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Chapter 23 – The Verdict of the Forgotten

Within a primordial void so ancient that even time dared not touch it, there were no stars, no shadows—only a silence that echoed from the very birth of existence. It was a place beyond being itself, where even dreams could not take form, where the first silence still lingered like a forgotten god’s breath.

And in that eternal nothingness, stirring slowly from the grip of oblivion, four forgotten gods turned once again to face one another.

The first to awaken was Rhaem’thar, the Sightless Lord of Knowledge. Upon his brow floated a massive obsidian halo—a symbol of infinite strata of wisdom. He had no face, no eyes, and yet from his presence radiated a consciousness that revealed truths to all who dared to perceive him. The hem of his robes dissolved into the void as if unraveling thought itself, and when he spoke, it was not with voice, but with the echo of thought reverberating through the mind.

Across from him emerged a silhouette—the decayed embodiment of all forgotten hungers: Otharys, the Goddess of Endless Hunger. At the core of her being swirled a chasm of craving, a devouring vortex turning inwards eternally. Her face was both beautiful and repulsive; the screams of dead civilizations curled upon the corners of her lips. Her hair draped downward like tendrils of shadow torn from the heavens. In her eyes flickered the mourning of prayers extinguished at a thousand forsaken altars.

Third to arrive, piercing the trembling void like a breath of fire, came Kael’Zorr, the Forgotten Lord of Flame. His form was not forged from lava, but from centuries of repressed wrath and the ashes of forsaken worship. From his torso rose formless faces from smoke—flickering into being, then vanishing. Every step scorched the floorless void, and his words carried the scent of cinders.

Last came a figure from the farthest edge of nothingness, walking with solemn weight—Seraphineh, the Decayed Goddess of Mercy. Once the symbol of compassion and kindness, she now wore a fractured smile upon a cracked visage. Her presence walked the thin line where mercy rots into blood. In her hands, she cradled a fading crown made of wilted flowers, as if it were a child whose heart still beat—nourished not by prayers, but by the tears of the forgotten.

The four stood in silence. Only the void carried the murmurs of ancient oaths.

Rhaem’thar (whispering into the mind):

“We, the ones time abandoned, must speak once more. Our awakening is no accident. Something—some power—is disturbing the balance.”

Kael’Zorr (with a hissing flame):

“I was silent for a thousand years. I smothered my fire until even the suns dimmed. But now… now I feel it. That dark being… V…”

Otharys (in a voice like the groans of starving bodies):

“The emptiness within him… it speaks to me. The hunger is familiar. His power intertwines with ours. That cannot be allowed.”

Seraphineh (smiling with sorrowful irony):

“Darkness grows in the hands of a child. Alas… those born where mercy decays often become tyrants.”

From Rhaem’thar’s mind unfurled an image—cast into the thoughts of the others: V’s domain—the Shadow Realm. A place woven of endless dark, where shadows rose like walls and time bent to unseen will. At its heart stood a black tower, pulsing with unholy rites. And upon the throne sat the one whose eyes caressed the veins of the universe—V.

Kael’Zorr (roaring):

“This is blasphemy! A creature shaped like a mortal wielding divine might! That realm may hide behind shadows, but my fire will find it!”

Otharys:

“And my hunger shall pierce his heart. His very presence stokes my thirst.”

Seraphineh (softly):

“You see it, don’t you? He rules the world we abandoned. While we were buried, he rose.”

Rhaem’thar (serene, yet deep):

“A decision must be made. His domain—the Shadow Realm—must be brought down.”

The verdict rippled through the void like a crack in its very fabric. These were not beings of mere speech—they were gods who could topple mountains with nothing but their will. And the moment the decision was made, ancient seals across the cosmos trembled. Forgotten whispers reached the stars.

In that moment, Seraphineh narrowed her eyes.

Seraphineh:

“But we must tread carefully. The others… they still sleep. They heard us, but they did not rise. Perhaps they fear. Perhaps they’ve forgotten. We are alone.”

Kael’Zorr:

“Alone, perhaps… but we are enough.”

Suddenly, the scene shifted. Our vision plunged into another realm—Olympus.

There, golden pillars soared into the heavens, nestled among the clouds. A sacred mountain where gods still ruled, one of the last places of divine dominion. Upon a mighty throne sat a figure whose eyes flashed with lightning: Zeus.

Beside him stood the embodiment of wisdom and war—clad in radiant armor, hair cascading like rivers of gold—Athena.

Zeus (in a thunderous voice that shook Olympus):

“There is a stirring in Midgard. The ancient gods… the forgotten ones… whisper in the dark. Athena, go. See with your own eyes. Hear with your own ears. And before you return… ask yourself: are we still supreme?”

Athena (cold yet composed):

“As you command, Father. But if what I witness lies beyond the bounds… then perhaps the old decisions must change.”

As Athena vanished, the winds over Olympus shifted.

Back in the void, the four forgotten gods had already sealed their judgment. Only the questions of when and how remained.

Rhaem’thar:

“The Shadow Realm will fall. And that entity… V… will either be ours… or will return to nothing.”

Kael’Zorr (his eyes ablaze):

“From his ashes, I shall forge a new world.”

Otharys:

“And I shall consume even the memory of his name.”

Seraphineh (smiling one final time):

“Mercy… is but a mask now. And none shall wear it this time.”

The four gods retreated into the darkness once more. But their echoes had already reached the mortal world.