Prologue

The heavens stretched vast and endless, a kingdom of marble halls and towering spires, their peaks vanishing into the void of light above. A realm where the weary might one day shed their burdens, where suffering held no dominion.

And above it all, the gods watched.

They had ruled in eternal splendor, untouched by time, unmoved by mortal prayers. They believed themselves infallible. Their world was perfect.

They never noticed the machine was breaking.

At the far end of the grand temple, behind Ordos's throne, the Soul Flow Engine hummed—a vast, tangled mechanism of golden pipes, its crystalline heart pulsing with the cycle of life and death.

It had functioned flawlessly for eons.

Until today.

Inside the grand temple, a massive stone table dominated the chamber, its surface smooth as glass. Above it, a great planet hovered in projection, swirling with clouds, continents shifting in slow rotation. Surrounding the table stood twelve marble chairs, each carved with intricate patterns reflecting their occupant's domain. At the far end, a single throne of gold loomed over them all, its surface gleaming like a diamond catching sunlight.

A deep, crackling voice broke the silence.

"The mortals pray for an end to the war again, Ordos," said a fire-eyed god, his form clad in armor veined with molten fissures. Heat radiated from his body, warping the air around him.

Ordos, seated upon the radiant throne, barely stirred. His voice was calm, indifferent.

"And let me guess, Kael'Zir. You wish the war to continue? War is something you've always been most fond of."

Kael'Zir grinned, his molten eyes flashing. "Of course. Conflict is the crucible that forges the strong." He leaned back in his chair, the stone beneath him turning black from the heat. "Besides, if they truly wanted peace, they would stop fighting. Is that not their choice?"

A sigh came from across the table.

"They have no choice," muttered Seraphis, the faceless goddess of wisdom and knowledge, her six feathered wings folding neatly behind her. Her single mouth moved, though her body had no eyes. "War is a cycle, much like all things. Knowledge forgotten, knowledge regained. A song sung, a song lost."

Kael'Zir rolled his eyes. "Not everything is a poetic tragedy, Seraphis."

Before she could respond, another god chimed in, his crystalline body shimmering under the golden light. "Kael'Zir is right. Hardship is necessary. Just as stone is carved by wind and water, so too must the weak be shaped by struggle." Arodan, the Shattered King, crossed his arms, his voice like grinding rock. "Without pain, they would stagnate."

A feathered hand slammed against the table, making the planet projection flicker for a moment.

"It is always 'struggle builds character' with you lot," snapped Emaris, the Hollow Veil, her dark lips curling in amusement. "Do any of you actually listen to the mortals? Their prayers are not thank you for this grand lesson in suffering. They are please, let my child eat today."

Ordos exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple as the argument began to spiral.

"I tire of this debate," he muttered, slumping against his throne. "It is always the same. War, hardship, the mortals are fools, the mortals need guidance. What of it?" He waved a hand lazily. "They live, they die, they return. And they will continue to do so, forever."

Tsaryis, the foxborn trickster, let out a playful hum. "How very inspiring, O mighty King of the Gods." She plucked a single grape from the silver bowl in front of her and popped it into her mouth. "Perhaps you should tell the mortals to stop bothering us with their little miseries. Would make our jobs much easier."

"You have no job," Arodan grumbled.

"Which makes me the smartest one here."

The bickering continued, voices rising, overlapping. Arguments about war turned to arguments about trade, about territories, about meaningless portfolio disputes. Some gods ignored the conversation entirely, staring into their goblets of celestial wine. Others fanned the flames, enjoying the sport of watching their peers quarrel.

No one noticed the dull hum filling the chamber.

No one turned toward the machine standing at the far end of the room.

Nestled behind Ordos's great throne, a colossal structure of gears and flowing light stood in perpetual motion. The Soul Flow Engine, the divine mechanism that governed the cycle of death and rebirth, pulsed steadily, its core shifting in shades of deep blue and silver.

It was a vast network of golden pipes, sprawling across the chamber like the tangled roots of an ancient tree. Some snaked along the walls, others curved haphazardly around the ceiling, stretching ever outward as more souls entered the cycle. It had not been designed so much as built upon, expanding endlessly as existence demanded.

At the heart of this chaotic system, behind the throne, sat a massive crystal sphere, clear as glass but brimming with motion. Inside, a churning vortex of souls swirled violently, twisting and spinning as they were funneled through the converging pipes, sorted and siphoned into the next phase of existence.

Beneath the sphere, three small valves jutted from the base—simple, unassuming mechanisms that controlled the flow and intensity of the soul stream. A system so crucial to the order of the universe, reduced to nothing more than a glorified plumbing fixture.

Except for one thing.

A flicker. A single, stuttering pulse.

A momentary hesitation, like a breath caught in a throat.

