500 Years Ago
The stairs to Zenith Thronos were not made of stone or gold or any material that existed in the mortal realm. They were carved from condensed starlight, each step humming with a frequency that would have shattered a human's bones before they reached the third ascent. Kami Van Hellsin climbed them with his hands in his pockets, the tails of his white coat flapping behind him like the wings of a hunting hawk. His boots—simple leather, worn from years of wandering—made no sound against the celestial architecture. He wore no crown, no ceremonial armor, no marks of divine office. Just the coat, the boots, and the sword slung across his back.
Murakaze—The Heaven Render.
Its sheath was black lacquered wood, wrapped in fraying crimson cord that had absorbed the blood of seventeen warlords, forty-three demons, and one goddess who'd made the mistake of thinking herself immortal. The blade itself had never been cleaned. Kami saw no point. Blood was a testament. Blood was history.
At the top of the stairway, the gates of Zenith Thronos stood fifty meters high, carved from what appeared to be a single piece of opalescent crystal that shifted colors with each angle—sapphire to emerald to molten amber. Beyond those gates lay the Court of Eight, where the Supreme Gods governed the balance of existence from thrones older than human language.
Kami didn't knock.
He placed one palm against the gate and pushed. The crystal groaned—a sound like continents shifting—and then split down the center. Light poured out, not the warm gold of sunrise but something harsher, whiter, clinical. The kind of light that exposed everything. The kind of light that left no shadows to hide in.
Inside, the throne chamber was vast enough to hold storm systems. The floor was polished obsidian that reflected the eight thrones arranged in a perfect octagon. Each throne was unique—one carved from living flame that never consumed itself, another from ice that radiated cold in visible waves, a third from intertwined roots that pulsed with sap the color of fresh spring growth. The other five were equally distinct, each representing domains Kami had studied, mapped, and planned to surpass.
Seven of the eight thrones were occupied.
The gods turned their attention toward him with the slow, unhurried movement of beings who existed outside the constraint of urgency. They wore forms that approximated humanity but failed in subtle, disturbing ways—too many joints in their fingers, eyes that reflected light at impossible angles, skin that seemed to exist in more dimensions than three.
The god seated on the flame throne spoke first. His voice rolled through the chamber like distant thunder, each word taking physical form in the air as brief flashes of gold script before dissolving.
"Kami Van Hellsin." The name was not a greeting. It was a classification. A specimen identified. "You were not summoned."
Kami stopped ten meters from the center of the octagon, his hands still in his pockets. He tilted his head back to take in the full scope of the chamber, the way the walls curved upward into infinity, the way reality bent at the edges of his perception. Then he smiled—a sharp, asymmetric expression that didn't reach his eyes.
"I know." His voice carried no divine resonance, no supernatural weight. It was just a human voice, clear and direct. "That's why I came."
The god on the ice throne leaned forward slightly. Frost spread from where his hands gripped the armrests, crawling across the obsidian floor in crystalline fractals. "You stand in Zenith Thronos without invitation. Without ritual. Without—"
"Without wasting time, yeah." Kami pulled his right hand from his pocket and gestured vaguely at the empty throne—the eighth seat, made from what looked like compressed void, a throne that seemed to eat the light around it. "That one's been empty for what, three thousand years? Four? You've got a vacancy. I'm applying."
Silence.
Then, from the god seated on the root throne, a sound like wind through autumn leaves. Laughter. Low and dry and completely without humor.
"You believe you belong among us."
"I know I do."
Another god spoke—this one from a throne of interlocking gears that turned perpetually, grinding against each other with mathematical precision. Her voice was layered, multiple tones speaking in perfect harmony. "You have walked the mortal realm for six centuries. You have achieved deification through will and slaughter. You have carved your name into history with blood and obsession." The gears paused for exactly one second. "And yet you are fundamentally alone. No domain. No followers. No divine purpose beyond your own elevation."
