Capital City, Nation of Xaatinia
In the heart of the newly anointed theocratic empire of Xaatinia, a colossal obsidian castle loomed — a structure that had manifested overnight, fusing itself into the land as if reality had simply accepted its existence. Its spires pierced the clouds, and its foundations hummed with power older than the world itself.
Inside its great hall, beneath stained-glass murals depicting divine judgment and burning cities, a man dressed in crimson robes knelt before the throne. His forehead pressed against the marble floor as he spoke, voice trembling with reverence.
"My lord, the decrees have been announced. The laws have been sealed by your command. What further will do you have of me?"
Upon the throne reclined Xuhuna, the Goddess of Destruction — silver-haired, eyes like molten gold, and aura thick enough to bend the air around her. She did not glance up. Her attention remained fixed on a heavy tome open in her hands.
"Good," she murmured, her tone as casual as a queen dismissing a servant. "You may go."
The Pope hesitated for half a heartbeat, uncertain if she was finished. But when her eyes briefly lifted, glowing with divine menace, he bowed once more and hastily retreated from the hall. The gates sealed shut behind him with a whisper of grinding stone.
Silence reclaimed the room.
Xuhuna turned a page. The script within shimmered with divine resonance — glyphs that no human could decipher without their mind unraveling. This was the holy scripture of Yani, once called the faith of the god Zigeyr. Each word burned faintly, as though written in threads of captured starlight.
She frowned. Her thumb brushed across a verse, then the next, and her irritation deepened.
"Tch…"
Her voice echoed softly across the vast throne room. "So this is how he did it. Ninety percent of these deities — all of them are just him. Different names, different masks, same essence. That's why he awakened before any of us even though he is a Primordial."
Xuhuna closed the book halfway and rested it on her lap. "How did he make the others accept this mockery of a pantheon? They must have resisted. He must've used force…"
Her tone trailed into quiet understanding. Even among gods, force was the oldest argument.
There were reasons for her resentment. Zigeyr was not a mere god — he was one of the Three Primordial Supremes:
Benevolence, the first light — embodiment of creation's mercy.
Malevolence, the dark — the endless hunger that consumes.
Chaos, the one between — the unpredictable breaker of order and balance.
Zigeyr was that third one. The first storm. The fracture in existence that the others tried, and failed, to control.
Together, they stood as the apex of existence. Even the Supreme Council of Gods, the divine assembly that ruled the Heavens, bowed to their implicit authority. Yet now, in this strange new era — this post-awakening age, where gods walked among mortals — their omnipotence was fractured.
Their bodies had fallen, their divinity weakened. Even Primordials were shadows of their true selves.
And Xuhuna knew it.
A slow, cruel smile crept across her face as fire bloomed in her palm — not mortal flame, but the fire that unmade meaning itself. She held it to the scripture. The divine words sizzled, screamed, and bled golden light before the entire tome burned to cinders.
"I just have to wait," she whispered, watching ash fall. "Once the others awaken, once I recover… Zigeyr, your throne will burn next."
The flames went out. The smell of burnt holiness lingered.
Three Months Later —
The world had plunged into turmoil.
Under Xuhuna's divine rule, Xaatinia transformed into a nation of conquest. Within three months, ten neighboring states were invaded and annexed. Cities burned under banners that bore her sigil — a red sun split by a black flame.
Every victory was accompanied by ritual. The conquered were forced to kneel, to renounce their gods, and to pledge to Xuhuna — or be executed in front of their families. The screams were called "songs of devotion."
And yet, no army could resist them.
The sanctions of the global alliance failed. Assassination attempts failed. Even divine intervention from rival churches fizzled into smoke. As with Aliana before it, Xaatinia became a monolith of unstoppable theocracy — a machine of faith and flame.
Now, only one country separated Xaatinia and Aliana — the two most powerful divine nations on Earth.
War was inevitable.
Far to the east, in the heart of Plea Nation, stood a massive government complex. Normally it was a place of marble prestige and political arrogance — but tonight, it reeked of iron and rot.
From outside, the building appeared serene. Workers hurried home, streetlights flickered, and the city's pulse continued like nothing was wrong. No one seemed to hear the faint echoes of screams seeping from the walls.
Inside, however, hell had taken residence.
Bodies of guards lay crumpled in the corridors — limbs twisted at unnatural angles, faces frozen in terror. Blood slicked the marble, forming trails where something had dragged them. The scent was thick enough to sting the throat.
The deeper one went, the more grotesque it became.
At the highest floor — the government's executive chamber — chaos reigned in its purest form. The "great men" of Plea's ruling council were no longer recognizable. One writhed on the floor, gnawing his own fingers. Another, screaming, tore at his hair until scalp came loose. A third sat against the wall, cradling his severed genitals like a beloved relic, whispering apologies to someone who wasn't there.
And at the center of this chamber, sitting casually atop the grand mahogany desk, was Zigeyr.
His posture was relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, as if attending a casual meeting. The faint, satisfied smile on his face did not match the carnage around him.
"You still haven't answered me," he said softly, voice smooth as silk. "Will you give me this nation?"
The question floated over the room's sobs and convulsions, but no one replied. Most were incapable of speech by now.
Zigeyr sighed, disappointed.
Some hours earlier…
The council had gathered at noon — twenty-three of the most powerful men in Anihc. They'd all received the same mysterious call, summoning them urgently to headquarters. Yet none remembered who had called, or when they'd agreed to come.
"The president didn't summon us?""Then who the hell did?""No number in the logs… This makes no sense."
They had no answers.
Then came the gunfire. Sharp, sudden bursts echoing from the lower levels. Panic broke. Guards rushed out, but none returned. Calls to the outside failed — no signal, no power, no response. The air thickened with a suffocating weight, as if the building itself were being submerged under an invisible sea.
Hours passed in terror until, as dusk settled, the door to their chamber creaked open.
And there stood a boy.
He looked no older than sixteen, wearing a simple black coat. But his eyes — those impossible eyes — burned with the calm cruelty of eternity.
He smiled, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him.
"Good evening, gentlemen," he said, voice calm and pleasant. "I'm the one who called you.""Apologies for the delay. There were a few… disobedient toys at the entrance."
Confusion turned to anger. Dozens of questions erupted at once.
"Who are you?""Where are the guards?""What have you done?"
He only smiled wider.
"So many questions. You remind me of someone who made the same mistake once — thought his power made him untouchable."
He glanced toward the president, who trembled in his seat. "He didn't last long either."
The lights flickered.
Then came the screams.
When the carnage was done, the walls were decorated with human ruin. And Zigeyr — no longer needing the boyish disguise — reclined, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction.
"Maybe I'm just more irritable these days," he mused aloud. "Weakened body, weaker patience… I should really fix that."
He snapped his fingers. The corpses twitched once, then turned to dust. Only silence remained.
Rising from the desk, Zigeyr walked toward the window and looked out upon the city of Anihc. Lights shimmered in the streets below — unaware, unbothered, utterly human.
"The mortals still sleep," he said softly. "But soon, they will all wake into a new world — one carved by gods, and painted in despair."
The glass cracked faintly under the pressure of his presence.
Then, as quietly as a whisper, he vanished.
And in the empty chamber, the faintest echo of laughter remained — half amusement, half prophecy — lingering like a curse on the air.