The Assembly of the Ancients
The sky above Zantrayel had not held stars for seven nights.
The constellations themselves had dimmed, making way for something else. Something vast and hungry. The Hive had not yet broken through, but already the gods who once shaped the bones of time had gathered.
And not just any gods—
But those so old, so unthinkable, that even the mightiest of pantheons trembled to whisper their names.
The Deep Meetings
Across the folds of existence, secret conclaves convened. But these were no ordinary gatherings of gods. These were convocations of fear.
Each meeting was held by the primordial ones of each pantheon—the forgotten creators, sealed tyrants, and timeless devourers who ruled before gods had names.
In the Silence-Chamber of Duat
The Ogdoad formed a circle of water and unlight.
Anubis stood at the edge, not daring to enter.
Ra's Eye flared from above, but even she blinked and turned away.
Missing: No one dared leave. But they whispered of those who already stepped outside the bounds of reason.
In the Ashfire Vault of Muspelheim
Surtr sharpened a blade that bled suns.
The unnamed wolf that slept before Fenrir snarled.
Odin stood outside the vault, whispering to his ravens, unwilling to interrupt.
In the Lotus Crypt of the Old Vedas
Brahma did not preside. He knelt.
The original Rishis, older than prayer, murmured in meters none had heard in millennia.
The Asuras arrived uninvited—and were welcomed.
Vishnu remained quiet.
In Orun, Land of the Orisha
The land itself shifted when Oya called for council.
Obatala wept salt.
Shango split mountains just to be heard.
But Ogun, the iron god, was missing.
"Gone to greet the Hive," Oya said coldly. "He doesn't wait for battle. He walks to it."
In Ginen
The First Two, Maman and Papa Ginen, sat on thrones made from roots, bones, and constellations.
Twaile sharpened her fingernails with a smile.
Bosou crushed peanuts with his fist and poured rum without a bottle.
Papa Legba kept drinking from a cracked gourd, smiling wide.
"Tijan Petro has gone," he said, sipping.
"To welcome the Hive. Fool thinks he's still playing a game."
"Gone where?" Maman Ginen asked, though she already knew.
"To walk beside Ogun," Papa Legba replied. "Ginen and Orun now share the front line."
Across the Pantheons: The Chosen Prepare
The Chosen of every pantheon stood taller now.
Their training, battles, and Zion's knowledge of their cultures had turned them into demi-gods in their own right.
Some wore divine armor.
Others held weapons older than language.
And many had bonded with the very essence of their gods.
But they all felt it—like pressure on the soul. Like standing before a storm that didn't care about your name or title.
Zion stood at the center of the massive forge, where fire-in-a-bottle still burned.
His body hadn't aged in a hundred years.
His eyes, however, had seen too much.
Ayira and Jalen stood at his sides—scars glowing with divine script.
Behind them, the 99 Warriors of Zantrayel, chosen by Tijan Petro, stood in ceremonial silence. They had become more than human. Some weren't even entirely mortal anymore.
The Hive Approaches
In the void beyond reality, Ogun strode with deliberate steps—machete in hand, each swing cleaving darkness like silk.
He said no words.
He carried a bottle of rum in one hand and a forge in his chest.
Beside him danced Tijan Petro, his laughter broken and wary, but present. A storm of fire and madness twirled around him like a cloak.
"You sure this is smart?" Tijan asked, head cocked sideways.
"No," said Ogun.
"Then why go first?"
"Because if we fall… they might live."
Back at Ginen
Twaile sniffed the air.
"Hmph. The Hive is close. The skin of the world is cracking."
Bosou grinned.
"We'll salt it first."
Maman Ginen rose.
Papa Ginen stirred.
"Call them," Maman said.
And Papa Legba stepped forward, face split in an ancient grin. He turned toward all pantheons watching, and raised a single finger—
"You've had eons to call yourselves gods.
But tonight… you prove it.
Or we feast alone