The air on Garuda Island didn't vibrate; it shrieked.

  The Sun-Winged Garuda was a nightmare of gold-bladed feathers and blinding heat, pulsing like a star about to go out. To anyone else, this would have been a holy vision. To Jian, it was just a loud, bright pest he had to put down.

  He lunged, the Eclipse Fang cutting a trail of shadow through the glare. A white-hot agony flared in his chest as he moved. The heavy, watery energy from the Dragon Core was fighting the dry, solar energy of the bird. It felt like someone had poured boiling lead into a pool of mercury. His skin was actually splitting, gold light leaking through the cracks like he was a pot that had been left in the kiln too long.

  "Is this the part where I'm supposed to die for the cause?" Jian rasped. He spit out a glob of blood that glowed like liquid gold and let out a short, jagged laugh. "The Tragic Sacrifice? I’ve played that part. It's a boring script."

  The Garuda screamed again, but it was getting sluggish. Because the King hadn't released the Priestess, the bird’s divinity was backing up, stagnating in its own heart. Sensing it was about to flicker out, the Garuda did something the history books said was impossible.

  It reached out through its spiritual tether and yanked.

  With a sound like a massive bell shattering, the golden dome over the Capital—the "unbreakable" Aegis—simply vanished. It was sucked inward as the Garuda used every bit of its power to reel in Valeriana from miles away.

  Back at the Palace, the rebels didn't waste a second. With the shield gone, the front gates were just wood and stone. Caelum and the others charged in, a wave of stolen Imperial steel.

  Valeriana felt the world tilt. One second she was in a jade chair; the next, she was a projectile of light being dragged across the sky like a hooked fish. She slammed into the obsidian floor of the island’s temple just as the Garuda swooped down, its beak open to swallow her soul and save itself.

  Jian got there first.

  He didn't use a spell or a special technique. He just used ten million years of pure spite. As the bird hovered over the cowering priestess, Jian jumped. He drove the black sword through the thing’s neck and shoved his other hand into its chest, his fingers sinking into the gold feathers like they were made of warm wax.

  "My turn," Jian growled.

  He ripped the essence right out of it.

  The bird didn't bleed. It just turned into a massive cloud of glowing gold dust—millennia of solar energy suddenly without a home. Jian stood in the middle of it, his mouth open, his skin drinking in the particles.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The change was instant. The Dragon’s water and the Garuda’s sun finally met and settled. For the first time since he’d escaped his cell, the fire in his gut didn't feel like an explosion waiting to happen. It felt like a foundation. The cracks in his skin fused shut, sealed by the celestial dust.

  He sat down on the floor, the gold light swirling around him like a dying halo. He looked at Valeriana. She was staring back at him, terrified but looking more awake than she had in years.

  "You're not a puppet anymore," Jian muttered, his eyes shifting between black and copper. "You're just empty. Trust me, it’s better."

  The doors burst open. Caelum and the rebels piled in, their swords covered in blood. They stopped dead. The god of their world was a pile of glowing soot on the floor, and the man they’d been following was sitting in the middle of it, picking a piece of gold feather out of his teeth.

  The rebels pushed King Alarion into the room at spear-point. He looked at his daughter, his empty throne, and then at the pile of dust that used to be his Empire's soul.

  "You..." the King whispered. He looked like he was about to vomit. "You killed the Sun. You’ve ruined everything. Our legacy... the script... why? For the rebellion? For power?"

  Jian looked up, looking profoundly bored.

  "Power?" Jian rubbed a pinch of the gold dust between his fingers, tasted it, and made a face. "It’s too metallic. Like chewing on a brass coin. It’s got no character."

  He spotted Zelari and Saphra in the crowd.

  "Zelari," Jian called out. "The spices. Those Royal Reserve ones you were talking about. The ones with the dried dragon-tail chilies."

  The King’s jaw dropped. "Spices? You murdered a god for seasoning?"

  "He was noisy," Jian said.

  The King stepped forward, maybe to scream, maybe to throw a punch. He didn't get the chance. From the back of the line, a young boy—one of the survivors from Oakhaven who could barely hold a bow—let out a shaky breath and let go of his string.

  It wasn't a hero’s shot. It was a clumsy, panicked accident. The arrow caught the King right in the throat.

  Alarion didn't get a grand final speech. He didn't get a poetic ending. He just gurgled, clutched at his neck, and slumped down into the dust of his own god.

  The rebels just stood there, stunned. The Great Tyrant was dead, killed by a crying kid who was currently trying to hide behind his mother. The Great Revolution had ended because of a stray piece of wood and a nervous twitch.

  Jian didn't even look at the body. He watched Zelari walk toward him. She looked tired, but she was already reaching into her pack. She pulled out a small, silk-wrapped bundle.

  "I’ve got the chilies," Zelari said, kneeling by the pile of Garuda-dust. "And I found some wild ginger in the gardens. It should take the edge off that metallic taste."

  Saphra was right behind her, her eyes darting between the dead King and the stabilized monster on the floor. She touched Jian’s arm, checking his pulse.

  "The balance is solid," Saphra whispered. "Fire, Water, Air... you're not just holding it anymore, Jian. You're a furnace."

  Jian looked at the spices, then at the gold dust. He let out a long, happy sigh.

  "Good," Jian said. His eyes finally settled into a calm, solid copper. "Now, start the fire. I want to see if a god tastes any better when it’s been marinated properly."

  Outside, the Capital was burning as the city changed hands. Inside, amidst the ruins of an empire, the only thing that mattered was the smell of roasting spices and a man who was finally, for the first time in ten million years, actually full.