CHAPTER 1145: DRAFTING (1).

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Chapter: The Sound of Splintering Faith

The rain hadn’t stopped. It came down like a punishment — sharp, relentless, cleansing nothing.

Cain stood amid the ruins of what had once been a stronghold of order, his blade heavy in his hand, the hum of {Eidwyrm} long since faded. Around him, the battlefield was a collage of human wreckage: armor split open, blood pooling in the cracks of the earth, the stench of ozone mixing with iron and smoke.

He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, staring at the mangled corpse of the Stone Ox King. The man’s massive frame was broken, his once fiery eyes now dull, glassy stones staring at a sky that refused to clear.

Baldur’s axe lay half-buried nearby, still humming faintly with residual Ki. It was strange — for all the fury of the fight, Cain felt... nothing. Not triumph. Not relief. Just the dull ache of existence pressing down on him again.

His muscles still twitched, phantom heat coursing through them, like his body didn’t know the battle was over. The world hadn’t decided who’d won yet.

Behind him, the low whine of the wind carried voices — his soldiers regrouping, their calls mingled with groans, the clang of salvaged metal, and the wet shuffle of boots dragging through mud.

Roselle appeared first. Her armor was scorched and her left pauldron split, but she was alive. Her expression hardened when her eyes found Baldur’s corpse. "It’s over?"

Cain nodded once. "For him."

Steve arrived next, carrying a wounded fighter on his shoulder. "For us too, if we don’t move. The red domes are collapsing, and the Celestial conduits are destabilizing. If those blow, this whole sector goes with it."

Cain turned toward the ridge. The crimson barriers that had divided the battlefield were flickering, pulsing like dying hearts. Bolts of raw mana arced skyward, twisting into the clouds.

He wiped the rain and blood from his face with the back of his hand. "Pull everyone back to the lower sector. Tell Susan to seal the east line."

Roselle frowned. "And you?"

"I’m making sure this bastard doesn’t get up again."

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "You think he could?"

Cain didn’t answer. He knelt by Baldur’s body, studying the strange glyphs carved into the Ox King’s chest — not tattoos, but living sigils, still faintly glowing. The flesh pulsed once, and then again.

"Divine regeneration," Cain muttered. "He’s tethered."

Steve cursed under his breath. "To what?"

Cain stood, gripping his blade tighter. "Not what. Who."

The sky crackled — a column of red light erupting from the ridge as the remaining conduits detonated. The shockwave threw them off their feet, dust and flame swallowing everything in a white-hot flash.

When Cain staggered upright, his ears rang. Half the field was gone — replaced by a crater, blackened stone still hissing under the rain. Through the haze, shapes began to emerge — silhouettes too perfect to be human, their steps silent, their presence heavy.

Celestials.

Their wings shimmered like fractured glass, their eyes burning through the smoke. There were three of them, and each carried the same aura Baldur had borne, only purer — raw Divinity, unfiltered, uncaring.

Roselle exhaled sharply, voice trembling. "They sent angels."

Steve’s hand went to his gun, but Cain raised a hand to stop him. "Don’t. That’ll only make them faster."

The center Celestial stepped forward, face obscured by a veil of light. Its voice carried no tone, just a resonance that crawled into the bones.

"Cain of the Blighted Sigil. You have slain one chosen by Heaven’s contract. Do you deny your heresy?"

Cain’s mouth twitched, a half-smile caught between defiance and exhaustion. "Heresy implies faith."

The Celestial’s gaze sharpened. "You were born under one."

"Then consider this a rebellion."

It moved faster than thought — a flash of white cutting through rain and wind. Cain’s sword barely caught the first blow. The impact threw sparks, the ground beneath them splitting. The air warped from the pressure.

He stumbled back, boots grinding into the mud, blade vibrating in his grip. The Celestial advanced, expression unchanged, another swing following the first — silent, merciless, mechanical.

Cain met it with raw instinct, his Ki roaring to life though the world felt thin around him. Mana still refused him — he could feel the Divine seal choking that flow — but his body remembered the rhythm of war. Every strike he deflected rattled his bones. Every near-miss cut deeper than steel.

A third blow came down. Cain twisted under it, dragging {Eidwyrm} across the ground and up, the arc slicing through the Celestial’s wing. The creature screamed — not in pain, but in outrage.

Steve fired, the bullet uselessly disintegrating against the radiant shield, but it was enough to distract it. Roselle lunged forward, her blade catching the Celestial’s exposed flank. The wound burned silver.

Cain didn’t wait. He drove his sword through the fissure in its chest, twisting until light burst out like a dying star. The Celestial’s body convulsed, then shattered — glass and light scattering into the storm.

The others stopped moving. One tilted its head, as if calculating something. Then both vanished, dissolving into beams of gold that disappeared into the clouds.

Silence followed — the kind that only existed after something impossible had just occurred.

Roselle dropped to one knee, panting. "That was... a lesser seraph."

Cain glanced at the ashes of the fallen one. "And even that almost killed us."

Steve kicked a piece of glowing glass into the mud. "So what now?"

Cain turned his gaze toward the horizon. The storm hadn’t let up, but there — far beyond the ruins, a glow pulsed from the heart of the city. A beacon. A new temple.

He sheathed his blade slowly. "Now," he said, voice rough but steady, "we see what god they think they’re building this time."

The rain fell harder. The wind carried the faint echo of chanting — human, desperate, and growing louder.

War, as always, refused to end.

Word count (with whitespace): 1,045 words.