Morning came gently.
Not with alarms or omens, not with the scream of fate—but with sunlight spilling through the windows, touching the edges of a world that had no idea how close it stood to transformation.
Ashura stood alone on the balcony.
Below him, Earth breathed. Cities stirred. Mortals moved through routines built on fragile assumptions—that tomorrow would resemble today, that the sky would remain unbroken, that gods were distant myths.
He allowed them that peace.
For now.
Behind him, the house was quiet. Lysera slept lightly, one arm draped protectively over Serenity. Luciferus lay sprawled like a fallen knight, wooden sword clutched even in dreams. Gina had fallen asleep on the couch again, a blanket half-slipped to the floor. And in the guest room down the hall, Arlena prayed softly as she always did at dawn—not to gods, but for her family.
Ashura turned away from the balcony.
"It's time," he said quietly.
The air answered.
"Everos."
Lightning cracked—not wild, not destructive, but disciplined. A vertical spear of white-black thunder split the space beside him, folding inward as a figure stepped out of the storm.
Everos knelt immediately.
He was tall and slim, his presence sharp like the edge of a blade. White armor covered him from neck to heel—ancient, unmarred, etched with runes older than mortal language. His sword rested sheathed at his side: a black hilt wrapped in sigils, its blade forged of condensed white lightning, humming softly like a restrained storm.
Beneath the helm, there was no flesh.
Only living lightning shaped into awareness.
A Lightning Wraith.
One of the first sentient beings ever born from Black Lightning.
One of the Marshals of the Nameless One's original army—Leios's vanguard, forged before gods learned fear.
Everos lowered his head.
"My lord."
Ashura faced him fully.
"While I'm gone," Ashura said, voice calm and absolute, "no harm is to come near them."
Everos did not hesitate. "It will not."
"Do not harm humans," Ashura continued. "Unless it becomes necessary."
"As you command."
Ashura's gaze sharpened slightly.
"But if it is a beast—mindless, predatory, destructive without reason—you have my permission."
Lightning flared faintly along Everos's armor.
"Hunt them," Ashura said. "See that they are no more."
Everos placed one fist to his chest and bowed deeper.
"As you command, my lord."
Ashura nodded once.
That was enough.
Everos dissolved into a streak of light, dispersing across the atmosphere—no longer a single presence, but a guardian field, capable of watching continents at once. Alone, Everos could protect Earth. If he released his full strength, he could split the planet in half—but restraint was his true mastery.
Ashura turned back inside.
Goodbyes followed.
Arlena embraced him tightly, pressing her forehead against his chest as she always had, even now that he towered over eternity itself.
"Be careful," she said.
Ashura smiled softly. "I always am, Mom."
Lysera kissed him once—slow, grounding, full of trust rather than fear.
"Come back," she said.
"I will," he promised.
Luciferus saluted him clumsily, chest puffed out.
"I'll train every day," the boy said. "No skipping."
Ashura chuckled and ruffled his hair. "I know."
Serenity hugged him wordlessly, her small hands warm against something that could extinguish stars. Ashura held her a second longer than necessary.
Gina punched his shoulder lightly. "Don't take too long, idiot."
He smirked. "I'll try."
Then—he was gone.
The Palace of Twelve Shadows welcomed its sovereign in silence.
Ashura stepped through the veil of reality and into the Throne Hall—an impossible space where twelve dominions overlapped without conflict. Shadows curved like architecture. Black Light flowed through pillars that were also concepts: Death. Balance. Rebirth. Judgment. Memory. Endings that were also beginnings.
He sat upon the throne.
Not with ceremony.
With inevitability.
The hall responded.
"Ashura," it whispered—not a voice, but recognition.
He rested one arm against the throne's edge.
"Armageddon."
Reality buckled.
A tear opened beneath the throne—and from it rose a figure clad in dark-gold armor etched with apocalyptic scripture. Six faint wing-echoes flared behind him, not fully manifested, restrained by command. His presence alone bent the laws of the hall, a living extinction event given form.
Armageddon dropped to one knee.
"Sovereign," he said, voice resonant and unwavering. "You have called?"
"Yes," Ashura replied. "Prepare yourself."
Armageddon lifted his head slightly.
"We are going to the Dimensional Rifts."
The air grew heavier.
Armageddon did not question. He never did.
Instead, he asked the only thing that mattered.
"What do you wish to accomplish, my lord?"
Ashura smiled.
It was not cruel.
It was not merciful.
It was knowing.
"My goal," Ashura said calmly, "is already accomplished."
Armageddon stilled.
"I'm simply setting the stage," Ashura continued, "for what's to come."
He released his aura.
Black Light poured outward—not violently, not explosively—but absolutely. It swallowed the Throne Hall, spilled beyond dimensions, brushed against the edges of reality itself.
Even the fourth wall darkened.
Concepts dimmed.
Narrative faded.
Existence held its breath.
And then—
Everything went black.