[First Era – Year 17 of the Divinity War; Phial, dark side of the world]

  The portal flickered out of existence behind them as Moraithe and Norgoth stood on the jagged plains of the Severed’s world. The air was thick, heavy with a toxic miasma that twisted the land beneath their feet, the sky a purple-black. The world was fractured, scarred by the brutal reign of the Severed, and the scent of decay lingered in every corner.

  Moraithe could feel it in the marrow of his bones—the weight of what they were about to do. He had been sent here with a single purpose: to offer the oppressed residents of this world sanctuary in the revenescent. But how could they—mere Lord and barely Master-ranked—stand against the sheer might of the Severed? Against the Dukes, Archdukes, and Princes who ruled the empire with cruel hands? They were going to subdue a world, an impossible task by all accounts.

  But Elithir had chosen them for this, for the time they had spent on this cursed world, for their knowledge of its insidious rulers. And so, they would fight.

  “Ready, Norgoth?” Moraithe’s voice cut through the silence.

  Norgoth, his companion and closest ally, gave a tight nod. His dark eyes gleamed with resolve despite his doubts. At barely Master rank, Norgoth was far weaker than Moraithe, but he was no fool. He had fought by his side before, and though he did not carry the same raw strength as Moraithe, he knew how to hold his own.

  “Let’s show them what we’re made of.”

  With a single, fluid motion, Moraithe stepped forward, his feet making no sound on the cracked earth. Norgoth fell into step behind him, ever-watchful, his eyes scanning the horizon. They had no time to waste. Elithir’s plan was set into motion, but the Amnesia Bomb would not wait. The Severed would not sit idly by while they dismantled the empire.

  Norgoth had a bladed chain, which he had entangled into his mental space, which he kept spinning in the air around himself, capable of blocking blades, bolts, or tangling up and sawing off limbs or the hafts of weapons.

  As they marched into the heart of the Severed territory, the ground beneath them trembled, rippling with the stirrings of dark powers. The first wave of Severed soldiers appeared, twisted forms of once-human beings, their eyes burning with black fire as they charged toward the two invaders.

  “Hold steady,” Moraithe murmured, his voice low and determined. The first line of Severed fell easily before their combined might. Moraithe’s shield of gratitude shimmered around him, deflecting blows with ease, while Norgoth lashed out with his bladed chain, felling enemies left and right.

  It was swift—too swift. The Severed, though numerous, were no match for the precision and power Moraithe wielded. His self-assurance flowed like a river through his veins, a torrent of strength that crushed the lesser beings with a thought.

  Norgoth wielded his bladed chain with a skill that far surpassed his power, mowing down the Severed like grain before the scythe.

  But then the earth trembled again, and the ground split. A new force appeared before them—a Severed Lord, a hulking monstrosity that oozed malevolent power. Its aura was strong, easily matching Moraithe’s. Its very presence pressed against them like a vice, the air growing thick with dark power.

  The Severed Lord towered over them, eyes burning with the fury of a thousand suns. It laughed—a sound that rattled the bones of the land itself.

  “So, the mighty Lord and his lackey arrive, hoping to save this world? You are fools,” the Severed Lord growled, its voice like the grinding of rocks. “You will die here, just like all the others.”

  Moraithe met its gaze, his own resolve hardening. Now he would test if he was a match for such a foe. The Severed Lord raised its axe, radiating with enough power to split a mountain, and swung down at Moraithe.

  But Moraithe was ready. He had learned much in the years of battle, had honed his martial skills. With a thought, his gratitude shield expanded, forming a wall that blocked the monstrous blow. The impact reverberated through his bones, but he held firm. As the Lord raised its axe for another attack, Moraithe surged forward, his blades glowing with the light of the First Star as he struck.

  The battle was fierce. Every swing of the Severed Lord’s axe, every attempt to crush Moraithe under its weight, was met with the deflection of his shield or a counter-strike that sent the Severed reeling. The two clashed in a fury of blows, the ground beneath them cracking and splitting with each collision.

  Finally, with a final, brutal strike, Moraithe’s shield smashed the Severed Lord’s defenses wide open. He pressed his advantage, pushing his blindingly bright blade forward with the force of a battering ram, and sent the Lord tumbling to the ground, broken and defeated.

  The Severed Lord gasped, its dark fire flickering out as it struggled to move. With a final blow, Moraithe ended its life, the body crumbling uselessly before him.

