FROST
Chapter 82: The Birth of the Gloaming Heart

Chapter 82: The Birth of the Gloaming Heart

Eons before the dawn of the Guardians and Celestial Kings, before the foundations of the realms we know were even conceived, there existed a time when the cosmos was ruled by Titans, Demons, and the divine forces that inhabited the very threads of existence.

It was a time when the world of humans was not a single reality, but rather a vast, intricate tapestry of twelve worlds—twelve human realms, each thriving under the protection of mighty gods and goddesses.

These realms were a paradise of creation and harmony, where mortals and immortals coexisted in fragile peace. But peace, as the cycles of history often teach, is never eternal.

The demons, born from the chaos of the void, were creatures of insatiable hunger and endless malice. They saw the human worlds not as a sacred creation, but as a veritable feast, a boundless source of power, life force, and mana.

To them, humans were nothing more than cattle to be consumed—flesh, soul, and all. They reveled in the suffering they caused, growing stronger with each life they devoured.

And thus began the Great War—the war that would shatter the existence of the human realms.

For centuries, the gods and goddesses of the twelve worlds stood in defiance of the demonic horde, each world protected by powerful deities whose might could turn the tide of battle.

The gods, with their wisdom and strength, fought valiantly to shield humanity from the relentless onslaught. They wove mighty shields of light, summoned creatures of unimaginable power, and cast spells that could level entire armies of demons.

Yet the demons were no ordinary creatures. They had no fear of death, and their hunger knew no bounds. Led by the Demon Lords, beings of unimaginable power and malevolent intent, the demons clashed with the gods in a war that stretched across ages.

As the gods fought to protect the humans, they too suffered great losses. The once vibrant fields of light that bordered each world grew dark with the blood of divine beings.

The celestial heavens themselves began to crack and bleed, their foundations shattered by the fury of the endless war.

In one of the most brutal and unforgettable moments of the conflict, the great god Aetherius, protector of the Realm of the Sky, was slain by the Demon Lord Vrazmir.

With a single slash of his infernal blade, Aetherius fell from the heavens, his divine light snuffed out in an instant.

His death sent ripples through the reality, shaking the remaining gods to their very core. But this was not a battle confined to the gods alone.

The demons’ hunger was unyielding, and with the gods falling one by one, their power growing weaker with each loss, the human worlds began to tremble.

The foundation of the twelve realms began to tear. The skies, once vibrant with the colors of the divine, darkened, and the lands themselves began to crumble under the weight of the war.

The humans, too, suffered terrible losses. Cities were reduced to ashes, and entire civilizations were consumed by the growing demonic tide. But the gods were not yet ready to give in. With their numbers dwindling, they made a desperate plea for aid.

And so, the Titans—immense and ancient beings of primordial power—stepped onto the stage of war.

The Titans, born before even the gods, had long remained in the shadows of the universe, only occasionally stepping forth to shape the cosmos.

They were beings of raw force, bound to the elements themselves—beings who controlled the very nature of fire, earth, air, and water. Their power was unmatched by anything in existence, save perhaps the gods themselves. But where the gods fought with wisdom and magic, the Titans fought with sheer, unyielding strength.

The Titans were summoned by the gods, and their arrival was a monumental event. It was said that the very sky itself shook with the power of their footsteps, and the earth trembled as they marched into the fray.

Their colossal forms towered above the battlefields, each one a force of nature itself. They crushed the demons beneath their immense feet, wielded storms and fire as weapons, and tore through the demonic hordes like a tempest.

But even the Titans, with all their might, could not stem the tide of destruction.

The war raged on for decades, for centuries. The gods and the Titans fought side by side, their combined forces sending shockwaves across the cosmos.

Yet, despite their incredible strength, they could not end the war. The demons were not so easily defeated. And so, the war continued, a war that seemed endless in its devastation.

But the toll on both sides was immense. The gods, once immortal, began to weaken, their divine essence drained by the constant battles.

Their once-glorious forms began to crack and wither, their light flickering. The Titans, too, though powerful, began to show signs of strain.

The war was not just a physical one—it was a battle of wills, of endurance, and of time. With each passing day, both the gods and the demons suffered greater losses. The war had become a slow, inexorable dance of death and destruction.

And yet, still, the war did not end.

The gods, desperate to find a solution, turned to forbidden magics—ancient rituals that threatened to unravel something forbidden.

In a final, desperate attempt to end the war, the gods attempted to summon a power so great, so catastrophic, that it would consume both the demons and the Titans, wiping them from existence.

But the ritual backfired. The magic, uncontrollable and volatile, caused a cataclysmic explosion that tore apart the very worlds themselves. The twelve realms of humanity—the shining beacons of life and hope—were obliterated in an instant.

The devastation was incomprehensible. The realms that had once flourished with life and beauty were reduced to dust, their magic and their inhabitants erased from existence.

The demons and the gods who had once fought so fiercely were now scattered across the void, their forms fading into the depths of forgotten history. The Titans, too, were torn apart, their immense power shattered by the catastrophic magic.

