The Nameless Heir

The sun hung high as he sat in his throne between the two city, surrounded by blood, wreckage, and the silence of the dead.

Then came the next wave.

Not from the field, but from the sky.

A heavy craft broke through the clouds, dragging a long shadow across the ruined city. Its engines didn't scream. They growled—deep, guttural—like something ancient and wrong had been woken up.

From its belly, a single bomb dropped.

No flash. No warning.

Just a black shape falling slow, steady, like it already knew nothing beneath it would survive.

Kael didn't move.

The air bent around it. Power rolled ahead of its descent, warping light, bending heat. Even the shadows stirred, uneasy.

Quiet. Slow. Heavy.

This wasn't designed by Daedalus. It was something new. And he was about to see what it does.

The shadows surged up from the ground before the blast could take shape. They wrapped around him and the city behind, sealing it all in a black sphere.

Then his shadows shot upward like thick black liquid. They spread quickly, wrapping themselves around the explosion. More shadows rose, layering over each layer—tighter with each pass—sealing off the blast as it pressed in.

A moment later, the explosion hit—one that made the shadowy sphere stretch and strain under the sudden force. Pressure swelled outward, quivering under the pressure. It rippled through the layer like it couldn't take any more.

Light cracked through the layer.

So a second rose—thicker, darker—and swallowed it whole.

More detonations followed. Each pulse hit harder, the shock slamming into the walls until they rippled, then tensed again.

So his shadows climbed higher, stacking more layers, pressing down, bracing against the next surge.

Each blast met another fold. Another wall.

Until nothing remained but smoke curling at the edges.

When it cleared,

he was still seated.

Unmoved.

Unshaken.

Hours passed before the soldiers rolled in.

He let them come, like insects drawn to a flame they didn't understand.

They raised their weapons, like they hadn't already tried, failed, and bled for it—and opened fire. Smoke engulfed the field. Dust swallowed the air. When it cleared, he was still there—unmoving, unharmed. His eyes narrowed, sharp enough to make them forget how to breathe.

One arm bent, cheek resting against his fist. His gaze locked on them without a word.

Then he raised his hand.

Behind him, a giant skeleton rose—its frame towering, sword clutched in both hands. It mirrored him exactly. When Kael lifted his sword, so did the creature. When it brought it down, the air split. The blade tore through cloud and sky… but stopped just short of crushing them.

Held still.

A warning.

Not mercy.

"Let me tell you something your gods never will.

You're not fighting for your people. You're fighting for the hands that will tear them down.

There was once a nation that feared its enemies so much, it sold its own blood to foreign kings. They trained its sons, armed them, and sent them to war—against their own kin.

And those sons… they thought themselves heroes. Champions. They wore the banners of their masters with pride, never asking whose throne they were defending.

When the war was done, the foreign kings no longer needed them.

So they burned their homeland. They left the sons to die in the ashes they had helped create.

That's you. Every one of you. You fight under names that aren't yours, for thrones you'll never sit on, and for masters who will feed on your people until nothing remains.

They are not gods. They are not your saviors. You're the weapon they'll throw away when they're done with you."

He broadcast the entire message to the world through shadows. He was exhausted. He didn't see the reason to kill more humans. They weren't the issue. It was the anomaly—the demigods that had disrupted the balance.

"I will give you one last chance to surrender. Lay down your arms. Walk away. Refuse… and I will end you without hesitation.

I have seen it all—mothers watching their children fade in their arms, children screaming for parents who will never come home, entire bloodlines erased in a single day.

Even now, you can turn back. Do something worth the breath you've wasted. Otherwise, the dark will take you, and no one will remember you lived."

A pause.

Then his tone shifted—sharper, colder.

"But not you."

His eyes locked onto the ones still glowing with borrowed power.

"Those with the blood of Olympus—there is no escape. Old, young, infant—it makes no difference. You chose their name. You carry their blood. That's enough."

He let the words hang like judgment.