  “That was too easy,” Moraithe muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. His heart was still racing, the adrenaline of battle coursing through his veins.

  But Norgoth, who had kept the waves of the Severed off his back during the fight, spoke up. “Don’t get cocky, Moraithe. This is far from over.”

  Before Moraithe could reply, the ground trembled once more.

  The air was thick with tension as a new presence, dark and seething, coiled onto the battlefield. From the distant shadows, the Severed Baron emerged—a grotesque fusion of discarded bodies, stitched together with precision. It stood like a titan, its form an unnatural patchwork of flesh and bone, but with an efficiency that spoke of unrelenting rage and strength. The black flames that burned in its hollow sockets flickered with malevolent intensity. Moraithe's heart thudded as he saw it. This was no ordinary enemy. The power of a Severed Baron was a challenge beyond any he had conquered before.

  Moraithe squared his shoulders and drew a deep breath, his focus sharpening like a blade. “Here we go,” he muttered to himself, bracing for the storm to come.

  The Baron moved like lightning. Its strikes were fast, a whirlwind of claws and jagged blades, burning with the fury of an inferno. Each slash seared the air, and each bolt of fire it shot felt like a living thing, cutting through Moraithe’s guard with terrifying precision. Against this kind of speed, this ferocity, the fight became a deadly game of inches.

  Moraithe’s mind raced. I can’t hold back anymore. I must unleash it.

  His mental landscape entangled with the earth, as it twisted and shifted, a vast, subterranean expanse of stone, dirt, magma, and water unfolding in his mind. He reached out, his thoughts lashing at the ground itself, drawing from it the raw strength to counter the relentless assault. A massive fist of stone materialized, crashing down toward the Baron with the force of a comet. But the Baron was faster, beams of anger slashing through the air, melting through the stone like it was paper.

  The earth obeyed Moraithe’s will, rising up to form jagged spires that shot toward the Baron, like a forest of deadly spears. But the Severed Baron was quicker, its body twisting with terrifying fluidity. The spikes tore through empty air, leaving only scorching afterimages of fiery heat in their wake.

  Moraithe gritted his teeth against the entropy. Elithir had taught him how to make a mental cage many layers thick that could fold together and expand as needed to contain the entropy the battle would require.

  From the ground, he pulled forth the earth’s deepest secrets. Tendrils of dirt, stone, and even tar surged from the soil, wrapping around the Baron like serpents seeking to suffocate it. Moraithe’s vision flickered as he forced the earth to encircle his opponent, trying to crush it with the weight of the land itself.

  But the Severed Baron was a beast of chaos, and it laughed in the face of the earth’s weight. It twisted its body, its pale skin flickering, and with a single, violent roar, a force of rage exploded outward. Black flames erupted from the Baron’s form, sending trails of burning tar blasting outward in a wave of raw fury. These were followed by countless beams of condensed anger. A rage so hot that it was nearly blinding.

  The heat hit Moraithe like a physical blow, searing through the very air he breathed. His gratitude shield rose, a shimmering wall covered in glowing tendrils, reaching out like an extension of his very soul. The tentacles of gratitude lashed outward, intercepting the fiery onslaught, deflecting bolt after bolt of anger-fueled lasers that screamed toward him. The shield was a bulwark of willpower, bending and shifting like living vines, absorbing each attack in turn. That shield at least did not increase entropy.

  With a shout, Moraithe pushed himself beyond his limits. He reached deep into his mind, shaping the earth into more than just weapons—he shaped it into himself. Dozens of copies of himself formed from earth. The entropy in Moraithe’s mind grew heavier, more chaotic.

  His grip on his mental cage faltered. A flicker of blackness threatened to spill over, and he felt his mind strain, a wave of madness pressing in from the edges of his consciousness. Keep it contained.

  While the copies of himself surrounded the baron, he sent hundreds of arms from the earth reaching for the baron, to grasp him. The baron spun, swatting them away with a hundred blades embedded in his flesh.

  Moraithe sent more hands, but these were a feint to make him expect force when he intended on speed. Each finger extended into claws, forming into arrows that suddenly shot into the Baron, puncturing him a thousand times over.

  The Severed Baron screamed in pain, rage spilling out in sloppy waves of wasted power.

