The air in the celestial realm shimmered faintly, carrying with it the hum of divine energy that never quite stilled. Marble floors gleamed beneath the endless light, their polished surfaces marked by the scars of countless battles. Caelestis Veytharion stood in the heart of the training grounds, the golden child of prophecy, shirtless, his skin glistening with a sheen of sweat. His lean, muscular frame was cut with precision, each movement betraying the hours of discipline etched into his body.

Before him, one of the divine puppets stirred. This one bore the form of a massive, armored warrior—faceless, its movements imbued with lethal purpose by the gods themselves. It did not hesitate, did not show mercy. It lunged as though it sought to end him, every strike calculated to kill.

Caelestis met it with ice-blue eyes, cold and sharp as tempered steel. His jaw was set, his straight face betraying no emotion—only the faint shadow of a frown as though even here, even in the realm of gods, he found imperfections. He sidestepped the puppet’s first strike, his bare feet gliding across marble with controlled precision. The sound of impact thundered as the puppet’s weapon cracked against the floor where he had been.

His tattoos flexed along his arms and chest as he moved, black ink wrapping his tanned skin in symbols of binding and eternity. The dimples that softened his stern features appeared for only a moment—a fleeting smirk—as he twisted, catching the puppet’s arm in a grip that defied its immense size.

“Sloppy,” his deep voice cut through the air, sharp and cold. He shoved the puppet back, muscles rippling with the effort, before driving his elbow into its chest. The construct staggered but came at him again, relentless, as the goddess’s creations always were.

Chains rattled from the puppet’s frame as it swung, faster now, claws replacing its broken blade. Caelestis rolled his shoulders, unfazed. Reckless or not, this was where he thrived—alone, tested, pitted against something designed to destroy him.

The celestial realm was his prison and his training ground, his life claimed by divine will. But here, in the clash of sweat, blood, and divine steel, he was not the golden child nor the savior of Aetherion. He was simply Caelestis Veytharion—the cold, unyielding weapon forged by gods and tragedy alike.

He steadied himself, spreading his stance as the puppet charged again, the marble cracking beneath its weight. His deep voice rumbled low, almost to himself.

“Come, then. Show me you were worth creating.”

And with that, the training grounds rang with the symphony of war, man against divinity’s mockery of life.