Right after the Yuria's farewell, both Surreal and Forreal had nothing that was postponing their grand plan.
The cold, biting wind roared past them as Surreal and Forreal arrived on the highest elevation of Earth.
With an elevation of 29,029 feet or 8,848 meters, they stood at the summit of Mount Everest.
The air was thin and frigid, making every breath an effort, though Surreal and Forreal remained unaffected, as the black magic insulated them from the harsh elements.
Snow swirled around them, whipped into miniature cyclones that danced across the ice-covered rocks.
Forreal looked at him, her gaze sharp but tinged with concern.
"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice raised to be heard over the wind.
Surreal's closed eyes curved slightly in his signature smile. "This is for the best," he replied softly, his voice cutting through the howling wind with an unnatural clarity. "I've delayed it long enough. It's time."
He gestured with a wave of his hand, and the space around them shimmered as a powerful magical barrier snapped into place, shielding them from the biting cold and roaring wind, and cleansing all of the snow.
The air within the barrier was eerily still, an unnerving calm settling over the area.
Forreal's eyes widened as she took in the scene that was revealed in front of her.
Six enormous voodoo totems loomed around them, each carved from a dark, ancient wood and adorned with intricate symbols that glowed faintly in pulsating purple.
The totems were arranged in a perfect hexagon, their towering forms casting long, jagged shadows over the snow. At the center of the formation stood a massive needle-like object, its surface covered in runes that seemed to shift and writhe like living things.
The needle punctured a magic circle etched into the ground, its edges aflame with a flickering purple fire that danced and swayed as if alive.
"What… is all this?" Forreal asked, her voice quieter now, almost reverent.
"A ritual site," Surreal explained as he began removing his upper clothing. "Pay close attention, Forreal. It may come in handy for your future use of black magic."
As his jacket and shirt fell away, Forreal's breath caught. Surreal's body was a horrifying canvas of magical scars—glowing purple lines criss-crossed his chest, back, and arms, some of them pulsating faintly as if alive.
There were thin tendrils of red energy leaked from several of the wounds, dissipating into the air like smoke.
The most striking feature was still the pair of extra arms extending from his waist, their appearance unnervingly organic despite their supernatural origin. They moved slightly, as if reacting to the energy coursing through him.
Forreal couldn't hide her expression of shock and discomfort.
Surreal glanced at her, his smile unwavering. "Terrifying, isn't it? But don't worry," he said, his tone oddly reassuring. "You won't have to go this far. My scars are the result of choices I made—choices you'll never need to face."
He stepped into the magic circle, the purple flames around its edges flaring brighter in response to his presence. As he moved to the center, the totems began to vibrate faintly, emitting low, guttural hums that resonated through the air.
Forreal watched in uneasy silence as Surreal raised his arms, his body beginning to float above the ground. The glow of the flames intensified, casting eerie shadows across his scarred form.
His lips parted, and he began to chant.
The chant was a jarring cacophony of sounds—hundreds of voices speaking in countless languages, each overlapping the next in an incomprehensible torrent of noise. Yet amidst the chaos, Forreal's ears caught a single thread, gentle voice, clear and deliberate, speaking in a language she didn't recognize but instinctively understood.
The words were poetic, cryptic, and laden with weight.
"Beneath the void, where shadows writhe, lies the ledger of our kin.
"By flames of deceit, by whispers contrived, Humanity shall pay for its sins."
The magic circle beneath him flared with violent intensity as the needle began to shift, trembling slightly before rising slowly from the ground. The runes on its surface glowed brighter, their shapes contorting into symbols Forreal had never seen before.
Surreal's chant continued, his voice resonating with a gravity that seemed to pull the air itself inward:
"By hands unclean, by wills astray, the veil is torn. To those who lie beneath the night, we offer the ash of mortal blight."
The totems began to hum louder, their carved faces twisting and writhing as if alive. Tendrils of black energy snaked out from them, converging on the floating needle.
The ground beneath the magic circle cracked and split, revealing a swirling void of black and crimson energy.
Under the shimmering dome of magic atop Mount Everest, the air within the barrier grew denser with each passing second.
Outside, the winds screamed and snow battered against the invisible wall, but within, there was only stillness.
The needle, now fully upright, hung above the void of black and crimson energy, its surface alive with shifting runes that pulsed in time with Surreal's chant.
The sky beyond began to change.
The firmament churned and twisted, its natural blues and whites pulled upward as if an unseen hand were stretching a single point to infinity.
It was as though reality itself was unraveling, the heavens warping into an eldritch spiral.