"Your bodies will feed the soil. And from it, I will carve a new River Styx in this world.

And it will carry your names into nothing."

The giant skeleton dissolved. Those with divine blessing twitched. One stepped back. Another flinched. A few shifted their weight like they might run.

And the moment that thought crossed their mind, the shadow responded.

Black spikes shot up like fangs, tearing through armor and flesh in a single breath. No warning. No ounce of mercy. They didn't even make it two steps. Just screams, brief and ugly, and then silence again.

Some still hung there, twitching, the last sparks of godhood flickering out behind dead eyes.

Then he turned to the rest—the ones still breathing. The ones still human.

His voice came low.

"Leave. Show your face again, and you'll join them."

They walked away, silent, while the demigod's child hung suspended in the air—motionless.

And he waited.

Suddenly, the air thickened.

A massive amount of pressure rolled across the field, pressing against his skin like a storm about to break. Every instinct said to brace for it—to bow, to look away.

He didn't move.

It wasn't the kind of presence that came with gods. He had felt that before—raw, ancient, impossible to misunderstand. This was something else.

Loud. Calculated. Like someone trying too hard to feel divine.

There was power in it, yes. But not weight. Not truth.

It felt constructed.

Then they began to arrive.

One by one, twelve demigods stepped onto the field, each arrival louder than the last. Light followed them. Wind bent around them. The ground cracked under their feet like it had been waiting for them.

He just watched.

They carried themselves like gods. As if standing in their fathers' names made them worthy of the same fear. As if this entrance alone would make him kneel.

It didn't.

Their glow meant nothing to him.

He'd seen true power. He'd seen the kind that didn't need an audience.

And what stood before him now?

Wasn't it.

They lined up, shoulder to shoulder, casting long shadows across the broken earth. The air buzzed with energy—the kind that made people hold their breath.

But he didn't.

The bodies they wore—those perfect, sculpted forms—weren't flesh. They weren't even theirs. Just shells, shaped to hold power that didn't belong to them.

He could feel it now.

The presence they gave off… it wasn't natural. It didn't breathe. It didn't bleed. It pressed against the world like weight without substance. Hollow. Forced.

A mockery of divinity.

They had built something dense. Heavy. Not in size, but in pressure. A frame forged to feel like a god was inside, even if there wasn't.

But the truth sat clear in his eyes.

It didn't matter how precise the craft was, or how thick the alloy ran beneath their skin.

What they built could never be more than imitation.

Because the vessel wasn't the god.

And whatever moved inside those machines… wasn't worthy of the title.

His gaze didn't waver.

"Let me hear your pathetic name," he said, voice low and cold, "before I rip your soul out and feed it to the dirt."

The one that resembled Zeus stepped forward.

He looked no older than twenty. Broad-shouldered. Skin bronzed like sun-baked stone. His eyes flickered, grey veined with stormlight—split and seething like a sky on the edge of war.

Hair hung loose in white-gold waves, the tips crackling faintly. He didn't speak yet, but arrogance clung to him like heat.

"Who are you?" he asked, voice edged with authority he hadn't earned. "What are you doing in our world?"

He didn't blink.

Shadows struck. A spear of black tore through the demigod's stomach, lifting him mid-sentence.

He didn't even look at the wound.

He remained seated, his cheek resting on his fist, eyes dull with disinterest—like he was waiting for something worthy of his time..

"Did I say you could speak?"

The impaled construct twitched, choking.

"You don't ask questions," Kael said flatly. "You don't speak unless I allow it."

He looked the rest over, his gaze drifting across their faces like he was reading the labels on broken toys.

"You wear godhood like a mask, but I see what's underneath. Metal. Mimicry. A hollow shell stuffed with stolen power."

He tilted his head slightly, just enough to show his disdain.

"You are not gods. You are not divine. You're the sound gods make when they run out of ideas."

He let that hang.

Then, colder:

"Answer the question I asked. Or I'll start pulling names from your corpses."