Chapter 58 - Sword of Damocles

So, the weekly goal wasn't met. On top of that, got some bad reviews to lighten up my day.

Hulk sad.....🥺

Perhaps I should just start writing micro chapters like the rest of the authors. Life's easier that way. Less work.

Anyway, here you go.

******

The throne room of the Temple shook as the storm of power swirled around its heart. Floating mountains cracked, their fragments drifting upward like broken teeth into the distorted sky.

Edward sat upon the throne in his red, black, and silver regalia, silver-white hair draped in braids across his chest, calm as an ocean before a storm. Around him, the seventy-two Demon God Pillars manifested in a circle, towering monoliths of writhing flesh, fire, and shadow, their eyes and maws muttering words of forgotten ages.

Across from him stood Vandal Savage—blood on his lips, a cruel smile carved into his face, and in his right hand the temporal weapon that pulsed with unnatural light. His body bore the marks of ages of survival, scarred but unbowed. He held himself like a conqueror, shoulders square, gaze unflinching.

"You think this show of power frightens me?" Savage spat, his voice raw but arrogant. "I have ruled empires. I have crushed nations beneath my heel. I have endured the rise and fall of every so-called god that ever walked this earth."

He lifted the device in his hand, its glow intensifying. "Time itself bends to me. And you, Edwardus, are no exception."

Edward's eyes narrowed faintly, though his voice remained steady, even calm. "You've survived history not because of your strength, but because of the shadows you hide in. You've stolen scraps of power from others. But here, in this place, those scraps are nothing."

Vandal Savage steadied himself, his arrogance bruised but not broken. The device on his wrist sparked, useless within Edward's domain, and he cursed under his breath. Yet his defiance did not falter.

"So," he growled, his lips twisting into a sneer, "you've trapped me in this pretty little cage. You think this throne and these illusions make you invincible?"

The floating sky cracked with his laughter.

Edward's eyes narrowed. He raised his hand, and the first of the Demon God Pillars stirred. Massive limbs unfurled, black fire spilling from their crevices. They towered like mountains, yet bent toward Edward as loyal subjects, their countless eyes gleaming.

"This is no illusion," Edward said coldly. "This is the Temple of Time. Here, I reign absolute. And you… Savage… are nothing but a trespasser."

Savage snarled and drew a blade of strange design from his belt—gleaming steel fused with an unnatural, temporal core, humming as though out of phase with reality. "Then come down from your throne, so-called hero King, and fight me as a man!"

Edward rose, his robe sweeping behind him as his feet touched the floating platform. The pillars loomed, forming a circle as if bearing witness to judgment.

"Very well," Edward said, summoning a blade of his own—shimmering silver and crimson, forged from raw arcane light. Its edge sang softly, a sound that resonated across the domain. "Let us end this."

Savage charged with primal force, his blade striking in furious arcs. Each swing cracked the air, distorting time itself—one moment his blade crawled like molasses, the next it moved with blinding speed, warping the very flow around it.

Edward parried calmly, his own blade meeting Savage's without falter. Sparks of raw time-energy erupted with each clash, lighting the platform like miniature suns.

Savage's laughter echoed, manic and sharp. "Yes! Struggle against inevitability!" He pressed his wrist device again, and a ripple of distortion tore through the battlefield. Time fractured. One Demon Pillar staggered, its form suddenly rewound to its primordial state, then forced into decay within the same heartbeat. The ground itself flickered between stone, sand, and dust, unable to decide its own age.

"So, although it can't affect me, it can still affect the demon god pillars." Edward countered with a wave of his hand. The fractured Pillar roared, stabilizing under his will, its body reforming with a grotesque snap.

He flicked his sword forward, releasing a shockwave of light that shattered the ripples, sealing the temporal fracture.

"Your tricks may work in the world outside," Edward said coldly, stepping forward. "But this is my domain. Here, time flows as I decree."

He gestured, and three Demon Pillars advanced in unison. One unleashed torrents of black flame that devoured the air; another exhaled gravity so dense it crushed the space between them; the third spread countless shadowed tendrils, whipping toward Savage with the hunger of predators.

