"This situation looks grim."
A flat, endless plain stretched in all directions. No hills, no skies, no shadows—just blinding white.
A world without borders. A space without time.
Most minds would break under such emptiness. Ten minutes here could tear through one's sanity. But the beings sitting around the large table weren't ordinary.
Seven of them. The Seven Gods.
They sat in silence for a while, each one weighed down by the same thought.
Astaroth.
He had once shaken the balance of realms. Not because he had the blood of the divine. Not because he was chosen. But because he understood something that few others did—power came from belief.
The more he was worshipped, the more his strength multiplied.
Demons across continents chanted his name. Sacrifices were made. Cities were burned in his honor. And with every act of devotion, Astaroth's reach grew. His flame rose higher, inching toward the heavens.
And had they not acted, he would've reached it.
