Heavy footsteps echoed across the open stone corridor, each one rolling through the air like a distant war drum.
A lone man–barely in his twenties yet carrying himself with the calm weight of someone far older–walked steadily through the halls of Xanthea.
Then he stopped. No sound. No wind. No movement.
Only presence.
He felt it before he saw anything–an overwhelming pressure, like the air itself thickened around him.
A thousand eyes.
A thousand wills.
A thousand gods.
All watching him at once.
A deep, resonating voice rolled through the halls of Xanthea–ancient, authoritative, shaking the very stone.
"Great One," it boomed, "you stand accused of mass genocide against the human race. How do you plead these charges?"
The man did not look startled. He didn't flinch.
He simply tilted his head slightly.
"…Plead?" he murmured. "Before that–may I ask who is making this accusation?"
A ripple of divine energy pressed down from above, followed by a calm yet heavy reply:
"I know exactly how powerful you are. That is why I stand before you with the force of a thousand gods."
The man's lips curled into something between amusement and pity.
"You know how strong I am," he repeated, raising his gaze toward the legion looming above, "and yet you still came to question me… Buddha."
The name echoed.
Buddha descended slightly, his divine aura swirling like a storm.
"The Council of Gods has deemed you guilty. However"–he lifted a hand–"as an Elder god, you may prove your innocence before the Court of Gods."
"Xanthea," the man muttered, almost to himself. "The place where gods reside…"
"What was that?" Buddha asked sharply.
The man's shadow stretched across the floor as he straightened.
"It is also," he said, ignoring the question entirely, "the place where you all will die."
Silence.
Then–
He slipped off his black coat, letting it fall without a sound. His neck cracked left, then right, muscles tightening in anticipation.
"It's been a long time," he said slowly, a hungry smile spreading across his face, "since anyone was foolish enough to challenge me."
His eyes burned with a violent, eager light.
"I truly hope the might of a thousand gods… is enough to quench my thirst for battle."
And then it began.
The moment that would be carved into history as the Divine Purge.
The day the full might of heaven united to stop one being.
Not a man.
Not a lesser god.
But Ouroboros–the god of Death himself.
Boros stood alone on an endless, barren plain, the sky above him crowded with a thousand gods. Their divine eyes gleamed with hatred, fear… and desperation.
The air trembled.
Then two gods descended at once, bursting forward with weapons forged for a single purpose–God Killers–their blades aimed straight for his neck.
They never reached him.
With a single effortless sidestep, Boros slipped past both attacks. His hand flicked once. Twice.
Two heads fell.
Two gods died.
Silence.
Then the heavens erupted.
A swarm of deities charged in at once unleashing their Longinus abilities in blinding torrents – reality-tearing force, crushing gravity, blades of pure concept, the full wrath of divinity crashing toward a single point.
Zeus raised a hand.
Lightning split the clouds.
A spear of thunder crashed down at Boros's feet–
–and Boros moved, shooting upward clearing the blast with a single fluid leap.
He was airborne for less than a heartbeat.
Long enough.
Odin appeared above him in a burst of golden force and brought his spear down like a falling star–
BOOM!
The god of Death slammed into the earth, the impact cracking the world beneath him.
Xanthea–the serene realm of gods–has transformed.
The open path he'd walked moments ago was now a war zone, swallowed by divine fury and the storm unleashed upon one being.
And the purge has only just begun.
The battlefield grew too intense for Boros to rely on fists alone. His aura flared–cold, violent–and his Longinus ability surged through him like a living storm.
Buddha lunged first, fists clenched, trying to hammer him down through sheer force.
But Buddha had always been a novice in close combat.
Boros slipped past each strike with fluid, effortless movement–pivoting, weaving, countering with sharp blows that cracked the air and sent Buddha across the shattered ground.
And once Boros let his Longinus ability resonate fully?
He tore through the divine ranks.
One by one, gods fell–crushed under his overwhelming power, carved down by precision and brutality.
Hours passed, and the sky above Xanthea had turned black with smoke. What had once been the sacred home of the gods was now a wasteland.
Fewer than five hundred gods remained.
Only the Omni gods and Arch gods could still stand against him – the highest tiers below the Elder gods themselves.
Boros surged forward like a force of nature, twin blades of burning flame materializing in his hands.
Each swing carved luminous scars through the battlefield–the kind of cut rumored to slice space itself.
And still, he pushed forward.
Unstoppable.
