Luther stared blankly at Piern, his mind swirling from anger to mid-confusion. Dragged here... by magic itself? The words gnawed at him like sharp blades, every syllable heavier than the last.
"What the hell do you an, magic itself?" he demanded, his tone sharp, his voice cutting through the silent chamber.
Piern didn’t flinch this ti. Instead, the angel raised his hand toward the air, palm open as if offering sothing to the unseen. A soft golden glow shimred between his fingers, and with it, a small white flower materialized. Its petals danced on a breeze that wasn’t there, curling and twisting until they dissolved into faint motes of light, vanishing without a trace.
"Magic," Piern said softly, almost reverently, "is not a tool. It is not sothing we gods created or can control. It is a being... a force that existed long before the gods themselves. We were born from it, shaped by its endless will. That is why none of us can grant mortals the ability to wield it without a dium. Magic chooses who it touches."
Luther narrowed his eyes, fists tightening at his sides. "So what—you’re telling so invisible force kidnapped my soul and tossed here like a toy?"
The angel shook his head, his golden hair falling loose from its tie. "Not kidnapped... chosen. When your soul was passing through the realm of reincarnation, a barrier ford. A wall woven entirely of magic itself. It stopped you, wrapped itself around you, and pulled you from the natural flow of rebirth. This was not the first ti magic has acted against the will of the gods, so we did not resist. Our authority ans little before it. And so..." His hand trembled as he gestured to Luther, "you beca the one—born into this world not by divine prophecy, but by magic’s own whim."
The words struck like thunder in Luther’s skull. His chest rose and fell heavily as he tried to process it. Magic chose ? Because it was... curious? He wanted to laugh at the absurdity, but anger kept the humor lodged in his throat.
Piern’s eyes softened. "Perhaps it was because you ca from a world where neither magic nor gods existed. To magic, you were... unknown. A stranger. And magic has always been drawn to the unknown."
At that, Luther noticed the roses at the edge of the dais—still glowing faintly from his earlier outburst. Their petals shimred brighter, reacting to the energy flowing within him. The realization made his skin crawl.
"...So I’m just entertainnt for so cosmic force?" Luther muttered.
Piern did not answer.
Instead, Luther lifted his hand to his ear, feeling the faint burn of the mark there—the small dove sigil branded onto his skin by Asthan himself. His jaw tightened. "Then explain this," he growled. "If Asthan never chose , why did he mark ? Why carry out the act of claiming as his chosen one if it was all magic’s doing?"
The angel froze. For the first ti, his wings twitched in visible unease. His lips parted, but no sound ca. He bowed his head as though the question itself pressed on him with unbearable weight.
"Answer ." Luther’s voice was no longer calm. A storm brewed in it, sharp enough to cut.
Piern shook his head slowly. "I cannot. To speak would sha my god, and the countless who worship him. It is—"
Crack!
A whip of raw wind slashed past Piern’s face, splitting the marble behind him into jagged shards. The angel fell to his knees instantly, trembling as the tip of Luther’s magic-lash hovered by his cheek.
"Don’t test ," Luther said, his voice low, almost guttural. "I’m tired of half-truths. Talk."
Piern’s wings drooped in defeat. He pressed his forehead to the floor, words spilling out in a rush.
"It was all... a plot. A lie crafted by Lord Asthan. He feared the truth being exposed—that his prophecy was never real. When you appeared and displayed your magic to save the knights, the gods sensed it imdiately. They praised him, saying that after centuries, his prophecy had finally borne fruit. But Asthan knew... he knew you were not of his making. You were a mistake—a soul brought here by magic alone. If the other gods discovered this, they would strip him of his title. They would brand him a Fake God."
Luther’s breath hitched. His grip on the whip trembled, not from weakness but from sheer fury.
"In the Heavenly Realm," Piern continued, "a god who lies, who deceives both mortals and gods, loses everything. Their divinity, their seat, their honor. They are cast down into nothingness. Lord Asthan... had grown drunk on praise and power. He could not bear the thought of losing it all."
The angel lifted his head slightly, sha burning across his features. "So he waited. You, who avoided temples at every turn, slipping from his grasp ti and again—he waited for the day he could corner you. And when you finally stood upon the dais, he seized his chance. He branded you with his mark... and used your body as a vessel to confirm his false prophecy to the other gods. Through you, he kept his throne."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the wind seed afraid to stir.
Luther stood there, his shadow long across the floor, his fists trembling as anger coursed through him. Slowly, his lips curved—not into a smile, but into a snarl.
"So that’s it." His voice was low, broken, but each word carried the weight of an earthquake. "I’m nothing but a shield for a coward. A puppet strung along to protect him from his own lies."
The dais shuddered. Cracks spread across the stone floor. The roses that had glowed gently before now flared like torches, their petals scattering into a violent storm.
"Do I look like a toy to them?!"
The explosion ca with no warning. A gale roared out from Luther’s body, a hurricane of rage and betrayal. Piern shielded himself with his wings, but even he was dragged back by the sheer force. The chamber wailed under the pressure, its pillars trembling as though ready to collapse.
The angel dared to peek through his feathers, and what he saw made his blood run cold. Luther’s eyes were glowing—not with holy light, but with raw, untad magic, swirling like an abyss that devoured everything in sight.
"This whole damn ti," Luther spat, his voice echoing like thunder, "I thought I was cursed, that fate had chained to a role I never asked for. But no—it wasn’t fate. It was a god’s lie."
The wind grew sharper, blades cutting into the marble and leaving deep gouges. The air itself felt alive, vibrating with his fury.
"And for what?" he roared. "So that so coward sitting on a throne doesn’t get embarrassed? So he can keep his pride while I carry the burden of his lie?"
Piern fell to the floor again, unable to keep standing under the crushing weight of magic. His voice trembled as he tried to plead, "L-Luther, please... I beg you... this isn’t the way—"
"Shut up!"
The angel’s words were drowned by another wave of power. The roses shattered into fragnts of light, scattering like sparks of fire.
Luther’s shoulders heaved with every breath, his hands clawed at the air as if he wanted to tear the heavens themselves apart. The mark on his ear burned, glowing faintly, a mockery of the chains Asthan had forced on him.
"...They will regret this." His words were quiet now, but colder than steel. "Asthan. The gods. Every last one of them. If they see as a tool... I’ll show them what happens when a tool breaks its master."
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