Shades, Wraths, and ghosts. They followed his Shadows as they walked the path of the Warpers destruction.

The ignorant blind in life, had come to find revelation in death. Curiosity took them as much as sorrow and burning hate. They wanted to know, needed in most cases.

The destruction had come so quick for them. The truth kept hidden away till the last moment where it stampeded though the thin veneer of normalcy and butchered them.

They had to know, they had to see. The dead filled the land of the Glen, only a small portion able to manifest themselves from consuming the energy off corpses and residues of life. It still caused there to be an army of transparent silhouettes following figures garbed in the blackest of robes.

As long as the dead didn’t attack, the Dreamers, their numbers well in the millions and beyond. Ignored the fallen foes as they rushed across the realm of thickening snow.

The land filled with tombs.

Fortress of stone and godly blessings were now haunted places with many souls that moaned the end. Normally such places would begin to empty, the Glen pulling at the weak willed and urging them to reincarnate.

Not the easiest thing to do when there weren’t any bodies to inhabit. So the dead remained unbothered, the Glen silent of its guiding pulls. Souls were allowed to wallow in their own emotions, causing many to try and act as if they had never died. Apparitions repeated the patterns they had done in life, arenas filled with spectators and those at the bottom in the sand pits dueled each other as if they could still be vanquished.

To those souls he could only shake his head at, both pitying and disgusted by their unwillingness to face the truth and embrace the possibilities in front of them.

He turned his awareness away from the lost souls, and the Shadows that still tried to guide the unwilling away from their dilutions. Instead more of his awareness was pulled towards the echoes of battles, the thunders of competing forces and the death throes of a pantheon he once feared would take over the realm.

The Dreamers, guided by the Warper, hadn’t charged towards the center of Wargains domain. They had instead encircled it, and had been crushing everything at once as their encirclement closed in more and more.

None of the Orders realm was spared, with endless numbers, Dreamers flood over the land, all places, even the smallest of villages that had half dead mortals hidden within, were destroyed and the living killed.

The Warper was being thorough.

As they had planned in the beginning, Wargains last holdouts were surrounded by an endless tide. The bronze deity, his flame fading, forced to spend himself to keep his mortals alive. When the Zones appeared, he would have to drain himself further and fight his way to a place of protection.

At least that is how the plan was originally supposed to go.

Now?

Now that was a fantasy. There was no holding out to the next phase. Giants of flesh numbered in the hundreds of thousands, and march with laborious strides to the monuments of stone.

They broke into them, the Orders conserving their strength, so the Giants encountered only token forces from Ascendants who were as affective as gnats. Defenses were crushed, Dreamers poured in, his Shadows close behind. Screams and death ensued. Another tomb made, another army of confused trying to understand the madness that had taken their realm.

On the pattern went, the destruction, the removal of a tumor that had made all of them weak pathetic aspirations to the gods of sessions before.

‘This is a cleansing,’ he told himself as he watched. Trying to appease the wailing healer within himself. ‘The removal of decay, once done all will heal and the mortals will flourish again.’ The inner wailing continued, would till the slaughter was done.

It wouldn’t be much longer, and the anticipation of the event coming helped distract himself from the torment.

All around the Dreamers were beginning to converged at the heart of Wargains empire. A moment he had long awaited.

The Warper was making a show of it. Its forces remained back, gathering together into tight hordes of Giants and Dreamers. Purposely giving the Orders time to prepare.

Malan couldn’t help himself; this wasn’t something to watched through the eyes of Shadows, he had to be there himself.

He worked through his loyal dead, having them form a shrine of stone and ice, his sigil was carved, power woven within and a domain spread.

The cost was startling small, as if the land itself was desperate to be wanted and claimed. His reach spread uncontested as he took over an acre. Just enough for him to summon forth an avatar the size of the Giant. The avatar held little power as he appeared within reality, his manifestation bathing the area in a comforting light.

The horde of monsters kept their distance from his domain. So his already civilized form stuck out all the more. He half expected a portal to appear above his head, Wargain raging flame coming down to sunder his avatar and shrine.

Yet he remained undisturbed as he gazed out over the city he hated more than Wargain himself.