Kami's smile widened. "That's exactly why I should be sitting up here instead of you."
The temperature in the chamber dropped. Not from the ice throne's influence—this was something else. This was the attention of beings who had unmade galaxies focusing fully on a single point.
The god of flame rose from his throne. He stood three meters tall, and his form became more defined as he moved—humanoid but wrong, with too many proportions that didn't align. Fire dripped from his shoulders like molten cloth. "You presume to judge us."
"I presume nothing." Kami pulled his left hand from his pocket and reached back over his shoulder. His fingers wrapped around Murakaze's hilt. The moment he touched it, the sword sang—a low, hungry note that resonated in the bones of the throne chamber itself. "I'm stating fact. You eight sit up here and play balance games while existence runs itself into the ground. You maintain equilibrium. I'd actually do something."
"Arrogance—"
"Honesty." Kami drew the blade three inches. The sound of steel sliding free of lacquered wood was obscenely loud in the vast space. "You want to test me? Go ahead. That's why I came prepared to either walk out as the ninth, or drag one of you off your throne and take their seat."
The god of ice stood. Then the god of roots. Then the god of gears. Then all eight were on their feet, and the throne chamber began to fold in on itself geometrically, space compressing and expanding simultaneously as divine power filled the volume beyond what physics could accommodate.
The god of flame extended one hand. Fire coalesced around his forearm, solidifying into a blade three meters long with an edge that burned white-hot. "You wield the Heaven Render. A blade forged in blasphemy that can sever divine essence." He took one step forward. The obsidian beneath his foot turned to vapor. "But a sword is only as strong as the hand that holds it."
Kami drew Murakaze fully. The blade was unremarkable in appearance—straight, single-edged, seventy-three centimeters of folded steel with a slight curve near the tip. No runes. No glowing edges. No supernatural aura. It was just a sword.
It was also the only weapon in existence that could kill what stood before him.
"Then I guess we're about to find out whose hand is stronger."
The god of flame attacked first. He closed the ten-meter gap in a single step—not a movement through space but a collapse of distance, reality bending to accommodate his will. The flaming blade came down in an overhead arc designed to split Kami from crown to groin.
Kami sidestepped. Not a desperate dodge—a measured pivot on his back foot, letting the flaming sword pass thirty centimeters to his left. He could feel the heat radiation singing the hair on his forearm. He brought Murakaze up in a rising cut, aiming for the god's extended wrist.
The god pulled back, the flame blade dispersing and reforming as a shield that caught Murakaze's edge with a sound like a bell being struck underwater. The impact sent shockwaves through the obsidian floor, and cracks spiderwebbed outward from where they stood.
Two more gods attacked simultaneously. The god of ice came from the left, hands empty but trailing vapor that crystallized into dozens of frozen spears mid-flight. The god of roots came from the right, arms extending into massive vine constructs that lashed out like whips tipped with wooden thorns the size of sword blades.
Kami ducked under the ice spears and twisted, bringing Murakaze around in a horizontal cut that severed the vine constructs at their base. The roots fell away, and where Murakaze's edge had passed through them, they simply ceased to exist—not cut, not burned, but deleted from reality at the fundamental level.
The god of roots stumbled back, staring at his arms where the vines had been. "Impossible—"
"No." Kami spun the blade in his hand, letting it whistle through the air. "Just inconvenient for you."
The god of gears attacked from above. She had abandoned humanoid form entirely, becoming a mechanical construct of interlocking wheels and blades that descended on Kami like a collapsing building. He looked up, calculated three different vectors, and chose the one that required the least movement.
He jumped.
Not a superhuman leap—just the spring of a trained fighter using proper leg mechanics. He rose three meters, angled his body forty-five degrees, and drove Murakaze point-first into the geometric center of the gear construct. The blade punched through metal that existed in four dimensions. The gears locked. The god of gears screamed—a sound of shearing bolts and stripped threads—and collapsed back into humanoid form, clutching her chest where a thin line of gold ichor leaked from a wound that shouldn't have been possible.
