The throne room of Pandemonium had become a slaughterhouse of the divine.
Where there was once a clear line between the forces of Olympus and Hell, there was now only chaos. A Vanir, his eyes wild with a hatred he didn't understand, was bludgeoning a Shinto kami with a frozen shard of his own magic. A Titan, roaring in confused anguish, was tearing the wings from a Hindu deva who had been his ally moments before. Azazel's presence was a poison in the air, and every being was breathing it in.
He stood in the center of it all, a silent, gaunt statue amidst the storm of violence. His head, with its swirling pits of black sand, tilted as he observed his work. This was not a battle to him. It was a harvest.
Hades, Odin, and Poseidon stood back-to-back-to-back, a small island of grim sanity in the raging sea of madness.
"We cannot fight them all!" Poseidon snarled, his trident deflecting a blast of corrupted light from a once-friendly nature spirit. "They are our own people!"