Savage roared in defiance, slashing his weapon in wide arcs. With each strike, the flames froze mid-motion, the gravity field snapped forward in accelerated collapse, the tendrils withered into dust.

He forced his body forward, each step a monumental effort, his muscles tearing under the strain of conflicting timelines. His eyes glowed with mad determination as he cut his way through.

"You call me a thief," Savage snarled, spitting blood, "but power belongs to those who seize it! History itself bows before me!"

He swung again, the blade extending in an impossible arc, stretching through centuries.

For an instant, Edward saw his body projected into infinite futures, hundreds of versions of Savage striking simultaneously from countless timelines.

Edward raised his sword, and the seventy-two Demon Pillars screamed in unison. Their voices became a wall of force, a chorus that shattered the false futures, collapsing the endless Savages into one broken, bloodied man once more.

Edward's blade met Savage's strike and overpowered it, sending the immortal staggering back, his weapon trembling in his grip.

"History doesn't bow to you," Edward said, his eyes flashing. "It tolerated you. Not anymore."

Savage roared, pressing harder. "I have walked this earth for fifty thousand years! Empires have risen and fallen at my feet! Do you think you can erase me like some pest?"

Edward's expression remained calm, his strikes precise. "You've walked long enough, Savage. All those years, and you've learned nothing but greed and savagery."

Savage snarled, his eyes bloodshot with fury. He feinted low, then unleashed a burst of temporal energy from his wrist device, forcing Edward back a step. He seized the moment, striking again, faster than before.

But the Demon God Pillars moved. One lashed out, a tendril of searing flame intercepting Savage's strike. Another unleashed a wave of crushing gravity, pinning him to the ground.

Savage roared, his strength monstrous, breaking free for an instant. He leapt, slashing upward with everything he had—only for Edward to raise his hand and halt him midair. Time itself froze Savage in place, his body suspended like a puppet.

"You've always mistaken survival for strength," Edward said softly. "But you are still bound by the same chains as any man. You may have gained some powers from a that Time Trapper, but he's not absolute."

With a flick of his hand, Edward hurled Savage back. The warlord crashed against the edge of the platform, coughing blood, his weapon flickering in his grip.

Edward raised his blade high. The Demon God Pillars resonated, their roars echoing across the domain. Black flames, crushing winds, molten light—all gathered at Edward's command, weaving into a singular storm of annihilation.

"This ends now."

Savage, battered and bloodied, struggled to his feet. For the first time, there was something in his eyes beyond rage—fear. He stared at the gathering storm of the 72 Pillars, at Edward's looming strike.

And then… he laughed.

A ragged, bloody grin split his face. He spat blood and laughed hoarsely.

"You might kill me here, Edward. You might erase me from this cage of yours. But you haven't won. No… you've already lost."

Edward's eyes narrowed. His blade remained poised. "…Speak."

Savage laughed, choking on blood. "While you played god in this cage, the world moved. I've already launched them. The warheads are in the sky. New York. London. Játvarðr. Your cities will burn into nothingness soon."

His eyes gleamed with mad triumph. "So kill me if you want, Edward. Watch them die. If the world cannot belong to me… it will belong to ash."

Savage coughed, his laughter echoing brokenly. "You'll watch your precious cities burn helplessly , unable to do anything.

Right before your grand entrance here… Japanese kamikaze pilots controlled by me struck Pearl Harbor. What do you think will happen once that happens....?"

Edward clenched his fist. Of course he knew what would happen. He knows all too well.

Savage smiled. He raised a trembling hand, pointing upward toward the hole in the domain's sky, as if he could see the world beyond.

"I may have lost the battle, but I have won the war. The world will burn if I cannot have it."

Edward's face did not change, but his grip on his blade tightened. Around him, the Demon God Pillars stirred with fury, the domain itself trembling.

Savage laughed again, his voice filled with cruel triumph. "Kill me if you want. It won't matter. You'll still lose everything."

