Yagrasal stood amidst the vast battlefield, his eyes scanning the desolation wrought by his fierce battle with Lucian. The earth lay scarred, deep trenches and craters marking where their titanic clash had unfolded. The air was thick with the lingering scent of ash, the remnants of obliterated lives, and the eerie silence of death. His crimson robes fluttered as he released a sigh of annoyance.
"Tsk... That bastard made quite the mess," Yagrasal muttered to himself, rolling his shoulders. "Guess I'll have to fix this."
With a flick of his wrist, he retrieved the Cup of Recreation from his subspace—a sacred relic, one of the few capable of rewriting reality itself. The goblet shimmered with a golden glow, its surface pulsating with divine energy. He tilted it forward, allowing the shimmering liquid of re-creation to spill onto the ground. The moment it touched the war-ravaged earth, reality trembled.
The broken landscape mended itself within mere heartbeats. Cities once turned to rubble were restored to their former grandeur, their golden spires piercing the heavens once more. The dead stirred, returning to their lives as if nothing had ever happened. The mighty cathedrals of the Holy Kingdom rose again, their divine luster untarnished. The sacred hymns resumed their eternal resonance, as if war had never touched this land. It was as if time itself had been rewritten, every detail meticulously reset.
But this time, Yagrasal changed the rules.
He walked through the streets of Sanctus Aeternum, the Holy Kingdom's capital, where people were unknowingly trapped in his design. He approached the revered Pope Valerian Aurelion, the beacon of faith among the devout. The man, dressed in pristine white robes, stood frozen in time like the rest of creation. Without hesitation, Yagrasal plunged his hand through Valerian's chest, gripping his still heart.
"Your faith is hollow," he whispered, before crushing the organ in his grasp. The pope's lifeless body collapsed, yet no one reacted—because time remained shackled.
He turned his gaze toward Nyzareth, the realm of demons. A smirk tugged at his lips as he summoned a new Demon King into existence, a being forged purely from malice and chaos. A creature whose very presence would inspire madness.
"This should make things... interesting."
As his will reshaped the world, a deep, twisted pleasure swelled within him. He was not a god of mercy—he was a god of entertainment. The sight of mortals struggling, their hope dwindling, their screams echoing into the abyss—that was what he desired.
This time, the Holy Kingdom would not just face ruin; they would face eternal suffering.
The New Reality Unfolds
The citizens of the Holy Kingdom found themselves trapped in a waking nightmare. The Demon Kings were more powerful than ever before, their dark dominion stretching far and wide. The sacred barriers that once protected humanity no longer existed—Yagrasal had erased them from existence. The walls of their great cities, reinforced by divine inscriptions, crumbled before the relentless march of the demon horde.
Famine and plague spread like wildfire. Holy knights who once fought valiantly now found themselves overpowered by monstrous adversaries beyond comprehension. Saintess Myrielle, the kingdom's last beacon of hope, wept as she watched innocent children devoured by the abyssal fiends. She prayed, but her god did not answer. Because Yagrasal was the only god that existed now.
The grand churches, once places of solace, became altars of despair. Yagrasal had twisted the very concept of faith. Every prayer uttered now fueled the abyss, strengthening the demonic entities that roamed freely. Hope was not merely shattered—it was turned into a weapon against those who dared to believe in salvation.
The people suffered endlessly, forced to relive their agonies day after day. Every time they perished, their bodies would be reset by the power of the Cup of Recreation, only to experience their deaths once more. Eternal torment disguised as life. Yagrasal had woven an existence of unceasing misery—and he reveled in their despair.
Villages burned, their inhabitants torn apart piece by piece as demons gorged themselves on the flesh of the innocent. Mothers screamed as they watched their children ripped from their arms, only to be devoured before their eyes. Fathers fought in vain, their bodies impaled on cruel spikes, their corpses left as warnings to any who dared resist. The streets ran red with blood, a river of agony and broken souls.
The screams never ceased. Night fell, yet there was no rest—the torment never ended. Sleep was stolen from the people, their minds trapped in waking horror. Even when they closed their eyes, they found themselves in a realm of shadows, hunted by nightmares given form. Yagrasal had made sure that not even death would be an escape.
He sat atop the Grand Altar of the Holy Kingdom, drinking wine as the world around him crumbled. "Ah, watching humans struggle... It never gets old."
Yet, as he relished the spectacle, something felt... off.
The screams were too perfect. The destruction unfolded exactly as he had envisioned. Every detail... flawless.
