Father's grip was iron, unyielding as he clasped Zabriel's face, the heat from his blazing sun head radiating intense warmth. His voice, like the crackle of fire, broke through the chaos of battle. "Join me. Let me show you what Perfect Order looks like."
Before Zabriel could react, the reality around them morphed and twisted. Gone was the blood-red sky and the broken castle grounds. In their place stood a colossal tree, its immense trunk soaring skywards, its bark a swirl of dark red and black, entwining like the bodies of giant serpents. Above, the branches spread wide and thick, overshadowing the world below with their ominous presence. At the tree's crown, a monstrous spiraling eye hovered, its gaze unfaltering, relentless, like a god's watchful sentinel.
Father stood on a massive branch, silhouetted against the monstrous eye, his voice echoing around the unnatural amphitheater. "Behold, Zabriel, the vision of Zepharion: The All-Seer, God of Unity and Perfect Order. This is but the beginning, the seed from which the world of Kanaan will be reborn."
Zabriel, fists clenched around the hilt of his scythe, sped upwards along the tree's massive trunk, his body a blur of motion. But as he ascended, the distance between him and Father seemed to stretch, the eye and the man receding as if the very space around Zabriel warped.
"All chaos, all disorder, all conflict—Zepharion decrees they must end," Father continued, his voice calm, almost hypnotic against the backdrop of the constantly expanding universe around them. "In Perfect Order, there is no war, no strife, only unity."
As Zabriel raced higher, the tree fought back. From the bark sprung vicious branches, their tips sharp as spears, their color the poison-black and blood-red of the tree itself. They lunged for Zabriel, matching his speed, aiming to skewer and crush. With a furious yell, Zabriel swung his scythe, slicing through the first branch, then a second, each cut a release of pent-up energy, each evasion a carefully timed dance of death.
"Imagine a world, Zabriel, where all beings are one, united under Zepharion's gaze. No hunger, no pain, no dissent," Father's voice spiraled down the trunk, following Zabriel's ascent, a relentless sermon.
Another branch, thicker, faster, shot out towards Zabriel. He twisted, feeling the wind of its passage ruffle his hair, narrowly evading its deadly thrust. His scythe arced beautifully, silver blade catching the faint light as it cleaved the branch in two, showering splinters like black and red rain.
"Conflict is born of difference, and difference is an illusion," Father proclaimed. "Zepharion sees all, knows all. Under his eye, we are all reflections of the same truth."
Zabriel leapt, spun, his scythe a whirlwind of reflective death. Branch after branch, the tree spawned them faster, thicker, each one eager to impale or crush him. Each escape was narrower, each counterstrike leaving Zabriel more drained, his body accumulating the toll of this otherworldly assault.
Yet, Father's voice did not falter. "Perfection in order is harmony eternal. Zepharion's world is one of perpetual peace. Will you not embrace peace, Zabriel?"
Exhaustion clawed at Zabriel's limbs as another swell of branches surged from the ground. He was hemmed in, a cage of red and black closing tight. With a defiant roar, he swung his scythe in a wide arc, energy rippling from the blade, shattering his wooden prison in a burst of force.
Blood dripped from numerous cuts, his clothes torn and hanging in tatters. Each breath Zabriel drew was labored, rasping through bruised ribs. The poisonous branches seemed to anticipate his moves, adapting with terrifying intelligence.
"See the futility of resistance," Father intoned, his voice a dark melody amongst the chaos of snapping wood and Zabriel's grunts of effort. "Zepharion brings end to futility. In unity, all effort is towards a singular glorious purpose."
Again, Zabriel surged forward, his body propelled by sheer willpower, his path a repeating cycle of evasion, capture, and explosive escape. His scythe wasn't just a weapon now; it was an extension of his very soul, each swing a declaration of his unwillingness to yield.
Father's form seemed like a mirage, ever distant, yet ever present, his words a constant, unyielding force. "Imagine it, Zabriel. A world without suffering, without the chaos that breeds pain. This is the gift of Zepharion, the gift of the All-Seer."
Above, the eye seemed to pulse, its spiral gaze tightening, focusing. The tree shook with the power of its godly observer, branches now coming faster, more aggressively as if the eye itself commanded them.
