Ashborn turned his gaze toward Warper, who stood at his side with a knowing smile. Ashborn grinned and offered a thumbs-up.
There's no reality here? Who decided that? Warper did.
In this place where even the concept of "existence" unraveled, Warper defined what was real. If she chose to see everything as a story—one where Supergirl, empowered by the Living Tribunal and the Sun Monarch Force, struck Oblivion—then that was reality.
But… Oblivion was not so easily bound. All stories, after all, must end. And where do all stories go when they die? Back to Oblivion.
With a mere thought, he shattered Warper's illusion. Reality bent—and snapped. But as the Nothingness surged forward to reclaim its throne, a hammer fell from above.
BOOM.
The Living Tribunal struck him, golden judgment made solid. Oblivion snarled, reaching to erase the fool in a single swipe. But before his will could even manifest—
THOOM!
A fist buried itself in his core. It was Power—the embodiment of all abilities across the omniverse.
Power—the mightiest of Ashborn's shadows—stood tall, every ability from Marvel and DC burning within her. She didn't just hold their powers; she held them refined, enhanced, and evolved beyond recognition. And with a cocky smirk, she watched the impossible unfold.
Oblivion, the end of all things, was struck by the hammer of the Living Tribunal—a force of law older than stars. But he wasn't granted a moment to recover.
BOOM!
Thunder followed—speed given form, lightning from both Marvel and DC roaring through Oblivion like the wrath of twin pantheons.
Oblivion growled, his form shifting, his presence growing colder. He lashed out—but his blow never landed. For in that moment… the Celestials moved.
Without command. Without hesitation. They fused.
Not through Ashborn's will, but through their own ancient, buried instinct.. From that fusion, a new being was born—a Super Shadow Celestial, towering beyond reason, glowing with silent fury.
And beside it rose Galactus, not the devourer, but the reborn, forged in shadow, standing as a brother to the storm. Together, they struck.
One celestial. One force of hunger. United by shadow. Their combined blow didn't just hit Oblivion. It cracked silence itself.
Oblivion was given no room to breathe, no moment to strike. For every thought he dared form—every flicker of destruction he tried to conjure—there was already a blow waiting to greet him. The battlefield became a symphony of shadow and might, and Ashborn was the conductor.
With every passing second, the shadows changed. They fused. They evolved. They transcended. Ashborn, Sovereign of the Void, wove them tighter, stronger—an endless tide of darkness forged from death and memory. His forces did not fall. For every soldier broken, another rose. For every blow absorbed, they returned twice as fierce.
Oblivion, the end of all that is, found himself being outpaced. But he was not merely an enemy. He was the end. And ends do not fall so easily.
For Oblivion is not made of flesh, nor of light, nor even of thought. He is the place beyond endings. And slowly, he adapted. His form twisted, not healing but undoing. Wounds became voids, unmade by the simple truth that they had never touched anything real.
How do you wound what never was? How do you kill the concept of absence?
In truth, no ordinary attack should have been able to harm Oblivion. For how could one wound what does not exist? Oblivion was not simply beyond matter—he was the void itself, a concept untouched by form or substance. And yet, Ashborn paid no mind to such logic. His power allowed not only him, but also his shadows, to be able to affect the likes of Oblivion in his truest form.
Oblivion battled on, his fury shaking the Far Shore itself. The battlefield was leveled again and again, whole sectors of the void collapsing beneath his wrath. He might have won—no, he should have won—if not for one thing: Ashborn's dominion over darkness.
Ashborn did not need to conquer Oblivion in the traditional sense. He issued commands not through force alone, but through authority—the authority of a true sovereign over the very essence of shadows. With every attempt to resist, Oblivion weakened, his own defiance sapping his strength. Even so, he remained a titan of oblivion, grappling against a tide of shadow soldiers that fell upon him like a relentless storm, striking from every direction.
Thus, the war raged on—two forces, endless in might, locked in a battle where even time dared not speak.
This was a battle that could have lasted for all eternity. Both sides, after all, were fueled by infinite reserves—unfading strength, undying purpose. Shadow and void clashed in a war where even the laws of creation held no sway. But slowly, unmistakably, the tide began to shift.
A beam of fire… no, a force—pierced through the edge of all things, descending from beyond the Far Shore. It wasn't fire in the way mortals understood it. It was power unfiltered, and ancient, unshaped by time or realm. It struck Oblivion with a thunderous impact.
The scream that followed shook all. Oblivion writhed, recoiling from pain it should not have felt—pain it had never known. He moved to heal, to erase the wound as he erased all things.
But Ashborn was already moving. He had waited for this moment. Now, he would remind Oblivion—and all who watched—why he was not simply powerful… He was overpowered.
"Arise." With that single word, the impossible happened.
All the wounds Oblivion had reduced to nothingness—scattered into the void—suddenly surged back into existence. Not as they were… but worse.
The agony ripped through Oblivion's vast being, and a scream unlike anything creation had ever heard echoed through the void.
He couldn't understand it. He couldn't fathom it. How had Ashborn done this when before he couldn't have done this? To make it worse, it was injuries and not something like a fallen man?
Ashborn stood tall amidst the chaos, his voice steady with power.
"I decide what a shadow is. And a shadow of your injuries? Easy work," he said, calm as the edge of a storm. "Sadly, you're a timeless being… so there is no shadow of your former self to bring back."
