Atoy Muzazi stood in the darkness of the woods, shadows pressing in on every side. It was as if every crevice and crack was filled with peering eyes, watching him, waiting. An involuntary shudder ran down his spine.

Well, if they were waiting, then this was certainly what they were waiting for. With a hand made steady only through great effort, Atoy Muzazi tapped the communicator in his ear.

"Atoy Muzazi to Tartarus Command," he said, voice hoarse but as clear as he could make it.

There was no reply. That wasn't exactly surprising -- from what Aclima had said, the Tartarus was experiencing troubles of its own. Still, the quiet buzz on the other end confirmed he had a connection, and so he would speak. What else was there?

He tried to say it once, but the words stuck in his mouth, and he had to clear his throat. The second time, the message went through loud and clear.

"Battlefield report," he whispered. "The Supreme is dead."

Those words echoed through the waiting woods, but if anything the shadows seemed to grow only darker in response. Atoy Muzazi let his arm fall to his side, and -- a moment later -- let himself fall to the floor.

Finally, finally, he was spent.

"The Supreme is dead."

Those four words rang out across the bridge of the Tartarus, but went unheard over the rhapsody of noise already consuming it. There was so much going on, after all. The cold harvest engine had sustained critical damage. They were desperately trying to get the power back on across the entire ship with the reserves. Special Officers were almost rioting at the pod bay. The Supreme Heir was missing.

Half-a-dozen crises were unfolding all at once.

So it was no surprise that Atoy Muzazi's words went unheard -- just as it was no surprise that nobody saw a dainty finger reach out and flick an innocuous switch on the console. Those words had been intended for command only, but with that flick of a switch they were rerouted to a different communication channel entirely.

With that flick of a switch, they were rerouted to everyone.

"The Supreme is dead."

The words boomed across the pod bay, over the crowds of arguing and fighting Special Officers -- and, as if a switch had been flicked in their brains as well, each and every one of them stopped. Countless eyes stared up at the intercom as if it was something alien, something dangerous. You could have heard a pin drop.

Security were just as awestruck. One security officer stopped in the middle of slapping Neverwire cuffs on a particularly rowdy Pugnant's wrists. Trembling violently, the two of them looked up at the intercom as fellows.

"What…?"

"The Supreme is dead."

Winston looked up from the makeshift command table -- they'd been trying to get the holograms back on -- blinking rapidly. Had he heard that right? That was Atoy's voice speaking, wasn't it?

The Supreme was dead? Was that really true? Atoy Muzazi wasn't a liar, but there was every possibility he was being forced to say something. Even beyond physical coercion, an Aether ability could be puppeteering his body or manipulating his voice. But there was something about the way he said that… some certainty.

Could the Supreme be dead? Given the ease with which the Special Officers had cut through Regiment RED's forces, Winston found it difficult to believe. But then again, there'd been a great deal of unexpected events, hadn't there? The attack on the Tartarus itself, communications going down, and the fact that they seemed to have lost contact with each and every Contender.

Zachariah Esmeralda had certainly managed something. So why the discrepancy between the quality of RED's forces and their results? Had the bulk of the fighting been for some other purpose than pure victory? Distraction, maybe?

No. Winston realized. Many Special Officers had reported in early on, about green feathers they'd found attached to their victims. Archive footage showed that Esmerelda's Aether was green as well. Could it be…?

Countless pieces clicked together in his mind, one after another, all in the span of a second.

"The Supreme is dead," he mumbled in confirmation, staring at the intercom.

Besides him, Beatrice gulped. She'd been treating the injuries she'd sustained during the fight against Lily Aubrisher -- pausing mid-bandage as the news came in. She was shaking, a barely perceptible tremor running through her body.

It was no surprise. For those who had never known another Supreme, this one was like the sun. They'd just been told the sun had gone out.

Winston reached out and gave his sister's hand a reassuring squeeze. That didn't take any thinking at all.

"The Supreme is dead."

Section Chief Harz looked up from his labour for a moment, adjusted his goggles, then looked back down. So the Supreme was dead. Who cares? It wasn't as if the man had actually done much.

Better to think on more relevant matters… like the thrill of discovery.

Two of Harz' Headless Servitors carried Lily Aubrisher's limp body through the cargo bay, smoothly securing it in a stasis module like an iron maiden. She'd already been thoroughly tranquillised, and the battle had done a number on her, but Harz found one could never be too careful. He hovered up high in his chair, looking down at the unconscious woman cautiously.

The lid snapped shut, leaving only her frozen face visible, and Harz breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn't doubted his Servitors' efficacy -- he utterly adored them, after all. Human bodies with the heads replaced by an elegant autobrain, seamlessly connecting with the preexisting nervous system. He'd wanted to take them to the bridge with him, but was told their appearance would disturb the staff.

