While Apeiron processes the truth of his bloodline and prepares for the next leg of his journey to save Pandora, a different path is being forged in the sky above.
The soldier of El tears through the atmosphere, a desperate streak of light leaving the scorched remnants of the forest far behind. His breathing is ragged, his lungs burning with every gasp. His mind is haunted by the recurring image of his crew being systematically dismantled erased by a power he cannot comprehend.
He flies over crystal-clear lakes and sprawling, luminous cities filled with the "Chosen" the elite who live in a golden luxury built on the suffering of the multiverses. Below him, he sees kingdom after kingdom where no slaves are permitted to walk, a paradise reserved only for those Elyon deems worthy.
Finally, the massive, crystalline spires of the planet's capital pierce the clouds. The soldier dives toward the central palace, his armor battered and his spirit broken. He skims past the elite guards, his momentum carrying him toward the heart of the divine administration.
Battered and bruised, the messenger stumbles through the towering castle gates. "I need to speak to the High Holy Knights!" he gasps to the guards, his voice cracking with exhaustion. "We found them! We know where the Resistance is hiding we know where they transport the slaves!"
He is ushered into the Grand Council Chamber, where the air is thick with divine pressure. Before him, three colossal figures loom, each wearing the 5 L insignia of their supreme rank as Holy Knights. The Soldier of El drops to his knees, his forehead pressing against the cold marble.
"We need your assistance," he pleads, his body trembling. "We have found the primary hideout for the rebels the Resistance. I believe this location leads to all their sanctuaries... the secret realm where they have been hiding the cattle. But there is a warrior with them. A powerful warrior, as strong as the Messiah Veyron from what I have witnessed. He defeats a Holy Knight with a single strike... a warrior in a purple cape."
He dares to look up, meeting the collective gaze of the Council.
On the left, Holy Knight Seraphiel reclines in her seat, her posture radiating a dangerous grace. Her skin possesses the deep, rich luster of polished mahogany, providing a striking contrast to the celestial glow of her golden wings, which shimmer like a dying sun. Her armor a delicate fusion of gold, white, and phoenix-pink is light and elegant, accenting her lithe, powerful frame.
She sips from a golden cup, and as she pulls it away, a sharp, predatory smile reveals rows of serrated, obsidian-tipped teeth. Her eyes, a pair of piercing crimson orbs, lock onto the trembling messenger with a gaze that feels like a physical burn. Her long, dark hair flows like a silken river over her shoulders, reaching down to her waist.
"Finally, some good news," she purrs, her voice as smooth and lethal as a silk garrote. "It took you lower-class warriors long enough to find those rats. I'm tired of the waiting... I can't wait to ignite the sky and watch the Resistance burn until there is nothing left but ash for the wind."
To her right, Zeravolt stands he is too restless to even remain in his chair. Arcs of violent green lightning dance across his massive, 12-foot-tall muscular frame, casting jagged shadows against the Council walls. He wears minimal armor in green, gold, and white, allowing his raw, divine power to radiate outward like a physical weight.
His eyes are a piercing, electric blue, and his wild blonde hair crackles with static. He leans forward, his shadow looming over the kneeling messenger.
"Finally, someone I can crush," he booms, his voice shaking the very foundations of the castle. "I am tired of paperwork. Tired of letting the lower classes have all the fun while we rot in these seats. It is time we get our hands dirty."
He grins, the lightning around his fists intensifying at the mention of the purple cape. "A warrior on the same level as the Messiah, Veyron. Finally... a real challenge."
Zeravolt clenches his jaw, the memory of his last defeat surging through him. "I have been dying for a rematch with Veyron. The last time I face him with my crew of lower-class knights, he defeats me with all his tricks and magic. Surprisingly, he is gifted at close-quarters combat but this time, there will be no escape for him or his new friend."
In the center of the dais sits the absolute authority of this world: Astrael.
His eyes are not merely colored; they are solid, molten gold, glowing with a light that bypasses the physical and judges the soul. His massive frame is encased in heavy, ornate plate that defies the laws of matter. The armor is a living vortex of black and gold, shifting and flowing like a captured galaxy. The metal shapes and moves constantly, swirling with a cosmic current that makes his silhouette appear to expand and contract with the rhythm of a heartbeat.
Even his wings are not feathers, but blades of shielded metal, sharp enough to cleave through dimensions. Two miniature suns float behind him, their gravitational pull making the very air in the room heavy and thick, their heat pulsing in a slow, rhythmic dance. He wears a cloak of deep obsidian and crimson that swirls with the living radiance of trapped stars and dying nebulae. His presence is that of a walking universe.
"We shall destroy them completely," Astrael declares, his voice carrying the inescapable weight of a divine decree. "Our Lord, Elyon, orders annihilation. We will bring the entire force of this universe if not more to their doorstep. We must find their pocket dimension and erase every trace of these rebels from the scrolls of history."
Astrael reaches out his hand, the sheer density of his power warping and bending the air into a shimmering lens.
