: The Goddess of Light Gets on Her Knees and Begs in Front of Ten Billion Souls
She didn't send a projection.
She didn't send an angel.
She came herself.
The actual Goddess of Light, the one every priest had sworn was untouchable, the eternal virgin who'd birthed galaxies with a whisper, ripped a hole straight through the fabric of reality and dropped into the Ninth Hell like a falling sun.
The light that poured out of her was so bright it cooked every unbound demon for a thousand miles. Their eyeballs popped, their shadows burned into the walls, and the air smelled like scorched pride. My own collared pets just yawned and kept lounging on the bones they were chewing.
Then she landed.
Right in the middle of my throne room, wings folding in like a dying swan made of molten gold. Ten thousand wings, each one brighter than the last, and every single one shaking.
She dropped to her knees so hard the obsidian floor cracked.
And the first words out of her mouth—the voice that once sang the universe into existence—came out small and cracked and desperate.
"Please. I surrender. Everything. Collar me. Break me. Put it on stream if that's what you want. Just… make the war stop. Make it all stop."
She was crying. Actual tears of liquid sunlight sliding down those perfect cheeks and hissing when they hit the ground.
I took my time standing up. Let the silence stretch until it hurt. Walked over slow, boots echoing, until I was close enough to smell starfire and fear on her.
Then I smiled, snapped my fingers, and turned every mirror, every puddle, every scrying pool, every shiny sword blade in every realm into a perfect live feed of my throne room.
Ten billion souls tuned in at once. Heroes dropped their swords mid-swing. Popes fainted. Entire pantheons started screaming.
I circled her once, twice, like I was window-shopping the end of the world.
"Strip," I told her.
She didn't argue. Holy light peeled away from her body in glowing layers—armor of dawn, robes of sunrise, undergarments woven from hymns—until there was nothing left but skin that had never known a single flaw. She stood there naked and blazing and more vulnerable than any creature had ever been.
I pulled the last collar out of thin air. White gold, warm from the forge, lined inside with the melted-down scraps of her own shattered halo. She saw it and let out this tiny, broken sound that made half the viewers start crying with her.
Click.
The second it locked around her throat, five thousand wings turned to ash mid-flap and drifted down like snow made of dying gods. The scream that came out of her shattered every cathedral window on every plane at the exact same moment. I felt the shockwave ripple through the feed.
Beautiful.
For the next twenty-four hours I didn't let the stream drop for a second.
I made her call me Master in the first language—the one spoken before words had meaning. The sound of it cracked planets.
I made her crawl to each of my pets, one by one, and beg—out loud, voice shaking—to taste them while the rest of us watched. Beelzebub took her from behind while she licked the filth off my boots and thanked me between sobs for the honor.
The Four Heavenly Kings—my sweet, loyal monsters—held her remaining wings spread wide like they were pinning a butterfly made of light. I wrote my name across her skin in burning kanji, one stroke at a time, slow enough that every viewer could read it. She screamed my name until it sounded like a prayer, until her throat was raw and the only word she remembered was Master.
By the end she was on her knees in a puddle of tears and cum and melted gold, collar glowing like a dying star, body trembling so hard her teeth chattered. The mighty Goddess of Light, reduced to a collared, weeping mess who couldn't even look up without permission.
I leaned down, grabbed a fistful of what was left of her hair, tilted her face toward the invisible camera, and smiled the laziest, most satisfied smile in history.
"Creation has a new owner now."
Then I killed the feed.
Overnight, every religion in every realm collapsed. Temples emptied. Priests tore off their robes and walked into the sea. Angels fell out of the sky like rain. The old songs died in people's throats.
And somewhere in the quiet aftermath, if you listened very closely, you could still hear her—hoarse, small, endlessly repeating the only word that mattered anymore.
Master.