The air ripped itself apart. Not like an explosion—not fire and force—but something deeper. The molecules themselves seemed to scream, to unravel, as if the very concept of stability had been abandoned. And from that rupture, they emerged.
Twenty-seven beings—no longer human, not anymore. The experiments had gone too far, their flesh had become something else, their minds had become voids—chasms too deep to comprehend, filled with madness, hatred, and something that no human had ever felt before. Power beyond reason.
They walked. They hovered. Twisted. Shifted. Their bodies no longer obeyed physics, no longer followed biology. Bone spirals jutted from their backs like cathedral spires. Flesh pulsed in places it shouldn't. Eyes opened and closed across their skin, blinking independently, watching everything at once. Their forms constantly broke and reformed, as if reality itself was unsure whether to keep them solid or let them bleed into the void.
Then, the screaming began.
The government had built this underground facility to withstand any attack. A fortress beneath the Earth, deep enough that no nuclear bomb could touch it, reinforced with the strongest metals humanity had ever forged. It didn't matter. It was nothing to them.
The first deaths were instantaneous. A mere thought from one of the beings—just an absent-minded flicker of their new consciousness—and every soldier in the lower floors imploded at once. Not exploded. Imploded. Their bodies collapsed inward as if a black hole had formed inside their chests, ribs snapping inward, flesh compressing into a single point before vanishing. Blood smeared the walls in red spirals, their uniforms left empty on the ground, still holding their weapons.
The scientists tried to run.
One of them made it to an elevator, slamming the emergency button, his breath coming in frantic gasps. The doors slid shut. Safety. Escape.
No.
The walls around him melted. Not with heat. Not with fire. They became flesh. Pulsing, raw, wet, twitching. The numbers on the elevator's panel bled—red droplets dripping down the buttons. Something inside the walls was breathing. He tried to scream, but the walls had already absorbed him.
One by one, every scientist, every guard, every government official met something worse than death.
One woman found herself stuck in a loop, her body resetting every ten seconds—each time she was torn apart by unseen forces, only to be rebuilt again, screaming louder each time.
One man saw his own reflection smile at him before stepping out of the mirror, grabbing his jaw, and peeling his face off.
Another officer found himself floating, staring down at his own corpse, which was still moving. He watched, paralyzed, as his body picked up a knife and carved out its own eyes, laughing the whole time.
It wasn't a massacre. It was art.
The 27 did not simply kill. They played.
They dragged the suffering out for as long as possible, bending reality itself to redefine agony.
And then, finally, when there was no one left to kill—they turned their eyes to the surface.
The first earthquake came like a heartbeat. A single, deep thump that sent ripples through the ground. Buildings shuddered. Windows cracked. Birds froze in midair, trapped between flying and falling.
The second heartbeat sent tsunamis racing toward the shorelines, black water swallowing entire cities before people even had time to react. The ocean boiled—not from heat, but from something deeper. The laws of physics were collapsing.
The third heartbeat silenced the world.
Every volcano on Earth erupted at once.
Not gradually. Not in bursts. They exploded. Mountains of lava shot into the sky, turning the clouds into seething infernos. Ash swallowed the sun. Entire continents split apart as the planet itself began to scream.
People ran, but there was nowhere to go. The air itself turned against them. In some places, it became razor-sharp, cutting flesh like invisible knives. In others, it thickened, drowning people in their own breath.
And then, the sky turned red.
Cities fell. Not crumbled—fell. Entire chunks of Earth lifted into the sky, hanging weightless before being shattered into dust. People floated upward, reaching desperately for anything to hold onto, but there was nothing. Just the cold, suffocating void swallowing them whole.
The moon cracked like an egg. Shards of it rained down, each piece large enough to obliterate nations. The tides went mad, pulling tsunamis hundreds of miles inland, drowning mountains, swallowing civilizations, The gravity ceased to exist.
Some saw gods in the sky—vast, shifting figures with too many eyes and too many mouths, whispering secrets no human mind could handle. They collapsed, brains melting out of their skulls before they could even scream.
Others saw nothing. Not darkness—nothing. They blinked, and the world around them was gone. No sound. No sensation. Just void.
And above it all, floating in the sky, stood the 27.
Or rather—what they had become.
