"The Gods are afraid," were the last words of the mage before she became dust.

Blasphemy, pure and unadulterated. Words that would have ignited celestial wrath on realms and worlds. However, half the gods were nothing but corpses laying across the floor, and the other half? Well, they were afraid.

"How far will you go?" The God of War asked. He wasn't a participant in this battle, but an observer.

"As far as I need to," the being replied. Its voice was akin to static, a disruption in the flow of the universe itself.

"There is no order without chaos," he spoke.

These were not just words but law, a law that existence had to abide, a law that birthed all that has been and all that was to be.

The being looked at the distant horizon, a gaping void of utter darkness where existence should be, one telling of incomprehensible magic power, a sacrifice born from a promise, one he swore not to break—yet here he was.

"And if you fail?" The God of War asked, his tone heavy with sadness and uncertainty.

"I won't... I can't," he turned away from the horizon. "Is the system ready?" he asked as he locked gazes with the God of War.

"Not yet... we'll need a century more," the God of War replied.

The being sighed, a sigh of slight regret.

"Listen, even if I lose myself to this power, the hunger of primordial chaos and disorder... even if I fail... Make sure he does not," the being instructed.

"I understand," the God of War responded.

"It's a bad day for Gods... even worse for the broken."