CHAPTER 90: OBSIDIAN CHRONICLE

Through the Soulthread, Lucy felt it—a wave of nervous tension pulsing through the cohort as Bruma stepped forward.

She reached for the Obsidian Chronicle with her one remaining hand.

It rested in the outstretched arms of Nyxaris’s shattered statue, shrouded in shadows. Black mist coiled around the massive tome, seething like smoke with a mind of its own. The whispers it gave off weren’t just sounds—they were vibrations, brushing against skin like a cold breath, crawling under nails, threading into thought.

Lucy felt the nerves, too. Thick and electric. Buzzing in his teeth.

’What truths could be important enough to be locked behind a monster like Caelgorr?’

He had no answer. How could he? He’d only been drafted into this divine war eight months ago. And though he’d learned much about the Gods, especially Seraphine and Nyxaris, there were still more shadows than light.

Bruma’s fingers touched the book.

And for a moment, everything stopped.

Breaths held.

Muscles tensed.

Is she okay?

Is the book going to kill her?

Don’t die, Bruma...

The thoughts weren’t spoken—but they echoed loud and clear in the Soulthread, each of them gripped by silent fear. Except for Eri. Her thread thrummed colder, detached, and cautious. This book was sacred to Nyxaris, and Eri still held fear for the goddess.

Then, Bruma turned her head.

She looked back at them.

No pain, screaming, or black fire boiling her from the inside out.

Just calm.

Lucy exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Llarm visibly sagged, wiping his forehead. Gindu grunted softly. Even Eri relaxed the faintest amount.

Bruma descended the cracked stone steps and sat down at the base of the statue. The Chronicle rested in her lap—its cover now streaked with her own blood, the binding pulsing faintly with violet runes that shimmered like restrained lightning.

The rest of the cohort gathered behind her. Silent. Shoulder to shoulder.

And the Chronicle responded.

Its whispers grew louder—not in volume but in presence. The words didn’t enter their ears. They invaded their minds, curling around memories, pulling at curiosities, and unearthing hidden fears. The shadows around it deepened—slick and animate, like a pool of oil rippling to an unseen current.

No one spoke.

Not a single word.

They only waited.

Lucy thought, ’This is it: what we bled five months for, what we lost for.’

He didn’t know what the book would reveal, but he prayed desperately that it would explain the visions he saw in Nyxaris’s church and the humans who had once worshiped her long before the exile.

How could that be, when the histories all claimed the Gods had willed themselves into existence after humans were cast out? How could Nyxaris have been a mortal before Godship?

Those were questions he needed answers to.

Bruma’s hands trembled as she opened the tome.

Her fingers shook—not from fear, but from something more profound: reverence, hunger, awe. She had given years, perhaps her entire life, for this moment.

Lucy could feel it in her heart.

And something more.

’What is it, Bruma...? What are you hoping to find?’

The first page unfurled.

Its black script burned faintly gold against the parchment, etched not in ink, but light.

The First Holy War.

Lucy blinked. His brow furrowed.

’What?’

Wasn’t he fighting in the First Holy War?

He knew the four gods had warred since the beginning. That was the truth passed down from everyone, from Seraphine herself.

But Lucy’s eyes widened as Bruma turned the page, and the words began to rise from the page like breath on glass.

Because the truth of history wasn’t carved in stone.

It was buried in lies.

And the Chronicle had come to unearth them all.

"The First Holy War."

In the age before ages, when stars were still young and time moved like drifting smoke, the One True God cast His gaze upon the world and found it wanting. From the depths of pride and shadow rose His first betrayer—He who was once the Morning Flame, now fallen, now named Satan. The heavens burned with their clash, and from that divine rupture, the world was fractured into realms. Thus began the First Holy War—not of gods and mortals, but of Heaven and its first heresy.

...

And so it came to pass upon the final dusk of that war, when the heavens ran black with cinders and choirs wailed like broken wind, the One True God struck down the Adversary. Upon the great celestial battleground, where stars had died and realms were born, the Morning Flame was extinguished—his wings torn, his name unspoken, his soul scattered to the void. And in that ruinous silence, the One True God wept—for victory had cost Him His first love, His first son, and the stillness of creation.

Lucy’s mind started to race. ’The One True God? Where have I heard that before?’

He combed through his memories, hunting for the name—One True God. It sounded so foreign yet eerily familiar.

Then it clicked.

Just before their descent into Seraph’s Hollow, he’d seen the name True God’s Tunnel listed on the teleportation pod destinations. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but the odd phrasing had stuck in his head. He’d even made a mental note to explore it after their return.

