Mortis smiled as he spoke, the kind of smile that belonged to someone who believed the world was already his.

  He knew Solon would not interfere unless Aethel’s throne was involved.

  And the other gods?

  They were nothing more than blank pages waiting to be rewritten.

  “Nomos and Lysander,” Mortis continued calmly. “Justice and Freedom. The two greatest obstacles standing between me and my ambition.”

  Chronos remained silent beside him, an obedient shadow.

  “When Chronos first spoke of ruling mortals,” Mortis said, “I set my sights higher. Much higher.”

  He did not voice his true goal. Even he was not foolish enough to speak it before the Gatekeeper.

  “But they refused us,” he went on, irritation flickering briefly in his eyes. “They clung to their ideals. Justice. Freedom. Such meaningless words.”

  A low chuckle escaped his lips.

  “That is when I completed Solon’s trials… and chose the only relic worthy of my needs.”

  His smile widened.

  “Silent Weaver.”

  Arlen’s fingers tightened around Soul Eater.

  “With it,” Mortis said softly, almost lovingly, “I made Nomos—the god of justice—commit the vilest injustices imaginable. I turned him into the very monster he despised. A judge who violated the innocent he was sworn to protect.”

  His gaze shifted toward Cornea.

  “And Lysander,” Mortis continued. “Ah… that one was my favourite.”

  Cornea’s breath hitched. Arlen felt it through the blood pact — the rage, the grief, the storm she was forcing down.

  “I erased the memories of those he loved most,” Mortis said. “His wife. His daughter. I stripped him of purpose, of will. I made the god of freedom into a hollow shell.”

  Mortis laughed.

  “He became everything he feared. A being without choice. Without desire. Without freedom.”

  His voice trembled—not with guilt, but pleasure.

  “It was… exquisite. Watching them break. Watching gods violate their own existence. IT WAS SO MUCH SATISFYING SEEING THOSE TWO BREAK”

  Arlen’s heart pounded. Soul Eater hummed, responding to his fury.

  “Well then,” Arlen said coldly, raising both blades. “Thanks for answering my question.”

  His eyes locked onto Mortis.

  “Time to die.”

  He vanished in a thunderous burst, Raikiri screaming as lightning tore through the domain.

  But his strike never reached Mortis.

  Chronos stepped forward.

  An unmoving wall.

  A god frozen in time.

  Steel met inevitability.

  Arlen and Chronos were locked in a deadlock.

  Steel screamed against time itself.

  Chronos attacked without pause—Borrower’s Will cycling relentlessly under the dominion of time. Fire, ice, lightning, light—each borrowed power struck with merciless precision. Raikiri met every blow head-on, thunder clashing against inevitability.

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  But the balance was breaking.

  Arlen was slowing.

  The range of attacks was too wide, too relentless. Some slipped through. Flesh tore. Blood sprayed. Deep gashes opened across his body.

  Behind him, Dryas struggled desperately to keep him alive.

  Her healing worked—but it was nothing compared to Nyx’s regeneration curse. Too slow. Too fragile. Arlen was bleeding faster than she could mend.

  Still, he fought.

  Like a beast unchained.

  Even drenched in blood, even with muscles screaming and vision blurring, he did not lose focus—not for a single heartbeat. Every strike carried intent. Every step was calculated.

  And Mortis noticed.

  From the shadows, the god of death waited.

  One opening.

  One touch.

  That was all he needed.

  Then his gaze shifted.

  Dryas.

  She couldn’t fight. She couldn’t dodge. She was standing still—hands glowing faintly as she poured everything into keeping Arlen alive.

  Mortis smiled.

  “I’ll kill you first,” he said calmly. “Remove the healer… and the God Slayer collapses.”

  Simple. Efficient.

  Arlen felt it.

  “No—!”

  He tried to intercept Mortis.

  And that moment—

  that single moment of divided focus—

  was his mistake.

  Chronos moved.

  A blazing sphere of fire erupted point-blank.

