The Opening Movement of the Divine War
The Outer Warfront: The March of the Chosen
Thunder cracked the sky—not from nature, but from the march of 99 legions.
The Chosen, each bearing the mark of gods, spirits, or monsters, moved like a single body. The sound of war drums echoed across a horizon made of broken moons.
Zion stood on a jagged ridge overlooking it all, his eyes half-closed.
"We are not gods," he whispered.
"But today, they will learn to fear us as if we were."
From his hands, more fire-in-a-bottle was made. Dozens. Hundreds. Passed across the lines.
Ayira raised her staff, golden light forming a wall of protection behind the first wave.
Behind her, Jalen, muscles coiled, eyes cold, recited the litany of battle.
Then came the Hive.
They flowed across the dark plain like a nightmare flood—six-legged beasts, winged chimeras, psychic hounds, living shadows, and things with too many mouths.
The Chosen didn't falter.
Kael Anubari drew his jackal blade. Frey Valka screamed into the wind. Sundara Atri danced flames into reality.
"FORMATIONS!"
And then—the clash.
Like a sun colliding with a black hole. No death yet, but a storm of raw force that tore space at the seams.
The Inner Warfront: God vs. Hive Commander
The Hive's commanders arrived—towering creatures, ancient tacticians of consumption, flesh shaped into war.
Here stood gods who had not tasted defeat.
Ogou Feray and Ogou Badagris argued mid-combat.
"I'll kill more."
"Your kill count don't count if you cheat!"
They clashed steel with alien claws. Each impact sent shockwaves across the battlefield.
Durga's lion tore through a Hive abomination, while Ra rained solar fire like a hammer.
Kali danced, every step slicing reality open.
Suddenly—
A Hive commander extended a hand. Space distorted.
Oya reacted instantly, becoming a cyclone. Her winds shattered the illusion, revealing the creature's true form—a seer-beast, twelve-eyed and feeding on fear.
She laughed.
"You can see my fear?" she said.
"Then watch it burn."
Lightning struck, and the war in the middle erupted into a living tempest.
The Core Warfront: The Ancients Prepare the Table
It was quiet. Too quiet.
Twaile cracked another peanut.
Papa Legba passed a bottle to Bosou.
All around them stood the Ancients, unmoving, watching as the sky began to bleed.
The Hive's Prime Elders were coming—pure, uncorrupted devourers, ones that predated even the gods. Silent. Unchanging. Unstoppable.
Twaile licked her lips.
"I haven't tasted that kind of meat since the first sun died."
Papa Legba grinned.
"Hope it don't spoil on the way."
Bosou, finally finished drinking, cracked his knuckles.
"If any of y'all steal my share, I'm cooking you next."
The earth trembled as the first of the Ancient Hive Lords touched the edge of the battlefield. They did not run. They hovered, their presence alone causing minor deities across the realms to faint.
Papa Ginen appeared beside them, cane glowing.
"They still don't understand. This is not their apocalypse. It's our harvest."
And the three forces—Chosen, Gods, and Ancients—pushed forward.
Still no death. But blood had been spilled. Weapons had sung. The first veil of eternity had been pierced