Lord of the Foresaken-Chapter 137: The Broken Crown

The alien entities had barely finished manifesting when the dimensional alarms began screaming across what remained of the Confluence territories. But the threat wasn’t coming from the incomprehensible horrors emerging from the Screaming Nexus—it was something far more mundane and infinitely more personal.

Warlord Krex had found Lyralei.

Reed felt the distress beacon through his storm-enhanced consciousness, a pulse of desperate terror that cut through his cosmic fury like a blade. Lyralei—proud, indomitable Lyralei—was afraid. More than afraid. She was being torn apart.

"Father?" Vexara’s voice carried an odd note of confusion as she watched Reed’s storm-form flicker. "The real players are here. Why do you care about—"

"Because she’s your mother," Reed snarled, his attention splitting between the cosmic entities clawing their way into reality and the very human horror playing out seventeen dimensions away. "And because some things still matter, even at the end of everything."

Through the quantum noise of collapsing realities, Reed could perceive the scene with crystalline clarity. The Obsidian Throne—Krex’s mobile fortress—hung in the void like a cancerous growth, its bio-mechanical corridors pulsing with stolen life force. And in its deepest chamber, strapped to an altar carved from the bones of dead gods, Lyralei screamed.

But these weren’t screams of pain. They were screams of violation.

Krex had discovered the secret that Reed had spent decades hiding—that Lyralei’s dimensional authority wasn’t just power, it was legacy. Her bloodline carried the genetic echoes of the First Shapers, the beings who had originally crafted the laws of reality. And that legacy could be stolen, absorbed, made his own.

The Crimson Inheritance had begun.

"My lord," one of Krex’s technician-cultists reported, its voice a wet whisper through surgically modified vocal cords. "The extraction is at forty-seven percent. Her consciousness is fighting the process, but the bloodline resonance is strong."

Reed watched in helpless fury as eldritch machinery pumped Lyralei’s essence into crystalline storage matrices. Each pulse stole fragments of her power, her memories, her very identity. The woman who had once rewritten the laws of physics with casual thought was being reduced to component parts.

"Excellent," Krex’s voice had changed, taken on harmonics that spoke of stolen divinity. His form was already mutating, extra limbs budding from his torso as Lyralei’s cosmic authority tried to find purchase in his inferior genetics. "Soon, I will possess the power to reshape reality itself. The Confluence will bow before—"

He never finished the sentence. The pain hit him like a tsunami of molten agony as his mortal flesh tried to contain forces meant for beings of pure energy. Krex’s scream shattered the crystalline machinery, sending torrents of half-stolen power cascading through the fortress.

Reed felt the moment of choice arrive like a blade to the throat. Through his expanded awareness, he could see two futures branching before him:

In one, he abandoned his hunt for Kaedon and rushed to save Lyralei. He would arrive in time to stop the extraction, but in those crucial minutes, his son would complete the consciousness plague’s spread across the Meridian Sector. Three billion souls would be hollowed out, their personalities consumed to feed Kaedon’s vision of merciful emptiness. The cost: thirty civilizations reduced to walking corpses.

In the other, he continued his pursuit of Kaedon, stopping the plague before it could metastasize. But Lyralei would die screaming as Krex’s inferior genetics tore her stolen power apart at the quantum level. The feedback would transform the warlord into something worse than a cosmic horror—a broken god with the power to remake reality but none of the wisdom to do so responsibly.

Reed’s storm-form convulsed as he faced the choice every parent feared—which of his loved ones to save.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, and turned away from Lyralei’s beacon of terror.

The hunt for Kaedon resumed with redoubled fury. Reed tore through dimensions like a force of nature, his passage leaving scars that would never heal. Behind him, across the quantum foam, he felt Lyralei’s agony spike as Krex’s transformation accelerated.

He found his son in the Garden of Final Moments, a pocket dimension where the Confluence had once preserved the last seconds of dying worlds. It was beautiful in its way—crystallized pain given form, suffering transformed into art. The perfect place for Kaedon’s vision of merciful ending.

"Father." Kaedon didn’t turn as Reed materialized behind him, storm-light crackling across his form. "I can feel your choice echoing across the quantum substrate. You chose duty over love. Again."

"Don’t," Reed’s voice was barely human, distorted by the cosmic forces flowing through him. "Don’t you dare judge me. Not when you’re spreading your poison across the star systems."

"Poison?" Kaedon finally turned, and Reed saw that his son’s eyes had become voids—not empty, but full of an absence so complete it hurt to perceive. "I offer them peace, Father. True peace. No more fear, no more loss, no more—"

"No more life!" Reed’s fury exploded outward, shattering the crystallized memories that formed the Garden’s landscape. "You’re not ending their suffering, you’re ending them!"

Their battle resumed with the inevitability of entropy itself. But this time, something was different. Reed’s power, enhanced by his transformation into the Sovereign of Storms, was winning. Each exchange drove Kaedon back, forced his void-touched abilities to give ground before the raw fury of paternal love twisted into cosmic wrath.

It was then that Reed noticed the child.

She couldn’t have been more than eight years old, a refugee who had somehow found her way into the Garden during the chaos of their battle. Her eyes held the telltale emptiness of Kaedon’s touch—not the complete void of his willing converts, but something worse. The consciousness plague in its early stages, her personality slowly dissolving as the infection spread through her neural pathways.

