A world of ash and death stretched endlessly in every direction, a desolate panorama of destruction that seemed to mock the very concept of life. The sky, clear of all obstructions, displayed the glory of the endless vista of stars. It crackled with bursts of magma flowing in molten rivers across the land, casting an eerie crimson glow over the landscape. The celestial tapestry above seemed to mock the devastation below, its beauty a stark contrast to the hellish scene. Ribbons of fire snaked their way through the barren terrain, their heat palpable even from a distance. The air shimmered with waves of intense heat, distorting the horizon and creating mirages that danced on the edge of perception. In this infernal realm, the boundaries between earth and sky blurred, as if the very fabric of reality was unraveling in the face of such overwhelming destruction. The ground, once fertile and green, was now a blackened ruin—cracked and scarred by unyielding heat, its surface a maze of fissures and canyons that spoke of violent upheavals. The only movement in this dead world was the sluggish crawl of lava, oozing through the deep fissures that marred the land, its slow progress a grim reminder of the passage of time in a place where time had lost all meaning.
At the heart of this desolate wasteland sat a throne of obsidian, carved from the very essence of the world's decay. Dark and jagged, its smooth surfaces shimmered in the light of the vibrant emerald glow that pulsed within its core, creating an otherworldly contrast to the surrounding devastation. This throne was not a monument of triumph, but of despair—a testament to a world long forgotten, brought to ruin by the very entity who now sat upon it. Its presence seemed to radiate an aura of power and malevolence, drawing the eye even amidst the chaos of the ruined landscape.
She was the last thing living in this shattered realm. If one could even call it living. The very air around her seemed to quiver with barely contained energy.
The figure lounging on the throne was a woman, her copper hair a striking contrast to the darkness around her, its fiery strands flowing down her back like streams of blood. Her eyes, two cold orbs of emerald, mirrored the vibrant emerald glow of the throne's core, their eerie light the only movement in her otherwise frozen form. She sat with an air of careless grace, her long legs draped over one of the armrests, her head pillowed against the other. Her skin, pale and flawless, seemed to absorb the crimson light of the burning world around her, giving her an almost ethereal appearance. Reposed, unmoving, she stared out across her kingdom of conflagration, her gaze unfocused yet somehow all-encompassing.
Her expression was unreadable, a mask of perfect serenity that belied the chaos of the world around her. A faint smile played on her lips, more a relic of old emotions than any genuine expression, a ghost of feelings long since past away. A century had passed since any life had dared to breathe within this world. A century since the fires of her wrath had consumed all, leaving nothing but this endless expanse of desolation. If any creature had remained to witness her, analyze her, they might have seen something terrifying reflected in her stat screen—if only they could comprehend the magnitude of her power. But there was no one left to see, no one to marvel at the being who had brought about the end of everything. She sat alone, a goddess in a dead world, surrounded by the ashes of her own making.
Azryale Durge the End Bringer
Level: ???
Class: Supreme God of the End
HP: ????
MP: ????
Passives: [???]
Talents: [???]
Skills: [???]
Spells: [???]
Achievements: Last One Standing, Watch the World Burn, Obsidian Ascendant, God slayer, Divine Deceiver...
She was more than a mere god now; she was the end of all things. Though nothing remained to perceive her presence, the very air was heavy with the overwhelming weight of her aura. If anything had somehow survived the burning heat, it would have been crushed beneath the sheer force of her power. The very fabric of reality seemed to bend and warp around her, as if struggling to contain the enormity of her existence.
For a hundred years, the world had remained in dead silence. No movement, no sound, no life. Only the distant rumble of molten rock and the occasional hiss of steam rising from the ground. The endless expanse of ruin a testament to her conquest, her vengeance. Mountains had crumbled, oceans had boiled away, and the sky itself had been scorched clean of clouds. All that remained was a barren wasteland, stretching as far as the eye could see.
And so she waited, a solitary figure perched atop her obsidian throne, surrounded by a lake of bubbling lava.