Despite Boros's overwhelming speed and durability, the enemy's sheer numbers finally began to press to him. His movements slowed–just enough.
Ares and Faunus closed the distance instantly.
Their combined assault crashed into him–heavy blows slamming into his ribs, shoulders, jaw–forcing him back and knocking the burning blades from his grip. The swords skidded across the ground.
Then–
A ripple tore through space.
A skeletal hand burst out a sudden portal, snatched both swords, and vanished just as quickly as it appeared.
Boros narrowed his eyes.
"…Tch."
Three hundred gods closed in around him.
He raised his left hand. The air vibrated–twisted–then ignited.
A violent surge of energy erupted from his palm.
"Emberfall."
The heavens responded.
The sky split open as burning meteors rained down like a divine execution, each blazing rock carving a molten trail across the battlefield. The light washed over Xanthea in a hellish red glow.
Panic tore through the divine host.
Mighty gods – once unshakable – were reduced to silhouettes thrashing in the inferno, their screams swallowed by the roaring storm of flame.
When the firestorm finally settled…
A hundred gods had been reduced to ash.
And in the midst of the blazing ruin stood Boros–unburned, unmoving, untouched.
A lone figure surrounded by collapsing flame.
A monolith of divine power.
The air hung thick with the stench of charred flesh and smoke, the battlefield glowing with dying embers – and yet Boros stood untouched. Unmarked. Unshaken.
A living reminder of why the cosmos tremble before the Elder gods.
But amidst the ruin, one god didn't tremble.
Zeus stared at the scorched remains of his sons–Apollo and Orion–broken and lifeless.
His breath hitched.
His grief twisted… then erupted.
The sky blackened. Clouds coiled into a violent spiral. The earth split beneath his feet as divine rage surged through him.
Zeus lifted his arm toward the heavens and roared:
"Xíphos Brontês!"
The world answered.
Thunder fractured the sky. Stormlight carved through the heavens like a blade. And in a single, devastating strike, Zeus's wrath descended–lighting sharpened into a spear of divine judgment.
The impact was absolute. The blast tore through Boros's neck, severing his head clean from his shoulders. His body collapsed with a heavy thud.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then cheers erupted from the surviving gods, triumph swelling through the ranks.
"He's dead!"
"Zeus did it!"
"It's over–!"
The dust settled.
And every voice died.
Boros's head – lying in the dirt – twisted. Muscles reknit. Bone fused Flesh stitched itself back together with unnatural ease.
He rose, whole again.
A slow, sinister grin crept across his face.
"Your celebration…" he growled, his voice warped with malice,
"…is premature."
The gods froze.
"This is only the prelude. I will extinguish your light… and drag all of you into eternal darkness."
The remaining gods, driven by fear and desperation, unleashed a battle cry that shook the heavens and charged.
But Boros didn't retreat.
He welcomed them.
His hands moved like ancient machinery – each parry precise, each block effortless. Eons of mastery flowed through every motion as he dismantled the assault of dozens of divine beings at once.
An Elder god… outnumbered, outmatched on paper–
Yet untouchable.
But even titans eventually bleed.
As the divine horde pressed in from every angle, the sheer weight of their assault forced cracks into his defense.
A misstep. A breath too slow. His back opened to the carnage behind him. Odin – ever the opportunist – felt the moment like a tremor in the bones of creation.
With a war cry that rattled the firmament, he surged forward, gripping the hilt of the God Ember, its ominous glow pulsing like a dying star as he swung with all the fury left in his ancient frame.
The divine artifact–forged to seal gods themselves–slammed into Boros's skin.
But instead of sealing him…
It stripped him, tearing away strength in vicious waves, hollowing him out from the inside. His aura buckled, his knees trembled.
Odin did not hesitate.
His voice cracked through the realm as he invoked the name of the goddess Meng Po.
The goddess appeared–startled, but bound by the call. Her hand descended over Boros's face like a funeral veil. With a touch as gentle as falling ash, she wiped clean his memories, sweeping his mind into a cold, echoing abyss where nothing remained.
The shock hit harder than any blade. His body folded, collapsing to the ground, chest slamming against the ruined earth with a heavy, lifeless thud.
The battle–a nightmare that had devoured ages–finally went silent.
In its wake lay a shattered landscape… and the corpses of 960 gods.
As the dust drifted down and the realm steadied, his unconscious form was claimed – a spoils of war carved from an impossible cost.
A prize…
Won at an unimaginable cost.