The battle ended after seven days and seven nights.
Seven days of blood.
Seven days of death.
Seven days of endless slaughter within the Shadow Realm.
Inside the realm, the influence of Authority was weakened.
That was the only reason the Nyxari survived.
Even so…
The cost was catastrophic.
Countless clansmen died.
Their bodies were gone.
But their souls remained.
The dead became one with shadow.
They became warriors of the Shadow Realm.
Silent protectors.
Eternal guardians.
Even now, thousands of years later, their souls still rested within the realm.
Watching.
Waiting.
Protecting.
Nyxaroth remembered that day as though it were yesterday.
His body had barely healed.
Bruised.
Broken.
Still bleeding.
Then his father summoned him.
A meeting.
Urgent.
Important.
---
The elders sat in silence.
Chairs formed from condensed shadow.
Every elder carried visible injuries.
Some were missing limbs.
Some looked decades older.
The patriarch sat at the center.
Nyxaroth stood before them.
Emotionless.
Silent.
His father studied him.
Then sighed.
"Sit, my child."
Nyxaroth remained standing.
His father exchanged glances with the elders.
Then spoke.
"We have made a decision."
The atmosphere grew heavier.
"We are splitting the clan."
Nyxaroth's eyes narrowed.
His father continued.
"You are the future patriarch."
"You will take part of our people and leave."
A pause.
"If possible… go to Zeraphyx."
Even Nyxaroth was stunned.
Leave?
Abandon their homeland?
His father's gaze remained calm.
"Our clan is strong."
"But not all of us were born for endless war."
"We cannot risk extinction."
The elders nodded.
The patriarch raised his hand.
A black portal opened behind him.
People began walking through.
Nyxaroth froze.
The number…
Was devastating.
Not even half remained.
His chest tightened.
Regret.
Anger.
Helplessness.
After countless farewells…
The final numbers were decided.
A thousand remained behind.
Warriors.
Elders.
Defenders.
Over one million left with Nyxaroth.
Mostly civilians.
Non-combatants.
Children.
The weak.
The future.
The separation happened one day later.
---
"Goodbye, my son."
His father embraced him tightly.
For the first time in years, Nyxaroth felt warmth.
"This is not farewell forever."
"We will meet again."
His father smiled faintly.
"I wish you strength."
"Boundless fortune."
"And power enough to survive."
Then—
His father stepped back.
A portal opened.
The elders entered.
But the patriarch remained.
He raised one hand.
Then another gate appeared.
Not a portal.
A gate.
A colossal gate made entirely of shadow.
BOOOOOOM!!!!
The gate opened.
And something stepped out.
Nyxaroth's breath stopped.
A Titan.
Over three hundred meters tall.
Humanoid.
Covered in black armor.
A massive greatsword rested in its hands.
Its presence alone crushed the atmosphere.
Even weakened gods would die from its pressure.
Nyxaroth stared.
His father spoke quietly.
"He was subdued by our ancestors."
"And passed down through generations."
"To protect the clan."
Nyxaroth's eyes widened.
A Titan…
One of them.
---
Long ago…
Before Neraphyx existed.
Only Zeraphyx remained.
But how could light exist without shadow?
Neraphyx was born.
Not merely as shadow.
But as reflection.
A dark twin.
A world born from hunger.
A world that desired more.
A world that wanted to devour Zeraphyx.
When the Nameless Sovereign created Zeraphyx…
He noticed the birth of its shadow.
But ignored it.
Destroying it would only cause another to form.
So he let it be.
Confident.
Certain.
He believed Zeraphyx would always prevail.
He was wrong.
Tens of billions of years later…
The Nameless Sovereign descended once more.
Because Neraphyx had evolved beyond expectations.
Stronger.
Deadlier.
Hungrier.
Worse—
Time flowed differently.
One year in Zeraphyx.
Ten years in Neraphyx.
A 1:10 ratio.
Neraphyx developed at terrifying speed.
It became powerful enough to consume Zeraphyx.
It waited.
