The world was not ending; it was being meticulously unmade.
This was not the gentle decay of time or the natural fury of a dying planet. This was the vengeance of the Divine Assembly, executed by legions of beings whose very presence violated the laws of physics. Kael, a Sergeant in what remained of the 10th Armored Division, stared up at a sky that was less a canopy and more an open, gaping wound.
The rain of fire was the least of it—incandescent, searing orbs that hissed on impact, melting titanium and vaporizing flesh. But worse was the lightning. Not the familiar crackle of atmosphere, but lightning bolts as thick as a mountain range, descending with malevolent intent. Each strike did not just scar the earth; it rendered the ground inert, turning soil and rock into glassy, dead craters.
And then there were the waves. The final, crushing insult to humanity's dominion. Tsunamis that covered the sky, colossal sheets of water summoned from the deepest trenches of the ocean and held aloft by invisible divine will. They did not crash; they simply fell, extinguishing entire continents, not by drowning, but by sheer, crushing hydraulic pressure. Kael was pushed back against the last functional barrier of the perimeter, his lungs aching for air that was too thick with ozone and dust to be breathable.
They had been pushed back to their home plane, Earth, which was now less a fortress and more a coffin. Their advanced particle rifles and quantum shields had proven entirely useless against the gods' foot soldiers—beings of pure light, shadow, and elemental rage who treated human technology as a minor annoyance. The gods' army advanced without haste, savoring the final, terrifying moments of a species that had dared to commit Treason.
Kael looked at his weapon, a plasma rifle that was uselessly sputtering, and then looked at the encroaching dark. He didn't mutter a prayer. He only felt a deep, wrenching regret. It was the collective failure of their civilization crystallized into this moment of annihilation.
He saw the vast, silent wall of uncreation—the gods' final decree—descending from the upper atmosphere, a cosmic broom sweeping away the dust. There was no escaping this. There was only the end.
He saw the vast, silent wall of uncreation—the gods' final decree—descending from the upper atmosphere, a cosmic broom sweeping away the dust. There was no escaping this. There was only the end.
Deep beneath the tectonic plates, in the final Hidden Headquarters—a labyrinth of reinforced bunkers designed to survive nuclear fire—General Varrus watched the telemetry collapse. The air in the command center was stale, heavy with the stench of recycled fear and bitter resignation.
The holographic map of Earth, once a vibrant constellation of resistance movements, was now a flickering display of red static. The few remaining personnel, scientists, engineers, and political attachés, stood slumped against the walls, their faces pale, their eyes hollowed out by the sheer scope of the disaster. Hope had abandoned this place days ago. Now, only waiting remained.
Varrus, the architect of a thousand victories, felt the icy grip of his ultimate failure. He pressed a key, attempting to ping the 4th Vanguard one last time. Silence. Total, absolute silence. He leaned back in his command chair, the polished chrome cool against his exhausted neck, and let out a sound that was less a laugh and more a dry, brittle rasp.
"It's over," he muttered, the words thick with irony. "Our so-called technology… it's a joke in front of this. We built weapons that could shatter moons, yet we couldn't scratch the skin of a god."
He had championed the ambition, the grand plan to seize the source of divine power. He had believed that given enough time and research, humanity's unpredictable genius could overcome even the fundamental forces of the universe. He had been a fool. Their defiance had simply prompted the gods to stop playing games and remind humanity of its place.
"The greatest mistake," Varrus stated, his voice gaining a sudden, fierce strength as he stood. "Was believing the tools we created made us their equal. We failed to listen to the whisper of reverence, choosing the shout of ambition."
As he spoke, the lights in the bunker flickered violently. The air pressure dropped, and a high-pitched, resonant whine pierced the silence. On the main viewscreen, the image of the encroaching cosmic void was replaced by a flash of blinding white energy—an explosion of apocalyptic force that was not meant to destroy the bunker, but to erase its location from spatial existence.
Varrus did not flinch. He closed his eyes, accepting the sentence. The explosion hit the headquarters—not with kinetic force, but with absolute obliteration. The General, the scientists, and the final trace of human organization were instantly unmade.
The Earth and its inhabitants were gone, wiped from the fabric of reality.