No longer bound by shape or size, they had grown beyond humanity. Beyond gods. Their bodies twisted, shifted, stretched across the sky. Their eyes were galaxies, their limbs towers of flesh and bone, their voices deep enough to shake the fabric of time itself.
And they were still hungry.
.
People had fled to the water, to ships, to floating cities, thinking they could outrun the destruction. They were wrong. The sea was no longer water—it had become something else.
It breathed.
The waves shuddered, rising too high, moving too slow—then too fast. The salt turned to something sour, something rotting. The ocean had changed.
The first ship—an aircraft carrier, the last of a dying navy—sank without a sound. It didn't capsize. It didn't break. It was simply pulled downward. The steel hull melted, turning into something organic—veins, arteries, pulsing muscle—the entire ship became part of the sea.
The earth was dying.
the people were swallowed alive.
Sailors screamed as their skin softened, their bones liquefied, their bodies merged with the tide. Some of them didn't drown. No—they became the water. Their faces drifted across the surface, frozen in agony, mouths wide but unable to make a sound.
The survivors on nearby ships watched in paralyzed horror. Then, one by one, their vessels began to move.
Not with the current. Not with the wind.
Something underneath was pulling them.
They ran to the edges, staring into the depths—and what they saw was not water anymore.
Eyes. Thousands. Millions. Blinking, rolling, watching. A sea of flesh, of teeth, of pale hands reaching upward.
Then, the tentacles came.
Not like an octopus. Not like anything that had ever existed before. They rose from the deep, miles wide, twisting and splitting like wet, throbbing roots. They wrapped around ships, around people, dragging them down—not to the bottom of the sea, but into something deeper. Something that shouldn't have been there.
The screaming lasted for hours.
Then, silence.
The oceans were full now—full of bodies, full of souls, full of consciousness that could not die. The water itself had become a living thing.
And it was hungry.
On land, things were worse.
The mountains moved—not crumbling, not collapsing, but shifting like muscle under the skin of the Earth. Buildings melted into bone, streets twisted into intestines, the very sky itself became red—pulsing, alive.
Millions tried to flee. It didn't matter.
In Tokyo, skyscrapers turned organic. Metal and glass became teeth and tongues, licking the air, screaming with the voices of those who had died inside them. The streets were rivers of maggots, flowing in the cracks of the pavement like blood through veins.
In Paris, the Eiffel Tower walked. The iron twisted, bent, split into a thousand legs, scuttling through the ruins like an insect. It was alive now—and it was hunting.
In New York, Times Square became a mouth. The billboards spoke, the buildings leaned inward, and the ground cracked open like lips. People fell in by the thousands, screaming as the Earth itself chewed them alive.
There was no escape.
Some ran underground, into bunkers, into tunnels, thinking they could hide.
They were wrong.
The walls were no longer steel, no longer concrete. They twitched when touched. They whispered.
A man in a bunker tried to scream, but his voice didn't come out. Not from his mouth. It came from the wall.
A thousand voices screaming, begging, pleading for help—but there was no one left to listen.
Above it all, the gods floated.
The 27 beings—no longer human, no longer bound by flesh—watched the destruction unfold with empty, endless eyes. They did not move. They did not speak.
But they felt.
With every death, every scream, every moment of suffering, they grew stronger.
Their bodies were not stable—constantly shifting, expanding, contracting. Some had wings, but the feathers were made of spines. Some had horns, but they dripped with black, oozing rot. Some had no faces—only endless, spinning voids where heads should have been.
And at the center of them all, the strongest one—the first to transform—opened its mouth.
A sound ripped through the world.
Not a voice. Not a scream. Something worse.
A frequency that shattered glass, burst eardrums, sent blood pouring from the eyes of anyone still alive. A single, endless note of madness.
And with that sound, the final collapse began.
The Earth itself started to change—its core warped, its crust peeled, its very mass expanding outward.
The planet could no longer hold itself together.
They were not finished with this world yet.
The survivors could no longer breathe.
It wasn't smoke. It wasn't gas. It was something.
The sky had changed. The clouds were no longer vapor but veins, stretched thin, pulsing with a deep red glow. Thicker—something that stuck in the lungs, something that clawed down their throats like livi
When the rain fell, it wasn't water.
It was blood.
And it was alive.
