As the Flame and Ice Monarchs clashed, the world itself **shook and trembled**.
Mountains bowed as if kneeling. Oceans recoiled from their shores. The sky fractured into veins of blue frost and burning crimson, each collision of the two kings sending waves of terror through every living soul. People fell to their knees in streets, temples, and battlefields alike, praying desperately to gods whose names had not been spoken in centuries.
"Save us," they begged.
"Protect us."
"Answer us."
But the heavens remained empty.
No divine voice descended.
No miracle came.
No god dared to intervene.
For the first time in recorded existence, the world understood a forbidden truth:
**The gods were silent not by choice—but by fear.**
Ancient deities, once worshipped as eternal and supreme, watched from beyond the veil of reality. They felt it clearly now—the authority radiating from the two kings was not borrowed, not granted, not blessed.
It was **sovereignty**.
The Ice King's power did not ask permission from winter—it *was* winter.
The Flame Monarch did not command flame—it *was* destruction incarnate.
These were not champions of gods.
They were **equal forces**, born of the world's deepest extremes.
In forgotten sanctuaries, divine relics cracked. In celestial realms, thrones of light splintered. The balance the gods had carefully maintained since creation was unraveling, thread by frozen thread and burning ash.
A nameless god whispered in dread:
> "If they continue… the age of gods will end."
Below, mortals watched the sky burn and freeze at once, realizing that their prayers were no longer reaching heaven. Their fate was no longer decided by divine will, prophecy, or faith.
It was being decided **by kings**.
And as Ice and Fire collided once more, the world held its breath—
not waiting for salvation…
…but waiting to see **which sovereign would define the future of existence itself**.