This war he had started. This war that had set the realms alight in a blaze. This war that had torn the gods apart. This war in which millions of lives had been lost. It was all for her.
Narasat, Avista, Falkor. Three realms that fell like dominos before Jaskiar's massive armies, getting merged into his ever growing empire of realms
A few of the gods had resisted his dominion, they were nothing but soulless husks of once powerful beings now. The others had seen the errors of their ways and had bent the knee, turning on their siblings and aligning themselves with Jaskiar.
Khorost would be the next to fall. Lord General Haskar and his militaristic prowess had been a great boon to Jaskiar's crusade.
Who knew the undead factions of the realms were capable of providing such geniuses? With Haskar at his side, Jaskiar had practically doubled the rate at which he was conquering realms.
As time went on and the war dragged on, Jaskiar became hungry for more power. He wasn't content to just simply ruffle some feathers and eventually be forgotten or dismissed by the Celestials.
No. He wanted them to notice him. He wanted them to give him the attention he so rightfully deserved. He wanted them to fear him.
"Sire, I've received word from Tir. The Hero problem has seemingly taken care of itself, the fool is already dead." A raspy voice broke Jaskiar from his thoughts, and he opened his dark colored eyes, alighting them upon the form before him.
An undead Huskarl knelt before the onyx carved throne that Jaskiar was lounging in. The Huskarl's eyes were filled with a blue luminescent glow, a sign that he had been chained to a powerful practitioner of dark arts.
All of the undead serving under Jaskiar's command had that glow, having surrendered their wills to continue to live in the un-life. If they hadn't, the all powerful god would've destroyed them and sent them to a true death.
Many of the undead factions detested or despised Jaskiar for the means in which he abused his power to make their race submit to his will, and if anything, the Realms of the Undead were the most staunch in their resistance to Jaskiar's conquering ways. They tended to put up more of a fight than the living, a testament to how much they hated him.
"Good. See to it that Tir is rewarded for his loyalty." With a flick of his hand, he dismissed the Huskarl and it lumbered away slowly. Those fools. Did they really think a new Hero would be enough to stop him? The past three hadn't been enough, and those were supposedly stronger than the newest iteration.
Their power had been significantly weakened as Jaskiar had conquered more realms, meaning that whatever Hero they deemed worthy enough to grant powers would be weaker than his predecessors.
Still, Heroes would always be a threat to Jaskiar's existence. They were the one thing in the universe that could grow strong enough to stop him, and as such he did whatever was necessary to ensure those beings wouldn't grow strong. It boded well that the newest one had already been taken care of.
He cast his mind back to the past, thousands of years ago. A Hero used to be one of his best friends. They had shared laughs and joy, pain and sadness. They had fought side by side in the Nehmian Uprising. They had struggled through the lowest of lows and the highest of highs together. It was a shame that the heroes were now his enemies, he hated sullying the good memories he had.
A flash of silver brought him from his reverie, the ring on his finger glinting in the firelight of the torch sconces. It was given to him by his mother when he was young, before she had been cast from the heavens by her so-called siblings.
It contained all of his sadness, all of his happiness, all of his pain, all of his rage. This ring was his constant reminder that he still had work to do and that he couldn't rest until it was done.
No matter the cost, he would see that the realms burned for eternity. He would make sure that the gods' perfect creation was forever scarred and tainted. He would make sure they would suffer, especially the ten higher beings that made up the Council.
He had a specific idea in mind for each and every one of them. Of course, the worst of all the pain he would inflict would be saved for last, intended for the wretched being he called father.
Just thinking about that bastard stoked the fire in Jaskiar's cold heart, fuelling it with anger. There was no boundary that he wouldn't cross to see the light in his father's eyes fade. He didn't really feel any specific way about the rest of the gods, they were simply unfortunate enough to be in the way. But he truly hated his father and every other being that was on the Council.
Years of torment, which his father deigned to call 'training,' had turned Jaskiar into a cold and emotionless being designed to fulfill only one purpose. Destroy.
The beings on the Council had sought to turn him into a weapon to be used at their discretion, a tool meant to help control their creations. What they didn't count on was the spark of rebellion that couldn't be extinguished, no matter what manner of torture he was put through.
He had turned his back on them at the first opportunity that was presented to him, breaking free of their machinations.
His gaze turned to the crystalline ball to his left, its myriad colors reflecting the surface of the palace floors. This particular relic came from the vaults of a realm called Anloc, one of the first realms he had conquered due to its close proximity to his home realm.
Its power was still far beyond his comprehension, but at the very least he had managed to get some control over its functions.
This thing was older than him, a relic from an age he wasn't alive to witness, but its power still eclipsed his own by an incredible margin. Few gods alive today could say they had seen this thing in its glory days.
Still, it served a unique purpose, and Jaskiar was not someone that would let powerful objects go to waste; he wasn't like those idiots who locked it up and tossed out the key. Just because he didn't understand it doesn't mean he should fear its power. He let his hand hover just above the spherical object made of crystals, and it responded to his call.
Immediately, his vision darkened as his consciousness was dragged into the ball.
Unknown Realm
"HOLD THE LINE! Don't let these undead freaks-" An arrow pierced the skull of the captain shouting orders to his men and he fell from the makeshift wooden rampart. Despite his death, the men stayed in formation, locking their shields together and pushing back the tide of corpses that threatened to overrun them.
A constant week of fighting had worn them down and exhausted them, but still they held. Surrendering wasn't an option, they would either achieve victory against the endless hordes of undead, or they would die and join the ranks of Jaskiar's inexhaustible armies.
Victory. Like it was even a feasible option at this point. There was no victory that could be achieved. Their cities had been overrun. Their towns had burned. Their citadels had been conquered and turned into fortresses of death. Their armies had been crushed. They were the last living souls in this realm, and their demise was all but guaranteed. Even their gods couldn't save them now.
Who could possibly achieve victory against an enemy that didn't know fear and felt no pain? How was victory supposed to be possible against an enemy that seemed to be endless? The simple answer, and the stark truth that everyone came to realize, is that victory isn't an option.
No matter how hard you fought or how powerful you were, stopping the tide of undead was as impossible as stopping waves of rushing water.
The first soldier fell, his arm torn from his body. And then the next. And the next. Try as they might, there was no way to survive this onslaught. Finally, the final soldier fell, only to rise a few moments later with a blue glow in his hollow eyes.
Moments passed as an eerie silence settled over the amassed horde of zombies. Just as they were about to be dismissed by the Lich who had summoned them a massive blinding light filled the sky.
A golden ball of crackling energy had descended from the clouds. The gods had indeed decided to intervene, but it was already too late, the realm had fallen into Jaskiar's hands.
The sphere of energy suddenly plummeted to the ground, crashing into it like a meteor. A shockwave of energy was released from the ball and expanded outwards, vaporizing everything in its path.
Jaskiar's Palace, Unknown
Jaskiar gasped a heaving breath as his consciousness came back to him, his hand pulling away from the crystal ball. This vision had been more prominent and detailed than the ones he had been shown previously. He had no idea how it worked, but so far he had gathered that the relic was capable of showing visions of the future.
It was particularly useful in helping to plan out which realms he could invade, and which ones would be too difficult to conquer at the moment. He had no idea what realm he just saw, but it must be one that's about to fall under his control. The god's response to his claiming of the realm fascinated him. Why would they allow a realm to fall only to blast it with their divine powers moments later?
It didn't matter. The realms would either bend to his will, or they would burn.