***

Mythological, Mount Olympus

*CRACK!*

The emergency projection chamber materialized in Olympus's grand hall.

Not gradually.

Just snapped into existence with crystalline clarity that made dimensional distance feel like a polite suggestion reality was temporarily ignoring, magical arrays humming with power required to maintain multi-continent communication.

King Arthur's image stood at perfect resolution.

Close enough to count the stress lines around his eyes, the way his legendary composure cracked at the edges like overworked glass, one hand resting on Excalibur's hilt with white-knuckle grip that suggested he wanted to hit something but lacked acceptable targets.

Around him, the assembled council looked equally strained.

Thor paced with barely contained fury, each step making marble crack sympathetically.

Athena stood at tactical displays that painted the grand hall in shifting blue light, her expression carved from ice despite golden eyes reflecting calculations happening faster than conscious thought.

And at the chamber's center...

The Seer trembled.

Actually shook like a leaf in high wind, hands clasping each other with visible effort while her ancient dignity tried desperately to maintain composure against something that had clearly shattered it from the inside.

"Seventeen sanctuaries."

Athena's voice cut through the tension like surgical steel, each word precise and controlled despite the horror bleeding through her tone.

"Attacked simultaneously across Reformed Earth territories while our primary forces were occupied in Nefarynth. Coordinated to the second. Executed with precision suggesting they've been planning this for..."

She trailed off, tactical mind refusing to voice the timeline implications without concrete evidence.

Arthur's projection shifted weight.

"Months? Years?"

"Try millennia."

The Seer's voice emerged hollow, scraping against her throat like she'd forgotten how speech worked and was improvising badly.

Her golden eyes blazed with visions that made reality itself look unstable by comparison, fragments of possible futures and ancient pasts colliding in ways that suggested her legendary omniscience was actively fighting itself.

"The Obsidian Covenant's origins trace back to the First Cataclysm."

Every word cost her visible effort.

"Remnants of those who witnessed reality's near-collapse and decided salvation required methods the righteous would never accept."

*CRACK!*

Thor's fist met marble floor.

The impact sent cracks spiraling outward in perfect geometric patterns, lightning arcing between fingers as his barely restrained fury found outlet through property damage rather than immediate violence.

"Those Demon Kings."

His voice rumbled like distant thunder preparing to become uncomfortably close.

"They didn't retreat. Didn't flee when losing. They deliberately sacrificed themselves to erase every scrap of evidence while we stood there like idiots congratulating ourselves on tactical victory."

He slammed Mjolnir against already cracked stone.

"And we fell for it. Every single contingency Athena planned for, every backup protocol, every strategic advantage... They'd already accounted for it. Used our response as part of their timing."

The admission tasted like ash.

***

Athena's tactical display shifted.

Blue light transforming into overlapping data streams that painted the grand hall in colors suggesting multiple crises happening simultaneously, each one color-coded by severity and all of them bleeding into concerning shades.

"The corrupted dungeon signatures from Legendor."

Her fingers traced patterns through projection light, connecting data points with lines that formed increasingly disturbing shapes.

"They match exactly with ritual circles carved into attacked sanctuaries. Same dimensional distortions. Identical corruption wavelengths. Not similar. Identical."

Arthur's expression hardened.

Recognition bleeding through his carefully maintained diplomatic neutrality, and when he spoke his voice carried weight that made even gods straighten slightly.

"We've been tracking similar patterns near Camelot. Dungeons manifesting with wrong monster distributions. Leylines destabilizing in ways that shouldn't be possible without deliberate sabotage."

He met Athena's gaze through the projection.

"You're saying it's all connected. Every anomaly we've been investigating separately... They're nodes in a continental-scale operation."

"Worse."

The Seer's voice cracked audibly.

Her hands trembled violently enough that several assembled gods stepped forward with concern before she waved them back with jerky motions that suggested her body was fighting her consciousness for control.

"The transformed civilians aren't collateral damage or random chaos."

Each word emerged slower than the last, like she was translating from languages that didn't have proper vocabulary for what she was describing.

