Standing in his resplendent, exotic armour, the towering, muscular man—with his long, dishevelled dark‐purple hair cascading over lightly bronzed skin and his piercing golden eyes fixed ahead—surveyed the radiant light that bathed his entire realm, Corpse Avalon. With a single, mighty thrust, he drove his greatsword, Dark Excalibur, deep into the earth.

  "?My champion, your service has been exemplary. As I promised, I shall now bestow upon you both freedom and a new title. No longer will you be a mere monarch among the mundane. Astaroth, you shall ascend as the Dark God?Emperor. Understand this: all worlds, as perceived by the divine, are inextricably linked to you and Avalon. Your legend will become a dark star, consuming all light until shadows themselves cease to exist."?

  "?Esteemed Goddess-Saint Metrina, it has been my profound honour to serve you and to establish the most sacred of holy kingdoms across the omniverses—realms such as Great Camelot and Sanctumaria—dedicated to your divine worship. Were it not for the call I perceived from the Void, I would have beseeched you to permit me to serve you until the end of eternity. You have delivered me from peril and battled Nightmare on my behalf. For this, I shall remain eternally grateful and vow never to squander the life you have preserved for me."?

  In that moment, Dark Excalibur transformed into fine white sand, dissipating as it returned to its rightful place.

  Nemesis fell silent, shaken from his reverie. His days as Astaroth were aeons past—an era steeped in darkness, not from the absence of the sun, but from the colossal trees of the Forest of Broceliande, whose mighty branches reached into the very heavens. In that enchanted wood, paths vanished, trees shifted, and time itself became distorted. The forest seemed alive, guarding secrets such as the hidden realm of the Lady of the Lake. 'Hidden realm,' Nemesis mused, 'it appears wherever the Sovereign commands, much like all else.' He recalled how Merlin had been sealed within this forest by the Lady of the Lake. 'Does he remain ensnared?' he pondered aloud. 'Merlin foresaw his destined end, yet he embraced it with unwavering resolve—he even bade me refrain from seeking to unravel her enchantment.'

  "Were you daydreaming? That cannot be good," remarked Akashirae as she roasted a lunar?cloud pillow over the campfire.

  Ouroboros then opened one eye. "Indeed, we have company—and not the usual sort. Most are mortal heroes, yet four among them stand apart; one even exudes an aura reminiscent of the Void. I am having trouble locating that one—they are likely beyond omnipresence. Although I am eager to engage them in battle—and detest reliance on others—I must attempt to contact the Void and the rest, just in case." Producing a beautiful blue orb, he channelled his metaphysical might into it. "Just our luck: I cannot reach them. It appears we are on our own this time."

  "There is no need for such wariness, primordial gods—we are but mere humans, as you've so astutely deduced," declared a tall, muscular man with unruly red hair and vivid green eyes, clad in pink armour, as he emerged from behind the trees and approached the camp.

  Nemesis recognised the newcomer and rose. "Lancelot? No, it cannot be. It has been aeons—you should not still be alive unless you have ascended to a Founder following the clash between primordial Infinity and Transcendence, an event that reshaped both non?creation and creation."

  "Arthur, must you always resort to such grandiose verbiage? You never burdened me with such linguistic flourishes during your reign." Smirking, he nonchalantly retrieved a lunar-cloud pillow on a stick and took a deliberate bite. "Did you truly believe you could abandon me so effortlessly? Feigning your own demise after Camelot's fall... Though absent from the Battle of Camlann, my essence was its very heartbeat. I've wallowed in remorse—for you, for Guinevere, for our fallen brethren—and for every calamity that befell us—a guilty indulgence, if you will."

  Nemesis remained silent.

  "How did you come to know that we are primordial deities? For a mortal, you speak in an awfully condescending manner despite your knowledge of our true nature. What is it you desire?" asked Akashirae, standing beside Nemesis in her human guise.

  "Is that your Eve, Arthur? I, too, was once an honourable, dutiful, and chaste knight... until Guinevere interposed herself and drained me of all chivalry and light. Now, I am but an immortal man who revels in slaughter."

  "You are not here to recount tales of Guinevere—my one and only love," replied Nemesis. "Answer Esteemed Akashirae's question, Lancelot. Whatever bond we once shared—whatever semblance of comradeship—it is irrelevant now. It has been severed... aeons ago. We are nothing more than strangers, bound by the past but not by fate."

  "Enemies, then," declared Lancelot as he raised his arm. At once, an elite squadron of lion knights emerged from their hiding places in the forest. "Slay the two primordial gods, but spare Arthur—for we have a score to settle. It is high time to prove that I remain the mightiest knight of Camelot, both in battle and in bed." Tilting his head to the upper left, Lancelot placed his hand on the hilt of Arondight, signalling to Nemesis that their duel would unfold deeper within the Forest of Broceliande.