The moment it touched skin, it burrowed in—thousands of microscopic tendrils sinking into flesh, pulling people apart from the inside. Some tried to wipe it off, but their hands only melted into whatever they touched. Some tried to run, but the ground beneath them breathed, pulsating with the same infection.
Then came the wind.
It did not howl. It did not roar. It screamed.
Not like air rushing through trees—not like a hurricane, not like a storm—but like voices.
Millions of voices.
The wind carried the echoes of the dead—those who had already been consumed, their souls ripped apart, their last moments repeating endlessly in the air.
A man in London covered his ears, trying to block out the sound—but when he did, he felt something slithering inside his head.
He pulled his hands away—and found his fingers had fused to his skull. His own skin was crawling, his own bones twisting—he tried to scream, but his voice joined the storm.
He was gone.
This was no longer a world where people could breathe. The very air was a weapon now.
And there was no escaping it.
The survivors who ran underground found no safety.
The tunnels and bunkers had already changed.
Walls were no longer concrete. They were ribcages. Pulsing. Expanding. Contracting.
And the deeper they went, the hotter it became.
Not just heat. Hunger.
The Earth itself was alive.
A shelter in Russia collapsed overnight. The people inside never screamed. They never even had the chance.
Because when the walls closed in, they didn't just crush them. They absorbed them.
Bones stretched, veins latched onto the walls, and within minutes, the shelter was not a shelter anymore.
It was a womb.
And something inside it was growing.
Above ground, things were even worse.
The cities that had survived the first destruction were now twisting. Buildings that had once stood tall were now melting together, flesh and steel merging into grotesque towers of organic metal.
Some of them moved.
Like animals.
Like predators.
A survivor in Beijing watched in horror as an entire skyscraper took a step. Its windows were eyes, its shattered floors were teeth, and the people still trapped inside were screaming as they were absorbed into its shifting mass.
She tried to run.
But the ground beneath her opened up.
Not a sinkhole. Not an earthquake.
A mouth.
And she was gone.
For the first time, the 27 beings moved.
Until now, they had simply watched. Floating. Waiting.
But now—now they descended.
Not to rule. Not to command.
To feed.
Their bodies stretched, arms splitting into hundreds of tendrils, wings unfolding into spines.
One landed in what was once New Delhi. Its footsteps alone crushed buildings, its mere presence sent shockwaves through the ground.
But it did not destroy.
It touched.
And everything beneath it changed.
The people, the ruins, the very earth itself—all of it broke apart, dissolving into raw matter, reshaping into something else.
Something incomprehensible.
Something holy.
To them, this was not destruction.
This was creation.
The first step to remaking the world in their image.
And they were just getting started.
There was no sun anymore.
Not because it had gone out.
Because the sky was thick—a suffocating mass of writhing flesh, pulsing with veins of molten gold.
It wasn't blocking the sun.
It was feeding on it.
The 27 descended fully now—not as rulers, not as executioners, but as beings of hunger.
They did not consume like animals.
They did not burn like gods.
They absorbed.
Their forms were unstable, shifting between humanoid nightmares and towering masses of pure energy—their bodies unfolding, expanding, piercing the ground with tendrils that burrowed to the core.
The Earth screamed.
A real, tangible sound. A deep, guttural cry, like an animal being torn apart while still alive.
People heard it.
The few who still remained—they heard their planet begging.
But there was no one left to save it.
The oceans drained first.
Not evaporating.
Not boiling.
Simply ripped away, sucked upward in streams of twisting liquid, spiraling into the sky, disappearing into the bodies of the 27.
Where once there were waves, now there was only dust.
The cities that had still stood among the ruins—they withered.
Metal turned to rust.
Glass became sand.
People started floating in the sky and buildings crumbled.
Concrete crumbled into bone-white powder, carried away on winds that no longer howled but sighed, whispering the last words of the dead.
And then came the earthquakes.
Not slow. Not building up.
Instantaneous.
Everything cracked. Everything split.
Entire continents tilted like ships about to capsize, mountains rose and fell in seconds, the planet's crust ripping apart as the core itself began to dim.
For the first time, Earth was hollow.
The core—the burning heart of the planet—was rising.
Dragged upwards.
Dragged out.
One of the 27—the one who had once been Amara—held it in her hands.
Or what had once been hands.
Her form was stretched, fingers thinning into impossibly long tendrils, eyes blackened voids, her mouth locked in an eternal grin of inhuman ecstasy.