Triumph, that was its name. A city of stone, forges and luxuries gardens. It spread outward for miles, a shining jewel to the Orders, a monument to their ascension.

It all laid atop the runes of Malans city of wonder, Aronta. A holy place that had once been the seat of power for his father as well, the cradle to where his Dargown sheltered and mastered their craft over the realm.

For so long it had been twisted into the image of its opposite, the sight of ignorance, and stagnation.

Malan watched with a smiled, joy blooming in his heart as the Orders gathered their forces.

The distortion of this place, cruelty and stagnations, would be wipe from the realm. The age of blindness was coming to a close, and Malan had the fortune to see it with his own eyes.

‘Aronta will be built again,’ he thought and pledged, already picturing the sight of it. The return of rising monuments of art and miracles, of floating stone and glistening air. A place that matched his afterlife, Wonder manifested into creation.

It almost made him welp seeing what will come to pass again, and the acknowledge that it had been destroyed twice before. Brought low and shattered by beings and mortals that were no better than un-ascended beasts. People that should have stayed within their primitive alcoves and tribal shrines.

‘They’re all gone now,’ he told himself. ‘Fleeting distractions to the glory of Wonder.’ Forgotten, unimportant people and cultures, only kept alive because of his perfect memory.

He smiled wickedly at the thought, that soon it would be the same for the Orders, only their oldest foes would remember them. While the mortals moved on, and their religions lost to the marching of time.

‘As it should be,’ he concluded as the Warper finished waiting. The Orders had been given a due they didn’t deserve. Allowed to time to conjure their strongest forms. Avatars of Wargain encircled the city, joined with his wife, sons, and Cycure. Petty gods that had no use in combat or the means to affect the outcome, remained missing. Something that shouldn’t have included Titar, which meant the architect was busy fortifying the city.

Malan prayed for his luck in the endeavor, there was still over a week before the Zones appeared, such a short span of time, yet it felt like an eternity now. Once the Orders were done Malan pantheon would be on its own, the last holdouts on this continent.

‘Build well architect.’ He thought as power moved across the land. He could feel it, the Orders were going to use everything they had. Avatars shimmered with Devotion, their weight on creation increasing.

When the two forces - one of end and the other of stagnation - collided. Giants were sent crashing backward by the blows of Wargains avatars. His axes bit deep, the blades keenly sharp, and for once not glowing with divine heat. This was all force, Wargain stood as a bronze covered warrior. Only his eyes burnt with white flame that promised to sweep across the plane, cowering the weak and ignorant.

Malan smiled wide, showing teeth as he stared at his rival. ‘We are all weak now,’ he thought watching the ending act of deities who had ruined his dreams.

------------------------------------

‘Is this to be my grave?’ Wargain thought as one of his avatars cleaved away an arm off one of the Goliaths.

Malan wouldn’t be here otherwise, the coward only showed himself when he was confident events would go his way. And even then, the Ruiner had never revealed himself so openly before, not since the age of his mad reign.

There was a temptation to smite him, burning away that smug smile and feigned form of caring. But that was part of a plan, wasn’t it? Something the schemer likely wanted him to do, wasting his strength on a foe that didn’t play any part in this battle.

The Ruiner was already dead, long defeated, this shade of the past was merely a distraction to the real end before him. The Deformed and their Goliaths had taken everything, his empire was gone, reduce to a tomb of broken rock and sweeping snow.

All that remined was the Citadel, Triumph, and how that name bite at him.

Triumph is what the Goliaths will have once they wreck his last stronghold. And he, all they had built and planned would be shattered and discarded amongst this dead realm.

Hate burned in him, calling, demanding he unleash his flames.

He focused on that feeling, redirected it and manifested it into physical prowess. His blows came down harder, Goliaths sundered, but weaving back together. Lisoe tried to prevent this, riddling their forms with mistakes and tumors. But that trick no longer had any affect.

The entity behind the monsters, for there was one. A weaver of flesh. Had learned to counter his wife, the monsters became whole, his efforts undone. Goliaths came at him again, the duals endless.

Their strength continued to rise, matching his own even as he used every speck of Devotion left.

His inflame burned with frustration, embarrassment and shame. The Weaver was playing with him. None of the Goliaths used their beams of destruction, even those further away.