It didn't matter. The squeamish were the closest to the blind, after all, and Harz didn't care to hear their opinions. This Aubrisher girl was much more interesting. The potential she'd displayed sent shivers down his spine. The unique way she used Aether, and her incomprehensible strength… secrets, oh, secrets.

Harz couldn't wait to tear them free and pull them into the light.

So the Supreme was dead. That didn't matter, either. Harz was alive, he had a new sample, and the world was yet young.

"The Supreme is dead."

Ascendant-General Toll paused for a moment, cold breath drifting from his mouth as he looked up at the intercom.

His first thought was surprise that the thing still worked. The maintenance tunnels in this part of the ship were nearly fully frozen over -- the cold harvest reactor had all but gone critical -- but for the time being, Toll's Aether and Pugnancy were enough to keep him warm. The man he was carrying over his shoulder, Ash del Duran, wasn't quite as fortunate… but the infusion Toll was providing was enough to keep him stable.

The Supreme was dead… well, if that was true, he supposed it was Kadmon who was dead. The dogma went that a Supreme who died was no true Supreme at all -- if that was the case, then they'd never had a true Supreme. Not even the first, Azez… but you'd never find a loyal citizen who'd speak ill of the Lantern-Bearer, even if he was 'false'.

All sorts of doublethink. There was surely more to come.

Alexander put a massive hand to his face and wiped away a tear that had not yet brewed. Whether or not the Supreme was dead remained to be seen. Until Toll saw a body, that man was still his Supreme -- and he still had duties to perform.

With the cold harvest engine failing, the ship would soon be uninhabitable. He had to get to the bridge and begin organising the evacuation. Then he had to find out what had happened to the Supreme Heir.

Then, and only then, could he distract himself with thoughts of loss.

“The Supreme is dead.”

Aclima lay still on the sheet as the medical ‘personnel’ around her bustled to and fro, tending to the injured Special Officers around her. In truth, the doctors and nurses were mere puppets, formed from Aether and set to heal -- and that was the only reason they did not stop when they heard the news. Whether the moans of the people around her were from pain or sorrow, she could not say.

She pressed her forearm against her face, teeth gritting until it felt like they’d shatter in her mouth, tears running down her cheeks. With her vision blocked, she was free to imagine. Free to imagine the face of the person who’d promised her -- promised her that he’d act in her place, promised her that she’d protect her father, promised, promised, promised.

Atoy Muzazi.

“Liar,” she hissed, and her Aether hissed with her.

"The Supreme is dead."

Roy Oliphant-Dawkins knelt in the dark, the corpse of his son strewn across his lap. His face didn't so much as twitch in response to news of their victory. Whatever those words were, he found he didn't much care.

He found he didn't much care about anything anymore.

“The Supreme is dead.”

High in the sky, just beneath the barrier that surely would have destroyed it, hung a palace of strings. Silhouetted by the pink-tinged moon, it had just been the site of a brief but fierce battle. Blood coated the string-woven spires. Parts of the string-woven floor were already collapsing down to the planet below. The string-woven battlements were slowly but surely losing their form.

All in all, this structure would not last the next couple of minutes -- but that was no trouble. It had already fulfilled its purpose, anyway.

The corpse of the Hellhound swung suspended from a bundle of strings on the palace’s underside. His chassis had been beaten into a mess of warped metal, its original function barely recognisable. Smoke from overheated pain suppressors drifted up from the sparking stump of his neck -- his head had already been torn away, plummeting down to the ground. Preservation fluid dripped from the broken casing that had once contained his nervous system, which now could only generously be described as slurry.

In short, his death had been thorough. But he’d given just as good as he’d got.

The corpse of Wu Ming sat in the string-woven throne at the centre of the string-woven palace. Blood oozed from the hole in his chest -- taking up the majority of his torso -- soaking into his string-woven armour. His eyes were dull and dead, the consciousness that had previously driven them utterly absent.

As the news of the Supreme’s death came through, though, a string-woven hand reached out and plucked the communicator from the corpse’s ear. Listening to Muzazi’s words, the owner of the hand frowned.

“Dead, huh?” they said through string-woven lips. “Man, that’s a shame… I wanted to fight him before setting out. Real two outta ten move, man.”

Without another word, they kicked off the palace, leaping down towards the planet… and a few seconds later, the resting place of the two Contenders utterly disintegrated.

The Supreme is dead.

Deep in the bowels of the Shesha, lightyears away, the man they called the Prisoner softly smiled.

The time had come.

“The Supreme is dead.”

Absurdity.

The Supreme is dead. The Supreme is dead. The Supreme is dead.

Impossibility.