  Together, they advanced further into the mysterious depths of the ancient wood.

  In an instant, the lion knights surged forward towards Ouroboros and Akashirae.

  "Sanguinary Halls," intoned Akashirae as she unfurled eleven crimson tails, which materialised in a flash. They impaled the assailants, erasing their very existence—as though their potential had been negated from the outset.

  "You weaklings," sneered Ouroboros, as a knight's legendary sword shattered on contact with him. "Withdraw now; you are infinitely too early to face me in genuine combat."

  "Brother, note that every knight wields an Excalibur. The very first blade was forged by the combined might of two mystical entities—Morgrath and Merlinia—venerated amongst mortals," said Akashirae. "Moreover, these newer blades even eclipse the original, for they are unshackled by forbidden, ultimate‐tier magic and are imbued with absolute omnipotence."

  With a languid yet decisive sweep of his arm, Ouroboros cleaved through scores of knights – and their Excaliburs – in one fell stroke. He scrutinised a fragment of the shattered sword before dismissing it with casual indifference. "Is this so?called improved relic truly the famed Excalibur? Its performance leaves much to be desired – it's nothing more than an unnecessarily convoluted back?scratcher."

  "Oh? A back?scratcher, you say?" retorted a voice from the shadows.

  Emerging was a figure even larger than Lancelot. Clutching a gleaming green axe in one hand and the Excalibur Verdant in the other, he strode forth.

  "You know, my sister and I can see you as clearly as day despite your feeble attempts at camouflage, Green Knight," mocked Ouroboros. "I even wondered if you had taken a brief interlude. But really, what did they feed you? You tower above my convenient form, nearly matching the stature favoured by Nemesis himself."

  The Green Knight bristled. "You are a vulgar wretch—a hooligan of the highest order. If you fancy yourself so formidable, why not join me in delivering a decisive blow? I shall grant you the privilege of striking first."

  A wicked grin spread across Ouroboros's face. "You have no inkling of what awaits you, mortal. Did you not see how your feeble comrades were cleaved in twain while I barely stirred? Nevertheless, I acknowledge your martial mettle. Since you insist, state your name before you croak, Green Knight."

  "My name is Sir Gawain the Undying Mountain," declared the knight, his tone as resolute as his reputation. "Royal Guard of Queen Guinevere, the Brutal Manslayer—I have never known death."

  "I see. I shall be more succinct. Name's Sir Halberd—no, that's not right. Curse Sathiel for her constant misnomers. I am Dragon King Ouroboros. Now, enough pleasantries: I shall hold back only enough to consign you to the afterlife—rather than to whatever awaits beyond—so that you may forever recall the folly of your challenge."

  Gawain recoiled as Ouroboros brought his fist within an inch of him. "What is this? You truly believe your mere fist can shatter the armour of the Green Knight and nullify my enchanted essence?" Raising both his weapons, Gawain tilted his head skyward. "Though the forest conceals the heavens, I can sense that high noon is imminent. Omniversal strength courses through me—a power beyond even that of the gods. Do not squander your sole chance, King of Dragons."

  "Permit me to impart a little secret, my verdant friend. Ever since the Void introduced me to her collection of films, I have become something of a cinephile. I once witnessed a mortal execute a technique known as the One?Inch Punch. Yet, while that may impress a mortal—as my master Ao Guang would proclaim—once you truly master the way of existence and transcendence, you can deliver a blow without so much as a gesture. And I am not merely referring to feints in boxing or that mind?wandering visualisation rubbish. No, what you consider a punch pales in comparison to the original—a metaforce older than non?concept itself, which shattered the primordial stillness before the Void and continues to reshape the immutable at this very moment."

  With that, he withdrew his fist, turned his back, and strode a few paces away. "It is a technique that transcends both the heights of transcendence and the depths of the Void. The Ouroboros devours its tail even in its absence; my countless self?contradictions—such as how your strength relies on the sun's cycle—affect me in ways I do not fully comprehend. At my zenith, with the full might of the Ouroboros Force, I would not doubt that I stand on par with your Goddess?Saint. But I digress... all the cultivation, the intention, the effortless action, the metaphysical, the omniverses, the Void—all that I can or cannot fathom mean nothing in my current presence... In layman's terms, this is my feeblest punch. Sleep well, Green Knight."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  A gentle yet resolute breeze swept through the accursed glade, setting Ouroboros's long turquoise hair and dark trench coat aflutter. With his eyes closed, he lifted a hand to brush his hair aside, radiating an aura that sent a shiver through the Forest of Broceliande.