Kami landed in a crouch, Murakaze held low and angled back. Gold blood dripped from the tip. "Four down. Four to go. Anyone want to try something interesting?"
The remaining gods attacked as one.
What followed was not a fight. It was a dismantling.
The god of storms conjured a hurricane contained within the throne room, winds that could strip flesh from bone in seconds. Kami walked through it, using Murakaze as a focal point—the blade cut the wind itself, creating a pocket of dead air around him. He closed distance and drove his shoulder into the storm god's solar plexus. Divine or not, the body still responded to kinetic force. The storm god doubled over. Kami brought his knee up into the god's face—once, twice, three times—until teeth scattered across the obsidian floor.
The god of light became luminous, form dissolving into pure radiance that seared the eyes and cooked exposed skin. Kami closed his eyes and listened. He heard the displacement of air, felt the heat gradient, tracked the movement through pure spatial awareness. Murakaze swept through the light, and the god of light became solid again, clutching at a diagonal wound across his torso that leaked radiance like arterial spray.
The god of stone tried to anchor Kami, the obsidian floor rising up to grip his legs. Kami stomped down with his right foot, breaking the stone, then drove Murakaze into the floor beside him. The blade sunk ten centimeters into divine architecture, and the entire floor cracked down the middle. The god of stone lost balance. Kami was on him in two strides, delivering a straight punch to the throat that collapsed the windpipe—divine or not, breathing still mattered to creatures that chose to wear flesh.
The god of the void—the one whose throne remained empty—finally manifested. He appeared behind Kami, silent as entropy, hands reaching for the back of Kami's skull. If he made contact, if he activated his domain properly, Kami would cease to exist. Not killed. Not destroyed. Simply removed from having ever been.
Kami felt the displacement of air. Felt the temperature drop. Felt the way reality bent around the void god's presence.
He spun, bringing Murakaze around in an arc that should have been too slow, too obvious, too easy to counter.
But Kami wasn't aiming for the void god.
He was aiming for the god of flame, who had recovered and was positioned directly behind the void god, preparing another attack.
Murakaze's edge caught the flame god across the chest—a shallow cut, barely breaking the surface. But that was enough. The flame god staggered back, and his positioning shifted just enough that the void god's reaching hands passed through where Kami's head had been and instead made contact with the flame god's shoulder.
The flame god's right arm ceased to exist up to the elbow. Just gone. Not severed—deleted.
The flame god's scream shook the throne chamber. The void god recoiled, horrified at what he'd done. And in that moment of distraction, Kami moved.
He drove Murakaze through the void god's stomach, angled upward toward the heart. The blade went in clean, emerged from the back dripping god-blood the color of empty space. The void god looked down at the wound, then up at Kami's face.
Kami was still smiling. "Did you really think you were the first god I've killed?"
He withdrew the blade and let the void god collapse.
The remaining seven gods stood in various states of injury and shock. The throne room was destroyed—walls cracked, floor shattered, reality bleeding at the edges where divine power had been unleashed without restraint. Gold ichor pooled across the obsidian like spilled paint.
Kami straightened, rolling his shoulders. His coat was torn in three places. His left cheek was bleeding from where an ice shard had grazed him. But he was standing, Murakaze still in hand, while eight gods—seven now—struggled to maintain form.
"So." He pointed Murakaze at the empty throne. "I'll ask again. Am I in?"
The god of flame sank back onto his throne, cradling his half-vanished arm. His voice was quieter now, all the thunder gone. "You... you are strong. Stronger than we anticipated. But strength is not wisdom. Power is not purpose. You wield the Heaven Render like a butcher's tool. You have no philosophy. No greater design. You would bring only chaos to—"
"Chaos." Kami laughed—a short, sharp bark of genuine amusement. "You think what you've built is order? You sit up here playing balance games while mortals tear each other apart. You maintain equilibrium like that's a virtue. But equilibrium isn't peace. It's just frozen conflict." He gestured at the ruined throne room with Murakaze. "I'd bring change. Real change. The kind that actually moves existence forward instead of keeping it locked in your perfect, sterile balance."
