The Hall of Eternal Judgment was deathly quiet, suffocating under the pressure of a rising storm. The shimmering barrier sealed all exits, trapping the gods inside. The tension was palpable as realization dawned on them—there would be no escape, no salvation from what was to come.

Ronan Arcanveil, standing tall and unwavering, let his eyes sweep over the room. The criminals trembled in terror, their divine bodies frozen in place. But it wasn't only them. Even the gods in the viewing section began to feel fear creeping into their immortal hearts. The air around them buzzed with divine power, so thick it was choking.

Ronan spoke, his voice echoing like a death knell.

"System... summon Gungnir."

The gods stirred uneasily. Gungnir, a weapon designed for one purpose: the destruction of gods. The air rippled with energy as the command was executed. Across realms, in Ronan's private forge, the celestial spear answered the call. It tore through the dimensional boundaries, blazing across the sky, and within moments, it pierced the Hall's ceiling like a divine meteor.

The spear landed in Ronan's grip with a deafening crash, a blast of light rippling through the room. He now stood clad in radiant golden armor, white accents shimmering like the light of a dying star. This was no mortal court. This was the domain of a god—the God of Creation—and his judgment would be absolute.

The criminals tried to scramble, but it was futile. Ronan's eyes narrowed, and with a flick of his wrist, Gungnir flashed forward, finding its first victim.

One of the gods screamed as he stabbed her in the stomach with a spear and lifted her off the ground. His body jerked in midair as his arms and legs wet from the inside out, blood dripping from each orifice. Gungnir withdrew with a sickening squelch, and the god's body crumbled in heaps of gore, his entrails sliding from the ground to the bloody marble floor.

Another god bolted, trying to flee through the hall's rows, but Ronan was relentless. With a subtle gesture, Gungnir shattered into fragments—each shard a razor-sharp spear of divine energy. They crossed the room like arrows, lodged behind the fleeing god. He screamed in pain as the fragments tore him from all sides, knocking him to the ground. Ronan slowly tied his fingers together, twisting the pieces that turned his flesh into a spine in the god's body. His final scream echoed before he dissolved into a pool of blood.

Ronan turned to another criminal, his expression merciless. This one knelt, hands outstretched, pleading for forgiveness. But Ronan was beyond mercy. He waved his hand, and a force ripped the god's arm from his body with a savage snap. Blood sprayed across the hall, the god howling in pain. Ronan showed no hesitation—he ripped the other arm off just as brutally, then the legs. The criminal lay there, a limbless torso writhing in agony.

"Please… no more!" the god gurgled, but Ronan wasn't finished.

With a final flick of his hand, Gungnir sliced downward, decapitating the wretched figure, his head rolling across the floor before coming to rest in a pool of his own blood.

The gods in the viewing section began to stir in a panic, but it was too late. Ronan's cold gaze settled on them. These were gods who had escaped judgment, their names unsullied because the criminals they had conspired with hadn't revealed their involvement. But they couldn't hide from Ronan's divine sight.

They began to stand, their panic evident as some tried to reason.

"Ronan, please! We weren't involved—"

The words died in the speaker's throat as Gungnir streaked toward him, moving faster than sound. The spear didn't simply kill—it mutilated. It struck the god in the gut, but instead of piercing through, it twisted inside him. His body jerked violently as the spear tore him apart from the inside. His eyes bulged, blood spraying from his mouth in thick streams. Ronan's eyes remained cold as the god's flesh shredded, leaving behind only a pulpy mass of tissue and bone.

One of the gods tried to hide behind a pillar, but Ronan's attention was unforgiving. A cold smile curled on his lips as he waved his hand. The very stone of the pillar twisted and warped into chains of divine energy. They shot out, wrapping around the hiding god's body, pulling him toward the pillar. His scream was cut short as the chains began to crush him slowly, his bones snapping one by one. His flesh peeled back, blood pouring down in rivers as the chains constricted tighter and tighter until his body exploded into a spray of viscera.

Another god, wide-eyed with terror, tried to teleport away. But the barrier around the hall crackled as it blocked the escape attempt, trapping him in mid-teleportation. His body jerked out of nowhere and out of nowhere, and the unstable magic ripped through him. Ronan watched as the god's cry twisted him, his flesh melting like wax under the flames. He lay between fields, alive and undead, his screams unending as his own body twisted until he was nothing more than a pile of ashes.

