The Jalon Omniverse trembled.
Not a gentle tremor, but a violent, fracturing shudder that echoed across infinite realities. This wasn't the death rattle of a single universe, nor the collapse of a lone timeline—it was the agonizing scream of existence itself, caught between the grinding gears of an unfathomable cosmic warfare. Dimensions wept. Laws fractured. Truths long held immutable began to distort. At the epicenter of this turmoil stood four beings, each radiating a magnitude of power so immense it rendered the very concept of limitation meaningless. They were not merely powerful. They were power given form, abstract forces incarnated in a realm where even gods feared to tread.
On one side stood the impossibly named Eldridhemoth "The Azaluth" and Eldridhemoth "Azazel." These were not titles—they were declarations, existential violations etched into the backbone of reality.
Azaluth was a grotesque parody of humanoid form, his body a chaotic symphony of impossible geometry. Limbs bent at obscene, angular trajectories; mottled purple and green skin writhed like living sludge. From his bloated frame erupted bulbous, grotesque growths that pulsed and quivered with a foul rhythm, as though each were a mouth gasping for breath. These monstrous outgrowths did not speak in words, but in whispers—an unending chorus of discordant voices, each a fragment of a forgotten language, a cursed echo of a doomed universe. The sound was unbearable, maddening, enough to shatter weaker minds. His red orb-like eyes, devoid of pupils or soul, burned with an inner fire not of light, but of absolute annihilation. Azaluth was not merely a creature—he was the unraveling of meaning itself.
Beside him, Azazel stood like a blasphemous reflection of perfection. Sleek, unnervingly elegant, he was an impossibility made visible. His body was a shimmering mosaic of ever-shifting reflections, a living mirror that never stayed the same. He flickered between poses, between shapes, between interpretations of reality. Each surface rippled and distorted, showing not what was, but what could have been. He was silence personified—where Azaluth was noise incarnate, Azazel was the void that followed the scream. His eyes were not eyes at all, but pools of absolute darkness, swallowing all light, all sound, all presence. To gaze into them was to feel oneself being erased, as if one's existence had been a lie all along. The two beings' presence alone warped the very underpinnings of reality, buckling the laws that governed cause and effect, identity and consequence.
Opposing them were the defiant champions of what still clung to the name of existence: AsHatra, the Sun God Nika, and Oblivion.
AsHatra blazed like a living star, pulsing with raw, untamed solar energy. He was not merely radiant—he was the definition of radiance. Golden fire crowned his brow, divine flames trailed his every movement, and his voice carried the weight of civilizations long since incinerated. Every breath he took released solar winds, every motion a flare of celestial judgment. His skin shimmered like the surface of a newborn sun, radiant and terrible, burning with the fury of justice and the hope of rekindled tomorrows. He was the dawn personified.
Standing opposite him was Oblivion, his counterpart and contrast. Where AsHatra was fire and light, Oblivion was an absence—a void so complete it defied even the concept of nothing. He was not simply darkness; he was the rejection of being. No sound touched him. No light acknowledged him. He was the antithesis of creation, the hunger that existed before anything else dared to exist. He moved not as a being, but as an event—the end of all possibility in motion.
Then it began.
The Azaluth was the first to act, unleashing a wave of discordant energy—a psychic scream so fierce it did not merely aim to harm the mind, but to rupture identity itself. The cries of dying universes roared through the battlefield like a thousand banshees of entropy. AsHatra bellowed in retaliation, releasing a torrent of solar fury, an apocalyptic wave of heat and light that vaporized the psychic assault mid-air, turning the whispers into ash. But Oblivion did not flinch. He was untouched. Not resistant, but absent. There was nothing there to affect.
Azazel shimmered, then shifted. His mirrored body bent light, warped angles, and suddenly he was everywhere. He caught AsHatra's radiance, refracted it, multiplied it, and sent it back—a thousandfold, a hundred thousandfold. The Sun God staggered under the weight of his own glory, pierced by the brilliance of his own might. This was not a trick. This was not illusion. Azazel bent the fundamental law of reflection to his will. He was not reflecting light—he was commanding it, rewriting the rules of reality like a master puppeteer dancing between paradox and perception.
And then the battle erupted into its full madness.
AsHatra collided with Azaluth in an orgy of fire and distortion. Celestial fire lashed against the vile, twisting bulks of the Eldridhemoth. Each blow shattered stars. Each impact cracked the bones of the Jalon Omniverse. Realities blinked into life and died in pain with every exchange. Space and time became tattered veils, glimpses into something even more terrifying flickering at their edges—beings that should not be, thoughts that should never be thought.
Meanwhile, Oblivion and Azazel performed a silent, apocalyptic ballet. Oblivion reached with tendrils of annihilation, seeking to unmake his foe. But Azazel was not a target—he was a principle. Oblivion found himself reflected in Azazel's being, his nothingness mirrored back at him. It was a horrifying paradox: Oblivion, the erasure of all, staring into a version of himself that refused to be erased, that existed because it must reflect.
The Azaluth, now shrieking with joy, opened a hole in reality. Not a rift, not a portal—but a wound. From it gushed chaos, a vortex of dying laws and howling entropy. AsHatra, bleeding radiance, summoned the last remnants of a dying sun and hurled it into the void. A singularity of stellar power ignited—a supernova forged not of hydrogen, but of hope and wrath. The blast met the vortex head-on, sealing it—temporarily.
Azazel, ever the opportunist, seized upon the act. He captured the supernova's light, bent it, and turned it back. Not just as light, but as power transformed, twisted against its source. The Sun God was engulfed in a feedback loop of his own essence. He cried out, not in pain, but in warning. He was losing himself.
Oblivion responded.
He unfurled, expanding into a wave of impossible nothingness. A tsunami of unbeing. The battlefield tilted toward oblivion, all being dragged into the maw of final silence. But AsHatra, broken and brilliant, shone one last time. He fused himself with the remnants of the supernova, becoming not a being—but a newborn star unto himself. A living sun. A final act of will.
Then he hurled himself into the heart of Oblivion.
Creation and annihilation collided.
The explosion that followed could not be described, only felt—like the death of every possible future in a single note. Azaluth and Azazel staggered, their senses reeling from the unquantifiable surge.
The Jalon Omniverse convulsed. For a moment, even Omnius turned His gaze.
Would the flame reignite? Would the void consume?
Reality held its breath.
And somewhere, beyond cause, beyond effect—the echoes of that boundless clash would ring forever. A reminder. A warning. A monument to the day the Jalon Omniverse almost ceased to be.