"Weak. Pathetic. Far too slow."
Akashirae's voice tore through the heavens like a divine thunderclap, each word laced with cataclysmic scorn. One instant, Nergal, Ninurta, and Ishkur stood defiant. The next, she was behind them—an ethereal blur of crimson and ivory. With a casual wave of her hand, she unleashed the End of Time: a spectral bell of legend, said to toll across all omniverses, bending causality and warping fate with its echo.
The bell rang.
Its chime was a dirge that knew no mercy. The three Mesopotamian gods were launched skyward, then hurled down into the trunk of a colossal cerulean tree, their bodies folding like paper, their souls fracturing like porcelain. It was not merely defeat—it was erasure of dignity.
"As always," Akashirae declared, her nine vermilion tails curling behind her in elegant synchrony, "the world fails to resist me."
Fox ears twitching, her feet touched the earth like falling cherry blossoms, her presence equal parts divine enigma and unrestrained supremacy.
"I'm done here, little brother. I'm heading back to Lumi'Nae."
Near the roots of the battered tree, Ouroboros looked up from a blackbound tome, one finger marking his place as if the end of a battle was but a line break in his reading.
"On a first-name basis with Finality now, are we?" he asked, his tone droll. "In any case, thank you for not vaporising them entirely."
Akashirae fanned herself with Fukahi no Danzai, her crimson hand-fan exuding an aura of cosmic punishment. "Awww, still can't read without acting like an eldritch librarian? Big Sister shall tutor you when she returns."
He closed the tome, setting it gently upon a mithril fencepost—its pages still upside down. "Kindness ill suits you," he said with a smirk. "This new softness—is it a cry for help? Hoping your big, strong brother might save you from the big, bad world?"
With a flourish, he doffed his trench coat and flung it into the air. Beneath, his physique was statuesque—scaled with a faint shimmer, muscles rippling with the legacy of dragons. His draconic fangs gleamed as he offered a confident, if mischievous, smile.
Akashirae's eyes lingered. A traitorous drop of drool escaped the corner of her mouth before she snapped her fan shut and vanished in a puff of foxfire. "Your muscles—! I mean, no! Absolutely not!"
Ouroboros caught his coat as it fluttered down onto the mangled form of Nergal. With a faint sigh, he glanced at the barely-living gods, their forms broken, their divinity flickering like broken televisions.
"I warned you," he muttered, almost bored. "If a woman in a hooded light-cloak approaches, turn around. Walk away. Or fly, if that suits you better. She interprets eye contact as aggression."
He conjured a floating bench from the aether and reclined as if none of this concerned him in the slightest.
"I've yet to formally introduce myself to any of you Mesopotamians," he continued, stretching languidly. "So I must ask—why has no one thought to question their empress or confront me in secret? Surely someone must have been curious enough to confirm my identity?"
The gods could only groan. Words were beyond them.
A voice dropped from above—clear, amused, and lightly mocking. Tiamat, fell dragon of ruination, hung upside-down from the blue tree by her tail, casually performing inverted sit-ups. Her snow-white hair fluttered in rhythm with her movements. Her attire—an Adidas tank top, black sports shorts, and divine-grade wristbands—gleamed with godlike sweat.
"They were utterly convinced you were Apsu," she said, mid-crunch. "They'll deduce the truth sooner or later."
Ouroboros yawned, this time sincerely. "I thought myself an early riser, but you and Akashirae... the sun hasn't even finished dreaming. Yet here you are. Training. Wreaking havoc. Drinking smoothies."
His eyes lifted to the sky—a canvas of stardust and violet auroras. "Still, this world... no matter how many times I see it, the sky remains the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed."
He turned back to the groaning gods, eyes softening slightly.
"If you seek strength, go to Ishtar. She's ascended beyond comprehension. Though be warned—she does not do mercy. Her training might hurt less than what you've experienced today... but I doubt it." He paused. "As for Marduk... he's busy playing with abyssal monstrosities. Don't wait up."
Nergal whimpered in despair.
Tiamat landed beside Ouroboros in a swirl of argent wind, now clad in her usual silver plate armour trimmed with white fur.
"Leave them," she said. "They're insects. We have more pressing matters."
Before they could depart, Nanshe approached. Her red hair was windswept, her step uncertain. A flush coloured her cheeks. Their last encounter had been... memorable.
She stopped. She looked at Ouroboros.
