They say the gods made seven mistakes.
Seven flames, they called them. Seven Miracles scattered across Solveria like seeds of power gifts meant to guide the worthy, to elevate the chosen, to bring order to a fractured world.
But the gods are not mortal. They do not understand fear. They do not understand corruption. They did not foresee what would happen when mortals, fleeting, desperate, hungry, were given the power to reshape reality itself.
Necromancy turned a healer into a devourer of souls.
Genesis built cities... and then unmade them.
Eternity froze time until the world screamed for release.
One by one, the Miracles proved what the gods should have known:
Power does not ennoble. It reveals.
And so, in their infinite wisdom, or perhaps their infinite fear, the gods created an eighth flame.
And the gods prayed it would never be needed.
The gods were wrong.
This is the story of what happens when divine judgment clashes with divine wrath.
The story of the last time the eighth flame burned.
Dark clouds covered the sky in Solveria, the battlefield was drowned in blood. A warrior stood alone among the dead while facing an army of angels led by a figure wielding divine energy.
"You are a vile race," the angel spat, his voice dripping with contempt. "You need to be purged."
The crimson glowing figure clenched his teeth as streams of blood slithered up from the corpses.
"That's what makes you despicable!" the angel snarled, his beautiful face twisted with revulsion.
"Your wretched Arts, this world would be better off without you! Using the blood of the fallen, desecrating the dead with your corruption!"
"My people lie dead at your feet," The figure's voice was rough. "And you call ME despicable? You slaughtered children. You burned the innocent. You came to my home and murdered everyone I loved."
"We did what was necessary," the angel replied coldly.
"You carry the eighth flame. The gods' mistake. As long as one your species lives, that cursed power can awaken. We will not allow it."
"Then come take it from me."
The angelic warriors dove down, their golden weapons gleaming in the stormlight.
The rising blood suddenly shot into the air, hardening into crimson spikes. Several of the angels were impaled mid-flight, their bodies jerking before falling lifelessly to the ground.
But some dodged, weaving through the spikes while others raised shields that flared with golden light. The blood spikes shattered against those barriers or whistled past dodging targets. and closing in.
A spear thrust came at his heart but he sidestepped as it zoomed past him. Another blade came from behind, he pivoted and a whip of blood rose to deflect it.
One angel came straight at him with a golden spear aimed for his heart, too fast to dodge.
He caught it mid-thrust and the holy energy seared his flesh. He yanked the angel closer and tore off his head with a single bite. Blood splattered across his face as he hurled the lifeless body aside.
He twisted through the air, dodging, slashing, devouring them. A golden shield was raised, but he drove his clawed hand straight through it and the warrior behind it.
Then his blood morphed into jagged blades and impaled the remaining angels one by one. Their screams echoed into the storm.
"You demon!" The scarred angel roared, his fury shook the very air. His wings spread wider, each feather gleamed like a blade. "You prove everything we said about your kind! Savage! Bestial! Using the blood of the fallen like some twisted necromancer!"
"I use what I must," the figure gasped as he swayed on his broken leg. "Just as you use your 'divine' gifts to murder the innocent."
"There are no innocents among the Bloodbound!" The angel raised his sword high and divine energy surged through him. The blade began to glow, brighter and brighter, until it was like staring into the sun.
"You carry the eighth flame! The power that should never have been made!"
The storm clouds swirled faster, forming a vortex with the angel at its center. The bodies on the ground, both red and gold, began to burn slowly from the heat radiating from that divine weapon.
"SERAPHIM BLADE!"
A beam of pure golden light erupted from his weapon. It descended like the wrath of the gods, turning the air to plasma, igniting the rain before it could fall and reducing stone to glass.
The figure clenched his teeth as it struck him directly.
The explosion of engulfed the battlefield, flattening what remained of the nearby village structures.
And with that blinding flash, the war was declared over.
At least… that's what history claimed.
A thousand years passed.
The war faded into legend.
The Seven Miracles were scattered, causing chaos wherever they appeared, sometimes worshipped, sometimes hunted, always feared.
And the Eighth?
They prayed it had died forever.
They were wrong.
Because tonight… the Eighth Flame began to burn again.