Black flames circle around the globe one-point-one-two-six times, an ultraviolet corona edging the dark fire. Weapons break the surface of the turbulent, gaseous flames like shark fins from the fog-blanketed waters of Jaw, primed to serrate. through Dimensionally-corrupted animals, the sentient nouveau-races collectively named Monsters, Demons, the Anathema, and the mischievous Fae fall under the exo-angelic maelstrom of pre-primed constructs macerating the enemies of humanity into flaming bits of flesh. The Monsters shake in terror as their war efforts fail. The Wrath Imps revel in their own genocide, pouring out of the Demonic Dimensions even faster. The Anathema, the few strong enough to survive in an Anti-Magic Zone unbounded, have as variable a response as humans have as variable their emotions. The tiny pests known as the Fae gibber like mindless babies, their irritating smiles, copy-and-pasted from a TV character's devil on their shoulder, turning into mocking screams of terror. They die in a susurration of the crinkling of crumpling bug wings.

Revenue increases slightly, infinitesimally, beneath the jet trail. From an outer space perspective, the scythes create a gestalt of shoals of fish, all wreathed in flame and swimming across the globe, ravenously tearing through the monstrous armies with triangular heads scaled by feathers.

Heading the tail of flame, a blur of black blasts along a trajectory aiming to pierce through the spatial warping that lays on a scale unmatched by any-warp else. The end destination of the physical arc is the Academy for Magics, Demonics, and Altogether Eldritch Entities.

An astronomer on the continent of the Academy of Bros' Brassy Based Balls (*chuckles* the narrator listened to my suggestions for once! *chuckles*) would be forgiven for thinking this oncoming object is a duo of black holes, with how it shares marked similarities to the gravitational phenomenon. Though it does not draw any matter within its event horizon like blackholes do, it does take in all surrounding light. Admittedly ironic given light is normally the last thing to be pulled in by gravity due to moving at the fastest possible speed.

In addition, the lightless circle also affects the fabric of space-time in other, similar ways. For example, it generates gravitational waves in the same way that two fusing black holes create such disturbances. And these ripples would trigger gravitational wave sensors in a similar manner, if such sensors existed in this universe in the first place.

Not only that, as some blackholes are wont to do, it even ejected a miniature quasar during its revolution around the earth.

For those unaware, a quasar is a blast of electromagnetic radiation created by an interaction between a black hole and the matter in its accretion disk. This phenomenon is believed to be caused by the acceleration of matter to near light speeds just outside of the event horizon, while said quantity of mass, which beggars belief in terms of scale, is also all compressed to a truly mind-blowing degree. All due to the extreme gravitational forces that simply cannot be comprehended within the human experience. Admittedly though, the conditions are too hostile for anything below the strongest deities to withstand, so only they are privy to being able to directly observe. To simplify even further than it already is, it’s an anime power beam of easily solar-system destroying power.

However, this quasar bears a semblance to an anime power beam more than most. Purple and pink sparkles shower down the brief blast like fairy dust. They filter through Prussian blue spirals of tinsel surrounding the grey Kamehameha.

It twinkles off in the lightless distance.

This is because the beam is a solely Essence-based phenomenon, as is the orb. Both were created by the Lady of Death & Taxes or indirectly caused by her actions. The orb's absence of light, a signature of black holes, is not even due to gravity, like black holes are. Instead, made from Death magic, the culture of the Lady tints it the color she associates with death: black. If she had been raised in one of the many other cultures, such as the ones containing Catholicism, it would be purple. The significance of purple to Catholicism is heavy, a signature shade of the color suggesting Lent, the repentance and solemnity in the name of Jesus' sacrifice carried out in a mournful, regretful manner.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

And it is obvious to those down on the ground that the cause is an immortal's Magic at work. Though, as the troops would put it, 'the eggheads' would be confused, to the soldiers it would also be clear the individual is a veteran who had faced the horrors of war. Because, however sloppily, the power is applied outside of mass destruction of their opponents. A passing attempt is made at sanitation works and elimination of mud on a large scale, despite the Skills obviously not specialized to handle such work. An equally poor attempt at restocking and brewing coffee is made too. But despite its low quality, it still fills a valuable niche, with some being better than none.

A tear of gratitude came to many of the sunburnt, mosquito-bite swollen faces of the American armies. They salute crisply with thatch-scratched arms.

And eventually, they will probably swear up and down it was the best coffee they had ever tasted, their hunger and nostalgia flavoring it to perfection.

However, a few of these seemingly war-borne automations of feathered angel wings molded out of black steel are repurposed to pursuits other than military action. To the tune of much weeping with joy, and sweet, sweet praise to all of the Gods above, decorations of finely-wrought wings on scythe flutter as the blade-edges transmogrify into styluses. Beleaguered Clerks toast to their savior as old, ornate writing instruments do their work under the overcast of an anomalous event. The paperwork crunchers then bemoan their higher ups, who can’t take a blessing when it comes. Grumbling, they are forced to do it all again while the spectacle-wearing politicians burn the flawlessly done documents that, for once, actually had legible handwriting understandable by the common citizen. The chuckle fucks spurn any alternative to sabotage out of paranoia, having no intention of doing paperwork if their office spaces die, so in their own way of caring, they make certain their office slaves stay alive… and give them a ton of paperwork for security purposes to add insult to injury.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

*sigh*

Poor darlings.

