Location: Zalthorion's Office – Evolto City
As always, Zalthorion sat at his grand obsidian desk, reviewing dimensional incident reports brought in by Dr. Wagner's latest assistant a punctual, efficient construct with the faint scent of ozone clinging to its cloak.
The quiet hum of his office was suddenly shattered.
A loud pop, followed by the arrival of grand, almost heavenly music blasted through the air. It was meant to sound divine, entrancing to most. But to Zalthorion?
It was nothing short of irritating.
Floating through a tear in space came a glowing figure charismatic, androgynous, and overly flamboyant. Adorned in clothes that shimmered like starlight and arrogance, the being sauntered forward with a radiant smile.
"Zalthorion!" the entity exclaimed with exaggerated flair. "You should be honored. I, a Sector Master, have chosen you for a mission. Truly, this is a blessing upon your lesser existence."
Zalthorion barely raised his eyes. But just as he was about to speak, the self-proclaimed third-generation Sector Master continued.
"My son created this… system, with some sort of 'group chat' mechanism. But the users grew too powerful, arrogant eventually imprisoning him. They now use his existence as a battery to power their digital throne."
The Sector Master smirked, as if recounting a petty inconvenience.
Zalthorion set his pen down gently, looked up, and with quiet finality said:
"No."
The Sector Master's face froze. "W-What? How dare you refuse a Sector Master?! We are the apex of the multiverse! You're only here because the First Generation Masters took pity on your pathetic city. You are a lapdog their lapdog. I could erase this whole forsaken city from their protection if I desired!"
Zalthorion sighed, not out of fear, but annoyance. When he spoke again, his voice was like stone grinding against thunder.
"Listen closely, child."
"I have partnerships with the true Sector Masters. You, on the other hand, are a minor footnote a lucky accident with a stolen title."
"You parade around while committing debauchery, manipulating and discarding women across realms, fathering spoiled brats who think themselves untouchable and then dare to approach my city asking for favors?"
His gaze narrowed.
"You are a stain on the multiverse. An ignoramus. A speck of space dust clinging to borrowed power."
The Sector Master's face turned red with rage. He raised a glowing hand, divine energy crackling.
"I could"
Slice.
Before he could finish, both his hands were on the floor, severed in an instant by a barely visible flick from Zalthorion.
"Y-You fool!" he shouted. "I will regenerate! I"
Then he paused.
The pain hit. Real, blinding pain.
Pain a Sector Master should never feel.
White, glowing blood spilled freely from the stumps. His body convulsed. Panic set in. For the first time in his existence, he was experiencing mortal suffering.
As he writhed on the floor, he looked up
And saw Zalthorion, standing above him.
No longer the calm bureaucrat. Now, he was something else ancient, terrifying.
Zalthorion's shadow swallowed the light.
"I have worn many titles," he said, his voice now an echo of distant wars and forgotten ages.
"Lord of the Metal Horde."
"The Molder of Corpse Mountain."
"The Architect of the Divided Suns."
Then he leaned in, whispering the one title that chilled even the god-blooded Sector Master:
"But the name I wear closest to my soul… is the one even immortals whisper in fear."
"He Who Rules from Immortals' Graves"
The minor Sector Master lay on the marble floor of Zalthorion's office, writhing, pale divine blood glowing softly around his twitching limbs. A sickly whimper escaped his lips as he tried, and failed, to move.
Then a portal opened.
It tore through the air silently, reality folding like parchment. From its center emerged two figures whose very presence shifted the balance of the room:
The Writer: A towering, humanoid shape formed entirely of books, scrolls, and manuscripts. His surface rippled as words continuously wrote and rewrote themselves across his body, his voice a constant flipping of pages calm, ancient, and absolute.
The Artist: A chaotic, fluid form composed of paintbrushes, musical instruments, sculpting tools, and more. Colors swirled across its body like spilled oil across canvas, and when it spoke, its voice was a symphony of instruments, brush strokes, and creative sound.
They took only a moment to glance at the bleeding, sobbing Sector Master on the floor.
Though neither showed emotion in the traditional sense… there was something unmistakably satisfying in their silence. A quiet approval of the consequences this arrogant failure had just received.
Then The Writer turned to Zalthorion.
His voice rustled through the room like a wind through forgotten libraries.
