The fight did not begin on Earth.
It could not.
A single uncontrolled impact would have erased the planet—not shattered it, not cracked it, but reduced it to an absence, a forgotten coordinate in space.
Remnant understood this instinctively.
The moment Ouroboros shifted his stance—when the air around him began to fold inward—Remnant vanished.
Not by speed alone.
By intent.
He reappeared standing upon the surface of a star.
The Star did not burn him.
It bent.
Plasma flattened beneath his feet as if gravity itself had been rewritten. Solar flares froze mid-eruption, caught in a moment of hesitation, unsure whether they were allowed to exist.
Remnant raised his head.
"This place will do."
He no longer called himself by his former name.
"I am the Destroyer," he said.
Space twisted behind him.
Ouroboros emerged without urgency, his presence dimming the star's light as though it were being quietly judged and found insufficient.
"You do not understand what you are becoming," Ouroboros said.
The Destroyer smiled.
"That's why you're afraid."
They moved.
There was no explosion.
No flash.
The Sun vanished.
Not destroyed—displaced—as their collision released a force so concentrated that space itself rejected the battlefield. The impact hurled both entities across incomprehensible distances, tearing a wound through reality and ejecting them into another galaxy entirely.
Stars died silently around them.
Their second collision ignited the void.
Galactic arms fractured. Nebulae unraveled into nothingness. Entire star systems collapsed into streams of raw energy, consumed not by heat, but by the absence of law where their blows met.
Each strike bent dimensions.
Each clash erased distance.
They fought without restraint—
yet without commitment.
Neither had drawn upon their full power.
Ouroboros summoned chains forged from collapsed timelines, attempting to bind a being who no longer fully existed within time.
The Destroyer shattered them with a single motion, the shockwave wiping out a cluster of galaxies behind him like dust brushed from a surface.
Space began to thin.
Reality itself showed signs of fatigue.
If this continued—
not escalated, merely continued—the universe would not survive.
Far away, beyond causality, forces unseen began to stir.
This was no longer a duel.
It was a threshold.
And the universe was already losing the argument.
Something changed.
At first, Ouroboros sensed it as a disturbance
a delay between cause and effect that should not exist.
The Destroyer stopped mid-motion.
Not retreating.
Not preparing.
Listening.
The galaxies behind him continued to collapse from residual force alone, yet around his body, space grew unnaturally still. Even destruction hesitated.
"I see it now," the Destroyer said quietly.
Ouroboros narrowed his gaze.
"See what?"
"The limit," he replied.
"And how meaningless it is."
The black holes orbiting the Destroyer began to deform—not growing larger, but losing their identity. They ceased behaving like singularities and instead became fractures: regions where gravity, time, and energy no longer agreed on what they were.
Ouroboros felt it then.
This was no longer raw power.
This was authority.
The Destroyer raised one hand.
No energy gathered.
No force accumulated.
Reality simply failed.
A vast region of space—billions of light-years wide—collapsed inward, not into a void, but into a state of absolute cancellation. Matter, radiation, even vacuum itself were erased as if they had never been allowed to exist.
Ouroboros staggered.
"That ability…" he said slowly.
"You are not destroying worlds."
The Destroyer turned his gaze toward him.
"I am ending their permission to be."
The universe reacted violently.
Causal chains snapped. Entire histories unraveled as their endpoints vanished. Civilizations that had never even known the Destroyer ceased to have ever begun.
This was no longer collateral damage.
This was apocalypse-level erasure.
Far across existence, ancient entities felt it simultaneously and named it without discussion:
" A second apocalypse"
The Final Variable.
Ouroboros summoned his full sigil for the first time—an infinite construct of containment layered across dimensions, timelines, and abstract states of being.
"You cannot remain free," he declared.
"If you continue, nothing survives—not even meaning."
The Destroyer looked at the construct.
Then he smiled—not cruelly, not proudly.
With understanding.
"I know."
He stepped forward—and the construct fractured.
Not shattered.
Rejected.
For the first time since his creation, Ouroboros felt something dangerously close to doubt.
This was no prisoner.
This was no weapon.
This was a being who could end reality without escalating.
And somewhere beyond all observation,VOX was watching
The destroyer.
He had not become a god.
He had become an ending.
Ouroboros drifted alone through the aftermath.
No battlefield remained—only scars where galaxies had once existed, and fractures in reality that refused to fully heal. The universe moved again, but cautiously, as if unsure whether it was still allowed to.
He did not follow the Destroyer.
He could not.
For the first time since he had assumed the role of Jailer, Ouroboros felt the weight of his own form—damaged, incomplete, diminished.
I failed again.
The thought surfaced uninvited.
