Moyo stood in the center of the hall, gripping his blade tightly as he witnessed the erosion of his last bastion, crumbling from the inside out. Behind him, the vortex of raw energy being siphoned by the very egg his Shieldborne guarded continued growing, pushing toward the inevitable end—the only end that he and those who mattered had realized was possible.
He felt Ajax’s death in the distance. Along with him, the avatar of chaos, Azael, was wiped out from the shattered remnants of reality. The scream of Apophis echoed as his one concrete connection to Ife was severed, the sound killing thousands as they perished from the sheer force of his shrieks.
Every death was a dagger to Moyo’s heart, the pressure intensifying as his forces were pushed closer to the inner walls of the palace. Scores of his house members perished, and Apophis began to manifest, his presence barely holding the last fragments of reality together.
Ashira burst into the room, her armor smoking and in tatters. She gasped, shuddering as her armor slowly mended itself. "Moyo," she groaned. Tunde appeared at her side in a blink, catching her before she fell.
"You’ve done your best. We’ve all done our best," she wept, tears streaming down her face. "Is this the end, Moyo? Are we to end here?" she asked.
Moyo smiled softly at her. "No. Not here. Not now," he promised, releasing her and closing his eyes to take a deep breath.
“Idris,” he called out. His titan-fist appeared at his side, joined by Josh, both of them staring wide-eyed at him.
“No,” Josh whispered.
Moyo nodded solemnly. "I’ve drawn it out for too long. We’ve bought enough time." His gaze shifted to the egg, its pulsating energy drawing his focus. "Now I have to end this. But I need you both to promise me you’ll protect it. You’re my shield, after all." He chuckled, Idris nodding while Josh looked at him in surprise.
Ashira struggled to her feet. "Then we go together," she said firmly.
“Ashira…” Moyo sighed, placing a finger on her forehead. The heir of Kairos collapsed into Idris’s arms, unconscious.
"Keep her safe. She means everything to me," Moyo said, and Idris nodded gravely.
Willing himself out of the hall, Moyo stood atop the inner palace walls, watching the black lightning tear through the sky above. Tiny, glowing figures swarmed against the coiling serpent that split the skies of Ibere apart. The seas boiled, the land tore itself asunder, and the very fabric of reality unraveled.
"RETURN," Moyo commanded, pulling every living soul within his realm into the palace.
"PROTECT," he whispered, and a bubble of aether cocooned the palace, shielding it from the storm of destruction raging outside.
Inside, what remained of the supreme beings gathered the last of their power, pouring it into the egg. Cracks began to form along its surface, and Moyo could feel the presence within stirring to life.
"Not yet," he whispered to the being inside, latching onto its infant thoughts. "Not yet." With finality, he marched toward the crumbling wall, empty of life, where Apophis’s form coalesced before his eyes.
The mere sight of the chaotic deity would have melted the gaze of anyone less than a primordial or supreme being, wiping them from existence entirely. But then again, eternity was broken—nothing but the far-flung dreams of those who had once held reality together.
“The titan blade,” Apophis drawled as he settled before Moyo. Behind the hulking form of the supreme chaos deity lay nothing—an empty, infinite void of inky blackness. Moyo chuckled at the sight.
“Or was it the titan alone? I struggle to understand such intricacies," the serpent of chaos continued.
Moyo eyed the blade in his hand, feeling the echoes of the supreme beings’ aspects within it. He sighed, bracing himself as the full force of chaos slammed into him, trying to strip the flesh from his bones, the blood from his veins, and the sanity from his mind.
"No biting words back? Did the son of the Reaper not teach you any quips?" Apophis sneered.
"You feel it, don’t you?" Moyo whispered, turning his purple and gold eyes toward the serpent. He stared into the abyss that Apophis promised, the nightmare silence of eternity, and didn’t flinch.
"And what is that?" Apophis asked, intrigued.
"When all is dust and silence, only you and I will remain," Moyo replied.
The serpent laughed, then unleashed a torrent of chaotic energy at Moyo. His skin blazed as he whispered an ancient command, his voice barely audible.
"Dá pà dà," he said softly. The attack recoiled, slamming back into Apophis, who blinked in stunned silence, its skin smoldering.
Without a word, Moyo began walking along the length of the wall, careful not to fall into the infinite darkness beyond. Apophis, quiet now, snarled.
“What are you?” it asked, its mocking tone replaced by something more sinister.
“I am what I’ve always been—a defender. A protector,” Moyo replied.
“And look where it has led you: one tiny piece of rock amidst a sea of my being,” Apophis mocked.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Moyo said, his voice calm. The serpent’s taunts lost their bite.
"It took me a while to understand what was happening—the cycle that has been broken since the very beginning. You are not chaos, not truly, no more than I am order," Moyo said, watching as Apophis recoiled as if burned.
