Azerion stood before the throne and frowned.
It was not a dramatic moment.
There was no omen, no ash surge, no whisper of gods.
Just inconvenience.
The immortal throne loomed behind him—heavy with Old God endurance, dense with layered authority. Taking it into open war was not optional. Leaving it behind was worse.
It was not merely a relic.
It was an anchor.
Azerion extended his senses, testing ash flow, spatial tension, pressure vectors.
Nothing yielded.
"…This is going to be a problem," he muttered.
Silence.
Then—
Erevos surfaced, and for the first time since its awakening—
It laughed.
A brief, precise sound. Amused. Almost smug.
You are attempting to solve a problem already resolved.
Azerion narrowed his eyes.
"Explain."
The Divine Core pulsed faintly, clearly enjoying this.
Internal storage functionality has been active since initial fusion. You utilized it subconsciously during the first cocoon phase. Assessment: forgetting this indicates emotional distraction.
Azerion went still.
"…Storage?"
Yes. Basic spatial compression. Non-living and relic-class objects supported. Capacity scales with your evolution.
A pause.
Would you like instructions? Or would you prefer to continue glaring at the throne?
Ash stirred—irritated.
"You could have mentioned this," Azerion said flatly.
You did not ask.
Another pause.
Also—your expression is inefficient.
Azerion exhaled slowly.
"Do it."
The world folded.
Not violently—politely.
The throne did not resist. Space compressed around it, runes dimming as it was drawn inward, passing through Azerion's chest without pain, without disruption.
The weight vanished.
But the presence remained—settled deep within him, like a mountain folded into bone.
Storage confirmed. Relic stable. Access unrestricted.
Azerion straightened.
"Next time," he said calmly, "laugh less."
Erevos did not respond.
It was still laughing.
—
Vaelric Thorne moved first.
Not with armies.
With words.
By the time Azerion crossed the eastern border, the nation already knew his name.
Not as a survivor.
Not as a breaker of Sentinels.
But as a calamity.
In the imperial capital of the Eastern Court, Vaelric stood before the Emperor—robes immaculate, posture reverent, voice carefully weighted with fear and duty.
"The Ashen Lord advances," Vaelric said. "His soldiers erase cities. His lieutenants bind minds. He has taken a throne meant to seal gods and turned it into a weapon."
The Emperor's grip tightened on the arm of his seat.
"You are certain?"
Vaelric bowed his head.
"I have seen the aftermath. Refugees silenced. Lands stripped bare. He claims restraint—but restraint is merely conquest that waits."
He looked up, eyes burning with controlled urgency.
"If he reaches this capital, Your Majesty… the throne you sit upon will be ash by nightfall."
Silence followed.
Then—
"Mobilize," the Emperor commanded.
Banners rose across the Eastern Court.
Not mercenaries.
Not proxies.
A nation.
—
Azerion felt it the moment he stepped onto the final approach.
The land was armored.
Leylines braced. Cities fortified. Sky-wards active.
An entire nation had turned its weight toward him.
Calen stood beside him, eyes sharp.
"He turned them against you."
"Yes," Azerion replied calmly.
Maera's jaw tightened.
"They believe they're defending themselves."
"They are," Azerion said.
She looked at him.
"From what?"
Azerion's gaze fixed on the distant capital, where divine wards shimmered like nervous sweat.
"From the truth."
—
The first clash did not happen at the gates.
It happened in the sky.
Imperial casters unleashed sanctified artillery—lances of structured light meant to annihilate siege-beasts and gods alike.
Azerion raised one hand.
Ash unfolded into layered planes.
The barrage vanished.
Not blocked.
Stored.
Erevos updated instantly.
Incoming hostile energy archived. Potential reuse identified.
Azerion lowered his hand.
"Begin," he said.
The chain responded.
Lieutenants surged forward, authority cascading down through soldiers whose power swelled in real time—every step Azerion took forward deepened their strength.
Ashen formations hit the imperial vanguard like a closing vice.
This was not slaughter.
It was disassembly.
Elite knights found their enhancements unraveling. Divine blessings flickered and failed. Commanders realized too late that killing Azerion's soldiers only made the next wave stronger.
Because he was still advancing.
Slowly.
Relentlessly.
At the capital gates, the Emperor watched the horizon darken.
"What… is he?" he whispered.
Vaelric stood calmly beside him.
"A mistake," he said softly. "One I intend to correct."
—
Azerion reached the gates alone.
The armies fell back instinctively, formation breaking under pressure they did not understand.
He looked up at the walls.
"I did not come for your nation," his voice carried, amplified not by power but certainty.
"I came for him."
Vaelric stepped onto the battlements, divine authority coiled around him like a second spine.
"You hear him, Your Majesty?" Vaelric called out. "He threatens us openly."
Azerion's eyes locked onto Vaelric.
"You used them as shields," Azerion said.
Vaelric smiled.
"They chose me."
"No," Azerion replied. "You edited them."
Ash stirred violently now.
Erevos surfaced.
Warning. Multiple New God signatures converging through Vaelric Thorne. Authorization level: temporary—yet extreme.
Vaelric spread his arms.
"Behold," he said to the watching nation, "the tyrant who dares challenge gods and crowns alike."
Azerion took one step forward.
The ground cracked.
"This ends today," he said—not to the nation—
—but to Vaelric Thorne.
Above them, the sky split.
Not with thunder.
With attention.
The war had begun.
And this time—
There would be no proxies left to hide behind.