The moment Thrust descended, the fabric of existence rejected him-time itself repelled his
presence, violently recoiling as if refusing to acknowledge him. But resistance was futile. Time
cracked, distorted, and bent around his form, warping like a shattered mirror trying to mend itself,
only to break further.
Then, the void itself bled.
Not metaphorically, not in symbolism-it wept an abyssal essence, darker than nothingness itself.
The fractures in space gushed out something not liquid, not mist, but a presence so vile and
absolute that even the strongest deities could not name it. The air turned thick with a suffocating,
bloodthirsty stench-not merely the scent of death, but of entire civilizations erased, of wars that had
never ended, of slaughter so ancient that even time itself had buried it.
The Weapon He Carried: Death Given Shape
In his grasp was something far worse than a weapon. It had no name, no title in any known tongue.
It did not glow, it did not radiate power-it simply was.
Darker than darkness. Deeper than the abyss. It did not reflect light; it devoured it. Its mere
existence created an unnatural void where all things ceased-motion, sound, life. A formless wound
in reality, given a lethal edge.
The Realm's Reaction: Absolute Suppression
Newly born gods did not even comprehend what was happening. Their minds shattered before they
could recognize the threat. Some simply ceased to be, erased before they could even react.
The warlords of the gods trembled, struggling to remain standing. Their hands clenched their
weapons, but their grip was unsteady, their divine senses drowning in an unfamiliar, all-consumingterror.
Lower realms collapsed instantly. The weaker dimensions simply shattered into nothingness, gone
without a whisper. Those who survived found themselves reduced to something lesser-not because
they were spared, but because they were too insignificant for Thrust to acknowledge.
The Decree Ceremony: Engraving the Will of Zepxaris Upon Existence
Thrust did not speak. He did not raise his voice.
He simply read the decree.
And that alone reshaped existence.
"The Forgotten One has stirred. His silence has ended. You do not remember him, but he
remembers all. The balance you revere was never yours to keep. It was merely the remnants of his
absence.
Now, his will returns-and with it, the end of all false thrones."
This was no proclamation. No demand. It was an absolute truth, woven into the essence of all
things. It was not something to be agreed with or opposed-it simply was.
And the universe had no choice but to obey.
Madness Takes Hold: Denial and Accusations
But for some, the horror was too much.
Among the surviving newly born gods, madness erupted like wildfire. Their limited minds, unable to
grasp what had just occurred, sought reason, conspiracy-anything but the truth.
"This is impossible..." one gasped, clutching their head, divine essence fraying at the edges.
"Some... some ancient wretch has pulled the strings," another snarled, their voice dripping with
delusion. "No being can be this... this...!"
The idea that something so powerful had existed outside their knowledge was unthinkable. A
deception, a trick-yes, that was easier to accept.
"It must be an artifact," a demon lord growled, his infernal wings trembling. "A forbidden relic, an
alien power stolen from beyond reality."
"A Celestial God's doing!" spat another. "Those ancient parasites have hoarded countless unknown
forces-they must have summoned this monstrosity!"
The irony was cruel-their denial only made their insignificance more apparent. Even as their divine
bodies quaked and their minds broke, they convinced themselves that this could not be real.
But reality did not care for their delusions.
Thrust had arrived.
The decree was spoken.
And Zepxaris had stirred.
Nothing else mattered.