"You would bring tyranny," the god of ice said quietly.
"Maybe. But at least something would happen."
The god of roots, still regenerating his severed limbs, spoke with the weariness of something ancient. "You do not understand what you ask. To sit among us is to become responsible for all that exists. Every death. Every birth. Every moment of suffering and joy. You would bear the weight of existence itself. And you, Kami Van Hellsin, care only for your own elevation."
"Then teach me to care about more."
"No." The god of flame's voice was final. Absolute. "You are denied. Now. Forever. Leave Zenith Thronos. Never return."
Kami stared at them. All seven, broken and bleeding, but unified in their rejection. He felt something cold settle in his chest—not anger, not rage, but something colder. Calculation.
"Fine." He sheathed Murakaze in one smooth motion. "Your loss."
He turned his back on them—the ultimate insult, the ultimate display of contempt—and began walking toward the shattered gates.
He made it five steps.
The impact came from behind, something sharp and impossibly cold punching through his back and emerging from his chest in a spray of red that looked obscene against his white coat. He looked down and saw the tip of a blade made from crystallized void, the same substance as the eighth throne. It protruded fifteen centimeters from his sternum, dripping his blood onto the obsidian floor.
He tried to turn, to see which god had struck him, but his body wouldn't respond. The blade was severing more than flesh—it was cutting his connection to his power, his deification, his very existence as something beyond mortal.
A voice whispered in his ear. He didn't recognize it. It wasn't one of the eight.
"You were warned."
Then the blade twisted, and Kami felt himself falling.
Not falling through the throne room—falling through reality itself. The obsidian floor vanished, the walls vanished, the gods vanished. He was tumbling through layers of existence, through the gap between divine and mortal, between immortal and flesh, between power and weakness.
He reached for Murakaze, but his hands wouldn't grip. He tried to stabilize himself, but his body wouldn't respond. All he could do was fall.
And fall.
And fall.
He broke through the cloud layer of the mortal world doing terminal velocity. The impact with the ocean was like hitting concrete. He felt ribs crack, felt his left shoulder dislocate, felt something in his spine pop in a way that promised permanent damage. The water was freezing—not the sharp cold of ice magic, but the deep, numbing cold of the ocean's midnight zone.
He sank.
His coat, heavy with water, dragged him down. His boots filled and became anchors. His lungs burned for air, but every time he tried to kick for the surface, his body refused to obey. The wound in his chest leaked blood that dispersed in dark clouds around him, attracting things that lived in the deep—things with too many teeth and not enough eyes.
He kept sinking.
The light from above became a distant memory, a pinprick of blue-green that receded with every meter of descent. The pressure built in his ears, his skull, his chest cavity. His body was mortal now—completely mortal. Whatever the void blade had done, it had severed his deification entirely. He was just a man drowning in the deep ocean, surrounded by darkness and things that hunted by sensing electrical impulses and fear.
But even as his vision darkened, even as his lungs screamed for air that wasn't coming, even as his body began the process of shutting down, Kami Van Hellsin made himself a promise.
He would not die here.
He would survive.
And he would climb those stairs again.
Not as a supplicant. Not as someone asking for permission.
As something they could not refuse. As something they could not stop. As something that would tear Zenith Thronos down stone by stone and rebuild it in his image.
He would start from nothing if he had to. He would crawl through dirt and blood and the corpses of everyone who stood in his way. He would unmake existence itself if that's what it took.
But he would have his throne.
The last thing Kami saw before consciousness abandoned him was his own hand, pale and weak, reaching upward toward a surface he could no longer see.
Then darkness.
Then nothing.
Then the long, slow work of becoming something that could never be cast down again.