He stood, cupped her face, and kissed her—deeply, passionately.
"I hate you... Apsu," Ishkur rasped, regaining some semblance of lucidity. The kiss, apparently, had healed him slightly.
Ouroboros pulled away, gently brushing Nanshe's cheek. "Heal them. Not completely. Enough to crawl, eventually."
"I shall," she murmured. Then, more pointedly, "But Ouroboros—who was that red-haired woman? Don't tell me... you've fallen for me simply to forget her?"
Ouroboros froze. "D-don't be ridiculous! She's my twin sister!"
The very thought summoned his divine halberd, Nexus Piercer, which he promptly used to thwack himself on the skull in horror.
"Is she now?" Nanshe's eyes narrowed.
Her hand slid boldly into his trousers.
"Be honest with me!"
Ouroboros screamed in a pitch that echoed across five realities.
"Agh! Akashirae... No—by the Void, what am I saying?!" Ouroboros groaned, one hand to his temple as if trying to rub the chaos from his brain. He straightened, his voice trembling with reluctant clarity. "Nanshe, listen to me. It's complicated. But I—I, Ouroboros—do love you. Truly. Fiercely. Honestly. Just... second to my incomparably powerful siste—"
He didn't get to finish.
Nanshe's foot arced through the air like a divine guillotine and found its mark squarely between Ouroboros' legs.
A hollow gasp escaped him as he crumpled wordlessly to the ground, the impact reverberating with such metaphysical force that the Abyss Garden itself—an extradimensional realm adrift beyond time—momentarily held its breath. Flowers froze in bloom. Stars paused mid-shimmer. Only two figures remained in motion: Tiamat, and the man writhing at her feet.
"How long do you intend to feign death, sister-lover?" Tiamat demanded, her arms crossed and her face a scowl. "As delectable as your suffering may be, we've places to be."
Ouroboros, ever the dramatist, rose with performative grace, brushing non-existent dust from his coat. He withdrew a long, curling pipe carved from the fossilised femur of an Omegasaurus and struck it alight with a spark of condensed paradox.
"Indeed," he murmured between slow puffs, his tone deliberately brooding. "I wonder what Finality and her party have been meddling with while we've been—delayed."
"Don't try to act cool," Tiamat snorted.
The two Deicides stood like forgotten monuments in a reality that wasn't sure whether to begin or end.
"Well?" Tiamat snapped, her voice cracking the stillness like a thunderbolt. "Take us to Finality."
"What?" Ouroboros arched a brow. "I can't do that. I assumed you could. Considering, you know... Abyss incarnate and all. Had I known you couldn't, I'd have asked my sister to take us with her."
Tiamat's patience was eroding. "Again with your sister? Fine. Then riddle me this—how did you enter my Abyss Realm without my say-so? I saw the rift. I saw the debris you left behind." Her eyes narrowed, flicking to his pipe.
"Ah." Ouroboros exhaled a plume of smoke shaped like a grinning skull. "That."
With a flourish, he reached into the folds of his shadow-draped Belstaff trenchcoat and retrieved a glowing blue orb pulsing with a speck of Agnopotence.
"Lumi'Nae."
At the invocation, the orb awakened—unfurling a shimmering rift through which light and shadow danced like lovers in secret. The air rippled with potential as the gate to the Void yawned open.
"It's not instantaneous," Ouroboros warned, slipping the orb back into his coat. "But it gets the job done."
Without hesitation, they stepped through.
What awaited them was nothing—and everything.
A corridor of absence. A hallway sculpted from paradox. Here, distance was irrelevant and time was merely a rumour. They walked. Or perhaps stood still while the Void moved around them. Conversation became the only tether to reality.
"Wasn't it five against seven? Or four, if you exclude the Void herself. She didn't really... participate," Ouroboros said, having smoked his pipe down to a glowing ember.
"My heads may speak independently," Tiamat replied coolly, "but we are still one."
A long silence followed, broken only by the sound of conceptual atoms rearranging.
"Did the Void always look like this?" she added, her tone a little softer now. "Strange. I haven't walked here in ages. How long has it been?"
"Good question," Ouroboros mused. "I know the answer, but I couldn't begin to explain it. More importantly... Which of your heads was dominant back then? Only one made it out alive."
Tiamat's expression darkened. Her next words emerged with a subsonic growl.
"The former dominant head perished, thanks to your sister. Before that, I bit it—hard—an act of necessity and artistry both. I presume you weren't watching."