She crushed the core.
And the planet shuddered.
Without its heart, Earth had only seconds left.
And the 27 looked to the next meal.
Earth was dying.
But they did not stop.
They were still hungry.
Their bodies expanded, eclipsing the horizon, their forms blending with the space above, until they were no longer just on Earth—they were among the stars.
Mars was first.
It was a barren rock, but that didn't matter.
Felix—or what had once been Felix—moved toward it.
His body had no defined shape anymore, only an endless vortex of shifting colors, his voice a hum that stretched across dimensions.
Mars did not explode.
It imploded.
Crushed into pure energy, reduced to nothingness, sucked into his form.
One by one, the other planets followed.
Venus, boiling away in an instant.
Jupiter, its gas ripped into streams of liquid fire, its Great Red Spot snuffed out like a candle.
Saturn's rings shattering, scattering into deep space, the planet itself shrinking, becoming a speck of dust in Reis's hand before he crushed it to nothing.
Neptune and Uranus vanished in silence, and Mercury was already gone before anyone noticed.
There was only one thing left.
The Moon.
Seraph stood before it.
Or floated.
His body was light now, his eyes twin supernovae, his voice no longer human.
He reached out.
And the Moon shook.
Not just its surface.
Its core.
For a moment, it looked like it was trying to resist.
Like it was alive.
Like it knew what was coming.
But there was no mercy left in the 27.
With one final breath, Seraph pulled it apart.
The Moon shattered.
The pieces did not fall to Earth.
There was no Earth left to fall to.
The planet that had once held life, cities, oceans, forests—
Was now nothing.
And the 27 turned their gaze to the rest of the stars.
This was only the beginning.
There was no longer an Earth.
No longer a Mars.
No planets, no moons, no remnants of what once was a solar system—only dust, radiation, and the silence of space.
The 27 drifted in the void, their bodies no longer bound by the limits of flesh.
Once, they were human.
Now, they were something else.
Their forms had grown—vast, shifting masses of writhing energy, limbs extending and retracting without logic, faces that formed and melted away into the dark.
Their minds were no longer separate.
They were one hunger.
And the hunger had not stopped.
It had evolved.
Their gazes—if they could even be called that—turned toward the Milky Way Galaxy.
It called to them.
They were starving.
The first star died in silence.
It blinked out, not in explosion, not in collapse—just ceased to be.
Felix had consumed it.
His form stretched across light-years, a writhing void against the infinite black. The star's nuclear fire curled around him for a moment, swirling like a hurricane of dying light—
And then it was gone.
The second followed.
Then the third.
Then an entire cluster.
They were not selective.
They did not stop to see if life had formed around the systems they consumed.
They did not wonder if entire civilizations were looking up at their vanishing suns in horror.
They only fed.
Amara moved next.
Her body, a shifting, grotesque amalgamation of tendrils and shapes that no longer adhered to reason, expanded outward, wrapping around entire planetary systems like a vast, cosmic serpent.
She breathed in the light.
The raw, unfiltered power of stars flooded into her form, and she shuddered as her body expanded even further.
They were getting bigger.
With every system they devoured, their forms stretched.
No longer the size of mere planets—
They were becoming as large as suns.
And still, it was not enough.
The galaxy was dim now.
What once was a brilliant ocean of stars was now a void, expanding rapidly from the center outward.
A great, festering wound in the cosmos.
And at the center of it?
Them.
They moved in eerie synchronization, a slow, methodical consumption.
One after another, the stars winked out, their energy stripped, their existence erased as if they had never been.
Reis reached out a hand—if it could even be called that anymore—and tore open a nebula.
The swirling gas and dust screamed as it collapsed into his form, its million-year dance through space ending in an instant.
Seraph consumed the remnants of a dying supernova, his vast, shadowed form drinking in the collapsing waves of radiation.
Iris, the largest of them all now, swallowed the heart of a pulsar.
Its neutron-star core, dense beyond comprehension, crumbled like sand between her fingers.
They did not just feed.
They grew.
And with that growth came change.
Somewhere in the vastness of what remained of the Milky Way, an ancient species watched in silence.
They did not speak.
They did not pray.
Because what was left to say to something like this?
They had seen death before.
Had fought in wars that shattered planets, had survived events that wiped out entire civilizations—
But never this.
