The Celestial Convocation sat fractured upon a throne of broken pantheons. Where once Mount Olympus rose above the world, where Yggdrasil bound the realms in sacred breath, where Mount Meru spun time around itself like silk — now there stood a single war-forged hall, towering beneath a black sun held aloft by invisible gravity.
Its glow scorched the divine, but one being basked in its light as if it were no more harmful than a candle's warmth.
At the head of this realm stood Alvagenir, God-Emperor of Godkings, the skull-faced conqueror crowned by silence and dread.
His presence devoured reverence. He didn't sit; he loomed. His armor groaned as he walked, forged from the ribcages of dead realities, each step bending space with unspoken command.
Across the room sat the gods of Earth's oldest mythologies, arrayed like the dying stars of a collapsing constellation.
Zeus with crackling eyes and thunder-blooded veins; Odin with his hollowed gaze and wolves bristling at his feet; Ra, crowned in solar fire yet dimmer now; Shiva, silent with three eyes fixed upon a new balance he did not create; Amaterasu, radiant but cautious; and around them, Indra, Hades, Anubis, Thor, Loki, and the countless war, storm, and death gods — all now diminished, all summoned.
Odin was first to speak, his voice the rustle of forgotten runes. "You shattered Yggdrasil. Every realm trembled. For what?"
Alvagenir tilted his head, tone casual yet heavy as collapsing stars. "It was dying. I put it out of its misery. Also—" he flexed a clawed gauntlet, tapping it against his hip, "—it was in the way."
Zeus's nostrils flared. "You dragged Olympus into the sea."
"I improved the view. Floating mountains are overrated," Alvagenir said. "Besides, mortals needed something dramatic. Think of it as rebranding."
Ra, burning behind the eyes, leaned forward. "You eclipsed my sun."
"I became a better one," Alvagenir replied, gesturing to the black sun above. "Warmer. Louder. On time."
Shiva's voice sliced through the tension, calm but immovable. "You walked into the Tandava. Through destruction and rebirth. And didn't burn."
"I didn't walk," Alvagenir answered, grin spreading beneath his jagged crown. "I led it. You've danced in circles for eons. I gave the universe a new beat."
Amaterasu's voice cut with celestial sharpness. "You rewrote our prayers. The kami speak your name before mine."
"Efficiency," he said. "They needed Wi-Fi and war. I gave them both. You offered dawn. I gave victory."
Loki chuckled, slouched with mischief but eyes sharp. "You're not a god. You're a paradox in armor. A joke told by a dying cosmos."
Alvagenir's grin didn't fade. "And you make betrayal boring. At least I know what I am. I've turned mockery into gospel."
He began walking the perimeter of the divine table, shadows dragging behind him like trailing voids. His footsteps echoed like monoliths cracking. "I didn't come to take your thrones," he said, voice a low growl of thunder and mockery. "I came because you stopped earning them."
He passed Shiva, whose third eye never blinked. "Dancing while mortals bleed."
He passed Odin. "Whispering into ravens, hoping someone still calls you wise."
He leaned behind Zeus, each word like a nail in a divine coffin. "Playing weatherman while the world drowns in chaos."
Zeus slammed his fist on the table, lightning splitting the air. "You insult creation!"
"I correct it," Alvagenir answered, stepping into the broken light. "Scattered heavens are obsolete. It's time for consolidation. For structure. For dominion."
Shiva stood, the room tightening like a lung being crushed. "You cannot conquer balance. The dance of end and rebirth is eternal."
Alvagenir turned to face him fully. "I am the soil beneath your dance. The silence after your last breath. The ember that refuses to die in your ash." His voice darkened. "You call it balance. I call it an endless loop. I came to break it."
Hades spoke next, his voice like stone sinking through water. "And when death comes for you, Emperor?"
Alvagenir laughed — not loud, but deep, resonant, unsettling. "I taught Death how to blink. He hasn't opened his eyes since."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Even Ra dimmed. Odin leaned forward, eye shining faintly. "What do you want, Alvagenir? Truly?"
Alvagenir stopped walking. The room stilled as his aura pulled it taut. "A war worthy of my boredom," he said. "A heaven no devil dares enter. I want your fear, your respect—braided into one offering."
Ra glared. "And when the last myth kneels?"
Alvagenir's voice grew cold. "Then I will sit... and begin farming belief — not from prayer, but from memory." He turned his back, facing the black sun. "They won't worship me because they hope. They will remember me because they must."
Loki's smile faded. "You're trying to become a story no one forgets."
"No, trickster," Alvagenir said, without looking back. "I'm becoming the reason stories exist."
And in the silence that followed, not one god moved.
Would you kneel...knowing he's already laughed at your prayer before you even opened your mouth?