Chapter 12: The Fractured Creatorias
The banquet's transformation was complete. What was once a place of celestial beauty and unchallenged grandeur had been consumed by madness, despair, and devastation. It had become a grotesque canvas painted with the agony of fallen gods, their immortal blood staining the very foundation of reality.
The gods had become what they had once despised: weak, desperate creatures, clawing at each other for survival. The very essence of their divinity had been siphoned away, leaving only their primal instincts. Their once-perfect forms, capable of shaping entire realities, had been reduced to broken husks, fueled only by hunger and fear.
One by one, the gods fell. Some succumbed to the bloodlust of their brethren, while others, unable to hold onto their sanity, were swallowed whole by the maws of the void, their final screams echoing into the abyss. The higher beings had no mercy to offer, for they had already discarded any empathy for these creatures. The gods had betrayed their purpose, twisted by the very power they had once wielded with pride.
Above, the Creator watched in silence, its gaze burning through the fabric of existence. It saw not the gods it had once nurtured, but mere insects scurrying about in their desperation. Its heart, once filled with love for its creations, was now cold—an unforgiving void. The Creator's eyes narrowed, its form trembling with anger. The divine children it had brought into being were now nothing but traitors, every last one of them. They had sought power beyond measure, and now they were reaping the consequences of their hubris.
The Creator did not mourn the fall of the gods—it seethed. With every scream, every death, it felt the anger rising within it, like a storm about to break. Its once-bountiful vision of creation, the masterpiece it had sculpted with care, was now a nightmare. The gods had lost their purpose, their sanctity. They had become the very thing they had been created to protect the realms from: an unthinking, ravenous force, consuming all in their path.
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As the gods continued their savage war, their bodies mangled, their spirits fractured, the higher beings relished the destruction. Their laughter, a vile, guttural sound, rang through the realms, echoing in every crevice, every shattered star. The Sovereigns, who had once ruled over the cosmic expanse with an air of dispassionate grace, now reveled in the chaos.
"Do they even remember their own greatness?" one of them mused, its voice cutting through the air like a knife. Its form—fluid and ever-changing—was a mockery of what the gods had once aspired to be.
"They were always nothing more than false gods," another Sovereign sneered, its form a swirling vortex of dark energy. "How pitiful it is to see them fight so desperately for something that will never be theirs again."
The higher beings, with their godlike power, had once watched the gods as lesser entities, their own creations serving as pawns in the grand scheme of existence. But now, as they looked down on the carnage below, the Sovereigns saw nothing but weakness. They had no respect for the gods now—only contempt.
Their amusement knew no bounds. With every step, the higher beings crushed what remained of the gods' pride. They were nothing more than broken creatures, their very essence now tainted by Zepxaris' dark influence.
And so, the slaughter continued.
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Down below, the gods fought like animals, their every instinct twisted by the madness that had overtaken them. The once-proud Titan of Crescents, his form now barely recognizable, tore into the flesh of his fellow gods with savage hunger. His divine weapon, once a symbol of untold power, now lay shattered, useless in his grip. The Titan was no longer the majestic being that had once stood proud on the edge of creation. He was a beast—hungry, desperate, and willing to do anything to survive.
Beside him, the War Goddess of Redemption, her radiant halo now nothing but a shattered crown of bone, was engaged in a brutal struggle with another god. Her hands, once delicate and divine, were now coated in the ichor of her fallen kin. Her strength, once the embodiment of justice, had become an instrument of madness. She snapped her opponent's neck with ease, her once-gentle eyes now gleaming with the cold hunger of a predator.
The gods had lost everything. Their glory. Their power. Their purpose. All that remained was the raw, savage drive to survive, to feed, to claw their way to the top of the heap. And even that would not be enough.
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In the midst of the chaos, Zepxaris remained silent, observing the destruction with impassive eyes. He did not intervene—there was no need. The gods were already destroying themselves. He had no interest in their suffering, nor in their demise. They had chosen this fate. The Creator had chosen this fate.
The higher beings, once the gods' allies, had become his instruments of destruction, wielding their power with merciless cruelty. But it was not Zepxaris who had created this slaughter—he had simply allowed it to unfold. The banquet was not a war—it was a reconstruction. The gods had built their own downfall with their greed, their lust for power, and their unwillingness to see beyond their own narrow vision.
The higher beings, now the arbiters of the gods' destruction, tore through the remnants of the pantheon with ruthless efficiency. A celestial matriarch, once a force of creation, now shattered the neck of a fallen god with a single, twisted motion. Another Sovereign, wreathed in black flames, moved through the battlefield like a storm, ripping apart gods with each step. Their forms, once symbols of cosmic order, were now instruments of chaos—destroying that which had once been their kin.
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Thrust, ever loyal, stepped into the fray. His eyes, hollow as the void itself, took in the carnage around him without a flicker of emotion. His footsteps, silent as the night, carried him through the destruction without a hint of hesitation. His purpose was clear: to bear witness, to remain steadfast, and to uphold his loyalty to Zepxaris.
He did not need to fight. The gods had already done the work for him. Their struggle, their madness, would be their undoing. Zepxaris had already sealed their fate.
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And above it all, in the throne of nothingness, Zepxaris watched. He did not act, for there was no need. The gods had made their choice. The Creator had made its own. And from the shadows, Zepxaris smiled—not with malice, not with joy—but with purpose.
For he was not the end. He was the new beginning.
The banquet had become a graveyard. And from its ruins, a new age would rise.
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*THE CHAPTER ENDS*
(captures the ruthless, cosmic purge, where the higher beings turn on the gods with vile laughter, seeing them as nothing but disloyal dogs to be slaughtered.
The Creator's sorrow turns to wrath, the higher beings become cosmic predators, and Zepxaris silently watches the pantheon destroy itself, feeding his growing dominion.)