He remembered another silence like this.
Older.
Darker.
A memory he had buried beneath duty and time.
Master…
The first Apocalypse had not fought like the Destroyer.
There had been no escalation, no exchange of power.
Every attempt to restrain him had only accelerated the end.
Every wound inflicted had become growth.
Resistance was nourishment, Ouroboros thought bitterly.
Opposition was evolution.
That was how his master had died—not defeated, not overpowered, but outgrown.
The memory tightened around him.
I swore it would never happen again.
Yet it had.
The second Apocalypse had escaped his prison.
Not by force—but by being something the prison could not define.
I could not stop the second…
So how can I face the first?
The thought hollowed him.
Revenge burned quietly within him, but it no longer felt righteous. It felt small. Fragile. Almost naïve.
What kind of jailer cannot contain his own failures?
For the first time, Ouroboros questioned the very foundation of his role.
The Accord was broken.
His authority was wounded.
And the being he feared most still existed—unchanged, unseen, waiting.
Somewhere beyond containment, beyond retaliation, beyond reason…
The first Apocalypse endured.
And Ouroboros—once absolute—now understood a terrifying truth:
If he could not stop the second,
then confronting the first would not be justice.
It would be suicide.
He closed his eyes, drifting through the void.
Not as a jailer.
But as a survivor haunted by an ending he could never outrun.
The void around Ouroboros twisted.
Not violently.
Not suddenly.
But with the unmistakable pressure of a presence that had no need to announce itself.
A vast distortion formed above him, and from it emerged one of the Twelve Faces of VOX—so immense that it eclipsed the fractured stars behind it. Countless eyes opened and closed across its surface, each reflecting a different end.
Ouroboros did not look up.
"So," Vox spoke, his voice layered, overlapping itself,
"this is what weakness looks like."
Silence followed.
"You failed to contain the second," Vox continued calmly.
"And now you mourn the first."
Ouroboros clenched his fists.
"Leave," he said, his voice low.
"You've done enough."
A ripple of amusement passed across the face.
"Enough?"
"You speak as if these errors were accidental."
That was when Ouroboros looked up.
His eyes burned—not with authority, but with fury.
"You," he spat.
"All of this begins with you."
The void trembled.
"You corrupted worlds for curiosity," Ouroboros continued.
"You twisted destinies to see what would break."
"You created contradictions and walked away when they became monsters."
The eyes of Vox narrowed.
"And yet," he replied,
"you were the one who built the prisons."
Ouroboros laughed bitterly.
"To clean your mess," he said.
"To contain what you were too cowardly to finish."
Cowardly.
For the first time, Vox's tone sharpened.
"Careful, jailer."
Ouroboros stepped forward, pain rippling through his damaged form.
"My master is dead because of you," he said.
"The first Apocalypse exists because you allowed it."
"And the second—"
His voice cracked.
"—exists because you interfered."
The face of Vox loomed closer, warping distance itself.
"Responsibility," Vox said softly,
"is such a convenient illusion."
He studied Ouroboros, every eye dissecting his weakened state.
"You call this vengeance,"
"but what you feel is fear."
Ouroboros did not deny it.
"If the universe ends," he said quietly,
"your name will be the last curse spoken."
Vox smiled—if the expression could be called that.
"If the universe ends," he replied,
"it will be because it was fragile."
The face began to recede, reality sealing behind it.
"Rest, jailer," Vox added.
"You will need your strength."
"The first still waits."
Then he was gone.
The void returned to silence.
Ouroboros remained alone—
with his hatred,
And the unbearable truth that Vox might be right.
Millions of civilizations disappeared after this cosmic fight.
Beyond causality…
beyond memory, beyond collapse—
there exists a spacetime untouched by war.
A sacred expanse, wrapped in a halo of absolute sanctity.
No intruder may enter it.
No destroyer may even perceive its coordinates.
This place does not exist within the universe.
It oversees it.
Its inhabitants call themselves The Weavers.
They do not rule.
They do not judge.
They endure.
For as long as reality has fractured and reformed, the Weavers have remained—
silent custodians of existence itself.
Within vast halls of living light, threads of causality stretch infinitely, intertwining timelines, galaxies, and forgotten dimensions.
Each thread is a history.
Each knot, a choice.
Each severed strand, a dead universe.
The Weavers move calmly among them, their forms indistinct—neither fully physical nor abstract.
They do not create life from matter…
they reconstruct it from information.
When civilizations perish beyond recovery,
when creatures are erased so completely that even memory fails,
their essence does not vanish.
It is collected.
From remnants of data, echoes of will, and residual identity, the Weavers forge new beings—
not as replacements,
but as continuations.
