The Weight of Eternity
At the heart of this maelstrom stood Carel, the war-weary god-king, his once-radiant armor now dulled by eons of bloodshed. His faithful servant, Azarel, knelt before him, her silver eyes reflecting the sorrow of a thousand lost battles.
"My Lord, we have arrived," Azarel announced, her voice steady despite the carnage surrounding them.
Carel did not respond immediately. Instead, he gazed into the abyss beyond, where the remnants of fallen deities drifted like forgotten memories. A deep, unshakable unease coiled within his soul—a weariness that no victory could dispel.
Finally, he spoke, his voice heavy with the burden of eternity.
"Azarel… my faithful servant."
She lifted her head. "Yes, my Lord?"
Carel exhaled, his breath carrying the weight of ages. "I have grown tired of fighting this endless war—a war that has raged since the very dawn of creation. We have slain the Abyssal King, clashed with the Void Creator, turned blades upon our own kin among the gods… and now, we face these Chaos creatures. And soon, we will once again be forced to choose sides among the Rulers."
His voice cracked, raw with grief. "My wife… my child… I have not seen them in thousands of years. I sent them away to the multiverse for their safety, yet now I wonder if I condemned them to a fate worse than death. I am exhausted, Azarel. I am broken. I am… lonely."
Azarel felt the agony in his words like a blade through her own heart. She had stood by his side through countless battles, had seen him at his most ruthless and his most merciful. But never had she seen him so… human.
She rose to her feet, her resolve hardening. "My Lord, I have fought beside you for eras beyond counting. I know you to be a just and kind god—one who loves and protects his own. But if you weep here, now, your army will lose hope. They will falter. And if they falter, all is lost."
Her voice softened, yet carried an unshakable strength. "You are not alone. I am here. For now… let me stand in the place of your wife. Take me. Let me ease your sorrow, if only for this night."
Carel stared at her, the storm in his eyes subsiding into something quieter—something vulnerable. Then, wordlessly, he yielded.
That night, beneath the shattered skies of the Reveiverse, the god-king and his most loyal servant found solace in each other's arms.
The March of the Supreme Troops
Far from the battlefield, aboard the colossal war vessel Warhead, three figures stood at the helm, their silhouettes cutting against the void.
Nealon, the strategist, gazed at the swirling chaos ahead, her sharp eyes calculating every possible outcome. Beside her, Yoton, the ever-mercurial warrior, lounged with deceptive ease, while Zerich, the battle-hungry commander of the Supreme Troops, cracked his knuckles in anticipation.
"How long until we arrive at our destination?" Nealon asked, her voice calm but edged with urgency.
Yoton smirked. "At our current speed? Three days. Unless, of course, Zerich here decides to punch a hole through reality again."
Zerich let out a booming laugh, his massive frame shaking with mirth. "Hah! I hope this Chaos provides some real fun. I've been itching for a proper fight."
Nealon chuckled, shaking her head. "You truly are a creature of the battlefield, Zerich. I admire that about you. And you've served faithfully as commander. But… I sense something worse ahead. More than just Chaos creatures. So when we arrive, try to be careful, alright?"
Yoton snorted. "Careful? Zerich? Nealon, you know he's a meathead. The only language he understands is war."
Zerich grinned, unfazed. "Look who's talking! You only joined this war for the spoils—especially the women!"
The three burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the metallic halls of the Warhead. But Nealon's mirth faded first, her expression turning solemn.
"Animals. Both of you. Let's just hope we all come back alive."
The Omen of Akermos
Meanwhile, in the Cronoverse, Akermos, the fourth member of Krelious' faction, sprinted through the obsidian halls of the citadel, his breath ragged. He did not stop until he reached the grand doors of Krelious' private chamber—and without hesitation, he threw them open.
"My Lord! My Lord, I bring urgent news!" Akermos gasped, his chest heaving.
Krelious, seated upon his throne of blackened bone, turned with a snarl. "What madness possesses you to enter my chambers unannounced?!"
Akermos dropped to his knees, his voice trembling. "Forgive me, High Head… but I have had a vision."
Krelious froze.
"A… vision?" His voice was dangerously quiet. "Impossible. You have not had a vision since the war with the Abyssal King—a billion years ago."
Akermos swallowed hard. "I, too, believed my sight lost. But now I realize… I was merely afraid to use it again. After what I saw last time."
Krelious leaned forward, his crimson eyes burning. "Speak. What did you see?"
"I saw the fall of gods, High Head," Akermos whispered. "Not just the lesser deities—but us. The Rulers. Our heads severed, our thrones shattered. The war with the Reveiverse is but the spark… but if we do not act, it will consume everything."
Krelious' grip tightened on the armrest of his throne, the obsidian cracking beneath his fingers. "You speak of the impossible. No force in existence can topple the Rulers."
"And yet, I have seen it," Akermos insisted. "The only way to avert this fate is to renew our Oaths—to stand united before the storm comes."
A long silence stretched between them. Then, Krelious exhaled sharply.
"Leave me," he commanded. "And send for the messenger."
Akermos bowed deeply, his heart heavy. "As you command, High Head. But remember my words… the storm comes."
As the doors sealed behind Akermos, Krelious slumped back into his throne, his mind racing.
"Why now?" he muttered to the empty chamber. "Why, after all this time…?"
Then—a knock.
Krelious clenched his jaw. "Enter."
Krelious' Decree
The messenger stepped forward, bowing low. "My Lord, you sent for me."
Krelious, his piercing gaze fixed on the distant horizon beyond the arched windows, did not turn. His voice, though calm, carried the weight of inevitability.
"Deliver this decree to all factions—no matter how far they dwell."
The messenger bowed deeper. "Yes, my Lord. What is your command?"
At last, Krelious turned, his obsidian robes swirling like a storm. "In one year's time, the Meeting of Rulers will convene on Planet Xian. All matters concerning the Verses and our Houses will be settled there. Every ruler must attend. This is not a request—it is an order."
The messenger's breath hitched, but he nodded. "It shall be done."
With a flick of Krelious' hand, the messenger vanished, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the corridor's shadows.
The Factions Respond
Zielan's Stronghold
The messenger found Zielan amidst a war council, maps of conquered worlds strewn across the table. Without hesitation, the warlord smirked.
"Tell your High Head we'll be there."
Zion's Domain
In Zion's hall of mirrors, where reflections whispered secrets, the decree was met with a slow, calculating smile.
"Hmm. We will attend," Zion murmured, his fingers tracing the edge of a fractured glass pane.
Tavis' Castle
Tavis, however, slammed his fist onto the armrest of his throne, his face contorted in fury.
"A rulers' meeting in a year?! This was meant to happen five years from now!"
The messenger remained still, though his voice held an edge. "My apologies, Chief Tavis, but refusal carries consequences."
Tavis' eyes blazed. "Are you threatening me?"
"I dare not. But the High Head's word is law."
A tense silence followed before Tavis relented, though his jaw remained clenched. "Fine. Tell Krelious I'll be there."
As the messenger departed, Tavis seethed. "First, he humiliates us. Now he barks orders, forgetting we allowed him sovereignty!"
The Reveiverse Front
Nealon burst into Yoton's command tent, the decree clutched in her hand.
"Yoton! The High Head's orders—we must end this war in six months and return to prepare for the Meeting."
Yoton exhaled sharply, his gaze drifting to the bloodied battlefield between them. "Six months… Let's hope it's enough."
To Be Continued…