The first blow shattered the sky.
From the heavens descended a colossus cloaked in golden ash. The High Deity from beyond Earth—nameless, ancient, older than breath—rose with six wings of mirrored time and a crown forged from uncounted prayers.
Caelum stood still, cloak torn by wind, the blade of memory humming beside him.
The entity did not speak. Words were for the weak. It broadcasted thought, waves of domination that fractured the air:
> "This planet is unsealed. Return to sleep, orphan of grief."
But Caelum smiled. A rare, empty smile.
> "Sleep is for those with peace."
The sword of memory clanged against invisible time walls. The battle did not begin with a roar. It began with a name.
"Elienne."
Each slash carved through divine shields. Each whisper tore through immortal veils.
The higher deity moved through time—undoing futures, repeating deaths. But Caelum's blade remembered.
He fought not with muscle. Not even with magic. But with remembrance.
He bled backward in time. He healed with grief. He grew stronger with each name he mourned.
---
In the Hollow Bloom, a mechanism had awakened. An ancient engine that responded to sorrow.
> "This is not battle," Caelum whispered. "This is