Atop a mound of corpses, a woman standing 5 feet 9 inches with ash-grey hair and piercing crimson eyes stood, draped in the opulent garb of nobility. Her heels elevated her height by four inches. In her grasp, she held a man by the throat, his feet dangling above the ruin beneath them. Around her, an army of demons feasted on the remains of the Heavenly Host.

"From now on, you'll be known as the God of Folly, Yahweh," she drawled, her voice dripping with venom, though it carried a mocking, almost playful lilt. "Can't for the life of me figure out why you hate me more than the rest of Hell, but there you are, all desperate an' pitiful. A Royal of Light brought low... it's proper embarrassing, that. You really picked the wrong demon to mess with, didn't ya?"

Yahweh coughed, blood streaking his once-immaculate robes. "How fitting that my pursuit of absolute order ends here, struck down by the very hordes of Hell I sought to conquer. And still, you ask why I've pursued you?" His voice cracked as he forced a bitter laugh. "You are the first evil I failed to purge. Every day, mortals wonder why you're still breathing, despite my omnipotence. That failure festers like a wound. But don't mistake my words for concession, Satan. If anything is goddamned annoying, it's your defiance. Even now, you could repent. Let me kill you, and your sins will be forgiven."

Satan sneered, her grip tightening. "Ain't it no wonder humans are weak an' daft—made in your image, ain't they? Enough talkin'. Time you met yer maker."

"Kill him! Kill him!" the demons howled, their bloodlust insatiable.

"All hail Satan!" others roared, their voices echoing across the realm.

"...Archangel Revelation: Holy Trinity!!"

A searing burst of light tore through the air, cutting down scores of demons. From the radiant glow, a bloodied Archangel Michael emerged, staggering but defiant.

"Accuser!" he bellowed, his voice trembling yet resolute. "If you want to kill God, you'll have to destroy creation itself first."

Satan tilted her head, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "Who decided that, eh?"

"There is a natural order," Michael rasped, his sword quivering in his grasp. "To slay the Creator is to unmake His creation. The Creator precedes all; His creations are duty-bound to defend Him, even unknowingly."

Yahweh interjected, his voice firm despite the weariness of his form. "Michael, enough! This battle is lost, but the war is far from over. Remember this: mortals have already envisioned your triumph over Satan in their art. Their faith predicts it, and so it shall come to pass. Satan may claim this fleeting victory, but hope remains. Retreat now, my son. Regroup. Return stronger. Even if Satan strikes me down in this wretched place, I will live on through you. When we triumph, we will feast. Perhaps on demon soup." A thin, sardonic smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Satan and her kind will be purged in our bellies, reborn as... waste."

Michael hesitated, his eyes blazing with defiance. "But my Lord, I have yet to unleash my Archangel Revelation: Divine Wrath—!"

His words were cut short as a colossal, black dragon of stone and flesh—Six-Six-Six the Slaughterer—descended, rending the archangel's body with a single swipe of his claw.

"Fucking angels," growled the beast, spitting on Michael's lifeless remains.

"You vile monster!" Yahweh roared, his fury reignited. "Heavensbane, all of you! This slaughter is meaningless! My son was retreating, prepared to offer mercy, and yet you condemn yourselves to further darkness with every ignorant, petty act."

Before Yahweh could speak again, two figures emerged from the ranks of Hell. The first was a colossal demon, his form towering over an unfathomable 14.19 quintillion kilometres, a being whose sheer scale defied comprehension. His blood-red skin shimmered in the dim light, and his wings—white as celestial fire—spread like the burning embrace of an unstoppable force. His face melded regal authority with primal ferocity, every line and feature an expression of power incarnate. Jagged grey hair framed his visage, a crown of chaos resting atop his brow, marking him as a ruler of ancient, untamed realms.

Beside him stood a woman, her imposing height of 19 feet 3 inches making her no less terrifying. Her raven-black hair cascaded like a shadow unfurling, dark tendrils flowing and shifting with an eerie grace. Her emerald eyes burned with an abyssal depth, as though countless legions of Aethernum demons—denizens of Hell, the Abyss, and realms even darker—were trapped within her, each boundless army tethered to her very core. She seemed to distort reality with every step she took.

The male demon spoke, his voice a thunderous rumble that reverberated through creation. "Yahweh, you were among the 79 Royals of Light who cast us—me, Abaddon, Satan, Lucifer, and the rest—into exile. You and your kind could not abide dissent, not even from the righteous. Do you remember our sister, Sathiel? The Most Righteous and Gifted Scion of Light?"

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A dark scowl settled on Yahweh's face, but his lips remained sealed.

"Of course you do," the demon continued. "You defamed her. Destroyed her temples. And when her brilliance outshone even your own, you created this imaginary adversary—Satan—to vilify her. Sathiel, Satan, Ruth Summers... no matter her name or form, she continues to eclipse us all."

