Above the layers of mortal existence, beyond the veil of time, light reigned supreme.
A realm without shadow, where brilliance shimmered like a living ocean, and the very air sang with harmony. Towers forged from crystal suns pierced the infinite horizon. At its center stood a throne — sculpted from condensed starlight — and upon it sat Lior, the Architect of Flame, the Father of Celestials, the God of Light.
His eyes were closed. Yet he saw everything.
Through strands of glowing fate, he observed the mirror world: the corrupted realm where Chaos had been banished — his elder brother, his antithesis.
And now… that world trembled.
The crystals were awakening.
He opened his eyes slowly. No fear. No sorrow. Just precise calculation.
"They were not supposed to awaken without the seventh seal," he murmured. "Yet now… two."
His fingers tapped against the throne's edge.
Chaos breathes again.
But Lior did not panic. He did not grieve.
He anticipated.
With a single thought, he summoned his divine court.
They appeared instantly — celestial beings of immense radiance, forming a half-circle before the throne. The God of the Sun, clad in robes of molten flame. The Goddess of Storms, lightning coursing through her veins. The Twin Sentinels of Dawn and Dusk, their eyes mirror images of rising and falling stars.
Lior stood, and his voice was quiet — yet shook the realm like thunder.
"Chaos stirs. Not by strength… but through circumstance. A boy has touched what should remain untouchable. Two of the seven rise."
The God of the Sun stepped forward. "Shall we strike the boy down?"
Lior raised a hand. "No. His body is not the threat. It is the voice inside him. Chaos will not move directly… yet. He is still weak. Still incomplete."
"And when he is whole?" asked the Goddess of Storms.
"Then," Lior said, "we seal him again — or burn what remains."
He turned toward the mirror of fate that hovered beside his throne — a living window into the mirror world. Zenith's face flickered in the glass, drawn and confused, caught between fear and defiance.
"He will gather the rest. It is inevitable. They are drawn to each other by design." Lior's gaze sharpened. "So we must prepare the lock before the door opens."
The Sentinels bowed. "You wish to awaken the Sentries?"
"No. Not yet. I wish to deploy something older. Something Chaos once trusted."
Lior lifted a hand, and a single thread of light extended from his palm — into the mirror.
A sword appeared within it, bound in ethereal chains. Black. Feathered. Alive.
The Raven Blade.
"She betrayed me," Lior said calmly. "She whispered rebellion in Chaos's name. So I silenced her… and forged her into a weapon. She serves my purpose now."
"She has chosen a host," the God of the Sun said. "The boy Karl."
"I know. And that boy walks the line between madness and power. I will use him — or burn him — should he falter."
The Goddess of Storms tilted her head. "What of the Earth-born bearer?"
Lior turned slowly.
"Mike will serve. He was chosen. The Halo binds him to me. If Chaos awakens… Mike will be my sword."
He sat once more upon the throne, and shadows danced faintly along the edges of his court — repelled but not gone.
"Send word across the dimensions. Let the lesser gods stir. Let the angels whisper. Let the Earth prepare."
His eyes flickered.
"And let Chaos know… I do not share my throne."
The celestials vanished, leaving only light behind. And above all realms, Lior watched. Calculating. Waiting. Preparing not for war—
As the last echoes of divine command faded into silence, the light dimmed.
Not dark.
Just… softer. Greener.
From behind the throne, blooming vines twisted into form. Leaves glowed like stars. Flowers opened without sunlight. And then she stepped forth — barefoot, veiled in emerald silk, eyes ageless and deep as the oldest rivers.
Mother Nature.
Lior did not turn to greet her. He felt her presence the way roots feel rain. Instead, he waited.
She always spoke when the time was right.
She circled the throne like a breeze through autumn trees. And then, softly:
"Light moves fast. But the mirror waits. And what is cast… must be cast by something real."
Lior's brow creased.
She smiled.
"You chase shadows in the mirror, husband. But tell me…"
She leaned closer. Her voice a whisper.
"What happens to a reflection… if the one casting it disappears?"
The words hung like perfume in the air.
Lior stiffened. Then slowly — very slowly — turned toward the mirror of fate. Zenith's form flickered in its glass surface, walking through the broken lands of Chaos's prison.
His mind raced.
"He exists on the true Earth," Lior murmured. "The boy. The vessel. His soul is mirrored… but his origin is real."
The realization struck like a divine blade.
Kill the original.
And the mirror collapses.
He stood, golden light roaring around him.
"Prepare the Watchers. Alert the Dimension Runners. Find the boy on the true Earth."
Mother Nature only smiled, her eyes turning toward the stars beyond their world.
"You forget, my love… when you break a mirror, shards remain. And every shard… reflects."
Then, like dew evaporating in sunlight, she vanished — leaving behind the scent of spring and the weight of prophecy.
Lior clenched his fist.
He would not be outmaneuvered.
Not by Chaos.
Not by fate.
And certainly not by a boy.