In the infinite Multiverse, a lonely planet spun.
It had no name, only an eternal sandstorm that could grind rocks to dust, with yellow dust as the only dominant color, obscuring the light of the star and plunging the entire world into a suppressive, dim yellow hue.
This was the temporary gathering point chosen by the Lord of the Yellow Robe, Hastur.
At this moment, this desolate yellow desert was unusually lively.
Hundreds of figures were scattered among the giant sand dunes; they had similar tall outlines and resolute faces, yet differed greatly in details.
The styles of their battle suits, the light in their eyes, and the auras they exuded all indicated that they came from vastly different Universes.
They were all Mark Grayson.
But they were by no means the guardian from Universe 9 who still retained a bottom line and compassion.
They were variants who had gone to extremes, indulged in violence, and craved blood among countless possibilities.
Some wore grotesque armor made of unknown metal, stained with dried blood of various colors; others were wreathed in unstable energy arcs, their eyes manic; still others silently polished uniquely shaped cold weapons, exuding a chilling murderous intent that warned others to stay away.
They were gathered here by Hastur through various means—allure, coercion, or transactions—promised endless war and the pleasure of destruction.
But after waiting for a long time, nothing happened except for the omnipresent yellow sand and occasional brawls that erupted due to arguments and were quickly suppressed.
Boredom and restlessness spread like a plague among the crowd.
"Damn it, when will that yellow-robed ghost finally arrive?!"
A Mark covered in bone spurs and with a short temper roared as he smashed a weathered boulder with his fist.
"I didn't come here to eat sand!"
"Quiet, you fool."
A cold voice came from not far away.
This Mark wore a well-tailored, highly technological white battle suit, clearly inspired by the Viltrumite Empire's design, and had a neatly trimmed mustache above his lips, with an air of condescending arrogance in his eyes.
He was a Mark from a Universe deeply influenced by Viltrumite culture, held himself in high regard, and had an obsessive pursuit of purity in bloodline and power.
He accepted the summons purely because he could no longer find worthy opponents in his own Universe and felt incredibly bored.
However, he scoffed at Hastur's rhetoric about embracing the glory of the Great Old Ones, even though he saw some brainless versions of himself indeed grow much stronger after accepting that eerie power.
"What did you say?!"
Bone-Spur Mark roared, turning towards him.
"I said you're bothering me."
White-Clad Mark didn't even bother to look him in the eye, his tone flat but full of disdain.
"Besides, use your meager brain to think: can an entity capable of gathering so many of us here be rushed by a few shouts from you?"
Bone-Spur Mark trembled with rage, yet for some reason, he dared not truly make a move; the White-Clad Mark gave him an extremely dangerous feeling.
Just then, the sky, obscured by yellow sand, suddenly darkened.
An indescribable, low hum, as if countless mad whispers were overlaid, resonated throughout the heavens and earth; all the sand and dust seemed to be frozen in mid-air by an invisible force, no longer flowing.
Space, like a damp curtain, was pulled back at one corner, and a figure in an old, dark yellow robe stepped out, silently descending onto the highest wind-eroded rock pillar.
It was the avatar of the Lord of the Yellow Robe, Hastur.
It still maintained that mysterious and elegant posture, its wide hood obscuring its face, leaving only endless depth and terror.
But some Marks with keen perceptions, such as the White-Clad Mark, immediately noticed something different.
The edges of Hastur's robe sleeves seemed to have subtle, hard-to-detect damage, and the suffocating pressure it exuded also seemed to fluctuate for an instant compared to when it left; although quickly re-covered, that hint of instability was as obvious as a firefly in the dark to a strong individual familiar with power.
Oh?
A faint, imperceptible curve appeared at the corner of White-Clad Mark's mouth, he mused inwardly.
It seems he suffered a bit of a loss out there… How interesting.
To make this evil god stumble, my counterpart from Universe 9 must have some ability.
I really want to… personally gauge him.
Hastur's return instantly silenced the noisy sand valley; most Marks, no matter how violent, instinctively felt fear and awe when facing this unfathomable Great Old One.