"Zalthorion… this child's 'Group Chat System' has disrupted delicate balances across multiple sectors. Most of our Guardians remain… occupied elsewhere. We come to request a favor."
Zalthorion's eyes narrowed. He didn't stand from his desk. Instead, he leaned back in his chair with the weight of someone who'd heard this line too many times.
"And how many favors have you already asked of me?"
The Artist spoke next, its voice a thousand musical tones all weaving into one harmonious yet chaotic resonance: "176,891, Zalthorion."
The colors of its form pulsed with the rhythm of the number, each digit represented by a new pattern in its chaotic mass.
Zalthorion blinked slowly, then smirked just slightly.
"And how many of those have I actually used?"
The Writer replied instantly, already knowing the answer before the question had formed: "Sixty."
Zalthorion let out a long, exhausted sigh. Not one of annoyance, but the kind born of ancient beings who understood that peace was a temporary illusion in an ever-turbulent multiverse.
"So you're asking me, again… to clean up after your progeny's mistakes?"
The Artist's instruments let out a short, apologetic chord.
The Writer responded plainly: "Yes."
Then together, they added in solemn unity: "Please… eliminate the nuisance these brainless children have unleashed. And do as you always do, Zalthorion end it properly."
Zalthorion slowly stood from his desk. As he rose, the shadows in the room seemed to kneel around him.
He looked down once more at the pathetic Sector Master groaning at his feet and whispered not to him, but as a declaration to those who truly mattered: "Then let the ruins of their arrogance echo throughout the systems they tried to control. I'll see to it that their Group Chat becomes their epitaph."
Zalthorion stood silent for a moment, letting the Sector Master's cries echo around the chamber like distant thunder in a dead land.
Then he spoke, his voice low and final: "Very well... but in return for this favor... I demand the right to strip this disgrace of his title, and try him for his crimes against multiversal balance."
He stepped forward.
"And know this I will personally see to the annihilation of this idiotic 'Group Chat'..."
As he uttered those words, the atmosphere changed.
The world shuddered.
Reality itself dimmed for a heartbeat then Zalthorion's armor began to manifest.
From the shadows of his divine office, forged by will and judgment, the plates formed piece by piece. Black and gold, jagged and regal, forged from the essence of unyielding order and wrath. Spiked pauldrons rose like thrones of fallen kings, and from his back draped a torn cape that whispered to the void. Every inch of the armor seemed to sing with ancient power and a promise of doom.
He now stood as a dark god of law and reckoning the enforcer of truths no reality could escape.
Then, he reached out...
And from the air, the Blade of Souls appeared materializing with a shriek of memory and multiversal erasure. A weapon that didn't just kill it unwrote.
Zalthorion gave it a slight swing.
The sound was not metal on air it was like an ancient choir gasping and a library screaming. The wind itself recoiled.
Even The Writer, whose form was an embodiment of eternal narrative, took a cautious step back.
Even The Artist, whose essence was creation itself, twitched with unease.
The Writer's pages rustled nervously as he nodded.
The Artist's body played a discordant note, then fell silent in agreement.
Without another word, they reached down and seized the disgraced Sector Master now shrieking in fear, rage, and denial.
"You… you don't understand! I was right! I was going to be greater than him!"
But Zalthorion stepped forward, his voice thundering across the marble chamber like a divine executioner: "You were never greater. You were a child wielding fire in a nursery. And now your story ends."
The Writer opened the portal.
The Artist dragged the disgraced master in.
Their cries faded through the rift… swallowed by the multiverse's indifference.
Zalthorion now stood alone, fully armored, blade in hand.
The target: a childish "Group Chat System" that had unknowingly challenged a being whose will was law across creation.
Zalthorion, clad in his divine armor, lifted his free hand.
The Blade of Souls hummed beside him, vibrating through the planes of existence as if eager to feast.
With a motion as simple as opening a curtain, Zalthorion ripped open a portal. But this was no ordinary rift it wasn't just space being torn, it was concept itself.
The portal flared violently. On the other side was a vast, artificial reality a multiversal "Group Chat" System, filled with distorted timelines, sentient emojis, weaponized algorithms, and egos elevated to the status of gods.
The moment Zalthorion took a step forward into this world, the system froze.
Every chat thread, corrupted admin, overpowered user-made avatar, and AI-guardian shuddered as if they instinctively knew: "Something ancient has entered."