Surreal's voice rose in volume, his words an uncanny melody woven from countless voices, each resonating with the weight of ages.
"To the flawed flesh and the greedy mind, I cast my eye. The ledger is tallied, the ink runs dry.
"From seed to bloom, from youth to dust, shall all pay their dues in the name of lust."
Across the world, the temperature dropped sharply, frost creeping over cityscapes and fields alike. Humanity, unaware of the ritual above, paused in their daily lives, their breath visible in the sudden cold. Then it began.
In a bustling financial district of a metropolis, traders froze mid-call, their bodies contorting grotesquely.
Those whose greed had consumed them—embezzlers, manipulators, exploiters—felt their hearts tighten, a black ichor spilling from their eyes and mouths as they felt lifeless.
Nearby, a janitor working late collapsed gently onto his broom, a serene expression on his face as he was spared the violent end.
"Oh, you who hoard the plenty and mock the meek, to you, I give the justice you seek.
"To those with empty hands and hearts of gold, a peaceful end shall take its hold."
The deaths were tallied.
1.2 billion people succumbed to this wave, half falling in agony, their greed laid bare, while the rest passed quietly.
The winds calmed, replaced by a rising tide. Across coastal cities and towns, the seas roared higher and higher, swallowing everything in their path. The waters claimed those whose lies had drowned others in sorrow—betrayers, fraudsters, and deceivers.
But within the same rising flood, children clung to each other in fear, finding solace in each other's company. The waters embraced them gently, cradling them like a mother as their breaths ceased painlessly.
"To those who wield the tongue to deceive and betray. To the abyss, I send you, with none to sway.
"But to the innocents who stood strong in the tide, a tranquil embrace where spirits reside."
The deaths were tallied.
800 million people drowned, 500 million of whom were pulled gently into eternal slumber, leaving behind smiles.
The Earth trembled violently. Cracks split open city streets and countryside fields, swallowing entire structures. In an arid desert, the ground opened beneath a despot's palace, consuming him and his bloodied riches in a cascade of sand and stone.
Farmers working their fields paused, their tools falling from their hands. They felt no fear as the earth gave way beneath them, the soil wrapping around their bodies like an old friend bringing them home.
"To those who sought dominion through force and might, the Earth claims your greed in endless night.
"But those who tilled and nourished its bountiful grace, shall find their rest in a warm embrace."
The deaths were tallied.
1 billion, 700 million people by violent quakes, 300 million carried peacefully.
The sky above mirrored the devastation below. The swirling vortex of light and shadow tightened, pulling the heavens into a singular point. Waves of color rippled outward from the summit, and across the planet, lives were extinguished in fits of suffering and peace.
"The stars bear witness to your deeds, your virtues and vices, your planted seeds. From the celestial vault, the balance sways, and now I reap what you have laid."
Surreal's chant grew louder, his words twisting in ways that could not be translated, their meaning absorbed directly by the soul.
And there was no stopping it.
Through twelve waves, Surreal's judgment encompassed all of humanity, each punishment tied to unseen constellations. The months of birth dictated their fates:
Those born under a water sign gasped for air as imaginary oceans engulfed them
Those born under earth signs felt the crushing weight of collapsing stone.
Fire signs burned in an unquenchable inferno, and air signs were swept into winds that stripped flesh from bone.
Those who embodied the virtues of received swift and painless deaths, their final moments filled with the embodiment of their positive traits—those lying in a peaceful pasture, those cradled by ethereal winds, those lost in a garden of eternal blooms.
However, humans weren't the only participants.
Every animal, fish, insect, and even all kinds of organism on Earth also took part in this.
But instead of being judged of their sins, many of them were allowed to depart peacefully with no pain bearing their souls.
Except for mosquitos.
All mosquitos on every place of this planet were burnt to ashes and killed indiscriminately.
The deaths weren't instant either. It was ensured that these beings remembered the flames that were churning throughout its duration.
There shall be no forgiveness for the bloodsuckers.
By the time the final judgment ended, the Earth was silent.
Around more than 28 decillion souls were freed, their bodies reduced to dust and their voices snuffed out.
Only Surreal and Forreal remained atop Mount Everest, the ritual circle glowing faintly, its power spent.
Surreal floated back to the ground, his extra arms hanging limp at his sides. His body bore new scars, faint lines of violet energy wrapping his chest.
He retrieved his discarded clothing, dressing slowly as if each motion carried the weight of his actions.
Forreal remained silent, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun was rising, casting long shadows over the frozen peaks.
The world was empty now, its vast cities, endless fields, and sprawling oceans devoid of life.