Not because it was weak.
Because it sought certainty.
It wanted absolute victory.
When the invasion began…
Half of all life in Zeraphyx died.
The heavens cracked.
Stars trembled.
Minor worlds turned to dust.
Even the Aeons intervened.
But Neraphyx had prepared.
It had created Aeons of its own.
Universal wills.
Gods born from darkness.
The war nearly destroyed everything.
History called it—
The First Breach.
The Red Moon Age.
The Age of Blood.
---
The Nameless Sovereign restored balance.
But he could not destroy Neraphyx anymore.
It had become alive.
A true world.
Destroying it meant genocide.
So balance was enforced instead.
From then onward—
The Breach became inevitable.
Not avoidable.
Only manageable.
Artificial breaches were created.
Controlled openings.
Used to regulate balance.
Used to gather resources.
Used to prepare for future disasters.
The Sovereign also created Titans.
Massive guardians.
Builders.
Protectors.
Overseers.
They shaped Neraphyx.
Helped civilization grow.
But as civilizations advanced…
Greed followed.
Fear followed.
War followed.
The Titans were hunted.
Killed.
Enslaved.
Captured.
And now…
One stood before Nyxaroth.
A relic of the First Sovereign.
---
Nyxaroth looked at the Titan.
Then at his father.
Then asked the question buried deep within him.
"Why?"
His father looked at him.
Nyxaroth's voice grew quieter.
"Why do those who build lose everything…"
"…while those who take seem to lose nothing?"
Silence.
His father answered slowly.
"Because the world rewards strength."
"Not kindness."
"Not fairness."
"Strength."
Nyxaroth clenched his fists.
His father continued.
"Remember this."
"Zeraphyx and Neraphyx are not enemies."
"They are reflections."
"Two sides of one coin."
"One creates."
"One devours."
"One builds."
"One plunders."
Both are necessary.
Both are dangerous.
---
The oldest Celestial scripture says:
> From hunger came desire.
From desire came creation.
From creation came corruption.
From corruption came wisdom.
And from wisdom, the cycle began anew.
His father's gaze darkened.
"When balance fails…"
"The Breach begins."
He looked toward the distant sky.
Then recited words older than kingdoms.
---
The Prophecy of Balance
> When the stars lose rhythm and the scales begin to weep,
The Veil shall shudder, and the sleeping dark shall creep.
> When silver moon turns crimson, and the sky drinks its own light,
The shadow shall awaken to devour endless night.
> When light grows proud and shadow deepens its deceit,
The coin shall spin once more—two sides forced to meet.
> And blood shall fall like rain upon the sacred shield of sky,
As beasts of hunger rise, and angels learn to die.
> But from the crimson storm shall rise the one unbroken flame,
To heal the rift eternal and restore the cosmic name.
---
Nyxaroth listened in silence.
Then his father said something that changed everything.
Something that shattered his hatred.
Something he would only fully understand thousands of years later.
"The Pure Ones are not the true problem."
Nyxaroth frowned.
His father's voice became grave.
"They exist to maintain balance."
"They are guardians."
"Executors of cosmic law."
"Protectors of equilibrium."
Nyxaroth's eyes widened.
Then—
His father spoke the final truth.
"The real threat…"
His voice lowered.
"…are the Anomalies."
Silence.
Heavy.
Cold.
Terrifying.
"Beings that should not exist."
"Beings outside fate."
"Outside law."
"Outside balance."
His father looked directly into Nyxaroth's eyes.
"When one appears…"
"Even the heavens tremble."
Nyxaroth froze.
And thousands of years later—
Watching Velzahar.
Feeling the Shadow Realm's hatred.
Feeling the impossible pressure.
Feeling that monstrous bloodline.
Nyxaroth finally understood.
His pupils shrank.
His breathing slowed.
His soul trembled.
The Pure Ones were terrifying.
Yes.
But this…
This was something else entirely.
Velzahar…
Might not be a Pure One.
He might be something far worse.
Or far greater.
An anomaly.