The invitations arrived without warning, descending upon gods across every corner of existence—through light, shadow, thought, and dream. Even those who dwelled in the farthest reaches of the cosmos were summoned with the same message:

Gather at the Hall of Eternal Judgment. A verdict will be passed by Ronan Arcanveil.

It was an unusual summons. A murder trial—trivial in the cosmic scheme of things—had pulled gods from every pantheon and realm. This was not a normal summons.

The gods arrived curious, uneasy. They were beings accustomed to endless battles, world-building, and millennia of feasts and rivalries. Life and death were natural, cycles they rarely interrupted unless it concerned a cosmic disturbance.

Yet here they were—every deity, no exceptions. And seated upon the Throne of Heaven, above all others, was the most revered among them. Cyrus Arcanveil.

The Hall of Eternal Judgment

The Hall was a marvel, a structure worthy of its divine occupants. The ceiling stretched beyond sight, filled with clusters of newborn stars, swirling nebulae, and collapsing suns—timeless and infinite. The walls shimmered with cosmic dust and shifting patterns of reality, as if the very essence of creation wove through the stone. Pillars of living flame and water spiraled upward, shifting between forms that defied mortal comprehension.

The seating tiers were arranged in vast rings—rows of radiant thrones, each one sculpted to reflect the domain of its occupant. Some thrones gleamed with celestial brilliance, while others bled shadows, serpentine and twisting, into the hall's floor.

At the heart of the court sat three monumental seats.

The Throne of Heaven, a blinding marvel of golden radiance, shimmered with divine authority. It was a symbol of absolute power over creation—an impossibly intricate sculpture depicting moments of life blooming across countless worlds. The Throne of Hell, a thing of obsidian fury and molten flame, pulsed with dark, brooding energy. Smoke curled from its jagged edges, whispering promises of destruction and temptation. The Judge's Throne—a masterpiece formed from stardust and primordial stone—remained empty. It waited for its master, Ronan Arcanveil, to pass judgment.

The gods filled their seats, each arrival more spectacular than the last.

The War God clanked into place, his jagged iron throne bearing the dents of ancient battles. The Goddess of Nature, her throne a living garden, spread fragrant blossoms and curling vines across the surrounding seats. The God of Knowledge hovered on a chair made of ancient scrolls, his gaze distant, as if already calculating the implications of this trial.

Seated above them all, Cyrus Arcanveil—Lord of Heaven, Master of Life, and King of Kings—observed the proceedings in silence. His golden eyes radiated calm authority, and the power within him was unmistakable. To merely look upon Cyrus was to witness the origin of all order and creation.

His throne—more radiant than the sun—seemed alive, humming with celestial energy. His every movement, no matter how slight, sent ripples of divine intent through the hall.

When Aurelion, the Radiant God of the Day, bowed respectfully before taking his seat, it was not to the other gods—it was to Cyrus. The gods might have gathered for Ronan's judgment, but Cyrus's presence alone demanded reverence.

Valefor, Lord of Hell, lounged lazily across his own throne of shadows. He watched the proceedings with an amused grin, but even his gaze flicked warily toward Cyrus from time to time. There was no throne higher than Cyrus's. There never would be.

Whispers began to circulate among the gods.

"Why summon us all for a murder?"

"Could it be that the murder involves one of us?"

"Ronan Arcanveil… what game is he playing now?"

Cyrus's gaze was steady, his golden eyes scanning the faces below without expression. Though his face remained calm, a subtle tension radiated from him, as if he could see a storm brewing—one only a father could sense.

Valefor tilted his head toward Cyrus, his smile widening with mock concern. "Tense, old friend? You look troubled."

"I do not share in your enjoyment of this," Cyrus replied smoothly, his voice low and resonant. It carried weight, the kind of weight that silenced those foolish enough to challenge him. "This is not a game."

Valefor chuckled, the sound like cracking embers. "Oh, come now. It's just a murder. Why, I'd wager this hall has witnessed worse."

Cyrus's gaze darkened slightly, a flicker of warning dancing in his golden eyes. "Murder is the symptom, not the cause. You would do well to remember that."

Valefor merely grinned wider and leaned back in his throne, unbothered by the subtle rebuke. But others noticed. Every god present was reminded that no one challenged Cyrus Arcanveil—not without consequence.

The silence deepened as the massive gates of the hall began to tremble. The glyphs lining the walls burned brighter, and streams of divine energy flowed toward the Judge's Throne like rivers converging upon an inevitable destination.

The gods sat up straighter in their seats. Even the War God shifted uneasily, gripping the arms of his throne. The weight of Ronan's presence approached—something vast, overwhelming, and ancient. It bent the atmosphere, a power that even gods could not ignore.

Cyrus's expression remained neutral, but there was a glimmer of something deeper in his eyes—concern, perhaps, or regret. He knew his son well. Whatever this judgment was, Ronan would not be merciful.

"He's coming," Cyrus said softly, though his words carried across the chamber like a ripple through still water.

