{Disclaimer}
I don't own any of the cool characters or worlds in this story.
All referenced content is the property of their respective creators and copyright holders.
I only own my original characters, and I promise they're not trying to take over any established universes.
This is just a work of pure fiction, meant to entertain you, maybe make you laugh, and definitely not to upset anyone! Enjoy the ride!
————————————————————
Asgard was a realm of golden light, where gods reigned supreme. Now, under the weight of the Shadow Monarch's will, it was a place of unrelenting darkness. The skies were cloaked in storm clouds, the ground shattered beneath the onslaught of the Monarch's forces. The air reeked of ozone, blood, and impending doom. And at the heart of it all stood the Shadow Army, a tidal wave of destruction that consumed everything in its path.
Beru's Hunt
High above the battle, Beru soared through the air, his insectoid wings buzzing like the death knell of a thousand creatures. His yellow eyes glowed with primal hunger as he surveyed the chaos below. He was a hunter, and Asgard's champions were prey. His limbs rippled with muscle, his claws itching for blood. He would savor this. The gods, the so-called mighty rulers of the cosmos, were nothing but insects to be crushed beneath his feet.
His voice rang out like a scream, a shrill command that cut through the battlefield.
"Destroy them," he growled. "Let none of them live."
The shadow soldiers around him surged forward with terrifying precision, each one an extension of his will. They moved as one, coordinated, ruthless. There was no hesitation, no fear. Only the instinct to annihilate. Beru dove into the heart of the fray, his monstrous claws tearing through the ranks of Asgardian warriors. Every strike was calculated, every movement brutal. He didn't just kill—he hunted, he fed. He reveled in the carnage, in the knowledge that the gods' reign was slipping away.
As he soared from one target to the next, his mind buzzed with the satisfaction of battle. The shadow soldiers followed him, moving in perfect synchronization. No matter how many the gods struck down, there were always more shadows to take their place. There was no escape, no reprieve. Asgard was drowning in darkness, and Beru was the storm.
Bellion's Wrath
On the ground, Bellion was a living mountain of destruction. His massive form stomped across the battlefield, each step sending shockwaves through the earth. He was a titan, the very embodiment of power, and he did not care for subtlety. His colossal sword cleaved through Asgard's defenses like paper. One swing was all it took to send a dozen gods flying, their bodies shattered by the raw force of his blow.
For Bellion, this was the culmination of everything he had fought for. The gods, with their arrogance and delusions of immortality, were nothing compared to the might of the Shadow Monarch. They had nothing to offer but their pride—and now, it was crumbling beneath Bellion's fury.
He swung his blade again, tearing through the air with the force of a collapsing star. The Asgardian warriors who dared to face him were obliterated in an instant, their bodies nothing more than broken husks. And still, the shadows surged forward. The Monarch's army, endless and relentless, continued to pour into the fray, sweeping through Asgard like a wave of darkness.
Bellion smiled, his teeth bared in a savage grin. The battle was over. Asgard was already lost. He was merely cleaning up the mess.
The ground beneath his feet cracked as he moved, sending a ripple of destruction through the battlefield. The shadow soldiers moved in unison, their presence suffocating, overwhelming. As Bellion raised his blade for another strike, he watched as another wave of shadow soldiers swarmed across the land, each one more terrifying than the last.
Igris's Precision
In the thick of the battle, Igris fought with an elegance that was in stark contrast to the brute force of his fellow generals. His black sword moved with surgical precision, cutting down enemies with swift, deadly strikes. Each movement was calculated, his blade finding its mark with deadly accuracy. The gods he faced were strong, but they were nothing compared to the precision of the Monarch's will.
Unlike Bellion's sheer power or Beru's ferocity, Igris's strength lay in his intellect. He moved like a shadow, calculating every move before it happened. Each strike was a planned execution, each kill a carefully crafted masterpiece. Asgard's champions fell around him, their divine power unable to stop the inevitable.
The shadow soldiers around Igris were like an extension of his own being. They moved as he moved, striking where he commanded, adapting to his every whim. He didn't need to shout orders; his will was felt in every corner of the battlefield. His sword swept through the air, dispatching gods and warriors with clinical precision. His soldiers followed, the endless tide of shadows swallowing everything in its path.
Igris never took his eyes off the horizon. The battle wasn't just a fight—it was a statement. Asgard had stood for millennia as the bastion of divine power, but the Monarch's army was showing the universe the truth: the era of gods was over.
The Endless March
The Shadow Army, numbering in the tens of millions, advanced relentlessly, an unstoppable force that consumed the battlefield. The sheer scale of their presence was overwhelming, their numbers multiplying with each passing moment. The gods, even with their divine might, were beginning to realize that no matter how many they felled, more would always rise to take their place.
Every soldier in the army had been forged from darkness, each one a vessel of the Monarch's will. There were no weaknesses in their ranks—no fear, no hesitation. They fought with purpose, each one an extension of the Monarch's desire to reshape the universe in his image.
From the generals to the lowliest of soldiers, the Shadow Army moved in perfect harmony. It was a terrifying sight—millions upon millions of soldiers, marching as one, with their eyes glowing with the same hunger for conquest.
The battlefield was no longer a place of war. It was a place of death. The shadows devoured everything in their path—crushing the golden buildings of Asgard, tearing apart the gods' defenses, and leaving only ruin in their wake.
The gods fought with fury, but the Shadow Army simply pressed forward. Their numbers were too great, their precision too deadly. With each fallen soldier, another rose in their place, and the weight of the endless darkness was too much for Asgard to bear.
Asgard's Descent
Amidst the chaos, the Asgardians began to realize the true scale of the destruction. The once-proud warriors of Asgard, used to being invincible, now fought with desperation. Their swords clashed against the shadows, but it was futile. They had never encountered an enemy like this.
Sif fought fiercely, her spear cutting down shadow soldiers with precision, but even she could feel the overwhelming pressure of the enemy.
"We cannot hold them off," she said, her voice strained. "There are too many."
The warriors of Asgard were gallant, fighting with everything they had, but they were being crushed by sheer numbers. No matter how many they struck down, more emerged from the darkness. The invincible gods of Asgard, once the pride of the Nine Realms, now looked like helpless mortals caught in a storm they could not weather.
Sif swung her spear again, felling another shadow warrior, but her movements were growing slower, wearier.
"We cannot win this battle," she muttered, the weight of the truth settling in.
Fandral, once known for his unshakable bravado, gritted his teeth as his sword cleaved through another shadow soldier. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by grim determination.
"There must be a way…" he muttered, but even he was beginning to doubt.
The battle raged on, but the Asgardians' spirits were beginning to crack under the unyielding assault. From all sides, the shadows encroached, their numbers swelling with each passing second. The divine warriors of Asgard, once feared and revered across the realms, were being overwhelmed by a force unlike anything they had ever known.
Even Heimdall, standing at the heart of the battlefield, could feel the weight of defeat pressing in.
"The light is fading," he whispered. "Asgard is falling."
The once-immovable fortress of Asgard was now crumbling, its golden halls shattered, its warriors scattered. The gods had fought valiantly, but in the end, there was no stopping the tide of darkness.
Asgard's descent was not just the fall of a kingdom. It was the fall of an era. And with it, the rise of something far more terrifying.