However, there were always exceptions.
Several Marks, whose minds were deeply corrupted by the whispers of the Great Old Ones and were tending towards madness, could not restrain themselves and flew forward, clamoring around Hastur's avatar.
"Hastur! You're finally back! Quickly send us to other Universes! I want to slaughter! I want to destroy!"
"Exactly! Or let me go back! There are still a few cities in my Universe that haven't been flattened yet!"
"Power! Where is the more power you promised?!"
Hastur stood silently on the rock pillar, its hood slightly moving, seemingly looking at these clamoring fools.
Having just been repelled by Mark and Taviel working together in Universe 1, it was seething with an unvented evil fire, and these reckless fellows just happened to walk right into its crosshairs.
Without warning, without even a visible movement from it.
The few most boisterous Marks suddenly stiffened!
The fanaticism and violence on their faces instantly froze, replaced by extreme pain and disbelief.
Their bodies, as if thrown into strong acid, rapidly shriveled, withered, and disintegrated at a visible rate!
Their piercing screams were cut short halfway, for even their vocal cords had been completely eroded!
Pure life energy and soul essence transformed into several turbid, blood-red streaks of light, forcibly extracted from their rapidly dissipating bodies, wailing as they were absorbed into the darkness beneath Hastur's robe sleeves.
In the blink of an eye, those powerful, extreme Marks, capable of destroying stars single-handedly, simply vanished completely, leaving not even a speck of dust, only a few wisps of smoke-like aura slowly dissipating.
Hastur seemed to stretch slightly, as if having enjoyed a hearty meal.
Its previously unstable aura also stabilized considerably.
Killing a chicken to scare the monkeys; simple, yet always effective.
The entire sand valley was eerily silent.
All the Marks, including the arrogant White-Clad Mark, looked a few shades more solemn.
They once again clearly realized what kind of terrifying and incomprehensible existence they were dealing with; some Marks who had been somewhat restless before now completely extinguished their thoughts, bowing their heads deeply.
Hastur seemed quite pleased with the effect.
That low, hoarse voice, as if from a deep-sea vortex, sounded again, echoing in every Mark's mind, carrying a power that bewitched hearts.
"Impatience… is a shortcut to destruction; power… requires patience and… dedication."
It paused, then continued, its voice suddenly rising, carrying the solemnity and mystery of a major announcement.
"But the waiting is over, the time… has come!"
"The hour of revelry is upon us! Launch your most ferocious assault… upon all known, feeble Universes! With blood and wailing… please the ancient Holy Spirits! Let chaos and fear… become the keynote of all realms!"
"And we… the glory of the Great Old Ones… shall be your strongest backing! As you wage war… the power of my brethren… shall cross dimensions… to empower you! To… clear your obstacles!"
As the words fell, many Marks in the crowd who were already corrupted or naturally bloodthirsty showed excited and greedy glints in their eyes.
Hastur's gaze swept over the crowd, quickly locking onto the dozen or so individuals with the most supreme power, including the White-Clad Mark, and several others with particularly fierce auras or who had received more infusions of the Great Old Ones' power.
"You… are the most powerful… and the most favored."
Hastur's voice carried a hint of approval.
"A special mission… is given to you: go to… Universe 9, where… a wayward counterpart… needs to be corrected or… destroyed, tear apart everything he has built… and make that place… a beacon of fear!"
It specifically pointed to a Mark in the crowd who was almost completely shrouded in shadows, exuding a strong, ominous aura.
This Mark's battle suit had turned pitch black, covered with constantly writhing, seemingly living, eerie runes, and his eyes were two constantly spinning, turbid yellow vortices.
This was a Multiverse Mark carefully selected and personally corrupted and strengthened by Hastur, one who had completely embraced the power of the Great Old Ones.
"You… go with them, find that Mark… and make him feel… true… despair."
The Marks who were called out reacted differently.
Some sneered, some nodded indifferently, while the White-Clad Mark merely gave a faint hum as a response, but the burning battle intent in his eyes indicated that he accepted the mission.