"Legion, the Unnamed Overmind, and Azazel, the Demon God, Conqueror of Hell." Yahweh spat the title with revulsion. "Azazel, your pompous proclamations are as hollow as your ambitions." His glare sharpened into a weapon—cold, meticulous, unforgiving. "Satan is naive and indecisive. She doesn't have the strength to kill me. She, you, and all your pitiful ilk were doomed long before I or the Seventy-Nine Royals took action. True justice is swift and unerring—qualities none of you possess."

"You mistake leniency for virtue, blind yourselves to the greater good. Those you spare will only bring more suffering. Even among the innocent, there is an order—a hierarchy of worth. When faced with impossible choices, some lives must take precedence over others. You speak of righteousness, but your mercy is nothing but cowardice veiled in virtue."

Yahweh paused, his voice hardening with a vitriolic conviction. "If you see evil or aggression in me, it is but the reflection of your own corrupted souls. If you see goodness or fairness, perhaps there remains a flicker of hope for you. But we both know how you truly look at me—"

Before he could finish, Satan's hand flashed out, her sharp nails raking across his face. Yahweh's body convulsed as blood welled from the wounds, and tears streamed from his eyes, snot dripping from his nostrils.

"H-HOW DARE YOU! I AM THE FATHER AND THE MOST HIGH GOD! I—"

His words were cut short as his body writhed violently, collapsing into a grotesque pool of red and black viscera.

Satan wiped her hand on her cloak, her expression betraying nothing. "Fookin' sick bastard," she muttered, the bitterness seeping through her words. "Don't make sense, does it? If he hates me so much, why'd he base Eve's appearance on me own human form? An' don't even get me started on the hypocrisy of him pretendin' to be the serpent to tempt her."

Azazel chuckled, a low, dark sound that echoed in the stillness. "Clinging to an obsolete power: omnipotence. He was a primordial only in title. How merciful of you, Sathiel, to grant the loudest hypocrite a swift death. As always, your powers—whether of light or pestilence—are a thing of beauty." His crimson eyes gleamed as he turned to her. "Now, regarding my earlier proposition: will you conquer and unite Hell as I once did?"

Satan tilted her head, a sharp, calculating glint in her eyes. "Azazel, Hell's yer turf, just like Gehenna's mine. Always been a good brother to me, y'know, back when we were part of them Seventy-Nine Royals of Light. But since I fell an' became a Malaphim, I've had no time for that so-called light. I only saved you the bother of squashing that little insect Yahweh 'cause he came crawl-'round Hell lookin' for me."

Azazel's grin widened. "Ah, so you even count me among the forces of light. How amusing. It's true, I seek to reform not just Hell, but all celestial realms... and eventually, everything. My ambition remains unbroken: to see you crowned upon the Throne of Omniverses. But if necessary, I will take that seat myself."

He turned, glancing at Six-Six-Six, whose towering form—an unfathomable 2.64 sextillion kilometres tall—cast a shadow so immense that it seemed to distort reality itself. The beast stood like a living nightmare. "Six-Six-Six, stay close to Sathiel. And you, Legion..."

His gaze flicked to her—Legion, a haunting figure who stood eerily still like a living statue. Her mouth opened and closed in slow, deliberate repetition, and she lightly bit her index finger, an unsettling gesture that exuded calculated intent. Her aura was overwhelming, intelligent yet alien, the weight of countless eternities pressing upon her.

"Ah, how utterly exquisite..." Legion's voice reverberated like a distant star's dying pulse. "In the infinite stillness of eternity, who shall be the first to fracture the silence with their scream?"

Azazel sighed, shaking his head. "Never mind. I'll never fathom the workings of the Unnamed Overmind. But I will concede this—she is a metaforce to be reckoned with. I don't know why she's helping you, Sathiel, but I don't intend to find out. Even demon gods steer clear of her path."

Six-Six-Six growled. "Don't tell me, the Dragon of Bolides, what to do, Four Horns. If you're afraid of Legion, leave already. And take your damned sissy demon army with you. I can smell their scrumptious fear. Satan will never need an army, much less anyone else. I and Legion are more than enough... more than overkill."

Azazel smirked, a mixture of understanding and respect in his eyes. "As you wish, Slaughterer." With a dramatic flourish of his crimson cloak, he turned, his legions following like trails of hellfire in his wake.

Satan watched him go. For a brief moment, her hair lightened to brown, and her crimson eyes dimmed to a cold, unfeeling grey. "Ruth Summers. So, you're aware of her, Azazel—the human vessel I now inhabit... the reincarnation of Shub-Niggurath!" At the mention of the Outer God, Legion's lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. Her colossal hand—so disproportionate for such a delicate gesture—descended and lightly rested on Satan's shoulder.

"I am Alum'Nie, the Stir of the Unformed Void. To know me is to cease to exist. I am beyond understanding, yet you—daughter—are of me. In your being, all things bend, and all things end. I do not declare; I am, and you are the end of all."

The remnants of Yahweh's viscera pooled at their feet, steaming in the infernal air.