You Keep What You Kill
The sky cracked like glass.
Not thunder.
Not magic.
Reality itself peeled back, screaming.
From beyond it poured the Hive—a sea of ancient hunger older than sin, formed before morality had even been shaped. They did not march or fly or crawl. They swarmed. A billion wings. A trillion teeth. Eyes that blinked without pupils. Voices that sang with no tongues.
And standing at the breach of that nightmare—
Were Ogun, the god of iron and war, and Tijan Petro, the mad storm of fire from Ginen.
The Front Line
Ogun stood barefoot in molten soil. His machete hissed.
His chest glowed with runes written in charcoal and blood.
His breath was steam. His silence was a prayer.
Tijan spun in place like a top lit with flame.
"Do they have mouths? Because if not, how are they gonna SCREAM!?"
He laughed, arms out, fire erupting from his palms, his shoulders, even his tongue.
And then—
SMACK!
A hand landed on the back of his head like a falling mountain.
"Stupid."
"Big-head, rum-drunk, apocalypse-waking, peanut-stealing STUPID."
Twaile had appeared behind him. Hair braided with dried bones. Wrinkles deep as fault lines. Her smile… carnivorous.
Tijan stumbled.
Ogun gave him a side-eye.
"I feel bad for you," he said dryly.
The Pantheons Arrive
The air folded.
Worlds bent.
From every corner of creation, the pantheons arrived—each bringing their most powerful Chosen, their divine weapons, and their final hopes.
From Orun:
Shango with thunder riding his shoulders.
Oya, wind bleeding from her eyes.
Obatala, silent and sorrowful.
From Duat:
Anubis held the Weighing Blade.
Ra burned without form.
The Serpent of Night coiled beneath their feet.
From Ginen:
Papa Legba, drinking and smiling.
Bosou, cracking his knuckles while carrying a barrel of dry peanuts.
Twaile, already present, humming an off-key lullaby.
From the Old Vedas:
Kali walked barefoot in ash.
Durga rode a lion made of gold and death.
Shiva said nothing—but the universe trembled.
From the Forgotten North:
Odin stood beside Freyja.
The world serpent stirred.
And the runes wept.
And more. So many more.
Each pantheon with their elite.
Each Chosen sharpened by a century of preparation.
The Argument of Ogou
Among the warriors of Ginen, a voice rose like a blade drawn across steel.
Ogou Feray, blazing in red and iron, slammed his fist against his chest.
"I will kill more Hive than anyone. Count them when I'm done."
Another voice rose behind him—calm, colder.
Ogou Badagris, his twin in name and war, crossed his arms.
"You? You're too flashy. I'll kill three for every one of yours, quietly."
"Loud or quiet, the Hive still dies," growled Ogou Feray.
"Then may the Hive feed the scoreboard," sneered Badagris.
Papa Legba leaned back and poured rum into both their mouths.
"Settle it with blood, boys."
Declaration of Papa Ginen
Suddenly—
A crack like thunder.
A weight fell over all reality.
Even the Hive paused.
Papa Ginen stepped forward.
He did not raise his voice, but all heard him.
"You keep… what you kill."
A silence deeper than eternity followed.
Even the gods took a breath.
Then—
The Hive surged.
Like a black sun falling.
Like a tidal wave of fangs and hunger.
The War Begins
Tijan Petro exploded into flame, launching like a comet into the heart of the Hive swarm, laughing like thunder gone mad.
"TIME TO MAKE THEM SCREAM!"
Ogun raised his blade.
His foot hit the ground.
The world cracked.
"No mercy," he said.
"No retreat."
Ogou Feray and Ogou Badagris ran side by side, cutting through shadow.
Zion opened a gourd—fire-in-a-bottle—and launched it toward the skies.
And from every direction, gods, monsters, Chosen, legends—
ALL descended into battle