They had wasted time developing a defense to it, and now it wasn’t even being used.

The Weaver only used its endless horde, and towering Goliaths to finish them off. Arrogance, the act of a fighter who believed they already knew the lay of the battle.

How his flame screamed to be unleashed, to cleanse all, to free the realm of this corruption.

But that was the trap, one he had fallen for one-to-many times. These were monsters resistant to his flame, laughed in the face of it; his power would be wasted.

So there was only the kiss of blades across warped flesh. The spilling of tar blood and weaving of wounds. They clawed at him, bit as well, grabbed hold of avatars and tried using their hulking muscles to rip his manifestations apart.

Not yet, he still had the strength to resist, to fight back. Not long though, the circle was closing, the hordes all racing to take his Citadel.

He had to spend all there was. His afterlife came undone, the Devotion spent to make and maintain it ripped away to fuel his waning light. The Souls, his oldest of followers were left to wallow in the Glen, confused, and left behind. He didn’t have the strength to provide them constructs to use, nor would Ascendants sway the battle. This is a fight between divine, of belief.

And he was losing, had been from the start.

The warriors blade was to dull, and the beasts to strong. His time had come; the thought had his awareness turning to the Ruiner.

Still he stood, watching with a pleased smile. He had always foretold of an end.

‘Had he always known?’ Wargain wondered. Had he been a servant of this entity from the very start?

Distractions.

Wargain pulled his mind back to the fight already decided. His foe strengthened Goliaths, towers of flesh already teeming with endless power. Their duels continued, but he was tiring.

‘Is she ready?’ He sent to his wife.

‘Yes beloved’ She sent back. ‘Together we have bred a resistant strain.’

The warrior fought him and the idea already enacted.

‘You are already dead’ he told his oldest self. ‘Already defeated.’

The battle was lost, the current course was set. He couldn’t win this, he had fought the Weaver for too long, its beasts immune to him. The torch had to be passed to a new champion, one better suited to fight these monsters.

‘Begin then,’ he sent, along with his power.

For a few struggling moments, his avatars losing in full now without addition power to kept them going. Nothing happened, it seemed only that he had reached his limit. The Weaver, and the Ruiner noticed this. The latter taking a step forward, eyes wide with anticipation, then surprise, but not horror as Wargain had hoped.

The realm erupted as he drained away his power from avatars and funneled it into the new champion. Roots, throned, and roughly barked surged upward from the ground and snow.

Goliaths were spiked, and impaled, their colossal frames carried upwards as the roots and vines expanded. The armies of Deformed met the same fate, or were crushed under the weight of mountain roots.

“You shall become the nutrients for a new age.” Screamed Cycure, nature wrath finally given its due. He feed her more strength, draining himself, till only one avatar remained.

The warrior within seethed, but remain mute, the act was working. The armies of monsters were being repealed, and fed upon. The roots spread, worming their way through the land as they did within flesh.

Besides the enclosure of the Citadel, there was only one other place left untouched.

The Ruiners domain, Cycure had her vines encircle it as roots formed together into a loose silhouette of a sentient being.

The Ruiners avatar was as tall as a mountain, but Cycure was taller still. She loomed over her ancient rival, yet the Dargown didn’t flinch away, there wasn’t a speck of fear wafting from him.

“Especially you,” Cycure said with a voice full of venom. “I will find every follower praising your name, crush every shrine aligned to you. There shall be no place to run Malan, my roots shall blanket this realm.”

The threat, while clearly intended, only had the madman smile and eyes glow with hues of laughter. “This is skilled work,” the maker of monsters said. “In times past you would have been a threat, but not now.”

Goliaths let loose beams of destruction, the roots and vines monetary held, but they shattered and dissolved.

A planned response.

Titar played his part, sigils appeared within the air, blocking the beams and sending them back the way they came. It bought time, allowing roots to grow over the destroyed.

“You think me not a threat?” Cycure raged, her rough voice grating.

“No,” the Ruiner readable replied. “Not against the entity you face.” The Ruiner stretched his legs, appeared almost wanting to kiss the aspect of Cycure. “Nor the guidance I provide.”

Cycure laughed, her reach spreading, the horde being engulfed. But said army wasn’t retreating, and that fact had Wargain weary.

