Hero Of Broken History

The Vision

A throne room vast enough to swallow cities. The ceiling was sky—not painted, not illusion, but actual infinite space pressing down with the weight of eternity. The floor was... everything. Stone and water and fire and void, all occupying the same space, all real simultaneously.

Eight thrones arranged in a circle. Eight presences that made Avian's mind scream just from proximity. Gods. These were gods. Real gods, not Church propaganda or historical figures. Beings of such concentrated power that reality bent around them like light around a star.

And kneeling in the center of the circle, bound by chains that glowed with divine light—

A figure.

Humanoid but radiating power that made the gods seem cautious. The face was obscured, features burning too bright to perceive clearly. But the chains—those were clear. Divine restraints wrapped around wrists, throat, torso. Each link inscribed with script that hurt to look at.

Avian wasn't experiencing this. He was watching it. A memory. A recording. Something preserved in the Eyes themselves.

The first god spoke. Masculine voice, cold as the space between stars.

"You love them too much. These mortals. These fleeting sparks that burn and die. You disrupt the natural order."

The second god. Masculine, commanding, power incarnate.

"Your rebellion endangered the divine hierarchy. Endangered US. Because you could not accept their mortality as weakness."

The kneeling figure's voice resonated through the throne room, and Avian felt his bones vibrate from the sound alone.

"They deserve more than to be your playthings. They deserve chance. Choice. LIFE beyond your whims."

The third god spoke. Ageless, like the movement of celestial bodies.

"And what would you have done? Granted them immortality? Made them gods? The flow would shatter. All things must end."

The figure strained against chains, divine power flaring. The throne room shook. The gods didn't flinch, but Avian saw them shift. Wary. Even bound, this being made them cautious.

"I would have given them the power to save themselves. Not beg for scraps of divine attention."

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

Then the fourth god spoke. Feminine, like seasons turning.

"Then you shall live among them. Stripped of divinity. Made mortal as they are mortal."

The fifth god. Feminine, like wind through leaves.

"Perhaps you will understand, then. Why we cannot grant what you ask. The balance must hold."

The sixth god spoke, and her voice fractured like dreams dissolving. Unstable, shifting between tones. But underneath—desperate sadness.

"Please... please, there must be another way. Dreams show me what you could become. What you were. What you'll lose."

Her voice broke. Actual grief.

"I've seen your future. Lifetimes of pain. Over and over. Dying young, again and again, never understanding why. I don't... I don't want this for you."

The seventh god cut through. Feminine, sharp as broken promises.

"There is no other way. We cannot kill you, God of Power. Your nature rebels against death itself. So we seal you instead. Bind you. Make you forget."

The eighth god. Feminine, cruel and honeyed.

"You shall be hero in every life. Save them, again and again. But die before reclaiming what you were. How perfect. How beautifully tragic."

The sixth god—dreams and madness—spoke again, pleading now.

"The dreams... they show me endless cycles. Endless death. Can't we—can't someone remember? Can't there be mercy?"

The first god's voice cut through like a blade. Final. Absolute.

"The decision is made. He will forget. They will forget. Turn his victories to villainy. Such is the price of loving mortals above gods."

The sixth god's voice came as broken whisper, tears in every word.

"Then let me give him one mercy. Let some part remember. In dreams. In nightmares. So he's not completely lost—"

The seventh god, harsh and unyielding.

"No."

The sixth god sobbing now, voice fragmenting.

"Please. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I wish I could stop this. I've seen what comes. Every life. Every death. The loneliness. The confusion. The rage at truths you can't remember. Please forgive me. Please—"

But she didn't stop it. Couldn't. The vote had been cast.

The kneeling figure screamed.

Not pain. Not fear.

RAGE.

Pure, concentrated, absolute defiance. The chains flared white-hot as divine power fought against them. The throne room cracked. Reality itself strained.

"I WILL RETURN!" The voice shook creation. "AND YOU WILL REMEMBER WHY YOU FEARED ME!"

