Scott's voice echoed through the chaos—but neither the lion-man nor the monstrous pig acknowledged him.

They stared each other down, radiating divine malice. No words. Just unspoken agreement: the winner takes Scott's head.

Scott smirked. Look at them. Ignoring me completely.

In the background, the slaughter raged. Frost Elves clashed with the blood-soaked horrors. Out of the corner of his eye, Scott watched another clown and ranger get peeled like fruit—hooked, skinned, drained, butchered.

He didn't react. The uncoiled white chains behind him towered in silence, waiting.

The Frost Elves might make it through... unless the fat bastard turns his attention to them. As for the ladies... He sighed, already knowing.

Scott turned back to the silent standoff.

Neither had moved, but their Authorities twisted the very air. Space warped. Pressure grew.

The lion-man glowed like a golden god. His form had evolved—grander, more divine. No weapon in hand, but his presence alone cut sharper than steel. His aura cracked reality, bursting with celestial power. He floated midair like a war-god descending to a battlefield.

What Throne backs him?

Scott's eyes flicked to the sigil on his forehead—a roaring beast.

Then he looked at the pig. Still swelling. Still changing.

Its stomach bloated to impossible proportions. Its cleavers cast titanic shadows. Its eyes, twin crimson suns, burned the ground with their gaze. Faces twisted in agony danced across the gore-stained blades, their screams rising in unison.

"SLAUGHTER! SLAUGHTER! SLAUGHTER!"

Each scream birthed a new squirming abomination, dripping and rabid.

Scott narrowed his eyes.

It's trapped everyone it's ever killed in those cleavers… and it commands them all.

He glanced at the lion-man.

Let's see how he handles this.

Scott folded his arms and took a single step back.

The lion-man moved first. A golden avatar burst to life behind him—translucent, towering, divine. As it formed, the cleavers roared. Hundreds of thousands of tormented faces screamed from their surface, launching outward in a blood-drenched tide.

A sea of flesh and cleavers surged forward—wailing, howling, each one armed and mad.

The avatar reared back its head—and roared.

Not a sound echoed. Space buckled and imploded.

A massive hole ripped through the wave, sucking in everything it touched. Those that weren't instantly annihilated were dragged into the warped void, vanishing into nothingness.

The lion-man lifted a hand.

The avatar struck—space-shattering punches, rippling reality with each blow, all aimed at the towering pig.

The pig didn't move.

Instead, another wave surged forward—this one larger, thicker, angrier.

The faces within the blood had form now. Not just screams—will. They fought back.

The avatar's punches ripped through them, tearing the crimson tide into pieces. But this time, the creatures resisted the collapse. Held firm. Shrieked with intelligence.

Albeit only briefly. Then—they too were pulled into oblivion.

The lion-man stepped forward.

The avatar mirrored him, surging with speed. Each stride cracked the floor beneath, fracturing reactors and smashing barriers.

Another wave came.

Massive. Maddening. Endless.

This time, the faces weren't just screams or spirits. They were whole. Twisted warriors, carrying rusted weapons. Hungry. Deranged. Screaming for carnage.

The wave trampled itself as it advanced, driven by numerous singular desires: Kill. Maim. Destroy. Slaughter.

The lion-man's avatar didn't hesitate.

It punched the air, and a shockwave erupted with sonic boom. Winds howled. Space buckled again, preparing to eat the world.

Then—the wave split.

It broke into three titanic forms, each crammed with the writhing dead.

The avatar struck again.

Another shockwave, stronger than before. The ceiling above cracked like glass. The ground beneath shattered.

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

The blood-soaked apparitions dodged the reality-warping attacks. One leapt skyward. Another sprinted headlong. The last dove into the earth, rippling the ground as it tunneled toward the avatar.

The lion man held a horse stance midair—and the avatar mirrored him.

"Fortune favors the brave!" he roared.

A golden shield surged around both the lion man and his avatar. The apparitions arrived, hurling themselves into the barrier with savage force.

Boom!

Shockwaves tore through the battlefield. The ground cracked in jagged veins. The earth-bound creature bubbled violently, its blood boiling into golden steam. The others fared no better—though their ends were less grotesque.

The lion man straightened, shifting from his stance. In unison, the avatar charged again. Yet the towering monstrosity remained motionless.

"The Brave?" the gnarled faces jeered in unison.

Their expressions twisted with agony—but their laughter came unrestrained.

"How dare you, of a lower throne, challenge he who was chosen by the embodiment of slaughter?" the voices thundered.

The avatar surged forward, now only meters away from the behemoth.

Then—it moved.

The abomination rose, looming like a mountain. Both cleavers shot into the air, gripped high in its massive hands.

The avatar braced. Three extra arms erupted from its sides. It unleashed a barrage of punches, each one obliterating space itself—erasing everything it touched.

At the same instant, the abomination vanished—then reappeared midair, cleavers still raised.

"Die!" the voices shrieked.

The blades dropped with annihilating force. No wasted motion, no trembling grip—just pure, brutal precision. The cleavers ignored the avatar's space-rending strikes and drove straight for the lion man.

"Fortune favors the brave!"

The lion man assumed his stance again. The shield returned—larger, thicker, spanning over three miles. With the avatar's shield layered on top, the barrier stretched beyond fifteen.

It didn't matter.

The cleavers carved through both shields like wet tofu. Crimson arcs split the towering avatar from every angle.