The horde charged faster, were throwing themselves into the nest of roots and vines, uncaring as they were punctured or wrapped tight within its folds. The abyss beams stopped being loosed, the Weaver giving up the act. Cycure feed upon the life of the Goliaths and Deformed, used it to power her growth.

For a few moments she appeared unstoppable, and glared down at her rival, perhaps like Wargain himself, waiting for the moment of uncaring to pass.

It did not.

The Ruiner gazed back at her serene, and when his smile spread, became sinister. Wargain knew the last act to push the Weaver was about to fail.

He saw it when Cycure stance of dominance grow hunched, and roots began to rot and wither.

The Ruiner let out deep laughs that hinted of the madness that laid within him. “Are you truly blind Cycure?” The madman questioned. “You have fought this foe for weeks, have you not seen it adapt to every attack sent to stop it.” Natures wrath began to die, and they watched as Goliaths grow larger, stronger. Their trick had been turned against them.

“There’s plenty of flesh beings that suck off the lifeforce of others.” The Ruiner mocked as Cycure form decayed. “Did you think it couldn’t quickly use this means against you? Did you really you think you were going to win against a being that mutates flesh?” More laughter, but this time the insanity truly came out, and the Deformed laughed along.

‘He is one of them,’ Wargain saw as he watched their last hope turn to ash.

The Horde broke free of the vines, most coming apart on their own, the life striped from them. Laughter swallowed the realm as they marched forward. Cycure trying- even as she died- To stop them with freshly gone roots. But those to withered once in contact with Goliaths.

“Thank you Cycure,” the Ruiner said, wiping glowing eyes. He had laughed so hard tears of glistening gold had formed and dipped down. “This is a fitting parting gift.”

“You’ll be next,” Nature wrath hissed back. “These things aim to consume all.” She let out her own scornful laugh. “Do you really think you will be spared?”

The Ruiner chuckled, looked at the monsters all around him, and shook his head. “Of course not,” he replied to their shock. “You aren’t wrong, once you lot are done, my turn will come.” He shrugged. “But that doesn’t matter, I’m eternal, will last beyond this destruction, but you.” He glared at them, the picture of contempt and hate. “All of you will be gone, and that is worth the price of this temporary madness.”

“Temporary?” Cycure laughed back, her form retreating as the walls of roots succumbed to the end bringers. “Look around you, you utter fool, there is only death. There’s no coming back from this, the soil is barren and frozen, the warming light of the sky is gone and what life remained has been destroyed.”

The Ruiner looked about the landscape, unbothered by what he saw.

“Is this wonder to you Malan?” Cycure asked. “Everything you dreamed of making, what your father wanted.”

The Ruiner let out a harsh bark of laughter. “This is what you get for killing our dream Cycure. This is the land of Order, a realm stagnant and never changing. If you find it not to your liking? Then woe to you, perhaps you should have thought, before destroying my peoples work.”

Wargain had not been around then, his birth had yet to come. He had arrived in middle of Cycure dominance, and claimed victory at the end when all parties had spent themselves. But she had told him hints of the age before, of the Weaver of Miracles, Malan father. A god obsessed with understanding, and more importantly controlling the realm. He was a reflection of the people that made him, all the Dargown of that breed were spinners of chaos, bring forth madness and calling it wonder.

Cycure let out a hiss. “Still fixated on that, after all this time. You should have thanked us; we saved your kind from itself.”

The Ruiner fur ruffled, anger leaking out as his calm facade crumbled. “By butchering everyone?” the madman retorted. “Destroying Aronta and every tome holding centuries worth of knowledge about the realm.” The being showed his teeth. This was the real Ruiner, a being of malice and hate for everything. “I should thank you for slaughtering my entirely line, forcing me to watch them be killed before my turn came?”

“Yes,” Cycure said with smile of her own, and by her tone she meant it. “You would have killed yourselves eventually, one miracle to many. You all thought yourselves clever, but don’t think we weren’t aware of your mistakes, how sometimes your arcane works went wrong and the realm suffered for it.” The Ruiner didn’t retort that claim. “As for killing?”