"Oh, I watched," Ouroboros said, his voice dreamy. "I've bitten my own tail for eternity... but I've never bitten my own head. Truly magnificent."
"As if your endless self-devouring rivals my craft," Tiamat sneered. "I carved necessity into art—tore dominion from flesh. You watched? Hmph. Next time, bow."
Then, without warning, reality shifted again.
They now stood inside a dimly lit train car. The fluorescent lights flickered. The metallic scent of electricity hung heavy in the air.
"...Where in the Void are we?" Ouroboros asked, glancing around. "Single-car train. Strange aesthetic."
"You brought us here," Tiamat said, scanning the interior. "Shouldn't you know?"
In the far corner of the car, a young woman dozed in grey armour. Her long silver hair cascaded across her lap like liquid moonlight.
Tiamat's response was instantaneous.
She opened her mouth and unleashed Black Breath of Ruination—a torrent of anti-matter destruction honed from her fell core. The train disintegrated in an instant, exploding into light, then into silence.
In the next breath, they were back in the corridor of nothingness, untouched.
The dreamlike space had collapsed.
Ouroboros blinked. "So your answer to unfamiliar surroundings is to vaporise them?"
"You said this wasn't our destination," Tiamat replied with zero remorse. "I merely expedited our journey."
The grey world around them began to reassemble itself with unsettling eagerness.
They stood once again on desolate train tracks stretching into nowhere, the silence of the grey world pressing in around them like a held breath.
And then—she rose.
A grey figure emerged from the ground as though grown from ash and shadow. Ethereal, languid, and dressed in a haze of fatigue, the strange girl stretched with a groan as if the cosmos itself had interrupted her nap.
"Ow..." she drawled, rubbing her temple. "Azuraella finds your paper cuts overwhelmingly annoying."
Without warning, she vanished—only to reappear behind them, her tone dusted with sleep-soaked irritation. "A sleeping lion is a dangerous thing. Kills without thinking. Kills without caring."
She yawned, wide and disinterested. "Azuraella is impulsive when sleep-deprived. But more so when dreaming. She might kill you both... purely by accident. An end most fitting—for ants."
In a flash, Tiamat's neck twisted unnaturally, her regal form warping into something feral. Draconic fangs sank into Azuraella's throat, tearing her head from her shoulders in a violent, fluid motion. Grey ichor sprayed across the tracks, sizzling on contact with the illusory world.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
"Didn't Azuraella just say not to wake sleeping lions?"
The Chaos Maiden's airy voice echoed from every direction. "Follow her... or don't. She's too tired to care."
"Fair enough," Ouroboros replied, as if this entire exchange were no more unusual than a mildly inconvenient weather change. He casually fell into step behind the headless body as it began to stroll down the tracks, ichor trailing behind like a morbid bridal train.
Behind him, Tiamat matched his pace, licking blood from her lips with serpentine tongues.
"I've noticed something strange," she remarked, glancing sidelong at her companion. "You're surprisingly restrained compared to when we first met. Tell me, Paradox—do you have split personalities, or are you just playing coy?"
Azuraella's blood continued to drip, sizzling against the rails. "Chaos radiation... interesting," she mused, her voice now resonating from her severed head, which she held delicately by the hair like a prized artefact. "Azuraella finds it heartwarming. Like bathing in molten lava before a nap."
Ouroboros extended one hand, catching droplets of the thick grey liquid. He tasted it with the detachment of a gourmet testing an exotic sauce. "By Finality's tongue... That's the spiciest blood I've ever had. Tiamat's might as well be holy water in comparison."
His tongue disintegrated. A few teeth dropped from his mouth like ancient relics. They regrew within seconds.
"Tell me," he asked at last, his voice still level despite the gore, "why did you intercept the Void Orb's path and reroute us here? Is this some divine prank, or are you one of those meddling gods with no sense of purpose—like Loki?"
Azuraella tilted her head—literally, lifting her decapitated one and locking eyes with Ouroboros. "Azuraella sensed... familiarity. You've spoken to one of us before."
She blinked. "Names. Yours. You know hers."
Then smiled faintly. "Lucky? Azuraella agrees she is. If you meant Woki, however—Azuraella is nothing like him. He was unlucky. He will never wake again."
"That so? Good riddance," Ouroboros said with a shrug. "I'm Ouroboros, Dragon King and cosmic gentleman." Then, throwing a thumb over his shoulder, he added with theatrical flair: "And that's Tiamat, another dragon."
