The Return of the Broken
Bloodied banners snapped in the sulfurous wind as the remnants of the Supreme Troops staggered through the obsidian gates of the Cronoverse. Six months of war had carved deep lines into their faces, and the air hummed with the unspoken grief of 200,000 dead. At the forefront, Lord Nealon clenched her gauntleted fists, her whispered plea lost beneath the clatter of spears:
Nealon (in a voice raw with exhaustion, silently pleading): "Yoton… please be alright. Don't die. Make sure to come home."
Beside her, Zerich—his armor dented, his crimson cloak frayed—turned to Carel, the allied commander who stood silhouetted against the war-torn horizon. The farewell was heavy with unfulfilled promises.
Zerich: "I'm sorry about Yoton, Nealon. But it's time to return home."
Carel (bowing, his voice thick with gratitude and guilt): "I'm equally sorry, Lord Nealon. As he said… you must go now. We owe you our victory, but the Verse demands your presence elsewhere."
Zerich clasped Carel's forearm, the gesture firm despite the fatigue dragging at his bones. "We appreciate you, Carel. This isn't goodbye. When we return, we'll send 100,000 troops to aid in restoring the Reveiverse." His gaze hardened. "And mark my words—those responsible for this carnage will kneel. Soon."
The troops began their march, their boots kicking up ash from the battlefield. Nealon lingered, her eyes scanning the smoldering ruins as if Yoton might emerge from the smoke.
Nealon (hoarse): "We'll send your gifts to the High Head, Carel. Let's go, Zerich."
Zerich (barking orders): "All troops, move out! Set course for the Cronoverse—home."
A chorus of weary affirmatives rose from the survivors.
The Weight of Loss
The warship's hull groaned as it tore through the bleeding edges of the Verse. Zerich leaned against the observation deck's rail, his reflection fractured in the glass. Six months. Three hundred thousand warriors reduced to fifty thousand wounded, fifty thousand barely standing, and fields of corpses left to rot in foreign soil.
Zerich (to Nealon, voice hollow): "We lost more than soldiers. We lost a ruler. A brother."
Nealon's fingers tightened around her amulet—a sliver of Yoton's shattered crown. "Rulers aren't so easily killed, Zerich. He's out there. I'd feel it if he were gone."
Zerich's laugh was bitter. "I hope you're right. But by the Abyss, I'm tired. The Abyssal King's war, the dimensional cracks spewing hell's creatures, the endless search for the Creator… When do we rest?"
Nealon placed a hand on his shoulder. "When we're home, I'm taking you to the Gardens of Elysith. You haven't seen them in six thousand years."
For the first time in months, Zerich's smile almost reached his eyes. "I'd like that. And I'd like Yoton to see them too."
Homecoming and Hidden Knives
The Cronoverse loomed—a jagged spire of black stone veined with molten gold. The Slave Demon, its chains rattling, shook Zerich awake.
Slave Demon: "Commander… wake up. We're home."
Zerich stretched, his joints popping. "Sound the alarm. Inform Lord Nealon. And tell the Vice Commander to prepare the casualty reports."
The alarm's wail split the air. Cheers rose, but they were thin, undercut by grief. Chief Commander Lesu, his face scarred from a near-fatal wound, gestured to a messenger.
Lesu: "Notify the High Head. The Supreme Troops have returned. And… inform him of Lord Yoton's death."
The messenger sprinted through the labyrinthine halls, his knuckles rapping on Krelious's chamber door.
Krelious (from within): "Enter."
Messenger (bowing): "My Lord, the troops are back. But Lord Yoton… he fell in battle."
Krelious dismissed him with a wave. Alone, his lips curled into a venomous smirk.
Krelious (muttering): "Fools. Yoton isn't dead. But Nealon and her witch-faction believe it… and that's all I need to trap them."
The War Rulers' Gambit
In the shadows of the War Rulers' citadel, Nielan paced before his conspirators. Amiss, her silver eyes darting nervously, and Dainen, his fingers stained with abyssal runes, awaited his command.
Nielan: "Finally, one obstacle is gone. Yoton's death is our opportunity. Next, we obliterate Carel's house."
Amiss (hesitant): "My Lord, I… feel unease. We shouldn't strike first at the Rulers' Meeting. We need time—"
Nielan (slamming his fist onto the table): "I don't care about your feelings, Amiss! I want that throne!"
Dainen stepped forward, a vial of swirling darkness in his palm. "The Abyssal King's revival is nearly complete. More chaos, and he'll rise."
Nielan: "Make it happen."
As Dainen bowed and left, Amiss clenched her fists, her thoughts screaming:
Amiss (internally): "Idiots. Krelious's power dwarfs yours. Not even the Void could contain him now. Only the Creator could end His Life Now.
Epilogue: The Storm Gathers
The Cronoverse's skies darkened. Somewhere beyond the Verse, a single crackle of energy—faint as a dying breath—flickered in the void.
Yoton's pulse.
Nealon's hand flew to her chest. "Zerich… did you feel that?"
But the moment passed. The storm had only begun.
