
The second bent and cracked, screaming like metal under impossible pressure.
The third held, barely, forcing the attack upward instead of straight through.
The redirected blast roared past Dökkálfar's shoulder and slammed into the mountain behind the castle.
The peak did not explode.
It collapsed.
A line of white-hot stone carved itself down its face, and an entire section of the mountain sheared away, crashing into the valley beyond in a thunderous landslide. Shockwaves rolled across the battlefield, rattling the castle walls and knocking soldiers from their feet.
When the dust settled, a glowing scar remained on the mountain, a reminder visible from half the city.
Magnus lowered his hand.
"I chose not to hit your vile kind," he said. "Not the castle. Not the mountain's heart."
He took one step forward.
"I aimed at you."
Dökkálfar's manifested form wavered.
The god of the Dark Elves stared at the distant ruin he had failed to protect from a restrained attack, and something inside him finally shifted. This was no mortal spell. No rival deity's trick.
This was a being who measured destruction… and chose how much to allow.
Dökkálfar took aim once more and released another arrow of pure lightning. In less than a microsecond, the bolt crossed the distance and struck Magnus' open palm.
There was no thunderclap. No explosion.
The lightning did not pierce him ,it collapsed into him.
The storm-forged arrow unraveled the instant it made contact, its blinding brilliance folding inward like a dying star. Arcs of electricity writhed around Magnus' fingers, screaming as if alive, before being drawn into his hand and silenced. The air trembled, pressure rippling outward in a ring that flattened the dust and sent loose stones skittering across the ground.
Magnus did not flinch.
He looked down at his palm, where faint traces of light still crawled across his skin before fading completely.
"So that is your answer," he said quietly.
Dökkálfar's breath caught. His bow trembled in his grip, and for the first time, doubt pierced through his divine pride. What should have torn a mountain apart had vanished into flesh without leaving even a burn.
The god took a step back.
Not in retreat, but in disbelief.
The silence afterward was so sudden it felt unnatural. No thunder followed. No shockwave rolled through the streets. Even the drifting ash seemed to pause midair.
Dökkálfar staggered.
The bow in his hands dimmed instantly, its runes cracking and fading like dying embers. His manifested form flickered violently now, no longer able to hide the fractures running through him. Light leaked from his shoulders and ribs, drifting upward like sparks from a dying fire.
He felt it clearly now.
His mana reserve was collapsing. His tether to this realm was unraveling.T he bridge of faith and belief sustaining him was breaking under its own strain.
Still, pride forced words from his mouth.
"…You are fortunate," Dökkálfar said, his voice distorted, layered with static and echo. "My hold on this world weakens. Otherwise… this form of yours would already be gone."
Magnus looked at the fading god.
"No," he replied evenly. "If you were stronger, you would have died faster."
He opened his hand.
Residual lightning leaked from between his fingers and evaporated into nothing.
"You spent your last moment proving you could still shout," Magnus continued. "You did not prove you were right."
Dökkálfar's fading form twisted into a crooked smile as his light began to thin.
"Still," he laughed weakly, voice echoing like wind through broken glass, "you were… lucky. Next time, I would love to loose an arrow toward that woman you spoke of."
He did not finish the thought.
Magnus was suddenly there.
Not a step. Not a blur.
One moment, he stood before the gate.
The next, he was in front of the dying god.
The distance between them—twenty meters of scorched stone and broken bodies—ceased to exist.
Dökkálfar's breath caught.
His fading body stuttered, half-transparent, half-light. He had not even felt the movement. Only the sudden pressure of space collapsing in front of him.
Then Magnus' hand closed around his neck.
Not light.Not illusion.
Solid.
Dökkálfar screamed as his incorporeal form was dragged into substance by sheer force of will. His body snapped into full physical shape as if reality itself had been commanded to acknowledge him.
The god's feet lifted off the ground.
"What" Dökkálfar gasped. "That should not be—"
His voice broke.
Because now he felt it.
Not mana.Not divine authority.Not belief.
Something older.
Something that did not belong to realms or domains or stories.
An energy so dense it crushed meaning itself.
It was not loud.It did not shine.
It simply was.
And compared to it, Dökkálfar felt like a candle held before a collapsing star.
"You chose the wrong thing to say," Magnus said.
His voice was quiet.
That terrified the god more than any roar could have.
Dökkálfar clawed at Magnus' wrist, runes burning along his arms as he tried to dissolve back into light. But the grip did not loosen. Reality itself bent around Magnus' hand, refusing to let the god escape.
"This form… is fading—" Dökkálfar choked. "You cannot hold—"
"I am not holding you," Magnus replied.
"I am forcing you to exist."
The pressure increased.