Never something that fed on the very bones of existence itself.
And as they watched the galaxy darken, one thought passed between their minds, their consciousnesses linked through technology older than Earth itself.
"We are witnessing the end."
They had no words for what the 27 had become.
No name for the hunger.
But they would.
They would have to.
Because before this was over, the whole universe would know their names.
And by then, it would be too late.
They grew bigger with every star they consumed, their forms stretching across galaxies, their minds slipping further into pure, cosmic madness.
Alien civilizations watched in horror. Entire species, millions of years old, fell silent as they saw the devourers in the sky as they absorbed the energy from everything that came in their way. They sent ships, weapons, and gods of their own. It did not matter.
Nothing mattered anymore.
The nightmare was just beginning.
Around and across them formed the warp drive.
Their madness travelled faster than the speed of light.
They felt like gods of destruction.
And gods do not go unchallenged.
For the first time since their descent into madness, since they had shed the last remnants of their humanity and become monstrous, cosmic entities, the void trembled not with their hunger—
But with resistance.
The first species to strike back came from the Vash'tari Dominion.
A civilization that had ruled over the spiral arms of the galaxy for over a billion years.
Their technology was beyond human comprehension.
Their weapons were not material.
Not bombs. Not lasers. Not fleets of warships.
They fought with thought.
The Vash'tari were a species of pure psionic energy, long since evolved beyond the need for flesh.
They existed as sentient fields of consciousness, their minds stretching across entire star systems, linked in a great, neural web.
They had survived galactic apocalypses, had fought entities that had devoured planets—
But nothing like this.
And yet, they would not kneel.
A billion minds turned toward the 27.
And then, they struck.
There was no warning.
No visible attack, no fleet surging from hyperspace.
Instead—
A wave of pure, incomprehensible thought exploded outward from the Vash'tari Core Worlds.
It surged across space, bending light, distorting reality, warping the very fabric of existence itself.
The 27 twitched.
For the first time, their endless, gluttonous expansion paused.
It was a thing that had never happened before.
A thing that should have been impossible.
And yet, here they were—staggering.
Because the Vash'tari were not attacking their bodies.
They were attacking their minds.
A billion voices screamed into their consciousness at once—
An ocean of memories, nightmares, unfiltered agony.
They felt a trillion deaths at once, entire civilizations falling, the weight of suffering flooding into their fractured psyches.
They had thought they were beyond pain.
But this?
This was worse than pain.
The 27 convulsed.
Reis shrieked, his form writhing, great spires of burning flesh rupturing out of him like tumors.
Amara shattered, her body dissolving into a sea of screaming, shifting faces, all of them begging to be freed from the torment.
Felix clawed at his own skull, his thoughts unraveling into madness—
Until, suddenly—
They adjusted.
And they learned how to consume minds.
It was slow at first.
A single Vash'tari consciousness was devoured.
Then another.
And another.
And then—
All of them.
The billion voices went from a deafening storm to silence.
The Vash'tari were no more.
Their entire species, their entire history, their entire existence—
Erased.
The 27 did not just devour their energy.
They devoured their memories.
And for a brief, horrifying moment—
They felt everything the Vash'tari had ever felt.
A billion years of suffering and triumph.
And they laughed.
Because now, they knew how to do it again.
They had evolved.
And the hunger was not finished.
Word of the Vash'tari's extinction spread like wildfire through the remnants of the dying galaxy.
Some civilizations fled.
Some tried to hide.
But some—
Some chose to fight.
The Kor-Thalax War-Forge were not like the Vash'tari.
They did not fight with thoughts.
They fought with steel and fire.
The Kor-Thalax had no homeworld.
No planets.
No concept of peace.
For millions of years, they had drifted through the cosmos in their titanic, country-sized warships, conquering every species they found, stripping entire systems of their resources, forging an empire of pure, unrelenting war.
They did not believe in surrender.
They did not believe in mercy.
And when they saw what had happened to the Vash'tari, they did not hesitate.
They unleashed hell.
The first wave of ships emerged from hyperspace in the thousands—
Great, black monoliths of metal, kilometers long, bristling with weaponry that could crack moons in half.
They swarmed.
The 27 turned—
And the sky burned.
The void screamed.
Not in the way flesh screams.
Not in the way minds break.
This was something deeper—a rupture in the fabric of war itself.