Cycure glared at him, equal hate in her glowing irises of forest green. “You should have thought of that when your kind slaughter countless tribes, cared not for the other races around you, or the land you carved up for your own uses.” Her form distorted and churned, forging together into a large bestial head full of teeth. “Did you think people would show mercy to yours after all the death your father brought?”

The Ruiner calmed himself, his real self hidden away once more. “They were barbaric people, worshiping barbaric gods. You appeared to be nothing more than beasts.” The Ruiner nodded, eyes distance as he thought of the past. “A mistake on our part, but one I won’t make again, all will be uplifted.”

Cycure forms of roots and vines swayed side to side, disbelief, that is what he felt coming through their pantheonic link. “Uplift?” She said as the Weaver armies drew closer, the dense walls of roots crumping away. “You are mad, and delusional. More so than I had ever suspected.” The Ruiner rolled his eyes, unphased by her words, more amused, by his looks. It got a flare of anger from Nature. “There’s no one left to uplift you fool, by the Celestials don’t you see; even understand that everything is dead.”

“I see and understand more than you will ever comprehend, being of plants.” The Ruiner moved to say more, the words so close, then he snapped his mouth shut, shook his head and laughed. “No, Cycure you will get not get wisdom from me, no truths. Ignorance is what you championed.”

The Ruiner gaze moved to Wargain, the contempt clearly conveyed. “Served him, even after he took everything from the both of us.” With a wave of his hand he dismissed her, as if he had the means to, but the Weaver did and it acted on his behalf. Beams of shadow were launched again, and Titar moved to counter. His sigils appeared in their path. But this time when they met the beams tore right through them, and did the same to the roots.

The armies of destruction advanced, all was lost.

“Die.” The Ruiner happily spoke. “As you should have centuries ago, left behind with the rest of the primitives.”

Cycure howled in rage, tried fighting back, but the tide of battle was against them. The Goliaths ate away at her strength, and Wargain had nothing left to give to turn the tide.

He simply stood there, he and the warrior of old at a loss. Desperately he tried to think of means to keep fighting, some way to survive this, to regroup and hold out against this age of chaos. But there was nothing, all that he had was either used, or destroyed.

His hands balled up in frustration, the urge to burn the realm so very alluring, yet he lacked the strength.

He still had followers, hundreds of thousands locked away behind stone, the Devotion pouring into him. Yet it wasn’t enough to do anything. Not enough to fight, not enough to flee. they were surrounded, even beneath their feet, the stone churning. He felt the advances against his domain, the hordes of followers now turned into mad heretics. With them were Deformed who clawed against runed walls.

There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, he was trapped. They were all trapped.

A comforting hand rested against his back, then a form. His wife, herself just as spent as he. She didn’t voice anything to him, she knew as well as he of their situation. And if he had a plan, he would have sent it to her by now.

This was a final comfort before the end. Before monsters came to devour them both

The fact smothered his flame, but not his mind.

He could not win the fight, he could not flee, but there was one thing left he could do.

“I ask for mercy,” he said, his words echoing out with the use of Devolution. The armies of monsters stilled, and the Ruiner turned to give him a stunned gaze. “For what is left to be spared, in return.” He lowered himself, kneeled towards the horrors that had humbled him. “I pledge my service, my following to your crusade.”

The realm went still, the laughter gone.

The being of chaos controlling it all was mulling over his offer, the Goliaths and hordes of Deformed were still as stone. Not even an eye moved.

The warrior howled in protest, but he pressed it down, harshly. He was not just a wandering fighter, no, for a long time he was protector and governor of people. They were his responsibility, and now, with everything else failing him. He had to bend the knee, one last act to safe guard what little was left. If they could survive, make it through this madness, Order could reign again. But not now, he was forced to see it, they had lost and further conflict only meant the end of everything he was charged to defend.

Thus he stared out at the still masses of monsters. Even at the Ruiner who was just as motionless. Shocked surprise filled his eyes as they stared at each other. But as moments passed a growing hate, a loathing, took hold. Joined, to Wargain grief, with a snarling smile.

-----------------------------------

Is there no one with principles?

That is what filled his mind ashe stared at his old foe, the bronze warrior on his knees. Beaten, humbled, proven to be flawed. The great and powerful god, one who claimed to be above all others, a figure of authority, of order.