Fragments reborn into altered purpose.
One Weaver paused, its many eyes focusing upon a trembling section of the cosmic tapestry.
"The fabric is destabilizing," it intoned.
Another responded, weaving luminous symbols into a damaged strand.
"Apocalypse has re-emerged. Twice."
A third voice followed, colder than vacuum.
"And VOX has broken equilibrium."
For the first time in countless cycles, the sanctum dimmed.
"The Jailer weakens," a Weaver observed.
"The Destroyer evolves."
A long silence followed—heavy, deliberate.
"At this rate," one finally spoke,
"the universe will not merely end.
It will unravel."
The threads shuddered violently—entire clusters of realities blinking out like extinguished stars.
The Weavers extended their hands.
Not in panic.
Not in fear.
In resolve.
"We will begin restoration," they declared as one.
"Not by force… but by correction."
New threads emerged—brilliant, unfamiliar.
Entities not yet born.
Histories not yet written.
Far beyond super creaturs and monsters,
the Weavers had chosen to intervene.
And for the first time since creation,
The universe itself was about to be rewoven.
The Weavers gathered in solemn silence, their countless forms drifting among threads that spanned beyond comprehension.
"This is unlike anything we have faced," one intoned, its voice a resonance of infinite harmonics.
"The fragility of the fabric is accelerating. And if the truth is revealed…"
Another nodded, weaving luminous strands into a fragile lattice.
"All other universes exist. Infinite in number. Countless. And if the inhabitants of Luminara—or any other realm—become aware… chaos will follow."
The room pulsed with subtle light, each thread reacting as if listening.
"Infinite universes," whispered a Weaver.
"Powerful beings will no longer be contained. They will reach across reality, seeking destruction, conquest… corruption."
A third voice, colder than the void between galaxies, spoke.
"VOX's breach was only the beginning. The collapse of the Destroyer, the weakening of the Jailer—these are tremors. Tremors that could reveal the existence of other realms."
Another Weaver gestured to strands that shimmered like fractured starlight.
"If even a fraction of these threads are perceived outside their designated bounds, the consequences are catastrophic. Entire timelines could unravel. All powerful entities would converge, and there would be nothing left to stop them."
A heavy silence followed.
"We cannot allow knowledge of the multiverse to spread," the first Weaver said.
"Not to Luminara, not to any other realm. Even the most enlightened beings must remain unaware. The price of revelation is annihilation."
Threads vibrated violently, as though protesting the weight of the secret.
"The damage to spacetime," whispered another,
"was already visible to us. The ripples from the Destroyer, from VOX… they have exposed vulnerabilities. The existence of other universes may soon become apparent."
"And if it does…"
A pause, longer than any thought.
"…all that we have preserved, all that we have restored, will be at risk."
The Weavers began to intertwine new strands, faster, more deliberately, repairing the damage while concealing it.
For even as universes fell and realities trembled, they knew one truth above all:
The less anyone knew of the multiverse, the more likely it was to survive.
And so, in the heart of the sacred sanctum, the Weavers worked.
Hiding, protecting, and silently preparing for the storm that was already coming.
The Weavers drifted among threads that shimmered like fractured starlight, but this was no ordinary tapestry.
"Each universe," one whispered, its voice resonating across impossibly stretched dimensions,
"has its own physics. Its own rules. Its own essence. None are truly woven from the same material as Luminara."
Another nodded, carefully mending a section of fragile spacetime.
"The inhabitants of Luminara may perceive the threads as reality itself—but beyond their perception, countless realms exist independently. Their laws are foreign, their existence alien."
A third voice added, colder than the void between galaxies:
"And that is why we must hide them. For if beings from one universe learn of another… their curiosity will become destruction."
The room pulsed as threads shifted.
"Infinite realities," murmured a Weaver,
"each with its own physics, each capable of independent chaos. If knowledge spreads… powerful entities will cross boundaries, disregarding natural laws, and the multiverse will collapse."
One Weaver traced a delicate, luminous knot.
"The Destroyer, VOX, the second Apocalypse—they have already torn at the fabric of their own realm. Ripples are spreading, threatening to reveal other universes. If revealed, even unintentionally, the consequences are beyond containment."
Another voice spoke, hesitant:
"Our duty is not to control, but to protect the fragile balance. Each universe must remain unaware of the others, lest the inherent laws clash with intrusion."
Threads vibrated as if in agreement.
"We mend what we can," said the first Weaver,
"but we cannot rewrite their physics. We can only safeguard what remains and prepare for what is coming."
Even as the void of infinite realms whispered of chaos and war, the Weavers worked.
Silently. Carefully. Preserving existence while keeping the true multiverse hidden from all.