On the barren wasteland, towering figures roared and trampled, meteors blazed across the sky, and shattered rocks and torrents of Mana burst in every direction. The clash of divine might and authority erupted into radiant auroras.
The earth was ravaged with craters resembling meteor strikes, and nearby mountains had been torn up from their roots. Within cracked riverbeds, muddy torrents surged, washing away the scars of war. In valleys, forests, and gorges consumed by battle, the corpses of Titans and divine beasts lay heaped together.
Some were as colossal as mountains, others only a few meters tall. Their forms varied, but all were surrounded by rivers of blood. The stench of slaughter spread everywhere, and the Ether in the air grew so dense it was almost tangible.
Since Zeus and his five siblings escaped and raised an army, the war between the new gods of Mount Olympus and the old gods of Mount Othrys had raged for nearly ten years. Summoned by the commands of the old gods or swayed by the persuasion of the new, countless factions and races joined the conflict, each seeking to carve out a share of the spoils.
And it wasn't just a war of new gods against old. Races that had been enemies, individuals of different stations, even fathers and sons of the same kind used this chance to settle old scores. Some sought to murder their kin to climb higher; others to cleanse their own bloodlines. All took the chance to strike.
From sky to sea, from valleys to plains, from marshes to rivers—battle raged everywhere, turning the world into chaos. Those Titans and divine beasts unwilling to take part sealed themselves away, not daring to show their faces. But plenty of others lurked in the shadows, hoping to profit from the bloodshed.
When night fell, the Titan main gods and the Olympians, who had only tested each other with a few blows, pulled back in tacit agreement, returning to their strongholds to rest. Without overwhelming advantage, they had no desire to gamble their lives. Even victory meant severe wounds and a crippling loss of strength.
And survival was no guarantee of safety—after all, in these times, not even fathers or brothers could be trusted. The ambitious Olympians were not their only threat. Their so-called allies, who contributed little, might just as well stab them in the back, erode their authority, and seize their divine seats.
Judging by casualty estimates, nearly half had already vanished without a trace in the darkness before dawn. Thus, the ones truly fighting to the death were the mid- and lower-ranked gods and monsters who had pledged themselves to different factions, desperate to prove their loyalty and secure their place.
As night deepened, the world sank into darkness, stars swallowed by the sky. On Mount Othrys and Mount Olympus, the gods sat around their campfires, feasting and drinking, boasting of the day's valor. Elsewhere, the lesser gods barred from the sacred grounds held revels of their own.
Rustling soon spread from rivers, forests, valleys, and swamps. Shadows of all shapes and sizes crept toward the battlefield ruins, fighting over scraps of divine blood and essence left in the corpses. Medium and small Magical Beasts, drawn by smell and Ether, rushed in as well, scavenging the remains to strengthen themselves.
For the pure-blooded Titans, the power left behind by these lesser gods was too impure and chaotic to be worth notice. But for those gods and monsters that had lived at the bottom of the food chain, locked in endless struggle and devouring, nothing was beneath them. They crawled over the corpses of enemies and allies alike, gnawing bone and tearing flesh.
When dawn broke, those who had joined the feast dispersed, leaving behind a battlefield scoured clean. The stage of daylight belonged once more to the two leading camps, Olympus and Othrys, to flaunt their strength.
Yet because energy dwindled with each step up the food chain, the lower-ranked monsters were far more numerous. So despite the feast being short, the resources were scarce, and fierce competition was inevitable. The more intense the battle by day, the richer the corpses left behind, and the bloodier the struggle at night. The irony was undeniable.
In a cracked valley riddled with spiderweb fissures, a pack of lesser divine beasts circled the drained remains of corpses, their eyes fixed on two slender figures.
"Well, look at that, another batch of delivery. But I'm already a little full."
A man with snake-like vertical pupils scanned the scene, smacking his lips with a smirk.
His flippancy infuriated the impure divine beasts, their lingering beastly instincts driving them to roar and charge, intent on tearing apart the small prey that dared to hoard the spoils.
The ancient serpent patted the head of the figure beside him, his lips curling into a vicious grin in the dark.
"Tiamom…"
"…Dinner's ready!"
The adorable goddess next to him, marked with the Touch of the Earth upon her head, heard the signal. Her cross-shaped pupils gleamed with feral light. Her body swelled, bones and muscles stretching and snapping with sickening cracks.
In moments, a monster tens of meters long unfurled, emerald dragon wings spreading from her back, her form both elegant and terrifying.
With a single swipe of her claws, the earth quaked. Rising soil sealed the valley's exits, turning it into a prison.
"Aaaa!!!"
Her mouth unleashed a string of guttural chants, short and long. Magecraft circles flared to life, releasing red, black, and blue torrents of Mana that swept across the valley. Blood sprayed as nearly a third of the beasts were ripped apart, their bodies shredded.
From her side surged a black tide like an ocean wave, sweeping forward. The suffocating danger in the air sent the charging monsters into panic, many turning to flee. But in this sealed cage, none could escape the dragon beast's slaughter.
Driven to despair, the monsters turned back, throwing themselves forward in a last gamble. Among divine beasts, flesh and Magecraft often followed separate paths of evolution. If this creature's Magecraft was so overwhelming, perhaps her body was weaker—that had to be their chance.
Yet the first centaurs to approach were smashed into pulp with a single swipe of her claws. The rest trembled, despair filling their eyes.
So compared to her magic bombardment, it was her sheer physical power that was most terrifying. What kind of joke was this?
Screams and wails soon filled the valley, turning it into hell itself.
When dawn's first light pierced the land, the war between Olympus and Othrys was ready to begin once more. And the battlefield, once piled with corpses, now lay clean and barren—save for the crimson-stained soil that whispered of last night's feast.