The chamber of stars shimmered like a sea of frozen light, its ceiling endless, carved with constellations only gods could read. A silence hung in the air—cold, absolute, heavy.
Durandis Zevyn stood at the center of the Celestial Assembly. Once radiant in spirit, his golden eyes were now dimmed with sorrow, his hands trembling as they clenched into fists at his sides. Around him, twelve thrones floated in a wide circle, occupied by the ancient Celestial Lords—beings of timeless power and unyielding decree.
"You sit here," Durandis said quietly, his voice cracking under the weight of grief, "watching entire realities collapse, galaxies torn apart by war, children crushed under rubble in forgotten corners of dying worlds... and you still say we must do nothing?"
The eldest among them, a being robed in twilight mist, responded with the calmness of law. "We are not gods of intervention, Durandis. The Balance must be maintained. Mortals must shape their own destinies."
"Balance?" Durandis spat the word like poison. "You speak of balance while billions scream for salvation. Where is the balance in letting monsters rule over the weak, while we sit here with the power to change it?"
Another lord, eyes closed in distant meditation, murmured, "To intervene is to disrupt the flow. We would become tyrants disguised as saviors."
Durandis shook his head. Pain lined his face—not rage, not yet—but something deeper. The sorrow of a watcher, a guardian betrayed by his own purpose.
"I've pleaded with you for centuries. I've seen the rise and fall of empires fueled by greed. I've watched children born in fire and raised in war. And you call that destiny?" he whispered, voice cracking.
None of them moved.
The Lord of Time simply whispered, "We cannot intervene with mortals and the natural order."
It was the fifth time he'd heard that line.
And it shattered something in him.
Durandis stepped back, his celestial robes unraveling like smoke, falling from his shoulders like a soul shedding its faith. The colors of balance—white and black—faded into nothingness.
His wings, once woven with threads of twilight and dawn, twisted—splintered—and exploded into shadow.
Light flickered. Power crackled.
"Then I no longer serve Balance," he whispered.
The air thickened. Thunder growled in the void.
"I have seen the truth. Balance is a lie. The multiverse doesn't need watchers. It needs rebirth. Through chaos. Through shadows."
He raised his hands to the stars. Something ancient responded. Darkness bloomed behind his eyes.
"From this moment... I am no longer Durandis Zevyn. I am PAIN—Lord of Chaos. And I will no longer watch as the innocent burn. I will cleanse all realms. And I will build a new order... from ashes and shadow."
And then, with a pulse of dark light, he vanished.
Not a word was spoken in the Assembly. But every Lord felt it: the Balance had been broken.
Scene Two: The Return of Pain
The Celestial Palace floated at the heart of all creation—a city of infinite spires carved from the bones of stars, cloaked in cosmic winds. Its gates had not been breached since the Dawn of Realms.
Until now.
A rift tore through the sky like a scream. Black lightning surged from the void. And from it, Pain descended—slowly, almost peacefully, wings of stardust stretched behind him, his armor forged from shattered halos of the very lords he once revered.
He hovered above the palace, his presence bending gravity itself. Shadows crawled over the marble towers. The sun dimmed in the distance.
From the inner sanctum, alarms ignited in golden flares.
"The traitor has returned!" cried a guardian.
Supreme Celestial Lord Altheron stood atop the highest spire. His body radiated divine light, but his eyes were heavy with regret. "Summon every celestial guardian. Form the defense line around the System Chamber."
Horn-like signals blared through every corridor. Celestial warriors—beings older than stars—materialized in flashes of blue flame. Blades of starlight drawn. Shields hummed.
In the skies, they formed formations like constellations brought to life.
Pain hovered, unbothered.
He opened his hand.
A pulse of darkness surged forward. Warriors screamed as their bodies disintegrated into dust. Dozens died in an instant.
"I gave you a chance," Pain said, his voice booming across dimensions. "I begged you to change. Now I will rip the heavens down myself."
He began his descent.
Scene Three: The Last Hope
Beneath the palace, hidden within a chamber no mortal had seen, the Supreme Celestial Lord entered the System Core—a vast crystalline heart connected to every known universe. It was still incomplete, sparks of code dancing in the air like fragile spirits.
The Architects were already there—ageless, faceless, robed in logic.
"Is the system complete?" Altheron asked, his breath shaking.
One turned. "Negative. System completion at 78.34%. Synchronization not achieved."
Outside, the sky shattered. Pain's laughter echoed through the cosmos.
"If I offer half of my divine power," Altheron said, stepping forward, "will that complete the system?"
The Architects stilled. One stepped forward, voice low: "Yes. But it will cost you. Your body may not survive the transfer."
"I did not ask for guarantees," Altheron replied. "Only hope."
Another Architect stepped forward. "We advise against it. It is irreversible."
"So is the death of every living soul across the multiverse," he answered. His voice cracked—not from fear, but from the grief of watching his creation fall apart.
The Architects gave a slow nod.
Altheron turned his eyes to the core. He could feel it—this system, this last creation, was not just a program. It was a destiny. A soul yet unborn.
"Let it find the one," he whispered. "Let it choose the heart that has suffered, the soul that can endure."
"Begin extraction," the Architects said.
The light around Altheron burst into flames of gold and white. His divine essence flowed like a river into the system core. His body withered, crumbling slowly. Eyes dimming.
But the core lit up.
The system was coming alive.
Outside, Pain stood before the throne gates.
"Celestial Palace," he said, dark wings unfolding, "prepare to fall."
And with one final scream of cosmic rage, Pain unleashed a tidal wave of annihilation.