The tree of dharma bled light from its roots. Its branches trembled as if the weight of the skies was about to crush it. The lotus lakes no longer shimmered; they churned black and red, boiling with every clash of gods and something beyond gods. Hymns once sung to uphold the world twisted into screams, as if the mortals who fed this realm with prayer could feel it breaking.
And at the center of it stood Hades.
His wings tore the air like night stretched across eternity, each feather a shard of shadow edged in white fire. His eyes burned crimson, steady and merciless. The bident pulsed in his grip, no longer metal or bone but an extension of his will—an abyss sharpened into a weapon. Every step he took bent rivers, cracked palaces, and made the sky recoil.
Shiva, Kala, and Prakriti stood before him, battered yet unyielding. Their forms carried the weight of creation, of time, of rhythm itself. But against him, against this Hades, even they looked like echoes.
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