The sky churned, dark clouds twisting as thunder cracked, each roar louder than the last. The wind howled, carrying the scent of rain and reckoning, driving the storm ever closer to the towering halls of the so-called gods. Lightning flashed, illuminating their statues—proud, unyielding, yet blind to what approached. They never called themselves false gods, not aloud. But Mister End did. He alone dared, his voice steady with the certainty of one truth: only a true God could grant love and mercy.
The floor was slick with fresh blood, pooling and winding through the cracks like veins of a wounded earth. Shattered ribs jutted out from torn flesh, organs spilled and glistening in the dim light. Each step met the sickening crunch of broken bones, the wet squelch of something once divine, now nothing more than ruin. A figure moved through the carnage, boots dragging through the gore, the weight of disgust heavy in every motion.
"So you are the one who killed these sacred gods, you filthy god eater."
"So what if I was? You have taken from me so it is natural to take something from all of you."
Her teeth are gnashed, grinding with a raw, grating fury. Each motion in her body pulsed with rage—her fingers twitching, her breath coming sharp and measured, the storm barely contained.
She stepped forward, her resolve cold and unwavering. If not her, then who? The others—once worshiped, once feared—shrunk back into the shadows, their voices silent, their hands idle. Gods, they called themselves, yet when the moment came, they were nothing but cowards clinging to their crumbling order.
The proud, the untouchable, now knelt in the filth of their own failures. They no longer spoke as deities but pleaded like the mortals they once scorned. Their hands, once raised to smite, now reached out to beg.
She bellowed, her cry a fierce declaration as she swung her halberd with unyielding force. The strike landed clean, carving deep—but instead of flesh and bone, his body twisted, warping into a thick, liquid mass. The halberd sank into him as if into water, but before she could pull it back, his form solidified like stone, trapping the weapon in place. With a flick of his wrist, the halberd snapped, shattered like brittle glass.
Before she could react, his hand clamped around her throat—tight, merciless. Her skin split beneath the crushing force, veins rupturing as red lines bloomed. Her windpipe caved, every desperate gasp swallowed by his unrelenting grip. Her vision blurred, darkness creeping at the edges as her hands, once so strong, trembled, then fell still. Her body slumped, lifeless, the fight drained from her as silence claimed her at last.
The brave four spartan gods appeared and see the lifeless body of their queen. They were left dumbfounded as staring at Mister End bend on their knees. But one of them had enough and raise their weapon and tried to attack Mister End. Sadly his left arm broke in an abnormal position, break each of his bones while keeping her alive.
"Please don't kill my brother! Please kill me instead!"
Mister End sighed, rolling his shoulders as another god charged, desperation wild in his eyes. A swift step forward—fingers plunged into his chest, ribs cracked like brittle twigs, and the god's breath hitched before he collapsed, his heart still twitching in Mister End's grip.
A spear whistled through the air. He caught it effortlessly, snapping it in two before driving the jagged end through its wielder's throat. Blood gurgled, eyes wide with disbelief, before the body crumpled into the growing crimson flood.
A goddess raised trembling hands, divine energy flickering at her fingertips. A moment of hesitation. Too long. Mister End was already upon her. A sharp twist of her neck, and she fell limp before the spell could even form.
The remaining gods huddled together, their once-golden forms slick with blood, weapons shaking in weak grips. One turned to flee. A blur—Mister End reached him first. A blade carved through his spine, his body folding like a puppet with its strings cut.
The last few struck together, a final act of defiance. It made no difference. He wove between them, each motion precise, each kill effortless. Limbs fell, throats split, divine flesh torn apart as screams faded into wet gurgles.
When silence settled, only corpses remained. Mister End flicked blood from his fingers, exhaling.
Still bored.
"So this is your retribution, Mister End."
"Why are you here, Miss Creda?"
"Just a quick report, 98% of them are already dead, others hid from across world wide and the ones who hadn't left are still here, quite a few."
"I see. Tell me, don't you resent me, Miss Creda?"
Miss Creda stood beside Mister End, the hem of her brown robe brushing against the blood-soaked ground. The fabric, worn yet unbothered by the chaos around her, swayed gently as a faint breeze passed through the ruined battlefield. She exhaled slowly, her fingers grazing the edge of her sleeve before resting at her sides.
Her gaze wandered over the lifeless forms, but there was no shock in her eyes, no hesitation in her stance. The scent of iron hung thick in the air, yet she remained still, unaffected. A stray lock of hair slipped from beneath her hood, catching the wind, but she didn't move to fix it.
Turning to Mister End, she met his gaze—calm, unwavering. Her lips parted, and without urgency or doubt, she spoke, her voice as steady as the earth beneath them.
"Not exactly, in fact I am relieved that you killed me early and gentle, I am truly grateful."
"You aren't like those false gods, which is why you are my accomplice."
"I will do my best to be your personal appraisal."