And in that moment, one god finally glanced over.

A pair of void-black eyes narrowed.

"…The machine," Xel'thos, the Black Maw, murmured. "It hesitated."

The room fell silent.

Ordos frowned and finally turned his head. "What?"

Xel'thos gestured toward the engine with one skeletal hand. "It just… skipped."

The other gods turned, watching as the great machine thrummed as usual, its celestial cogs turning, its light shimmering in perfect rhythm.

The hesitation was gone.

Kael'Zir snorted. "Oh, how terrifying. A machine made by gods hesitated. Perhaps it sneezed."

Tsaryis chuckled. "Well, since you noticed it first, why don't you check on it, Xel'thos?"

The god of death gave an empty smile, rows of sharp teeth glinting in the golden light. "I do not concern myself with the function of the engine. I merely collect the souls once they pass through."

Seraphis sighed, brushing a hand across her feathered wings. "Shouldn't the one who built it be responsible for its upkeep?"

Silence.

Eleven sets of eyes turned to Arodan, the Shattered King.

The crystalline god let out a slow, grinding exhale. "Built is a strong word," he muttered. "I merely… willed it into existence. It assembled itself."

Tsaryis tilted her head, grinning. "Ah, so you didn't build it."

"No, I merely conceived the idea of something that would collect and sort the souls so we wouldn't have to. It practically built itself."

"Then why is it breaking?" Kael'Zir asked.

"It doesn't break," Arodan snapped, folding his arms. "It even repairs its own damage. The idea that it's malfunctioning is ridiculous."

The gods stared at the engine in silence. It continued to hum, its radiant glow undisturbed.

Ordos waved a hand lazily. "If there was a problem, it would have fixed itself by now."

Seraphis sighed. "Still, someone should check it."

Kael'Zir placed his gauntleted hands on the stone table. "Then perhaps the one who suggested this check should be the one to do it."

Xel'Thos tapped a bony finger on the table while pointing another at himself. "I simply observe. I do not interfere."

Ordos exhaled through his nose. "Enough." He leaned forward on his throne, fixing Arodan with a glowing, heavy stare. "You will do it."

Arodan stiffened. "What?"

Ordos's voice remained calm, his tone carrying the weight of an order, not a request. "You. Will. Do. It." He leaned back, resting his chin against his palm. "Because I am your king, and you will do as I say."

Silence.

Arodan's gemlike fingers curled into a fist. His crystalline skin let out a faint, grinding noise, the only hint of irritation he allowed himself to show. His jaw tightened. This angered him, but refusing was not an option.

"…Fine."

Without another word, he stood, his heavy steps echoing through the chamber as he made his way toward the machine.

Ordos watched him go, exhaling in boredom. "Honestly. You'd think I was asking him to rebuild it."

Soft laughter rippled around the table. The gods resumed their conversation.

Arodan approached the machine, his heavy steps echoing through the chamber. The golden pipes surrounding the crystal sphere hissed softly, their endless, twisting coils disappearing into the walls, the ceiling, the very foundation of the temple itself. The heartbeat of existence, humming along, indifferent to the gods who had long since forgotten how it even worked.

He stopped before the three small valves beneath the sphere.

His gemlike fingers hovered over them.

"…What do these even do?"

Arodan gripped one and twisted, expecting resistance—none came. The valve spun loosely in his grasp, the mechanism beneath it letting out a pathetic wheeze, like a dying animal.

Nothing changed.

He turned another. More wheezing.

Still, nothing changed.

Annoyance prickled in his chest. The others were watching. No doubt that insufferable Tsaryis was smirking behind her fan, waiting to make some sarcastic remark.

Arodan rolled his shoulders, trying to maintain his dignity, and placed both hands on the crystal sphere, as if he could feel what was wrong. The souls inside swirled like a tempest, oblivious to the celestial incompetence unfolding outside their prison.

His fingers clenched.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered.

And in a moment of childish frustration, he reared back and kicked one of the pipes.

A hollow clang echoed through the chamber.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, the pipes groaned, the engine whirred to life, and suddenly—

Everything was working again.

Arodan smirked. He turned back toward the others, arms crossed.

"There. Fixed."

Behind him, the Soul Flow Engine purred back to life. The crystal sphere churned, the golden pipes hummed, and the divine machine resumed its eternal function, as if nothing had ever been wrong.

The gods barely acknowledged the moment.

Ordos, satisfied, leaned back in his throne. "I told you it would fix itself."

Soft laughter rippled through the chamber. Conversations resumed.

But unseen—behind the throne, deep within the tangled maze of pipes—a pinprick of a hole remained.

A flaw.

A mistake so small it was beneath the notice of gods.

Yet through it, something had already begun to slip.

Something that did not belong.