She was the deity to whom humanity offered its prayers—the one true goddess, worshipped since the dawn of time.
No one could say for sure when her faith was first born. There were no clear records, no founding scriptures, only echoes of her presence carved into stone walls of ancient caves, and whispered through generations in myths and lullabies.
Even the earliest civilisations buried beneath the sands of time had raised altars to her. She was not just a god to them—they saw her as the origin of all life. They believed she had shaped the world with her hands: the mountains were her spine, the oceans her tears, the soil her flesh, and the wind her breath.
Every living thing was a piece of her divine essence, and nature found its fury and peace in her.
There were no rival gods, no pantheons.
To those who gave her reverence, she gave back. In times of need, she sent rains to parched fields, blessed wombs with life, and guided lost travellers through the wilderness. Farmers would find their crops flourishing under her grace, and villages once threatened by plague would miraculously recover overnight.
Some spoke of seeing her in dreams—a figure cloaked in sunlight, her voice like wind through the trees, her terrifying and tender presence. Yet the most undeniable proof of her existence lay not in stories, but in the holy power that coursed through her chosen few.
The Holy Church, founded upon her sacred will, performed acts that defied all logic. Its clergy healed the sick with nothing more than prayer and touch. The Saintess, born once in a generation, channelled divine miracles that turned the tides of war and mended broken lands. Her very footsteps were said to purify the ground.
And then there was Ascalon.
Forged in a time forgotten by men, Ascalon was a weapon not made by mortal hands but gifted directly by the goddess herself. It shimmered with an inner light, humming softly with her breath, and could only be wielded by one truly chosen. It cut through literal and otherwise darkness and sealed away evils that would have ended the world.
And that very power… was wielded by this generation's Hero.
Leon's soul blazed to life, igniting like a star as the spectral image of a divine tree unfurled behind him—its branches stretching across the void like veins of light. Then, impossibly, the sun rose in the dead of night. Golden fire roared to life, mingling with primordial waters and holy magic in a radiant storm.
From this fusion, the goddess manifested—a towering, radiant presence of impossible beauty and wrath.
For the first time, Samael felt it.
A single bead of sweat traced down his temple despite his composed facade. Instinctively, his Aura surged outward, forming a barrier of compressed force. But he was a moment too slow. Leon moved. With a voice not entirely his own, he unleashed the fury of the goddess.
Light crashed like a divine verdict, engulfing Samael in an inferno of sacred flame. The dunes beneath him liquefied into molten glass, and the rocks screamed as they cracked and melted under the force.
For a full minute, the world was ablaze—gold and white fire raged like a miniature sun born from divine wrath. Those who bore witness stood frozen in awe, mouths agape, breath stolen from their lungs.
They saw the Hero's true power for the first time... And it was terrifying.
But as the flames finally receded and the divine radiance faded, a figure still stood amidst the scorched earth. The latest_epɪ_sodes are on_the novel·fıre·net
Samael. His form was charred, his robes in tatters, but he did not fall.
Demonic energy coiled around him like smoke, his body wrapped in a dense, grey Aura that pulsed with unnatural vitality. Wounds that should have crippled him hissed and closed, healing as though time itself bent to his will.
The members of Eldorin stared in horror.
The silence was thick—until one voice shattered it.
"No… No, it can't be…!" Flydian cried out, his voice cracking with anger. "That Aura! Martial God Aura! How are you related to the Ironblood Clan?!"
Samael's emerald eyes locked onto the Pillar Knight, burning with a cold, unforgiving fury. His presence was like a blade—sharp, silent, merciless. He had cast aside his humanity, turned his back on the world to embrace the darkness of the Demon Cult… and yet, even now, the chains of his cursed bloodline still clung to him like a brand.
A bitter smile tugged at the corner of his lips. With a weary exhale, he spoke—his voice low, venomous, final.
"Does it matter?" he said. "You're all going to die here anyway."
An immense surge of mana erupted within Samael, detonating into a storm of grey Aura that billowed outward like a living force. The sheer pressure bore down on the battlefield, suffocating in intensity—several of the onlookers staggered, gasping for breath as though the air had turned to lead.
The Apostle's demonic will had swallowed the sky, blotting out reason and light with its overwhelming malevolence. His power was raw, corrupt, and absolute.