Moyo felt something shift inside him, a sudden realization. He laughed, tears streaming down his face—tears of gold, tracing lines across his skin like sacred tattoos. His power surged, purple and gold aether swelling around him.
"For too long we’ve played these roles, the laws of existence, order, and chaos—opposing forces when, in truth, one cannot exist without the other. We’ve kept them apart for too long," he continued, the blade in his hand glowing brighter—a burning sun amidst the darkness.
From the palace, a radiant glow burst forth, and Apophis whipped his head toward it, enraged.
"Deceiver!" the serpent shrieked.
"You’re the one who wanted to gloat," Moyo replied with a smirk.
As Apophis reared back, ready to attack, Moyo moved. His sword sliced through the air with a resonant hum, sending a ripple of power across the realms of existence and non-existence alike.
The force struck the serpent, tearing scales from its body. Apophis screamed as its abominable blood splattered across the walls, only to be siphoned into the growing presence within the palace.
Moyo felt his aether transforming, being refined at a fundamental level as reality itself began to shift. Gold and black lines of energy coursed through his body as, from the eternal darkness behind Apophis, untold millions of chaos creatures poured toward the last spark of light left in existence.
****************************************
Within the palace, a deep gloom had settled. The Titan had drawn them all back behind the ever-expanding walls, and silence reigned, even in the presence of the supreme beings. All eyes were on the egg, a sense of anxious anticipation hanging in the air.
Rulers, ancients, primordials—none of these titles mattered anymore. None of them could stand against the supreme force of chaos, not even the supreme beings themselves, whose very aspects seemed diminished. The realization of their impending fate cast a heavier pall over the room.
“He may not survive what’s out there,” a voice broke the silence, all eyes turning to Kairos. “Our very lives are ours to defend, or we die,” Tiamat added, her voice tinged with a resigned determination.
“And to what end?” came an irritated, almost enraged voice. An ancient dared to speak against a primordial, his frustration boiling over.
“We are staring at the end of all life! We are all that’s left, and we trusted them!” the ancient continued, his glowing white form pointing an accusatory finger at the supreme beings who remained silent.
Eses, transcendent and dragon, said nothing as she too gazed at the egg. “And Archailect knows what is in that egg—what they hide, siphoning all our aether!” the ancient shouted, his voice sparking others to raise their own grievances.
“That is where you are mistaken,” Eses finally spoke, one eye snapping open as she uncoiled her massive form. She rose to her full height, silencing the tumult with her presence.
“The Archailect is no more—nothing but the broken dream of a hastily patched past,” she continued, glancing at the supreme beings, who nodded weakly. Patches of gray already marred their once-glorious forms, their power fading. The title of 'supreme' was now nothing more than an honorific.
The attention of the thousands that remained turned to her as she continued. "We face a foe not of our making, but a part of existence itself. Just as we were once forces of nature, beholden to the laws within our domains, now we face something greater. And you are right—there is nothing we can do against such a foe, except trust in the words of the Titan."
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With a heavy ripple of aether that made her gasp for breath, Eses transformed into her human form, leaning on Idris for support. The Titan-fist nodded solemnly.
“I’ve lost my entire line,” she said softly. “As vile and wretched as they once were, Dracon is no more. I can no longer feel a single beating presence of them in existence.” Her revelation sent a wave of shock through the ascenders in the room, who looked around as if realizing the same for the first time.
“And I am not the only one. Others have lost theirs as well. Shall we blame existence for that? What more can we do but lash out at each other in rage?” she questioned, her voice calm yet filled with sorrow.
“Tales have been told of us,” Eses continued, her voice gathering strength. “Yet those whose lips spoke them are no more. We are what remains of those stories—relics of a bygone era.”
Lotes stepped forward, commanding the attention of all. “We have failed you,” she began, her words landing like the final nail in a coffin.
A ripple of disbelief spread through the room.
“What we envisioned for reality was… flawed,” Lotes admitted, pointing at the egg. “And now, it comes back to take its toll.”
“That is the future,” she said, her voice softer now, “sacrificed by the Titan. It is what will succeed us.”
“And what is that future?” Kairos asked, speaking up.
Lotes smiled gently. “Our final gift to existence,” Alastor, the supreme of edges, said, stepping forward with his siblings.
“We offer our final goodbyes and a last request,” Filvux added, his shield gleaming in his hand.
“Impossible,” Tiamat breathed, eyes wide.
“Trust in his plan. Trust the future,” Liakya thundered, her voice resonating through the chamber. The supreme beings began to glow—bright, burning light that merged with the egg, causing its surface to crack further.
From the infinite darkness outside, the roar of Apophis echoed, its force driving everyone to their knees. But as quickly as the pressure descended, it vanished—too quickly.
