The last guardian: Rise of Ethan Wilson

The Chamber of Stars shimmered like a sea of frozen light—eternal, breathless, divine. Its ceiling stretched endlessly above, etched with constellations no mortal eye could decipher, alive with memories of forgotten universes. Silence reigned here, not from peace, but from power too vast for sound to cross.

Durandis Zevyn stood alone in the center of the Celestial Assembly, his once-radiant armor dulled, the silver streaks in his robes now faded gray. A faint tremble coursed through his fingers, but he did not hide it. Pain was meant to be seen. Felt. Known.

Around him, twelve thrones floated in a perfect circle, each occupied by an ancient Celestial Lord. These were not beings of flesh, but of law and cosmic principle—entities who had watched the birth and death of trillions of stars, who spoke only when the universe demanded it.

"You sit here in silence," Durandis began, his voice hoarse with a century's worth of anguish, "as galaxies collapse into themselves, as children cry out in burning cities… and still, you say nothing."

No response.

Only the hum of the cosmos murmuring through the marble floor, cold against his bare feet. Only the weight of eternity pressing down on him.

"You watch entire realities devour themselves, and you hide behind your doctrine of non-intervention. You claim to guard the Balance—but what balance is left, when evil multiplies unchecked and hope dies in the hearts of mortals?"

The eldest Celestial Lord, shrouded in robes woven from twilight and silence, responded at last. His voice was calm—dangerously so.

"We are not creators, Durandis. Nor destroyers. We are witnesses. The Balance must be upheld."

Durandis laughed. A bitter, hollow sound. The kind of laugh one makes at a funeral that's gone on too long.

"Witnesses? No… we are cowards. I've walked a thousand worlds, seen innocents crushed under tyrants' boots while we float above, pretending we're above it all."

One of the Lords, the Lady of Time, sighed without moving. Her eyes—bright with stars—remained closed in perpetual meditation.

"To change fate is to chain it. We would not be saviors. We would be conquerors."

Durandis lowered his head, voice breaking as emotion cracked his resolve.

"I begged you. For centuries, I pleaded. I saw hope rot into despair. I watched little ones grow up in ashes, never knowing peace. Empires fall, only to be replaced by worse tyrants. And every time, I heard the same words."

He turned slowly, staring each Lord in the eye, as if daring them to show a flicker of compassion.

"'We cannot intervene with mortals and the natural order.'"

He had heard it five times now. Each repetition was a blade, each silence a betrayal.

Something inside him broke.

Durandis stepped backward. His breath hitched.

His celestial robes—black and white, woven from the threads of balance itself—began to unravel like mist in the wind. The fabric disintegrated, curling into shadow and disappearing.

His wings, once composed of twilight and dawn, cracked. The left feathered with light. The right stained with dusk. They splintered—groaning under pressure—and then exploded in a cascade of shadows and flame.

The air thickened. Light distorted.

"I no longer serve Balance," he said softly, as though the words pained him more than anything else in his long existence.

A tremor raced through the chamber. The thrones flickered. Even the timeless Lords leaned forward, sensing it—the crack in the foundation of reality.

Durandis raised his arms.

A void opened behind him, swirling, hungry, alive.

From its depths came a voice. Not spoken—felt. Ancient. Primal. Echoes of forgotten chaos.

Durandis's eyes, once golden, now flared with purple fire.

"I have seen what you deny. The multiverse does not need balance. It needs rebirth. Not through mercy. But through judgment. Through chaos."

The shadows crawled over his form like serpents, weaving into armor—no longer robes, but bone-forged plate, sculpted from shattered halos. His breath steamed, not from cold, but from the raw energy boiling beneath his skin.

"I am no longer Durandis Zevyn."

He opened his palms.

"I am Pain, Lord of Chaos. And I will cleanse the multiverse—starting with this place of silence and lies."

Then he vanished—into nothing. Not even a wisp of light remained.

No one in the Assembly spoke. But across the stars, something shifted.

Balance had been broken.

Many generations have passed and millions of years later 

The Celestial Palace rested at the very heart of existence—a city above time, woven from dreams, truth, and stardust. Towering spires rose like prayers etched into the void. Its gates, sealed since the Dawn of Realms, had never known the sound of war.

Until today.

A scream tore the sky apart.

From the breach, a rift of swirling black lightning carved the heavens open. It pulsed with hunger. The cosmos itself recoiled.

And from within it, he came.

Pain descended—slowly, deliberately—wings of fractured starlight fanned wide behind him, armor forged from the bones of fallen lords, a crown of jagged shadow upon his brow. Every step twisted gravity. Every breath bent reality. The air thickened, choking on dread.

He hovered above the palace's highest towers. Shadows dripped from his form like blood.

Alarms flared—ancient sigils exploding in bursts of divine gold.

"The traitor has returned!" a sentinel shouted as the spires trembled.

High above, atop the Throne Pinnacle, the Supreme Celestial Lord Altheron stepped forward. His light, once radiant and pure, now shimmered with cracks—like a statue made of time too worn to hold.

His voice was hoarse. "Summon every guardian. Defend the System Chamber. At all costs."

The horns of war sounded—long, mourning, eternal.

From across the palace, warriors materialized in streams of flame. Some wore armor forged in the dying breath of stars. Others held blades crafted from time itself. Titans. Archangels. Keepers of Reality.

They formed into constellations in the skies above—living symbols of defiance.

And still, Pain hovered. Untouched. Unafraid.

He raised a single hand.

A wave of annihilation exploded from his palm.

It wasn't fire. It wasn't magic. It was erasure—a dark pulse that unmade existence. The front ranks disintegrated before they could scream. Celestial knights, born in the age of first breath, vanished into ash.

Pain's voice thundered through every atom of the palace.

"I offered mercy. I begged for change. You refused. So now—"

He pointed his sword to the throne.

"I bring retribution."

And with that, he descended—faster than thought, louder than silence.

In other side 

Deep beneath the palace, where even light feared to tread, lay the System Core—a crystalline structure the size of a galaxy, suspended in a chamber of eternity. It pulsed faintly, incomplete. Alive. Waiting.

Altheron entered, breathing heavily, robes torn, blood—divine and silver—leaking from his chest.

The Architects turned to him—beings of pure calculation, robed in code and logic.

"System integrity: 78.34%. No host found. Synchronization remains unstable," one said.

"Is it enough?" Altheron asked, falling to one knee.

Another replied, "Negative. Launch impossible. Host compatibility: zero percent."

Altheron closed his eyes. Pain was almost here. He could feel it—feel him. The presence of his fallen brother approaching like a shadow blotting out heaven.

"If I offer half of my divine power—will the system complete?"

The Architects stilled. For once, they hesitated.

"Affirmative," the leader finally said. "But you will die. Your essence will dissolve. No resurrection will be possible."

"I ask for no resurrection," Altheron whispered. "Only... a future."

His voice cracked, broken with sorrow. "Let it choose. Let it find the one with the strength to bear this burden. Not of power, but of heart. A soul who has lost everything... and yet stands."

A long pause.

Then: "Confirmed. Initiating extraction."

He stepped toward the core. His skin peeled away, not in pain, but in radiance—golden light erupting from his bones. His eyes dimmed, his breath shallow.

The core flared to life—gears turning, codes aligning, reality weaving a path.

The Architects looked up.

"System initialized. Awaiting host."

Outside, the throne gates exploded inward.

Pain stepped into the sacred hall of gods.

His sword pulsed.

His voice was calm.

"Celestial Palace…"

He raised his blade.

"…prepare to fall."

The scream that followed cracked the stars.

And the age of silence ended.