The gods didn't respond. They simply... enacted their will.

Divine power was RIPPED away. Not gently. Torn from the very essence of the being, leaving raw wounds that bled light. The figure convulsed, back arching, mouth open in a scream that had no sound because sound itself couldn't contain that level of agony.

Stripped. Reduced. Made less.

Made mortal.

The figure fell. Not physically—through dimensions. Through layers of reality. Falling from divine realm to mortal world, power bleeding away with each layer crossed.

The sixth god's voice, whisper following through the fall:

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."

Everything went BLACK.

Return to Reality

Avian's eyes snapped open.

He was on his knees in the vault, hands pressed against cold stone. The Eyes of Potestas—

Gone.

The pedestal was empty. The crystalline artifacts had vanished.

What the—

Pain exploded behind his eyes. Not the splitting headache from before, but something different. Pressure. Like something was trying to push OUT from inside his skull rather than in.

His vision swam, doubled, tripled. The vault walls seemed to breathe. And then—

Lines.

Everywhere. Flowing lines of colored light that hadn't been there before. They moved through the air like rivers, like currents, weaving complex patterns that hurt to follow but were impossible to ignore.

Avian raised his hand, and he could see it. His own aura, silver-touched energy flowing around his fingers in intricate spirals. The patterns shifted with each heartbeat, each breath, responding to his intent.

What the fuck is this?

He looked at the vault walls. Saw the wards inscribed in the stone—not just the physical script, but the power behind them. Lines of blue-white energy flowing through carved channels, creating a defensive matrix that pulsed with contained force.

The bodies of the infiltrators. Their life force had already faded, but residual energy clung to them like dying embers. Red traces where blood had spilled. Faint golden shimmer where one had carried a blessed talisman.

And his own body—

Avian looked down at himself and saw the network of power that comprised his being. Aura flowing through channels that matched his bones and muscles. Mana circulating through his Mana Heart, spreading through Mana Veins in branching patterns. The Aether Core in his chest, pulsing with stored energy.

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He could see it all. Every flow. Every current. Every interaction between the energies that made him function.

The Eyes. I absorbed them. Somehow.

The realization came with certainty he couldn't explain. The artifacts hadn't disappeared—they'd merged with him. Become part of him. Given him... this.

The ability to see power itself.

Heavy footsteps echoed from the passage.

Avian stood, legs shaky, and looked toward the sound. Through the walls—through the stone itself—he could see them coming.

Gorath and Ashera.

Two blazing cores of power moving through the collapsed corridor. Divine energy wrapped around them like armor, bright and terrible. They'd dug through the rubble faster than he'd hoped.

And now they were almost here.

Avian's hand found Fargrim's hilt. The demon blade's power was visible now—dark tendrils of energy coiling along the steel, hungry and patient.

He had no mana left. His body was held together by recent healing and stubborn will. Every muscle screamed for rest.

But his eyes—his new sight—showed him something else.

Gorath's attack patterns. The way divine energy gathered in his arms before a hammer swing. The brief moment of vulnerability when he committed to the strike.

Ashera's blade work. How her power flowed into her weapons, the split-second delay between intent and execution. The gaps in her defense when she transitioned between forms.

He could see it all now. Not just the attacks, but the power behind them. The flow. The rhythm.

This... this might be enough.

The wall exploded inward.

Gorath burst through in a shower of stone and dust, hammer already swinging. Ashera followed, blades singing.

And Avian saw them coming.

The Final Exchange

The hammer descended.

Avian watched divine energy gather in Gorath's shoulders, flow down his arms, concentrate in the weapon's head. Saw the trajectory before the swing completed.

Moved.

Not desperately. Not by reflex. By understanding.

He shifted his weight, reduced gravity on himself slightly—just enough to accelerate the dodge without the usual mana cost. The hammer passed close enough to stir his hair, but it didn't connect.

