The wave of unmaking rolled towards them. It wasn't fast. It didn't need to be. It was inevitable. The ground, the air, the very idea of the Silent Realm was being wiped clean, pixel by pixel, thought by thought. At the edges, a minor nature god from a forgotten Celtic glen simply vanished, not with a scream, but with a soft pop of non-existence. Then another. And another.
Panic, raw and primal, shot through the assembled gods. They had just tasted freedom. Now they were watching the end of the canvas they were painted on.
Odin roared, hurling Gungnir at the giant face. The spear flew true, a streak of defiant history—and dissolved into golden motes an inch from the unmoving visage. It was useless.
Poseidon tried to summon a tidal wall to hold back the erasure. The water boiled away into nothing before it could even form.
"We cannot fight this!" Athena shouted, her strategic mind seeing no move, no gambit. "It is not an attack! It is a command to stop being!"
