In a barren wasteland, beneath a sky dyed the color of blood, corpses littered the ground. Shattered weapons stood half-buried like gravestones, and the foul stench of iron and decay lingered in the air.
At the center of it all stood a lone man. His silver hair, once radiant, was now dulled with sweat and ash. His blue eyes—hollow, tormented—gleamed beneath a helmet dented and scarred. The polished silver armor he wore shone brilliantly even amidst the ruin, like a jewel cast into filth. Leon panted heavily, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. Guilt, anguish, despair—all swirled in those eyes. Every foe he struck down, every comrade he lost, weighed upon him.
And then—light.
A brilliant radiance split the heavens, so blinding it forced his head to rise. From it descended a woman, golden-haired, her curls flowing like divine threads, her eyes bright as twin suns. Her beauty was overwhelming, her presence soft yet commanding, the kind that made men fall to their knees in worship.
"Leon… we did it," she whispered with trembling joy as she leapt forward and embraced him. "We won."
For a moment, Leon's anguish melted away. He rested against her warmth, his lips forming a weary smile. "Finally… it's over. My Goddess, we've done it."
But the heavens had other plans.
The ground quaked violently, and the red sky above cracked like fragile glass. From those fissures, four monstrous hands emerged, rending apart the firmament to reveal a vast void of purest white. From within, golden-carved stairs descended, stretching endlessly into the nothingness.
Leon tightened his grip on his sword, his gaze hard. "Let's go."
The goddess Seralyth—beloved deity of peace—nodded silently.
They ascended the stairway. Behind them, the battlefield, the world itself, was devoured by spreading white. Step after step, until at last they reached a platform of flawless marble, framed by golden-pillared corners.
And there, waiting, was a being beyond comprehension.
It was gigantic, faceless, and divine—its fourteen arms adorned with golden tattoos that glowed like burning scripture. Its very presence pressed against their souls, drowning them in reverence and dread alike.
For a long time, silence reigned.
Then, the being spoke.
"Congratulations… victors of this game."
Its voice was a harmony of millions—male and female, young and old, layered and endless. Each syllable resonated like a melody that clawed into the marrow.
Leon staggered forward, eyes burning with rage. "A… game? All of this—everything we suffered, everyone we lost—was nothing but a game to you!?"
The being's many arms shifted slightly, as though amused. "Do not prattle of losses, mortal. You stand before The Beginning, and you are to be rewarded with its favor. Know your place."
"Leon," Seralyth said quickly, clutching his arm, her tone pleading. "Calm yourself. We are in The Beginning's presence…"
The entity raised one golden-marked hand. "Speak your wish, champions of the war."
Leon straightened, drawing courage from the goddess beside him. "I, Leon Trishtina, together with Seralyth, the Goddess of Peace, have but one wish—to bring everlasting peace to this worl—"
Steel pierced flesh.
Leon froze mid-sentence, his breath caught in his throat. He looked down to see the tip of a blade bursting through his chest, crimson spilling across his silver armor. His knees buckled. His vision blurred. His mind screamed.
He staggered, gasping, struggling to comprehend the betrayal. It can't be… no… not her…
The Beginning's countless voices murmured in eerie unison. "Interesting… very interesting."
Leon collapsed, landing upon the white floor. His gaze lifted weakly, and there she was—Seralyth, the goddess he worshipped, the woman he trusted, holding the bloodied blade with delicate fingers. Her golden eyes still gleamed, her lips curved in that same beautiful smile.
But as he watched, the smile twisted. Sweet joy soured into something sharp, wicked, triumphant.
"Thank you, Leon," she whispered, her voice like honey laced with venom. "At last… I will rule this world."
His breath left him. Darkness claimed him.
The end.
Thank you for reading the War Of The Gods.
— Sincerely the author
---
"Finally… I've finished it."
The words broke the silence of a cramped one-room apartment. Dirty laundry covered the floor, garbage piled in a corner, its stench strong enough that neighbors sometimes wondered if someone had died inside. The only furniture: a mattress, a fan, and an old desk with a chair.
At that desk sat Ethan Locks. Twenty-nine years old. Single his entire life. A college dropout. For twelve years he had clawed desperately at the life of a web novelist, and for twelve years, he had failed. His messy black hair, scruffy beard, and dark eye bags told the story better than words ever could. His shirt was stained with old food, and his laptop—an ancient relic—still somehow clung to life.
Stretching his arms, Ethan grinned faintly. "The final chapter… done."
But the smile quickly faded. His eyes, dull with exhaustion, carried only despair. He glanced at the eviction notice lying on the floor, then back to his laptop. He refreshed the page, checking for comments.
What he saw hollowed him further.
> "Thanks for reading—LOL, like anyone's actually reading this trash."
"Bruh, that ending sucked. You're awful."
"Clicked only 'cause it said END. Can confirm—you've got zero talent."
"Do the world a favor and stop wasting oxygen, loser."
Ethan closed his eyes, breathing out a long, trembling sigh. "…Like any of you could do better."
He collapsed onto the mattress, covering his eyes with one arm. "What happened to my life?" His other hand fumbled for his phone. 7:45 PM. Another wasted day.
He scrolled through social media mindlessly. Then, a strange post caught his attention.
> "Writers… if you were transported into your own stories, how long would you survive?"
The account—xX_BoRed_Deity_Xx—had no followers, no history, just this one post.
Ethan smirked bitterly and typed: "As long as I want."
Then a reply came instantly.
"Really? I read your latest work. Deities that bend reality. Monsters beyond comprehension. You're just a normal human. Do you truly think you could survive?"
Ethan froze. Someone had read his story?
The account replied again.
> "Let's find out, shall we?"
The lights flickered. His head throbbed with unbearable pain, as if his skull were splitting apart. He tried to scream but no sound came. Black liquid seeped from the walls, the floor, the ceiling, crawling and twisting into strange runes that pulsed with alien meaning.
"W-what the hell…!?" Ethan staggered toward the door, but the more he ran, the further it stretched away. His vision swam. His body gave out. He collapsed. Darkness.
---
When he awoke, he was not in his filthy room. Above him stretched a vast starry sky. Beneath him lay a white surface, smooth and gleaming like polished glass.
And before him stood a figure.
A gigantic woman in an elegant blue gown. Her long hair was white, tinged faintly with blue, cascading like a frozen waterfall. Her face was obscured by a thick black fog, yet her presence was overwhelming.
On a small table before her sat a teapot, a cup, a saucer, and a silver teaspoon. She poured a stream of the same black liquid that had consumed his room into the cup, dropped in sugar cubes, stirred, and sipped gracefully.
Then her eyes opened.
Twin glowing pupils—pure white—pierced through the darkness, through him, through everything. A smile tugged at her lips, playful, eager.
Her voice rang out, ethereal, alluring, inescapable.
"Good luck, my favorite author."
And Ethan collapsed once more.