Because the Kor-Thalax War-Forge had arrived.
And they had come to win.
From the dark, the armada emerged.
Colossal battle-stations the size of moons, their hulls blackened with the blood of a thousand conquered races.
Dreadnoughts lined with miles of weaponry, cannons that could rip the cores out of planets.
Nanite swarms, living storms of devouring steel, spreading like locusts over the void.
It was not a fleet.
It was a moving apocalypse.
And it had one target.
The 27.
The War-Forge had conquered everything in its path for millions of years.
This was just another campaign.
Just another invasion.
They had no idea.
The War-Forge attacked first.
A wall of light, brighter than the birth of a star, surged forward—
Beams of reality-cutting energy, slicing through space itself.
Missiles, laced with quantum destabilizers, erupted in tides of annihilation.
Nanite clouds flooded forward, turning planets into rust and dust.
The void itself trembled beneath their fire.
And the 27 took the hit.
For the first time, they felt pain.
Reis moved first.
His form, a shifting abomination of flesh and metal, shot through the fleet like a meteor.
He slammed into the first war-station, his body splitting apart into tendrils that plunged into the ship's hull.
It did not explode.
It did not crack.
It withered.
Metal turned to bone.
Engines became veins, pulsating with something alive.
The crew screamed.
They did not die.
They transformed.
Their armor melted into their skin, their faces stretched into endless howls, their bodies woven into the ship itself.
The war-station became an extension of Reis.
A living, writhing thing.
And then—
He turned it against the fleet.
Amara descended from the dark, her form shifting between shadows and nightmares.
She reached into the ships, into the minds of the War-Forge soldiers, and twisted.
They did not die.
They forgot what they were.
They forgot war.
They forgot their ships.
They forgot their weapons.
And in that perfect, frozen moment of absolute horror—
She gave them back their fear.
The fear they had burned away.
The fear they had long since evolved past.
And the greatest war fleet in the galaxy turned into a panicked, screaming mob.
A mob that tried to run.
There was nowhere to run.
THE BATTLE TURNED INTO A MASSACRE.
Seraph did not consume.
He tore.
His body was a storm of wings, each one the size of a capital ship, razor-sharp and endless.
She sliced through metal like flesh.
Warships, massive enough to cast shadows over entire planets, were ripped apart in seconds.
No explosions.
No fire.
Just silence.
Chunks of twisted metal drifting in the void.
And among them—
The bodies.
Frozen in terror.
The War-Forge had never lost a war.
They had no word for surrender.
Even as the fleet crumbled, even as their war-worlds fell silent, even as the gods they had awakened ripped them apart—
They did not stop.
The last of them gathered around their final station—
A world-sized fortress of pure black metal, hovering over the corpse of a dead star.
It activated.
A final weapon.
The last hope of a dying empire.
A cannon, built from the remains of collapsed dimensions, a weapon designed to erase a god.
It aimed at Reis.
It fired.
AND HE CAUGHT IT.
Not with his hands.
Not with a shield.
Not with any kind of defense.
He opened his mouth.
And he ate the blast.
The last weapon of the Kor-Thalax War-Forge, the thing meant to kill a god,
Was devoured.
And he smiled.
EXTINCTION.
There was no great final battle.
No last-ditch effort.
No glorious sacrifice.
There was only the devouring.
The Kor-Thalax War-Forge had ruled for millions of years.
They had outlasted stars.
They had survived apocalypses.
And now—
They were gone.
Their ships, their planets, their history, their very name—
Erased from existence.
And the 27—
Were still hungry.
The cosmos rumbled.
The Kor-Thalax War-Forge had fallen.
The gods of ruin continued their march.
But this time—
The universe had something greater in store.
Because the true titans had yet to enter the battlefield.
And they were not just warriors.
They were forces of nature themselves.
In the wake of the Kor-Thalax genocide, something stirred in the abyss.
A force far older, far more terrible.
The Va'rax Dominion.
They did not come in ships.
They did not come in armadas.
They were the war.
Each of them a walking apocalypse, towering over the stars, their bodies forged from the dying screams of a thousand galaxies.
Their bones were compressed neutron matter, harder than any material in existence.
Their blood was living plasma, hotter than the cores of supernovas.
Their minds were unshackled consciousness, spread across the very fabric of space.
And they had only one purpose.
