Ereshkigal — Mount Meru, Divya Sabha
As I stepped into the Divya Sabha beside Enlil, a crushing wave of divine pressure slammed into me.
The air was dense—heavy with authority, pride, and ancient energy so potent it seemed to warp reality itself. My every instinct screamed caution as I scanned the chamber.
And then I froze.
This was meant to be a peace summit—a diplomatic gathering to avoid total annihilation, a fragile truce born from desperation after the failed invasion of the Sanatan pantheon.
But I hadn't expected this.
Not this level of power.
Each pantheon had sent their champions, the beings who stood at the pinnacle of their hierarchies—those who could rival the top ten entities in the cosmos. Yet witnessing them together, breathing the same air, seated beneath the same roof—it was jarring in a way that no battlefield had ever been.
But what truly shook me were two particular presences.
One, a figure born of the Ars Goetia—a living embodiment of primordial demonic might.
The other… Jesus of Nazareth himself.
It wasn't just their power. That was a given. Either of them could reshape creation with a thought. No, what unnerved me was their presence here—outside their sanctuaries. These were beings who rarely, if ever, intervened directly. Their appearance wasn't a gesture of diplomacy.
It was a warning.
I glanced at Enlil.
His face was unreadable—stone-carved and cold—but I knew him well. The tension in his posture, the way his aura crackled just beneath the surface… He was prepared to fight at a moment's notice.
And that terrified me.
Not because I feared the mortals who would die. Not even for this sacred mountain, or the realm itself.
No. My fear ran deeper.
Many of our greatest warriors were still held captive by the Hindu pantheon—sealed, bound, entombed somewhere within their vast and ancient dominion. If war broke out now, with the stakes this high, we would lose any chance of recovering them.
And without them… our faction would crumble.
So I held my tongue. Bit down my pride. And I prayed—bitterly—that Enlil would not let his wrath ignite the powder keg beneath our feet.
Just as I was bracing for chaos, the atmosphere changed.
The divine pressure that had hung thick in the air shifted. The tension—silent hostilities, unspoken rivalries—all of it was swept away like dust in a monsoon.
Because two gods had entered the chamber.
Every gaze turned toward them. Conversations ceased. Even the most prideful beings in the room paused to acknowledge their presence.
The first was a woman—ethereal and commanding. Her long, flowing blue hair shimmered like moonlight across the ocean. Her skin was porcelain-white, untouched by time, and her deep sapphire eyes seemed to peer through the very fabric of existence. She moved with serene grace, adorned in a pristine white saree that flowed like living silk, woven from the current of sacred rivers.
Beside her stood a man—bare-chested, draped only in a humble orange dhoti. His tightly bound hair crowned his head like a halo of quiet authority. He was not massive, but his frame was forged from something older than strength—carved by time and truth.
Then the woman stepped forward. Her voice, calm yet commanding, rang through the chamber like a temple bell.
"My name is Ganga," she said. "I am the River Goddess of the Sanatan pantheon. The one beside me is Narad Muni, divine messenger of our realm."
No arrogance laced her words. Only truth. Only divinity.
Her piercing gaze swept across the hall like a hawk surveying prey—searching for weakness, weighing souls with a glance.
"I will make this clear before we begin," she continued, her tone like glacial steel. "This meeting shall proceed in two phases. First, a general assembly. Then, private dialogues—faction by faction."
No one challenged her.
No one even stirred.
Because they all understood what was at stake.
They had brought their champions. Their finest. Their powerhouses.
And yet, not one of them dared test the patience of the Sanatan pantheon—not after the invasion, not after witnessing Shiva trade blows with Ophis as an equal.
Not when the Destroyer could appear the moment a single voice was raised.
When no one dared speak, the goddess exhaled—softly, almost in disappointment.
"So be it," she said.
With a fluid motion, Ganga conjured seats from pure divine energy—thrones sculpted with the serenity of flowing rivers and the unyielding force of ancient mountains. Then she sat, silent and regal, as Narad Muni followed suit.
A ripple of uncertainty passed through the assembly.
They hadn't joined the council.
No—this was deliberate. They had created their own space, above and apart from the rest.
The message was unmistakable.
You are not our equals.
To many, it was a blatant insult.
And yet, no one contested it. Because no one could.
Even I felt it—that flare of wounded pride burning beneath my skin. And I wasn't alone. Every faction, every god and goddess not of the Sanatan fold, held their silence through clenched jaws and bloodied egos.
We approached the conjured thrones cautiously, scanning for divine traps.
There were none.
But the unease remained.
The air was thick now—volatile, on the verge of combustion.
Then, Ganga rose again. Her divine presence swelled like a tidal wave.
"Why," she asked coldly, "should we make peace with any of you?"
Her voice echoed across the chamber, quiet but merciless.
"If I recall correctly, it was all of you who marched upon our soil with the intent of wiping us from existence."
Silence.
