In the timeless expanse of the Divine Assembly, the gods sat enthroned, their collective existence a tapestry of creation and absolute power. Below them, where a planetary mass once hung, was now only an infinite void—the ultimate silence following the extinction of Earth. The great trial was concluded. The silence was broken only by the cold, weary voice of the King of Gods, whose essence was the color of frozen twilight.
"The treason has been answered. The human species, having dared to rebel against its creators, is nullified. Let the final decree be issued."
A chorus of assent rippled through the Pantheon. The gods were satisfied. They condemned humanity not just for the war, but for the fundamental, irritating weakness the conflict had exposed.
"They are weaklings," declared Zykar, the God of Brutality, his shadow-carved throne trembling with contempt. "Their armies were fodder. Their potential is laughable compared to the might of the Dragon Race, the strength of the Giants, or the sheer, endless endurance of the Myrmidons."
Another god, the patron of the crystalline Lumina race, agreed. "Their short lives and unpredictable wills make them a chaotic element. Their very essence is an insult to universal order. They must be erased."
The final seal—the immutable decree of non-existence—was being prepared. But then, a wave of profound, resonant warmth cut through the cold judgment.
Gaia, Mother Earth, rose from her lowlier throne. Her form shimmered with the memory of fertile soil and living oceans, her eyes holding the sorrow and joy of every moment that had ever passed on the world that was now just a memory.
"I oppose this verdict," she stated, her voice shaking the divine geometry of the chamber.
"On what grounds, Gaia?" the King of Gods asked, his tone measured but final. "They sought to replace us. Their ambition is proof of their incurable flaw."
"Their ambition is the key!" Gaia countered, stepping forward into the light of the Assembly. "They sought to ascend because they were desperate to evolve. Their flaw is their greatest potential. Of all the creations we made, they are the youngest, the most volatile, and the only ones capable of giving us the Chance we have all been waiting for. They have the unpredictability that even we cannot model."
A long, profound silence settled over the Pantheon, but it was quickly shattered by protest. Gaia's emotional plea was met with the hard calculus of cosmic power.
Aethel, the Dragon God, whose form shimmered with ancient, hoarded gold and immense power, leaned forward. "Potential? They die before they learn to breathe fire! Their lifespan is a blink. A single Dragon lives for ten thousand human generations. Their meager potential is squandered before it begins. You hold onto sentimentality for a race that is structurally, magically, and biologically obsolete."
Next, Stone-Heart, the God of Enduring Form and patron of the Giants, slammed a massive, granite fist onto his throne. The sound echoed like a dying star. "They are fragile dust, Mother Earth! Their bodies break upon the slightest impact. We have witnessed their war; they rely on trinkets and machines, not inherent power. They will be crushed beneath the foot of any true race we have created. Their 'potential' is a joke."
Gaia remained resolute, but the tide of opposition was overwhelming. The demand for absolute annihilation was unanimous among the core deities who valued strength and order.
The King of Gods slowly raised his hand. "Silence. The complaints of the Assembly are valid. Humanity's capacity for power is indeed laughable, and their short lives make them unreliable vessels for the 'Chance.' Yet, Gaia's claim of their unpredictability remains untested."
He looked upon Gaia, his expression unreadable, and established the final, non-negotiable condition. "A compromise will be made to satisfy the Assembly, but the Assembly must be appeased. If Gaia believes in this species, she must not stand alone. If she can find three divine voices to support her, then, and only then, shall humanity have the chance of redemption."
The condition settled over the Pantheon like frost. Three voices. To side with Gaia was to risk the wrath of the majority and possibly taint their own domains with the stigma of a failed, chaotic race. Gaia stood alone, despair beginning to cloud her hope.
Then, from the outer rings of the Assembly, a figure rose. His light was soft, not blinding, radiating an ancient wisdom and profound compassion. The Buddha stepped forward.
"I offer my support to Gaia," he declared, his voice a steady, clear bell tone. The Pantheon shifted uneasily.
The King of Gods fixed him with a cold stare. "Your reason, Lord of Enlightenment?"
"They are chaos, yes," the Buddha conceded, a gentle smile touching his lips. "But chaos is potential. They cling to suffering, but they also seek its end. Within every mortal man is the seed of Nirvana, an inexhaustible capacity for awakening. The ultimate judgment should be based not on what they are, but what they are capable of becoming. A seed does not bloom until it is planted in struggle."
A moment later, a second figure moved. He was clad in simple robes, his eyes carrying the sorrow of all human history, yet also an endless, burning love. Jesus, the Son of the Father, stepped forward.
"I stand with Gaia," he stated, his voice resonating with an authority greater than his humble appearance suggested.
"Your reason?" demanded a voice from the opposition.
"Forgiveness," Jesus answered simply. "They sinned out of fear and desperation, believing they could not be saved. They sought power because they did not understand the nature of power. Their ultimate test is not against the Giants or the Dragons, but against their own failure. They possess Love, an element even we struggle to master, and where there is love, there is always a path to redemption, no matter how steep the climb. To obliterate them is to deny the possibility of grace itself."
Gaia felt a sudden, profound surge of energy, the sheer weight of her impossible task momentarily lifting. But she still needed one more. The Pantheon remained hostile, ready to strike down this flimsy alliance.
Then, a laugh—sharp, theatrical, and utterly irreverent—cut through the divine silence.
A third figure, lean and sharp, his form flickering with illusion and mischief, stood up. It was Loki, the Trickster. He bowed dramatically, a chaotic grin splitting his face.
"Oh, come now, must we be so boring?" Loki asked, his voice dripping with amusement. "Annihilation? Where's the narrative? Where's the tension? Where's the fun?"
The King of Gods sighed, a sound that extinguished nearby constellations. "Loki, do you truly risk your standing for this paltry race?"
"Absolutely," Loki chirped, entirely uncowed. "They rebelled. They failed spectacularly. Now, Gaia wants to take their most brilliant, most ruthless figures—the conquerors, the engineers, the sociopaths—and pit them against your perfect, boring, predictable Dragons and Giants. It's a comedy! It's a tragedy! It's the greatest cosmic reality show ever conceived! I support Gaia because the human race, for all its flaws, is the only one that understands the beauty of dramatic irony."