"They're cultivated vessels. Souls trapped between states specifically to maximize spiritual anguish. Each one generates despair-energy orders of magnitude greater than simple death would produce."

She met their gazes with eyes that had witnessed civilizations rise and fall without flinching.

Now genuinely terrified.

"They're farming suffering. Industrial-scale harvesting of pure agony compressed into fuel for..."

The Seer's voice failed completely.

Just stopped mid-sentence like her throat had decided words were inadequate and refused to participate further.

Thor's hands clenched hard enough to make knuckles crack.

"The Demon Kings."

His voice dropped to something approaching actual horror beneath the fury.

"They didn't just sacrifice themselves to hide evidence. They were the fuel. Millennia of accumulated malevolence compressed into..."

He couldn't finish either.

Because naming the implications made them more real, and some realities felt better left unspoken even when everyone in the room understood anyway.

***

*Pulse.*

The Seer's entire body jerked.

Not a flinch. Not a reaction to external stimulus.

Internal convulsion that suggested something had just forcibly rewritten her neurological processes without asking permission, and when her eyes snapped open they blazed with light intense enough to make shadows flee.

"The ritual's timing..."

Her voice emerged layered, like multiple versions of herself speaking simultaneously from different temporal positions.

"It's synchronized with the approaching Second Trial."

*CRACK!*

Golden energy erupted from her hands, projecting timelines into three-dimensional space above the assembled council.

Glowing paths that twisted through probability, each one marked with events that hadn't happened yet but carried mathematical certainty they would.

The countdown every awakened individual had been watching.

The escalating dungeon corruption in Legendor.

The coordinated sanctuary attacks.

All converging toward a single point approximately nine days away with precision that made coincidence look actively stupid.

Athena's tactical mind processed implications faster than speech.

Her expression cycling through shock, horror, comprehension, and grim acceptance in the span of three heartbeats while her hands moved through projection controls with frantic precision.

"They're not trying to disrupt the Trial."

Her voice emerged steady despite the conclusions that should have made speaking impossible.

"They're using it. The dimensional instability when the Trial activates, the concentrated attention of every major faction, the chaos when thousands of participants suddenly manifest..."

She met Thor's gaze with something approaching genuine fear.

"Perfect cover for whatever requires that much accumulated corruption to accomplish."

The Seer's hands trembled violently.

Blood trickled from her nose in thin crimson lines that painted her lips before dripping onto pristine marble, and when she spoke again her voice carried weight that made reality itself feel oppressive.

"The Obsidian Covenant isn't trying to interfere with the Trial."

Each word cost visible effort, like speaking them violated fundamental laws about information that should remain hidden.

"They're trying to awaken something that was sealed specifically to prevent it from participating."

***

Silence crashed down like physical pressure.

The kind that came when revelations hit so hard that processing them required complete sensory shutdown, every assembled legend suddenly finding themselves unable to respond because their brains were too busy recalculating everything they thought they knew.

Arthur's projection shifted.

Minute movement that suggested his physical body thousands of miles away had just gone rigid with tension, and when he finally spoke his voice carried careful neutrality that betrayed exactly how much effort maintaining composure required.

"You're suggesting the First Saintess..."

He paused, choosing words with surgical precision.

"The legendary betrayer whose treachery nearly destroyed the First Hero's campaign... is somehow connected to whatever they're trying to awaken?"

The Seer's expression transformed.

Not into confirmation or denial.

Into something complicated that transcended simple binary responses, ancient memories bleeding through her usual professional detachment in ways that made her look almost human.

Old.

Tired.

Carrying burdens that millennia hadn't lightened even slightly.

"The First Saintess didn't betray the First Hero through corruption."

Her voice emerged softer now, almost gentle despite the horrifying implications.

"She made a choice between allowing him to complete his mission or preventing him from accidentally unsealing something worse than anything he fought."

*CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.*

Lightning erupted around Thor involuntarily.

Not from conscious decision or tactical deployment.

Just pure reflexive response to implications his warrior instincts recognized as genuinely threatening despite his conscious mind still processing the math.

"You're saying..."

He couldn't finish.