"To guarantee this victory... since you claim the Messiah, Veyron, is there alongside a warrior of equal standing... I call upon you, the Sovereign of these stars! The Gods of El!"
A massive portal tore open in the center of the room, the fabric of reality shrieking as it was forced apart. It projected an image of a being so vast and radiant that the sheer pressure shattered the marble beneath the messenger. He was forced to his knees, his bones groaning under the celestial weight of Immaniel, one of the strongest Gods of El.
As Immaniel's form materialized, a golden halo floated above his head, casting a blinding light. He is draped in white and golden robes fit for a supreme deity, but beneath the flowing fabric lay his battle-attire. His armor was crafted from a divine, white ore, accented with filigrees of pure gold. It was minimalist and sleek, protecting only his vitals to allow for maximum mobility, reflecting a being who felt he was too fast and too holy to be touched by a mortal blade.
Six crimson wings unfurled from his back, each one lined with multiple eyes that pierced through the veil of the future, present, and past. Golden energy radiated from his body in waves, the sheer heat of his presence singeing the air.
"I see that you have found the Messiah," Immaniel's voice echoed like a choir of thunder, vibrating through the very foundation of the palace. "No longer will his evil deeds and defiance of our Lord be tolerated. His sin shall last no longer. I have already summoned the other gods who rule the other multiverses of our cosmos; they shall be joining us. The Messiah will not escape."
Immaniel raised a steady hand, aiming it toward the trembling messenger. With a sharp flick of his fingers, he used his divine power to project a shimmering, holographic image of the battle that had just taken place. The air filled with the ghost-lights of the conflict, showing the mysterious warrior in the purple cape dismantling the El forces with terrifying ease.
Immaniel watched the playback, the many eyes on his six wings blinking in unison as they analyzed every movement.
"Quite impressive, this warrior with the purple cape," Immaniel remarked, his tone dismissive despite the carnage on display. "Yet, I sense no divine power from him. He possesses no god-light, no celestial spark. He shall be of no trouble to us. Their bodies and their souls will be sacrificed. It is not cruelty; it is justice."
He closed his hand, crushing the projection into a spray of golden sparks. "The order of the multiverse must be maintained, and these rebels are but dust on the scales of Elyon."
Suddenly, a figure stepped out from behind him through the portal. This is Belial, a Demon Fist Warrior God. He was clad in black and red armor etched with demonic marks that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. Two jagged horns, curved and heavy like those of a prehistoric goat, protruded from his head, giving him an ancient, predatory silhouette.
As he stepped into the light, he revealed four eyes two primary orbs burning with a hateful crimson, and a smaller pair stacked just above them, twitching with a frantic, supernatural awareness. He loomed over the Gods of El, his terrifying presence casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the golden radiance of the room.
"The purple warrior of whom you speak... he is very powerful. Our father, the Demiurge, wants him dead," Belial said, his voice a low growl. "He is the successor of the Empty Fist. Since we attacked his cosmos, he has been following us; a certain ship he followed led him here. I have been tasked to stop him."
He crossed his arms, looking down at the Council with superiority. "This is why we, the Demon Fist, must assist you in this fight. I will be in charge of this mission. You all will obey my words. We attack tomorrow morning. My Demon Fist warriors are already prepared. See to it that your Warriors of El are ready."
"Silence!" Immaniel hissed. "I am in charge. I decide when we attack. We do not need assistance from you Demon Fist warriors. The Messiah's blood must be shed by my hand alone to please Elyon."
Belial laughed, a cold and hollow sound. "You think you're in charge? Do not forget which God controls the others, and which Father rules over yours. We have dominion over you. You are lucky your God submitted that he allowed his people to be sacrificed so his world would survive."
"You dare speak of our Lord like this?" Zeravolt roared, his energy surging. "I am tired of you Demon Fist warriors walking around like you own everything! This is our cosmos!"
Zeravolt charged forward, swinging a fist backed by the fury of a storm. Suddenly, a massive, spectral Demon Hand materialized in the air. It snatched Zeravolt mid-strike, its fingers squeezing the titan-like god. Zeravolt began to scream, his massive frame trembling as he struggled to break free from the crushing grip.
Instantly, Astrael, Seraphiel, and Immaniel leveled their palms, divine energy swirling and condensing in their hands as they prepared to fire lethal blasts at the Demon Fist Warrior.
"Let him go," Immaniel commanded, his eyes glowing with divine heat.
Belial kept his arms crossed, laughing as the Demon Hand finally uncurled and dropped the gasping Zeravolt.
"Consider that a warning to all of you. Remember who is in charge," Belial sneered. "We made your God sacrifice his lower gods—the Gods of El and the Holy Knights alike. Elyon decided to sacrifice the mortals instead to spare the lives of his sons, daughters, he's creations, but we can always bring those days back. Now, fall in line."
The High Holy Knights and Immaniel slowly lowered their hands, their faces tight with suppressed rage. Belial turned his gaze toward the trembling Soldier of El, who had watched the entire exchange in horror.
