The Shinto heavens lay in ruin.
Ash and sparks drifted where rivers of prayer had once flowed. The temples that had hung in the skies were rubble scattered into endless clouds. The great torii gates snapped and toppled, their red beams drifting like bones in a broken sea.
And at the heart of it all, two bodies sprawled.
Izanagi and Izanami—creators of islands, parents of gods, the first spark and the last breath—now corpses. Their forms, vast and endless, slumped across mountains that they themselves had once shaped. One hand that had raised worlds now hung limp. One mouth that had spoken death now lay silent. The realm trembled still from their fall.
Upon them sat two figures.
Zeus, his chest bare, sparks still crawling faint across his shoulders though his fists were quiet. Odin, his cloak burned and torn, one eye dark and the other glowing, Gungnir resting across his knees. Both sat without grandeur, their bodies cut and bruised, their breathing steady but heavy.