Malan knew it a lie, a show to hide that he was scheming survivor. But not for a moment had he suspected Wargain to be such a turncoat.

For all of his existence the bronze lord championed order, subjected the mass to mundane existence and stifled creative thought and creations. Now, at the moment of his lose, he promised to champion the reverse.

Malan found his fists shaking as he smiled a large fanged grin. The mirth of it, but oh the audacity.

“Get up.” He shouted, ending the silence that blanketed the realm, Giants glanced his way. “Get up,” he shouted again. “You hypocritical butcher!”

Was it really that easy for Wargain to switch his beliefs? Were they even that, if it were so simple? Or were they more of convenient rules to follow and drop at a moment’s notice.

“You,” Malan pointed a finger, one that shook as he fought for control. The nerve, the utter nerve of this man. Celestials he was at a loss of words. They had been at each other throats for centuries, countless dead struggling over beliefs, and this, this bastard thought he could switch sides at the last moment.

“You sick,” Malan hissed. “Disgusting, self-center mongrel, you don’t get that choice.” Gods how long had it been since he had been this mad, this revolted?

“You chose to be a champion of order, to stifle the land, and us.” His whole body shook, rage consuming him. “We could have been great, bent the realm to our desirers.” He was breathing heavily. “But noooo, lets limit ourselves.”

Wargain just stared at him, they all were, as if transfixed. “Stand up you piece of filth.” He screamed. “And die for what you championed.”

The bronze lord didn’t rise. “Believe what you want.’ The defeated god said to him. “But I am responsible for my followers, I will do what must be done so they survive.”

Celestials that word. “That should have been your banner then.” Malan said scornfully. “Survival, not order, we may have been able to work together. Uplifted the mass!” He shouted, even spent a little Devotion so it echoed across the plane.

“Great lights, how this man disgusts me.” He said looking up to the night sky, the stars ever watching.

“Are we just to die for your amusement then?” Wargain said back, “To be butchered to the last?

“Yes!” He yelled. “This is the end Wargain, you failed, we all failed.” The truth spilling out.

They all had failed.

Celestials forgive. The masses were to die and had died, because they were poor examples of godhood, lacked the power that other sessions held and wielded to combat the conductors of destruction.

“I thought you a care taker.” Wargain said, eyes glancing over the lines of the Dreamers and Giants that remained motionless. “A healer, at least that what you often said. I thought you’d be happy to see my people converted to your, beliefs.”

Converted, Converted?!

“You’re just trying to worm your way out of your earned death, I know you, enough anyways.” Malan shook his head, “the moment you have a chance you’ll turn on us.” Malan threw up his hands, the nerve, did he think them simple?

If one didn’t hold to their beliefs, then they were not one to be trusted, even temporally.

He was going to say more, spit in the face of Wargains turnabout, but the sinking presence of the Warper stilled his tongue. Intentions rather than words filled his mind, concepts, images, true convergence of meaning. It was shared to him and Wargain both.

Yet his mind still focused on the formation of words.

‘A tempting offer,’ his mind interpreted, and for a moment Malan tensed with worry.

‘Alas the night is late, and the usefulness of forces not under my control has passed.’ Wargain postured showed resignation, while Malans relaxed. ‘But for your display of submission, I shall grant you swift end, there will be no butchery.’ The Warper of flesh and mutations promised. ‘But instant removal.’

With those thoughts, came actions, The encircling Giants, hundreds of thousands in number, focused their gazes. Their third eyes, pulsing with power and death. Fired as one from every angle. Cycure pathic form of vines vanished in a haze of ash, same with the swarm of Ascendants that had been fighting off the Dreamers to the best of their ability.

Wargain and his accursed wife met the same fate as she leaned down and embraced him. The intricate stone work encompassing the Citadel held for a breath, before it to succumbed and ceased to be. The rest, as all the beams collected together at the center, was an image of the realm distorting. Ripples went through the air as a growing dome of darkness engulfed the landscape.

When the beams cut out, the work done, the dome imploded, air sucked back and vanished. What remained after was a crater leagues in length and depth. Nothing remained of the Citadel, and equally nothing of the past Malan could have called his own

All was gone.

