"Why is it that your peace always demands the servitude of my people?"
Morpheus's words rippled across creation — a calm indictment that struck harder than any divine weapon. The assembled pantheons stared him down: gods of sun and sea, angels of holy judgment, demons forged in suffering. For a heartbeat, the universe held its breath.
Then the universe snapped.
Zeus hurled the first strike — a lightning bolt wrapped in storm-wrath and kingly pride. The crackling spear of the sky split clouds and tore the air itself as it shot toward Morpheus—
—and shattered, harmless, against a Morpheus who wasn't actually there.
Gasps swept across the divine ranks.
Dozens of Morpheus figures now surrounded them — encircling gods and angels in a tightening noose. They were not illusions. Each one cast a shadow. Each one breathed the same cold promise. Each one smiled — sharp and knowing — like a wolf inside a flock.
One version spoke, though none could tell which:
"If you insist on war… then allow me to show you what war against the forgotten truly looks like."
The heavens roared into motion.
Surya's brilliance ignited first — a solar tempest that burned sky and ground alike, flaying sight from mortal and immortal eyes.
Ares charged with a scream that shook Olympus, spear thrust forward, the fury of ten thousand battles blazing in his veins.
Osiris called forth a tide of the dead — hands of sand and bone reaching to drag Morpheus beneath the veil.
Gabriel, halo blazing, dove from above with swords of truth drawn, wings whipping gales through shattered sky.
Demons poured from the screaming void — claws dripping black fire that melted reality where it fell.
Every strike landed.
Every god struck something.
But that something always changed.
A Morpheus dissolved to smoke, reappearing behind a divine throat.
A hand — once flesh — became plated in metal armor, parrying weapons stronger than should be possible.
Wings severed from angels fell like dying stars, feathers turning to ash before they touched the ground.
Ares roared as his spear punched through a Morpheus chest — finally, contact — finally pain inflicted.
But his triumph died in his throat.
The god of war's arm refused to withdraw. His muscles bulged, strained — nothing. The spear felt affixed to stone.
The Morpheus pinned before him smiled as if granting mercy.
"You first."
He pushed the spear deeper — and devoured what clung to it.
Golden war-essence ripped free from Ares's body. The mighty god staggered as his form unraveled, scream breaking into mist… then dust… then nothing at all.
Power surged into Morpheus like a star being born.
His spine elongated with a crack like tectonic plates shifting. Armor erupted from his skin, white like bone yet gleaming with cosmic dark. Six wings of shadow burst into existence — translucent, whispering, terrible.
Zeus stumbled backward.
Surya's light faltered.
Even demons retreated from the sudden chill that swept the battlefield.
Morpheus inhaled — just once — and every celestial trembled as if their souls were being weighed.
"You judged billions unworthy," he said softly. "Now I judge you."
The Morpheus legion struck as one.
One dragged an archangel into a screeching abyss tearing open beneath their feet.
Another twisted light and shadow — turning allies on one another, god clashing with god, demon ripping angelic wings.
A third summoned phantom armies — illusions so perfect that their blades carved through both bone and divinity.
Screams filled the broken firmament.
A goddess of mercy called for retreat, voice trembling with fear — only to be silenced as a spear of pure nightmare punched through her throat. She fell without prayer.
Every god that died fed him.
Every demon's death strengthened him.
He changed again, and again — more wings, more eyes spinning with galaxies, armor writhing like living muscle. He climbed beyond deity, beyond definition.
He became inevitable.
And his voice — impossibly — stayed gentle.
"For every mortal crushed beneath your heel…
For every soul condemned as lesser…"
He stepped forward — and all realms shivered.
"I will make you feel their broken hope."
Only then did the highest gods understand.
This was not the mortal they once ignored.
This was not a wizard they believed they could chain.
This was evolution.
This was vengeance made divine.
This was Morpheus Ascendant.
There was a predator among gods.
Morpheus ascended higher with each breath stolen, each life consumed. His wings — thirteen now — unfurled like eclipses tearing daylight apart. Every feather dripped the essence of fallen divinity.
And then the air… shifted.
Silence fell.
Even chaos grew wary.
A ripple of silver mist swept through the sky, clearing flame and ash as though wiping clean a chalkboard. It condensed into a shape robed in iridescent twilight — calm, ancient, infuriatingly poised.
His skin shimmered like moonlit ink. His eyes held infinity: dreams born, dreams dying.
A crown of endless sleep rested upon his brow.
Finally he had arrived to take revenge on the one who had stolen his name.
"Morpheus…"
The God of Dreams.
He stepped forward, barefoot upon the broken realm, and everything bent to him — nightmares kneeling, illusions dissolving. Even the shadow-wings behind Morpheus flickered under his presence.
"You bear my name," the Dream-King said, voice like silk over steel. "An offense I can no longer ignore."
Our Morpheus — blood-armored, cosmos-eyed — tilted his head.
"No," he replied. "I carry what you abandoned."
The gods of old looked among themselves; perhaps there was hope. Perhaps their true protector had arrived.
The Dream-God lifted a hand — a gesture of command and condemnation.
"Kneel."
Reality folded, gravity itself bowing to divine decree.
Morpheus did not.
Instead he laughed — hollow, wounded, terrifying.
From every direction, his illusions surged again — not copies now, but split facets of his wrath. They attacked like the shattering of a nightmare's last restraint.
But the Dream-God merely blinked.
And every illusion froze… and dissolved into glimmering dust.
"You wield my domain without understanding it," he said, almost pitying. "Dreams are gifts. Nightmares are warnings. You have embraced only hunger."
Morpheus stepped forward — and the ground splintered beneath his heel.
"Dreams are survival," he growled. "Dreams are hope. And you, false king—"
He vanished.
Reappeared behind the Dream-God.
His hand — taloned with living magic — punched through divine spine.
The Dream-God gasped as black blood spilled down celestial robes.
"—you turned hope into chains."
The god staggered, disbelief clouding his eternal eyes.
"You… cannot…" he whispered.
Morpheus leaned close, forehead nearly touching the dying deity's. His voice softened — a confession carved from anguish.
"I was named Morpheus by my mother…"
He twisted his arm deeper — ribs cracking like brittle glass.
"She named me such because she saw in her dreams I would someday change the world."
A single tear — thick, dark, streaked with power stolen from countless fallen gods — slid from Morpheus's eye.
"But you?" His voice quivered with rage. "You never believed in humanity's dream."
Then he tore the heart — shimmering with all the dreams the god ever guarded — straight from his chest.
The Dream-God Morpheus wailed as his essence unraveled, collapsing into a cloud of scattered, dying hopes.
Our Morpheus crushed the divine heart in his fist.
His roar pierced into the minds of all present.
"I AM MORPHEUS — THE DREAM OF HUMANITY!"
The cosmos recoiled.
Every remaining god — angel — demon — understood:
This was not a nightmare they could wake from.
A slaughter began and no one was spared.