The tribe's people stood at the edge of the crater, eyes wide, shadows stretching over the cracked earth. The crater was not deep, but its width seemed endless, as if the earth itself had inhaled and refused to exhale.
A rumble of armored boots echoed through the valley. From the dust rose the warriors—black, brown, and silver armor clinking with every step, Veil-staves in hand, helmets gleaming in the low sun.
One stepped forward, voice firm, carrying over the murmurs of the crowd:
"Back. Step away from the edge. Now."
The tribe's elders exchanged anxious glances, but the warriors' presence left no room for argument. Slowly, the villagers retreated, some clutching children, others gripping spears that suddenly felt useless.
A younger warrior, bronze pauldrons catching the dying light, muttered to his companion:
"Wide… never seen a scar this large. Something tore the land apart."
A villager, hands trembling, whispered to an elder:
"Do you think… do you think the spirits of the earth did this?"
The elder shook his head, eyes fixed on the smooth, scorched rim:
"Not spirits. Something alive. Something angry. Watch the ground—it hums. Can you hear it?"
A warrior stepped closer to the crater's edge, staff tapping stone. "It's still warm… recently. Hours, maybe."
"Hours?" a woman gasped, stepping back. "Then it… it happened today?"
Another warrior, black-and-silver breastplate reflecting the light, said quietly:
"Not just today. It moved the earth itself. There's no wind, no fire… nothing natural."
The tribe murmured among themselves, voices tight, scared.
"Could it be… a god?" a boy whispered, almost to himself.
"Silence," snapped the first warrior, voice sharp. "Don't speak of gods. Only fools tempt them."
The villagers flinched, but a man in the crowd raised his voice:
"Then what? What made this?"
The bronze-armored warrior exchanged a look with his companion, voice low, almost reverent:
"Not what… who. Something walked here. Something with power enough to bend hills."
An elder's hands shook. "A man?"
"A man?" another villager repeated, disbelief twisting his face. "A single man could…"
"Stop guessing!" snapped a warrior. "Speculation kills. Watch, observe, survive."
The crowd's whispers rose, a tapestry of fear and awe:
"Alive…"
"Powerful…"
"Gone but not gone…"
The bronze-armored warrior studied the rim, voice dropping to a murmur:
"I've seen nothing like this. Not even in the elder tales."
The black-and-silver warrior added, tone grim:
"And we are here to find out. Whoever did this… we will know."
A child tugged at her mother's sleeve, whispering:
"Will it come back?"
The mother's voice was brittle:
"Let us hope it doesn't… let us hope it stays gone."
A low vibration ran through the earth. First subtle, almost imperceptible, then growing in pulse and rhythm, shaking dust from the crater's edge.
The villagers whispered, fear curling in their throats:
"It… it's coming."
"The rot… the corruption…"
"They've come for us…"
All eyes shifted to the horizon. A single figure stood there, small but unyielding. Behind him, over a thousand warriors, armor gleaming, disciplined, silent. Not a word, not a movement that betrayed hesitation.
A child clutched her mother, voice trembling:
"Is… is that him?"
The mother's lips parted, but no sound came.
The lone man advanced slowly, steps measured, almost casual—but the air around him seemed to bend, heavy with inevitability. Some villagers sank to their knees, some soldiers bowed, others simply stared, unable to move.
A warrior, voice tight but smiling, muttered to his companion:
"He's… magnificent. Look at him. Let them kneel. Let them see."
The villagers murmured, fear and awe interwoven:
"Power… impossible… a god…"
The man paused at the crest of the far ridge. His presence filled the valley. Time itself seemed to hesitate. Dust swirled around his boots. The sun reflected off the sword at his side—the Sword of the Veil—its surface alive with golden threads of light.
A warrior whispered, reverent:
"The Soul Judge… of Gargantua."
An elder's voice cracked:
"In the past ages… the War of Gargantua… the war of tribes… the war that shaped our future… he fought."
The elder continued this time with a whisper, "They called it Gargantua because the war did not just take lives; it consumed the very memory of the land, leaving a hole in history that nothing could ever fill."
Another, hushed, awe-struck:
"He united over a thousand tribes in the Westward zone… led them against the corrupted… killed over a million of them…"
A murmur ran through the kneeling crowd:
"He broke through… ascended… to the Second Stage of the Veil… rewarded by the Veil itself… bestowed the Sword of the Veil…"
A child whispered:
"The Soul Judge…"
The man raised his head. Even the wind seemed to pause around him. Every heartbeat in the valley felt like it echoed in his presence.
Then he spoke. Just one word. A word that hit like a hammer to the chest:
"Judgment."
The horizon shivered with its resonance. Dust, ash, and light all bowed in unison. Warriors smiled, trembling, knowing history was alive before their eyes. Villagers sobbed, mouths open, unable to articulate the weight of what they were witnessing.
The man stepped forward. The thousand-strong guard moved as one, a wave of disciplined inevitability behind him. All kneeling bowed deeper. Fear and reverence became indistinguishable.
