As Cthulhu whispered to the Champion, one of her tentacles casually brushed against the woman's elbow.
The effect was immediate and catastrophic.
A sickening crack echoed through the room as the Champion's bone snapped, her arm collapsing uselessly beneath her.
She had been using it to prop herself up, and with its sudden failure, she tumbled to the ground, a ragged groan of pain ripping from her throat.
Her brown pupil burned with fury as she glared up at Cthulhu.
Cthulhu's lips curled in delight. Seeing that pure, undiluted hatred in the woman's gaze sent a delicious shudder through her, her cheeks flushing as she pressed a palm to her face, savoring the moment.
"You…" the Champion seethed, her body trembling with a mix of pain and rage. "I'm not afraid of you… Do what you will to my body, but in my heart, my disdain for your existence will never waver."
Cthulhu's smirk deepened.
She crouched before the Champion, tilting her head in mock curiosity.
"I like you…" she purred. "I love dolls like you—the absolutely clueless, delusional ones. You give me the best kind of entertainment… the kind that's cinematic."
She reached out, placing a hand on the woman's head.
The Champion jerked away, shaking it off with fierce defiance.
Cthulhu chuckled, unfazed.
"Hey, have you heard of…" she trailed off, gaze growing distant, as if recalling something profound. "The Grass Analogy?"
The Champion remained silent.
Cthulhu took that as an answer.
"I thought not." She sighed theatrically. "If you had, you wouldn't have seen me—known it was me—and still engaged."
She leaned in closer, her voice soft, almost condescending.
"Let me educate you."
Her fingers traced lazy patterns in the air as she began.
"The first stage: Dirt."
Her eyes flicked down at the woman, amusement flickering in their depths.
"Dirt represents the pitiful, truly meaningless humans—especially the ones from Gihon. These creatures don't even realize the sliver of power lying dormant inside them. They are beneath notice, irrelevant specks in the grand scheme of things."
She tilted her head.
"Then, we have Grass."
Her voice dripped with mockery.
"Still a lowborn existence, but at least aware of the power they hold—though whether they can use it is another matter entirely. They're still insignificant… just slightly less so."
Cthulhu smiled.
"Next, we have Longer Grass."
She chuckled, shaking her head.
"A fancy way of saying 'still lowborn—but superior to the lower lowborns.'"
She paused, then added, "Your kings, your leaders, your political figures… they all fall into this category."
She leaned in, watching the Champion's face carefully.
Cthulhu continued, her voice taking on a sing-song lilt.
"Then we have the flowers—ah, the beautiful flowers I occasionally pluck for my own amusement."
She let out a soft, delighted hum.
"I recommend them to my acquaintances—those who, like me, enjoy watching despair unfold in the most dramatic ways."
Her smile widened, dripping with cruel satisfaction.
"These mortals possess special Gifts and abilities. Powers that make them stand out too much—enough to catch my attention."
She tilted her head, feigning thoughtfulness.
"They aren't exactly the same as Grass. They come from the same heritage, yes, but these ones? These are the ones truly worth brutalizing. There's something deeply satisfying about breaking them apart—it makes for a peaceful night's rest, knowing I've done something nice for myself."
Her tone darkened, lips bending in distaste.
"And then… there are the sheep."
Her fingers twitched, as though barely restraining her disdain.
"The supposed advanced version of flowers." She scoffed. "But here's the difference—they live for the Grass."
Her voice turned sharp, biting.
"They can't exist without the Grass, and that makes them utterly repulsive."
Her smile vanished. "I hate the sheep."
A pause. Then, her voice dropped to a venomous whisper.
"So when I find them, I show no mercy. I break every bone in their bodies, strip them of their skin, and toss them to the ancient beasts to feast on their pitiful, sheepish flesh."
She let the words hang, savoring the tension.
"They call themselves Champions."
Cthulhu rolled her eyes, as if the very word exhausted her.
"Above them, we have the Farmers and Shepherds—the so-called True Champions, High Priests, and Nuns—those ordained by that headache-inducing Gabi'el."
Her fingers drummed idly against her cheek.
"I don't particularly despise them. They're just… annoying. Always scurrying around, keeping the rest of the field in check in the name of Heaven." She clicked her tongue.
"Then we reach the Nobles—Anomalies who have begun to break free from their mortal constraints. These are your so-called Apostles."
She waved a dismissive hand. "But at the end of the day, all humans are still less than muddy rags."
"Then we have Royalty—a spot reserved for those who can no longer be called human. Beings on my level, to be honest."
Her lips curled into something almost playful.
"I toy with them from time to time. You might even know one—Bond Blonde, wasn't it?"
She chuckled warmly, except it was devoid of warmth.
"And then, finally, we have the gods."
She exhaled sharply, her amusement briefly dimming.
"Not actual gods, of course, but beings with influence so vast they might as well be. That accursed Veeshamé belongs here. It puts them on the same tier as Satanas."
Her gaze darkened. "Even I can't play with them… even if I WANTED to."
She paused, as if considering something.
Then, with a knowing smirk, she added:
"And mind you—there are a few others who don't even factor into this ranking. They stand so high above the rest that even I can only imagine the extent of their power."
She leaned back, satisfied.
After her long-winded monologue on the Grass Analogy, Cthulhu finally turned to the Champion.
"Now… do you understand why I told you all of this?" She purred, her gaze gleaming with malicious amusement. "I want you to guess… Which category do you fall into?"
She leaned in slightly, as if savoring the reveal.
"Let me tell you, dolly—unfortunately, you belong to the sheep. And do you know what that means?" Her voice dripped with wicked delight. "It means you fall into the category I most enjoy breaking. The lowest of the low—"
PLOP!
A wet, disgusting splash of spit landed squarely on Cthulhu's face.
The entire hall of gathered evil forces stiffened, a collective shudder rippling through the room.
Cthulhu froze.
Her smile—so smug, so sure of itself—began to fade, slowly, painfully.
"You… spit on me." Her voice was eerily calm, yet the room vibrated with something wrong.