The deserts of Olavaguel—merciless and ancient—trembled beneath the weight of impending devastation. The very sands whispered in dread, as if the land feared what was to come, bracing for the fury of the Apostle.
High above, Leon stood resolute.
His wings unfurled—one blazing with divine fire, the other flowing with primordial water—radiant and immense. They spread wide, forming a shimmering barrier against the darkness looming overhead. He planted his feet firmly in the scorched sand, ready to bear the storm's full force alone, shielding those behind him with the last light of defiance.
The ground trembled. The horizon darkened. And then— Everything shifted.
The eternal storm that had raged without pause for centuries—since the Age of Dragons—suddenly faltered.
Its winds, once relentless, began to swirl backwards, spiralling in reverse like time itself was unravelling. The sky darkened, not with storm clouds, but with a titanic wall of sand rising to blot out the heavens. Then came the mana—ancient, primal, and utterly foreign.
It wasn't just powerful; it was forgotten, untouched by modern magic or memory. The air thickened with it, humming with a presence no mortal had ever felt. Once a monument of nature's fury, the eternal storm began to thin—its chaos receding under some unseen will, its age-old momentum halted by a force lost to history.
His fist, once poised to strike, lingered in the air.
And for the first time since the battle began, his eyes widened.
Astonishment… Confusion… And disappointment.
"At this time? Really?"
The Apostle slowly withdrew his Aura, the oppressive energy dissipating like smoke into the air. A heavy silence followed as he fell into deep contemplation, his gaze distant, his mind racing.
For months, the Demon Cult had tried to stir the Clay Emperor from his slumber, channelling torrents of demonic mana into the eternal storm, attempting to corrupt, provoke, and awaken whatever lay buried beneath. But the tomb, protected by the storm's fury, had remained inert.
No matter how much power they poured into it, there had been no response.
"…What changed?" Samael muttered, then paused. His eyes narrowed. "No… I see."
The realisation struck like lightning. His gaze shifted toward Leon, who stood still in the distance, Ascalon glowing faintly with residual light from the divine clash.
It wasn't the Cult's efforts that had broken the ancient silence. It was her—the goddess.
The Clay Emperor was reacting to the Goddess's mana, and therefore… the Eternal Storm was now subsiding.
"This complicates things…"
Samael scratched his chin, eyes narrowed as the pieces fell into place. Every calculation, every contingency led to a single, inescapable conclusion: the Demon Cult's plans in Olavaguel had just been thrown off course.
His mission had always been clear—awaken the Clay Emperor and bring him into the Cult's fold. Whether by corrupting the ancient sovereign while he slept or persuading him to embrace demonic power upon waking, the outcome was meant to be the same: another godlike weapon for the Cult's rising war.
But now… everything had changed.
If the Clay Emperor shared a past with the Goddess—if her divine presence had roused him instead of demonic mana—then the Cult's influence might already be lost. Their months of preparation, all the dark rituals and sacrifices, could be undone by a single divine spark.
And at the centre of that spark... stood Leon.
Logically, the answer was simple: eliminate the source.
Kill Leon, and cut off the goddess's reach into this world.
But Samael merely chuckled, then shook his head. A slow, sinister smile curved across his face.
"Why should I care if the plan falls apart?" he muttered, amused. "It's going to be so much more fun this way."
A low, almost gleeful laugh escaped his lips as he glanced back at the battered remnants of Eldorin. He was the Apostle of Chaos, after all—schemes unravelling, alliances shattering, the world teetering on the edge of order and madness… this was his element.
Whether the Clay Emperor rose to stand with the Goddess or against her, Samael didn't care. In fact, he welcomed the uncertainty—the chaos.
The beautiful, unpredictable storm it would bring. And now, another presence pricked at the edges of his senses.
They were drawing near, no doubt alerted by the surge of his Aura. Another battle loomed on the horizon, one he had no intention of entertaining—yet. He turned away from Leon, his cloak billowing in the desert wind.
"Saved by the bell," Samael said with a mocking laugh. "I'll spare you this time."
He paused, glancing over his shoulder, eyes glinting with cruel amusement.
"But next time… try not to disappoint me. If you're still that weak, I will kill you."
With that, the Apostle of Chaos vanished into the swirling sands, leaving only tension, silence, and the lingering scent of fire behind.