******

New York City

The city was alive with its usual noise. Car horns blared on 42nd Street, newsboys shouted headlines about the war in Europe, and the skyline shimmered in the pale light of morning. Few knew the truth—that they were minutes away from death.

It started with the sirens.

At first, people thought it was another drill. The civil defense had run tests before—air raid sirens wailing across the boroughs, telling citizens to duck into shelters or basements. But the tone was different this time. It didn't shut off after a few seconds. It droned on, unbroken, like a scream.

In Times Square, a soldier with a megaphone shouted over the chaos:

"Take shelter! Possible incoming strike! This is not a drill!"

The words cut through the crowd like a blade.

On the corner, a mother clutched her little boy tighter, trying to drag him toward the subway stairs.

The child cried, "Mama, what's happening? Why's everyone running?" But she couldn't answer. She only pulled him harder, her heart hammering.

Inside the Empire State Building, workers rushed to the elevators, panic rising as they realized there wasn't enough time, not enough room. Some froze at the windows, staring east, where a distant silver glint cut across the sky—unnatural, too fast, too deliberate.

On the Brooklyn Bridge, traffic jammed instantly. Horns blared, drivers abandoned cars and ran on foot. A priest fell to his knees, clutching his rosary, muttering desperate prayers as the rising wail of the siren drowned him out.

Above it all, the bomber's payload cut the clouds—a single steel monster falling silently toward the beating heart of the city.

The mayor, surrounded by aides in the underground command room, gripped the radio headset. His knuckles were white. "Scramble interceptors! Where the hell is the Air Corps?"

But there was silence on the other end. There wasn't time..

President Roosevelt gritted his teeth and gave her he order. " We have no choice. Drop those damn bombs in Tokyo and Berlin. If we can't save our people, we'll be damn sure to avenge them.

All across New York, despair took root. Some prayed. Some screamed. Some simply stood still, staring up at the approaching doom, unable to move.

The shadow of fire fell over them all.

***

London

The city was already scarred. Buildings still bore wounds from the Blitz two years prior, blackened shells where homes and shops once stood. Londoners had endured fire before. They knew the sound of sirens, the rush to underground shelters, the feel of the earth shaking as bombs fell.

But this was different. The urgency in the warnings was sharper, frantic, even among hardened soldiers.

"New weapon, they say," muttered an old man as he shuffled down into the Underground with dozens of others. "As if the Blitz wasn't enough. Bloody Germans…"

The tunnels filled quickly, families huddled on the cold concrete floors, gas masks clutched to their chests. Children whimpered, mothers hushed them, men tried to look brave though their hands shook.

Above ground, the sky was clear. A single contrail cut across it—beautiful, in a way, but wrong. Too fast. Too certain.

In Westminster, Churchill stood with his staff, staring grimly at the reports. His cigar trembled between his fingers.

"They say it's… different, Prime Minister," one of his generals whispered.

Churchill didn't answer. He knew. He had seen the calculations, heard the whispers about a German "super-weapon."

He muttered, almost to himself: "God help us if it's true."

In the streets near St. Paul's Cathedral, a young nurse guided patients down the steps, forcing calm into her voice though her throat was tight with fear. "Down you go, love. Keep moving. Quickly now." Inside, she caught her reflection in a shattered window—pale, wide-eyed, trying not to shake.

On Tower Bridge, a group of Home Guard volunteers looked up at the incoming streak. None of them had ever faced something like this. One whispered, "Looks like it's headed straight for us." Another muttered, "Then this is it."

Yet still, some refused to yield. A group of choirboys gathered in the church basement began to sing softly, voices trembling but resolute. Their song echoed against the stone, a fragile act of defiance against the silence of death above.

London braced itself.

***

Játvarðr, Capital of Vonarland

The northern city gleamed in the cold light of morning. Built with a blend of Norse stonework and modern steel, Játvarðr was the pride of Vonarland—its towers etched with runes of protection, its streets lined with banners of silver and blue. The people here had always believed themselves untouchable, blessed by the blood of heroes and guarded by Edward himself.

That belief was about to be tested.

