At this moment, in the battlefield where Michael, Lugh, and Ra are located.
The Glass-Lungs, a Matured Outer One of terrifying conceptual weight, had now become a localized apocalypse that brought them despair.
It hung in the rift like a cancerous diamond, its thousands of crystalline chambers pulsating with a rhythmic, wet sound.
Each inhalation sucked in the prayers of mortals and the auras of minor gods, and each exhalation released a grey, suffocating vapor of Nihility.
This vapor was not just a gas, it was the manifestation of the very concept of "Primordial Chaos".
Where it touched the wings of the Seraphim, their feathers turned to dust.
Where it touched the golden shields of Ra's sun-warriors, the metal rotted into a brittle, nameless grey ash.
The razor-thin filaments of Primordial Chaos—vibrating at frequencies that shattered the laws of geometry—lashed out like invisible scythes, severing the conceptual anchors of the gods themselves.
