The void stretched infinitely in every direction — darkness without beginning or end. Nothing existed here except for the two Primordials, their presence bending the concept of reality itself.
Hephaestus' form shimmered, metallic plates shifting with a whisper of machinery. Gears, pistons, and interlocking blades unfolded from his body, each one moving with flawless precision.
Poseidara appeared as a fluid shadow, a flowing torrent of shimmering water that refracted the void's non-light into subtle motion. Her body was infinite motion, every droplet an extension of her will.
Without warning, Hephaestus launched the first strike — a barrage of spinning metal shards, each one impossibly sharp, propelled with mechanical perfection. They carved paths through the void, slicing the darkness itself.
Poseidara twisted mid-air, her body dissolving into droplets, flowing through the gaps between the shards. Where she had been a moment ago, only void remained. The shards embedded into nothing, harmlessly spinning in midair, missing her entirely.
She retaliated in kind. Her form surged forward, converging into spear-like tendrils of fluid motion that lashed toward Hephaestus' chest and limbs. Each strike was chaotic, unpredictable — yet precise in its randomness.
Hephaestus reacted instantly. His body split and reformed, creating mirrored layers of himself. Each tendril she struck collided with one of these layers, breaking apart against the perfection of his mechanical design. Sparks of nonexistent friction flashed across the void.
Neither could gain an immediate advantage. Every strike Hephaestus launched was countered by Poseidara's flow. Every lunge Poseidara made was intercepted by the adaptability of Hephaestus' creations.
The void around them vibrated with tension. Two concepts, infinitely opposed: the order of creation against the chaos of flow, precision against adaptability.
Poseidara's droplets converged into a twisting maelstrom, preparing to engulf Hephaestus entirely. Hephaestus, in turn, began assembling something larger, something singular — a mechanical construct designed to pierce infinite fluidity.
The first contact had ended, but neither Primordial had yet touched the essence of the other. The true battle was only beginning.
Poseidara flowed like a living current through nothingness, her limbs liquid, twisting, and stretching as if the air itself were water. Every motion was unpredictable yet elegant, her body bending impossible angles, splitting into countless water tendrils that lashed at Hephaestus.
Hephaestus' form, by contrast, was absolute rigidity. Gears spun along his arms, pistons pumped, and segments of mechanized armor slid over each other with terrifying precision. He did not dodge; he calculated. He did not flow; he anchored. And yet, in his mind, every strike Poseidara made was anticipated, each one countered before it could land.
A torrent of water struck, coiling like a serpent, snapping towards Hephaestus' head. With a mechanical clang, he extended a spinning arm-shield, slicing through the torrent midair, vaporizing droplets with the heat of friction. But Poseidara wasn't done. She split into a thousand smaller streams, weaving, spiraling, and striking from all angles at once — the water itself bending as if alive, forming a net of impossible precision.
Hephaestus responded in kind. Pistons drove into his legs, propelling him forward at a fraction of light's speed. Each motion built a temporary lattice of metallic spikes, firing like micro-bullets, intercepting the water strands in midair. But every collision created a spray, and the spray became new tendrils, attacking again. A dance of adaptation began — water versus metal, flow versus construct, instinct versus calculation.
Poseidara pivoted mid-motion, forming her body into a massive, spinning wave, smashing downward like a tsunami contained in a single limb. Hephaestus, unflinching, extended a hammer-like arm, swinging up to meet it. The strike cracked the void around them, ripples of pressure emanating outward, collapsing into the blackness. Neither yielded; neither faltered.
Then Poseidara struck with her first true counter: she coalesced into one solid, liquid spear, thrusting at Hephaestus' chest. Hephaestus braced, spinning a lattice of gears outward that extended into a rotating shield, catching the spear mid-thrust. Sparks, droplets, and shards of metal rained in every direction as both forces clashed in a perfect equilibrium — the water bending, the metal resisting, and yet neither able to fully dominate the other.
Hephaestus' eyes glowed as he pivoted his body, launching a mechanized spike from his arm, a blade of pure cogged precision aimed to pierce Poseidara's heart of fluid motion. Poseidara twisted, rippling herself into a dozen splinters of liquid, phasing past the spike as if it were air. But each part of her that evaded the blade was tethered to another, maintaining offensive pressure, forcing Hephaestus to divide his attention infinitely.
The void itself seemed to tremble as their initial contact escalated — water surged, metal spun, and every microsecond became a battlefield of force and counterforce. Every strike Poseidara made was matched with a counter from Hephaestus. Every stab of metal forced the water to split, weave, and strike again. And yet, despite the chaos, a rhythm emerged, a ballet of destruction, proving that in the darkness of nothing, only precision and adaptation could survive.
The void itself shuddered under their presence. Poseidara's form expanded, stretching like an ocean that refused boundaries. Every ripple became a strike; every wave a whip. Her tendrils lashed out with impossible speed, forming spirals, cyclones, and jets of crushing pressure. She moved in ways that no physical construct could track — a living, flowing storm of liquid intent.
Hephaestus, unyielding, responded in kind. His body split into segments, pistons firing, gears spinning at speeds that seemed to bend reality itself. From his chest opened a lattice of mechanical arms, each armed with spinning blades, hammers, and drills. Every one a weapon of singular precision, every movement pre-calculated, every counter anticipating the next impossible attack.
The initial attacks collided, cascading shockwaves across the void. Water slammed into steel. Steel spun, sliced, and hurled, cutting currents of liquid into finer, sharper strands. Sparks flew. Droplets exploded. The nothingness around them distorted, warped by the pressure and velocity of their assaults.
Poseidara surged forward, converging every stream into one colossal tidal spear, a mass of fluid force channeled through her very being. "Crush this construct," she seemed to command herself as it shot toward Hephaestus like a spear from infinity.
Hephaestus did not hesitate. With a whirl of gears and pistons, he extended his ultimate creation: the Forge of Absolute Precision. Dozens of metal plates, spinning drills, and telescoping arms exploded from his body, forming a cage of unstoppable mechanized might. The tidal spear struck the lattice — water compressed, metal buckled, and energy was released in a deafening shock that rippled through nothingness.
Neither moved. Neither yielded. They were locked, forces of nature and construct balanced perfectly. Poseidara's streams rippled outward in a violent spiral, cutting, battering, crushing — yet the lattice held. Hephaestus' arms drove spikes into the void, impaling water jets midair, yet they flowed around him, adapting, relentless.
With a roar of exertion, Poseidara condensed herself into a singularity of fluid force, compressing every ounce of motion into one concentrated attack, enough to obliterate any creation in existence. Hephaestus reacted instantly, compressing the lattice into a spinning core of pure mechanized mass, every segment braced and fused to absorb, deflect, and strike back.
Time itself seemed to pause as both attacks collided — a storm of flowing water and unyielding metal, energy bending the void around them. The pressure was infinite; the impact echoed through nothingness, cracking the very perception of reality.
And then — stalemate.
Poseidara's liquid form was shredded, partially dispersed into thousands of strands, but enough remained to hold her shape. Hephaestus' lattice was mangled, gears broken, drills twisted, but his core still functioned, still standing. Both stood, not moving, every ounce of power spent, every microsecond stretched to infinity.
Neither could dominate. Neither could fall. In the void of nothingness, concepts of water and machine had collided perfectly, leaving two beings in critical equilibrium: exhausted, broken, yet undefeated.