Tiamat responded the way only she could: by attempting to drive a front kick into his spine.
Ouroboros raised his pipe in defence. The impact cracked the realm itself. The illusion shattered once more, dumping them unceremoniously back into the Void's endless corridor.
"How rude," she said, her hands on her hips. "I'm Tiamat. Dragon Empress. And that is an insect. At best, the king of insects."
Ouroboros frowned, inspecting his now-cracked pipe with visible concern. "This pipe has withstood black holes collapsing in on themselves. Your kicks are becoming unnecessarily dramatic."
"If you don't like it, grow stronger," Tiamat snapped. "Or grow legs. Where are your followers, anyway? You've seen my Abyss Legion."
"You mean those brainless horrors that tried to devour you as well?" Ouroboros said, deadpan. "Empress of the Abyss, maybe. But Dragon Empress? Please."
He turned to Azuraella, who had resumed her languid stroll. "So, headless one, where were we?"
"Azuraella is tired," she replied. "She considers returning to the train... the one Wagon Incest destroyed."
"Hey, zombie bitch, say that again and I'll gobble up the rest of your—" Tiamat snarled.
Reality warped again—without warning or warning signs.
The train returned.
The three now sat aboard the flickering car, which gently rattled its way toward a distant, hazy mountain in the grey realm. Azuraella had already curled up at the rear, her head resting in her lap, her body visibly relaxing as she slipped back into slumber.
"So... what now?" Tiamat asked, arms folded. "Are we just going to indulge this Voidkin? I say we eliminate her now and save ourselves the drama."
"It's almost cute how you're catching on," Ouroboros said, smirking. "I thought you were curious about the Tenebris Monochrome. She's clearly connected. Let's see where this sleeping lion leads us."
His pipe found its way back to his lips. The ember glowed once more.
"I haven't decided if she's stronger than the outer god painter I fought last aeon... but I am interested. Her aura has that special flavour." His smirk deepened into something monstrous. "She may yet prove... worthy prey."
And so, the train rattled on—its passengers godlike, irritable, and profoundly dangerous—as it carried them deeper into the paradox.
The train's lights flickered, sputtering in arrhythmic bursts like the final heartbeat of a dying god. Shadows sprawled and recoiled across the warped metal interior, drawn in shades of grey upon grey.
Ouroboros sat calmly in the centre of the train, his long limbs draped across the seat as if he were lounging in a monarch's court rather than an interdimensional ghost-train. His serpentine eyes watched the shifting voidscape outside with quiet contemplation.
"Grey sky, grey clouds, grey sea," he muttered, tapping ash from his pipe. "Even the sun wears a funeral shroud. Is this Azathoth's realm? Or does it belong to someone worse?" His voice drifted like smoke, low and bored. "A dismal world, either way."
The flakes of ash fell, dissolving into the already-dead floor.
Up front, Tiamat made a show of scoffing. She conjured a human arm—fresh, veined, and twitching—then bit off the fingers one by one, chewing them with the nonchalance of someone snacking on crisps during a lecture.
"There you go again with the existential monologues. Grey this, grey that. Grey matter? You sure you've got any left in that overcooked noodle of yours?"
She cleared her throat theatrically and, with a flourish, slipped into a voice far sweeter than her usual eldritch growl—high, dulcet, almost girlish.
"'Every morning, I, Ouroboros the loong-boy, awaken to find the world unchanged, while my heart mourns yesterday's emo poetry.'"
There was a pause.
"Your voice sounds beautiful like that," said Ouroboros, his reflection smirking faintly back at him in the glass. "Keep it up, Princess Tiamat."
"Shut up," she snapped, cheeks briefly flushing a molten crimson—not from embarrassment, of course, but sheer annoyance that he remained unbothered.
As if he ever was.
The train rumbled upward, cutting through layers of cloud like a knife through ether. Time bent strangely—hours collapsed into seconds and seconds stretched into eternities. Twelve majestic dwellings passed in a blink, their architectures whispering secrets of ancient heavens and long-dead pantheons. Finally, the train slid to a stop... inside a palace.
Its modest exterior betrayed nothing of the impossible vastness within. Pillars stretched into forever. Stars floated along the ceiling like forgotten constellations. Undead titans stood in silent formation, their skeletal mass dwarfing mountains. Among them lingered the gods who had long since fallen... and risen again.