Ronan's gaze flicked to a god at the back of the hall, a woman who had been sitting confidently moments ago. Now, her face was pale with fear. She tried to run, but Ronan was faster. He summoned Gungnir again, this time altering its form. The spear split into a dozen ethereal chains that burst towards him, wrapped around his wrists and ankles and lifted him into the air The chains pulled his arms and legs in the opposite direction and slowly tore him apart in. He screamed as his joints snapped, bones cracking naturally. Blood spurted from his eyes and face as the chains tore into him, his body tearing itself from its feet with a sickly wet noise.

Finally, Ronan turned toward the last god sitting in the viewing section. This one was shaking uncontrollably, his divine pride shattered. His eyes met Ronan's, and for a brief moment, it seemed like he would beg for mercy. But Ronan had no patience left. He snapped his fingers, and the god's body ignited in flames—black fire that consumed divine flesh as if it were dry paper. His screams filled the hall as the flames devoured him alive, leaving nothing but ash.

The Hall of Eternal Judgment was now drenched in the blood of gods. Limbs, organs, and splatters of divine essence covered every inch of the marble floor. It was a massacre, the brutality so raw that even the most hardened gods who had come to watch were left speechless, their faces pale with shock and horror.

Through the carnage, Ronan's father watched in silence. He had never imagined this side of his son. Ronan had always been a creator, kind and compassionate. But now, watching the execution unfold, the old god saw something far different: his son had become an unstoppable force of judgment, a god who would stop at nothing to bring justice.

For a moment, he wondered if this was too far, if Ronan had become something darker than intended. But that thought quickly faded. As he watched Ronan stand amidst the slaughter, Gungnir gleaming in his hand, pride swelled in his chest. This was his son—a god willing to do what was necessary, unflinching in the face of injustice.

Ronan, the God of Creation, had become something more—a god not just of life, but of death and punishment.

And his father had never been prouder.

With divine blood still dripping from Gungnir, Ronan stood tall, his voice calm and absolute as it echoed through the ruined hall.

"Judgment has been served."

The Hall of Eternal Judgment lay in a horrifying stillness, broken only by the distant echo of dripping blood. Ronan stood at the center of the carnage, his white-gold armor glowing faintly amidst the grotesque remnants of divine slaughter. Bodies of gods—once mighty, arrogant beings—lay in pieces, scattered like broken idols across the blood-slicked marble.

The silence was crushing. The gods who remained in the viewing section were frozen, disbelief etched on their faces. They had never seen such brutality, never believed such a thing possible within the Celestial Realm. The hall, once a symbol of order and divine law, now reeked of death, and they knew that this was only the beginning.

Ronan, standing amidst the devastation, his cold eyes scanning the room, gave no sign of regret or hesitation. His hand still gripped Gungnir, the divine weapon that had pierced the gods with merciless precision, now dripping with their divine blood. It pulsed faintly in his grasp, as if still hungry for more.

None dared speak.

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One god, the God of Justice, who had once held the highest regard for order, found himself shaking. His grip on the stone armrest tightened until his knuckles turned white. This wasn't justice, not the kind he had always preached. This was something far more terrifying. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his divine aura flickered, dimming under the oppressive weight of Ronan's presence.

Beside him, the God of Wisdom, who had once prided himself on foresight and calm calculation, was at a loss. His mind, usually sharp and decisive, was overwhelmed. There was no reasoning with Ronan, no strategy that could halt this tide of death. He had seen countless epochs, had witnessed wars between gods and mortals alike, but never had he seen anything like this—a force that even he couldn't comprehend. He sat still, his mouth dry, unable to process the scale of what had just occurred.

The God of War, usually the most arrogant and battle-hardened of them all, couldn't meet Ronan's gaze. His hands twitched, instinctively wanting to reach for a weapon that wasn't there. His heart pounded, not with excitement or the thrill of battle, but with fear—genuine, soul-crushing fear. For the first time, the God of War understood that there were battles he couldn't win. He had seen gods fall, gods far stronger than the criminals who had been executed. And he knew, deep down, that Ronan was beyond him.