"Go," Belial barked at the messenger. "Tell your warriors to get ready." He then looked back at the Gods of El with a chilling finality. "We attack tomorrow morning. My troops are ready."
While the Soldier of El sought the divine audience of the Holy Knights, the second survivor forged her own path through the sky. The Valkyrie tore through the upper atmosphere, her wings aching from the strain of the emergency jump. Below her, the golden cities of the "Chosen" fell away, replaced by the cold, industrial shadow of a higher plane a realm that functioned as a massive, cosmic factory.
Here, the air was thick with the scent of ozone, burnt oil, and despair. This was the engine of the Demon fist Cosmos' power. Slaves in heavy chains stood like breathing statues, their life force being siphoned to power the massive machinery of war. Demon warriors prowled the steel walkways alongside weathered Norse Einherjar, overseeing the grim production of weapons meant to shatter worlds.
The Valkyrie touched down in the heart of the base, her armor scorched and her breathing heavy. She bypassed the guards, her status as a messenger of the high lords granting her passage into the inner sanctum.
She entered a chamber that smelled of old blood and freezing iron. Dropping to one knee, she bowed her head deeply.
"Lord Modi," she called out, her voice trembling with the weight of her news. "We have found the traitor. The Valkyrie who defied the laws of the Aesir your wife. We have found her and the child. She has aligned herself with the Resistance of this cosmos. On your word, we shall seize her, though the path is blocked. There is a warrior with her a man in a purple cape. We believe he is the same ghost who sowed chaos during the fall of the Olympus Cosmos."
In front of her, the shadows shifted. Modi stood nearly ten feet tall, a towering mass of corded muscle and scarred iron. His armor was unmistakably Viking heavy plates etched with ancient runes, cracked and blackened by centuries of slaughter. A fur-lined cloak hung from his shoulders, scorched as if even the fires of Muspelheim had failed to consume it.
His hair was a wild, reddish-brown mane, long and matted like a warrior who lived only for the front lines. His beard, dark with ash and old blood, framed a face locked in a permanent, terrifying snarl. He reeked of strong mead, the scent of fermented honey clinging to his breath as he took frequent, aggressive swigs from a tarnished silver flagon. As he lowered the drink, his storm-blue eyes began to glow with a faint, jagged light, flickering like the approach of a distant tempest.
"Good," Modi growled, the sound vibrating through the Valkyrie's chest. "She thinks she can simply desert her post? To take my scion and flee into the tall grass of another cosmos? She is my property, and the child is the blood of my blood. Take me to them. I shall drag her back by her hair."
As he stepped forward, the floor buckled under his weight. But a massive, gauntleted hand clamped onto his shoulder, stopping him dead in his tracks.
"You shall not leave your post, my son," a voice boomed, thick with the weight of a thousand storms.
Modi turned to face his father, Thor. The God of Thunder was a titan of eleven feet, a monument of silver, white, and gold armor that gleamed with a celestial polish. Beneath the plates, his skin was a map of intricate Viking tattoos that pulsed with trapped, blue lightning, tracing the veins of a living storm. Around his waist, he wore the legendary belt, Megingjoro, which glowed with a dull copper light as it doubled his already god-like strength.
His hair was a fierce, fiery red as red as the blood of the giants he had slain and it flowed like a river of flame down his back. His beard was equally vibrant, braided with gold rings that rattled as he spoke. Strapped to his side was the short-handled mallet, Mjolnir, humming with a frequency that caused the very air in the factory to vibrate. His eyes were not merely blue; they were two raging electric vortices that seemed to strike the ground with every blink.
"The sacrifice ritual has begun," Thor declared, his eyes glowing with an ancient, stormy light. "We are harvesting the sources of a massive amount of multiverses in this Cosmic Forge. You must ensure this realm remains unbreached. The Demon Fists speak of this successor in the purple cape the one who seeks the source of his lost cosmos. He is searching, and he is dangerous. You must stay and protect our prize."
Thor leaned in closer, the static from his armor making the air hiss. "We have aided these Demon Fist warriors in conquering other cosmos to steal their sources and their souls. We have spilled blood to fuel this engine. You must make sure we get our part of the spoils. Fall in line, and guard what is ours."
"I will not let her escape again!" Modi snarled, his rage flaring. "She is mine! My property! My blood! The slaves cannot pleasure me the way she does. And where are you going? Back to the high seat of the All-Father while I rot here playing jailer?"
"I must return to our home cosmos," Thor replied, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "Rebels stir in the shadows of the World Tree, and I will not have my kingdom rot from within. As for your runaway wife... we shall not waste our strength on a domestic hunt. We shall use a specialist."
Thor turned his cold gaze toward the kneeling Valkyrie.
"Go," the Thunder God commanded. "Summon the bounty hunter Hermoor. Tell him there is a prize to be collected and a purple-clad obstacle to be removed."
As the gods of thunder and ruin plotted their next move, Apeiron and his crew slept through the night, unaware that a hunter was being unleashed upon them.