  Moraithe reached down, down deep within the earth until he found what he sought. Struggling against a wave of entropy, he pulled a massive, molten hand upward until it broke through the land, reaching out and gripping the Severed Baron in searing stone, while another formed into a cage of sharpened stone, wrapping around its body. The Baron fought back with a fury only the Severed could muster, its body twisting and writhing like a living nightmare, its claws slashing through the air in search of blood.

  But Moraithe wasn’t done. Not yet.

  The earth heaved beneath his command. From the depths, he pulled forth rivers of magma, torrents of water, and great walls of stone to seal off the Baron’s escape. He shaped the stone into spears that shot forward with deadly accuracy, piercing the Baron’s flesh, while massive boulders rained down from above.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  The Severed Baron was weakened but still thrashing, its form burning with black flames that ate away at the very earth around it. It lunged, its jagged claws reaching for Moraithe’s throat, but he was ready. Tentacles of gratitude lashed out, knocking aside every attack, while stone copies of him grabbed the Baron’s arms, dragging them back just as the claws tore through the air where his body had been a moment before.

  Moraithe gave a mystic grin through gritted teeth, his body slick with sweat and blood. The strain of holding back the chaotic entropy within him was becoming unbearable, but he could see it now—the end was near.

  With one final push, Moraithe raised the earth beneath him in a colossal surge, launching the Baron into the air. For a heartbeat, the Severed Baron was suspended in time, its body twisting, the black flames around it flickering and sputtering. And then, with an earth-shattering crash, the Baron fell, and Moraithe slammed a heap of rock onto him with the force of thunder. Beneath the stone, its body lay unmoving, crumpled into a heap of lifeless flesh.

  Moraithe stood, breath ragged, his body shaking with exhaustion. The battle had taken everything—his strength, his will, and almost his sanity. The entropy within him pulsated like a living thing, his cage straining to contain it, but he had won.

  The Severed Baron lay at his feet, defeated and broken, a charred carcass in the dust. Moraithe’s breath came in ragged gasps, and though his body screamed in pain, his eyes burned with the unyielding fire of determination.

  He had beaten a baron. Now to see if he could manage the same against a count.

  He checked on Norgoth to find him still harvesting the souls of the Severed with that bladed chain of his. Moraithe half wondered if he should get himself one of those.

  Yet, before he could collect his thoughts, the sky above them darkened further. A new figure appeared, larger than life, casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the light. It was an Archduke—a creature so powerful that the very air trembled at its presence.

  Moraithe’s heart skipped a beat. “I hoped to test myself against a Count, or a Duke … But I suppose this is my fate.” Four ranks above him. This was a challenge unlike any he had faced before. With over seventy times his self-assurance, the Archduke would try him like no other.

  His gratitude shield flared as he prepared for the fight, his resolve hardening. This would be the true test.

  And as the Archduke’s black flame eyes locked onto his, Moraithe knew he was in for the fight of his life.

  From the first blow, he was completely outclassed. No matter how he used his gratitude tentacles, he could barely block the blows of his adversary, let alone create an opening. He had plunged in above his depth, and now he was in trouble.

  The archduke used a shield edged with saw teeth, which somehow spun with great speed around its handle. He alternated between swiping the sawteeth at him, punching with the saw edge, and shield bashing. All at an alarming speed.

  The air rippled with heat and tension, the battlefield heavy with the stink of scorched flesh and the crackle of unnatural flames. Moraithe’s body trembled, sweat beading along his brow as the Archduke’s overwhelming power pressed him down, making every movement feel like dragging through tar. His gratitude shield flickered, the strength of his will bending under the relentless blows. He was no match for the raw fury that crackled off the Archduke’s saw shield.

  “You come here alone, weakling,” the Archduke's voice boomed, dripping with venom. “You stand no chance. What are you, compared to this? You are nothing but a speck of dust beneath the heel of our might.”

  The Severed army, watching from the shadows, jeered. The sound echoed across the field like the clamor of crows circling their prey. The Archduke’s dark laughter joined theirs, filling the space around Moraithe with mocking amusement. With each strike, Moraithe's willpower holding up his shield cracked a little further, the pressure of entropy caged in his mind expanding as the weight of their laughter pressed down on him.

  He staggered back, barely managing to hold his footing as the Archduke’s fist slammed into his gratitude shield with a deafening crack. His knees buckled, and the ground rose to meet him in a sickening thud. The sight of Norgoth trussed up like a beast for slaughter, tore at him. His friend, his ally, was being torn apart. Their attack was falling apart.

