The bones of Pangu's realm lay scattered in silence. The giants of stone were rubble, rivers of molten gold cooled into black scars, mountains leveled into flat wastelands. The false crimson sky flickered weak above, broken where Zeus's storm had burned through.
He stood at the center, lightning still licking across his shoulders, though dimmer now. The Primordial storm hummed in his blood, but he kept it chained. Around him, a few gods crawled out of the ruins—minor kami who had not dared strike. They trembled, their voices low with grief. Zeus did not end them. They were not his war, not yet. His eyes turned to the horizon.
His storm split the void once more.
–––
The Shinto Realm greeted him not with silence, but with blinding light.
