The exhale wasn't just fire. It wasn't just destruction. It was annihilation itself. A golden-pink storm of raw, unfiltered might that turned the cosmos into ashes. The breath touched an immortal, a god of the highest pantheon, and he didn't just die—he ceased to exist. No soul left to reincarnate. No energy to return to the cycle. Just... gone.
Yet, despite its overwhelming might, the dragon was wounded. Glistening pink-golden blood dripped from deep gashes, each wound carved by beings that should never have had the power to harm it. Thousands of figures swarmed like ants against its celestial form—gods of all shapes and sizes, titanic beasts infused with divinity, dragons of ancient bloodlines, their own scales paling in comparison to the being they sought to slay.