  Elithir... Moraithe’s mind raced. What was your plan here? His gaze flickered to the three Princes gathering in the distance. Their presence filled the air like a tidal wave, suffocating and oppressive.

  “I... I can’t win. I’m not strong enough.”

  The voice of Elithir, distant yet unmistakable, pulsed in the depths of his consciousness. I never intended for you to win this battle alone. You must trust me now, Moraithe. I cannot do this without your permission. You must allow me to pour my power into your body, to guide you.

  Moraithe’s heart pounded in his chest as the darkness pressed in around him. The Archduke loomed over him like a god of ruin, his cruel grin just inches from his face. The laughter of the Severed and the Princes filled the air, a symphony of mockery.

  But then, something in him... cracked. The weight of Elithir’s words cut through the fog of despair. He had come this far. He had reached Lord rank for a reason. He had endured, fought, and won battles where others would have failed. His will, scarred and battered as it was, still bore the mark of a warrior.

  Do it. The command was not of words, but of a silent, desperate will. Do it, Elithir.

  A sudden surge of light flooded through his being, brilliant and blinding, as if the sun itself had burst from the core of his chest. The Archduke’s hand, reaching out to snatch the fragment of Elithir’s power from the chain around Moraithe’s neck, faltered. His eyes widened in horror as he grasped the stone. A scream tore from his throat as flames erupted from the fragment, consuming him in an inferno so intense it seemed to distort the very air around them. Lighting the entire dark battlefield.

  The Archduke fell to the earth, screaming, as his body burned and shriveled to ash. The battlefield fell silent, the army watching in stunned disbelief.

  Norgoth broke free just as his fragment of Elithir, too, began shining with an intense light.

  Moraithe, his body now surging with an overwhelming power, rose slowly to his feet, his gratitude shield flaring brilliantly. The crushing weight of self-doubt, of failure, evaporated in the face of this new strength. His vision cleared. The three Princes stood before him, their aura dark and suffocating. Five ranks above him, yet still, they faltered.

  A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. He felt the presence of Elithir’s self-assurance surge through him, eclipsing the power of the Princes. He was no longer merely a Lord. He was a force of nature.

  His gaze fixed on the Princes as they stood there, their smug expressions faltering in the face of the storm that was rising within him. They could feel the shift. The power flooding through Moraithe was no longer his alone.

  One wave of his hand, and the Princes' defenses crumbled. The air around them screamed as if the very world itself was bending to Moraithe's will. He stood five ranks above them, and that was only because there were no more ranks left to name him. His self-assurance stretched further than any of them could comprehend.

  With a single, effortless motion, he crushed the first Prince’s form like a bug beneath a boot, his body disintegrating into nothingness. Another wave sent the second Prince hurtling across the battlefield, his form torn asunder in a burst of energy. The third Prince, trembling in the face of the oncoming storm, tried to raise a hand in defense, but Moraithe’s power was overwhelming.

  With a final, decisive motion, the last Prince collapsed, his body shattered under the weight of Elithir’s presence, leaving nothing but ash in the wind.

  Moraithe stood, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with the weight of the power coursing through him. Around him, the Severed army was silent, broken in spirit. Their champions had fallen, and in their wake, a new force had risen—one they could not fight.

  The battle was over.

  Moraithe had not just survived—he had conquered. But Elithir’s work was not complete.

  Elithir guided him through the entanglement.

  The world shuddered around them, the very fabric of reality warping as Elithir showed him how to twist it. Moraithe had seen this before—the inversion of the world. A hollowed-out sphere where the surface was sucked inward. Now he floated in the center of that world as every eye turned upon him.

  Even performing the entanglement, Moraithe still couldn’t tell whether this was some form of illusion or a distortion of reality. The sensation was... wrong. Familiar, but deeply unsettling. The world itself felt like it was holding its breath, and for the briefest of moments, he doubted his own place within it. Yet Elithir’s presence in his mind cut through the confusion, cold and unwavering.

  “We’ve inverted the world…” Moraithe muttered, glancing around. “Is this real?”

  For a time. Elithir’s voice resonated in his thoughts, calm and authoritative. It is an entanglement. I am helping you shape it as we go.

  Despite his unease, Moraithe nodded. He didn’t have time to question things now—not when so much was at stake. The mission was clear. And it was taking longer than it should.

