In a realm where light dares not tread, an abyss of absolute darkness reigns, unbroken and eternal. The Heavenly Divine Prison Realm is a wound in the fabric of existence, a place where no stars shine, no life stirs, and no hope endures. The air is thick with a suffocating weight, a miasma of despair that clings to the senses like damp rot. Sound itself seems to perish here, swallowed by the oppressive silence, save for the occasional, bone-rattling tremor that ripples through the void—a pulse of malice that hints at the entity entombed within. The ground, if it can be called such, is a shifting expanse of blackened ash and twisted bone, littered with fragments of shattered worlds: petrified roots, cracked skulls, and shards of crystal that gleam faintly before crumbling to dust. This is no mere prison but a crucible of negativity, forged by the Supreme God to contain the most ancient and primal of evils.
At the heart of this desolate realm looms a grotesque figure, humanoid yet utterly inhuman, enthroned upon a seat of twisted bones and sinew. The throne, a monstrous construct, pulses with a sickly rhythm, as if alive with the agony of the countless souls it has consumed. It rests atop a mountain of corpses, their lifeless forms radiating despair—human, beast, and otherworldly, all frozen in expressions of torment. The air around the throne hums with a low, guttural drone, a chorus of anguish that seeps into the very essence of the realm, amplifying its oppressive weight.
This is the Void, a primordial force of negativity, the embodiment of every dark impulse that has ever plagued creation. Its form is a nightmare of multiplicity, a grotesque amalgamation that defies comprehension. Countless faces writhe across its surface, each one a mask of unique malice: one leers with lust, its eyes glinting with insatiable hunger; another snarls with wrath, its mouth dripping with black ichor; a third grins with gluttony, its teeth gnashing at the air; a fourth contorts with greed, its gaze clawing at the void as if to claim it all. The faces shift and overlap, a kaleidoscope of evil that never settles, each expression more horrifying than the last. Its body is no less monstrous, a mass of writhing limbs and tendrils that sprout and retract in a chaotic dance. One hand, slick with dark fluid, indulges in endless debauchery, caressing the throne with perverse delight; another crushes a skull with brute force, reveling in its power; a third claws at the nothingness, insatiable in its greed; a fourth clutches a severed head, devouring its brain, the organ blackening as if corrupting the minds of all sentient beings across the cosmos.
The Void's presence is a blight, a wound upon existence itself. Its very being radiates a palpable malevolence, a force that warps reality, bending the edges of the prison realm into distorted fractals that shimmer and collapse. The darkness around it is not merely an absence of light but a living entity, a shroud that pulses in sync with the Void's countless hearts, each beat a promise of annihilation. Yet, for all its power, the Void is bound, its form shackled by chains of divine light that pulse faintly, their golden links etched with runes of the Supreme God's will. The chains tremble, their glow dimming with each passing moment, as if struggling to contain the growing strength within.
"Hahaha!" The Void's laughter erupts, a guttural rasp that shakes the realm, sending cracks spiderwebbing through the ash-covered ground. The sound is a cacophony, a blend of its countless voices—some shrill, some deep, all dripping with menace. "Just a little more… soon, I'll shatter this prison." Its primary face, a grotesque parody of humanity, tilts upward, its eyes—pools of pure void—glaring into the abyss above. "I will erase all existence, leaving nothing behind."
The words reverberate, each syllable a blade that cuts through the silence, leaving a lingering echo of dread. The Void's myriad hands move in concert, some clawing at the chains, others tearing at the corpses beneath its throne, as if feeding on their residual despair. The divine chains flicker, their light waning as the Void's power surges, fueled by an unseen source. Across the cosmos, in the mortal realms, human hearts pulse with greed, hatred, and despair, each dark emotion a thread that weaves into the Void's growing strength. On Earth, in the year 3024, a city drowns in corruption, its neon-lit streets a breeding ground for the negativity that feeds this ancient evil. The Void senses it, tastes it, and its laughter deepens, a sound that promises not just destruction but oblivion.
"Even you, Supreme God," it snarls, its primary face twisting into a sneer. "This time, I'll devour your precious soul fragment and crush everything that dares defy me. Your light won't save them." The words are a vow, a declaration of intent that shakes the very foundations of the prison realm. The corpses beneath the throne writhe, as if animated by the Void's will, their hollow eyes glowing faintly with a sickly green light. The chains groan, their runes pulsing erratically, a sign of the weakening seal.