He felt cheated, he wanted Wargain to struggle, to squirm as the last specks of his empire slowly crumbed by the ripping hands of Giants. Not this release.

In many ways it didn’t bold well for him. He had expected more time to be spent, the Warper distracted with its fun ending the Orders. Now, the deed down faster than any of them had conceived. Malan and his fellows were left with the burden of trying to last even longer against the Dreamer before the Zones appeared.

Which began now, didn’t it?

He stared at the crater, mind still processing the fact that his rivals were gone, the deed done. The Orders had met their end, paid for their failure, and now the Warpers gaze moved to him.

He felt the awareness of the entity, even as the Dreams and Giants remained staring at their work. Only one turned his way, a tower of hulking flesh larger than all the rest. It approached him as the Warper reach out, linking with his mind.

‘As agreed, your rivals have been dealt with, and your aid in this has been appreciated.’ The Giant loomed over him, he expected it to snarl, to distort its maw and reveal its unnatural mouth of fangs.

It did not, it remained passive, but the third eyes stared at him with such intent even he felt unnerved by it.

‘This is the part where you are supposed to find out that you need to end as well.’ The Giant gave a small smile and hunched it’s from, their eye levels almost matching. ‘Then you struggle and scheme to end me, thinking yourself somehow superior to those you aligned to end.’

Malan said nothing as images and thoughts filled his mind.

What he saw made him shiver, and his mind still.

‘But you have been humbled to many times, dealt defeat and its due consequences. Not once did you conceive of facing me, or somehow, by a miracle, to end me.’

Malan in a sense went numb, as if death was gripping him tight. The worst that he could have imaged and beyond was real. The Warper knew his works, it knew everything. A mural of his archive and Preservation sights filled his awareness.

A perfect map, it knew every spot.

‘You wonder how?’ the being loosely sent to him. ‘Or, were moving towards such a question.’ It leaned closer, the third eye filling his horrified vision. ‘You can thank your Sovereign core. Due to it, I get to know everything you plan, all your schemes. And I’ll admit they would have been troublesome in Sessions before.’

The Giant shook its head. ‘Not now though, my work is almost done, and your plan to revive the dead wouldn’t have worked.’

The being patted him on the shoulder, the touched startling Malan.

“How, and why?” he asked as he felt the taste of failure on his tongue again.

‘Too few,’ it answered him along with a number.

Ninety thousand, that was how many he needed to have alive on the continent for it to qualify for Zones to appear here.

Malan felt his posture sag, he really hadn’t stood a chance. Especially since the Warper had just slaughtered a majority of Ryans converted with its implosion of the Citadel, and even if it hadn’t. It would have easily hunted them down regardless. None of them had the collective Devotion to revive so many, and then try to keep alive.

“So many,” spoke aloud, eyes down cast, it was done then, it was over.

‘So many?’ the Warper responded with indignation. ‘I am charged with culling hundreds of millions to achieve my victory, and if even one follower makes it to Bastion I lose.’

‘So many,’ the Giant yet out a throaty laugh as its hands clung to his shoulders. ‘It’s too few, the number should be over a million, maybe more, but we Endbringers do enjoy a challenge.’

Senses moved into him, not knowledge per say, but the understanding things were going to change. ‘I’m not the only one to see your plans,’ the Warper informed. ‘The Celestials that watch all, those Sovereigns not in play, they see your grand scheme.’ The Giant leaned so close it was as though it were whispering in his ear. But the thing never said a word.

‘You’ve made many quite angry.’

Dread spread through Malan, there was only one grand scheme he had in mind.

‘That’s the one.’

The Sovereign cores, his goal to ascend mortals and slowly make an ever-expanding pantheon that could never end.

‘It was conceived only to be a learning tool, to be used once or maybe twice. Give the newcomer a chance to study and experiment. It was never to be a lasting crutch.’ The grip on his shoulders tightened; if he had been made of mortal flesh, his shoulders would have shattered. ‘It wasn’t meant to be used to game the system.’ The Giant pulled its head back, stared intently into his eyes. ‘No one likes a cheater little Shard, especially not an army of them.’

“What are they going to do?” He asked but he already knew the answer, the Warper was also aware of this, but it answered anyways.