Dökkálfar's body began to fracture—not into light this time, but into cracks of raw concept, pieces of his being breaking like glass under unbearable weight.
For the first time, he understood.
This was not an awakened human.
This was something pretending to be one.
"You… are not bound by realms…" Dökkálfar whispered. "Not by belief… not by domain…"
Magnus' eyes were no longer cold.
They were focused.
And beneath them… was fury shaped by restraint.
"You spoke a threat," Magnus said. "About someone who does not belong in this war."
He leaned closer.
"So now you will learn what a god feels like… when he touches something outside his story."
Dökkálfar screamed as his divine structure collapsed inward, his connection to faith snapping like burned thread. His light bled away, not upward, not homeward—but into nothing.
Not destroyed.
Severed.
Magnus released him.
What remained of Dökkálfar fell to the ground like a broken statue of light, flickering weakly before dissolving into scattered motes that never rose again.
No return to a realm.
No retreat into myth.
Only erasure from influence.
Magnus straightened slowly.
The Dark Elf army stood frozen, unable to breathe, unable to think.
They had seen their god fade.
They had seen him touched.
They had seen him break.
Magnus turned back toward the castle gates.
"You wanted a god to protect you," he said, voice carrying through the shattered streets.
"You had one."
He stepped forward.
"And now… you have none."
Silence followed, thick and absolute.
Magnus looked up at the sky. Noon had come. The sun stood directly above the ruined city, its light pouring down without judgment.
"It's already noon," he said softly. "Such a pity. I was hoping this would end… differently."
He turned his back on the shattered gates and spoke a single word.
"Begone."
There was no explosion. No flash of light. No surge of visible power.
The world simply accepted the command.
The Dark Elf soldiers felt it first, not pain, not fear, but an overwhelming stillness, as if time itself had taken a breath. Their weapons slipped from their hands and struck the stone with hollow sounds.
Then their bodies began to lose color. even those who were hiding inside the castle walls , felt it
Not burn. Not decay.
They turned to ash.
Starting at the edges, their forms unraveled into fine gray dust, carried away by a wind that had not existed a moment before. Armor fell empty. Banners collapsed. The proud sigils of their houses crumbled into powder.
King Finduilas Flameleaf and his family waited behind their protected walls, surrounded by layers of runes and glowing barriers. They felt it before they saw it—a sudden, unnatural cold sliding down their spines, as if the world itself had turned its gaze upon them. Even the council members, who had always believed themselves to be the center of power, stood frozen in silence.
The walls did not crack.The wards did not shatter.
They simply… failed to matter.
Dust began to rise from their robes. Fingers lost their shape. Words died in their throats as their bodies lightened, thinning into pale residue that drifted upward like smoke. The throne room, sealed from wind and sound, filled with falling ash instead. No breeze entered, yet the dust moved, guided by a will beyond air and motion.
One by one, the nobles vanished.Then the guards.Then the king and his bloodline.
Only empty armor remained, collapsed upon cold stone floors. The great chamber that once echoed with command and decree became a mausoleum of silence, its banners sagging, its crests erased.
The windless room had not saved them.
Power had not saved them.
Faith had not saved them.
And when it was done, the castle stood hollow, a monument to a rule that no longer existed, its rulers reduced to nothing more than drifting gray memory. it was fast silent and nodody could do anything to stop it.
The city and castles wall followed.
Stone towers faded like old chalk drawings. Walls cracked into pale residue. The great castle's spires collapsed inward, not with thunder, but with a soft, distant sigh, as if the structure itself had accepted its end.
Beyond the city, the land responded.
The dark forests that once fed on blood and mana withered in silence. Trees that had stood for centuries shed their bark and leaves at once, turning brittle and hollow before dissolving into drifting ash. Roots pulled free from the earth like dead veins.
Plants followed. Then beasts. Then insects.
Every creature born of that isolated realm, every life shaped by the Dark Elf dominion, lost its form and returned to dust.
The ancient groves once ruled by the Springgan, where glowing moss clung to twisted stone and sacred water ran through luminous roots, were not spared. Their bioluminescent plants dimmed, the light inside them fading like extinguished stars. The air smelled of dry earth and cold wind.
It was not destruction.
It was removal.
As if the world itself had decided that this chapter no longer belonged to it.
Within minutes, the city was gone.
Where streets had once twisted and voices had once shouted, there remained only bare ground, pale and silent. No buildings. No bodies. No blood.
Only drifting gray ash, settling like snow.
Magnus stood alone at the center of the empty land.
The barrier of the rift still shimmered in the distance, untouched. Beyond it, the human camps remained safe, unaware of how close annihilation had come.
He closed his eyes.
Not in triumph.
