---
The skies were aflame with divine blood.
Blades made from the bones of stars clashed against wings of light. Mountains screamed. Oceans boiled. And in the heart of the dying battlefield stood a lone figure—silent, bloodied, unbroken.
Lucien.
The God of Weapons.
The only god who had once been mortal.
He wasn't born into power. He had carved it, piece by piece, through war, through fire, through the unbearable weight of struggle. And in the end, that very rise shook the pillars of the pantheon.
Some hailed him as a savior.
Others cursed him as a heretic.
Many… simply feared him.
The gods had fought to determine their future. Some stood at Lucien's side. Others opposed him. Most remained silent, watching from their divine thrones.
And when the smoke settled, silence returned not as peace—but as a sentence.
---
He kneeled now, bound in glowing chains forged from the remnants of fate itself.
The execution grounds were cold and colorless, suspended in the void between realms. Around him stood gods draped in divinity—some familiar, some distant. All of them wore the expression of finality.
Lucien said nothing.
He didn't beg.
He didn't plead.
He simply looked up at the sky he once fought to protect.
> "Will they remember?"
No one answered.
Only one figure approached—the God of Execution. Not grand. Not respected. Just… there. A nameless god given a terrible duty. His steps echoed in emptiness. His robes were plain, his eyes hollow.
And yet, as he clasped the cuffs holding Lucien in place, he let out a small, almost hysterical laugh.
> "Heh… heh heh… You really believed they'd change, didn't you?"
Lucien's gaze didn't falter.
> "You're wrong," the god continued, whispering, leaning closer as though revealing a joke meant for no one else. "Your sacrifice won't save them. It'll just… delay it. The war will return. It always does."
He stepped back, grinning softly, as if amused by a secret only he knew.
The divine sword of judgment rose.
Lucien closed his eyes.
And then… everything ended.
---
[Somewhere far away… in the North]
The wind howled against a storm-battered manor, nestled deep within the white-cloaked mountains. A child's cry broke through the snow-laden night.
> "Congratulations, my lord," a voice said softly. "It's a boy."
Duke Alric Vaelstorm did not smile. His expression was a stone chiseled by countless battles.
> "Hmph. Another mouth to feed. Make sure he walks before he speaks."
The midwives nodded. The servants bowed. The storm continued.
But within the newborn's eyes flickered a glow not of this world—a memory long buried, a fire long quenched, now reigniting.
---
[Lucien — Then and Now]
He had once stood among gods.
He had once held the weapons that shaped creation.
And now… he was just a boy.
But the storm in his blood had not faded.
It only waited.
> "My name was Lucien. The God of Weapons."
"And even broken… a blade remembers how to cut."