In awe, they watched as the egg absorbed everything—supreme beings, their aspects, even the deafening roar of Apophis. It swallowed aether and chaos, releasing something entirely new.
A transformative wave rippled through the room as each being gasped, their cores shattering and reforming. They saw the infinite darkness of chaos assaulting the palace, straining to breach its defenses. A loud roar broke out from Eses, her form rippling with gold and black power. Silver fire burst from her as massive draconic wings unfurled from her back, her blade burning bright in her hand.
"Protect the egg! Protect the future!" she roared, her voice rallying every ascender. Their powers returned to full strength in an instant.
There were no grand announcements, no divine messages, but they all felt it. They felt him in their very essence. The Titan was no longer just a person—he was a concept, an aspect. He was in them, and they were in him. He wasn’t a supreme being—he was something more, and something less. He was the very foundation of the palace, the pillars of reality itself. He fought the serpent outside and fed them power simultaneously.
Reality began to harden like Aserite around the palace, stabilizing as the forces of this new order awakened. Paths no longer mattered in the presence of pure power.
They would herald the new beginning—of infinite possibilities, of endless roads to power, with the promise of a brighter future ever on the horizon. There were no more factions, no more species. Irrelevant terms like ancients and primordials had fallen away. They were all part of something different now—something whole.
Chaos was no longer a force of fear but a natural part of existence. And they realized just how out of place its representation—the serpent—had become. This was not their fight; they could feel it, sense it. The thundering clashes from where the Titan battled the beast were distant echoes. Their role was to protect the new future, to usher in the lush possibilities that lay ahead.
Death would come, as would life. Nothing would be wasted, nothing would be wrong. It was all part of the eternal cycle of existence. For life to thrive, death must come. For creation, destruction. And they embraced it all.
From the large draconic hybrid, who would later be known as the original dragon, to the dark green forms of monsters, born from the original divine beasts, that tore through the chaos creatures. From the empress of storms and spears, to the great forger, the true bow, the immovable shield, and the all-seeing webs—they were all part of the Titan’s domain.
They all stood in defiance of the wrongness, and they would hold the line for as long as was required of them.
**************************************
Moyo’s blade clashed with the past, with Apophis and all it represented—the mistakes of a fading era, desperately trying to persist as the future unfolded. Chaos surged around him, a dark tide seeking to swallow him whole, yet Moyo pushed through it. The power of the new beginning flowed through him as he swung his blade, tearing through the metaphysical and metaphorical flesh of the serpent. Apophis’s lifeblood sprayed in torrents, but the serpent’s fangs struck back, seeking to crush him.
He held the beast at bay, its venom—chaos incarnate—dripping onto him, burning through his skin as fast as his newfound energy could replenish it. He fought at the very edge of life and death, a twilight of pain and power, yet his eyes never left the great destroyer.
“We have fought this battle since the beginning of time, old one,” Moyo grunted. “You were first the great destroyer, then you took on myriad forms. You’ve been the abyss, its lord and inhabitants. You have been blood, pestilence, and agony.”
Moyo’s voice grew stronger. “You have been Araman, Azael, and even the Reaper. You used them, stripped them of their identities, and left them as nothing—just another forgotten name in the sands of time. But not anymore,” he thundered, his luminous glow intensifying in unison with the light emanating from the palace.
His form expanded, golden hands of energy materializing around him, gripping Apophis’s spectral form. They wrestled, struggling against each other, as Moyo began to drag the serpent toward the palace, feeling the pulsing power of the new existence within its walls.
“You fool! You’ll destroy us both!” Apophis shrieked, thrashing wildly, striking Moyo again and again. But the titan endured, each blow stripping away parts of him. And still, he pressed on, taking from Apophis the very essence that had sustained the chaos.
Moyo’s skin burned. His strength waned. Yet the core of what he was, the very essence of his being, endured. He was a man pushing a boulder up a cliff, a swimmer battling the tides of an unrelenting ocean, a mountain weathering the fury of a hurricane.
He was the Titan, and his duty was to defend.
He was Moyo. He was the Titan Blade, the last of his tribe, the disciple of Ajax, lover of Ashira, friend to dozens, leader to thousands, and saviour to billions.
He was Moyo. He was the Titan Blade, last of his tribe, disciple of Ajax, lover of Ashira, friend to dozens, and leader to thousands.
He was Moyo. He was the Titan Blade, last of his tribe, disciple of Ajax, lover of Ashira, friend to dozens.
He was Moyo. He was the Titan Blade, last of his tribe, disciple of Ajax, lover of Ashira.
He was Moyo. He was the Titan Blade, the last of his tribe, disciple of Ajax.
He was Moyo. He was the Titan Blade, the last of his tribe.