Not a single soul could comprehend what walked in only that judgment had arrived.
Zalthorion did not run.
He walked, each footfall echoing like thunder across a digital landscape pretending to be divine.
The conquest had begun.
Far away, in the Eternals' Court, a structure outside time made of flickering stars and rotating concepts, the disgraced Sector Master stood bound by luminous chains that wrapped around his very name.
Before him stood the First Generation Sector Masters beings older than the stars, older than time. They did not wear crowns.
They were the crowns.
The Writer, a humanoid mass of books and shifting texts, whose voice echoed like flipping pages across dimensions.
The Painter, a constantly transforming figure of living instruments, colors, and expression.
The Tactician, made of chessboards and broken battlefields.
The Dreamer, a floating, sleeping void wrapped in memories.
And more each as terrifying as they were majestic.
The chamber dimmed.
The Writer stepped forward and opened his hand. A Name unfurled an ancient, true name that had never been spoken since the Sector Master's arrogant ascension.
"We, the Elders, call you by your full name."
He spoke it.
And when the name was uttered, the disgraced Sector Master screamed not from pain, but from the loss of his autonomy.
His powers began to unravel, folding in on themselves. His form dimmed. The arrogance, the smugness it peeled off like layers of dead flesh.
The Painter followed, speaking in the choir of creation: "By naming you, we own you. And by owning you we pass sentence."
The others raised their hands, and with a single note, a line of fate was drawn.
"You are guilty of arrogance, cosmic mismanagement, crimes of inheritance, miscreation of life, and multiversal negligence."
The Dreamer whispered: "Your sentence is nullification from memory... but first you will watch."
"Watch Zalthorion erase every legacy you sought to leave."
The chains bound his eyes open with starlight. A cosmic screen formed before him the Group Chat Universe now displayed in real time.
He could only sob as he watched Zalthorion walk through it unhindered, unstoppable.
And with each being Zalthorion struck down, a piece of the Sector Master's pride died forever.
As Zalthorion strode deeper into the artificial realm of the "Group Chat System," the illusion of childish banter gave way to something older, something festering behind layers of immature divinity.
Lining the obsidian corridors were statues some were humanoid, others were warped beasts or glowing constructs. Each one bore exaggerated features, commemorating the ten beings who ruled this realm like spoiled gods. Their faces were smirking, victorious, frozen in stone for eternity.
The deeper Zalthorion walked, the quieter the realm became.
Until he arrived.
At the heart of this false cosmos stood a Council Chamber, circular and monolithic, suspended in a void of screaming data and collapsing code.
Ten thrones rose like cliffs around a central platform.
And there, strapped to a spiked pedestal, was the son of the disgraced Sector Master. His body glowed faintly, eyes rolled back, surrounded by an arcane siphoning circle that crackled with an ancient, forbidden force:
⚫ Aetherial Dominion - the raw fuel of sovereignty, legacy, and divine authority once granted to true Sector Masters.
It was not meant to be extracted. Not meant to be consumed.
But they had done it.
The child groaned weakly as the energy bled from his soul pale trails of Aetherial Dominion spiraled upward like stolen incense.
Then the room shifted.
The ten seats glowed.
And with a flare of arrogance and self-importance, they appeared.
The statues had not lied they were beautiful in the way that collapsing stars are beautiful.
Each one a blend of stolen elegance and bloated narcissism.
One wore a crown of spinning notifications.
Another was wrapped in golden chains of follower counts.
One held a staff made of "likes," bleeding data.
Another hovered, eyes glowing with the code of reality itself, constantly re-writing their own importance.
But all ten shared one trait:
They were parasites, feeding off what they didn't earn.
And when their eyes landed on Zalthorion, they didn't recognize him at first.
Until they felt it.
His presence.
His signature.
The room filled with the raw pressure of a being who had stood before the Multiversal Big Bang and did not flinch.
The council flinched. One choked on their own breath. Another whispered, "Impossible…"
Then they felt it deeper like a wound in their soul. The energy radiating from Zalthorion was Aetherial Dominion refined and complete, not like the scraps they had stolen from the boy, not even like the raw form within his father.
It was purer. Older. Unending.
"He… has more than the boy… more than us…" one muttered.
The shock began to fade.
And in its place… greed.
Eyes twitched. Fingers gripped weapons.
Hearts beat faster not from fear but from desire.