To destroy those who defied the cosmic order.
The Va'rax did not waste time.
They arrived like a cosmic plague, their forms bursting into the battlefield like dying suns collapsing upon themselves.
One of them, Tyral-Kar, struck first.
He raised his arm, and a section of reality itself collapsed inward, forming a singularity so powerful that it pulled moons, asteroids, and even the remnants of the Kor-Thalax fleet into its event horizon.
And he hurled it—
Straight at Iris.
She barely shifted in time.
The singularity grazed her, and for the first time—
She screamed.
The wound did not heal.
It continued to collapse inward, eating her flesh, pulling her into an endless void.
A god was bleeding.
And the Va'rax were just getting started.
The battle was not one-sided.
For every Va'rax that struck, the 27 struck back.
Felix tore into one, his limbs shifting into endless blades, his body breaking apart into tendrils of devouring entropy.
He plunged himself into the skull of one of the Va'rax, ripping through layers of impossible density, digging deep until he reached the core of its mind.
And then—
He shattered it.
A cosmic being, a god-killer, collapsed inward like a dying sun, its corpse falling into an eternal gravitational abyss.
But the Va'rax did not stop.
Another one, Zor-Malath, saw Iris.
She was dismantling a titan, her hands rewriting its biology, turning its body against itself.
He moved—
Faster than light itself.
His hand gripped her skull.
And then he crushed.
The void split open with the force of it.
Iris's body shattered into fragments, her very existence rupturing at the seams.
But before she could die—
She reassembled.
Her pieces crawled back together, her flesh bending, twisting, warping—
And when she rose again—
She was angrier.
For hours, for days, for years in the perception of gods, the battle raged.
It had been 4 years and 143 days.
For them.
Fighting and warping casualty on an intense universal level.
Entire galaxies were consumed in the crossfire.
Stars were used as weapons, hurled at enemies like mere artillery shells.
Supermassive black holes were ripped open and thrown like projectiles.
Time itself fractured in places, entire moments being erased and rewritten.
But the Va'rax did not break.
And neither did the 27.
The war had reached its breaking point.
And then—
Something shifted.
A presence stirred.
And the universe itself began to awaken.
The battle had reached its peak.
For days, for centuries in the perception of gods, the 27 monsters and the Va'rax Dominion clashed in the void of dying galaxies.
But something was wrong.
This war should not be happening.
The laws of the cosmos were cracking under the weight of the impossible battle.
And the universe itself was beginning to notice.
Iris ripped through another titan, her body morphing into something unrecognizable, something grotesque, her mind barely holding onto itself.
Felix was losing himself, his body an ever-changing storm of entropy, devouring anything that came close.
Seraph had stopped speaking.
He fought like a machine, like a force of nature, his body torn apart and rebuilt endlessly as he threw himself into the enemies without thought, without fear.
Amara had abandoned all sense of self.
She had become something eldritch, something vast, something that no longer resembled anything human.
And Reis—
Reis had stopped caring.
His face was expressionless, his eyes voids of hunger, his hands now tools of cosmic extinction.
They were winning.
But the cost was themselves.
They were no longer creatures.
They were no longer gods.
They were becoming black holes of consciousness, consuming everything, including their own existence.
But even as they consumed—
The Va'rax still stood.
The Va'rax had never lost a war.
They had fought cosmic parasites, void-beasts, and even the Wrathborn of the Abyss.
But never had they faced this.
Never had they seen monsters that should not exist.
They had no purpose.
They had no reason.
They were not conquerors.
They were not rebels.
They were simply hunger.
And hunger was unstoppable.
The Va'rax Council, the remaining leaders of the species, stood atop the broken husk of a dying quasar.
They were bleeding black holes, their wounds cosmic in scale, their minds barely held together.
But they did not retreat.
Because if they ran—
There would be nothing left to protect.
And so, they spoke.
A final, desperate message, cast out into the void.
A prayer.
Not to gods.
Not to anything living.
But to the universe itself.
"We have held the line. We have fought as we were made to fight. But this is not our war. This is yours."
"If you still exist—"
"If you are still awake—"
"Stop this."
"Before they consume everything."
And the universe heard them.
THE SKY SHATTERS—AND THE UNIVERSE AWAKENS
For the first time in all of existence—
The cosmos itself began to move.
A presence older than time itself stirred from its slumber.