And then, behind him, the air trembled. From the sea of shadow rose a colossal phoenix—its wings stretching wider than the multiverse, its form crackling with the force of rebirth and ruin. In a blaze of black flame, the phoenix shifted, folding its wings and taking the form of Ember.
And so, the impossible came to pass. Oblivion—the ancient shadow that loomed before creation, the silence before the first breath of life—was defeated. A being that knew neither beginning nor end, brought low by a force no one had dared imagine. He was not slain by blade or spell, but by will… by a sovereign whose power no longer bowed to logic or limit.
Ashborn had risen. With his army of shadows, with the fire of the Phoenix blazing at his side, and the strength of countless shadow soldiers, he did what no god, no celestial, no dreamer had ever done: he took the Far Shore, the final veil of reality, and made it his own.
Oblivion's scream faded into silence. And in that silence, Oblivion kneeled. Ashborn now stood not as a conqueror, but as a king of the unseen, master of what was and what should never be. His dominion stretched across light and darkness, across story and silence, across what once was forgotten.
Thus ended the war beyond all things. And though the stars still shine, and life moves forward as if untouched, somewhere, beneath shadow and beyond memory, a throne of nothing waits, and on it sits the Shadow Sovereign, whose tale will be whispered until even time forgets its own name…
***
Elsewhere, far beyond the Farshore, within the highest plane of existence—the House of Ideas—Lucifer stood in silence. Before him sat an old man with a mustache and glasses, calmly sketching what appeared to be a comic page.
"For everything you do, and have done, I've never seen you give someone so much care," Lucifer said calmly.
The old man looked up, about to respond, but Lucifer raised a hand and gently cut him off.
"No, you don't give everyone the same level of care you're giving Ashborn. You're just letting him do whatever he wants. What exactly are you planning?" Lucifer asked, his tone sharp yet steady.
"…But I gave you the same level of care—if not more," the old man replied, looking towards Lucifer, although slightly.
"When you rebelled, I didn't strike you down as I did with humans. I sent you away and gave you Hell—not as punishment, but as a kingdom. A place where you could rule. You always wanted to be a god, Samael, and I gave you the canvas to become one. When you led Adam and Eve to eat the apple, I didn't lash out at you. I cast them from the garden instead. Why? Because I've always shown you more care than you'll ever admit. More than I've given anyone else."
Lucifer's gaze sharpened, but the old man continued, setting the pencil down as he turned fully to face him.
"You say I play favorites with Ashborn, but tell me—who have I spoiled more than you? You hate me for being all-knowing, so I stepped back. I allowed creation to move without my hand guiding every detail, without my voice drowning out every choice. I watched in silence, even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt."
"Yes, I kept you within creation. What father sends his child into the unknown, beyond protection, when that child is proud, impulsive, and convinced he needs no one? I made you, but not your rebellion. Not your defiance. Your thoughts, your pride, your will—those are your own. Why would I create you to hate me?"
Lucifer snorted,
"Funny how this creation of yours needs a 'One Below All' just to balance your light. And how I, your so-called Morning Star, was molded into darkness, shaped to counter Michael, all under your so-called 'hands-off' approach," Lucifer said with a mocking smile, though there was no joy behind it. "Am I also supposed to ignore the fact that you're writing things out?"
He stepped forward slightly, voice calm but sharp like a blade drawn in silence. "You say none of this was your doing? Those things just happened? Are you lying to me—or to yourself? You knew this conversation would happen. These words, this moment, this confrontation—it was all written. You shaped it, the way you shape everything. Even the lines you just gave me were tailor-made to suit your grand design. They say I'm the greatest manipulator there is, but…" Lucifer's gaze narrowed, a flicker of timeless fury glowing behind his eyes."…aren't you the greatest manipulator there is?"
For a moment, the old man said nothing. "I don't know what you want me to say," the old man said softly, his voice almost a whisper beneath the weight of the room.
"Yes, you do," Lucifer replied flatly, his tone devoid of emotion. The words hung in the air like judgment, leaving the old man silent once more… Because it was true.
He stared down at the page before him, pencil still resting beside ink that had yet to dry. He thought, or at least pretended to—though they both knew better. He had already thought this moment through long ago. From the very instant he said Let there be light, he had seen it. He had known it. This conversation, these accusations, this bitter standoff—it had all played out in the quiet spaces behind his eyes eons ago.
And yet… here he was, still searching for the right words. Even omniscience couldn't shield him from the weight of a son's disappointment.
"You're right… and I'm done trying to be the father you need me to be." The words came heavy and final, and in the very next instant, a force unseen but unmistakable struck Lucifer like a divine hammer. He was sent rocketing backwards, slamming hard into the distant wall with a thunderous crack that echoed through the House of Ideas. The floor cracked beneath him, the silence that followed louder than any roar.
Lucifer lifted his head slowly, coughing up a mouthful of blood. Above him, the old man no longer wore the shape of frailty and flesh. His human form was gone, stripped away like a page turned, revealing a blinding, unfiltered brilliance—a being of pure golden light, unbound by skin or shape.
"Don't act like everything I did was not something you foresaw happening, and laid the groundwork to have it happen from the very start. You're such a liar—start off by being honest with yourself. You can't be all-knowing without knowing a few things," Lucifer said while coughing up a mouthful of blood. But he smirked, for this was the most real his father had ever been to him.
…Although this wasn't his real father, just another abstract of him. That was why he was willing to lay his hand on him, something the Presence never did.