God is dead. God dead? God is dead?! God died?! God?! God God God God God God God God God God GOD GOD GOD GOD GOD

Avaman screamed.

Purple Aether arose in an inferno as the crater around him was blown apart by the sheer force of the release, chunks of rock and metal flying in every direction. The barrier of wind around him surged outwards as well, currents twisting and turning until they formed a vortex of invisible blades, slicing apart everything in the vicinity. Even so -- over the raging winds, and the burning flames, Avaman's scream reigned.

"This is your God," the scientists had said, showing him his first image of the Supreme. "You were created to help this man. You are to be his worthy opponent."

DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD

The first time he'd tried to kill God, to make God happy. The end result had been obvious: the young child collapsed on the floor, utterly defeated in the span of a few seconds. God flicked a finger, dispelling the construct that had made short work of him.

"Boring," God had muttered, turning away.

FAILURE FAILURE FAILURE FAILURE FAILURE

His fingers wrapped around Skipper's throat, holding that wretched life in his hand. "No… when I deliver you to G… to the Supreme, I will be praised above all others. I wouldn't put my own petty satisfaction above that."

"Aw," Skipper chuckled. "And daddy will finally love you? It's a longshot, kid."

KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL

Yes. That made sense. If God was dead, then everything was pointless. There was no more reason for him to exist, and there was no more reason for anything else to exist. He’d correct the deficiency -- now, violently, agonisingly. He raised his head up to the sky, still screaming -- purple Aether blazing from his eyes and mouth -- and raised his hand.

Take my body, he willed to whatever might have been listening. Take my heart. Take everything. Just make them all go away.

He wrenched his hand as if to twist the sky itself, and Aether beyond his means began to scour his body. Cracks spread over his skin as if it was porcelain, and blood began to pour from his eyes. The scream erupting from his throat rose in pitch and warped until it was something inhuman, something unearthly, echoing over the surface of this damned planet.

The wind was his. He could sculpt it into any shape he chose. A hurricane? No, more than that. He’d make a storm like nothing the universe had ever seen before. A beast of the end that would wipe all life from this planet. It would self-perpetuate, going further and further, until nothing could ever exist here again. An eternal gravestone for the perfect being.

Yes… he could do it. He would do it.

All around him, the storm began to expand, purple Aether flashing deep within it like lightning. Layers upon layers of wind, each slashing at random, able to dissect any matter to such a degree that survival was nigh-impossible. But that was not enough. That was not enough! Survival had to be fully impossible!

The world that had murdered God had no reason to --

Pain.

Mutely, little more than a sculpture of oozing meat and bone, Avaman looked down… at the steel claws that had penetrated his heart.

“Oh,” he said. “That’s…”

“Oh,” he said. “That’s…”

Ruth Blaine panted for breath, pain pulsing throughout her body. Cuts and gashes covered her form, blood from her forehead dribbling down and getting in her eyes. The arm with which she’d impaled the First Contender was the only steady thing about her -- everything else was shaking like a leaf.

It was understandable. She’d just committed suicide a dozen times in the span of a few seconds. That wall of raging wind had been right in front of them, expanding rapidly, and she’d done the only thing she could. She’d charged forward to meet it.

That had been her first suicide.

Her strength was spent. Using the Direwolf Set had been out of the question. Even the Skeletal Set had been almost out of reach. The best she’d been able to manage was a single piece at a time -- a boot or a glove, switching locations as was needed for movement. The rest of her body had been utterly unprotected.

Hence, the second suicide.

The rest had come quickly. Third, fourth, fifth, sixth, a new one every fraction of a second. She’d weaved through the layers of invisible blades, feeling them scrape against her skin -- each one centimetres away from a lethal blow. Seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth, every time closer to success. She’d opened her mouth and let out a scream of her own, passion leaving her body as noise, but it was drowned out by the roaring winds and their screeching master.

It was beyond even a hurricane -- it was an apocalypse -- and yet she had made it through.

But it had taken everything she had. So she stood there, claws rammed through the heart of the First Contender, hoping beyond hope that this was it. You’d expect destroying the heart to kill someone, but Ruth had seen too much to assume that. He could undergo some kind of Aether Awakening, or maybe he had some other ability that would keep him going for ages. Or maybe he was just a monster.

One second passed.

Two seconds passed.

Three seconds passed.

Blood dripped from Ruth’s claws, and Avaman opened his mouth -- maybe to say something else…

…but then, slowly, he fell backwards and lay still on the floor. His eyes stared sightlessly. His breathing ceased. He did not so much as twitch. He was done. He was dead.

Ruth didn’t have time to breathe another sigh of relief. She was too busy falling over too -- but that didn’t surprise her. It made sense that she couldn’t stand up any longer.

After all, her legs had just been cut off.