He was Moyo. He was the Titan Blade.
He was Moyo.
Who was he?
The man, barely knowing his own name, dragged the diminished serpent onward—past the palace walls, past the thousands who fought tirelessly to hold back waves of nightmarish horrors. He could hear their voices calling his name: *Moyo*, they said. Each call sent a tremor through him, but he pressed on, oblivious to their cries.
With every step, his burden grew heavier, as though stones were tied to his feet. His movements were urgent, yet each one felt like it added weight to the crushing load. He muttered incoherent words—words whose meanings he no longer understood.
He moved toward the cracking egg and the being stirring within, its luminous gaze peering at him through the fractures, beckoning to him, soothing him. It told him not to give up, not to surrender. His burden was almost at its end, and there would be peace.
His breaths came in short, ragged gasps. His muscles burned as though aflame. His eyes watered, and it felt as though nails were being driven into every inch of his body. Yet still, he persevered. The serpent had ceased thrashing. Its once-deafening screams in his skull were now silent, too weak to resist.
He reached the egg, finally collapsing to his knees as a burst of radiant light erupted from within. The egg shattered, releasing the power contained inside. In the blink of an eye, it appeared in countless forms—a blade, a hammer, a sun, a burning bird, a man—as if it could not decide what to become.
“Why?” a voice resonated in his mind. Moyo blinked, disoriented, as the light settled into the form of a glowing figure, its hands reaching for the tiny black serpent.
“Why?” the voice asked again, softer this time.
The man—who no longer knew his own name—glanced at the figures still fighting beyond the walls, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. He blinked, watching their struggle, his mind clouded. “Free,” he whispered, before his body collapsed, lifeless, as the light consumed the serpent.
***********************
The burning figure stretched out its hand. It was both nothing and everything—a cradle of creation and destruction fused into a single form. Yet, it understood that this form was temporary. Nothing could contain both forces in their entirety, for they were the fabric of existence itself. Like an ocean, they were meant to flow, boundless and untethered.
But the figure was here for a purpose: to correct a wrong.
It began, swallowing the infinite darkness that had assaulted the few remaining sparks of life. These burning sparks, like tiny wicks of candles, flickered in the vastness. They would be the progenitors of a new age, from which a new dawn would arise.
Across the breadth of existence, chaos vanished—consumed by silvery flames. Its denizens were rewoven into the tapestry of reality, now manifesting as beings of existence itself, no longer bound to a single, core aspect of the cosmos. The great balance had been restored. In a single moment, countless realms were born—galaxies unfurling like seeds scattered across the void, germinating into the universe, which began to remold and repair itself. Layer upon layer of reality stacked atop one another, as virgin worlds formed, waiting for the eons it would take to nurture life.
The figure turned its gaze to the ashen remains beneath its feet and to the woman sobbing in its shadow. It cocked its head, observing her. The thousands who stood frozen, staring at it in awe, were forgotten. They held no consequence to its existence.
Raising its hands, the figure wove new laws into being—immutable truths that would guide the future of this new reality, ensuring it would not stray and fall into ruin as the previous age had done.
"Originals," it thundered, infusing the last of the thousands who remained with the law of originality. They would be the first of their kinds, sacred in their duty to propagate life, and responsible for keeping existence whole.
The figure glimpsed into the distant future, seeing what they would become—entire households of divine beings, ruling over realms of existence. But that future was not its concern. Its task was nearly complete. One final law remained to be set.
It knelt, as the palace around it continued to grow, larger and grander with each moment. Meteorites crashed into its walls, reshaping it into something new—a planet, a golden sphere of pure power that would later be known as the Source.
Placing a single finger on the forehead of the being who had sacrificed so much to give it life, the figure bestowed the last remnants of what had once been chaos.
"Please," the woman beside him sobbed, unaware that even now, her very being was being rewoven at a fundamental level. "Save him," she begged.
The figure felt no compulsion to grant her request. The being she knew was dead. What was to emerge in its place was the Alpha—the sole custodian of existence, a power even greater than the divine houses that the thousands would become eons from now.
“Become,” it commanded, its voice carrying the weight of law and power.
The being in the woman’s arms disintegrated into ash, terror etched on her face. But as quickly as he was undone, his form began to reweave itself, threads of existence pulling together. The figure of new beginnings peered into the empty looms of fate, seeking out those vital to the sanity of the Alpha. It plucked them from nonexistence, weaving them back into the tapestry of reality. Each act drained more of its power, its form flickering, longing to return to the great ocean from which it came.
Satisfied, the figure watched as the Alpha’s eyes blazed with white and gold light. It had fulfilled its duty.
Releasing its final energies into the cosmos, the figure vanished—nothing left but a blade lying beside the Alpha, gleaming on the ground.