As the final passenger, Tiamat stepped down from the train just before it dissolved behind her like steam vanishing into cold air.
"So this is the place I accidentally destroyed multiple times?" she mused aloud, hands on her hips, scanning the chamber with cool disdain.
Two figures stepped forward—undead gods of the old world.
Poseidon. Apollo.
Their once-divine light had faded into pallid fire, but their presence still cracked the air with weight.
They raised their weapons—a trident and a bow—and barred the way, crossing their arms in synchronised defiance. After allowing Azuraella to pass, their hollow eyes locked on Tiamat.
"Die or kneel," Poseidon snarled, the remnants of wrath still clinging to his dead soul.
Tiamat's smile curled like a blade. "Oh? You dare speak to me in that tone, insect?" Her voice dropped to a low, volcanic purr. "Your rage is adorable—it stokes my own."
Her arms shimmered, becoming eldritch and draconic, lined with abyssal essence.
She launched forward, driving both fists into the undead gods' chests.
Her arms spun like drills.
Screams tore through the palace as the former deities convulsed, blood—dark, thick, and ancient—gushing out in rivers.
"Not even undeath can save you from agony and assimilation," she laughed. "Let me hear you scream louder!"
They were gone, swallowed into her being like offerings to the abyss.
Tiamat spun around, her wings flowing with regal fury. Her voice rang out like a war drum.
"Well?! Any more volunteers for absorption?!"
The chamber went still.
Undead gods and titans alike faltered. Even the bones of warriors long past began to tremble.
Hera backed away, her divine grace unraveling into pure panic. "Defend your queen! Do not let her reach the throne!"
Uranus stared, wide-eyed, trying and failing to process what stood before him. A primordial like himself... yet terrifyingly alien.
Even Thanatos, the Reaper, spoke with unusual dread.
"When shite hits the fan, it splashes everywhere."
Then came the voice. Quiet. Languid. Authority soaked in fatigue.
"No fighting... yet," Azuraella murmured, having casually taken her seat upon a throne that pulsed with impossible geometry. The throne shouldn't have existed. And yet it did.
"Azuraella—Chaos Maiden, Voidkin, and one of the Tenebris Monochrome—requests your patience."
She casually lifted her severed head and attempted to place it atop her neck.
Thunk. It rolled off.
The head bounced once, twice, and landed against Ouroboros' boot with a gentle thump.
"...Um. Give Azuraella a moment," she said, unbothered. She raised her hand in a lazy gesture. "Would you kindly?"
Ouroboros sighed, picking up the head between two fingers like it was a misplaced artefact. With a flick, he tossed it back.
She caught it. Took her time reattaching it. Then, at last, gave a small nod of satisfaction.
"As Azuraella was saying," she resumed, now whole again, "Azuraella is also a Deicide-class Outer God. You two may be Deicides as well, but your grasp of Azuraella's Nihilpotence is... laughably inadequate."
She placed a gauntleted finger into her mouth as if testing sensation, then gave a slow blink.
"Her power—both conceptual and nonconceptual—is beyond mortal scales. Beyond divine scales. Beyond logic."
Ouroboros and Tiamat stared.
Silence.
Then—
"As if I'd believe a clown like you ranks above me," Tiamat hissed, eyes narrowing into draconic slits. "Keep talking nonsense, and I'll bite off that head again. Since you're so keen on losing it."
Ouroboros, meanwhile, had wandered toward the side of the chamber, eyes scanning the throne room's impossible architecture.
"Interesting..." he mused aloud. "Another Throne of Omniverses. I suppose it's to be expected. The Void seems to have an unlimited supply of kin these days."
He tapped the ash from his pipe once more, letting it drift like black snow. A flame sparked to life again.
A heartbeat later, smoke curled around his words.
"And yet... somehow this one feels different."
Azuraella clicked her tongue.
With that single sound, the entire monochrome world shattered into kaleidoscopic hysteria. Colours bled into existence like spilled ink across the canvas of reality—vivid, feverish, and blindingly surreal. Crimson suns spun in green skies. Time ticked backwards. Flowers wept stars.
"Azuraella finds it lamentable," she announced, spinning her chaos orb lazily on her fingertip, "that no worthy heir has presented themselves for her throne. Such is the curse of inheriting an army birthed in depravity." Her voice held a wearied aristocracy—equal parts boredom and menace.