’So this is what you were hiding, Seraphine... the One True God, and the First Holy War. Betrayed by his son, forced into a war, and ultimately the killer of the one he once loved most. But why? Why bury that history so deep?’

And then the answer dawned on him like a bolt of lightning.

’The existence of another God.’

The implications spread through his thoughts like wildfire. History had always taught that there were only four gods—Seraphine, Ithriel, Ravun, and Nyxaris. But if there was another... the first, the true

God... then it changed everything. It explained how Nyxaris could "transcend." It reframed the entire divine hierarchy. It still didn’t explain how humans had once worshipped the gods before their supposed birth, but at least he now held half of the puzzle.

Half was better than none.

It also raised questions. Were Seraphine and the other Gods also mortal before they transcended? Or had they truly birthed themselves, as history told, like the one true god?

The questions scraped at his mind, but he had no way of knowing.

His mana was running low, so Lucy quietly severed his soul threads, letting them fade into the flickering shadows. Even without them, the expressions on his companions’ faces told him the same conclusion had taken root in their minds.

Then Llarm broke the silence.

"...How... how can this be? All of elven history—no, all of life—was shaped around there being only four gods."

Bruma’s voice cut through the heavy air. "You’re asking the wrong question." Her gaze fell dark. "What happened to the One True God?"

The words hit Lucy like a hammer to the chest. The universe had once belonged to a single god... and now it was a war zone ruled by four.

Had he died?

That made the most sense.

"He has to be dead," Lucy said flatly, though even as he spoke, something deep within him whispered otherwise. Maybe it was that strange teleportation tunnel. Maybe it was just instinct. But some part of him doubted.

"I agree," Eri said, her voice cold and matter-of-fact.

Gindu, unusually quiet, said nothing. Lucy didn’t sense suspicion—Gindu just didn’t care much for history.

Then Bruma leaned forward, fingers trembling slightly as she turned what she believed was the final page.

A soft gasp escaped her lips.

"...There’s one more."

The page had been partially stuck to the previous one—hidden. The cohort leaned in as one, shadows dancing on their armor from the flickering temple light.

At the top, scrawled in faint silver ink:

Divine Mark

Beneath it were lines of intricate runes, twisting and pulsing like they were alive, etched in ink that shimmered and faded like breath on glass.

Lucy stared at them, his head beginning to throb.

He couldn’t understand the language. Couldn’t even think in its shape. Each glance at a symbol twisted his thoughts, fogged his focus. Still, he pushed through the haze, trying to interpret them.

Then he glanced at Bruma.

Her eyes were wide—lit with wonder and something else... longing. He didn’t need a soul thread to know: this was what she had sought. What she had bled and sacrificed for.

But then her expression dimmed. Her shoulders fell.

"...It’s empty," she said, voice low, defeated.

"Yeah, what’s with that?" Llarm frowned.

"Tch. A thousand-year treasure, and it gives us this?" Gindu muttered, arms crossed, clearly bored.

Lucy raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean ’empty’? You guys don’t see the runes?"

Bruma’s head snapped toward him, her eyes suddenly gleaming—not with hope, but with jealousy. Jealousy and something more dangerous: realization.

Llarm chuckled. "You okay, Lucy? Maybe Caelgorr left a bit of fog in that thick head of yours."

"I’m not hallucinating, dumb hero," Lucy snapped. "Here—give it to me. I’ll try to read it."

He reached out, ignoring Bruma’s sudden cry.

"No—don’t!"

But it was too late.

The moment his fingertips brushed the parchment, agony exploded through his body.

A scream tore from his throat as white-hot pain seared through his mind. The runes burst from the page in writhing threads of light and shadow, slithering across his skin like living brands. They burned their way beneath his flesh, etching themselves into bone, soul, memory.

He collapsed to the cold stone floor, convulsing.

It hurts—it hurts—it hurts—

Inside his mind, a tome flung itself open—no, ripped itself open—and began pouring in knowledge, language, spells, and truths he had no space for. It was like mana circulation... but ten times worse.

Divine Mark 1/1000

Divine Mark 2/1000

Divine Mark 3/1000

...

Each line stamped itself into his being like molten iron. He screamed again, body jerking with every number, every brand. Each mark was worse than the last.

His cohort hovered around him, helpless.

"What do we do?!" Llarm shouted, voice shrill with panic. "He’s—he’s dying!"

No one answered. No one could.

Bruma remained seated, unmoving, her eyes dim. Like she knew. Like she had expected, this.

Lucy thrashed, agony tearing at his nerves, and still the marks continued to crawl into him—

Divine Mark 27/1000

Divine Mark 28/1000

Divine Mark 29/1000

—and his screams echoed through Nyxaris’s silent temple like a prophecy being carved into stone.