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In the aftermath of cataclysm, silence returned—false, momentary, and eerily complete.
Kealthar hovered amidst the ruins of an untold narrative, one that had once danced with vibrant threads of destiny and purpose. Now, it was ash—unmade by chaos, polluted by Vorath's whispers. The fragments of this reality curled and twitched, half-alive and shivering from the echo of the defiler's touch.
Kealthar, still in his divine form, loomed like an endless tapestry of starlight and law—his body composed of cosmic rivers, unfathomable dimensions, and celestial code. His eyes glowed with the light of suns unborn, and his voice, when he spoke, was like the turning of the wheels that kept all of reality aligned.
"There is no forgiveness," he murmured, raising one hand.
From his palm, threads of light unraveled like the strands of order itself. They crawled across the crumbling plane, seeping into the cracks of corrupted existence. The chaos recoiled, screeching in soundless defiance, but it was meaningless. With each gesture, Kealthar dismantled the rot and remade the lost narrative—clean, pure, untouched by Vorath's decay.
One by one, he traced the fractures. One by one, he erased the taint.
Planets that had twisted into mouths of madness were reforged into beacons of life. Civilizations that had been inverted into cults of screaming voids were rewritten, reborn as civilizations of hope, logic, and will.
And when the final scream of this corrupted realm died out in the wind, Kealthar stood alone, surrounded by peace—a quiet peace bought with unimaginable violence.
He turned, now focused.
This was not an isolated infection. The narrative layer he'd just rebuilt was one of many. Too many.
Kealthar extended his awareness beyond, into the deep tangle of existence. The cosmos unfolded before him, countless stacks of realities, each with its own weave of causality. And far too many bore the black stain—the crawling, gnawing entropy of Vorath's influence.
He snarled, and with that thought, creation shifted.
In an instant, Kealthar spread himself across all corrupted realities. Countless avatars of himself, all real, all one, descended into narratives infected by chaos.
One by one, they fell.
One by one, he rose.
A blood-red sky shattered into glass as he arrived in a world twisted into an eternal battlefield, where the cult of Vorath enslaved time itself. Kealthar's avatar there unleashed a divine storm, wiping the madness from every atom, before cleansing the timeline and sealing it from further corruption.
Another narrative—where language had decayed and names were weapons—was consumed by beings who devoured identity itself. Kealthar unmade their concept of hunger, severed their existence from the flow of thought, and replaced the story with one where knowledge thrived.
Every corrupted narrative became a battlefield.
And every battlefield became his victory.
He wielded Divine Authority not as a sword, but as the very law of what could and could not exist. When he declared a cultist of Vorath unworthy of reality, they were erased—not killed, but removed from the concept of memory and presence.
They never had been.
Across all of creation, cults fell in moments. They screamed, clawed at their own souls as the cleansing light erased every last trace of their twisted rites. Worlds trembled at the purging wave. Cities built on madness turned to dust. Books of heresy burned in golden flame, their ink bleeding into nothingness.
The multiverse itself breathed easier.
But the task was not yet done.
And then it came.
A whisper, soft as wind between broken stars. A voice that slithered into minds unguarded. The scream of a dying reality condensed into sound.
Kealthar froze in the middle of reweaving a narrative.
The whisper was not of a fragment. Not a cultist.
It was Chaos itself, recoiling.
"Back away…" Kealthar commanded—not aloud, but in the pure tongue of the Divine Weavers.
And they did.
From the farthest edge of unreality, titans older than time shuddered. Outer gods blinked into retreat. Entities who had never feared anything since the birth of contradiction suddenly remembered what dread felt like.
Because the voice that had spoken wasn't just a warning—it was the will of one who defeated a fragment of the Warden of chaos, who had stared into Vorath's hole in existence and slashed it shut.
Kealthar's presence in this moment was vast—he was Embodiment of Order, a burning constellation that threaded through layers of cause and effect like a divine spine. Even the Elder Ones that dwelt in chaos backed away, slinking into the veils of unspoken dimensions.
And at the center of it all, where no time passed in the mortal realm—where Yasaka still cradled her daughter, unaware that anything had changed—Kealthar cleansed everything.
To the eyes of kaelthar personal dimension—Yasaka's smile, Kunou's laughter—the world hadn't even blinked. One second stretched, hung in eternity, while the very backbone of the omniverse was repaired.
Kealthar, still wrapped in his cosmic form, hovered above existence.
His wings were galaxies folded in upon themselves, his eyes infinite singularities glowing with law. Creation didn't just move around him—it was him. Wherever he passed, entropy ceased to rot. Wherever he spoke, the narrative obeyed.
He opened his hand once more and tore open a wound in space—not a chaotic one, but a clean portal to observe the stack below.
Across it, he saw universes once thriving, now dark—entire narrative clusters Vorath had turned to breeding pits for chaos.
He clenched his jaw, divine heat radiating from him. "These too," he muttered.
And in that moment, he reached out—not with power, but with judgment.
He named them.
Every corrupted narrative. Every hiding cult. Every last god, beast, and lie built by Vorath's rot.
To name something in the divine tongue was to write its fate.
And Kealthar's judgment was simple:
"You shall not exist."
A silence fell over the deepest layers of unreality.
And then…
They vanished.
Wiped from time, space, memory, and even conceptual thought. Their screams were never heard—because they never existed to scream.
Kealthar finally withdrew from the omniversal heights, his divine form folding back into the vessel of his current body.
The power remained—it always did—but the form became smaller. Calmer.
He floated once more in his private dimension, the same place where he'd shared quiet meals, trained with Rias and Yasaka, and laughed softly at Kunou's mischief.
Yasaka, sitting nearby, didn't even notice he had left. She was laughing gently, cradling Kunou who was curled up asleep in her arms.
Kealthar stood silently, watching them for a moment.
A single second had passed.
But in that second, countless universes had been unmade and restored.
The echoes of his name still rippled across creation. Elder beings whispered it in dread. Chaos curled around the edges of reality, licking its wounds.
And somewhere, beyond it all, Vorath watched.
Waiting.
Plotting.
But Kealthar was no longer who he once was.
He had cleansed the narrative. Restored the order.
And now…
He was ready for war.
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