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[Vorath's Point of View]
Darkness.
True darkness.
Not the absence of light—but the absence of meaning.
It was in this void, beyond the stacked multiverses, beyond narrative itself, that he stirred.
Vorath, the Warden of Chaos, the Defiler of Foundations, opened a single sliver of awareness. Around him, reality had long since bled away. Only raw possibility and discarded concepts drifted here—thoughts never born, gods never imagined, laws never written.
And there, nestled in the void like a wounded animal, was the last fragment.
His fragment.
The one that had survived Kealthar's purge by a hair's breadth.
It pulsed—weak, unstable. It had been wounded, cornered in a dying narrative, moments away from being erased by Kealthar's divine judgment.
But in that last heartbeat, Vorath had acted.
He had reached from the unexistable depths and stolen it back.
Now, it hovered before him—burning with leftover light from Kealthar's cleansing flame."You were touched by him," Vorath murmured, his voice a whisper that made dead stars scream.The fragment shivered.
Even fractured, it feared him. It belonged to him.
With a slow, calculated gesture, Vorath reached forward and sank his formless claws into the shard. The touch of Order burned him—seared along his infinite skin like a brand—but he endured it.
He devoured it.
Not greedily. Not hungrily.
Methodically.
The fragment merged with him, and as it did, he felt it.
The memories of what the fragment had seen.
The impossible judgment. The armies wiped from causality. The cults undone not by force, but by rejection from reality itself. The name spoken—the divine tongue that rewrote destiny.
Kealthar.
The Ancient One.
The Great Lord of Order.
Vorath hissed, though he had no mouth."You've grown arrogant, old flame."He could still feel it—the echo of that authority, the cosmic law that undid everything he built. Erased it.
He wasn't used to that.
Not anymore.
In the ancient days, perhaps—when the Primordial War had burned across creation—but now? Now he was supposed to be the whisper in every dream, the rot in every truth, the madness behind every belief.
And Kealthar had undone it all."Cleansed. Burned. Judged."He spoke each word with contempt, though deep beneath his endless layers, there was a flicker of amusement."You did well."The last war had left Kealthar scarred—alone.
Vorath hadn't forgotten how many of Kealthar's siblings had died. Forgotten gods, erased timelines, entire pillars of existence that had once stood beside the Ancient One—gone.
And though Kealthar had returned stronger, more absolute...He is still just one.Vorath shifted in the void, his essence stretching like ink in water. The fragment he absorbed had revealed more than just power.
It had revealed weaknesses.
Kealthar had grown colder. More isolated. More divine, yes—but less connected. Anchored by mortals like that fox spirit, that child... that fragile personal world he called peace.He's no longer simply defending the narrative. He's protecting people.That would be his downfall.
Because chaos didn't attack where the walls were strongest. It seeped through the cracks. The emotions. The bonds.
The love.
Vorath reached out with a thought, and the formless legion began to stir. Far in the forgotten corners of corrupted realities—those Kealthar hadn't yet reached—his servants twitched to life. Beasts made of paradox. Gods who fed on contradiction. Madness given shape.
They awoke."The Ancient One thinks the war is over," Vorath whispered into the empty dark. "But the war has only evolved."He didn't need armies yet. Not now.
That had been the mistake of the past—raw force. Brutal conquest.
Kealthar would see that coming.
But a whisper?
A false dream seeded into a mortal's mind?
A corrupted song sung by a child who had never heard it?
A shadow that clung to a fragment of memory long forgotten?
Kealthar wouldn't see those coming until it was too late.
And when the time came—when enough of his fragments had been reclaimed, when enough truths had been bent into lies—he would rise again.
Not as a destroyer…
But as a creator."I gave the formless meaning," he murmured, watching his domain shift and tremble. "They call me monster. Abomination. Corruption.""But I am freedom."The multiverse was built on law, on cause and effect, on narrative that forced choice down narrow paths.
He had always been the answer to that.
Unbound. Untamed. Undeniable.
And even as Kealthar cleansed one narrative after another, Vorath simply waited, patient as ever.Because you can't cleanse what you can't perceive.And Vorath was everywhere between.
Between moments. Between stories. Between thoughts.
Wherever uncertainty existed—so did he.
The last of the stolen fragment dissolved into him, fully absorbed.
Power returned.
Not enough.
But more.
Soon, he would begin harvesting the next. Quietly. Slowly. Kealthar would notice too late.
And this time, when they met again…
Vorath wouldn't face him on the battlefield.
He'd face him inside his peace.
Inside his dreams.
Inside his heart.
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