*WHOOOOSH!*

Black miasma erupted from Number 7's raised hand.

Not flowing. Not spreading.

Detonating outward in waves that moved with predatory intelligence, dark tendrils seeking warm bodies with the kind of efficiency that suggested they'd done this before and gotten really good at it.

The corruption hit civilians first.

Mothers shielding children. Elderly followers caught mid-prayer. Young couples who'd thought divine protection meant something concrete rather than a polite suggestion reality could ignore when convenient.

*CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.*

Their bodies convulsed.

Spines arching at angles that made observers' stomachs twist sympathetically, skin splitting as something underneath decided the original architecture was inadequate for current needs.

Screams cut off mid-note.

Replaced by sounds that belonged in nightmares specifically designed to traumatize therapists, wet tearing mixed with bone reformation and vocal cords being repurposed for frequencies that shouldn't exist outside specialized torture equipment.

Then the transformations completed.

What had been human twisted into grotesque parodies of life. Elongated limbs ending in claws. Mouths splitting wider than skulls should allow. Eyes multiplying across faces like someone had decided symmetry was overrated and nightmare fuel was the new aesthetic standard.

The monsters turned on their former neighbors.

No hesitation. No recognition.

Just pure predatory hunger wrapped in corrupted flesh that remembered being human approximately five seconds ago.

***

"NO!"

A minor god of harvest lunged forward with desperate fury.

Golden energy flaring around his agricultural implements that were definitely not designed for combat but would have to suffice because improvisation was all he had left.

*SLASH!*

His scythe had carved through three transformed civilians.

Clean cuts that should have been mercy kills, except the bodies just regenerated with disturbing efficiency, corruption knitting flesh back together faster than divine weapons could cause permanent damage.

They tackled him.

Overwhelming through sheer numbers and complete disregard for self-preservation, clawed hands tearing through divine protection like it was decorative tissue paper rather than actual defense.

His screams joined the symphony of chaos.

"DEFENSIVE FORMATION!"

Another god shouted with authority that cracked around the edges.

Silver barriers erected around remaining uninfected civilians, protective wards that glowed with desperate intensity suggesting they were running on hope and prayer rather than actual sustainable power sources.

But Number 7 just watched.

Observing the chaos with clinical detachment, masked face tilting slightly like a researcher noting interesting data points during an experiment that was proceeding according to predicted parameters.

Their hand rose again.

*WHOOOOSH!*

More miasma flooded outward in waves that made the first assault look gentle by comparison, concentrated corruption that ate through defensive barriers like acid through wet cardboard.

The wards shattered.

Not gradually. Not with dramatic buildup.

Just exploded into harmless light particles that accomplished absolutely nothing except illuminating the horror more clearly.

*CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!*

Thirty more civilians transformed simultaneously.

Their collective screaming created discordant harmony that made several defenders vomit from sheer auditory assault, and the sanctuary that had felt safe approximately three minutes ago became a slaughterhouse where the walls were closing in with mathematical precision.

***

A goddess of small rivers gathered her remaining power.

Water coalescing into pressurized blades that could carve through stone when properly motivated, and right now she had significant motivation wrapped in absolute terror.

"For the innocent!"

Her war cry carried more desperation than confidence.

*SLASH! SLASH! SLASH!*

The water blades carved through corrupted flesh with surgical precision, divine energy burning away infection wherever it touched.

Five monsters collapsed.

Actually collapsed, staying down instead of regenerating, and for approximately two heartbeats it looked like resistance might accomplish something beyond delaying the inevitable.

Then Number 7 gestured casually.

*CRACK!*

Dark spikes erupted from the ground directly beneath her feet.

No warning. No buildup.

Just suddenly existed where empty space had been a moment ago, corrupted obsidian punching through divine flesh with force that suggested physics had filed complaints and been overruled by executive authority.

She gasped.

Blood fountaining from wounds that shouldn't be possible because minor gods didn't just die from random environmental hazards, except these particular hazards carried corruption that actively prevented healing.

Her knees hit volcanic rock.

Divine energy flickering like a candle in high wind, and Number 7's masked face tilted with something approaching curiosity beneath the professional detachment.

Observing how long she'd last before the corruption finished its work.

***

Across the battlefield, a young god of minor prophecy tried coordinating the survivors.

"NORTHEAST CORNER! ESTABLISH FALLBACK POSITION!"

His voice cracked slightly but held steady enough to project authority, hands glowing with precognitive magic that let him see attacks approximately 0.3 seconds before they landed.

