A domain where hierarchy meant nothing, where authority was not claimed but proven, and where even gods were reduced to truths—or erased as lies.
They were no longer in the IN-BETWEEN.
They stood within Esau's domain—
The Realm of the Omega of Blood and Conflict.
And yet… even that description was insufficient.
There was no space.
No law.
No void.
No concept.
There was no sky to loom above them, no ground to stand upon, no direction, no distance, no before or after. Front and back had no meaning. Existence itself had been stripped down until even absence felt excessive.
There was nothing.
Not nothing and something.
Not emptiness waiting to be filled.
Just pure nothingness, absolute and final.
And within that nothing—
A throne.
It was not forged, not shaped, not created. It did not exist in the way objects exist. It was simply there, carved from the negation of all things. A throne made not of darkness, nor void, nor matter—but of the refusal of reality itself.
Upon it sat Esau.
One hand rested against his jaw, posture relaxed, expression unreadable. He did not radiate pressure or divinity; instead, his presence caused distortions—subtle, nauseating bends in perception that forced even a Divine Demon to see reality fracture and reassemble incorrectly.
Beside the throne stood Zhaelor, silent and unmoving, like an executioner who had already judged the outcome.
Before them stood Uphysiel—the Divine Demon, ruler of creation and destruction.
For the first time in untold aeons, he felt… misplaced.
Uphysiel spoke, his voice careful now.
"You truly are an Omega," he said. "Capable of rewriting even my domain."
His gaze narrowed, studying Esau as if searching for the truth behind the impossibility.
"How long have you been an Omega?"
"Two million years?"
"A thousand aeons, perhaps?"
Esau answered calmly.
"No."
Uphysiel frowned.
"I became an Omega," Esau continued, "not long ago."
A pause.
"About a day ago."
The silence that followed was absolute.
"…What?" Uphysiel breathed.
That word carried genuine disbelief.
"How is that even possible?"
Esau did not answer.
Uphysiel laughed softly—once—then steadied himself.
"It would be a waste," he said, voice smoothing into something persuasive, almost gentle, "for someone with your potential to wither away like dust."
He extended his hand.
"Join me, Esau."
Esau's lips curved into a faint smirk.
"No, thank you."
Uphysiel's hand froze.
"But," Esau added, his voice still casual, "there is something I want."
Uphysiel listened.
"You said earlier," Esau continued, "that if a demon loses—truly loses—to someone weaker than themselves… then by your laws, the victor takes everything."
He tilted his head slightly.
"That is the Golden Rule of demons, is it not?"
"The strong rule," Esau said, eyes cold,
"and the weak bow."
Uphysiel's aura erupted.
Sound screamed. Thought fractured. Minds would have shattered if there were any minds present to witness it.
"TONGUE OF THE DEMONS," Uphysiel roared.
"ABSOLUTE DEATH."
Nothing happened.
No echo.
No vibration.
No response.
Death did not come.
It could not.
Because Esau's domain was not death.
Not blood.
Not conflict.
It was nothing.
Not the philosophical nothing.
Not the void.
But the annihilation of all qualifying states.
Raziel had given him this affinity deliberately.
Because Esau would one day become something that even Gods, Omegas, and Alphas would learn to fear.
The conversation was over.
Esau straightened on his throne.
He tapped the armrest once.
There was no ripple.
No wave.
No signal.
And yet—
A head fell.
Uphysiel's head dropped to the nothingness below.
There was no blood.
No explosion.
No decay.
It simply… fell.
Even Uphysiel could not understand what had happened. His vision blurred—something he had not experienced since childhood. The distortions grew heavier, reality slipping away from him piece by piece.
"Zhaelor," Esau said calmly.
"Straighten his head. It's upside down."
"Yes, Absolute One," Zhaelor replied without hesitation.
In the next instant, Zhaelor appeared beside the fallen head. He adjusted it—gently, precisely—then returned to his place at Esau's side.
Uphysiel did not scream.
In this domain, even despair had no permission to exist.
"Store in inventory."
The command was calm—almost casual.