Across the hall, the Goddess of Love, who had always believed in the power of compassion and mercy, trembled uncontrollably. The sight of the blood, the bodies, the unyielding cruelty—her heart ached with a fear she had never known. She had believed Ronan to be a kind god, someone who sought peace. But this… this was something else. He had become a force of destruction, and all she could do was weep silently, her divine grace shrinking in the presence of his overwhelming power.

Even the God of Death, who had long stood at the boundary between life and the afterlife, was unsettled. He, of all gods, knew the finality of death, yet even he felt that this was different. Ronan's hand had not only ended lives, but had shattered the very essence of divinity itself. The God of Death felt powerless in the face of such raw, unrelenting force, and for the first time in millennia, he felt truly mortal.

Ronan's gaze swept across the gods, each one paralyzed by the weight of his presence. His expression remained cold, distant, as though the carnage around him was of no consequence.

"This…" he gestured toward the slaughtered gods, his voice calm but chillingly devoid of emotion, "...is a warning."

The words fell like hammers on the remaining gods. The God of Knowledge swallowed hard, his mind racing to calculate every possible outcome, but every path ended the same way—with more blood. The Goddess of Fate, whose eyes often glimpsed into the future, could see nothing beyond this moment. The threads of destiny were cut, tangled, in a way she had never witnessed before. Ronan had broken the very fabric of the divine realm, and she sat there, paralyzed, unable to change it.

"To all gods and residents of the Celestial Realm," Ronan continued, his voice like the cold wind of a storm approaching. "Anyone who dares to break the peace I imagined will receive the same fate."

The weight of his words sent shockwaves through the hall. The God of War's lip trembled, the God of Wisdom's mind reeled, and the God of Justice, who had once prided himself on fairness, could only stare, helpless. No one spoke, no one dared move.

"But next time…" Ronan's voice grew even colder, his eyes narrowing, "it will be more bloody."

The Goddess of Love gasped audibly, her hand flying to her mouth as tears filled her eyes. She had seen enough blood, but Ronan was promising something worse—something far more violent, far more devastating. The God of Justice gripped the armrest harder, as if trying to steady himself against the crushing wave of dread.

Even the King of the Celestial Realm, Ronan's father, who had witnessed countless trials and conflicts, felt an unsettling shiver run down his spine. He had never seen this side of Ronan before—this brutal, unrelenting force that showed no mercy. It was as if his son had become something else entirely, something far more dangerous than any of them had ever realized. A deep sense of pride welled up in the King's heart, but there was also fear—fear of the power Ronan now commanded, power enough to reshape, or even destroy, the entire Celestial Realm.

The hall was drenched in tension, the air thick with unspoken terror. No one could escape the weight of Ronan's judgment.

Ronan's cold gaze fell upon the viewing gods once more. His voice was soft but filled with a menacing finality.

"Remember this," he said, his tone ice-cold. "There will be no second chances."

Every god in the room felt those words settle like a curse upon their souls. The Goddess of Fate closed her eyes, knowing that those who defied Ronan would meet an end far worse than what they had witnessed today. The God of War's chest tightened as if he could already feel the blade of Gungnir against his throat. Even the God of Death bowed his head in silent resignation, knowing that death itself was under Ronan's control.

As Ronan turned to leave, his white-gold armor glinting ominously in the dim light, the divine blood of his enemies still dripping from Gungnir, every god in the hall remained silent.

There was no escaping his judgment.

Not anymore.

The tension in the Hall of Eternal Judgment broke as Ronan finally turned and strode toward the exit. The divine barriers that had sealed the hall during his slaughter began to dissolve, shimmering into nothingness. The suffocating aura he had unleashed faded slightly, but its remnants still clung to the air like the memory of a nightmare.

The gods who remained, still rooted in their seats, watched him go with wide eyes. No one spoke. No one moved. They all feared drawing his attention once more. The massacre had left them shaken to their core. Some had witnessed battles between gods—wars even—but this was different. This was a warning, a statement that even gods weren't immune to Ronan's judgment.

As the grand doors of the hall creaked open, Ronan left without another word, disappearing into the bright light of the Celestial Realm.

Silence lingered until the God of Hell, his obsidian armor gleaming in the dim light, shifted uncomfortably. He glanced sideways at Cyrus, the king of the gods and Ronan's father, who still sat in his throne, lost in thought.