Not much advantage.

But enough to keep people alive through impossible odds if they moved exactly when he screamed directions that sounded increasingly panicked.

He dodged left.

Corrupted tentacle missing his head by inches, the displaced air carrying enough force to make his ears ring.

Rolled right.

Dark spike erupting exactly where he'd been standing, missing his spine through timing so close it probably violated several probability regulations.

"MOVE! NOW!"

Three survivors sprinted toward the indicated corner while he provided covering fire through hastily improvised barriers that bought them maybe five seconds of safety each.

Not enough.

Never enough.

But watching people survive because of his warnings made the exhaustion feel almost worthwhile despite knowing they were losing ground with mathematical certainty.

Then his precognitive sense screamed warnings about something approaching from his blind spot.

Too fast. Too close.

He spun desperately, barriers already forming—

*CRACK!*

The attack shattered through his defense like it wasn't there.

Dark energy compressed into a blade that carved through divine protection with efficiency suggesting significant power differential, and suddenly he was airborne without remembering the flight booking.

*CRASH!*

His body cratered into sanctuary walls hard enough to crack stone.

Stars exploded across his vision. Ribs screamed protests about structural integrity violations.

He tried standing.

Failed spectacularly.

Collapsed back against rubble while his precognitive sense showed him approximately seventeen different ways he was about to die in the next thirty seconds, none of them pleasant.

Through blurring vision, he saw Number 7 approaching with measured steps.

Each footfall perfectly placed, like they had all the time in the world and his desperate survival attempts were mildly interesting background entertainment.

***

But one defender hadn't given up yet.

Kaelith, god of autumn winds, gathered every scrap of remaining power.

His divine energy flaring with desperate brilliance that suggested he was burning through reserves meant to last decades, converting future longevity into immediate combat capability because future didn't matter if present resulted in death.

Air compressed around him into visible distortions.

Pressure building with audible hum that made nearby stones develop stress fractures, wind magic condensing into something that could theoretically damage opponents several weight classes above his normal reach.

"FOR OUR PEOPLE!"

His battle cry carried genuine conviction wrapped in tactical desperation.

*WHOOOOSH!*

The attack launched with everything he had left.

Compressed air moving faster than sound, carrying enough force to punch through reinforced fortress walls or decapitate dragons if aimed properly.

It streaked toward Number 7 with trajectory suggesting Kaelith had actually calculated this, accounting for defensive capabilities and creating an approach vector that minimized reaction time—

Number 7 didn't dodge.

Didn't block.

Just raised one hand with almost bored efficiency.

*CRACK!*

The devastating attack met a dark barrier and accomplished exactly nothing except creating a light show that illuminated how thoroughly outmatched they were.

The compressed wind dissipated harmlessly.

Kaelith's eyes widened with horror, bleeding through exhaustion, and his knees hit ground as remaining power fled like rats abandoning a sinking ship.

He'd gambled everything on that strike.

Converted decades of accumulated divine energy into a single devastating blow that should have at least forced defensive reactions from an opponent this powerful.

Instead, he'd confirmed the tactical nightmare they were facing.

Number 7 moved forward with measured steps.

But Kaelith wasn't done.

Desperation bred creativity, and gods who'd survived millennia learned tricks that textbooks didn't cover because they violated approximately seventeen different engagement protocols.

He feinted left.

Drew Number 7's attention toward apparent retreat, masked face tracking his movement with professional interest.

Then pivoted right with speed that shouldn't exist in someone this exhausted, final reserves igniting in suicidal burst of acceleration.

*CRACK!*

His blade materialized from compressed autumn winds.

Sharp enough to carve dimensional barriers when properly motivated, and right now motivation came wrapped in absolute certainty this was his only chance before exhaustion claimed consciousness.

The strike aimed for Number 7's exposed side.

Perfect angle. Optimal timing.

Everything he'd learned through centuries of combat experience compressed into one desperate gambit—

*SLASH!*

The blade connected.

Actually drew blood through dark robes, and for exactly one heartbeat Kaelith felt victory's impossible taste.

Then space itself twisted.

Another figure materialized between them.

Taller than Number 7. Presence radiating power that made the first Grand Elder look like an apprentice by comparison.

Their robes bore a number that caught ambient light with ominous clarity:

1.

Number 1's hand moved.

Not fast. Not slow.

Just moved with economical precision that suggested they'd calculated the exact force required and saw no reason to exceed parameters.

