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The sky was torn open.
A jagged rift, splintering through the fabric of reality, oozed with void-light. The sun—once a sovereign of warmth—now bled crimson as its dying rays faltered against the unnatural black. Fractured clouds, streaked with scarlet, hung limp and motionless, as if even the heavens dared not breathe.
The middle realm, once adorned with divine splendor, was now nothing more than a smoldering ruin—charred bones of existence left in the wake of Thrust's conquest.
The land was fractured beyond recognition.
Rivers of molten stone snaked through fields once kissed by celestial radiance. Towering divine spires were now jagged stumps, blackened and broken, reaching skyward like the fingers of dead gods. The ground itself was scarred with fissures, exhaling poisonous vapor.
At the epicenter stood Thrust—Zepxaris' iron hand, his armor still slick with divine ichor. His cape, torn and trailing behind him, dragged through the ruins like the tattered flag of a forgotten era.
He stood unmoving, his ashen eyes locked on the horizon.
And then, with a slow exhale, he extended his hand.
Behind him, the main army marched—an ocean of darkness.
Knights beyond the level of immortals, riding on mounts wreathed in smoldering shadow, their steeds' hooves shattering the ground with every step. Their armor, once bearing the insignias of their fallen realms, was now scorched black with divine flame, their eyes devoid of mercy.
Abyssal archers stalked silently alongside them, their bows of obsidian stringed with the sinews of fallen celestials. Their arrows dripped with venom, heavy with the essence of corrupted gods.
With each step, the ground wilted beneath them, turning to ashen dust. The once-glorious banquet hall, a grand monument to celestial sovereignty, now stood as a skeletal husk—its radiant gold reduced to charred bone-white, and its once-majestic pillars leaning like corpses of a forgotten pantheon.
The air itself thickened, clinging to the gods as though the realm rejected their presence.
And then—they came.
From the horizon, the gods descended.
Clad in their celestial grandeur, they shimmered with fractured divinity.
Their eyes burned with silver radiance, their forms adorned with robes of astral flame and crowns of crystalline power.
They floated downward—gods of creation, war-kings of astral dominions, and sovereigns of celestial law.
Their very presence made the air shimmer, the light bending around their forms as though existence itself sought to revere them.
But when their eyes fell upon the realm—they faltered.
There was no grand feast awaiting them.
There were no divine hosts to greet their arrival.
Instead, they beheld ruin and silence.
And standing at the center was Thrust—the herald of their doom.
His helm, streaked with celestial blood, reflected their light with mocking cruelty. His blade, still dripping with divine essence, hung low at his side—a merciless reaper awaiting the next harvest.
And without a word, Thrust raised his hand once more.
The banquet gates groaned open.
And through them stepped The Hollow.
The moment his foot touched the realm, the world stiffened.
It was as though reality itself clenched—air, light, and essence recoiling from his presence.
The celestial glow of the banquet dimmed.
The light faltered, as though it had forgotten its purpose.
Colors drained from the realm, leaving only ashen hues of black, gray, and pale white.
The celestial gods' radiance flickered.
Not from reverence.
From instinctual dread.
The Hollow walked slowly—deliberately, like a monarch whose presence reshaped existence with every step.
The ground beneath his heels withered and splintered, and the stone itself turned to dust, as though unwilling to bear his weight.
And then… the Sovereigns saw him.
The hidden cosmic watchers—ancient beings far beyond divine comprehension—stiffened.
For eons, they had observed creation, watching without fear or reverence.
But now… they hesitated.
For the first time in countless cycles, they recognized a rival.
No longer did they see Zepxaris' minion.
They saw an equal.
They sensed it—the weight of his presence. It was not borrowed from Zepxaris.
It was his own.
The gravity of a being who had carved entire realms of nothingness into existence with his own hands.
And then, far beyond the mortal realms, in the higher echelons of existence, the Upper Sovereigns stirred.
They gazed into the banquet through the fractures of reality—silent watchers who had seen worlds forged and unmade.
And when they beheld The Hollow, they did not see a servant.
They saw a being who could rival them.
A singular, unyielding force, walking with dignified stillness, his essence shrouded in the fragrance of masked divinity.
A being whose presence alone was enough to make them wonder:
"Is he… one of us?"
And beyond even the Upper Sovereigns, in the boundless nothingness beyond comprehension, the Creator itself turned its gaze.
It had witnessed countless eras rise and fall.
It had shaped cosmic monarchs and divine architects.
But now—it watched Hollow.
It saw the being who had built the Realm of Nothingness with his own hands.
It saw the effortless mastery with which Hollow had bent unreality into form.
It saw a being who might one day surpass it.
And somewhere, in the infinite void, the Creator's gaze lingered.
Unmoving.
Unwavering.
Watching.
And then, The Hollow turned his head.
The simple motion was unremarkable—a slow glance across the banquet hall.
And yet—reality convulsed.
The fallen gods, once clawing toward the divine relics, screamed.
Their broken forms, their half-formed faces, shrieked in sudden terror.
For Hollow's gaze alone was enough to unravel their souls.
They begged for power.
And received annihilation.
The banquet became a slaughterhouse.
The relics they once sought turned to fanged specters, tearing their essence apart.
The remnants of their divine forms were reduced to nothing more than withered light—unmade by Hollow's mere presence.
The celestials, once so proud, now stepped back—their eyes wide with disbelief.
The Sovereigns remained still, measuring The Hollow as a competitor.
And somewhere beyond comprehension, the Creator watched, silently acknowledging the truth:
"This is no mere servant."
"This is something else entirely."
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