No one dared refute her.
Because every word was true.
"This meeting is happening for one reason," she continued, gaze like ice. "Because you lost."
The weight of her words settled like a shroud. Diplomacy, it seemed, was no longer the language of this summit.
This was a reckoning.
Tension snapped taut. Dozens braced for war.
And then—cutting through the silence like a blade—came a calm, assertive voice.
"The Hindu pantheon wants peace."
It was the Ars Goetia.
All eyes turned to the being of primordial demonic power.
Ganga narrowed her eyes. "And what makes you say that?" she asked.
"Because you haven't killed a single important figure," Goetia replied evenly. "You could have. You had the chance. But you captured them instead. Then invited us here."
He stood straighter. "Understand this, goddess. I am the child of Solomon. We may not have inherited his full wisdom, but don't mistake us for fools."
Then, with unnerving calm, she added, "And let's be honest. If war breaks out again, it won't just end nations—it will unravel the very fabric of reality."
Silence. Sharp. Absolute.
Then Narad Muni chuckled.
"You're right, Ars Goetia," he said, voice suddenly razor-sharp. "We can't wipe you out entirely. Not without consequence. The balance of this world demands your existence."
He leaned forward, smile fading.
"But don't mistake 'shouldn't' for 'won't.' Push us… and we will."
Goetia inclined their head, acknowledging the truth. "And if it comes to that… you'd be justified."
Then, at last, Jesus rose.
"Lady Ganga," he said gently, "shall we begin the first phase of this meeting?"
Ganga's eyes swept the room. Then, she nodded once.
"The Hindu pantheon presents three non-negotiable terms," she said. "Only after they are accepted will we proceed."
The room stilled.
"One. None of your faction members shall set foot on our land without direct permission. Any violators will be dealt with in our way—no exceptions."
"Two. Your factions will offer reparations. The specifics will be addressed in the second phase."
"Three. All previous alliances and treaties are void. Any new agreements must be negotiated under our conditions."
Her voice was frost.
"If any of you find these terms unacceptable… leave. We are done."
Silence returned. Thicker than before.
But no one left.
Because they couldn't afford to.
"Does anyone have anything to say before we begin the second phase?" Ganga asked, voice now calm—but edged like a drawn blade.
It was Serafall Leviathan who broke the silence.
"How are the prisoners?" she asked.
Ganga smiled.
"They are not dead," she said, simply.
The answer sent a chill through the room.
No deaths—but that didn't rule out torment. Or worse.
"If no one else has questions," Ganga continued, "then leave the hall. Except the Angels."
Her tone made it clear: this was no longer a request.
We left in silence.
Shame followed us like a shadow.
As I stood beside Enlil outside the chamber, I realized something bitter.
I had never felt this humiliated.
Not during rebellion.
Not even during the wars with the Biblical faction.
Then… at least we were treated as equals.
Now?
We were tolerated.
Barely.
I turned to Enlil. His jaw was clenched. His eyes burned with fury.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
We would wait.
Because we still held the key to our restoration.
We had Gilgamesh.
The one who could unlock the true potential of the most powerful weapon ever forged.
Ea.
The divine blade that defied logic.
Forged before the concept of reality.
The only weapon ever to kill a Dragon God—not through brute force or cunning...
…but by rejecting its very existence.
We would bring it back.
And when we did…
The world would remember who we were.
EMIYA — Observation Post, Dimensional Gap Overwatch
I observed the meeting from the rift in the Dimensional Gap, cloaked in the folds of a reality that bent around me like smoke. I wasn't meant to be seen—not by gods, not by kings, not even by fate itself.
What I saw made me exhale… not in frustration, but in quiet relief.
Shiva wasn't trying to cripple them.
That had been my greatest fear. Not the war, not the battles—they were inevitable. But if Shiva, in his divine fury, had chosen to decimate what remained of the other factions, there would have been no balance left to preserve. And could not denied his action would be justified.
The Destroyer had shown restraint.
Unthinkable, perhaps. But undeniable.
It wasn't mercy. Shiva doesn't do mercy. It was control—deliberate, calculated. He let them walk away with their pride barely intact. That alone preserved the illusion of peace.
And yet… I didn't smile.
Because I knew the gods.
I knew how they thought, how they schemed, how they rewrote the truth to suit their myth. Already, I could feel it—quiet movements in the ether, the rustling of divine power being stirred behind the curtains of diplomacy.
Every pantheon in that chamber was already plotting.
Planning.
Preparing.
The meeting was never about reconciliation. It was about survival. About leverage. About who would recover first, who would strike next, and who would control the future.
They would never say it aloud, but none of them accepted the new order. Not truly.
And so, I sighed once more—not from fear this time, but from weary understanding.
The war wasn't over.
It had only changed shape.
Peace was just another battlefield.
And I would be ready for it. As I always am.
Because the moment one of them oversteps…
I'll be there.