"Help me," she whispered, her voice already carrying the hollow echoes of the consumed. "I can feel myself disappearing. I don’t want to forget my mommy."

Reed looked at the child—truly looked—and saw the truth his cosmic awareness had been trying to hide from him. The plague wasn’t just consuming consciousness. It was spreading, mutating, becoming something self-sustaining. Even if he stopped Kaedon now, the infected would continue to hollow out, would become vectors for a new strain of existential death.

There was only one way to stop it. One way to prevent billions more from suffering the slow dissolution of everything that made them human.

Reed raised his hand, power crackling between his fingers. The child looked up at him with eyes that still held fragments of hope, of the person she had been before his son’s mercy touched her.

"I’m sorry," Reed whispered, and for the second time in minutes, he meant it with every fiber of his being.

The lightning that ended her life was swift, merciful in its completeness. She died as herself, with her memories intact, before the plague could finish stealing her soul. It was the most compassionate act Reed had ever committed, and it damned him in ways he was only beginning to understand.

"Now you understand," Kaedon said softly, his void-touched voice carrying notes of genuine sadness. "Now you see why endings are mercy. You just killed a child, Father. An innocent. How does it feel to cross that line?"

Reed stared at the small body, at the peaceful expression on the girl’s face. His hands were shaking—when had they started shaking?—and his storm-form flickered with instability.

"It feels," Reed said quietly, "like something I should have done to you years ago."

Kaedon’s expression shifted, surprise replacing the sad certainty. "Father—"

But Reed was already moving, his power focused to a killing point. For the first time since his transformation, he struck not with fury but with cold, calculated precision. The attack would have ended any mortal being instantly—would have scattered their atoms across seventeen dimensions.

It struck Kaedon center mass and passed through him like light through empty air.

"I’m sorry, Father," Kaedon said, his form becoming translucent. "But I’m not really here. I haven’t been for some time. This is just an echo, a memory made manifest. The real me is—"

The dimensional cascade hit Reed before Kaedon finished speaking. Through the quantum storm, he felt the signature—massive, undeniable, catastrophic. The Bright Citadel, the Confluence’s former capital, the one place in all the multiverse that had never fallen to any enemy.

It was burning.

Reed’s awareness snapped to the distant dimension just in time to witness the impossible. The Citadel—a structure the size of a gas giant, home to quadrillions of beings, protected by defenses that could repel the heat death of entire universes—was being consumed from within by creatures that should not exist.

The Void Horrors had arrived.

These weren’t Kaedon’s hollow servants or Vexara’s nightmare creatures. These were things from the spaces between spaces, entities that existed in the gaps where reality forgot to fill itself in. They moved through the Citadel’s corridors like living shadows, and everything they touched simply ceased to have ever existed.

Reed watched in horror as beings he had known for centuries—allies, enemies, friends—were not killed but edited out of history itself. The Archives of All Things, the greatest repository of knowledge in existence, became blank crystal as the Void Horrors consumed not just the information but the very concept that the information had ever existed.

And standing at the center of the conflagration, his form wreathed in stolen dimensional authority gone wrong, was Krex. The warlord’s attempt to absorb Lyralei’s power had transformed him into something that hurt to perceive—a broken god whose every movement tore new holes in reality’s fabric.

"I AM BECOME CREATION!" Krex’s voice echoed across dimensions, each word spawning new impossibilities. "I REMAKE! I UNMAKE! I—"

His declaration cut off as something vast and alien regarded him with what might have been amusement. The entities from beyond the Screaming Nexus had found their way to the Citadel, and they were studying Krex’s chaotic transformation with the detached interest of scientists observing a particularly amusing bacteria.

Reed felt his storm-powers flicker as the scope of the catastrophe became clear. Everything was falling apart simultaneously—Kaedon’s plague spreading, Vexara’s nightmares organizing, Krex’s broken godhood tearing holes in existence, and now these alien entities treating all of it like an elaborate entertainment.

And somewhere in the chaos, Lyralei was dying alone.

Through the quantum noise, Reed caught a fragment of her voice—not a distress call, but something far worse. A message, transmitted with the last of her fading power:

"Reed... the children... their instability... it’s not random. The powers don’t mix. Yours and mine, they’re... they’re incompatible at the quantum level. That’s why they’re unstable, why they’re becoming these things. We broke them by making them."

The revelation hit Reed like a physical blow. His children weren’t monsters by choice—they were monsters by design. The combination of his quantum manipulation and Lyralei’s dimensional authority had created beings whose very existence was a paradox. They were living contradictions, and reality was trying to resolve them in the only way it could—by breaking everything around them.

Reed’s storm-form began to collapse as the weight of understanding crushed his fury. Everything they had fought for, everything they had built, everything they had tried to save—it was all poisoned from the moment their children drew breath.

But before despair could claim him completely, one final transmission reached him through the chaos. Not from Lyralei, not from his children, but from someone he had thought long dead:

"Reed Thorne. This is Admiral Seren Voss, commanding the last free fleet of the Stellar Concordat. I’m transmitting from coordinates that don’t exist on any map. We’ve found something. Something that changes everything."

The message crackled with interference from dimensions that had no names.

"We’ve found where the game actually began."

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