THE APPOINTMENT RULERS' HOME
A Realm of Whispers and Shadows
The air in the grand hall of the Appointment Rulers' home was thick with the weight of disbelief. Tavis, his voice a low growl that echoed off the obsidian walls, clenched his fists. The veins in his arms pulsed like rivers of molten gold beneath his skin.
"It's still difficult to believe," he muttered, "that one of us was killed by a lower life form."
Red, lounging on a throne carved from the bones of forgotten gods, tilted his head. His crimson eyes flickered with something unreadable—amusement? Concern? "Hmmm. Are we truly losing our powers as Rulers… or are the lower life forms growing stronger?"
Janyi, her form wreathed in living starlight, scoffed. "Speak for yourself, Red. I am more powerful now than I was three thousand years ago." Her voice was a blade, sharp enough to split the silence.
LeviAm, the eldest among them, leaned forward. His presence alone made the air hum with latent energy. "A lot will soon happen. This was just the beginning. More will come."
Milani's laughter rang out, bright and terrible, like shattering glass. "Even if it's the Creator Himself, I will win. I will survive."
Tavis exhaled, his breath stirring the dust of millennia. "I do feel for Yoton. If there was someone who should have been kept alive… it was him. This death should have been Krelious. It should have been him."
Red's fingers drummed against the armrest of his throne. "Relax, my Lord. Krelious will pay—somehow. But you must know: killing him is nearly impossible."
Milani's grin widened, her teeth glinting like daggers. "No one is above death, Red. Not even us Rulers. Not even Krelious himself. We will kill him. We just need to be patient… and prepare quietly."
Tavis nodded, a slow, deliberate motion. "That's good, Milani. I love your thinking. That's exactly what we're going to do."
THE CREATION RULERS' HOME
Where Schemes Are Forged in Silence
In the mirrored halls of the Creation Rulers' domain, Zion stood before a window that overlooked the infinite cosmos. His reflection was a distortion of rage and cold calculation.
"This death was definitely Nielan's doing," he hissed. "To kill one of your own… He's beyond saving now. And his death shall not be an easy one. Neither shall his soul's torment."
Ozors, ever the pragmatist, stepped forward. "Then what shall we do, my Lord? How do we kill him without offending the High Head?"
Zion's fingers traced the edge of a dagger made from solidified time. "We will strategize carefully… after the Rulers' meeting."
Liam, a tempest barely contained in mortal flesh, slammed his fist into the wall. The impact sent cracks through reality itself. "If you ask me, I'd say we end his life now—and his entire faction with him!"
Leyen sighed, her voice a balm of reason. "Woah there, Liam. There's no need to rush. The Verse is mourning. If we act now, chaos will consume us all. We cannot hope to fix that."
Liam snarled. "Whatever. I'm going to Senor's Bar to fuck and drink."
Sted, lounging in a pool of liquid shadow, smirked. "Yeah, we know. That's the only thing you're good at—aside from fighting."
Liam's glare could have melted planets. "Fuck you."
Sted grinned. "That's it. Right there."
Zion pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sted, don't push Liam into doing something crazy. And Liam—I forbid you from attacking the War Rulers."
With a final, wordless snarl, Liam stormed out, his footsteps leaving scorch marks on the marble.
Zion watched him go. "He'll be alright."
THE WARHEADS' STATION
A Triumph and a Prelude
Krelious emerged from the smoke of battle, his armor gleaming like a god's wrath. The troops—bloodied, broken, but unbowed—stood at attention as he raised a hand.
"Welcome, Nealon. And warriors… you all did well." His voice carried across the station, resonant and commanding. "Every one of you—including the dead—will be compensated. The fallen will be remembered for their sacrifices."
Nealon bowed, her body aching from wounds that would have killed a lesser being. "Thank you, High Head."
The troops echoed her, their voices a thunderous wave: "Thank you, High Head!"
Krelious turned to Nealon, his gaze softening just a fraction. "We will have a faction meeting soon—before the Rulers convene. Rest. Heal. I will send a messenger with the location two days prior."
Nealon nodded. "Thank you."
Zerich, ever the opportunist, stepped forward, his grin rakish. "My Lord… what about me?"
Krelious chuckled, tossing him a small, glowing orb. "Ah, Zerich. You've also done well. This will grant you entry to the Domainverse. A month of indulgence—bars, motels, all yours. But don't cause problems this time."
Zerich caught the orb, his eyes alight with mischief. "Yes, sir! Thank you, my Lord!"
As Krelious strode away, his laughter lingered like a storm on the horizon.
Nealon watched Zerich warily. "I know that smile. You fuck. I hope you don't get into trouble—or the Three Kings will kill you."
Zerich winked. "They hate me, but believe me… I won't fuck around their families again."
Nealon rolled her eyes. "For your sake? You'd better not."
With a bark of laughter, Zerich turned to his men. "Pack your bags, boys! We're heading to Fuck Town!"
The troops roared in approval, their voices shaking the station's foundations.
As Nealon walked away, she whispered to the void: "Please be safe, Yoton."
THE AFTERMATH
Honor and Ashes
Lesu's voice cut through the din of the wounded. "Troops! Tend to our fallen. Cleanse their bodies. Send them home for burial."
