A false god cannot be slain by mortal weapons. It does not bleed. It is a living lie—and lies cannot die, only be contained.
The Yggdrasil Tower had once again become a battlefield. But this time, the destruction did not stop at its summit—it spread, engulfing the entire city below. Buildings crumbled like dominoes, streets split open into endless black chasms, and the sky was alight with bursts of magic and detonations of raw energy—two opposing forces beyond human comprehension.
At the epicenter stood the False God—a massive, black, amorphous entity. Eyes blinked in and out of existence across its body, and its wings flapped through the void like torn folds of space itself. Every time its form was destroyed, it did not die. It changed—becoming something even more horrifying, like the final boss in a game that refused to lose, even with zero health left.
The Last Six—Arven, Syrra, Veyra, Lorrick, and Nolien—stood alongside The Empress, surrounding it. The ground beneath their feet was no longer asphalt or steel, but fractured reality—a Fracture Zone—emitting magma-like light interwoven with digital static, as if the world itself was crashing. The real world and fragments of the Little Garden were collapsing into one another in chaotic fusion.
Syrra shouted, "That's the third time it's died! But it keeps coming back—again and again!"
Arven slammed his shield into the ground, forming a pulsing blue barrier just as a wave of black energy slammed into them like a vacuum shockwave.
"Its attacks are getting harder to read," Arven growled. "It evolves from every form we destroy!"
Lorrick loosed three glowing arrows from his magic bow, firing them at the ever-shifting chest of the enemy. "This isn't regeneration… this is instant evolution!"
The Empress didn't move. She stood motionless, her cloak billowing in the storm of raw energy. Her eyes locked onto the False God with piercing clarity, as though she could see patterns hidden from mortal minds.
"In the future… we kill it," she murmured. "But not in this world."
Nolien turned toward her, breathing heavily. "What do you mean?"
"We kill it inside the Little Garden," The Empress replied. "There, the laws of reality can be rewritten. There, the concept of its immortality was never born."
Veyra shook her head, slightly trembling. "But we can't go back. The Little Garden has collapsed. And in this time, it hasn't even been created yet…"
The Empress lowered her gaze. The gear embedded in her head—an ancient artifact from a forgotten timeline—was cracked, leaking dark red blood down her temple. And yet her eyes remained calm, as if the pain meant nothing compared to her vision.
"No… I still have authority," she said quietly. "But to fully reopen the Little Garden… I need to touch the World Seed."
Syrra's eyes widened. "The World Seed… that's why we came here. But where is it?"
The Empress stared into the distance, as though peering beyond the scaffolding of existence. "I know where it is. I must go there… and initiate a full deploy of the Little Garden from its source."
Black mist thickened around them, slithering like sentient fog. The pressure spiked. Then, from within the collapse, the False God rose again. Its form had changed—now a grotesque fusion of machine, demon, and corrupted symbols of faith. Melting cathedrals, eye-wheels, and shattered relics fused into its new anatomy.
The city below continued to fall apart. Towers collapsed into dimensional rifts. Awakener units struggled to evacuate civilians, but none could get near the battle. They could only watch—frozen, trembling.
Lorrick took a sharp breath. "So… we have to fight him without you."
The Empress nodded. She pulled out a holographic item—a top-tier teleport map. One red point blinked: Throne of Origin.
"You only have to hold him. Don't let him escape. Once the deploy is complete, I'll open a breach. Drag him through it… and we'll kill him there."
Veyra gave a faint smile, though her hand shook as it gripped her blade. "Business as usual, huh? Fight a god without our god."
Syrra looked up at the sky. "It's not the first time we've done the impossible."
Nolien nodded softly. "…And maybe not the last."
The holographic map hovered in the vibrating air, pointing to a single absolute coordinate—beyond space and time. A magic circle began to form, its perimeter etched with indecipherable formulas.
The Empress whispered, "Teleport. Destination: Throne of Origin…"
In a flash of light, her body vanished, drawn into another dimension.
The False God let out a scream—a formless roar that split the sky and shook the ground. It knew—the only one who could truly kill it… was gone.
Arven slowly lowered his helmet over his head, raising his sword high. Divine light flared along the blade's length.
"We have one shot. Drag him into the hell he made."
The sky cracked. The earth burned. And the battle began again—without their greatest champion, but not without hope.
Far in the distance, the Awakeners could only watch—silent, powerless. They had no idea that what they witnessed… was the world on trial.