The stomach of the Great Outer One was not a stomach in any biological sense; it was more of a Conceptual Void, a lightless digestive dimension where the identities of gods were slowly eroded into nameless grey ash.
Zeus and Poseidon floated in a thick, gelatinous sea of entropy, their divine forms pinned by thousands of translucent, needle-toothed mouths that sprouted directly from the darkness.
Each bite was a theft of history as Zeus felt the memory of his victory over Cronus fading; Poseidon felt the weight of the Atlantic slipping from his grasp.
Their skin, once radiant with the gold and blue of the Hyperverse, was now a dull, bruised grey.
Zeus groaned, a sound that carried no thunder like it used to be.
He tried to clench his fist, but his fingers felt like they belonged to a ghost.
Beside him, Poseidon was being dragged deeper into the sludge, his trident drifting just out of reach, its bioluminescence flickering like a dying candle.