The God of Hell leaned in slightly. "Cyrus," he began, his voice a low rumble, "what do you make of this?"

Cyrus, still staring at the spot where his son had stood moments before, let out a slow breath. His thoughts were conflicted—on one hand, he had always known Ronan was powerful, but this... this level of brutality was something he had never anticipated. And yet, there was a fierce pride swelling in his chest. His son had proved himself to be a force even the gods feared. A god among gods.

"He has become... something beyond us all," Cyrus said, his voice steady, though there was a flicker of concern behind his eyes. "Powerful, yes. Brutal when necessary. But most of all, determined to create a new order—an order that none of us can defy."

The God of Hell's gaze flickered to the empty space Ronan had left behind. "And do you think we will be safe under this new order?"

Cyrus's eyes hardened. "I don't think anyone is safe anymore. But it's the only way to ensure peace."

The words settled over the gods like a final, unyielding truth. No one dared challenge Ronan now. Not after what they had witnessed.

Far from the carnage of the Hall, Ronan landed softly at the entrance of Arcanveil Mansion. His grand suit, which had once shone with a divine gleam, was now dark and drenched in the blood of fallen gods. Gungnir still hung in his hand, gleaming faintly, its sharp edge dripping with remnants of the battle.

As Ronan entered the mansion grounds, the fresh air and tranquility stood in stark contrast to the violence that had just unfolded. The gardens were peaceful, the sunlight filtering through the leaves, oblivious to the chaos that had just been unleashed. He walked steadily toward the entrance, his steps slow and deliberate.

Inside the mansion, a casual gathering had formed. His mother, Queen Elara Archanveil, had been discussing matters with his sister, Liviya, when they heard the doors open. Alongside them stood Dante and Mira, who had come by to ask Ronan about the trial's outcome.

As Ronan appeared in the doorway, the room fell silent.

Elara's smile froze, her eyes immediately locking onto her son's form. Ronan's normally immaculate appearance was ruined by the dark stains of divine blood. His white-gold armor was still strapped over his suit, now tarnished by the brutal marks of his recent actions. His face, though calm, was cold and distant. Gungnir, still in his hand, gleamed ominously in the afternoon light.

Mira gasped audibly, taking a step back, her hand flying to her mouth in shock. She had expected her brother to return with news, perhaps to share details of the trial with pride or quiet resolve, but this... she had never seen Ronan like this. He looked as though he had walked through hell itself.

"Ronan… what happened?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Liviya stood frozen, her normally sharp eyes wide with disbelief. Her fingers twitched as if she wanted to reach out to him but hesitated. She had known Ronan was powerful, but this? This was something else entirely. The blood that clung to him, the weapon still in his hand—it painted a picture of violence, of a side of him she had never seen before.

Dante, who had always regarded Ronan with admiration, couldn't tear his eyes away from the divine weapon in Ronan's grip. The carnage it had unleashed was almost palpable in the air around them. Dante's usual grin was gone, replaced by a tight expression of unease. For the first time, he wasn't sure if he should speak.

The room was thick with silence, an awkward tension hanging in the air as everyone struggled to comprehend what had just unfolded. No one could find the words to ask what had happened—they could already sense it had been something beyond their understanding.

Ronan said nothing. He didn't need to. His cold, focused expression remained unreadable as he walked past them, the heavy presence of Gungnir and the blood weighing down every step. He didn't glance at his mother, his sister, or his friends. His destination was clear.

The maids, who had been tidying the hall, froze as Ronan passed them. Their eyes darted between each other in shock, the sheer amount of blood staining his suit too much to process. One of them dropped the cloth she had been holding, her hands trembling.

Without a word, Ronan disappeared into his workshop, the doors shutting firmly behind him.

The maids, their faces pale, hesitated before moving to clean the hallway where drops of divine blood had fallen. The crimson stains starkly contrasted the pristine marble floors, each droplet sending shivers through them as they wiped the evidence away.

Queen Elara, her eyes still wide, struggled to find her voice. She had always known Ronan to be decisive and powerful, but to see him return like this… it left her shaken. She exchanged a glance with Liviya, whose face reflected the same concern.

"What happened in that hall?" Elara whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

No one answered. The silence that followed was as cold and unsettling as the blood-stained weapon that had passed through the halls of their home.