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The echoes of Kealthar's battle had not merely rippled through creation—they had resounded across every layer of the omniverse, fracturing silence even in planes where time had yet to begin. His omnipotent presence, in his true draconic form, was impossible to ignore.
Higher-dimensional entities—some born from the dreams of dying gods, others shaped from the laws of symmetry and entropy—paused in awe. Beings from endless media of creation: comics, anime, celestial scriptures, and divine abstractions, all turned their focus toward the singular beacon of overwhelming power that was Kealthar.
For many, fear took root.
They had lived through cosmic wars, devoured galaxies, rewritten physical laws. Yet none of their feats compared to the sight of the Ancient One—a living axis of order and rebirth. Even those who once claimed titles like "One Above All," or the "Living Tribunal," felt dwarfed, humbled. The Source Beings of Harmony, the Watchers of Balance, the Keepers of Eternal Law—they all felt a primordial instinct awaken: reverence.
Those connected to the ideas of justice, balance, and creation began to kneel, their astral forms bowing in the midst of their respective realms. They welcomed him as what he was:
The Father of Order.
The Source of the Concepts they upheld.
The Prime Flame.
As Kealthar hovered still in the broken layer between narratives, he remained silent. His senses were at their peak, extending across not just universes, but the narrative lattice holding all of creation together. He combed through ALL of existence—all timelines, dead verses, erased storylines, and layered realities—searching for any lingering scent of Vorath.
But there was nothing.
No trail.
No fragment.
Not even the whisper of his entropy.
Until...
He felt it.
A stain.
Not in this reality, but in a forgotten narrative—a verse long dead, discarded by creation itself. A narrative space whose timelines had curled in upon themselves, where forgotten deities slumbered beneath the silence.
There, he found them.
Cultists of Vorath.
Worshippers of entropy, twisted beyond sanity. In a dead realm with no observers, they had rebuilt a throne of filth. Their chants tore holes into the veil, calling out for their master.
Kealthar did not hesitate.
He moved.
One instant, he floated in silence.
The next, the narrative of that dead realm shattered.
He appeared as a star-born god, burning with purpose, surrounded by a halo of unborn constellations. The cultists looked up in horror—not because they saw a god, but because they saw the end.
He raised his claw.
The entire narrative was unmade.
Not burned.
Not crushed.
Not merely deleted.
Unwritten.
Countless timelines, uncountable universes that once existed within it, ceased. The ink of reality was ripped from the cosmic parchment. Their names, their deeds, their stories—gone.
But he did not leave it empty.
Kealthar, ever the counterforce to unmaking, wove new narrative threads in its place. One by one, fresh storylines bloomed—untouched by corruption. Pure. Clean.
A new verse was born.
He stood silently at the center of this fresh cosmos, his dragon form gradually shrinking, coiling in on itself until he once again took his humanoid form. The new realm, now seeded with harmony, pulsed gently around him.
He whispered:
"No more shadows."
The higher beings who watched him from across realities felt the finality in his actions. The act of not just destroying a tainted reality—but creating anew.
They bowed deeper.
Some wept. Others offered prayers.
And Kealthar?
He turned his gaze upward, beyond all things, searching still.
Vorath had hidden well.
But not forever.
Not from him.
And when the day came—and it would come—Kealthar would not simply defend creation.
He would rewrite its fate with fire.
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