The void had never felt so silent.
Not after wars. Not after extinctions. Not after the collapse of entire star-chains.
But after the fall of Armageddon, the universe's breath… slowed.
Ashura Bellet stood alone in the hollow cradle of dead stars, floating in a place where even the cosmic winds dared not move.
His blade rested against his shoulder.
His hair drifted like black night threading itself through gravity.
Fragments of Armageddon's essence still shimmered in the distance, streaking toward the Throne Hall of Black Light.
Ashura exhaled once.
And then—
space trembled.
Not from movement.
Not from energy.
From attention.
Something ancient was watching him.
Something that shouldn't need to look at anything.
Ashura lifted his gaze.
He didn't shout.
He didn't flare his power.
He didn't force a connection.
He simply willed the distance between realms to vanish.
And the distance obeyed.
Across infinite layers of reality, seated upon a throne of rusted chains and sunken dimensions, the All-Denying Father felt something clawing at his perception.
Not physically.
Not mentally.
But with authority.
Impossible authority.
He straightened.
And then—
the void before him stretched, thinned…
and clarified.
Ashura's silhouette stood across from him, separated by universes yet only an arm's reach away.
The Outer God's infinite eyes narrowed.
"…Eternal One."
Ashura didn't bow.
Didn't nod.
Didn't dignify him with courtesy.
He just spoke:
"You failed."
The All-Denying Father's realm shook.
Ashura continued, tone low, steady, almost calm:
"You threw your beast at me.
It broke."
He stepped forward—not physically, but through presence, and the Father flinched as several of his chained dimensions snapped under the pressure.
"You tried to erase my dominion.
Now one of your own protects it."
The All-Denying Father growled.
The sound warped galaxies.
"Mind your tongue, child of mortality. You stand before an Outer Go—"
"Outer God?" Ashura cut in.
A faint smirk touched his lips.
"You're not the top of the ladder.
Not even close."
The Father tensed.
Ashura raised Kuroha slightly, letting its edge reflect all creation like a single bead of obsidian light.
"You create multiverses?
Good.
Ancient Ones create conceptual foundations."
The Father's chains trembled.
"You bend realities?
Zero bends the laws that allow realities to exist."
The rusted throne cracked.
"You twist the roots of existence?
The Primal forged those roots before your origin was even a rumor."
The Father's mask splintered.
"And above all of them—
the Creator breathes once…
and beings like you evaporate."
The Outer God tried to rise, but the weight of Ashura's presence pressed him down like a star collapsing under its own mass.
Ashura's voice dropped to a whisper:
"I'm coming."
The Father's eyes widened—
with something he had never shown to any being beneath his own tier.
Fear.
Ashura leaned closer, his voice leaving no room for misinterpretation:
"Prepare your realm.
Prepare your armies.
Prepare your last prayers—
because when I arrive…"
A soft smile curved his lips.
Cold.
Merciless.
"…your throne will be the first thing I break."
The link shattered.
Ashura inhaled once, and the void folded around him like obedient fabric.
Black Light surged, swallowing the stars.
In a flash, he stood in the Throne Hall of Black Light—
a palace carved from dusk, interwoven with pulsing sigils of death, rebirth, and forgotten echoes.
The hall expanded endlessly, yet felt intimate, like creation itself held its breath here.
Ashura walked forward.
The throne awaited him—towering, obsidian, alive with the glow of passing souls.
He sat, crossing one leg over the other, posture relaxed like a king at home.
But the hall trembled.
Something massive approached.
"Come," Ashura said softly.
His voice carried through the entire dominion.
From the far end of the hall, a storm gathered—
a swirling tide of black dust, embers, flames, lightning, ether, and ancient cosmic essence.
The fragments twisted, merged, solidified.
Armageddon's new form emerged.
He knelt.
A towering humanoid frame—
but reforged, refined, stabilized by Ashura's authority.
Four horns curved back elegantly, glowing faintly with black starlight.
His hair fell like molten obsidian.
His eyes—still galaxies—bowed low to avoid looking directly at his new master without permission.
His body radiated an aura of apocalypse restrained only by chains of twilight that wrapped around his arms like decorative bindings.
But his voice—
His voice was no longer monstrous.
It was steady.
Deep.
Obedient.
"My Sovereign…
I have returned."
Ashura studied him for a moment.
"You no longer hunger," he observed.
Armageddon bowed deeper.
"Your dominion feeds me.
Your authority stabilizes me.
My instinct is no longer consumption…"
He looked up, fire swirling in his eyes.
"…it is protection."
Ashura leaned back slightly on his throne.
"Do you regret it?"
Armageddon shook his head with a reverberating growl.
"I regret…
that I did not kneel sooner."
A faint smile touched Ashura's lips.
"Stand, Guardian."
Armageddon rose, towering like a living calamity perfectly leashed.
Ashura lifted Kuroha lightly and rested it across his lap.
"War is coming," he said quietly.
Armageddon bowed his head.
"Then point me at your enemies."
Ashura's eyes sharpened with cold inevitability.
"Soon," he said.
"For now…
your place is here."
Armageddon knelt once more, taking position beside the throne—
silent, loyal, and dreaming of war.