*CRACK!*

Kaelith's chest exploded.

Not metaphorically.

Literally detonated from internal pressure that shouldn't exist outside specialized demolition equipment, divine flesh unable to contain whatever corrupted energy Number 1 had injected with that casual touch.

His body hit the ground in pieces.

Scattered across volcanic rock in patterns that would probably traumatize forensic analysts, divine essence bleeding into corrupted earth while his consciousness fragmented into nothing.

Dead.

Just... instantly dead.

Before his brain could process what happened or his survival instincts could suggest last-minute bargaining.

***

Number 1 straightened with movements that suggested they'd just completed a minor administrative task.

Their masked faces turned toward Number 7 with professional acknowledgment rather than congratulation, observing the chaos below where transformed civilians continued overwhelming the few remaining defenders.

The harvest proceeded according to schedule.

Corruption spread through the sanctuary like cancer through healthy tissue, each fallen defender and infected civilian adding to accumulated dark energy that fed into ritual circles most survivors hadn't noticed yet.

Number 1 nodded once.

Satisfied.

Then—

*CRACK!*

Reality tore open.

Not the controlled dimensional ruptures the Obsidian Covenant used.

This felt different. Angrier.

Like someone had taken offense to what was happening and decided proper door etiquette was for people who weren't currently furious beyond rational thought.

Golden light blazed through the tear.

Brilliant. Overwhelming.

Carrying presence that made even Number 1's overwhelming power feel suddenly negotiable rather than absolute.

Through the rift stepped figures that made mythology look understated.

And out of the rift are multiple figures that were famous…

The Chinese Odyssey… the team of the Journey to the West!

"..."

Sun Wukong led the charge.

The Monkey King in full battle regalia, his golden staff already spinning with casual violence that suggested he was warming up rather than showing off.

Fur bristled with barely contained fury that made the air itself feel dangerous, and his eyes blazed with the kind of anger usually reserved for people who'd personally insulted his master or stolen his favorite fruit.

Behind him came legends whose names echoed through Chinese mythology with weight that transcended simple fame.

Zhu Bajie hefting his rake with surprising grace despite the weapon's size.

Sha Wujing's staff is already glowing with defensive protocols.

Tang Sanzang radiating holy energy that made corrupted miasma recoil like it had touched something actively hostile.

And more. So many more.

Divine warriors representing centuries of accumulated legend, each one carrying power that could reshape landscapes when sufficiently motivated.

And right now, they looked extremely motivated.

***

Sun Wukong's gaze swept across the devastated sanctuary.

Taking in the transformed civilians. The scattered remains of defenders. The corruption bleeding through sacred ground like infection through an open wound.

His expression transformed.

Not into rage. Not into fury.

Into something colder. More controlled.

The kind of anger that came from beings who'd learned that screaming accomplished less than systematic violence delivered with mathematical precision.

"Obsidian Covenant."

His voice carried across the battlefield with power that made volcanic rock tremble sympathetically.

Not shouting. Just speaking with enough concentrated presence that reality itself leaned closer to listen.

"Bold, showing your faces here."

Number 1 and Number 7 stood their ground.

Not retreating. Not showing fear.

Professional assessment happening behind those masks, calculating threat levels and strategic implications with uncomfortable speed.

Sun Wukong's staff spun once.

Casual motion that created shockwaves powerful enough to flatten the remaining corrupted monsters, golden energy burning away infection with prejudice that suggested he'd done this before and gotten really efficient at it.

"I've killed bigger things than you before breakfast."

His grin showed too many teeth.

"But Odin's warning said you lot might be worth the actual effort, so..."

He settled into a combat stance that made experienced warriors instinctively step back.

"Let's see if rumors about Grand Elders having mid-ascended godhood are accurate or just cult propaganda."

The air between them compressed.

Potential violence crackling like electricity looking for somewhere to discharge, two completely different power scales about to discover which one reality favored when pushed to breaking points.

Number 1's posture shifted slightly.

Not fear, and no hesitation.

Just... recalculation.

Because fighting one legend was manageable with proper preparation.

Fighting an entire mythological pantheon that had arrived angry and ready for violence?

That required different tactical considerations.

*CRACK!*

Sun Wukong moved first.

Golden staff became a blur of devastating force, each strike carrying enough power to crack mountains or reshape geography when properly motivated.

And the sanctuary that had been a slaughterhouse three minutes ago became a battlefield where legends tested whether cosmic horror could survive concentrated mythological fury.

The real fight had begun!

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