A gentle voice pierces the darkness, calm as a celestial hymn, its timbre a stark contrast to the Void's guttural rasp. It is the Supreme God, the creator of all, the absolute light to this creature's shadow. "Speak as you will, but your fate is sealed," He declares, His voice resonating with an unshakable serenity. "My soul bearer will defeat you, as he always has. You will remain bound in this realm, no matter your schemes. That is your destiny."
The Void's countless faces twist in unison, a collective snarl of defiance. "Destiny?" it roars, its voice a chorus of rage that sends tremors through the abyss. "Destiny trembles before me! I am the Void, the end of all things. You may be the light, the firstborn, but I will consume creation and return it to nothingness—just as it was before you dared to dream." Its eyes burn with unshakable confidence, a promise of annihilation that seems to draw the darkness closer, tightening the realm's oppressive grip.
The Supreme God's voice remains steady, a beacon in the storm. "You are but a shadow, born of the light's absence. Your power grows only because mortals falter, but my soul bearer walks among them now. He will rise, as he always does, and your chains will hold." The words carry a quiet authority, a reminder of the cosmic order that has endured for eons. Yet, beneath the calm, there is a faint undercurrent of concern, a recognition that the Void's strength is unprecedented, its influence seeping into the mortal world with alarming speed.
The Void laughs again, a sound that grates like metal on bone. "Your soul bearer? That weary fragment you call Zulong? He's tired, Supreme One. I feel it. Each incarnation wears him thinner, each battle chips away at his resolve. How long before he breaks? How long before he joins me in the dark?" Its primary hand reaches upward, as if to grasp the unseen presence of the Supreme God, its fingers curling with malicious intent. "This time, I'll shatter him. I'll feast on his light and leave nothing but ash."
The divine chains flare briefly, their golden light surging in response to the Void's blasphemy. The runes pulse with renewed vigor, but the effort seems strained, the light flickering like a candle in a storm. The Void's faces grin, sensing the weakness. "You see?" it hisses. "Even your chains falter. The mortals feed me, their hearts a banquet of despair. In their cities, their greed builds towers of glass and steel, their hatred fuels wars, their despair drowns hope. And in one city—oh, I taste it—a woman with crimson eyes hunts for sport, her soul a conduit for my will."
The mention of the woman—a mortal yet touched by the Void's influence—sends a ripple through the realm. The corpses beneath the throne stir, their skeletal hands clawing at the ash, as if drawn to the image of this distant figure. The Void's primary face leans forward, its grin widening. "She is but one of many. My whispers reach them all, turning their hearts to darkness. Your soul bearer will drown in their corruption before he even finds me."
The Supreme God's voice returns, unshaken but firm. "You underestimate him, as you always have. Zulong's light is not so easily extinguished. He carries my essence, and through him, the mortals will find their way. Their corruption is but a fleeting shadow, and your prison will hold until the cycle is complete."
The Void's laughter softens, becoming a low, mocking chuckle. "A cycle, you say? How many cycles, Supreme One? How many times has your precious fragment fought and bled for your creation, only to see it fall again? I am patient. I am eternal. Each cycle strengthens me, while your fragment weakens. One day, he will falter, and I will be there to claim what is mine."
The Supreme God's response is a single, resonant declaration. "Let us see who stands and who falls." His voice fades, a serene echo that lingers in the darkness, a promise of defiance that seems to bolster the divine chains. Their light steadies, if only for a moment, their runes glowing with renewed resolve.
The Void leans back on its throne, its countless faces settling into a collective smirk. The darkness quakes, as if bracing for the clash to come. "Yes," it murmurs, its voice a whisper that carries across the cosmos. "Let us see."
In the distance, beyond the prison realm's boundaries, a faint comet of light streaks through the cosmos—Zulong's soul, hurtling toward Earth, toward a city drowning in neon and despair. The Void senses it, its eyes narrowing with anticipation. The game has begun anew, and this time, it believes the board is tilted in its favor.
The prison realm falls silent, the corpses still, the chains steady. But the darkness pulses, alive with the Void's growing power, waiting for the moment it will break free. In the mortal world, in a city of glass and steel, a woman with crimson eyes laughs, her prey lifeless before her, unaware of the cosmic forces converging upon her world.