  Elithir’s power thrummed within him, and, for a moment, Moraithe could feel the pulse of it in every fiber of his being, the hum of ancient magic. Elithir spoke to him and Moraithe repeated, speaking through him as if he were a mere vessel. His thoughts were no longer just his own.

  “I offer you freedom,” Elithir’s words echoed with Moraithe’s voice, his words weightless yet powerful, “Peace. Refuge.” The words fell like the sound of a soft bell tolling.

  Moraithe complied, silent and observant, as Elithir guided him through the ritual. The inversion reversed. The severed threads of existence pulled apart, and worlds—realms—began to divide. He saw it in his mind’s eye—the severing of the worlds, the transformation of a single earth into two. One was placed into the revenescent, a place of refuge where those who wished to escape the horrors of the Severed could find peace. The other remained here, twisted and scarred but still holding onto fragments of life.

  The world split before him. It felt like a wound being torn open, the rift between the two realms a jagged scar. The survivors, the refugees, began to separate, pulled from the dark, burning landscape into safety. Their eyes flickered with hope as they vanished into the depths of the revenescent, the world they once knew slipping away as their new sanctuary appeared before them.

  Moraithe stood at the center, watching it unfold, his heart heavy with the weight of it all. There was something deeply personal about this moment, something raw and untold in the way Elithir’s power shaped the world with his will.

  It was then that the question came—Moraithe hadn’t meant to ask it, but it slipped from his lips before he could stop himself.

  “I’ve never had occasion to ask,” Moraithe said, his voice distant. “But men don’t have a revenescent, so whose is this?”

  A pause, before Elithir answered—his voice tinged with something that felt almost like amusement.

  It is your mother’s, Elithir replied.

  Moraithe’s breath caught. He had heard nothing of her in years—couldn’t remember meeting her. The memories were lost, scattered in the recesses of his mind like dust in the wind. The words felt like a stone sinking deep into his chest.

  “I haven’t met her since I can remember …” Moraithe whispered, his thoughts whirling. There was a strange, aching emptiness in his chest at the thought, a hunger for something he couldn’t grasp. “Why now? Why are you telling me this now?”

  Elithir’s presence softened, as if understanding the turmoil swirling inside him. But then, that weighty, immutable voice spoke again, the one that carried the gravity of fate itself.

  Oh, you will meet her, Moraithe.

  Moraithe felt the shift in Elithir’s tone—cryptic and final. A flicker of dread wormed its way through his mind. But before he could ask more, Elithir’s thoughts cut through him sharply, forcing him to focus.

  I fear there is something else we need to do, Elithir said, the urgency in his words rising. This... this is taking too long. The battles. We need to go faster.

  Moraithe’s hand clenched involuntarily. He could feel the pressure mounting—time was running out. The Amnesia Bomb was coming. It would erase everything, everyone. And they could not afford to waste more moments.

  We need to eliminate the Severed threat, Elithir continued, his voice cutting through the fog of confusion. The time has come. If we did it too soon, they would learn to adapt. Too late, and we would not be able to take advantage of their absence before the Amnesia Bomb strikes.

  Moraithe’s stomach tightened, a knot forming in his gut.

  “What are you planning?” Moraithe asked, feeling the weight of this new urgency press down on him. His mind raced, thinking of all the forces they had yet to face.

  We’re going to destroy the Severed in one grand entanglement. The soul covenant. Elithir’s words carried an edge of finality. Even now, the drackmoor are gathering to perform it. We shouldn’t keep them waiting.

  Moraithe’s eyes narrowed. Elithir had been planning this all along.

  Before he could respond, Norgoth appeared at his side. The familiar spark of his presence was reassuring, but the gravity of the situation weighed heavily on both of them.

  Norgoth’s eyes met Moraithe’s, and he didn’t need to speak. The two of them had fought side by side through too many battles, too many impossible odds, for words to be necessary now.

  Moraithe didn’t hesitate. The portal shimmered open before them—Norgoth, or rather Elithir through him, had done the work, channeling the power to create the way forward. The swirling vortex beckoned, a chasm of possibility and death.

  With one last look, Moraithe nodded to Norgoth.

  “We finish this, now.”

  Together, they stepped through the portal—Elithir leading the charge, his power surging through them both. They would finally rid this universe of the Severed scourge. It was time to strike. Time to end it all.