The soldiers moved with solemn precision, their hands gentle as they prepared the dead. The injured were carried to healers, their rewards distributed—gold, relics, promises etched in blood and memory.
And so, the fallen were returned to their families, their names carved into the annals of history. The survivors ate, drank, and mourned, their hearts heavy with the knowledge.
THE HIGH HEADS HOME
A Cosmic Reckoning
Scene I: The Messenger's Summons
The air in the spire hummed with latent energy, a thrumming pulse of dark matter weaving through the jagged architecture. Krelious, his form draped in robes that seemed to drink the light around him, stood before the arched window overlooking the swirling nebulae of King Hax's domain. His voice, like gravel grinding against steel, shattered the silence.
KRELIOUS: "Messenger."
A figure materialized from the shadows—a being of flickering starlight and fractured time, their body barely corporeal. They knelt, their forehead nearly touching the cold floor.
MESSENGER: "Yes, my lord."
Krelious did not turn. His gaze remained fixed on the distant planet where fate would soon unfold.
KRELIOUS: "Send a message to all my council members. In two weeks' time, we convene in the Judge Room on King Hax's planet. No exceptions."
The Messenger's form rippled, as if the command itself were a stone cast into the pool of their existence.
MESSENGER: "As you will it, my lord. Your words shall become law."
With a ripple of distorted space, the Messenger dissolved into the ether, their mission etched into the fabric of reality.
The Council Acknowledges
Locations: Scattered Across the Cosmos
Nealon's Sanctuary
Nealon's home was a cathedral of living crystal, its spires singing in harmonic resonance with her thoughts. She stood at the heart of it all, her silver hair cascading like liquid mercury. The Messenger appeared in a burst of fractured light.
MESSENGER: "The summons is given, Lady Nealon. The Judge Room awaits."
Nealon's lips curled into a smile that held the weight of millennia.
NEALON: "Thank you, Messenger. Convey my compliance."
The Messenger bowed deeply.
MESSENGER: "Your grace honors me, my lady."
Zielan's Fortress
A citadel of floating obsidian shards, suspended in the void. Zielan, his armor etched with runes of forgotten wars, barely glanced up as the Messenger delivered the decree.
ZIELAN: "I will be there."
The Messenger's voice echoed in the hollow expanse.
MESSENGER: "Your presence is noted, my lord."
Akermos's Throne of Embers
Fire and shadow danced around Akermos as he lounged upon a throne carved from the heart of a dying star. The Messenger's arrival sent embers spiraling into the abyss.
AKERMOS: "It's about time. I can't wait." His laughter was the sound of tectonic plates grinding. "I will be there."
The Messenger, unfazed by the inferno, inclined their head.
MESSENGER: "As you command, my lord. I take my leave."
As the Messenger vanished, Akermos's grin turned predatory. His voice dropped to a growl, resonating through the void like a prophecy.
AKERMOS: "The war fought in the Reveiverse was just the beginning. More is coming." His fists clenched, igniting novas in his palms. "Yoton… I do hope you're alive. Because the incoming war? You have a part to play in it."
The Reveiverse's Scars
Two months had passed since the cataclysm. The Reveiverse bore its wounds like a grieving titan—planets reduced to graveyards, their surfaces littered with the remnants of civilizations. Carel stood atop the ruins of what was once a thriving metropolis, his breath ragged, his armor cracked. The air smelled of ozone and decay.
CAREL: "Two months… and still the echoes won't fade."
Around him, soldiers moved like ghosts, their faces hollowed by loss.
SOLDIER 1: "My lord, we are done here."
SOLDIER 2: "The last of the dead are buried."
SOLDIER 3: "All casualties—gods, humans, monsters, hybrids, mutants, demons—recovered and laid to rest."
Carel closed his eyes. The weight of billions—no, zillions—of lives pressed against his ribs.
CAREL: "You've done well. Now… we bring the survivors home."
The troops straightened, their resolve hardening.
TROOPS: "Sir!"
Planet Saga's Liberation
Location: The Barrier Gates of Saga
King Saga, his crown cracked but his spine unbent, raised his hands to the sky. The barrier—a shimmering dome of fractured magic—quivered at his command.
KING SAGA: "Open the gates! The war is over!"
A collective sob rippled through the survivors. Some fell to their knees, weeping for the dead. Others clutched each other, their joy and grief inseparable.
Among them, Azarel stood apart, her fingers pre
ssed to her lips. In her mind, a prayer took shape:
AZAREL: "I pray you're alright, Lord Carel."
A shout shattered the moment.
DEMIGOD: "Incoming! An army approaches!"
The Special Commander barked orders, blades unsheathing in unison.
SPECIAL COMMANDER: "Troops! Prepare to engage!"
But King Saga's voice cut through the tension like a blade.
KING SAGA: "Wait! Look—it's… it's Lord Carel!"
On the horizon, figures emerged from the dust—Carel and his legion, their silhouettes backlit by a rising sun.
NEXT CHAPTER ✓
ACT 7: REUNION AND REVELATIONS