Gorath's eyes widened. "How—"

Ashera came from the blind side, blades seeking his exposed ribs. But Avian saw the power flowing into her weapons, saw how it moved through her arms, predicted the angle of attack.

Fargrim came up to intercept. Not blocking—redirecting. Letting her momentum carry her past while he pivoted.

"He's different," Ashera said, landing light. "Something changed."

"The Eyes," Gorath rumbled. "He touched them. Whatever they were, he has them now."

They circled him, wary now. Studying. Adjusting.

Avian didn't wait for them to finish adapting.

He attacked.

Not with his usual desperate aggression, but with surgical precision. He could see Gorath's power gathering for a counter—so he struck from the opposite angle. Could see Ashera's defensive aura shifting—so he aimed for the gap before it closed.

Fargrim carved a line across Gorath's forearm. Not deep, but clean. The big Lightbringer stumbled back, surprised.

Drain.

The healing pulse hit. Minor wounds closing. Exhaustion lifting slightly.

Ashera's blade came for his throat. Avian saw the divine energy coating it, saw how it would react to demonic steel. Parried at the exact angle to minimize the clash of opposed energies.

The impact still drove him back, but his guard held. No injury. No opening created.

"Impossible," Ashera breathed. "We have equal tier. Equal experience. How are you—"

"Seeing you," Avian finished. And it was true. He could see everything. The flow of their power, the intent behind each movement, the split-second tells before they committed to an action.

It didn't make him faster. Didn't make him stronger.

But it made him aware.

Gorath and Ashera attacked together, coordination honed by decades. Hammer from above, blades from below, timing perfect to eliminate escape options.

But Avian saw the power flows converge. Saw the half-second window before both strikes landed where neither could adjust.

He moved into that window. Let the hammer pass overhead. Let the blades pass behind. Stood in the impossible space between coordinated attacks and drove Fargrim toward Gorath's exposed side.

The big Lightbringer twisted desperately, taking the strike on his armor instead of flesh. The blessed steel held, but barely. Cracks spread through the divine enchantments.

Drain.

Smaller this time—striking armor instead of flesh—but still present. Another fraction of exhaustion lifted.

"We can't fight him like this," Gorath said, breathing hard. "Not wounded. Not after—"

The vault suddenly flooded with light.

Not from the entrance. From Avian.

The Eyes of Potestas, now merged with him, responded to his blood. To what he was, even if he didn't know it yet. Divine energy erupted outward, filling the chamber with radiance that made both Lightbringers throw up their hands.

"That energy," Gorath whispered. "That was—"

"Divine." Ashera's voice shook. "Pure divine power. But not Church blessed. Not any god we serve."

They looked at each other. Some decision passing between them.

"We need to report this," Gorath said. "The Archbishop needs to know."

"The Eyes—"

"Are less important than this." He looked at Avian, and there was something like fear in his expression. "Whatever just awakened in him, whatever just responded to his blood—"

"We don't get paid enough for this," Ashera finished.

They retreated. Actually retreated, backing toward the broken wall with weapons raised but not attacking.

Avian stood in the center of corpses and blood and silver script, surrounded by fading divine light. Fargrim in hand, demon blade satisfied. His new sight showed him their power signatures withdrawing, moving away through the Academy.

They were actually leaving.

The light faded. The enhanced vision remained, showing him the flows of energy throughout the vault. Showing him his own power, flickering but functional.

His head throbbed. Not from pain—from the weight of what he'd seen. The vision. The gods. The curse.

Whose memory was that? The god Potestas?

But it had felt so... personal. Like watching through someone's eyes instead of observing from distance.

Why did I see that? Why ME?

The question echoed in his mind, but no answer came. Just exhaustion, confusion, and the lingering sense that he'd glimpsed something he wasn't supposed to understand.

Not yet.

Aftermath

Dean Aldrich - Main Courtyard

The divine energy spike had been impossible to miss.

