BOOOOMMMM.
The earth didn't just shake—
it lurched, as if some ancient beast beneath the crust had awakened and slammed its fist upward. Entire city blocks shivered. Windows flickered violently, neon signs hiccupped on and off, and people stumbled into each other, clutching walls, spilling drinks, shouting questions no one had answers to.
Then the house Aron had entered collapsed in on itself, folding like wet cardboard under a titan's heel. A plume of dust surged skyward, thick and choking.
Ureil's wings snapped open on instinct. She inhaled sharply, ready to dive—
—but Baal teleported directly into her flight path, hands raised like a referee stopping a match.
"Nah ah," he said, wagging a finger with infuriating smugness. "Break that treaty and Gabriel will shove a harp straight up your—" He paused, shrugged. "Just… don't."
He smirked, chin jutted toward the smoking ruins.
"I warned you. They're stronger. The Norse pantheon—whole pantheons—have been bulking up while you angels were busy filing paperwork and pretending the humans still believe in you. They're not weak anymore."
For half a heartbeat, concern flashed behind Ureil's eyes.
Then the rubble shifted.
Stones rolled. Dust spiraled.
A hand—that hand—burst out of the debris.
Ureil's face relaxed into a small, knowing smile.
"Baal," she said softly, "as always… you are wrong."
Aron climbed out of the wreckage, unbothered, dragging Loki by the collar like a misbehaving house pet. Dust rolled off his coat in clouds. His hat hung crooked, brim cracked. His sleeves were torn. Blood smeared his cheek. He looked mildly annoyed—nothing more.
Baal turned to look and froze.
Aron raised his head. Their eyes met.
"…fucker," Baal hissed—and vanished instantly, not even leaving behind the smell of brimstone.
Aron didn't spare him a second glance.
He scanned the ruins again. Found Odin buried under a collapsed wall. Found Thor deeper still, crushed under beams and stone.
"Did I hit too hard?" Aron muttered, more irritated than guilty.
Thor's faint lightning aura flickered weakly in the rubble.
Aron dug him out with one hand and tossed the thunder god aside like broken furniture.
Odin coughed, half-buried, his breath thin and ragged. Blood streaked down his beard, mixing with dust until it clumped like soggy ash.
"Please…" Odin rasped, voice brittle. "Please forgive my child…"
Aron dusted off his coat. Adjusted his ruined hat. Looked down at his cracked glasses and sighed.
"…useless now."
He flicked them away.
"Just like your pantheon, Odin."
He stepped closer.
"I thought you were smarter. Better. I assumed you had enough spine left to keep your people in line. But here you are." He tsked. "Pathetic."
Odin bowed his head, the weight of his own failure crushing him harder than the debris.
He looked at Loki—shaking, eyes swollen—then at Thor, barely conscious. The remnants of his entire legacy, broken at his feet.
"…take my life then, Slayer," Odin whispered. "I have nothing left worth saying."
"Poor, poor Odin…" Aron crouched beside him, almost gentle. He patted the old god's cheek with mock sympathy.
"It's a miracle you limped this far into the modern world. Truly. I commend your stubbornness."
His expression darkened.
"But no. I don't need vengeful cunts haunting me for the next few centuries."
Aron pressed a finger to Odin's remaining eye.
"You sacrificed one eye for wisdom…" he murmured. "Now you'll sacrifice the last—for nothing."
The pressure increased.
Odin trembled. But he didn't resist. Couldn't resist.
The streets trembled with his scream.
"AAAAAAA—!"
Blood sprayed as Aron gouged out the second eye, ripping it free in a clean, brutal motion. The All-Father collapsed, wholly and irrevocably blind.
Aron pocketed the eye casually, as if it were a key or a coin.
"…that will be enough."
He wiped his bloody fingers on Odin's cloak.
The old god shuddered, every breath a plea his pride could no longer mask.
"…you should have killed me," Odin rasped. "Why force me to suffer further?"
Aron rose to his full height, silhouette framed by dust and dying light.
"I already said it. Is your famous wisdom failing again?"
He smirked.
"Maybe losing the second one will help."
Odin's blind sockets turned toward him, rage burning out of empty holes.
"You once told us we were a mistake," Odin spat. "You said your precious Jesus was meant to rule. You smashed our temples. You hunted us down. You left us scraps to survive."
He leaned closer, shaking with fury and agony.
"How much more will you take from me, Slayer?! From all of us?!"
Aron didn't blink.
"As long as my Lord demands it."
Odin barked a laugh—broken, hysterical.
"Your Lord?" he hissed. "The same Lord who let His Son die? Who abandoned His angels? Who drove Lucifer into damnation? Who turned His back on creation itself? Who abandoned—"
Aron's glare sharpened. His fingers curled, knuckles cracking like dry bone.
"…choose your next words carefully."
Odin leaned in, blinded and fearless.
"Hahahah… He abandoned YOU most of all."
Aron snapped.