Valefor's grin curled into something more predatory. "Ah, young Ronan. So serious, so driven. I do enjoy watching him work."

"This is not your entertainment," Cyrus warned, though his voice was without anger—only weary patience.

Valefor shrugged lazily. "It might as well be."

As the gates unlocked with a final, deafening boom, the gods held their breath. The son of Cyrus Arcanveil was about to make his entrance, and with it would come not just justice—but a reckoning.

Cyrus leaned back slightly in his throne, exuding both the calm assurance of a ruler and the quiet apprehension of a father. He had raised Ronan to be a god among gods, but even he knew that there were forces at play within his son—forces that might not stop at judgment. Forces that could reshape the heavens, the hells, and all in between.

The hall trembled, not with physical force, but with the gravity of presence as Ronan Arcanveil entered. The towering doors groaned open, parting like the heavens themselves, and a figure cloaked in shadow and light stepped through.

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The gods sat still—no, they froze, as if the very essence of existence paused to acknowledge the one entering the chamber. Ronan walked with an eerie grace, his every step deliberate, echoing with a resonance that belonged to no mere mortal. His form was elegant yet powerful, draped in a dark coat that shifted between starlight and void, like the night sky folding around him.

Behind him, an aura of celestial energy swirled—fractals of galaxies, streams of molten gold, and fragments of ancient laws etched into reality. His striking blue eyes glinted with unreadable calm, and as he moved forward, it became clear: here was not just a god, but a force of will strong enough to shape worlds and shatter them without hesitation.

Every god watched him—some in awe, others with envy, a few with fear. Even those who wielded the power of creation and destruction couldn't help but feel... diminished. This was Ronan Arcanveil—son of Cyrus, heir to Heaven, wielder of authority none dared challenge.

The War God clenched his fists, the veins in his arms bulging. The Goddess of Wisdom leaned forward, adjusting her silver glasses, her calculating gaze sharpened. Even Valefor, the Lord of Hell, stifled his grin and shifted slightly, as if aware that his usual games would hold little sway over the prince today.

As Ronan reached the Judge's Throne, the vast courtroom fell utterly silent. Every breath, every flicker of divine energy stilled in anticipation. He ascended the steps with the same calm precision that defined him, his coat trailing behind him like the wake of a comet. As he sat, the throne welcomed him—streams of divine energy curled around his form, acknowledging the one who would pass judgment today.

He leaned back slightly, one leg over the other, perfectly composed. The heavens and hells seemed to fold into place around him as if the universe itself bent toward his will. He raised a hand, a subtle gesture, and every murmured conversation and whisper among the gods ceased at once.

His blue eyes swept across the hall—cool, calm, and all-encompassing. Then, with a voice both gentle and resolute, Ronan spoke.

"Good afternoon, everyone. I am Ronan Arcanveil."

The simplicity of the introduction sent a ripple through the courtroom, as if the mere mention of his name confirmed the gravity of the situation. He didn't raise his voice—he didn't need to. His words carried the weight of inevitability, as though they were etched into the fabric of reality.

He rested his hands lightly on the armrests of his throne and offered a slight, polite smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"This judgment will be taken over by me. Shall we proceed with the hearing?"

The gods shifted in their seats, uneasy but attentive. Even Cyrus, seated upon the Throne of Heaven, narrowed his eyes in contemplation, watching his son with quiet intensity. There was a flicker of pride in his expression, though it was buried beneath layers of fatherly concern. Valefor, by contrast, lounged more comfortably in his throne, though his sharp gaze remained fixed on Ronan, intrigued by the unfolding spectacle.

Ronan gave a soft nod, exuding grace and control. "I will first make a report for everyone here."

He paused briefly, allowing the gathered deities to absorb the weight of the statement. Then he continued with a measured cadence, his voice remaining kind and composed, as if he were simply recounting a mundane event.

"Mr. Haze, a minor god residing in Hell, killed a god residing in Heaven."

A murmur rippled through the courtroom, gods exchanging glances. Minor disputes and skirmishes were common among lower beings—but a god killing another god across realms? That was something else entirely.

Ronan remained unbothered by their reactions, his voice calm as the sea.

"The reason—which was confessed by Mr. Haze himself, without a trace of remorse—was simple: the victim outbid him at an auction. A silly reason, I suppose."

There was a stunned silence, followed by incredulous whispers.

"He killed over an auction bid?"

"Is this what we were summoned for?"

"Has the celestial court been reduced to managing petty disputes now?"

Some gods shook their heads, disgusted. The God of War muttered a curse, gripping the edge of his iron throne hard enough to dent it. The Goddess of Wealth arched a delicate eyebrow, bemused by how something as trivial as a bid could end in murder. Even Valefor let out a soft chuckle, though his eyes sparkled with dangerous curiosity.

Ronan's blue gaze remained steady, his expression still kind, as if the gods' reactions were anticipated. He didn't chide them for their whispers, nor did he raise his voice. He simply continued.

