Deep within the frigid depths of Siberia, buried beneath layers of snow and ice, lay an underground facility that few knew existed. The walls were thick with concrete and steel, built to withstand almost anything nature or man could throw at it. Two guards stood at their posts, the cold biting through their uniforms despite the facility's heated interior.
They spoke quietly to one another in Russian, their voices carrying over the hum of the machinery around them. "I miss my family," one of them said, rubbing his hands together for warmth. "I haven't seen my daughter in months. She was just learning to walk when I left."
The other nodded, his breath fogging in the cold air. "My son… he just started school. I send letters, but it isn't the same." They both fell silent, each lost in their thoughts of home.
But their reverie was abruptly shattered. An alarm blared throughout the facility, a sound so piercing it seemed to rattle the very foundations of the underground structure. Red emergency lights flashed across the control panels, casting long, jagged shadows on the walls. The guards snapped into action, gripping their rifles tightly.
One of them spoke into his radio, his voice tight with urgency. "What's going on? Is this a drill?"
Before he could receive a response, a distant, deep rumbling echoed through the facility, followed by a series of rapid, sharp explosions. The two guards exchanged a tense glance and rushed toward the main chamber, where the sound seemed to be coming from. As they arrived, they found the door ajar, and the sight before them made their blood run cold.
Inside the chamber, the object they had been guarding—the reason they were stationed in this desolate place—was now glowing ominously. The object was a large, black monolith, covered in strange, shifting symbols that seemed to dance across its surface like living creatures. One guard swore in Russian, his voice trembling. "Черт возьми… (Damn it…)"
But before he could say another word, his head exploded in a burst of red mist. His body crumpled to the floor, leaving the second guard frozen in horror, blood splattered across his face and uniform. His heart raced, and he turned just in time to see a ripple of energy emanate from the monolith, warping the air around it.
And then, all at once, the entire facility was engulfed in a massive explosion. The ground shook with the force of it, sending a plume of smoke and debris shooting up from the snowy landscape. The shockwave was felt miles away, rattling the nearby villages. The blinding light of the explosion was visible for hundreds of miles in the night sky.
From miles above, satellites picked up the explosion, and within minutes, news networks around the world were abuzz with speculation. Rumors of a mysterious attack, of covert operations gone wrong, and of supernatural forces began to circulate. But one fact quickly became clear: the United States had just declared war on Russia.
The President of the United States, back in his office, watched the live feed from his intelligence advisors, his expression hardening as he absorbed the news. "It begins," he murmured to himself, his voice barely above a whisper.
And somewhere in the shadows, the Cheshire Cat laughed.
Amidst the smoking ruins of the Siberian facility, a figure stood unscathed by the destruction around him. It was Hansel, though he appeared much younger than before, perhaps around 13 years old. His eyes glinted with a mixture of curiosity and dark intent, holding in his hand a strange sphere. The object pulsed with an ominous aura, shadows flickering across its surface like living tendrils of darkness. This was the God Controller, an artifact forged from the concentrated energy of ten Leviathans, their combined might sealed within its crystalline core.
Hansel turned the sphere in his hand, feeling the weight of its immense power, its very presence warping the air around him. With a smirk, he whispered something under his breath—a phrase only he could understand—and in an instant, he vanished from the ruins, leaving behind the smoldering remains of the facility and the bodies of the guards who had perished in the blast.
Moments later, he materialized within the ornate office of Saint Nicholas. The god's chamber was filled with the warm glow of candlelight, and the air smelled faintly of cinnamon and evergreen. On a large, antique television set, the news was playing, broadcasting scenes from the aftermath of the explosion. The reporter's voice trembled with a mixture of fear and uncertainty:
"…sources within the government suggest that a creature, referred to as 'the Monster of the End,' has been captured and is now in the service of the President of the United States. There are rumors that this being, whose true form remains unknown, has unparalleled power—"
Hansel's lips curled into a sneer as he watched. "Bullshit," he muttered. He knew better than anyone that the reports were nothing more than fabricated lies, a feeble attempt to control the narrative. The Cheshire Cat—the so-called 'Monster of the End'—was no mere servant of any mortal leader. It was a force of chaos and madness, far beyond the comprehension or control of any human, even those with authority.
Saint Nicholas sat at his desk, his eyes focused on Hansel. His expression was a mix of concern and curiosity. "I see you've been busy, Hansel," he said in a voice that carried both warmth and gravity. "The God Controller… It's not something you find lying around. And to think you've come into possession of it."
Hansel chuckled, twirling the sphere in his hand. "Busy is an understatement," he replied. "But don't worry, Saint Nick. I'm not here to cause trouble... yet."
Saint Nicholas raised an eyebrow. "Yet? What are you planning, child?"
Hansel's grin widened. "Oh, nothing much. Just wondering what sort of game the gods are playing with me. And why the fool," he added with a mocking emphasis, "seems so intent on rewriting the rules."
The mention of Zefron—the Fool, the God of Eternity—cast a shadow over Saint Nicholas's face. "Zefron is a law unto himself," he replied cautiously. "But what interest could he have in you, a mortal turned god?"
Hansel's eyes gleamed with a flicker of madness. "Maybe he's just bored," he shrugged. "Or maybe… he knows that in this game of gods and monsters, there's only room for one winner."
Saint Nicholas leaned forward, his gaze sharp. "Be careful, Hansel. You are playing with forces beyond your understanding. Even with that sphere, you are not invincible."
Hansel laughed, a sound both youthful and old beyond his years. "Understanding is overrated, Nick. What's important is… power." His fingers tightened around the God Controller. "And right now, I have plenty of it."
As the news continued to drone on about the 'Monster of the End,' Hansel's eyes flickered with a cold, determined light. He had plans of his own, and the gods would soon learn that he was no mere pawn in their celestial games.