Galaxies froze in place.
Light stopped moving.
The fabric of reality buckled, twisted, screamed.
And then—
A hand emerged from the darkness of infinity.
A hand the size of entire galactic clusters.
A hand made of stars, of black holes, of nebulae and dark matter.
And it descended.
The Va'rax stopped fighting.
The 27 stopped consuming.
Because something greater than them all had arrived.
Something that did not speak.
Something that did not think.
Something that simply was.
The universe had taken form.
And now—
It was angry.
Silence.
For the first time since the beginning of this nightmare, the universe itself had become still.
The stars ceased to burn.
The galaxies froze in their orbits.
The Va'rax did not breathe.
The 27 monsters did not consume.
And then—
A new presence emerged.
It did not come from a distant world.
It did not descend from some unknown realm.
It simply was.
Right there.
Standing between them all.
At first, it was nothing but a formless presence.
Something beyond space, beyond time, beyond even the very concept of existence.
But then, the universe did something it had never done before.
It shaped itself.
A body began to take form.
Not in the heavens, not from collapsed stars, but from the laws of reality itself.
It was not vast.
It was not monstrous.
It was not incomprehensible.
It was simply… a GOD.
A figure, standing amidst false gods and monsters.
He was not made of flesh.
He was made of one percent of the universe's very essence, compressed into something that could walk, speak, and act.
His form was fluid, shifting between a human silhouette and something cosmic, as if reality itself was unsure of what he should be.
His eyes, if they could even be called that, were endless voids filled with the birth and death of galaxies.
But his presence—
It was absolute.
The 27, for the first time in eternity, felt something they had forgotten long ago.
Weakness.
Not because they were inferior.
Not because they were powerless.
But because they had never been meant to stand before this.
Because this was the universe itself.
And it had finally decided to intervene.
The Va'rax Dominion, the strongest species of this cosmos, fell to their knees.
Not out of fear.
Not out of surrender.
But because in that presence, standing felt wrong.
Even they, in all their power, were nothing compared to this being.
Some of the 27 monster's still tried to attack him.
And then—
All of their skin got ripped off and muscles got torn apart just from it's presence.
It spoke.
A voice that was not a voice.
A sound that was not a sound.
It was the rumbling of collapsing galaxies, the hum of infinite particles, the scream of dying universes.
It did not echo.
It did not shake space.
It simply was.
"What have you done?"
The words reached all of them.
They were not spoken in a language.
They were not translated into meaning.
They were simply understood.
Reis, Amara, Seraph, Felix, and Iris—
The five remaining from the original 27—
The other 22, Died in an instant.
"It is a pity, indeed—
that you, mere sovereigns of high civilization of insects,
dared to stir before me, a being who defies the dimensions themselves."
They could not respond.
Because in this moment, for the first time since they had become this,
They felt small.
And they did not know why.
Felix's body twitched uncontrollably.
His mind, which had long abandoned human logic, was now trying to comprehend something it was never meant to.
Iris stared at the being, her infinite vision scanning every possible outcome, every possible future—
And finding nothing.
Seraph, for the first time, did not feel the hunger.
Amara felt something worse than pain.
Something worse than horror.
She felt irrelevance.
Reis, the one who had devoured stars without hesitation, found his hands shaking.
Not from fear.
Not from doubt.
But because he finally understood something.
They had been fighting lesser beings.
They had been consuming, growing, evolving.
But they had never—
Not once—
Faced something equal.
This was not an equal.
This was the source.
The origin.
The thing that had allowed them to exist in the first place.
And it had just decided to stand before them.
The figure took a single step forward.
Not a grand movement.
Not an act of aggression.
Just one step.
And in that moment—
Every fiber of the cosmos shifted in response.
The Va'rax warships crumbled into dust.
The dying stars reignited for a split second—then collapsed forever.
Time skipped.
Reality glitched.
And then he spoke again.
"You have one chance."
The five could barely breathe.
"You will find me."
Their minds tried to make sense of the words, tried to understand—
But they did not need to understand.
Because the message was already inside them.
It had been placed there.
By him.
"Find the fragment."
"Among the 50."
"Location is St. Helios."
"And you will return."
"Or you will remain—"
The figure's head tilted slightly, the way a human might observe an insect.
"—as nothing."
End of chapter 5-A.