One of them dared speak, his voice drenched in envy: "That power… should be shared. Come now, Entity, we could… offer you a seat"
Zalthorion didn't answer. He simply stepped forward.
The Blade of Souls materialized at his side.
And with it came silence.
The council chamber fell still as Zalthorion stepped forward, the Blade of Souls humming in his grip a sound that made even the code of this false reality shudder. The Ten thought themselves eternal, each a self-crowned god in this stolen realm.
But Zalthorion wasn't here to challenge them.
He was here to erase them.
The Arbiter of Applause
Clad in digital robes woven from praise and clout, he raised a staff of algorithmic influence.
"Wait! We can negotiate!"
Zalthorion didn't speak. He simply vanished.
And reappeared behind him.
One swing.
The Blade of Souls did not cleave flesh it tore through existence. The Arbiter's scream was swallowed as his entire history, name, and influence across all versions of reality were unmade. Where he stood, only ashes of forgotten applause remained.
One down.
The Hasher
A multi-limbed being of hashtags and chains, she cracked her whips of influence, trying to bind Zalthorion's will.
"You will trend no more!"
But her voice faltered as the golden etchings of the Blade of Souls reflected her true form a parasite clinging to meaning she never made.
Zalthorion raised one finger.
A single black flame flicked into existence and she burned from the inside out, hashtags melting into silence. Her seat collapsed with a digital shriek.
Two down.
The Echo-Lord
He duplicated himself tenfold, each echo shouting a different lie: "He is false!" "He fears us!" "Strike now!"
Zalthorion stepped forward.
The Blade of Souls whistled once.
All ten echoes evaporated, and the original remained, trembling. Before he could run, Zalthorion raised his other hand and pointed.
The Echo-Lord's voice choked as his throat sealed shut by the laws of the multiverse itself no longer permitted to speak in any dimension.
"You were heard too long," Zalthorion said coldly and ended him.
Three down.
The Designer
Cloaked in avatars and filters, she tried to reshape herself into Zalthorion's equal. Her power bent the visuals of the room, rewriting the code, rewriting herself.
"I am beauty. I am the canvas of truth!"
Zalthorion raised the Blade not to strike, but to show her reflection in its surface.
The sword showed her real form: a thief of meaning, cobbled from others' effort.
She collapsed, screaming, as her form fractured. He didn't even need to swing.
"Truth doesn't bend for liars."
Four down.
The Archivist of Reaction
This one recorded all things, a being of endless takes, response videos, and commentary. He laughed as he tried to trap Zalthorion in a loop of verbal critique and false narratives.
"Your myth is fragile, I'll expose"
Crunch.
Zalthorion stepped forward, hand still closed.
He had crushed the Archivist's voice crystal, hidden in his chest. With that, all his records past, present, future vanished.
The room grew darker with every deletion.
"Now no one will remember you existed."
Five down.
Zalthorion stood in silence.
Half of the council was gone.
The other half no longer sat comfortably in their thrones.
One stood up, shaking.
"We… we didn't know the boy was his kin…"
Zalthorion's gaze pierced him.
"You did. That's why you took him."
The remaining five stood, trembling. Zalthorion's presence had changed the very rules of this pocket realm time slowed, gravity warped, and even concepts began to unravel.
He turned his gaze toward the sixth seat.
The Mimic Monarch
She copied everything voices, powers, even Zalthorion's stance mirroring him perfectly.
"I am your equal, your reflection!"
Zalthorion tilted his head, then walked directly through her.
Literally.
As he passed, her body fragmented she was never real, only an echo of others. The Blade didn't need to swing. His existence was enough to unmake her.
"You never were."
Six down.
The Threadweaver
A spindly entity controlling narratives through lies spun like silk. He tried to pull Zalthorion into a trap of illusion, twisting his perception, shifting reality.
But Zalthorion simply snapped his fingers.
The web unraveled. The truth flooded back like a tidal wave.
"Your threads," Zalthorion growled, "are made of fear."
With a flick of the Blade, the Threadweaver was cut into seven parts each erased from seven different layers of reality.
Seven down.
The Click-King
He clapped, laughed, and summoned hordes of fake followers and hollow constructs.
"My empire is endless!"
Zalthorion walked past his constructs. They shattered just from proximity.
Then Zalthorion opened his palm, revealing a black marble.