But now, after an eternity of stillness, something changed. A ripple in the fabric of this reality, a break in the stagnant calm. It was as if the universe itself held its breath, anticipating what was to come.
A portal opened before her, tearing through the very air with a sound like reality itself being rent asunder.
For the first time in a century, Azryale blinked. Her eyes, which had been fixed in an unseeing stare, narrowed with sudden interest. Her body shifted slightly on the throne as she straightened, studying the swirling vortex that had torn itself into existence. The portal hummed with energy—energy that was strangely familiar. The essence it emitted was a mirror of what her own had once been, before she had ascended, before she had become the End Bringer. It pulsed with a rhythm that seemed to call out to her very soul.
The portal was calling to her, its siren song impossible to ignore.
A part of her scoffed at the idea. No one could have survived her wrath. Her vengeance had been absolute, and her powers would have alerted her if any form of life had dared to return. She had ensured the world's complete and utter destruction—every living thing had been wiped out, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake. She had the achievements to prove it, each one a testament to her unrivaled power and ruthlessness.
But still, the portal beckoned, its allure growing stronger with each passing moment.
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She rose from the throne, her ornate black dress swirling around her like liquid shadow. It clung to her form, the deep emeralds embroidered into the fabric glinting with the light of the throne's core. Her movements were slow, deliberate, each step carrying the weight of a hundred years of solitude and contemplation.
Her gaze remained fixed on the portal as she stepped closer, the air crackling with her presence. Her senses flared, probing the anomaly before her with all the considerable power at her disposal. Was this a trap? Possibly. But after a century of isolation, even a trap seemed preferable to the endless monotony of staring at her own conquest. The thought of facing a new challenge, no matter how futile, sent a thrill through her long-dormant nerves.
A hundred years ago, had someone told her that the price of her victory would be eternal solitude, gazing upon her triumph she would have been giddy at the thought. She had been eager, determined to see her dreams realized. Now, she found herself yearning for something more, something beyond the ashen wasteland she had created.
Azryale reached the portal. Her hand hovered over its shimmering surface, hesitating only for a moment before she stepped through. The world of ash and death disappeared behind her, and the Obsidian Throne faded into nothingness. For a brief instant, she felt herself stretched across time and space, her very essence unraveling and reweaving itself.
No longer standing, she found herself lying on her back, staring up at a thatched roof. The smell of damp wood and musty earth filled the air, and she felt the hard ground beneath her. For a moment, she did nothing, simply breathing in the strange new environment. The sensation of air filling her lungs felt foreign, almost overwhelming after a century of existing in a world devoid of life.
Weakness flooded her limbs, an unfamiliar sensation that sent a jolt of panic through her.
"A trap, then?" she murmured, bemused. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, hoarse from disuse and lacking the otherworldly resonance it had possessed for so long.
She brought up her stat screen, her eyes scanning the familiar interface. The action was instinctive, a reflex born from countless years of relying on her godlike powers.
And froze.
The numbers, the values that had once denoted her absolute dominion, were gone. In their place,
Ryale Durge
Level: 1
Class: Champion of Light
HP: 15
MP: 0
Passives: Heroic Presence Bane of Evil Divine Favor
Talents: [N/A]
Skills: [N/A]
Spells: [N/A]
Achievements: Answering the Call, Last One Standing, Watch the World Burn, Obsidian Ascendant, Godslayer...
She stared at the words, her mind refusing to process what she was seeing. Champion of Light? Her lip curled in disgust. She had spent her life plotting the downfall of the gods, destroying them, ensuring the collapse of their reign. And now, she was labeled as a servant of one? The thought turned her stomach. It wasn't the loss of her divine power that unsettled her—she had expected that, severing her connection to her world when she stepped through the portal. No, what horrified her was this new class. It was an insult to everything she had once been, a mockery of her life's work and the blood-soaked path she had carved through existence.
Before she could fully comprehend the depth of this insult, a voice interrupted her thoughts, slicing through her rising anger like a cold blade.