A vein pulsed at his temple. His aura surged. His fist drew back—
—but Loki stumbled forward, throwing himself between them, arms shaking.
"Please! Stop!" he cried. "If you want Eve—if you want to find her—you cannot kill him! You'll lose everything you came for!"
Aron froze.
Breathing slowed.
Mission resurfaced. Duty over temper. Order over chaos.
He lowered his fist.
"…you have until tomorrow night," he said coldly. "Find her trail. Find her whereabouts. Bring them to me."
He stepped past the broken gods.
"If you fail—your family will be erased from every memory, every myth, every corner of this world."
The coat swept behind him as he walked away, leaving silence heavier than the collapsed house.
While Aron walked away, Loki slowly turned toward his father.
The moment he saw Odin's face—
saw no eyes, only hollow, bleeding sockets—
his legs nearly gave out.
Tears streamed down Loki's cheeks in hot, shaking drops. He fell to his knees, grabbing his father's legs as if they were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
"...Loki," Odin whispered.
Loki's sobs stuttered at the sound of his name.
That soft tone—
one Odin almost never used.
"...I… I'm sorry, Father," Loki choked out. "It's always me… always my fault… every century, every age—it's always me…"
His fist smashed the ground, knuckles splitting on stone, tears falling harder.
Odin listened to his son cry, and like tears of his own, blood dripped steadily from the corners of his hollow eyes.
"…no… no, Loki," Odin murmured, reaching out and pulling him close, pressing Loki's head to his chest. "You are not at fault. Not here. Not today."
He held him tighter.
"It's okay… it's okay…"
Heavy steps dragged across the rubble.
Thor—his massive frame cracked, bloodied, bruised—crawled toward them. His breath rattled in his chest. Lightning flickered weakly across his skin like dying embers.
"...I failed you, Father," Thor rasped. "Again… again, I failed you…"
He stared at his own trembling hands.
The hands worshipped as the strongest of Valhalla.
Hands that couldn't even protect the man who raised him.
"...I thought I could at least—"
"I know," Odin said softly, pulling Loki up with him as he forced himself to stand, body shaking, but proud. "I thought the same. With our followers rising again, with mortals whispering our names once more… I thought strength had returned to us."
He exhaled, steady but bitter.
"But today we clashed with a disaster. Nothing more, nothing less."
Thor lowered his head, shame rolling off him like thunder.
He slipped under Odin's arm, helping support his father's weight.
"I should have protected you… protected everyone…" Thor whispered.
"We will rebuild," Odin said gently. "I have lost my eyes, yes. But the mind behind them still works." He gave a faint, crooked smile. "In fact, without vision… it almost feels like it runs better."
Thor knew it was a lie—
a kindness spoken for their sake.
And so he smiled back.
A sad, grateful smile.
As he looked around the ruins, memories flashed—
cities burning, temples falling, the roar of battle—
all from another era.
The Viking Age.
Their golden age.
And the same man—
the same unstoppable storm—
had torn it all down.
Thor turned toward the path Aron had taken.
Rage rose in his chest—
the primal urge to swing Mjolnir, to challenge fate, to defend his family.
But the urge died as quickly as it came.
He should have known.
You don't punch storms.
You don't outrun earthquakes.
Aron wasn't an enemy.
He was a natural disaster.
Thor bowed his head.
"…I will be better, Father. I swear it."
Loki blinked in surprise.
Thor—always drunk, always laughing, always reckless—
Thor was making vows.
Loki bit his lip.
"…then I will too," he whispered. "I'll go beyond being a trickster. I'll be better. Like Thor."
Odin smiled—soft and proud.
"My sons… you are my future. My legacy. All of Valhalla rests in your hands now."
. . .
Aron moved through the broken layers of Valhalla without looking back.
No guilt.
No triumph.
No thought spared for the destruction he left behind.
He pulled out his phone—its screen cracked, spiderwebbed.
"...shit. Broke this too."
Still, the touch worked. He swiped through, landing on a contact hidden under layers of encrypted settings.
A name appeared.
Adam.
"…come on, brother. Pick the fuck up…" Aron muttered, calling.
It rang.
And rang.
And rang.
Adam didn't answer.
"...fuck this guy…" Aron grumbled, ripping the SIM out and tossing the whole phone aside.
Wings fluttered behind him.
Ureil descended gently, dust swirling around her boots as she landed.
"Where to now?" she asked.
"Home," Aron said tiredly. "Rest. Sleep."
He rubbed his temples.
"Used more divinity than I expected."
He paused, staring back at the collapsed building.
"...they're growing stronger."
"Them?" Ureil asked. "The pagans?"
"Maybe," Aron said. "Maybe I should've killed them… or maybe not. Doesn't matter. I need to stay focused. No more side quests."
He walked to his car.
Ureil opened her mouth—
to say Baal thought the same thing,
that the pantheons were growing stronger—
but she shut it.
That hell-rat always lies.
Pagan gods were still just pagan gods.
Nothing more.