In the end, the war did not end with a decisive victory or defeat. It ended with nothing. The worlds of humanity were gone, and with them, the gods, the demons, and the Titans who had once shaped the universe.

The celestial kings and the Guardians—beings yet to be born—remained mere whispers in the void, their existence nothing but a dream that would never be realized.

But the destruction of the human realms did not signal the end of the war. It was only the beginning. The war, though it had claimed the lives of so many, had set into motion something far darker—a resonance, an echo that would reverberate across time and space.

The survivors, those few who remained in the fractured remnants of the cosmos, would one day awaken to find that the war was not over.

The gods, the demons, the Titans—all reduced to mere echoes of their former selves—drifted in the void, consumed by the aftermath of their own annihilation. Time, once a constant rhythm in the worlds, slowed to an imperceptible crawl. The universe, it seemed, had forgotten its pulse, its life, its very existence.

Yet, within the deepest, darkest recesses of the cosmos, something stirred. The lifeblood of creation itself quivered, as though acknowledging a presence that had been left forgotten in the shadows.

There, in the abyss of emptiness, the wrath of the gods—unleashed in their final, disastrous act—fused and twisted into something far malevolent, far more potent than any of them had ever intended.

From this unfathomable darkness, a being was born—not of flesh, blood, or bone, but of pure rage and void.

He was a creature formed from the collective fury and sorrow of gods, a being who embodied all the anger, despair, and destruction that had consumed the divine and the demonic alike. This was no ordinary demon. This was Cecilion.

Cecilion’s form was not bound by the limitations of the mortal realm. He was formless, an ethereal mass of darkness and mist, an unsettling presence that seemed to flicker and writhe as if it were a living shadow.

His very essence was made of the rawest, most primal energy of the universe—the wrath of gods who had lost everything, the grief of mortals who had been torn apart, and the endless hunger of demons who could never be satisfied.

He had no body to speak of, no skin or flesh to be pierced by weapons or harmed by time.

Instead, Cecilion existed as a swirling tempest of pure malice and void, his presence bending the core framework. His mist was not simply a vapor—it was living, pulsating with the remnants of the immense hatred that had once burned in the hearts of the gods.

Wherever he went, the air would grow cold, and the light itself would tremble, as though it too feared the terror that he carried within him.

Cecilion’s birth was not an event heralded by fanfare or prophecy. It was the quiet aftermath of a war that had torn apart everything.

His existence was a cosmic anomaly, a fluke born from the gods’ last attempt to rewrite the balance of power. They had sought to end the war, to erase the demons and the Titans, but instead, they had unknowingly crafted the most powerful being to ever exist in the entire universe.

He was not just a demon—he was the culmination of the gods’ wrath, the living embodiment of the destruction they had wrought upon themselves and the universe.

His power was unlike anything ever seen before.

The very air around him seemed to burn with a primal energy, a searing force that could dissolve every living thing. His presence alone caused stars to dim, and galaxies to crumble, as if the universe recoiled from the sheer enormity of his being.

Yet despite his terrifying power, Cecilion was not without purpose. He did not simply exist to consume or destroy.

No, his birth was the beginning of something far greater—a cosmic rebirth, the stirring of an ancient cycle that had been broken by the war.

Cecilion, the demon of wrath and void, was a harbinger of something much grimmer. He was the first of his kind—one who would lead the forces of chaos and destruction in a new age, an age where the balance of the cosmos would be rewritten under his reign.

But Cecilion was not mindless. Far from it. Within his swirling, shadowy form, there was an intelligence that went beyond even the gods. His thoughts, though hidden in the endless depths of his being, were clear and deliberate.

He understood the war that had shaped him, the endless conflict that had torn apart the divine and demonic realms. He was the consequence of it all—the result of the gods’ arrogance and the demons’ insatiable hunger.

Cecilion’s first act after his emergence was not to attack or strike down his creators. No, instead, he sought the remnants of the gods’ power—fragments scattered across the void, their essence hidden in the forgotten corners of the universe.

His mist-like form drifted through the cosmos, devouring the remnants of the gods, slowly absorbing their power and growing stronger with each passing moment.

With each god’s essence he consumed, Cecilion’s form grew more defined, more powerful, until even the void itself seemed to bow before him.

As he consumed the divine power, something else began to stir within him—memories of the war, fragments of the gods’ final moments before their destruction.

It was here that Cecilion found his true purpose.

The gods, in their desperate attempt to save their worlds, had unknowingly shaped him as a being of wrath, but he was not just a weapon of vengeance. He was their failure—a living reminder of their hubris, their mistakes, and their inability to control the forces they had unleashed.

Cecilion, in his endless void, now sought to reshape the universe—not through mere destruction, but through the very essence of creation itself.

He would be the one to remake the cosmos, to ensure that no force—god, demon, or Titan—would ever again be able to challenge the balance. His birth was not an end, but a beginning. The war may have been over, but the war for the future of the universe had just begun.

And so, Cecilion, the first demon born of wrath and void, moved through the universe like a living storm, his mist spreading far and wide, gathering power, and awaiting the moment when he would strike again.