Because finishing meant acknowledging that legendary history might be propaganda, that the greatest betrayal in recorded mythology might have been desperate sacrifice, that everything they'd been taught about good and evil was significantly more complicated than comfortable narratives suggested.

The Seer nodded slowly.

"If the legendary betrayer whose name became synonymous with treachery was actually trying to prevent an unsealing..."

She met their gazes with eyes that had witnessed truths most would prefer remained hidden.

"Then whatever lies sealed must be catastrophic enough to make sacrificing the First Hero look like choosing the lesser evil."

The weight of that revelation settled over the assembled council like lead blanket.

***

Perspective shattered.

Reality twisted.

The grand hall's divine radiance replaced by darkness so absolute it felt like existence itself had given up and decided nothingness was preferable to continued effort.

Nefarynth's lowest depths.

Where even volcanic light couldn't reach, where corrupted energy had condensed over millennia into something that made simple darkness look welcoming by comparison.

A chamber carved from absolute void.

Walls that drank illumination with such efficiency that bringing torches would just waste resources, the space defined entirely by absence rather than presence.

And at its center...

*Pulse. Pulse. Pulse.*

A mass of corrupted energy.

Not floating. Not resting.

Just existing in ways that violated comfortable assumptions about how matter and energy should behave, its form shifting between states with fluid grace that suggested physical laws were polite suggestions it chose to ignore.

It radiated hunger.

Not simple appetite or base desire.

Hunger that transcended biological need, philosophical concept given malevolent awareness and compressed into something that made predators look almost sympathetic by comparison.

Around it, the Obsidian Covenant's true leadership gathered.

The three Prime Crowned sat upon nightmare thrones.

Obsidian constructs that seemed to grow from the void itself, each one reflecting its occupant's nature through architecture that made looking at them feel like bad decisions.

The remaining Grand Elders stood in formation.

Professional. Disciplined.

Eight hooded figures radiating power that would make most armies reconsider their life choices, yet clearly subordinate to those seated above.

But a new figure commanded attention through sheer overwhelming presence.

Feronia stepped forward.

The Demon Goddess moved with fluid grace that made reality itself reconsider its choreography, her form shifting between beautiful and horrific with transitions so smooth they looked natural rather than impossible.

One moment, striking features that could launch a thousand ships.

Next heartbeat, something that belonged in nightmares specifically designed to traumatize therapists.

Back again, like physical appearance was negotiable preference rather than fixed state.

Her voice carried satisfaction that made the void feel uncomfortable.

"The harvest exceeds projections."

Each word resonated with power that made the chamber's darkness ripple sympathetically.

"Seventeen sanctuaries corrupted. Thousands of pure souls trapped in anguish. Their accumulated despair feeding the seal's deterioration faster than our most optimistic calculations predicted."

Number 1 bowed.

Not from fear or submission.

From genuine respect that suggested Feronia had earned deference through demonstrated capability rather than inherited authority.

"The divine forces remain scattered and reactive."

Their voice carried professional efficiency despite the horrifying content.

"Every action they take plays into carefully orchestrated scenarios designed to keep them occupied while the true work proceeds. They still believe they're fighting a cult rather than witnessing the prologue to their irrelevance."

The pulsing mass intensified.

Corrupted energy building with each word, responding to their confidence like it could taste victory approaching and wanted to accelerate the timeline.

*Pulse. Pulse. PULSE.*

Crowned Oblivion's laughter erupted from the largest throne.

Wicked. Delighted.

The sound of someone who'd planned something terrible and watched every piece fall into place exactly as predicted despite overwhelming opposition.

"Nine days until the Second Trial."

Their voice carried weight that made the void itself feel oppressive.

"Nine days until we awaken that which was sealed beneath the First Hero's greatest triumph."

The chamber trembled.

Not from seismic activity or structural instability.

From anticipation.

"And when it rises..."

Crowned Oblivion's smile widened impossibly.

"Even the Protagonist and Antagonist will understand how insignificant their prophesied conflict truly is."

The corrupted mass pulsed once more.

And somewhere deep within that concentrated malevolence, something ancient stirred.

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