Zabriel's resolve hardened. Each step, each swing, took him closer to Father, closer to the eye, closer to understanding or destruction. Whichever came, he would meet it head on, his scythe ready, his spirit unbroken. The promise of peace twisted into a dark parody as he fought, understanding more with each painful advance that true order could never be born from such tyranny.
The sky above the great tree remained impassive as Zabriel continued his long, brutal climb towards an answer, or perhaps, an end.
Father's voice rose above the tumult of battle, rich with the promise of transformation, echoing through the dark canopy of the great tree which seemed to reach into the depths of infinity. "Behold, the unfolding of the new Kanaan under the Red Flame! Every kingdom, every mythic race, and every landmark shall be reborn, forged anew to exist in utter unity!"
As Zabriel fought his way up the monstrous tree, blood spraying with every swing of his scythe, Father continued, the space around them warping with the power of his words. "Take, for instance, the vast kingdom of Brookenvale—its rolling hills and ancient castles. Under the Red Flame, its people will shed their petty conflicts. Their spirits will merge, forming a collective consciousness, unwavering in its devotion to Zepharion."
The branches around Zabriel thickened, pulsing with a sinister life. Twisting, they attacked with renewed fervor, as if inspired by their master's vision. Dodging a branch that swiped at his head, Zabriel sliced through another that aimed to impale him, his movements a desperate ballet in the bloody glow cast by the tree.
"In the crystalline forests of Glintshade Hollow, the eldritch folk will relinquish their mysterious ways," Father proclaimed, the eye above shimmering with a potent energy. "Transformed by the Red Flame, they will become beacons of pure, unwavering light, their arcane secrets laid bare and their purposes aligned with the Great Design."
Zabriel grunted as a particularly thick branch caught him off guard, gashing his side before he could cut it away. The dark red sap of the tree mixed with his blood, a stark contrast against his pale, bruised skin. Climbing relentlessly, he shook off the pain, driven by a deepening resolve to reach Father and end this.
"And what of the roaring seas of Stormrend's End?" Father's voice was a tempest now, swirling around Zabriel. "The tumultuous waters will calm, and the merfolk will rise from their oceanic depths, their scales glistening with the Flame's power. United, they will patrol the waters, ensuring nothing disturbs the Perfect Order of Zepharion."
Each of Father's words painted a vivid, nightmarish picture of a world remade—a world without freedom or individuality, where every creature, every element, was nothing but a cog in an immense machine of terrifying order. The air vibrated with the force of his vision, driving the branches to assault Zabriel with increased savagery.
"The mountain kingdoms of Highcrest Tor will see their proud eagles bowing to the Red Flame. The peaks, once home to rebellious lords and unruly beasts, will echo with the songs of unified praise," Father explained, detailing every part of his horrifying utopia.
Zabriel leaped and rolled as the branches near him exploded into a flurry of splinters, each step upward costing him more than the last. His clothing was tattered, his body a canvas of wounds, yet his eyes burned with an unquenchable fire under his mask.
'I have to kill him…for Ellie…she can't achieve her dream if he's alive..it's what I promised her..that I'd help her!'
"The desert realms of Sandwhis Valley will transform their nomadic caravans into organized columns of collective existence. Every grain of sand will synchronize, creating patterns of Perfect Order under the omnipresent gaze of Zepharion."
As Father spoke, the eye at the top of the tree seemed to pulse faster, its spiraling gaze intensifying. The tree itself vibrated with immense power, its branches moving faster, almost blurring as they tried to subdue Zabriel.
Nearly at his breaking point, Zabriel found himself encased in a cage of branches, their poisonous thorns piercing his skin. With a roar of defiance, he summoned his strength, his scythe glowing with a teal preternatural light as he burst forth from the trap, splinters flying like shards of hope against the encroaching darkness.
Father's final words rang out, a stark promise in the chaos of the battle. "Once the seeds are found and the sacred trees planted across all of Kanaan, once the scattered remnants of Zepharion are risen, he will converge all into one. Then, my son, Zepharion will provide us with the final Perfect Order."
Bloodied and bruised, Zabriel fought on, every slice of his scythe a refusal to submit, every dodge a denial of the world Father envisioned, his spirit indomitable as he climbed towards the very heart of this envisioned apocalypse.
In the battered heart of Kenshire, the scene unfolding before Father's omniscient gaze was nothing short of apocalyptic. Above the scorched and trembling earth, a thousand Cult of Fabel members hovered, each crowned with a sinister black halo, their presence an ominous cloud foretelling further doom.