The alarm bells tolled across the harbor, deeper and older than sirens—great bronze voices warning of doom. The magical wards shimmered faintly in the sky, reacting to something vast approaching from beyond the horizon.

On the walls of the capital, shieldmaidens and riflemen stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces pale. Some clutched modern rifles, others ancient spears inscribed with runes. They could see it already: the silver bullet descending through the clouds, a streak of unnatural light.

In the central square, crowds gathered, confusion mixing with terror. A little girl tugged at her father's cloak. "Papa, is it another drill?"

He didn't answer immediately. His eyes were fixed on the sky. "No honey, this is real. But don't worry," he smiled. "He will protect us. I know he will."

Inside the great hall, the council of Vonarland shouted over one another. Some demanded immediate retaliation. Others demanded the release of "Gungnir," the enchanted missile capable of destroying falling asteroids to dust . The high chancellor slammed his fist on the table.

"Where is he? Where is Lord Edward? We can't wait!"

No one had an answer.

Priests of the old ways lit fires in the temple, chanting prayers to Edward, to anyone who might listen. Their voices trembled but carried across the capital.

And in the harbor, the great magical warships stirred, their runes igniting, engines roaring to life. They aimed skyward, preparing to intercept if they could. But even their might seemed small against what approached.

The people of Játvarðr looked to the sky, and for the first time in centuries, they felt worried.

Across three cities, millions of souls waited under the same doom.

Some prayed. Some wept.

Some simply stared upward, unable to comprehend.

The bombs were falling.

And high above, in the fractured Temple of Time, Edward's heart clenched. Savage's bloodied grin lingered in his mind. He summoned a miniature ball made from the flames of the sun and threw it at Savage. He burned away to nothing , but his mocking voice kept ringing, "I have won the final laugh!"

The world trembled, minutes away from fire and destruction. Despite everything, history has brought them at the same point.

The warheads hung in the air, like the sword of Damocles about to fall.

*****

The cottage looked as though time itself had forgotten it. Weathered stone walls held their shape despite centuries of storms, the thatched roof remained whole where others would have crumbled, and moss clung stubbornly to the cracks.

The windows were dark, the air unmoving, yet inside a strange flame burned in the hearth—pale, cold, and eternal.

At the center of the room stood the loom. It stretched almost to the rafters, its frame groaning under the weight of countless glowing threads.

Some were taut, some frayed, some already severed, their ends dangling like veins cut from the world. Three women worked it tirelessly: Atropos with her shears, Lachesis with her measuring rod, and Clotho with her spindle. Together they wove the destinies of mortals and gods alike.

It was here that Death entered.

The door opened without a touch, and the air chilled the moment she stepped inside. Shadows stretched across the walls, and even the threads on the loom seemed to hum uneasily beneath her gaze.

She wore a plain black dress, her dark hair loose, her expression calm but edged with frost. She carried no scythe, no trappings of legend, only the certainty of her presence.

Her voice cut through the stillness like glass breaking.

"Whatever plan you are trying to pull, throw them away. My husband is already trying to stop the chaos and destruction. We don't need your tantrum."

The sisters froze, their tools poised mid-motion. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the faint, unnatural crackle of the fire.

Atropos, eldest and stern, lifted her head first. Her eyes were clouded with age but hard as iron.

"You speak out of place, Death. The fates are ours to govern."

Lachesis leaned forward, tightening her grip on the rod she used to measure the threads of life. Her tone carried irritation, but beneath it there was something sharp, almost accusing.

"You have been ignoring your duties, my dear. Are you getting soft… or changing?"

Clotho, youngest of the three, did not look up from the thread twisting between her fingers. Her voice was soft, almost sorrowful, but her words struck like a warning.

"Do you know what happens when an Endless starts to change? They get replaced."

Death's laughter broke the silence. It was light in sound but heavy in intent, an empty echo that filled the cottage with unease. She tilted her head slightly, black eyes glinting.

"I have followed the rules and never stepped away from my duties. But yes, I do believe I have changed. And I'm happy with it."

Her gaze sharpened as she took a step closer. When she spoke again, her tone was darker, every syllable edged with finality.