Hastur said no more, and with a wave of its robe sleeve!
Powerful spatial energy surged, tearing open a massive rift in the center of the sand valley, filled with chaotic colors and whispers!
On the other side of the rift, a familiar starry sky was faintly visible.
That was Universe 9!
"Go!"
Hastur's voice was like a final send-off spell.
The chosen Marks, without hesitation, transformed into streaks of various colored light, rushing into the spatial rift one after another!
When the last Mark entered, the rift abruptly closed and vanished.
Hastur did not linger; it didn't even glance at the unchosen, somewhat disappointed Marks below.
Its figure faded again, like ink dissolving in water, silently disappearing from this yellow sand planet.
The next moment, it traversed immeasurable dimensional distances, appearing in another Universe.
This… was true hell.
The sky was a permanent, dark red membrane of flesh, flowing with defiled blood; the ground was made of writhing, mucus-covered giant organs and twisted bones.
The air was filled with maddening stench and endless wails of pain. Various unspeakable, twisted and grotesque creatures crawled, fought, and merged across the land.
This was the new lair established by Taviel and Ysogtha after escaping Universe 9.
They had chosen a dead Universe that had long been completely consumed by the power of the Great Old Ones, where all native civilizations and life had become nourishment.
In the center of this Universe-level defilement, a door stood.
A door so colossal it defied description!
It was several times larger than the one that had closed in Universe 9!
The doorframe was composed of countless twisted, agonizing, merged giant gods, demons, or planetary remnants; the door panels were covered with billions of constantly opening and closing, dripping-mucus eyes, and incessantly writhing mouths chanting blasphemous true words.
From the cracks of the door, an evil aura permeated, even more concentrated, ancient, and terrifying than the surrounding environment!
Taviel's countless pipe-like body and Ysogtha's massive, mountain-of-flesh body were encircling the door, continuously injecting the immense energy and essence drawn from devouring this Universe into it.
Countless Great Old Ones' kin busied themselves like worker ants, performing some wicked ritual.
Hastur's avatar quietly appeared before the door.
Even it, sensing the awakening, immensely violent power behind the door, became slightly solemn.
"Hastur… you have returned…"
Taviel's ethereal, hollow voice sounded.
"The ritual… is progressing smoothly…" Ysogtha's muffled, thunderous voice echoed.
Hastur nodded, its gaze beneath the hood fixed on the door.
"I feel… the summons, my brethren… are about to return."
In its voice, for once, there was a hint of genuine excitement and anticipation.
"This one… is different from us… He is… among the Great Old Ones'… "
"…Incarnation of battle and destruction! The most ferocious… powerhouse!"
The billions of eyes on the door suddenly opened simultaneously!
The door panels vibrated violently, as if something on the other side was frantically crashing against them, eager to descend.
The entire hellish Universe trembled with the impact.
]
glossary_used_count_Viltrumite Empire
glossary_used_count_Mark Grayson
glossary_used_count_Great Old Ones
glossary_used_count_Universe 1
glossary_used_count_Universe 9
glossary_used_count_Ysogtha
glossary_used_count_Multiverse
glossary_used_count_Viltrum
glossary_used_count_Lord of the Yellow Robe
glossary_used_count_Hastur
glossary_used_count_Taviel
glossary_used_count_Grayson
glossary_used_count_Titan
glossary_used_count_Viltrumite Empire = 1
glossary_used_count_Mark Grayson = 2
glossary_used_count_Great Old Ones = 7
glossary_used_count_Universe 1 = 1
glossary_used_count_Universe 9 = 5
glossary_used_count_Ysogtha = 2
glossary_used_count_Multiverse = 2
glossary_used_count_Lord of the Yellow Robe = 2
glossary_used_count_Hastur = 10
glossary_used_count_Taviel = 2
glossary_used_count_Titan = 1
glossary_used_count_Grayson = 1
glossary_used_count_Viltrum = 0
glossary_used_count_Total = 34
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