The temple was still a battlefield of chaos. Flas licked the shattered pillars, smoke curled like black serpents along the roof, and the cries of corrupted apprentices mingled with the frantic shouts of elders trying to hold their ground. The once sacred chamber now reeked of blood, ash, and sothing darker—sothing unholy that had sunk its claws into the heart of the temple.
And in the middle of it all, Harold laughed.
He was drenched in sweat and blood, face sared with gri, but his eyes glead with mad triumph. Bent double with mirth, he pounded the floor with his fist as if the battle was nothing but a cruel jest.
"Do you see it?" he howled, voice splitting the air. "The gods have abandoned you! This temple is no sanctuary—it’s a tomb! And every one of you will be buried with it!"
His laughter spiraled higher, grating, almost inhuman. Several apprentices shivered, and even the elders’ eyes darkened with doubt.
But then—
A pulse.
Golden light rippled outward from where Luther stood. At first, it was subtle, like the quiet crack of a fla being rekindled. Then it swelled, shaking the walls, rattling the broken statues, and sending a sudden gust that extinguished the black fires in an instant.
The laughter died.
Everyone turned.
Luther was moving.
But it wasn’t truly Luther.
His head tilted back, and his eyes snapped open—not the familiar ocean blue irises, but molten gold, burning with otherworldly brilliance. His ears glowed like heated tal, veins of light crawling across them like tattoos, and the air around him warped with wind that twisted into spirals. The sheer pressure of it forced the corrupted apprentices to their knees, gasping as though their very lungs were being pressed down.
When he spoke, it was not his voice. It was layered, resonant, deep with tiless authority.
"You dare defile my house with corruption?"
Every syllable shook the chamber. The elders froze, trembling. Apprentices scrambled back. Even Harold’s laughter caught in his throat, and his eyes widened with dawning horror.
The god Asthan had arrived.
---
"Wh-what... what is this?" Harold stamred, his bravado faltering.
But Asthan-in-Luther did not even glance at him. His golden gaze swept across the hall, lingering on the apprentices who had chosen betrayal.
"Your choices have severed you from my path," the god thundered. "You who swore loyalty to shadow over light, you are no longer mine."
One of the corrupted apprentices scread and charged with a spear, desperate, reckless. The spear never reached. The winds around Luther whirled like invisible blades, tearing the weapon into splinters before slamming the apprentice across the hall. He crashed into the wall with a sickening crunch and lay motionless.
Another tried to cast a spell, but the golden winds wrapped around their mouth, silencing the incantation before hurling them to the ground.
The chamber filled with screams.
---
Liliana, clutching her sword, gritted her teeth. Her eyes narrowed with loathing as she staggered upright, defying the gale that threatened to throw her down.
"You... lunatic!" she shouted at Luther’s possessed form. "Do you expect us to believe this farce? This isn’t divine, this is madness!"
The golden eyes turned toward her, calm, unyielding.
"You speak with arrogance," Asthan’s voice intoned. "Yet you tremble before the wind. If you do not wish to be broken, be silent."
Liliana snarled, lifting her sword to call upon her own power—but the wind slamd into her chest like a hamr, driving the breath from her lungs and throwing her backward. She hit the ground hard, coughing.
---
Aithur, on the other hand, remained standing. He leaned casually on his sword, lips twisting into a grin even as lightning crackled faintly over his shoulders in resistance.
"Well, this is entertaining," he drawled. "Finally, sothing worth watching in this wretched temple."
The golden gaze settled on him, and for the first ti the winds hesitated, as if asuring him. Aithur’s smirk widened. "What’s the matter? Even gods don’t know what to do with ?"
For a mont, tension snapped taut between them, the winds pressing harder, the lightning on Aithur flaring brighter. The chamber trembled as if it might break under the clash of forces.
But then Asthan simply lifted his hand.
"Enough."
---
The cyclone of golden light surged outward.
It was unstoppable. Elders, apprentices, even Liliana and Aithur—all were swept into the current. Cries filled the air as bodies were hurled aside, striking the ground unconscious. Harold tried to resist, screaming in blind rage, but the wind struck him harder, slamming him against a shattered pillar. He spat blood and collapsed, laughter snuffed out.
The temple grew silent.
Only Luther remained standing, his body glowing with divine power, golden winds circling him like loyal spirits.
Asthan’s voice rumbled one last ti, echoing like the sound of thunder on a distant mountain.
"My vessel is unprepared. This is but the beginning."
Then—his crystal, glowing on his chest, cracked with a high-pitched note.
The light flared too bright to look at.
And with a deafening shatter, the crystal broke into fragnts.
Luther’s body crumpled to the ground, limp.
---
When consciousness returned, it ca slowly. Pain flared first—throbbing in his arms, his legs, his head. His throat was dry, his body drenched in sweat. Luther groaned, rolling onto his side.
"Really...?" he muttered hoarsely. "Of all the ways for a god to borrow my body, he had to nearly fry alive? Couldn’t he have been—" He wheezed, coughing, then spat, "—a little more careful?"
He pushed himself upright, grimacing as his sore muscles scread in protest. His clothes clung, soaked. Muttering curses, he instinctively snapped his fingers, conjuring a small burst of wind.
It rushed around him, drying his skin and clothes with a hiss.
For a mont, relief.
Then realization hit.
The crystal was gone.
His gaze darted down to his chest. Shards of what had once been his crystal lay glittering on the floor. And yet... the spell had worked. His ears twitched faintly, glowing gold, betraying what had happened.
He had used magic without a crystal.
Luther’s heart stopped.
Slowly, very slowly, he looked up.
---
They were all awake.
Elders, bruised and groaning, pushing themselves upright. Apprentices blinking in confusion. Liliana, leaning heavily on her sword, glaring at him with venomous suspicion.
And Aithur.
Aithur stood with his sword slung over his shoulder, blood on his lip, yet perfectly calm. A slow, sharp smirk tugged at his mouth as he watched Luther.
Luther swallowed hard.
"...Hi?" he said weakly, forcing a nervous wave.
The silence was suffocating.
Then Aithur chuckled, low and mocking. "Interesting..."
Luther’s stomach dropped. He took a step back, panic seizing his chest. Maybe he could run. Maybe he could make it out before they—
But his legs gave way. His vision blurred, the world spinning.
The last thing he saw before darkness claid him was Aithur’s smirk, sharp as a blade.
’Yo..you damn G..God’
And then—black.
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