The sky cracked like shattered mirrors above the last battlefield. Time screamed. Reality bent.
Kale stood alone, high above the ruins of the god-realms, his cloak billowing behind him like a shadow unmoored from light. Below him, the armies of forgotten gods lay in fragments. Their divine sigils bled into the dirt, stripped of meaning.
Across the horizon, Virelsa emerged through the storm—her form breaking with each step, a mass of shifting masks, faces she had stolen from a thousand timelines.
"You should not exist," she whispered, her voice layered with static and thunder.
Kale raised his hand, threads of memory and power weaving through his fingers like strands of creation.
"I don't," he answered.
And he spoke a single word. Not from this world, nor any other.
"Enough."
The threads unraveled.
Virelsa's body fractured. Her shriek tore across all realities at once, but no echo remained. She was not destroyed.
She was erased.
And just like that, the war was over.