Adrian stepped into the Death Sovereign Temple.
The gate behind him melted closed, and silence swallowed everything.
The temple wasn't a building—it was a cathedral built by contradiction. Ancient Greek columns towered like titanic bones, carved from obsidian and black marble that shimmered with invisible patterns. The walls curved and straightened at the same time.
The ceiling drifted too high to see, vanishing into a skyless void that pressed against the soul.
It spanned kilometers. But the space did not obey space.
Light flickered from torches that burned without heat. Shadows fell in the wrong direction. The floor beneath his feet was smooth, veined with silver, engraved in constellations that slowly rearranged themselves.
He should have been overwhelmed. But instead, he felt something almost familiar—like standing in the presence of purpose.
Then he saw it.
Not a throne. Not a chapel.
A library.
Narrow hallways opened to the left, their walls lined with spiraling bookshelves that rose and twisted like pillars of thought.
The shelves bent upward, folded into arches, then looped again—stretching into infinity. No walls contained them. The space was a spire without end.
He stepped inside.
The air changed. It became denser, quieter.
Books didn't just rest on shelves—they watched. Some breathed. Some glowed faintly. Some whispered in tones too ancient to parse.
The bindings were stitched in shadow, skin, or silver wire. Every title was written in a language he had never learned.
And yet, he understood them.
As if each word were a memory he had forgotten and now recalled.
He reached for a thick tome with a cracked spine. As soon as he opened it, the text began to shift. The page undulated like skin reacting to touch.
Sentences rewrote themselves as he read them. Names rearranged. Dates changed. Accounts expanded.
He blinked. Closed the book. Reopened it.
Different again.
The library wasn't just alive.
It was updating.
"This place remembers everything", he thought "And it corrects what is false."
He sat down on a bench made of parchment and breath. Page by page, the truths of the world began to unfold—rewriting themselves with every heartbeat.
And Adrian Vale, the burned man who had clawed his way out of the Soul Ocean, began to read the history of gods.
The world had once known Fifty-Four Gods.
Fifty-Four Thrones. Fifty-Four Laws. Each god was the embodiment of a Law—concepts not invented but discovered, eternal truths made flesh.
Each of these Laws governed some unshakable facet of existence. And each god was a Living Being Who has become a Realizer the one that can used the power of law They had climbed beyond the mortal path—beyond the twelfth rank, beyond even the celestial. At Godhood, they became more than divine.
They became the Law itself.
For a time, the world was full of God's light. Balance ruled. Each Law operated in harmony with the others, forming the bedrock of civilization, magic, and even the passage of life and death.
Then came the Great Era of Asension.
Ten of the gods—perfect in form, absolute in power—transcended. They left their The world behind and passed into a state beyond comprehension, known only as the Cosmic Being. The Beyond. The Upper Law. Their names faded. Their concepts blurred. No one knew what they became. Only that they did not return.
Their body gone but their laws still remain effecting the world.
And then... everything began to fall apart.
The First War of the Gods erupted.
But it was not against an invader.
It was against themselves.
For reasons that Adrian can not read and comprehend the text of this part is like an alien language to him he simply can not understand. The part that he can read say the gods turned on one another. Thrones shattered. Realities broke. Names were erased from time. The records called it The Purge. Others labeled it The End of Peace.
But most called it nothing at all.
Because the truth was forbidden.
Adrian tried to read more.
He searched the library, clawing through indexes and indexes of divine history. He reached out to a book that trembled at his touch—a heavy volume bound in stitched smoke and breath. As he opened it, the pages pulsed with a deep, cold vibration.
And then, his vision darkened.
Words lost their shape. Symbols bent into spirals. The pages began to scream—not with sound, but with meaning. A scream of truth too vast for thought.
Adrian clutched his face.
Pain lanced through his skull.
His vision split. His body convulsed.
Blood began to pour from seven points—hidden places on his spirit that he hadn't known existed. Points on his forehead, chest, hands, and spine, invisible yet unmistakable. The Seven Oracles. Vessels of forbidden reception.
The books hissed. The floor pulsed. His mind buckled.
"Don't look"
"Don't see"
"A mere mortal shouldn't know too much"
He let the book fall.
The moment it left his hands, the pain stopped. The blood vanished. His breath returned.
And the book sealed itself shut.
In its place, a blank plaque floated in the air, engraved with one sentence only:
"The First War was not a battle. It was a betrayal of reality."
The texts shifted as Adrian turned the pages. The words rippled like breath on ice—uneasy, unstable, and too alive.
The heading read: "The First War of Thrones."
But the more he tried to read, the more his vision blurred. His mind began to pulse with a strange, seething rhythm, like thoughts that weren't his were brushing the inside of his skull.
The war was not against the Outer Gods. That much was clear.
No. It had been internal.
A conflict between the gods themselves.
For reasons erased from history—erased violently.
The books contradicted themselves. One said envy. One said prophecy. One said betrayal of form. Another claimed simply: "They remembered too much."
What began as a council of unity shattered into blood and fire.
Gods killed gods. Thrones were desecrated. Domains turned on themselves—Memory erased Identity, Thought collapsed Motion. Some kind of power tried to contain them all and was torn in to pieces.
Adrian's nose began to bleed.
He kept reading.
Symbols appeared that didn't follow logic.
Sigils in seven-point spirals. G
lyphs that rearranged themselves when not looked at directly.
He flipped another page.
A sound burst into his skull—not heard, but understood.
It was a scream made of timelines.
His spine arched backward as pain exploded through him. Seven points lit up across his soul like bursting stars: one on his forehead, one in each palm, one in each sole, one in his sternum, and one between his shoulder blades.
The Seven Oracles.
He was bleeding from all of them. Not blood. Ink. Memory made liquid.
Adrian dropped the book.
It didn't fall—it vanished.
The floor went black.
All sound stopped.
And then came a single, whispering line across the vault of the temple, etched in flame that did not burn:
"The First War was not a battle"
"It was a forgetting made real"
"The gods tore the world apart "