Not in pride.
But in something closer to regret.
"I gave you a chance," he murmured. "And you chose what you were."
The wind carried the last of the dust away.
And the land where a Dark Elf civilization once stood became nothing more than a scar of quiet soil beneath the noon sun.
Notification:
The Seventh Rift Mission has been successfully completed. All objectives have been fulfilled, and the area is now secure. The mission included clearing hostile forces and restoring the territory to its original inhabitants. The results are as follows:
Hostile Forces Eliminated: All invading Dark Elf soldiers and rogue entities have been neutralized.
High-Value Targets Secured: Key enemy leaders, including god-level threats and command units, have been removed or rendered incapacitated.
Civilian and Indigenous Safety: All surviving sentient inhabitants, including Springgan and other native species, have been secured and restored to health.
Environmental Stabilization: The rift zone has been stabilized; hazardous zones caused by enemy activity have been neutralized.
Rift Containment: The dimensional barrier remains secure, preventing further incursions from interdimensional entities.
Mission Status: Cleared. No residual enemy presence detected; the rift is fully under control of the designated operational forces.
All personnel are commended for their efficiency and adherence to mission protocols. Further orders will follow regarding reintegration of the region and post-mission assessments.
Magnus bent down and picked up a small pebble from the scorched earth. It was ordinary—no glow, no sigil, no magic woven into it. Just a fragment of stone from a world that had survived gods and monsters alike.
He flicked it forward.
The pebble struck the unseen barrier that separated this rift from the other six isolated zones.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the air fractured.
A web of pale light spread outward from the point of impact, lines racing across the invisible wall like cracks in glass. The barrier shuddered, groaned, and finally collapsed inward, dissolving into drifting particles of light. The ground trembled as long-separated spaces began to reconnect, reality stitching itself back together.
A deep resonance rolled through the rift, not a voice, but a system-level presence, cold, neutral, and absolute.
A new announcement echoed across the sky, heard by every awakened Cleaner, every survivor, and every monitoring station beyond the rift:
SYSTEM NOTICE – SEVENTH RIFT
The Seventh Rift has entered an unstable state. The isolation barrier has fully collapsed, and the rift can no longer sustain independent spatial integrity. Emergency protocols are now in effect, and all participants within the rift will be forcibly removed for their safety and for dimensional stabilization.
Rift Status: Unstable
Isolation Barrier: Collapsed
Participant Action: Forced extraction initiated
Sentinel Tower: Entering hibernation state
Further Orders: Pending directive from higher command
ALL REMAINING OPERATIONS WITHIN THE SEVENTH RIFT ARE TERMINATED. AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.
Then a sudden flash of blinding light swallowed the ruined landscape. Those who had participated in the operation, and were still alive, felt the world tear away beneath their feet.
For a moment, there was nothing.No ground. No sky. No sound.
Then their lungs filled with air again.
One by one, they opened their eyes to the familiar world beyond the Rift. The soft rustle of grass, the distant hum of the nearby city, and the warm sunlight falling across the camp brought tears to their eyes, tears of relief, of joy, and of disbelief. All fifty-five participants had survived, including Magnus, who emerged with a simple piece of cloth covering his face like a mask, his eyes calm but alert.
Alexa staggered slightly, still catching her breath, as she watched the thousands of sentient, mythological creatures that had flooded the campsite, seeking shelter and protection. Their forms shimmered and shifted, creatures of legend made real, but there was no fear in their eyes, only hope.
At the center of the gathering, Springgan King Angiwen Darksprout, ruler of the lands and castle of Thryndelroot, regarded Alexa and her group with quiet interest. The King's gaze lingered on her, sensing a deep, unspoken connection to the one who had saved them, their savior. Respect and recognition passed silently between them, a bond formed not through words, as the light touch their eyes and woke seeing they were back into earth , Alexa hope the Springgan King Angiwen Darksprout and all of his subject s are fine and safe, and because the rift was gone and news broke out the tower suddenly stop emanating light , they all assumed the rift will no longer appear . but the sound coming from the massive structure sound it was just recalibrating , as it was just on sleep mode, and will suddenly wake up again,
the world government and those who are watching beyond the reach of ordinary people were now moving, and those who are connected to magnus rushed out to secure the tower , as magnus allowed them to do so, the 12 elders continued to expand and establish the strong hold cities in 12 areas all over the planet. the seventh rift became another document historical record , a week had passed and those who survive the seven rift all over the planet slowly regain their life, and because their were no rift manifesting life began to go back into their peaceful days . magnus was back at his small apartment when he called out Perpetua,
Magnus leaned back against the worn edge of his small apartment table, letting out a long sigh. "I get it, Perpetua… you want to help, you want to fix things. But tampering with time, even for the best intentions, leaves cracks everywhere. Every life, every choice, every little action you change… ripples out."