Then came a sharp, splintering crack.

The barrier shattered. The avatar stood exposed—its body webbed with countless hairline fractures. The damage extended far beyond its form. Everything around it had been cleanly sliced—leaving only fragments.

The lion man hovered in midair, blood pouring from his mouth. The sigil on his brow flickered violently. But his eyes still burned with defiance.

The abomination crashed to the ground, and the impact obliterated the remains of both avatar and terrain.

The apparitions shrieked with laughter, their mockery cutting deeper than any blade.

The creature began to advance, each step shaking the earth.

Still, the lion man stood his ground. His gaze never wavered.

"I… shall not tremble before overwhelming—" He coughed up more blood, skin pale, breath ragged.

Teeth clenched, eyes fierce, he roared. "I shall not fall here!"

The sigil flared to life. A low, echoing roar rippled from the void.

The abomination kept coming. For its size, it moved with eerie grace. The twisted faces cackled, spewing ridicule at the lion man's resolve.

"Fortune favors the brave!"

The lion man's braids unraveled, hair snapping loose. His body swelled with power. New avatars erupted around him—each one more awe-inspiring than the last.

"I'm Ashi Dongro! Brave Heart of—"

Before he could finish, the abomination moved. Cleavers danced through the air with terrifying speed.

The nascent avatars shattered instantly. Deep cracks spiderwebbed across the lion man's body—and widened.

"Even the brave," the abomination sneered, "can be slaughtered."

The cleavers dropped.

Boom!

His body exploded into thousands of shards. His blood hovered, suspended—then surged toward the cleaver like a tide.

In the writhing sea of tortured faces, a new one appeared. Ashi Dongro.

Scott stared at the abomination, his eyes locked on the twisted face of the once-mighty warrior floating in the blood.

This fat bastard is ridiculous strong…

He'd watched the whole battle unfold. He expected the monster to win—but not like this. Not effortlessly.

He glanced sideways. The ranger and clown party? Gone—reduced to living meat and extracted remains. The Frost Elves? Most had died in the crossfire between the two titans.

Guess it's my turn now, Scott thought, smirking as he stepped forward.

He was nothing next to the slaughter machine before him. Just a speck.

"Primary Target! Primary Target! Primary Target!" The chorus of faces screamed with glee.

Scott could see the twisted remnants of the lion man still screaming—his face now just another among the damned. He chuckled quietly, never breaking stride. Neither did the abomination.

Unlike the Thumper, there's no way this fatso is talking things out.

Still—lesser throne? Are there ranks, hierarchies among thrones?

He didn't dwell on it. His focus stayed locked on the towering monster ahead.

"Do you wish to suffer," the abomination's voice rumbled, "or will you yield peacefully?"

Scott didn't reply. He stopped walking and smiled at the creature.

Behind him, the air thickened.

A black mist surged outward, swallowing everything in shadow. From the depths, thousands—no, hundreds of thousands—of glowing eyes emerged, each one blazing like a searchlight. All fixated on the Garden Servant.

For the first time, the abomination froze. The writhing faces lining its cleavers fell silent.

The stillness hung heavy for several seconds.

Then the Garden Servant spoke, voice tight with recognition. "Illusion… no. Madness. The Authority of Madness."

The cleaver-faces erupted into chants.

"Vermin of Madness! Enemy of Slaughter! Vermin of Madness! Enemy of Slaughter!"

The Garden Servant began to laugh. The sound warped the world.

Reality cracked.

Overhead, a jagged tear ripped open—vast and trembling. Blood began to rain from it in steady sheets.

Then came the weapons.

Countless blades, spears, axes, and artifacts of every make and shape spilled from the sky. Each one gleamed as if newly forged, falling like a divine armory cast into chaos.

The writhing faces launched from the cleavers, becoming increasingly corporeal as they drifted from the source. Each face reached for a weapon—driven by primal desire.

The crack yawned wider.

From within it, new horrors emerged—abominations in twisted forms, some slithering, some floating, some walking like broken gods. Each brought the presence of calamity.

In seconds, Scott was surrounded.

Hundreds of thousands of monstrous figures now filled the battlefield—each clutching a weapon, each thirsting for slaughter.

The Garden Servant lifted its cleavers again. Its crimson eyes pierced through the darkness behind Scott.

"Let the wondrous be welcomed to the slaughterhouse."

A groaning creak echoed like the sound of rusted gates opening.

Scott raised his head—and saw it.

The tear in the sky had become a crimson gate—massive, ancient, divine. It was slowly opening. And inside, a being stirred.

It didn't walk. It didn't breathe. It simply was.

Weapons, blood, and abominations poured from its mouth—still barely ajar. The being hadn't even awakened.

As Scott stared, his vision turned crimson—as if soaked in blood. Not from the rain. From within.

His own blood trickled down his cheeks. He knew instantly: this entity had long passed the level of demigods.

It was a god.

Then a voice—a silent whisper crept into his ears. "Do not stare at god."

Instantly, his eyes burst—twin detonations of pressure and agony.

All around, the abominations howled in joy, their bloodlust shaking the heavens.

And Scott?

Scott laughed with them.

He moved his hand. The darkness responded. His ruptured eyes floated from their sockets into the mist—vanishing into the madness.

From the same darkness, a new pair—eyes of a different make—calmer, deeper, and ancient, slid into his empty sockets.

He opened his mouth.

"Infinite Worlds. Eternal Madness."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.