Zabriel was back where he was, breathing heavily, gripping his scythe.
Below, the ground was a tableau of agony and despair. Hundreds among the nobility of Kenshire, along with their valiant knights and loyal soldiers, were caught in the merciless embrace of the Red Flame. The flame did not just consume flesh; it seared through soul and spirit, rendering its victims in praying positions—a mockingly pious end to their valiant struggles. Among them, Ellie, with tears streaming down her ash-smudged face, bore witness to the carnage, as she was in praying formation like everyone else, engulfed by red flames, they were all dead. Holt was dead alongside them.
At the epicenter of chaos, Helsong stood, his hand gruesomely embedded in King Arshan's chest. With a cruel smirk, he drew out his bloodied hand, clutching what appeared to be an Immortal Seed—one of the mysterious relics Father had been fervently searching for. Offering it up to Father with a bow laced with dark amusement, Helsong reveled in the perverse glory of the moment.
"Arshan had no knowledge of the seed his parents implanted in him as a child. To keep it safe."
"We have the seed now. 50 more to go and plant. And we will water them with the blood of those who refuse the Red Flame, the symbol and insignia of Perfect Order. The Red Flame is a small taste and sign of what is to come in the future when Zepharion is revived."
Zabriel, upon arriving at this scene of devastation, took in the horrors with widening eyes—the charred bodies, the twisted expressions of the dead, and Ellie's tear-streaked face. A visceral rage began building within him, slow and simmering at first, but growing inexorably into a fierce, tempestuous storm of wrath.
"Ellie.."
His heart thumped loud.
"…Ellie…"
His heart thumped louder.
"E-Ellie…?"
Badump.
"Ellie…? Ellie!!!"
As Zabriel's fury reached its peak, he charged towards Father with a primal scream that split the already tumultuous air. But from the skies, the Cult members descended in massive waves, their arrival heralded by the dark magic that pulsed around them and the landscape itself erupting in violent upheavals under their collective force.
Zabriel, with scythe in hand, met the dark wave head-on. His blade sung a dreadful melody, each swing cutting through cloth, flesh, and bone with deadly precision. Blood spewed and splattered, painting the already red-streaked ground with a fresher, darker crimson as he made a bloody path through the swarm.
"AGHHHH!" Zabriel screamed.
The Cult members, relentless and numerous, formed barriers with their own bodies, enveloping themselves in layers of dark magic to dampen the ferocity of Zabriel's assaults. Yet, the enraged warrior tore through their ranks, his scythe a blur of silver and red, his own body accumulating grotesque wounds that marred his skin and muscle, blood streaming from fresh cuts.
The battlefield had now turned into a grotesque dance of death. Red flaming beasts and mutated human forms touched by the Red Flame joined the fray, each wave attempting to curb Zabriel's mad dash with brutal force. Despite suffering grievous injuries, Zabriel's resolve did not waver. His scythe slashed through sinew and scale, each stroke fueled by an ever-growing need for vengeance.
Just as Zabriel reached what seemed to be a clear path to Father, the ground beneath him churned as yet more foes rose. Every new antagonist that sprang forth met the same grim fate, cleaved or cast aside by Zabriel's relentless advance.
But then, in a moment of unbearable tension, Father extended his arm, pointing a commanding finger at the battle-worn Zabriel. From his fingertip erupted a blindingly bright beam, striking Zabriel squarely in the chest. The impact bore a gaping, smoking hole through his torso, halting his heroic charge as he collapsed to his knees.
Father's voice, cold and omnipotent, cut through the chaos: "Son of the Oracle, descendant of the First Order of deities who killed each other off... you shall join them. Though you can just heal yourself eventually with how broken your power is, you cannot save those who died here. Killing you is hard, yes. But enter the abyss and never return."
With a dismissive kick, Father sent Zabriel spiraling backwards. The world tilted violently for the fallen hero as he fell through a surreal pit of soft, fragrant roses. The contrast between the gentle petals and his intense pain created a dissoning sensation. As he fell, Zabriel's cries echoed in a berserker scream—his eyes glowing an unnatural, furious red, mirroring the blood and fire that had come to define the fallen kingdom of Kenshire.
"I'll kill…I'll kill you!"