The seven decoys of the Demon Lords dissolved into puddles of foul, corrosive slime and vanished without a trace. In that same instant, across a billion light-years, the real massacre began.
"He is returning," Ichor's true form snarled, his voice a guttural roar as his corrosive touch reduced a True God to screaming dust. "Finish this quickly!"
The heart of Adam's multiverse had become a slaughterhouse. This was no longer a subtle war of whispers and corruption; this was a brutal, overwhelming purge.
Beelzebub, the Lord of Gluttony, moved through the battlefield like a walking apocalypse. He plucked panicked, fleeing Gods from the sky as if they were ripe fruit, stuffing them into his gaping maw five or six at a time, their divine screams muffled as he swallowed them whole.