"But the problem doesn't stop there."

His tone shifted subtly, the gentleness becoming a touch firmer—not threatening, but enough to command undivided attention.

"This act… it is more than just a murder. It is a trigger for something far worse—something that must be addressed immediately."

A tense silence filled the air. Even the War God stopped muttering, his jaw tightening as the implications of Ronan's words began to sink in. The Goddess of Wisdom sat straighter, her calculating gaze locked on the prince.

Ronan folded his hands in his lap, the very picture of composure.

"As a prince, I felt it my responsibility to take this matter seriously," he explained, the kindness in his voice almost unsettling. "War, after all, is not something to be taken lightly."

A ripple of unease spread through the assembly. Every deity present knew the cost of war between realms—knew the devastation that could follow. If one minor god's action could spark such conflict, who else might follow in his footsteps?

Even Cyrus Arcanveil leaned forward slightly, his gaze intent on his son. There was no outward emotion on his face, but there was something in his golden eyes—a flicker of recognition. He knew where this was going.

Ronan smiled softly. "So, naturally, I asked Mr. Haze if there were others like him—others who might share his mindset, who might see violence as a means to settle petty disputes."

He paused, glancing briefly at the gods gathered before him. His blue gaze lingered on Valefor, who raised an eyebrow in mock innocence.

"Surprisingly," Ronan continued with a light chuckle, "the list of names was... rather long."

The gods stirred, their unease palpable. Every whisper and murmur died instantly. A silence, heavy with dread, settled over the courtroom. Some deities exchanged glances of concern, others clenched their fists. If Ronan had uncovered a deeper pattern—if multiple gods had indulged in similar behavior— then the consequences would be far-reaching.

Even Cyrus exhaled quietly, his gaze shadowed with thought. He knew what this meant—not just for the trial, but for the fragile peace between realms.

Valefor leaned forward, his grin widening ever so slightly. "Well, well… things are about to get interesting."

The two hours had passed, and the air in the court felt heavier with each ticking moment. Whispers fluttered among the gods seated in the towering arena as fifty new accused gods materialized at the center. Their confusion was evident—some still blinking in disbelief, others silently fuming.

Ronan Arcanveil stood calm and unmoving, the flicker of ancient wisdom behind his striking blue eyes. The original accused gods, desperate for leniency, presented their collected evidence to him. Scrolls unfurled mid-air, holographic displays shimmered with testimonies, and ethereal recordings showed moments of oppression carried out by the newly accused, casting a grim shadow over every one of them.

"Impressive," Ronan murmured, briefly scanning the damning evidence. His voice remained soft, almost kind—a strange warmth that seemed out of place. "You did exactly what I asked, and you have given me everything I need."

The accused gods, old and new, stirred uncomfortably. Some looked at Ronan with a flicker of hope—perhaps this was their salvation. But that fragile hope began to waver as Ronan's gaze darkened, taking on a weight beyond mortal comprehension.

"Now that all the accused are here," Ronan said, his voice smooth but with an edge of finality, "let me say something."

The room quieted as the gods leaned in, sensing a storm brewing beneath his polished tone.

"A long time ago," Ronan began, his words almost soothing, "Hell and Heaven were locked in war. A brutal conflict that lasted eons. But when the dust finally settled, a pact was made. A truce. We forged a fragile peace, an understanding between realms."

He paused, giving the assembly a moment to absorb the weight of his words. "For centuries, we have lived under the illusion of that peace." His tone remained gentle, resonating with the gravity of a prince addressing his people. "But this peace is... fragile. Delicate. It's easily disturbed."

Ronan's expression shifted—like the sun retreating behind thunderclouds. His eyes, glowing with that signature sapphire brilliance, grew colder, more dangerous.

"And it is being disturbed—by you." His voice now carried a sharper edge, the kindness bleeding out of it. "Why do you oppress those weaker than you? The answer is simple." He gestured toward the accused, his tone laced with venomous clarity.

"What Heaven has, Hell doesn't. What Hell has, Heaven envies. It's a cycle of jealousy, a pathetic attempt to satisfy your greed. And that—" His voice grew harsher with every word, stripping away the warmth it once held, "—is why I stand before you now."

The gods in the courtroom began to fidget. The once tranquil chamber felt as if it were vibrating with the weight of an impending storm.

"As your future king," Ronan continued, his words heavy with ruthless intent, "I will set an example."

Suddenly, the court pulsed—an immense, otherworldly tremor reverberated through the walls. The very air shifted, humming with latent power as a glowing barrier sprang up around the courtroom, trapping every god inside.

Gasps and shouts echoed across the chamber. Some gods tried to teleport out, but their attempts fizzled, their magic useless against the barrier. Panic rippled through the assembly as the realization hit: no one could leave.

Ronan's presence became overwhelming, a cold and unforgiving force. His cruel smile was the only warmth in the room now.

"Summon Gungnir," he commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.