"This is your 'empire'."
He crushed it. The King blinked once.
Then exploded inwardshis fake kingdom collapsing into him like a dying star.
Eight down.
The Algorithm Oracle
She tried to foresee his actions, predict the future, run simulations
"You cannot escape the numbers, Entity. I see all endings."
Zalthorion's eyes burned gold.
"Then you already saw your own."
The Oracle began screaming as all her predictions converged into one her annihilation.
Zalthorion thrust the Blade forward without moving his feet. The stab didn't touch her physically, it cut her name from the multiverse.
She vanished mid-scream.
Nine down.
The Crownless God
He stood, a pretender in full regalia.
"I built this place. I am the center of it."
Zalthorion approached slowly.
"You built nothing. You only stole. And you did so with a child as your power source.
He raised the Blade of Souls its edge now blacker than void, glowing with golden runes that pulsed with the names of those erased.
The Crownless God roared and charged.
Too slow.
Zalthorion slashed once.
The God fell to his knees, not wounded but unwritten. His own crown turned to dust.
"There is only one center now."
Ten down.
The boy, weak and drained, floated in the center of the throne room. Zalthorion caught him in one arm, cradling him gently an immortal titan protecting a single spark of innocence.
Then, Zalthorion stood straight.
He began to grow his armor shifting, expanding, ascending beyond dimensional scale. His shadow blanketed the entirety of the fake realm. Statues crumbled. Realities bent. The stars that once fed this place were blotted out by his presence.
Then Zalthorion raised the Blade of Souls above his head its size now rivaling a universe.
His voice was cold, echoing across realities:
"This realm was built on lies, suffering, and stolen light. It is unworthy of existence."
He stabbed the Blade of Souls into the heart of the realm.
It screamed.
The realm cracked like glass shattering in layers concepts, thoughts, memories, all falling into the Blade. It devoured everything: timelines, echoes, fake souls, and corrupted ideas. Everything the Parasitic Ten created absorbed and erased.
And then…
Silence.
The only thing left…
Was Zalthorion.
And the boy, now sleeping safely in his arms.
In the Hall of Observation, a chamber nestled between fractured dimensions and sealed from all mortal sight, the Sector Masters watched.
The echoes of Zalthorion's annihilation still reverberated across multiversal ley lines. The Blade of Souls had not merely ended a realm it had rendered it unremembered by reality itself.
The First Generation of Sector Masters stood still silent, statuesque, unmoved on the outside, yet deeply pleased. They had no need for praise or fanfare; they existed to observe and balance.
The Writer his body a breathing manuscript closed a book titled The Arrogance of the Unworthy, binding it with a wax seal of Zalthorion's insignia.
The Artist, ever shapeless and swirling, exhaled a single note a sound like the breaking of a chain mixed with a celebratory symphony.
"The melody is corrected," he whispered, brushstrokes flowing through his form.
Unlike the First, they reacted openly.
Vaelion the Tempest, Sector Master of Stormwoven Realities, let out a low whistle. His lightning-marked fingers crackled with awe.
"He didn't even release his full power… terrifying."
Selunae Starborn, Sector Mistress of Cosmic Light, folded her arms, her dress made of comet trails.
"That fool brought shame to our kind. I hope the Thirds are watching."
Jhorus Voidcry, brooding and spectral, smirked faintly.
"The realm deserved erasure. But the boy... he was spared. Typical Zalthorion."
Mirethein, Lord of Memory, etched the event into the Book of Immutable Events with reverence.
"This will not be forgotten."
Even Valecarn, the usually arrogant Judge of Discordant Laws, gave a curt nod of respect.
"One swing. That's all it took. One swing erased a pantheon of parasites."
Scattered across other realms, watching through stolen mirrors or clandestine threads of power, the Third Generation watched… and trembled.
They were brash, wild, empowered by systems, by users, by cheat codes and scripts. Many thought of themselves as gods.
Until now.
Now, they saw what a true guardian of the multiverse looked like.
The disgraced Third, the father of the Ten, still bound and bleeding his divine essence in a stasis cube held by the Writer, screamed in silent agony as his realm ceased to exist in every direction.
The Writer turned a single page, his voice the sound of flipping paper.
"Let this be remembered. Not as vengeance. Not as punishment.
But as judgment."
"The Multiverse remembers those who build.
And it forgets those who steal."