The car beeped.
Ureil turned, blinking.
Aron leaned out the window.
"...you coming?"
She froze.
That was new.
He had never—not once—invited her inside anything.
Her wings twitched in surprise.
Then a small, genuine smile cracked her usual stoic face.
"Yes," she said softly.
With almost giddy steps, she opened the door and slipped inside the passenger seat like a mortal would.
Maybe today wasn't so bad after all… she thought, warmth flickering in her chest.
The car rumbled to life and rolled away from the ruins, leaving the fallen gods behind.
Here is an expanded, polished, and more immersive version of your chapter.
I kept your tone, mythic weight, and thematic intent — but strengthened pacing, clarity, emotional grounding, and descriptive rhythm.
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There was a theory whispered across realms — a theory older than scripture, older than the first curse or prayer. When GOD vanished, whether by true death or deliberate departure, the world didn't simply fall silent.
It surged.
His absence flooded Earth with a violent, uncontrolled burst of primordial energy — the raw, ancient current that predated angels and demons alike. Mortals never understood it, not truly; they had long severed their connection to their Creator. Yet the flow persisted, moving like a hidden river beneath the crust of existence.
A river that gave demons their curses.
A river that gave pagan gods their magic.
A river that gave angels their divinity.
And above all — Aron possessed every branch of that river.
As the immortal genesis, the first human to survive the dawn of creation itself, Aron wielded curses, divinity, magic, and something beyond all three: a perfect mastery of the God-given system that had shaped his evolution across eons. He had not simply used it. He had refined it, bent it, surpassed every limitation he found.
Millions feared him.
Countless hated him.
Many tried to kill him.
But every last one of them — even his loudest critics — respected him.
He was the necessary destroyer who kept Earth balanced on its impossible tightrope of peace. With demons clawing for dominion, angels splintered by abandonment, and pagan gods fighting their own civil wars, the world should have collapsed ten thousand times over.
But it hadn't.
Because one man stood between chaos and extinction.
One man crushed rebellion before it became catastrophe.
One man enforced the Creator's mission long after the Creator was gone.
Aron belonged to no faction — not Heaven, not Hell, not the pantheons. He belonged only to purpose.
A symbol of destruction, and somehow, paradoxically, a symbol of stability.
The bringer of chaos, and the guarantor of peace.
A slayer. And a guardian.
"That is Aron…" Baal said quietly, addressing the young demons gathered before him.
The newborns — incubi and lesser fiends, still dripping with the instinctive hunger of their creation — listened in restless silence. Their eyes burned with lust, wrath, ambition.
"You lot are fresh," Baal continued. "Newborns. Your blood is boiling for violence and indulgence. But listen well: in the name of Lucifer himself, don't overstep."
Some of the young demons snickered. Others scoffed. Baal ignored them.
"If you think you are strong, he is stronger. If you think you are clever, if you think you are cruel…" He trailed off.
A memory hit him — sudden, sharp, unwelcome.
"Master?" one of the incubi asked.
Baal blinked, jaw tightening. "He is crueler. Much… much crueler than any of you can comprehend. And he is not like his father. The Creator's patience was endless. But Aron…" Baal exhaled shakily. "Aron has a temper. A vicious one."
He snapped his fingers. A portal tore open behind him in a swirl of red and black flame.
"So until I return, do not try to 'thrive.' Try to survive. Hide in the shadows. Lurk. And yes—" he paused, staring each of them down, "—be cowards. Better a living coward than a dead fool."
With that, he stepped through the portal and vanished.
Silence lingered for several moments.
"…Damn," one of the young demons muttered. "Never thought the man I admired was such a pussy."
Another elbowed him sharply. "Shut up. There's a reason he said that."
"Our job is to follow orders," another added with more maturity than the others.
"And we will," a fourth agreed.
"Wait…" The smallest of them frowned. "Master said Aron bleeds, right? If he bleeds, he can die. Isn't that simple?"
The others exchanged uneasy looks — because it was never simple.
Not with Aron.
Not with the genesis.
Not with the man who had survived the birth of time itself.
News of Aron's return spread like wildfire across the supernatural world. Stories of Baal's retreat, of High Heaven's evacuation, of Valhalla's sealed gates — rumors, testimonies, panicked whispers — all carried the same message:
No one was safe until Aron's mission was complete.
That alone was enough.
Demons retreated to Hell.
Angels withdrew to Middle Heaven.
Gods scurried back to their fading realms.
A blanket of uneasy silence fell over the world.
But silence never lasted long.
Where there were wise men, there were always fools.
Where there were cowards, there were always the bold.
And where an old terror returned, the young saw opportunity.
The new generation of angels, demons, and gods misread retreat as weakness.
They saw the elders stepping back and believed it was their own time to rise.
Their time to dominate.
Their time to rule.
Their time to prove themselves.
The calm sea trembled.
New waves were gathering, towering high.
The tides of chaos — fresh, reckless, hungry — were preparing to crash.