Perpetua floated just above the floor, her form shimmering faintly, a mixture of frustration and amusement on her face. "I thought you wouldn't notice," she said, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.
"I noticed," Magnus replied quietly. "The Seventh Rift… it wasn't just five days for those inside. For Earth, five years passed. People lived, aged, hoped, suffered… all while the Rift ran its course differently. And you… you stepped in to adjust that flow."
Perpetua tilted her head. "I am Time, Magnus. The flow is mine to manipulate. I can fix it, adjust it, correct it…"
"Fix it, sure," Magnus said, his tone firm but not angry. "But you have to understand: when you manipulate sentient life, even with good intentions, there are consequences. You can't just rewind or fast-forward without leaving marks on their lives, their choices, their growth."
She hesitated, the weight of his words settling over her. Then she nodded. "Okay, okay… I'll fix it properly this time. Fast… precise… no unnecessary interference."
Magnus leaned forward, meeting her gaze. "That's all I ask. Let them live. Let them grow. Let them carry the consequences of their own choices. That's how they, and we. truly learn."
Outside, the world continued to recover. The twelve elders solidified their strongholds, cities flourished, and the survivors of the Seven Rifts slowly returned to their lives. And in the quiet of his apartment, Magnus allowed himself a brief moment of calm, knowing that even in the chaos of godlike power and fractured timelines, some things, like responsibility and restraint, remained constant.
Five years had indeed passed in the world outside, but within the time bubble Perpetua had crafted, the fifty-five survivors believed only five days had elapsed. Every sensation, every memory, every fleeting thought was carefully aligned to that compressed experience.
Magnus observed quietly as the survivors began to reintegrate into their lives. Children who should have been infants were suddenly toddlers; relationships subtly shifted; people who had been strangers in the Rift now returned to a world that had moved forward without them. One particularly stark moment struck Magnus, the sight of a young child, only five months old when the mission began, now running with the energy and curiosity of a five-year-old.
He could feel the shock, the disbelief, the emotional gravity, and yet, amazingly, the people themselves accepted it. The adjustment Perpetua had crafted allowed them to process years of absence and growth as if it had been natural. No one screamed. No one panicked. They simply adapted, carrying the knowledge that time had not broken them.
Magnus' gaze softened, though a hint of surprise lingered in his eyes. Perpetua had done something unprecedented, not just bending time, but shaping perception in a way that preserved sanity, allowed acceptance, and spared trauma while still respecting reality.
He shook his head slightly, almost amused, almost awed. "You really… you really did it this time," he muttered under his breath, realizing the full scale of his sister's intervention. Even he, accustomed to reshaping worlds and controlling forces beyond comprehension, had to acknowledge the precision, care, and audacity of what Perpetua had done.
It was subtle. It was quiet. But the world, and these fifty-five lives, would never be the same. And Magnus understood, with a pang of both respect and unease, that his sister had just reminded him how powerful, and unpredictable, she truly was.
Magnus leaned back against the edge of the window, staring at the city below, his thoughts turning inward. How do you explain something like this… without breaking them? he thought, fingers tracing the edge of the glass. Five days in the Rift, but five years out there. Their minds, their memories, their sense of continuity… if I told them the truth, it would shatter everything. Every certainty, every anchor in their world, would crumble. Some might never recover. Others… might lash out in confusion, grief, or guilt. The math of time isn't just numbers,it's lived experience. And theirs has been rewritten without their knowledge.
He exhaled slowly, thinking about the child who should have been five months old now running around at five years. How do you explain growth that never felt like growth? Relationships that moved forward without them? How do you make sense of aging that didn't happen in their perception? He knew the survivors were resilient, they had endured horrors in the Rift, but perception was fragile. The mind clings to narrative. It wants cause and effect. If I broke that story… I would risk everything we've done. Their peace, their sanity, even the progress they've made… gone in an instant.
Magnus turned his gaze back to Alexa, who was rolling her arms lazily, unaware of the enormity of what had just occurred. Perpetua understood. She made it seamless. To them, it's been just a week of peace. That's enough. That's safe. They don't need to know the full cost. Not yet. Maybe never. Some truths… are too heavy, even for the awoken.
Time is a river, Magnus thought quietly, but sometimes you need to bend it, channel it, keep it from washing away those who still need to live. And that's exactly what she did. That's exactly what we had to do.
He leaned back further, letting the sunlight hit his face, a small, almost imperceptible smile forming. Yes… let them believe it was only five days. Let them live. Let them hope. That's the only way to protect what really matters.