The crack in Kael'ar's throne spreads like a fissure through the marble floor, sending shockwaves through the chamber. Several lesser gods in your court exchange worried glances, their divine auras flickering with uncertainty. The Garden Goddess El'goroth steps forward, her form shifting between solid flesh and something more ephemeral—life force manifesting in every movement.
"Great King," she says, her voice carrying the sweetness of blooming flowers and the gravity of ancient wisdom, "we must consider the nature of mortal belief. It is not something that can be carved away like diseased wood."
Her fingers trace patterns in the air, leaving trails of golden pollen that hang suspended. "These prayers are not merely words—they are living connections between our realm and theirs. Severing them carelessly could wound us all."
War God Kael'ar rises from his damaged throne, his divine armor glowing with the heat of a thousand forges. "And what would you have us do, El'goroth? Wait until their corrupted worship poisons the very source of our power? I've seen what shadow-magic does to mortal souls—it doesn't just twist, it consumes!" He gestures toward the viewing pool where the Amazonian temple's energy signature pulses with sickly violet light.
You feel the tension spreading through your court.
The courtroom vibrates with divine energy, the marble floor cracking slightly under the pressure of your gods' conflicting emotions. You sense the growing divide between Kael'ar's bloodthirst and El'goroth's restraint, your own divine essence crackling with the need for action. The viewing pool shows the corrupted temple in stark detail, the shadow-magic's tendrils creeping through the air like living smoke, twisting the pure golden light of your worshippers' devotion into something darker, more sinister.
Sera'mael steps forward, her hands still cupped around the glowing orb. "Great King, we stand at a crossroads. The Hecatonchiri's influence grows stronger by the hour."
She turns the orb slowly, revealing new facets of the corruption—the shadow-magic now taking the form of jagged, crystalline structures sprouting from the temple stones. "If left unchecked, this taint could anchor their power in our plane, twisting not just prayers but the very fabric of Arborea."
Kael'ar draws his blade, its edge humming with divine fire. "Then let us strike now, my King! Let my war-host descend and cleanse that jungle with holy flame!" His eyes burn with the promise of violence, the scent of ozone and iron filling the air around him.
El'goroth raises a hand, vines sprouting from the floor to gently bar his path.
The blade sings not of cleansing, but of chaos, Kael'ar. Listen—truly listen—to the temple's song." Her voice is a low murmur, yet it carries through the chamber like a wind through ancient trees. The vines she conjured are not a barrier of force, but of sensation, their leaves brushing against the War God's armor and imparting the distant, frantic heartbeat of the mortals below. "Their fear is a new note in the chorus. It is not born of malice, but of a corruption they did not invite. To burn them is to burn a part of ourselves."
You watch the conflict play out across the faces of your assembled court.
The divine tension in the chamber is palpable as your gods turn their attention to you, their king. Kael'ar's hand tightens on his blade, the divine fire along its edge flaring brighter, while El'goroth's vines pulse with a gentle, earthy light. The viewing pool shows the Amazonian temple in stark detail - the corruption spreading like cancer through the ancient stones, tendrils of shadow-magic writhing like living serpents.
Sera'mael's words echo through the chamber, a subtle whisper that commands attention. "The Hecatonchiri are patient, my King. They do not seek to destroy outright, but to twist, to pervert."
She steps closer to the viewing pool, her form flickering slightly as she channels her commerce magic to reveal more details. "This corruption... it is not a direct attack, but a seed planted in fertile soil. The mortals below, they have been praying to what they believe is us, but the Hecatonchiri have been feeding on those prayers, twisting them into something that serves their hunger."
The court falls silent, all eyes on you as the implications settle like lead dust in the air. Kael'ar's blade still hums with restrained violence, while El'goroth's vines have begun to wither slightly, the pain of the temple's corruption affecting her directly.
You feel the weight of this corruption as a dull ache in your own divine essence, a shadow creeping at the edges of your perception. The temple's nexus is vital; it is one of the primary conduits through which mortal devotion flows into Arborea, sustaining your court and fueling your power. To lose it would be to bleed your realm dry.
Kael'ar's voice cuts through the silence, sharp and impatient. "Then we cut the rot out before it spreads further. Send my legion. We will scour the jungle until every last whisper of this shadow is purged by flame."
El'goroth counters, her voice strained. "The mortals are victims, not villains. Their faith is being poisoned."
to assist in this delicate matter. The solution lies not in brute force nor passive observation, but in precise, mortal-scale intervention. You raise a hand, the ambient divine energy of your throne room coalescing into a shimmering, intricate pattern before you. "We will not send an army that might trample the innocent, nor will we allow this corruption to fester. I will summon champions from Earth-1, those versed in the arcane arts. They can navigate the subtleties of this magic, purify the temple without destroying the faithful, and sever the Hecatonchiri's influence at its root."
The court watches, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension in their divine eyes, as you focus your will.
Divine energy crackles through the air as your will shapes reality. The viewing pool's surface ripples, expanding outward like the rings of a stone dropped into still water. Where the corruption once pulsed as a dark stain, now something new forms—a bridge between realms, thin as spider silk but carrying the weight of your intent.
The first to respond is the Spectre, his ghostly form materializing within the viewing pool's depths. His hollow gaze searches the gathered court before fixing on you. "Why do you call upon the Wrath of God, King of Arborea?" His voice resonates with both judgment and ancient wisdom.