Chains of the Godslayer

The Tree of Wills loomed before the boy, its ancient branches clawing at the sky, defiant against the heavens. Its bark, dark as charred steel, was scarred with deep grooves and faint runes that shimmered in the dim light. The air around it crackled faintly, alive with an energy that pulsed in rhythm with the boy's heartbeat.

In his hand, the pouch of seeds felt heavier than it should, as though the act of planting them carried a weight he couldn't yet understand.

"The Tree recognizes defiance," the old man said from behind him, his voice low and steady. He stood a few paces back, arms folded, his pale gaze fixed on the boy. "It doesn't grow for the strong. It grows for the stubborn. The ones who refuse to kneel."

The boy reached the base of the tree, the soil dry and cracked beneath its sprawling roots. He knelt slowly, opening the pouch and letting the seeds spill into his palm. They were warm, almost alive, their faint pulse matching the steady rhythm of the tree's energy.

"What if they don't grow?" the boy asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

The old man's eyes narrowed, his tone sharp. "Then it means you weren't ready. These seeds aren't like others—they won't sprout for the hesitant or the weak. But if your will is strong, they'll grow into something even the heavens can't destroy."

The boy hesitated, his chest tight. He could feel the chains beneath his skin pulsing faintly, their weight pressing down as though resisting his actions. He clenched his jaw, pushing the doubt aside.

He dug shallow holes at the base of the tree, one for each seed, and pressed them into the soil. As he covered them with dirt, a faint hum filled the air—a sound too low for his ears but reverberating deep in his chest, echoing through his very bones.

The Tree of Wills stirred.

---

The boy stepped back, his breath catching as the tree's branches shuddered. The air shifted, growing colder and heavier, the faint hum rising to an almost deafening vibration.

"They're watching," the old man said, his voice calm but edged with tension.

The boy's gaze darted to him. "Who?"

"The heavens," the old man replied. He took a step forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. "Planting those seeds wasn't just an act of defiance. It was a declaration. And the heavens don't ignore declarations."

The boy's hand instinctively went to his own blade, though the weight of the rusted weapon felt insignificant. His chest tightened as the hum deepened, pressing against his very soul. Then came the first ripple.

It wasn't visible, but the boy felt it—a shockwave of energy that crashed through the air like a tidal wave. His knees buckled, the chains inside him flaring violently, their heat burning against his spirit.

As the chains pulsed, his vision flickered. A fleeting image flashed in his mind—a vast battlefield strewn with shattered weapons and broken bodies. At the center stood a towering tree, its roots piercing through the heavens themselves. The vision faded as quickly as it came, leaving his body trembling.

"Stay standing," the old man barked, his voice sharp and commanding. "If you fall now, you'll never rise again."

The boy grit his teeth, his legs trembling as he forced himself upright. Another ripple hit, colder and sharper than the first. The sky above the Tree of Wills began to shift, clouds swirling unnaturally as streaks of golden light flickered at their edges.

"They've sent something," the old man muttered, his blade now fully drawn. The weapon gleamed faintly, its edge etched with intricate runes.

---

The third ripple hit like a storm, throwing the boy to the ground. His blade clattered from his grasp as he clutched his chest, the chains roaring with a fury he couldn't contain. It felt as though they were tightening, coiling around his soul, dragging him into the earth.

"Get up!" the old man shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos.

From the swirling clouds, a figure descended. Its form was humanoid but wreathed in golden light that shimmered like molten metal. A mask of pure radiance obscured its face, and in its hand, it held a spear that crackled with energy, each movement leaving faint traces of golden fire in the air.

"You've grown bold," the figure said, its voice resonating like thunder, echoing through the boy's mind as much as his ears. "Defiance does not go unanswered."

The old man stepped forward, his blade raised slightly, his movements deliberate. "You're late. I was expecting you sooner."

The figure's head tilted, its gaze shifting to the boy. "The child bears the mark," it said. "He is a threat to the heavens. Step aside, mortal, and your death will be swift."

The old man's smirk was sharp and dangerous. "I've lived long enough to know there's no such thing as a swift death. But you won't get the chance to try."

---

The figure moved first, its spear slicing through the air with impossible speed. The old man met it mid-strike, his blade flashing as it parried the blow. The clash sent a shockwave rippling through the clearing, shaking the ground and rustling the branches of the Tree of Wills.

The boy staggered back, his vision blurred as the chains burned hotter, their pulse growing stronger. For a moment, he thought he heard a faint whisper, indistinct but insistent, as though the chains themselves were speaking to him.

"Watch carefully, boy," the old man called, his voice steady even as he dodged another strike. "This is what it means to stand against the heavens."

The fight was unlike anything the boy had seen. The old man moved with precision, his blade a blur as it deflected the divine spear's strikes. Each clash sent sparks flying, illuminating the clearing in flashes of golden and silver light.

"You're slowing, mortal," the figure said, its tone mocking. "Your age betrays you."

The old man sidestepped a thrust, his blade slicing through the air in a counterattack that forced the figure to retreat. "Perhaps. But you've forgotten how to fight someone who doesn't fear you."

---

The boy's breath came in shallow gasps as he watched, his hands trembling. The chains burned hotter than ever, their weight crushing, but beneath the pain was something else—something stirring.

"You're not ready yet," the old man's voice echoed in his mind, a memory. "But one day, you will be. And when that day comes, you'll need more than strength. You'll need resolve."

The figure raised its free hand, a pulse of golden energy erupting from its palm. The shockwave struck the old man, throwing him back. He hit the ground hard, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth as he struggled to rise.

"No!" the boy shouted, stepping forward instinctively.

The figure turned to him, its radiant gaze piercing. "You are nothing, child. Your existence is an affront to the heavens. Kneel, and I will grant you mercy."

The boy's legs trembled under the weight of the chains, the crushing aura of the figure pressing down on him. His breath hitched, but he didn't kneel. His hand tightened around the hilt of his blade, its rusted surface biting into his palm.

"I don't kneel," he said, his voice shaking but resolute.

The figure's head tilted slightly, as though surprised. Before it could respond, the old man was on his feet again, his blade cutting through the air with renewed force.

"Then fight," the old man said, his voice sharp as steel.