He was the pinnacle, the Soul Judge of Gargantua, the man who had walked through history, through death, through the Veil, and emerged above all.
The man's shoulders sagged. Exhaustion weighed on him, deeper than muscle or bone—it was history pressing down, every betrayal, every loss. He sighed, a long, low sound that carried across the valley.
All eyes were on him, hundreds, a thousand, yet he only looked at one: the man who had dared speak the name Gargantua.
Memories flickered—her laughter, the blood-streaked fields, the smell of betrayal, the nights spent alone under the Veil's shadow. Pain he had carried, battles fought, friends lost.
He spat to the ground. Dirt and blood mixed. Then he turned.
The crater. Wide, silent, impossibly empty.
"You gain many abilities in Stage Two," he said, voice low, almost conversational, but each word heavy, deliberate. "But the most useful… is the one that reveals the essence of reality"
His eyes ignited.
Not green. Not gold. A searing, electric Chartreuse, sharp and blinding, like lightning frozen mid-flight, like the heart of a dying star trapped in his gaze. The air itself seemed to shiver, melt, distort around him.
The crowd staggered back instinctively, awe and fear tangled together.
Through the glow, he saw it. The Veil. A blanket, thick and roiling, wrapped around the crater as if the world itself had hidden it.
His mind moved fast, slicing through illusions and whispers:
"Someone… carried the hill. Entirely. By some… strange ability."
He exhaled slowly. The wind carried the faintest hum of power.
Silent, vast, and almost impossible—the crater awaited his next move.
He turned, shoulders heavy, aura still simmering with power. Five warriors stepped forward instinctively, each one hand on the hilt of their sword, armor catching the dying light.
"Take this message to each Captain of the Outermarch Six through Ten," he said, voice low, precise. "Do not… even dare step into the domains of One through Five. Not a single step. Not a hill. Not a valley. Nothing."
The five bowed sharply. "It will be done, Soul Judge."
They disappeared like shadows, moving faster than the eye could follow. Behind him, a thousand warriors fell into line, a river of black, brown, and silver stretching across the plains.
He walked forward, measured, unyielding. The army followed, silent but immense. Dust swirled, the sound of thousands of boots like distant thunder.
Hours passed. The horizon shifted, mountains looming. He approached the walls of his domain—but paused.
Before him stretched a massive place, vast beyond reckoning. Tents, barracks, training grounds, banners snapping in the wind. Thousands of warriors moved with precision, drills and patrols forming a living, breathing organism.
He walked through the camp, eyes scanning, acknowledging a nod here, a bow there. Respect, fear, awe—they all converged in silent recognition of him.
Finally, he arrived at the massive gatesof his castle. Towering, black stone, jagged battlements, the banners of his house snapping against the wind like flames frozen mid-flicker.
He paused. The entire army fell silent behind him. Even the camp seemed to hold its breath.
Beyond those gates lay the seat of his power, the place where history bent to his presence.
The massive gates of the castle groaned open, a sound like thunder rolling through the air. The world seemed to pause as the vast doors split wide, revealing the cold stone of his domain.
Cael Ardentis walked forward, his boots echoing on the floor, each step deliberate, measured. The air shifted as he passed, warriors stepping aside, giving way. His presence made the very stone tremble.
Inside, the grand hall stretched before him—tall pillars, banners, walls of ancient stone. It was the heart of his power, the place where history had been carved into the foundations.
And waiting for him in the center of the hall was a figure—a man, tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in elegant armor, free of the encumbrance of a full suit. The armor was comfortable, almost like clothing, but still adorned with intricate patterns and markings of authority.
The man bowed deeply as Cael entered, his movements precise.
"My liege," the man called, voice low, respectful, carrying through the hall with a reverence that did not need to be spoken aloud.
Cael's gaze softened, a slight hint of recognition. His tone was firm, but something more personal laced his words.
"Celestial del Ceaser," Cael said, a flicker of familiarity in his voice. "You've come far. It's been too long."
The man, Celestial del Ceaser, stood, his stance relaxed but dignified. Without hesitation, he began to remove his armor. First, the cloak, heavy with intricate embroidery, was draped onto a nearby stone pedestal. Then his chestplate, a lightweight but intricately forged piece, slipped off with practiced ease.
The man was in his thirties, his face rugged yet youthful, a beard that gave him the look of someone who had seen both battle and wisdom.
His hair, a striking red, fell in waves down to his shoulders. His armor revealed a lean, muscular build beneath—fit, but not overly adorned. His gaze met Cael's without flinching, a quiet understanding passing between them.
Cael studied him for a moment, almost as if seeing him for the first time.
"You still wear the armor of someone who doesn't need it," Cael remarked, his tone light but edged with truth.
Celestial gave a small smile. "I've never been one for unnecessary decoration, my lord."
As he finished removing his armor, Celestial stood tall, his presence commanding but calm. The two stood across from one another, the weight of the years between them, the bonds of loyalty, respect, and history unspoken but understood.
Cael's gaze softened ever so slightly.
"We've much to discuss," he said, his voice low, tired, but resolute.