All around the courtyard and palace grounds, guards and servants cried out in shock and fear as the solid ground beneath their feet vanished, replaced by a flurry of wings. They too fell, their weapons and armor scattering uselessly as they struggled to comprehend the surreal scene before them.
Azathoth watched it all with a wicked grin. The sight of the once-mighty palace reduced to nothing more than a cloud of fragile butterflies was both beautiful and grotesque—a perfect display of his power. But he was not done.
As the last of the butterflies scattered into the sky, Azathoth's attention was drawn to a figure emerging from the chaos. It was the king's general, a towering man clad in heavy armor, his face a mask of fury and disbelief. He was one of the few who had maintained his composure amidst the madness, and now, his eyes locked onto Azathoth with a burning hatred.
"You!" the general roared, drawing his sword with a swift motion. The blade gleamed under the moonlight, its edge sharp and deadly. "What have you done?"
Azathoth tilted his head slightly, amused by the general's bravado. He rested the hammer on his shoulder, the power of the Infinity Stones humming softly in the night air. "I thought I'd redecorate," he replied, his tone mocking. "Though I must say, I do prefer butterflies over stone."
The general's face twisted with rage. Without another word, he charged at Azathoth, his sword aimed straight for his heart. But Azathoth didn't move. He didn't need to.
With a flick of his wrist, the Power Stone flared to life. The air around him rippled, and the ground beneath the general cracked and buckled. The charging warrior was lifted off his feet, thrown back by an invisible force that sent him crashing into the courtyard wall. The impact left a crater, the general slumping to the ground with a groan.
He struggled to stand, but Azathoth was already upon him. With a lazy swing of the hammer, he sent the general's sword flying from his grasp, embedding it deep into the stone wall. The general's eyes widened in shock as he realized just how outmatched he was.
Azathoth leaned down, his voice cold and mocking. "You thought you could protect your king? Your palace? How quaint." He lifted the hammer again, the Mind Stone glowing as it connected with the general's consciousness. "But let me show you the futility of your efforts."
The general's eyes glazed over as his mind was assaulted by a barrage of horrors—visions of his king's death, his city in flames, his people crying out for help that would never come. He fell to his knees, clutching his head as he screamed in terror, the strength drained from his body.
Azathoth watched, satisfied, as the once-proud general was reduced to a trembling shell of a man. "Now," he said softly, raising the hammer one last time, "let's end this farce."
With a final, crushing blow, the general's cries were silenced. The courtyard, once filled with the noise of battle, was now eerily quiet, save for the fluttering of butterfly wings in the distance. Azathoth straightened, brushing off his cloak as if the battle had been nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
He glanced around at the remnants of the palace, now nothing more than an empty shell. "Too easy," he muttered to himself, turning his back on the scene of devastation.
As the last echoes of the general's screams faded into the night, Azathoth turned his gaze to the king, who had finally gathered his wits after the surreal chaos. The king's eyes burned with desperation and fury, the remnants of his dignity urging him to make a final stand.
"You monster!" the king shouted, his voice trembling with both rage and fear. He grabbed a ceremonial sword from a fallen guard, its ornate blade gleaming weakly in the moonlight. With a cry of defiance, he rushed at Azathoth, the weight of his kingdom and the lives lost in this nightmarish encounter fueling his attack.
Azathoth watched the king's approach with cold indifference, not even bothering to raise the hammer in defense. Just as the king's blade was about to strike, Azathoth's eyes glowed briefly with the power of the Reality Stone. The king froze mid-swing, his form shimmering as the power took hold.
The king's wife, watching from the sidelines, gasped in horror as her husband's body began to unravel, turning into a swarm of butterflies right before her eyes. The sword he wielded clattered to the ground, now wielded by nothing but air as the king vanished into the cloud of delicate wings. The butterflies scattered, leaving behind only the echoes of his final cry.
The queen staggered back, her hands covering her mouth in shock. "No... this can't be..." she whispered, her voice breaking as she realized the full extent of the horror unfolding around her.
But there was no time to mourn. The guards, fueled by duty and the desire for vengeance, charged at Azathoth, their weapons raised in a desperate attempt to avenge their fallen king. Yet, before they could even reach him, time itself betrayed them.
With a mere flick of Azathoth's wrist, the Time Stone flared to life, and the guards froze mid-step, their bodies locked in place as if they were mere statues. The scene was eerily silent—soldiers captured in a moment of futile aggression, their expressions fixed in a mix of rage and terror.
Azathoth observed the frozen tableau with a cruel smirk. Then, with another casual wave of his hand, the guards began to disintegrate, their forms crumbling into ashes that drifted away on the wind. The queen, who had witnessed the annihilation of her husband and the palace guards, could only watch in silent horror as everything she knew was systematically destroyed.
With all threats eliminated, Azathoth casually let go of the Golden Hammer, allowing it to slip from his grip as if it were nothing more than a discarded toy. But as the hammer made contact with the ground, it unleashed a force far beyond what its casual release implied.
The impact was immediate and cataclysmic. The marble floor cracked wide open, fissures spiderwebbing out from the point of impact. The ground beneath Azathoth and the queen began to tremble violently, the very foundation of the palace grounds shaking with the force of an earthquake. Shockwaves radiated outwards, toppling statues, shattering windows, and sending debris flying in every direction.
The queen stumbled, trying to regain her balance as the world around her crumbled. She looked up at Azathoth, who stood at the center of the chaos, completely unfazed by the destruction he had wrought. His cold, unyielding gaze met hers, and she knew in that moment that there was no hope, no mercy to be found in this dark being.
Azathoth stepped forward, the ground trembling with each of his movements, as if the very earth itself was bending to his will. He ignored the widening chasm beneath his feet, the abyss swallowing the remains of the palace and everything around it. For him, this was merely another display of power—a demonstration to the world that he was unstoppable, unchallenged, and utterly dominant.
As the last remnants of the palace began to collapse into the void, Azathoth finally turned his back on the scene of destruction. The queen, barely clinging to life and sanity, watched helplessly as he walked away, her kingdom reduced to nothing more than ashes and memories.
And with that, Azathoth left the courtyard, the Golden Hammer lying amidst the ruins as a silent testament to his overwhelming power—a warning to any who might dare to oppose him. The butterflies that had once been the king swirled around him as he departed, their delicate wings a stark contrast to the devastation left in his wake. With a flick of his wrist the hammer automatically flew to his grasp instantly like a magnet.....