"I have come to know love and happiness. I might act soft around my man, but…"

Her eyes turned black, swallowing the dim light of the room, and her voice carried the chill of the grave.

"I am still Death. Ruler of the Sunless Lands. I can end you all right here."

The loom's threads quivered violently, as though they could feel the weight of her intent.

Clotho quickly raised her hands, trying to ease the growing tension.

"Now, now, there's no need to fight. We are just doing our duty. And you know the consequences of killing us better than anyone."

Atropos clicked her shears, her scowl deepening, though her fingers trembled ever so slightly.

"This one has gone senile with love. She doesn't care about consequences."

Death's eyes glowed faintly, not with fire, but with the absolute absence of it. The air grew colder as her voice dropped lower, steadier, more dangerous.

"I would kill anyone and anything standing in his way. Death and Hope are bound together for eternity. It means we follow each other to the bitter end."

The sisters shifted uneasily. The threads behind them strained as if pulled taut by invisible hands.

Finally, Lachesis exhaled, her voice quieter than before, laced with a grim kind of pity.

"You do know what awaits him, and this world, don't you? Once SHE is released, it all ends."

Death clenched her fists, and shadows rippled across the stone floor like waves of ink.

"Doesn't matter. We will face it together. Until the end. That's the vow I swore to him upon our marriage."

The words lingered in the air, unshaken, unyielding.

Clotho shook her head slowly, the spinning wheel at her side slowing with her hands.

"That's not a good end, dear. And fates without strings can be dangerous for humans. Just look at this war! It's even worse than the original one. And who's responsible for it? Yes, your husband."

For the first time, Death faltered. Her expression shifted, just slightly, as she studied their faces.

"So you didn't do anything?"

Atropos scoffed, snapping her shears together.

"We only did the thing that was supposed to happen. We never act beyond the natural flow. Time Trapper was just using that human to test us. We would square with him later."

Death let out a weary breath, her shoulders lowering a fraction. Her voice, though quieter, carried steel.

"Just… don't do anything to something he changed personally. He might ignore my words and end you. You know cosmic rules don't apply to him. That's why you have never dared to approach him. Because he stands against everything you stand for."

Lachesis's lips curved into a faint smile, though her eyes betrayed unease.

"Although we hate him, we also admire him. Especially eldest sister."

Atropos's face darkened instantly. She snapped her head toward her sibling, voice sharp with betrayal.

"I told that to you in confidence, sister. I merely wish to see his limits."

Clotho teased from the side. " But you said you found him charming compared to the other humans."

Death's smile was small but knowing. "Well, he has that charm. He attracts attention Wherever he goes."

Then it vanished.

Her hand flickered, and a knife appeared from nothing. Its blade was impossibly thin, abyss black, and the very air recoiled from it. The sisters stiffened, their tools frozen mid-air, the threads of the loom trembling as though they might snap all at once.

Death's tone turned sickly sweet, soft as honey but twice as venomous.

"I don't mind a little admiration. But DO NOT TRY TO GET CLOSE TO HIM IF YOU WISH TO LIVE! Is that clear?"

"Yes!" the three sisters said quickly, their voices unified and shaking.

Her smile returned as if nothing had happened, but the abyss still burned in her eyes.

The knife dissolved back into nothing, and Death turned her back on them. She walked slowly to the door, every step measured, unhurried. With a creak, it opened for her, and the moment she crossed the threshold, the pressure in the cottage lifted.

The silence that followed was heavy.

Atropos swallowed hard, her hands trembling against her shears.

"Sisters… she…"

Lachesis sat pale, the faint smirk she'd worn earlier long gone. Her voice was low, shaken.

"Indeed… but how?"

Clotho set her spindle down, her hands unsteady. She coughed softly before answering, her eyes downcast.

"You know… how. But that's almost impossible."

She looked up at the loom, at the endless threads stretching into eternity. Her sigh was long, heavy, resigned.

"It seems we will have a new thread to weave."

*****

Yanderes huh? Where would we be without them. ..

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