The sky was drowned beneath layers of black clouds.
Thunder tore through the heavens without warning, its roar shaking the earth like a declaration of war. Lightning carved brief scars across the darkness, illuminating a forest of leafless trees—twisted, skeletal, lifeless. At its heart stood an ancient stone palace, eroded by time and soaked in malice.
The scene felt unreal.
As if torn from the frame of a forbidden grim tale—something between a sorcerer's legend and a nightmare whispered by vampires.
Inside the palace, atop a throne carved from pale bone, sat a man whose appearance contradicted the terror of his surroundings.
He was handsome—unnaturally so.
Sharp features, refined structure, and calm posture. Yet the moment one met his gaze, the illusion shattered. His eyes carried no warmth, no humanity. They radiated an abyssal intent so oppressive it felt capable of crushing a mortal soul.
This man had many names.
But across realms, across heavens and hells, he was most widely known as—
Evil God Arakin
A name spoken only in fear.
Arakin was a being who had provoked gods, slaughtered divine envoys, and committed countless acts that defied the Laws of Heaven. He had sacrificed gods to refine his own strength, reduced divine blood into elixirs, and walked willingly along forbidden paths that even demons hesitated to tread.
There were few who did not know his infamy.
And today, the heavens had finally decided to erase him.
Arakin knew this well.
The Angelic Knights of the Nine Heavens would arrive soon—perhaps within hours. Their holy legions, their divine weapons, their laws of absolute extermination. Even Arakin understood that holding them off directly would be impossible.
Not without preparation.
Not without more power.
Strength was not merely physical.
True power resided in the soul.
A powerful soul enhanced the body, sharpened perception, expanded authority over laws, and resisted annihilation. Arakin's soul was already immense—far beyond ordinary gods. Yet even that was not enough.
He required augmentation.
Earlier that day, while searching through ancient libraries sealed beneath layers of spatial barriers, Arakin had discovered something… intriguing.
A fragment of old parchment.
Its contents described a forbidden ritual—one that allowed the summoning of mortal souls from other universes.
Mortal souls.
Creatures without magic, without divine blessings. And yet, according to the parchment, their souls were often tempered by suffering, perseverance, and relentless struggle. Their willpower—born from fragility—sometimes surpassed that of gods who had never known despair.
Arakin found the notion amusing.
He did not care about their lives.
He did not care about their suffering.
To him, a mortal soul was nothing more than raw material.
The parchment warned of one crucial condition:
If the summoned soul exceeds the summoner's soul in integrity or resistance,
it may devour the summoner instead.
Arakin scoffed.
He had slaughtered gods.
What threat could a mortal soul pose?
Without hesitation, he decided to perform the ritual immediately.
With a flick of his fingers, a piece of chalk rose into the air, guided by invisible force. Intricate symbols spilled across the palace floor—vast, complex formations etched with precise geometry. Runes spiraled outward, overlapping laws of space and soul.
At the formation's core, Arakin tossed several spatial rings.
Each ring contained treasures beyond mortal comprehension—energy crystals, condensed divine essence, forbidden catalysts. As they touched the formation, they dissolved into mist, merging with the runes like fuel poured into an engine.
The symbols ignited.
White and blue light surged upward, growing brighter by the second. The entire palace trembled violently, stones cracking as if the world itself rejected the ritual.
Power drained from Arakin.
Rapidly.
Far faster than expected.
Still, he laughed.
"Ha… hahaha… It works.
My judgment was correct."
The light peaked—and then collapsed inward.
Suspended above the formation floated a soul.
It belonged to a boy.
No older than fifteen or sixteen.
Arakin frowned.
"This…?" he muttered. "This is the soul?"
Doubt flickered briefly across his face.
Then—
He felt it.
A purity.
A pressure.
A quiet yet terrifying resilience.
The soul radiated an integrity so refined it felt wrong—unnatural for a mortal.
Arakin's expression shifted.
Interest replaced doubt.
Without hesitation, he reached out and pulled the soul into himself, retreating instantly into his inner spiritual space.
Inside that void, Arakin faced the soul directly.
It did not scream.
It did not beg.
It simply existed.
Like a silent observer.
Arakin attacked it—crushing, tearing, attempting to shatter it into fragments for tempering. Yet the moment his power struck—
Recoil.
Pain lanced through him.
The soul remained intact.
Arakin's eyes widened.
Only then did he remember the parchment's final line.
The ritual consumes eighty percent of the summoner's soul power.
Cold realization struck him.
His soul… was unstable.
Worse—
It was dissolving.
"No…!" Arakin roared. "Impossible!
I cannot vanish like this!"
But the truth was merciless.
The mortal soul began to fade as well.
Two existences—collapsing.
Instead of devouring one another, their remnants intertwined.
Soul essence merged.
Black and crimson hues clashed with an unfamiliar purity, generating violent spiritual turbulence.
Outside, the palace stood silent.
Dark clouds spiraled overhead, forming a massive vortex. Lightning—black streaked with blood-red—descended upon Arakin's body again and again, tearing it apart and rebuilding it simultaneously.
The process lasted minutes.
Then—
Silence.
A charred body lay amid the ruins.
Suddenly, black-red light enveloped it.
Armor formed—organic, living, ominous.
The body levitated, returning to the throne.
Within Arakin's inner space, the fusion continued.
Memories bled together.
Hunger.
Cold.
Fear.
Loneliness.
Not Arakin's.
Someone else's.
Far away, angelic figures advanced through the sky, warships in tow. Holy swords shattered the palace barrier. Divine arrows rained destruction.
And amidst the fire and smoke—
Arakin opened his eyes..
Red.
Unfamiliar.
Conflicted.
Surrounded by ruin, by enemies, by memories not his own—
He whispered softly, not to the world, but to himself.
"Who… am I?"
The question echoed unanswered.
The war had arrived.
And something entirely new had been born.