Creation Of All Things-Chapter 162: Jordan Claiming Planets
The sky of Veltraza was gold.
Not sunlight—gas. A thick auric mist blanketing the upper layers of the atmosphere, making everything beneath shimmer like it was dipped in honey. But beneath that beauty, the ground cracked. Trees twisted with obsidian bark reached for a sky that never rained, and the people—those who still lived—walked in silence, eyes hollow, their gods long dead.
A sudden ripple cut through the air.
No portal. No light.
Just pressure.
A single point in the sky darkened, and then—
Jordan descended.
Just him, falling like a judgment written in flesh.
His feet touched the scorched stone in the center of Veltraza's capital—Ar'Suin—and the ground splintered. A shockwave rolled out across the empty city, toppling weakened spires and setting off dormant alarms. Somewhere, a monk watching from a high temple dropped his incense and ran.
Jordan looked up.
Three suns loomed overhead. He blinked once, and all three dimmed slightly.
He raised his hand.
A wave of energy pulsed outward. Not aggressive. Not destructive.
A message.
A warning.
And all across Veltraza, the vassal lords of Kaelor the Root God—the ones who survived the collapse—felt it.
By the time they gathered in the plaza, the mist had cleared, drawn aside by an unseen wind.
They came in robes. Armor. Roots still embedded in their skin, remnants of Kaelor's dominion.
One stepped forward, tall, thin, his arms covered in living leaves.
"Who are you?" he hissed. "This is Root-aligned territory. Speak your name or be buried in the soil—"
"I'm not here for conversation," Jordan said. His voice was clear. Calm. "Submit. Or burn."
The lord frowned. "Submit to what?"
Jordan looked at him. Just looked.
And suddenly the lord fell to one knee, coughing blood, eyes wide with something he couldn't understand.
"The Celestial Monarch Faction," Jordan said, stepping forward.
At that moment, several others reacted—some drawing weapons, others backing away.
"Kaelor is dead," he continued. "This planet belonged to him. That ends now. I'm giving you one chance. You swear your world to the Celestial Monarch Faction—your leaders, your resources, your faith—or this planet becomes ash."
"You think we'll kneel?" spat another, his skin barklike, his mouth full of thorns. "To who? You?"
"Not to me," Jordan said.
He looked up. Then down.
"To the ones above me."
He lifted his hand again.
A pillar of light shot up into the clouds—no, past the clouds, into space itself. A mark flared against the heavens: the crest of the Celestial Monarchs, shaped like three overlapping orbs. One golden. One silver. One obsidian.
The sky trembled.
The ground cracked again.
And one of the smaller moons of Veltraza cracked in half—clean, silent, its pieces drifting apart like broken eggshells.
The message was clear.
Half of the lords knelt immediately.
The other half didn't.
Jordan turned.
"No?"
They didn't answer.
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them, his pupils were white. Not glowing. Not shining.
Just empty.
A wind howled.
Then he was gone.
He moved—not running, not flying, just moving—blurring across the battlefield in a way that no eye could follow. The first to resist was split in half. Not cut. Split. One moment whole, the next—a spray of ash and silence.
The others screamed.
Some tried to escape.
They didn't.
Jordan raised a hand—and their roots screamed. The remnants of Kaelor inside them convulsed, twisted, turned on their hosts. Limbs cracked. Eyes turned black. Mouths filled with soil.
And then silence.
No scream. No death rattle.
Just the sound of reality stitching itself shut around their corpses.
The ones who knelt remained. Shaking.
Jordan looked at them.
"You live. Spread the banner. Prepare your offerings. My Monarchs will contact you."
And without waiting for a response—
He vanished again.
—
Planet: Drazik
A desert world.
Three towers marked the horizon. Each one thousands of meters high. Made from the bones of ancient beasts, said to be personally blessed by Magnus, the God of Might.
Jordan landed in the middle of the third tower.
A meeting was already in session.
He didn't knock.
The ceiling caved in when he dropped through, his bare feet crunching against marble bone. Dozens of warlords stood around a glowing table, all of them armed, one of them already shouting.
"You dare interrupt a Magnus-tier council—"
Jordan flicked his wrist.
The speaker evaporated. Turned to salt. Nothing touched him—he just ceased.
The room exploded into action.
Too slow.
Jordan twisted. His body bent in ways that shouldn't be natural. Every step was a beat, and with each beat, someone died.
One punch sent a general flying through five walls.
Another strike crushed a sword without touching it.
And then—
Silence.
The remaining generals stood back.
"Who sent you?" a warlady asked, blood dripping from her lip.
"Same answer," Jordan said. "Submit. Or burn." freёweɓnovel.com
"We are of Magnus," she snapped. "You think we'll just hand over our planet?"
"I don't care what you think," Jordan said. "I care what you choose."
He pointed.
"That."
Outside, lightning split the clouds.
A storm began.
But it wasn't water.
It was fire.
Golden flame that poured from the sky like rain, searing the bones of the world. Cities burned before they knew they were under attack. The bones of the tower began to glow, then melt.
"Make your decision," Jordan said.
This time, no one hesitated.
They swore.
—
Planet: Laevira
Forest. Sky. Waterfalls taller than mountains. A paradise world under the protection of Selene, Goddess of Moonlight.
Jordan didn't land.
He walked across the air. Each step left a ripple in the clouds.
A thousand druids floated up to meet him—silver robes, glowing eyes, sacred staffs glowing with lunar grace.
"You are not welcome here," the high druid said. "Selene's mark still lives on this land."
Jordan nodded.
Then looked to the moon above.
Snapped his fingers.
And a chunk of it fell. Just broke off and tumbled into the sea like a comet, sending waves halfway around the planet.
The druids panicked.
"You can't—!"
"I can."
He drifted closer.
"You have one hour."
They argued. Some cried. Some prayed.
But in the end—they too submitted.
—
One by one.
World by world.
Jordan moved.
Like a storm that wouldn't end. He needed no ship. No army. No speech. Just the weight of the ones behind him.
The Monarchs.
Selene.
Magnus.
Kaelor's death had changed everything.
The banner of the Celestial Monarch Faction was no longer a whisper—it was a flame.
And Jordan?
He was the match.
Planets bowed.
Some screamed.
But all of them remembered one thing:
He didn't glow.
He burned.
