Ethan, the man who defeated 1000 monsters, is now in front of the five demon commanders, who were 200 feet tall. They are standing at the end of this 1000 monster army, the whole time only watching. The five make a big mountain come out of their size on the tip. They dwarfed the mountains of corpses Ethan had created, their forms like obsidian spires against the bleeding sky. Their silence was heavier than the war that had just ended, a palpable weight in the ruined air.
Ethan was there, standing without any weapon, his body a testament to brutal victory—a grotesque sculpture of torn flesh, shattered bone, and dried ichor. He could barely feel the ground beneath his one good foot, his breath a desperate rattle in his ruined lungs. Yet, his gaze, even from his single functioning eye, was fixed on them, unflinching.
Then, a voice, deep and resonant, like grinding tectonic plates, echoed across the plain. It seemed to come from all five commanders at once, yet also from nowhere and everywhere.
"Remarkable," the voice boomed, or perhaps several voices intertwined into one. "Truly, remarkable. We had... expectations. But you, little mortal, have exceeded them."
Another voice, higher-pitched, almost a hiss despite its volume, joined the chorus. "Such efficiency. Such... rage. A beautiful display of pure, unadulterated destruction."
Ethan spat blood onto the ash-covered ground. "What do you want?" His voice was a raw, strained croak, barely his own, but the defiance in it was unmistakable. "Why the spectacle?"
A third voice, smooth and chillingly calm, answered. "The spectacle, as you call it, served a purpose. A filtration. You see, we created these… lesser constructs." The voice paused, as if savoring the word. "A thousand monstrous vessels, each imbued with a fragment of chaotic energy from this dying world."
The deep, rumbling voice picked up. "We intended them to consume this insignificant realm. To tear it apart, leave it utterly devoid of life, so that we might then, with minimal effort, harvest the lingering echoes and transition to a more...
fertile hunting ground."
The chilling, smooth voice continued, its tone almost conversational, as if discussing mundane plans over tea. "However, a small logistical issue arose. The sheer volume of their destructive power, while impressive, was... inefficient. They would have destroyed much of the very essence we sought to gather. A mess, you understand."
"So," the hissing voice concluded, "we required a tool. A single, focused point of annihilation that could eliminate the superfluous, leaving only the concentrated essence we desired."
Ethan's single eye widened fractionally. They… they used me? "You… you used me to kill your own creations?"
The five forms seemed to ripple, a silent, vast shrug. "Precisely," the deep voice affirmed. "We had anticipated we might need to expend some of our own energy to clear the field. But you, Ethan," a flicker of something that might have been amusement passed through their colossal forms, "you saved us the trouble. You killed every single one of them. For that, you have our…
gratitude."
"Gratitude?" Ethan tried to laugh, but it came out as a wet cough, showering his chin with red. "For what? Helping you ruin another world?"
"This world is already ruined," the collective voice replied, utterly devoid of emotion. "Its gods are dead. Its time is ending. We merely accelerate the process."
"And we move to new pastures," the hissing voice added, "where others like us gather. A grander harvest awaits on a world called...
Elarion."
A jolt went through Ethan. Elarion? The name resonated with something deep, something he couldn't grasp, yet it felt... familiar.
"Indeed," the smooth voice confirmed, as if reading his thought. "A vibrant tapestry of magic and life, ripe for the reaping. Far more satisfying than this withered husk."
With that, the five colossal figures began to ripple, their forms blurring at the edges, dissolving into the very fabric of reality. They didn't depart; they simply ceased to be, like shadows pulled back into the deepest night. The plain, already dead, now felt utterly vacant, the silence profound and absolute, heavier than any noise.
Ethan was dying. The last monster, the last word, and now… this. He stood on top of the mountain of corpses, the remnants of his brutal victory, and felt the life seep from him like sand through a cracked hourglass. His vision swam, turning from red to a profound, consuming darkness. He stumbled, then collapsed amidst the cooling ichor and shattered bone, his body a broken husk.
Then, as he lay dying on top of the mountain of corpses, a strange sensation began. He felt a light from within him, a growing warmth. And as the darkness consumed him, between moments of oblivion, he could see his body glowing white, with some blue flicker from it. This was shocking for him to see his body from outside, a detached, surreal experience as his existence teetered on the brink. Then he listened to some words, ancient and melodic, a language he did not understand. It was not the guttural roars of the monsters, nor the chilling pronouncements of the commanders, but something far older, far more potent. It was the sound of something… being forged.