The Shackles Break, and the Beasts Roar
The Hive was shifting.
It had tasted resistance.
And now, from its core, something older was rising—something that remembered when gods bled, and galaxies screamed.
But amid the chaos, one moment stood still.
Zion.
Cloaked in dusklight, face marked by ash, sweat, and will—he stood at the head of Zantrayel's army.
He had led with clarity. With purpose.
But now, the time for order had ended.
"Ayola. Ayomi. Sael. Thalia. Elis," he called their names—not as a king, but as a Husband.
"No more chains. No more restraint. Let the world remember your wrath."
The Five Priestesses stepped forward.
Ayola, Priestess of Papa Legba, flames behind her eyes, body steaming with suppressed fire. Her shadow split into crossroad
Ayomi, Priestess of Baron Samedi, silent as shadow, her steps echoing thunder in hearts. Around her green smoke rise from the corps of fallen hive members.
Sael, Priestess of Erzulie, weeping with a smile, her tears turning to lightning.
Thalia, Priestess of the Seven-Faced Ogou, wind-wrapped, laughter sharpened into blades. Heat radiant from her so hot weapons melts.
Elis, Priestess of Maman Brigitte, draped in blood-silk, her voice a lullaby to war itself. And death whispers with her.
And behind them…their five armies.
Zion turn to ward the 99.
Each one marked by the Lwa.
Each one gifted with divine sigils that pulsed now—not with light, but with hunger.
They were no longer an army.
They were a storm made flesh.
Zion stepped back.
He did not raise his sword.
He did not give orders.
"Go," he said.
"Eat."
He Unleashing the five priestesses and their armies plus the 99.
They moved like predators freed from a cage.
For 100 years, they had trained, waited, bled, and dreamed.
Now, they feasted.
Ayola dove headfirst into the Hive swarm, her flames igniting an entire sky.
She did not burn out—she burned through.
Ayomi vanished into smoke, reappearing within the Hive's commanders, severing heads before they could blink.
Sael called storms from within her soul. Every strike was judgment. Every bolt, a death sentence.
Thalia danced—a whirlwind of wind blades and cackling madness, tearing Hive wings from the air.
And Elis…
Elis sang.
Hive soldiers stopped.
They listened.
And they died.
The 99 Move
Where they struck, the ground cracked.
Where they screamed, Hive formations dissolved.
They didn't fight with strategy.
They devoured.
They didn't coordinate.
They overran.
And it was not just the Hive who took notice.
The Pantheon's Fear
From the high cliffs where the gods observed, from the vantage points of other chosen leaders… unease bloomed.
Even Olumo, the Stone-Sworn of the Yoruba, whispered:
"What did Ginen unleash?"
Takashi-no-Hana narrowed his eyes, hand twitching.
"These are not warriors. These are living weapons… bred in darkness."
Freydis tightened her grip on her axe.
"I would rather face ten Hive broods than one of their priestesses."
Even Kalina of the Tide whispered to her lieutenants:
"Keep your warriors away from them… they do not see friend from foe."
But Zion did not speak again.
He merely watched.
And Papa Legba, far off beside Bosou and Twaile, smiled around a pipe and murmured:
"Now… the Hive will learn what fear truly tastes like."
A Storm with No Master
The 99 were no longer under orders.
They tore through Hive nests, pierced into flanks, disregarding formation, uncaring of casualties—leaving behind trails of fire, blood, and silence.
Hive soldiers began retreating.
Some screamed.
Some… turned on their own just to avoid facing them.
And across the warfront, the whisper began:
"They are not human."
"They are not gods."
"They are… Ginen's hunger made flesh."