And yet, the corpse of a being who once ruled all Divine Demons responded instantly.
The body of Uphysiel, Sovereign of Creation and Destruction, was torn free from reality itself—dragged beyond light, beyond causality, beyond resistance—pulled into Esau's inventory, into the Embodiment of Everything, where even concepts were reduced to stored states.
With a mere flick of Esau's hand, the domain of nothingness ceased to be.
No collapse.
No shatter.
It simply ended.
Esau stepped forward—and the next moment, he stood before Raziel.
He knelt in reverence.
"Master," Esau said, lifting the severed head of the Divine Demon. "It has been done. Uphysiel is dead."
Raziel regarded the head briefly.
"Good," he said.
Then, after a pause—
"As for your reward… I will grant you 3 minutes. Think carefully. Choose three Authorities you desire."
His gaze sharpened.
"Once you decide, I will help you ascend to the next Realm."
Esau bowed lower. "Master… I thank you."
The next instant, he vanished—transported into the Sandbox, alone with his thoughts, contemplating dominion itself.
Raziel turned away.
The subspace was gone.
The Lobby had returned.
The challenge was over.
The Watchers had vanished. The spectators were erased from presence and memory alike.
Only ten remained.
They stood apart from the world—figures not cloaked in robes, not hidden by illusion—but made of darkness itself. Not shadow. Not void.
Darkness as substance.
They did not rush. They did not teleport.
They walked.
Each step they took bent reality:
Space collapsed inward. Time froze for fractured instants. Distant screams echoed from nowhere. Death pressed closer with every movement.
Only Raziel and Arkhoth stood before them.
The ten stopped.
"Come with us," they said—perfectly synchronised.
Raziel did not even look at them.
"Arkhoth," he said calmly, "Deal with these fools."
The ten moved.
They appeared instantly before Arkhoth.
One of them reached out—and tapped his head.
It burst.
Clean. Instant.
But in the very next second—
The head was there again.
As if it had never been gone.
The darkness recoiled.
A system voice echoed.
[Arkhoth has evolved.]
[Skill acquired: Touch]
[Class: First One — Activated]
[Touch has evolved.]
[New Skill: Touch of the Living One]
[Rank: ?]
[Type: Discretion]
[Description:]Whatever Arkhoth touches may heal or curse, kill or resurrect, burst or contain. From his touch, universes may be restored—or wither into dust.
Arkhoth stared at the Darkness before him.
He lunged.
His hand reached out—yet no matter how far he moved, it was as if the Darkness was always just out of reach, forever distant, forever untouchable. Space folded, distance mocked him, and the Darkness laughed silently, confident, amused.
Ten seconds passed.
And then—
Arkhoth was already there.
Standing directly in front of it.
The Darkness froze.
It had been toying with him, certain this was nothing more than a summoned entity—an expendable construct.
It did not understand what Arkhoth was, how such a summon had dared to stand against him.
Arkhoth was the First One.
The Darkness recoiled and spoke, its voice layered with command, law, and annihilation.
"Die."
Nothing happened.
In that infinitesimal moment, something shifted within Arkhoth.
He evolved.
[Arkhoth has learned a skill.]
[Skill: Speech]
[Speech has evolved → Imaginative Speech]
[Rank: ?]
[Type: Speech]
[Description:]
Whatever you speak comes to pass.
What you say becomes reality. whatever it may be, no matter what.
Arkhoth stopped moving.
Then he spoke.
"DIE."
It was not a word.
It was a scream—rage given form, defiance incarnate, existence itself rejecting its opposite.
For the first time, the Darkness felt fear.
Not simulated.
Not calculated.
Real.
It shuddered violently as its soul was seized, torn apart thread by thread. Its spirit followed—ripped free, unravelling as terror consumed it from within. Illusions collapsed into truth. Truth decayed into ruin.
Its hands withered.
Its form fractured.
Its existence began to fall inward.
The Darkness stared at Arkhoth in horror.
There was no technique.
No art.
No ability invoked.
Arkhoth had not used power.
He had spoken—and reality had no choice but to obey.