The Giant looked up, and he followed the gaze, stars began to pulse in a patterned way, a language, but one beyond him. ‘It is to be forever removed,’ the Warper sent. ‘And replaced with one that provides hints and suggestions to fledgling gods.’ The Giant looked back at him. ‘If they meet the criteria of being allowed to contain one.’ The beast shook its head. ‘You don’t, nor do those of your pantheon, you all know enough of the game not to need it.’

Malan remained quiet, and while his eyes stared at the beast in front of him, he wasn’t aware of it. His mind was in turmoil, his plans in ruins.

The Giant loosened its grip and rubbed his shoulders. ‘They’re bringing about other changes as well, but those I can’t talk about, just know it will make things more fun.’

It lightly shook him, breaking Malan out of his daze. ‘Fun, remember little Shard, this is a game to be played, enjoyed. Find amusement in your journey, and this goal you aspire to bring, for it will be full of missteps and failures.’

It sounded like Madness, all a game, and perhaps he should have listened more to that.

‘Cheater’ echoed the word in his mind. In retrospect it was full hearty of him not to expect some reprisal after he had done the deed, but it seemed the very thought was damning.

He would no longer have a Sovereign core, the ability to cultivate meaningful amounts of Devotion without the use of mortals. He would no longer be a power all his own.

Defeat, loss, it held meaning. A major setback, the destruction of his religion, meant starting from scratch all over again. It would be fine in the beginning, when the realm would be full of thousands of fledgling gods fighting for dominance. But as the ages passed, power consolidated and champions won out. He would meet the same fate as he had this time.

A ghost lingering, a parasite trying to seek out an exitance within the domains of his betters. It wouldn’t be easy either, he couldn’t just hide and gather power, he would have to be active. Constantly making deals, the Peddler would be the truer part of himself, rather than the caring healer.

‘A Peddler of Wonder.’ Not the worst that could happen, at least he would still be.

Not that it would help him, it would be more of a hindrance. But even now, faced with the lose of what he thought he would have forever. Malan still didn’t accept the concept of becoming something else, and championing other views. Even when it cost him, he would remain committed to his cause.

He had to, everyone else had fallen away, there was only him left.

It was his obligation to carry own his family dream.

‘The day of Wonder is further off than I expected,’ he thought to himself. ‘But it is still there waiting to be reached.’

“What happens now Warper of flesh, and Gifter of sight? Are you to devour my pantheon to?”

It nodded. ‘Most of it, these Converted, the Thralled must go.’ Already Malan could sense the Dreamers acting, they went after the remains of Ryans army. ‘But those hiding deep within the stone shall be allowed to remain, IF,’ it sent. ‘You don’t try anything to hinder me.’

Malan gave a self-mocking smile. “Not sure if there is anything I could do to achieve that, but if these are your demands, then I shall abide by them.” He couldn’t complain, the Warper could do as it pleased, it held all the power, and its mercy appeased the Healer within him. As long as his following remained alive then most was well.

The Giant patted him on the head as its face split into a monstrous grin. ‘You have been very helpful to me, ruined this continent chance of lasting against my children. Your religion alone shall live to see the end.’

A vision filled his mind, aimed towards the far north, past the inner sea towards the Sons of Sun. Their spiral patterned growing faster and faster as they neared every closer. He gazed upon the sight, question forming. “What will happen when they merge?”

‘Death,’ The Warper answered. ‘It’s light shall engulf the realm, cleansing it.’

So there would be no wait? ‘Not long then, almost two weeks.’

The Giant let go of him, and began to depart with the horde that was scattering. ‘Enjoy the time you have left, celebrate your victory, and plan for the next session.’ The Giant glanced back at him, third eye pulsing with amusement. ‘We will be their awaiting your age of Wonder, and see how long it will last against us.’

Its awareness left him after, the horde hurrying off towards the west and east. Not all though, through his link with the dead, living and other gods. He knew Hundreds of thousands were being left behind, and burrowing through stone. The Warper wasn’t going to just take his word, even though Malan meant to kept it.

If any of them tried something, which the Warper would know instantly thanks to the Cores. Forces would be waiting to crush them.

‘We will plan.’ Malan thought, turning his own sight to the North, where death would come. ‘But not till all are dead.’ And... when they no longer had Cores to support their dreams