"No," he murmured, realization dawning on him. "This... this isn't real."
Suddenly, the world cracked like a shattered mirror. The illusion peeled away, layer by layer, revealing an abyss darker than anything he had ever seen.
Yagrasal found himself bound in chains—not just any chains, but Eternal Shackles of Darkness. These were Lucian's creation, unbreakable bindings forged from the abyss itself. His body was immobile, his power sealed. Panic flooded his mind.
Lucian's voice echoed through the void, cold and absolute. "Did you enjoy the show, Yagrasal?"
From the shadows, Lucian emerged, his form wreathed in black fire, his eyes piercing through Yagrasal's very soul.
"You wanted to see how a god of light thinks?" Lucian's smirk was devoid of warmth. "Now you understand. Your so-called gods are no different from demons—they just wear a prettier mask."
Yagrasal struggled, his divine strength surging against the shackles, but they did not budge. "No! This isn't possible! I control reality itself!"
Lucian chuckled, his voice laced with disdain. "No, Yagrasal. You control illusions of power. But power... true power... is mine."
The illusion had been crafted by Lucian all along. Yagrasal had been trapped within it, forced to witness his own cruel desires made manifest. The pain, the despair—it had been his own nightmare.
Lucian turned his gaze toward Saintess Sylvia, who stood watching in silent horror. "Now, Saintess, tell me—" his voice dropped to a whisper laced with venom—"is this the god you worship?"
Tears streamed down her face as the truth shattered her faith.
Yagrasal screamed, rage and terror entwined, but his voice was swallowed by the abyss. The Eternal Shackles would never break. He would remain trapped forever, imprisoned in the darkness he had once sought to control.
Lucian stepped closer, his voice dangerously soft. "You basked in the suffering of mortals, reveling in their endless torment. But what will you do, now that the one suffering... is you?"
Yagrasal's eyes widened as his nightmare restarted. The illusion looped again, forcing him to relive the horror—but now, he was among the tormented.
Lucian smiled coldly.
"Checkmate."
The battlefield was silent once more.
The real world remained untouched, the Holy Kingdom oblivious to the horror that had played out within Yagrasal's mind. Lucian had never allowed reality to be rewritten. This had all been a game of the mind, a lesson in truth.
He turned away, his crimson cloak billowing behind him.
Saintess Myrielle, once a devoted worshiper, now stood frozen in contemplation. The image of Yagrasal's cruelty had burned away her blind faith. She had seen her god's true nature. And now... she did not know whom to pray to.
"Let the real struggle begin."
And with that, Lucian disappeared into the darkness—his game far from over.
Yet, as he relished the spectacle, something felt... off.
The screams were too perfect. The destruction unfolded exactly as he had envisioned. Every detail... flawless.
"No," he murmured, realization dawning on him. "This... this isn't real."
Suddenly, the world cracked like a shattered mirror. The illusion peeled away, layer by layer, revealing an abyss darker than anything he had ever seen.
Yagrasal found himself bound in chains—not just any chains, but Eternal Shackles of Darkness. These were Lucian's creation, unbreakable bindings forged from the abyss itself. His body was immobile, his power sealed. Panic flooded his mind.
Lucian's voice echoed through the void, cold and absolute. "Did you enjoy the show, Yagrasal?"
From the shadows, Lucian emerged, his form wreathed in black fire, his eyes piercing through Yagrasal's very soul.
"You wanted to see how a god of light thinks?" Lucian's smirk was devoid of warmth. "Now you understand. Your so-called gods are no different from demons—they just wear a prettier mask."
The illusion had been crafted by Lucian all along. Yagrasal had been trapped within it, forced to witness his own cruel desires made manifest. The pain, the despair—it had been his own nightmare.
Lucian turned his gaze toward Saintess Sylvia, who stood watching in silent horror. "Now, Saintess, tell me—" his voice dropped to a whisper laced with venom—"is this the god you worship?"
Tears streamed down her face as the truth shattered her faith.
Yagrasal screamed, rage and terror entwined, but his voice was swallowed by the abyss. The Eternal Shackles would never break. He would remain trapped forever, imprisoned in the darkness he had once sought to control.
Lucian smiled coldly.
"Checkmate."
The battlefield was silent once more.
The real world remained untouched, the Holy Kingdom oblivious to the horror that had played out within Yagrasal's mind. Lucian had never allowed reality to be rewritten. This had all been a game of the mind, a lesson in truth.