"I see one of you was dumb enough to heed the call of that arrogant fool," the voice said, a dry, familiar tone cutting through the silence. The words dripped with disdain, echoing off the unseen walls of wherever she had found herself.
Ryale turned her head, still laying on the floor, to locate the source. A familiar face came into view as she scanned the room, her eyes narrowing with a mixture of recognition and suspicion. She instinctively checked the woman's stat screen to be sure.
Videnca Saltus
Level: 67
Class: Forest Witch Acolyte
HP: 25
MP: 55
Passives: [???]
Talents: [???]
Skills: [???]
Spells: [???]
The details were sparse, the majority of Videnca's abilities concealed by the level difference, but it was enough. Ryale's mind flashed with recognition. Videnca Saltus, one of the biggest thorns in her side during her early efforts to overthrow the gods. A devoted follower of Sephone, the Goddess of Nature. In her world, Videnca had unknowingly been a stumbling block for Ryale's plans, only to fall in the end, her lifeless body at Ryale's feet. Her hand instinctively brushed against her side where phantom pain surfaced—an old wound that no longer existed, but whose memory was still sharp. She remembered that final battle vividly. Videnca, standing bloodied but defiant, had fallen at Ryale's feet. She had watched the light leave Videnca's eyes as her body slumped lifeless to the ground, her blood pooling in the dirt. In that moment, Ryale had thought she had rid herself of the witch once and for all.
But this Videnca—this version of her—was different. Gone was the malice that had filled her eyes in the past. Now, as she stood before Ryale, her gaze was filled with a kind of exasperated amusement, tinged with a hint of curiosity. The air around her seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly energy, a reminder of her connection to the natural world.
"Cat got your tongue, or are you just slow?" Videnca's lips curled into a smirk, arms folded as she stared down at her. Her fingers tapped impatiently against her arm, a subtle reminder of her limited patience.
Ryale remained silent for a moment, her mind grappling with the surreal nature of this reunion. This was the same Videnca, or at least some version of her. But something was off. She lacked the cruelty, the sharp edge that had once defined her.
Ryale slowly rose to her feet, noticing as she did that her once ornate dress had been replaced by a gaudy suit of armor, the kind fit for the ridiculous title of Champion of Light. The metal clinked and scraped as she moved, unfamiliar and uncomfortable. She flexed her fingers, still adjusting to the weakness in her limbs, before turning to face Videnca. The room around them came into sharper focus – a circular chamber with walls of living wood, pulsing with an ethereal green light.
"It's interesting to see you again, Videnca," Ryale said, her voice calm, betraying nothing.
"Wonderful, you can speak," Videnca replied, rolling her eyes. "Although I'm not sure how to interpret that greeting. You must have known me on your world. I'm sure you have questions, so speak up. I don't have all day, and my patience is already worn thin from dealing with your predecessor." She tapped her foot.
Ryale's eyes flickered at the mention of a predecessor, but she kept her composure. "Why did you call me?" she asked, her tone measured.
Videnca gave a disappointed sigh, her shoulders slumping slightly. "Boo. A boring one, I see. I was hoping for more drama, maybe some panic." She waved her hand dismissively, and for a moment, the air shimmered with green sparks. "Oh well. To answer your question, this is a different world from your own. You've crossed dimensions. This is the same world, but in a different dimension. People here may look familiar, but they could be entirely different from what you remember." Her eyes narrowed, studying Ryale's reaction closely.
As Videnca continued, Ryale cut her off, her patience wearing thin. "I'm aware of the multiverse. Why specifically did you bring me here?" Her voice carried a hint of her old authority, a reminder of the power she once wielded.
Videnca blinked, a bit taken aback by the interruption, but she quickly recovered, nodding. Her lips quirked into a half-smile. "Fine. The version of you from this world was fatally cursed and came to me. They believed only another version of themselves could accomplish their mission. Arrogant, that one. They wanted me to summon the strongest version I could, which, it seems, is you." Videnca's lips twisted into a smile, a mix of amusement and intrigue. "Though, judging by your current stats, that's kind of hilarious."