At least the assistants have skills for copying from memory that allow them to still go through their work faster than without their help. They can feel happy about that.

Though...

What they don't know is...

Well, the Lady of Death & Taxes had already filled out the proper procedures and ensured the bureaucracy was all in place for there to be no issue. Even though it normally moves at a speed comparable to a stone coffin i.e. not at all, she was had done it in advance and covered her bases.

There was no grounds for the agencies to be suspicious.

But upon seeing her name stamped on the papers, what it instead expedited the higher-ups of the Army to do is unitedly block her help so as to damage her reputation among their men. The presence of her name always makes for a startling show of unification. Being powerful, short-sighted leaders take as many steps as they can to alienate her from the populace. She already has the major flaw of being tax-obsessed, and being the sole up-close-and-personal enforcer of the entire country's taxes. Which makes it supremely easy to spread rumors about her, assembling an image of a specter of terror. And it is why she has such a low reputation, despite her actual deeds being deserving of acclaim and catering well to the lower classes.

She'll probably kill a few to make an example, finally ruling out stupidity and giving far too many chances.

Not that the soldiers in current combat do not eye their own miracle with suspicion, though this is real suspicion. They need to concern themselves with every possibility when sudden changes like the overwhelming show of force and easy potential for themselves to become ‘unfortunate casualties of war.’ Or better yet, the prospect of becoming ‘the men valiantly gave up their life riiight before Skills-testing’ is more than likely. But, ironically, they just can’t be bothered doing the due diligence if this is some immortal, quote-unquote, “gettin’ ther’ rocks off to overcomplicatin’ shit in their espi-oh-nawge,” as the esteemed lieutenant colonel Lionel the Paladin so eloquently puts it. They only appreciate the opportunity to take leave from the frontlines of the American coasts.

Like the rest of the soldiers he oversees, Lionel is far too tired for anything else after a few years straight without leave. With the other idling battalion, the battalions could consolidate under the much fresher lieutenant colonel.

"Alright boys. Y'all've shown shown me enough of yer wives' nudes to fill up a porn site, so it's mah turn to make ya right jealous. Me 'n' my wife going to have sum spay-cial times. See ya." He overlaps his two index fingers in a cross sign, knocks his head forward to slide his gold V-shaped visor over over his eyes, and revs his motorcycle once on the bloody battlefield.

The bulky, armored man salutes the new lieutenant colonel from his correspondingly huge ride, adult-sized wheels and comfortable seat. "Have fun with the paperwork. I think is' grown into quite a few stacks. Don't pitch no fit when you see it, 'kay?"

The Lt. Col. snorts, and throws out two of the Army's unofficial salute: the middle finger, back at him. The sleeves of his stiff Fiend leather crack as they crease unwillingly under the man's muscles, sounding like his middle fingers shot into place., and via machinegun at that. "Get outta here already. Screw your ass sideways, man."

"Lawd, that's too gay for me," Lionel jokes back.

One of the soldiers jeers, "Speaking of gay, goin' to wrangle that son of yours you keep whinin' 'bout?"

"Boy, ohoho... fuck you kid... You best give yer heart to Jesus, 'cause yer ass is mine!" he threatens, pausing ominously and raising a fist menacingly. A charismatic man, his intimidating remark is not taken seriously, entertaining the rest of his men with his comically thick Southern accent.

The soldiers chuckle together. Then they really show true brotherhood by giving the clown in their midst a wide berth. The black man looks around at his troop-mates in mock-betrayal.

Genially smirking under the warm gold of his visor, Lionel floors his motorcycle, the exhaust pipe belching hard enough to match high-Vit men after a drinking contest, and he motors straight through the passageway the crowd kindly offered. One of his blue gauntlets on the black handlebar and the other held jousting-style to his side, both made of a solid, plastic-like armor bent into roughly wing-ish blocks wrapping around his beefy fist, he drive-by socks the buzz-cut fool in the jaw. Knocked flat, the soldier chuckles, along with the raucous jeering of the rest of the soldiers.

Lionel drives off the body-strewn battlefield, painting a striking silhouette. On a vehicle more monster truck more than motorcycle, dressed in a partial suit of red armor made of triangular plates shaped like the well-known feature of the stegosaurus, and the muscles to match the bulk of a dinosaur too. His light brown hair and beard, having grown long in the absence of a razor and lacking the precision of Strength to deal with it, are slicked to his scalp and neck with blood and mud. A quick fix to prevent a life-threatening bang obstructing his line of vision while he's running all over hell's half-acre. All the while, his blood-drenched armor creates a red mist, speckling the air with his enemies' life blood. Though it never reaches his broad back.

A worn blue stitching of the Holy Mary is protected entirely by his sheathed broadsword.