The orange-haired maiden idly licked the orb—Cracky—its surface writhing with unfiltered entropy. She giggled like a child tasting forbidden candy, her expression one of detached innocence. A lie, of course.
"But Azuraella is not without purpose," she continued, voice honeyed and glacial. "She is here to test the Finality's so-called champions. You two. Impress her, and she might consider offering you a seat. Behave, and she may even treat you well."
Ouroboros laughed—a low, rasping sound like thunder trapped in a wine glass. His eyes gleamed with something unholy.
"If that's your pitch, I'll pass."
A halberd—Nexus Piercer—manifested in his hand. Its blade pulsed with spectral light, as if it carved through not just matter, but meaning itself. He casually tossed a blue orb to Tiamat.
"Catch. You've died to my sister's fate-manipulation more times than I can count. If anyone should wield the void's essence, it's you. You've always had a deeper bond with nothingness."
Tiamat caught it—and swallowed it whole without blinking.
For a moment, silence.
Then, a smile spread across her face. Not joyful. Not cruel.
Empty.
"I'll be honest, Ouroboros," she said softly. "I intended to betray and devour you when we were in the corridor between worlds."
Black draconic heads began sprouting from her back—each more grotesque and ancient than the last, their eyes burning with abyssal hunger.
"But this throne room will do nicely."
Her voice deepened into a sonorous echo as her Fell Aura spilled across the battlefield. The air grew thick. The walls melted into flesh and shadow. Azuraella's fragmented realm twisted to reflect Tiamat's will—becoming darker, crueler, alive with malevolence.
Even the undead gods—things already beyond fear—trembled in place. Hera whispered orders. Uranus stared, transfixed, uncertain whether to intervene or pray. Thanatos simply murmured:
"This is a shite situation."
Ouroboros observed her quietly, face unreadable.
"Why you're angry at me, I don't know," he said with a shrug. "But we'll sort it out later. Chaos is my priority now."
He turned his gaze to Azuraella. The Chaos Maiden was watching Tiamat's ascension with lazy interest, as one might observe clouds form shapes in the sky.
"Azuraella finds it mildly interesting," she said, tapping her lips, "that you once sank your fangs into her neck. That moment still tickles." She smiled thinly. "Yog-Sothoth... you're hiding."
Her voice shifted, becoming chiding. "You slumber, now that Azuraella is awake? How amusing. The impossible continues."
Then the realm flickered—and from the rippling abstraction, a calm, serene voice emerged.
'Azuraella. Your awareness brings comfort,' spoke Yog-Sothoth. 'As a being bound to cosmic balance, I dwell within Tiamat not by accident, but by design.'
A vision shimmered before them: a young woman in a white dress, lying peacefully amidst a field of blue grass and white flowers. She smiled, eyes full of calm certainty.
'This form is my truth,' Yog-Sothoth said. 'A symbol of order growing within chaos. My presence is not intrusion, but equilibrium.'
Tiamat snarled, visibly struggling against the encroaching influence.
Meanwhile, the chamber shook—titanic clashes erupting as gods and monsters collided. Ouroboros leapt for the throne, his roar ripping through realms.
"CHAOS!" he bellowed. "Stop gawking into the Abyss! If you keep standing there like a cosmic mannequin, I'll kill you before I get the chance to enjoy it!"
From his throat erupted the Timeless Roar of the Dragon King—a sound that defied sound. It was felt more than heard. Reality fractured. Space peeled. Olympus screamed.
Marble pillars, millennia old, exploded into dust. Mountains cracked. Oceans of aether boiled away. The realm of gods buckled under his fury.
Then came Tiamat's final form.
Her silhouette expanded, limbs elongating into sick parodies of grace. Her scales blackened to nothingness. Wings spread wide—so vast they eclipsed the burning sky. A new night was born in her wake.
Azuraella rose.
Her throne dissolved into metal, reconfiguring into a blade—the Endborn Cleaver, a greatsword ringed with eleven unstable halos. Each ring pulsed with chaos. Each slash rewrote the laws of somewhere.
The battlefield howled.
Gods fell. Titans cried out. Debris rained down like stars gone rogue. Olympus cracked not under siege—but under existence itself being rejected.
The Chaos Maiden observed the battlefield with the calm detachment of someone watching raindrops trail down a windowpane. All around her, Olympus buckled, myth collapsed, and heroes of legend stared in reverent confusion.
"Azuraella is pleased. This might not be a complete waste of her time after all."
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