"Do you see now, you pitiful insects?"
The Whisperer's vast consciousness, dripping with mockery, swept across heaven and earth like a tidal wave.
"All your efforts, your struggles, your so-called heroism—it's nothing more than seasoning! The finest condiment to flavor my cosmic feast! These two universes are fruits I've cultivated with infinite patience, and now... now they're finally ripe for the picking!"
Before his words had even faded, his incomprehensible, formless bulk began descending toward the two battered, bleeding universes below—worlds already tearing each other apart at the seams. He intended to devour them whole. Everything within them—life, laws, existence itself—would be consumed without exception.
Faced with this apocalyptic catastrophe, a despair ten thousand times deeper than before settled over every hero's heart. They finally understood: Thanos had been nothing more than an appetizer. The Celestials? Merely waiters delivering the first course.
But this thing—this shapeless monstrosity hovering before them—was the true host of this cosmic banquet.
And they, whether mortal heroes or immortal gods, were nothing but food waiting to be eaten.
Yet in that deafening silence, where even divine beings had lost their voices, a lazy, thoroughly unimpressed voice cut through the curtain of despair.
"Ugh, there's one thing I absolutely can't stand when I'm eating."
Cloud gazed up at the flashy cosmic horror currently delivering its "Standard Boss Victory Speech" and scowled.
"...and that's listening to someone drone on and on about where their ingredients came from and how they were prepared. Really kills the appetite, you know?"
The Whisperer's vast consciousness stuttered to a halt. Its countless "eyes"—formed from the despair and screams of countless civilizations—all swiveled toward that impossibly calm "ant" on the ground below.
"...What did you say?"
"I said..."
Cloud slowly raised his head. The lazy indifference on his face vanished in an instant. What replaced it wasn't anger or cold fury, but the expression of a chef who had just laid eyes on the rarest, most exquisite ingredient imaginable—a look mixing excitement, obsession, and endless appetite.
He flashed the massive cosmic entity a warm, welcoming smile that would have looked right at home on a shop owner greeting his favorite customer.
"Welcome to Cloud's Late-Night Diner."
The Whisperer: "???"
"Allow me to introduce myself." Cloud unbuttoned the top two buttons of his casual shirt and, with practiced ease, reached into his "four-dimensional storage space" to retrieve an item. What emerged was a grease-stained, well-worn chef's apron—one that radiated the unmistakable aroma of home cooking and honest labor.
He tied it elegantly around his waist, then spoke in the measured, professional tone of a master craftsman:
"Head chef and owner of this establishment: Cloud."
"And you..." He raised a finger toward the cosmic entity above—which had now entered a state of complete existential confusion, clearly wondering Who am I? Where am I? Did someone swap out my script?—"...are tonight's special, prepared with love for my dear friends."
His eyes blazed with an "appetite" that burned ten thousand times brighter than any star.
"—The main course!"
"Tonight's special recommendation: Deep-Fried Whisperer!"
The instant those words left his mouth, Cloud fully unleashed himself.
"Dimensional Sovereign • Divine Form Release • Infinite Kitchen—ON!"
BOOM—!
A wave of primordial power billions of times more vast than anything before—the true might of a Dimensional Sovereign, transcending all universes—exploded outward from his body. No more suppression. No more pretense. In this moment, he was the sole master of all dimensions, the ultimate origin of all laws!
He reached into the void and seized.
"By my name! Let both universes become my cooking pot!"
The Marvel and DC universes—which should have been colliding and annihilating each other—suddenly froze under the pressure of his utterly unreasonable will. Like two balls of soft dough, they were kneaded together by an invisible hand, forming a single massive cosmic "split hot pot"—half sleek sci-fi chrome, half ancient mythological gold.
"By the will of my friends! Become the flame that renders all things unto ash!"
He snapped his fingers toward the Justice Avengers Alliance below, who had long since stopped trying to make sense of anything. Steve's indomitable spirit, Tony's genius, Thor's thunder, Superman's hope, Diana's divine power, Batman's mortal determination... the purest, most powerful beliefs of every hero were "borrowed" in that instant, forging into a seven-colored cosmic fire capable of melting laws and incinerating concepts themselves.
"Pot: ready."
"Fire: good to go."
Cloud, head chef of the Late-Night Diner, looked up at the "main course" in the sky—now so terrified it could barely maintain its form—and smiled with anticipation that would make gods and demons alike tremble.
"Now then..."
"...it's time to start cooking!"
"N-NO—!"
The Whisperer let out the first scream of its countless eons of existence—and also its last. A howl of absolute terror and regret. It wanted to flee, wanted to retreat to the safety of those dimensional crevices where it had hidden for so long.
But it was far too late.
Cloud beckoned with a single finger.
"You. Come here."
This was an irresistible rule—the absolute command of a chef to his ingredient.
The Whisperer's massive form was dragged by an invisible force, yanked downward against its will, and plunged headfirst into that hot pot forged from two entire universes. The seven-colored divine fire erupted instantly.
SIZZLE—!
A sound that echoed through every dimension rang out—the unmistakable, mouth-watering crackle of high-protein goodness hitting hot oil. What had once been the arrogant whispers of a cosmic predator transformed into desperate cries of "CRACKLE-CRACKLE" (Save me!), "SIZZLE-SIZZLE" (I was wrong!), and "POP-POP-POP" (I'll never do it again!)—a most beautiful symphony accompanying this cosmic feast.
Finally, the screaming stopped. The bubbling broth in the hot pot gradually settled.
All that remained was a single serving of aromatic, golden-brown, perfectly crispy-on-the-outside-tender-on-the-inside... cosmic-grade tempura.
Cloud nodded with satisfaction, untied his apron, and returned to his usual lazy demeanor. He turned to the "diners" below—all of whom had long since given up thinking and now stood frozen like wooden statues—and offered them a warm, "dinner is served" smile.
"Alright, everyone."
"The main course... is ready."
"So... anyone bring chopsticks?"