  It slammed into Arlen’s abdomen.

  Flesh tore open. Skin split. Blood burst outward as his intestines spilled free, steaming against the cold air.

  Arlen staggered.

  Barely standing.

  The wound was too severe. Healing crawled at a useless pace. He couldn’t fight two throne-holders like this.

  Mortis laughed.

  “Thanks for making it easier for me. I will finish you first then.”

  He stepped closer.

  Slow. Unhurried.

  His hand rose—fingers inches from Arlen’s face.

  One touch needed to end the god slayer.

  Dryas panicked.

  Her thoughts spiralled.

  Her mind was chaos.

  Then—

  A voice cut through it all.

  “Mister Arlen! Big sister Dryas!”

  A childish scream echoed across the battlefield.

  “You can do it!”

  Tethys.

  She had awakened.

  That single, innocent cheer pierced through Dryas like lightning.

  And suddenly—

  Everything became clear.

  Mortis.

  He was the one who tried to take Tethys.

  He was the one who caged Caelus’ throne.

  He was the one who turned Nomos into monster.

  That was enough.

  That was .

  Then—

  the entire cosmos witnessed a miracle.

  Mortis’ hand—mere inches from Arlen’s face—felt pain

  Something burst from beneath his feet.

  A vine.

  Not creeping. Not growing.

  Striking.

  It tore through stone and shadow alike, erupting upward and piercing straight through his palm

  Aura’s poison—dormant until now—awakened

  It crawled through his veins like a living curse, feeding on spilled divinity.

  Mortis screamed and staggered back.

  “Damn it—what the hell is—”

  Then he saw it.

  And his legs gave out.

  His Throne of Death

  In its place—

  A forest.

  Endless, ancient, alive.

  Roots crushed obsidian. Vines strangled void. Birds took flight where souls once screamed. Animals roamed freely where only death had ruled.

  Life had invaded death

  “No… that’s impossible…!” Mortis gasped, scrambling backward. “How—HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?!”

  His eyes locked onto the source.

  Dryas.

  She walked forward.

  Barefoot.

  Slow.

  Every step she took rewrote reality.

  Flowers bloomed beneath her feet. Grass spread outward in waves. Trees erupted from nothingness, their trunks massive, ancient—older than gods

  A colossal tree burst upward from beneath the Throne of Death itself.

  Its roots wrapped around the throne.

  Its trunk rose—

  and snapped it in half

  The throne of death shattered.

  Even Solon forgot he was the judge.

  The ancient gatekeeper staggered back, his cane trembling. Tears welled at the corners of his eyes—tears not of sorrow, but of recognition.

  He remembered Aethel’s voice.

  A casual laugh.

  “Do you really think divinity can exist without my power?”

  Solon finally understood. Being alive for infinity was meaningful. His heart is thankful for getting to witness this miracle.

  Mortis’ face drained of colour.

  “H–How…?” His voice cracked. “How can you control nature without your divine core?!”

  Arlen smiled.

  A calm, certain smile.

  “Oh. I forgot to mention,” he said softly.

  “She doesn’t need divinity to be divine.”

  He looked at Dryas—not as a goddess, not as a relic—

  but as truth itself

  “The forest follows her,” Arlen continued, “because it wants to.”

  The other gods watched in silence.

  No lies could explain this.

  No relic could replicate it.

  This wasn’t power.

  This was authority

  Dryas stopped beside Arlen.

  She was glowing—brighter than heaven itself.

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  Arlen’s wounds closed instantly.

  Not slowly.

  Not painfully.

  Life flooded back into him, fierce and absolute—eerily similar to Nyx’s regeneration, yet gentler… purer.

  No questions.

  No hesitation.

  Arlen lifted Soul Eater.

  Its blade hummed.

  Hungry.

  He pointed it at Mortis.

  “Pin down these bastards for me Dryas,” he said quietly.

  Then his smile sharpened.

  “Cause Soul Eater is starving for blood.