Dean Aldrich stood amid his forest of steel spikes, Sister Elara bleeding from a dozen shallow cuts but still functional. The Lightbringer had felt it too—her eyes had widened, head turning toward the eastern district.

"That energy," she said. "It came from—"

"The vaults," the Dean finished. His face had gone pale. "Someone accessed the Eyes of Potestas."

The artifacts hadn't responded to anyone in three centuries. The Church had tried. The Empire had tried. Even the Dean himself had examined them decades ago, and they'd remained inert. Dead. Dormant.

But that pulse of power had been anything but dormant.

And the signature—old beyond measure, predating the Empire, predating the Church, resonating with patterns he'd only seen in the most ancient of texts—

Patterns associated with a name that shouldn't exist anymore.

"I need to—" Sister Elara started.

"Go," the Dean said. "Report to your Archbishop. Tell him..." He paused, choosing words carefully. "Tell him the Academy situation is more complex than anticipated."

She nodded once, sheathed her sword, and vanished in a burst of divine light.

The Dean stood alone in his devastated courtyard, steel spikes slowly retracting into the ground. Behind him, the protective dome still held. Kai and Canaline remained unconscious but alive.

Avian Veritas. What did you find down there? What did you become?

He'd felt that energy before. When the boy had broken divine chains that should have been unbreakable. When divine power had recoiled from him during the Archbishop's blessing.

The pieces were there. The pattern was there.

But accepting what the pattern suggested—that was something else entirely.

No. It's impossible. The God of Power died. Was sealed. Cast down. He can't be—

But the energy signature said otherwise.

The Dean looked toward the eastern district, toward the vaults where ancient power had just awakened.

"What have you done, boy?"

Leontis - Veritas Compound

"We have to go back," Leontis said, trying to sit up despite Seren's protests. "Avian's still—"

The pulse of divine energy washed over the entire city.

Both of them froze. That power—old, terrible, beautiful—resonated in Leontis's bones. The Resonance Codex he'd been unconsciously clutching began to hum, responding to something in that distant power.

"What was that?" Seren whispered.

Leontis closed his eyes, feeling the echoes. The Codex whispered fragments—not words, but impressions. Recognition. The artifact remembered this energy.

"That was Avian," he said with certainty.

"That's impossible. That energy was—"

"Divine. I know." Leontis opened his eyes. "But it was him. I'd recognize his aura signature anywhere. It's just... more now. Different."

Seren looked toward the Academy, toward the smoke rising in columns. "What happened to him?"

"I don't know. But we need to—"

Another pulse. Weaker this time. Fading. Like whatever had awakened was going back to sleep.

"He's alive," Leontis said. "Whatever happened, he survived it."

"That's not reassuring."

"It's all we've got."

Avian - The Vault

Avian stood alone, surrounded by bodies, blood still drying on his clothes. The enhanced vision had settled into something manageable—he could see the energy flows if he focused, let them fade to background if he didn't.

The Eyes of Potestas were gone. Absorbed. Part of him now.

And he had no idea what that meant.

The vision echoed in his mind. Eight gods. A figure in chains. A curse spanning lifetimes.

I will return. And you will remember why you feared me.

The words resonated in his blood. Like an echo of something he should know but couldn't quite grasp.

He shook his head, immediately regretted it as the motion sent the world spinning. Too tired. Too much. He needed to get out of here before more Lightbringers came.

Before someone decided the Academy wasn't worth the political complications.

Avian stumbled toward the exit, using Fargrim as a cane. Each step felt like wading through mud. His new vision showed him his own power reserves—nearly empty, running on fumes and stubbornness.

But he was alive.

He'd survived.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, a whisper that might have been memory or might have been something else:

Remember what you saw. Remember what you ARE.

He pushed it down. Focused on putting one foot in front of the other. On reaching the surface. On surviving the next hour.

Understanding could wait.

Right now, he just needed to not die.

Again.