  "I cannot fathom your incoherent drivel," retorted Sir Gawain. "You prate like that conceited Bertilak de Hautdesert, who never knew his proper station. I slew him—stripping him of both his armour and his axe—for disgracing Camelot's knights. Since you have squandered my time, I now offer you a chance to surrender—provided you can withstand four of my blows."

  Gawain channelled the full extent of his absolute omnipotence, preparing to swing both the Green Axe and Excalibur Verdant. Yet his words were abruptly silenced as he crumpled to the earth, his form dissolving in a serene manner that rendered any hope of revival utterly impossible. Only his armour and weapons remained, resting tranquilly upon a patch of cleansed earth amid the surrounding sinister gloom.

  "Sir Gawain!" cried one of the knights as he and his companions surged towards Ouroboros. In response, Ouroboros exhaled a Breath of Outlorn Timid Buxion X—an invisible, non-force that instantaneously corroded the remaining knights and their equipment, leaving naught but a warped distortion of reality.

  "A tad excessive, wasn't it?" remarked Akashirae. "I would have thought so, were it not for the fact that the breath was intended to annihilate the Aether Barrier that encircles the multiverses, influencing events on a scale beyond mortal ken. Reveal thyself to this omniverse, caster, or I shall create thee."

  At that moment, an elderly man bearing the appearance of a wizard materialised before them. His hand passed effortlessly through his long, white beard. "I would rather not contend with primordial gods of your calibre. I am Eruvik, and I assure you I come in peace. Permit me to explain: Lancelot, Gawain, and I were dispatched to deliver a message on behalf of Goddess?Saint Metrina; alas, the knights have long degenerated into sadistic brutes who revel in senseless violence—with Lancelot being the worst offender of all. The Goddess extends an invitation to your group to join the Boundless Battlegrounds."

  He flung an invitation envelope towards Akashirae, watching with mild amusement as she deftly caught it with two fingers—having perused its contents even before it left his grasp. "Duly noted. You may depart with your life intact," she replied.

  "You have my thanks for sparing this old man's life. With your permission, I shall now take my leave," murmured Eruvik.

  "Wait, old wizard," demanded Ouroboros, "before you depart, tell me whose presence I continue to sense. Transcendence cannot even begin to grasp them, and yet they make no effort to hide themselves. The faintest trace of power, if it can even be called that, radiates with an indescribable force... It reminds me of someone I once knew."

  "...That would be Marshal-General Draegor—a Hyperpotentia?class Eclipsant. The Goddess dispatched him to ensure my survival. I regret to say that, aside from his classification, I know little of him. Farewell," replied Eruvik as he faded into another omniverse.

  "A hyper?what now?" inquired Ouroboros to his sister as he retrieved a pipe from his trench coat and lit it. "I believe I have heard that term before."

  "The Hyperpotentiae—they are beings on a par with Lumi'Nae... but never mind that. When will you cease forgetting that there exist entities beyond the primordial deities? We have no time for your ignorance. Nemesis has been vanquished and taken away; I can no longer sense his presence—they must have spirited him off to a realm protected by a higher power that rejects my Divine Mind. Without a doubt, that power is none other than Metrina."

  "You can't be serious... That Lancelot fellow may have been more powerful than a god, but even in his weakened state, Nemesis ought to be beyond such comparisons—he was, after all, the Dark God?Emperor." Ouroboros exhaled a plume of smoke before continuing, "Well then, let us go and save him. The Void will surely discern our whereabouts and join us, if she so wishes."

  "Saving Nemesis is merely secondary, isn't it? You're chiefly eager to rejoin the aeonial Boundless Battlegrounds. Well, brother... the 22,354th Boundless Battlegrounds is to be held in Great Camelot. Now, take a good look at this." With a subtle gesture, Akashirae pointed, and in his mind's eye a vivid scene unfurled: Nemesis and Lancelot locked in a fierce duel.

  Nemesis had caught Lancelot's Arondight with his bare hand and, with a powerful front kick, sent him hurtling through the forest before he crashed into a massive, gnarled tree. In an instant, Nemesis surged forward, reappearing near him, while Lancelot staggered and flung clumps of wood aside.

  "Listen, Arthur," rasped Lancelot, "in my heart I know I have wronged you, though my mind tells a different tale. Merlin and Mother were gravely mistaken. Had you never existed and I been king, the fall of Camelot would never have come to pass—Mordred would never have been born. Compare my son with yours: Galahad succeeded in obtaining the Holy Grail, whereas yours died like the rat he was."

  "In the grand tapestry of existence, must we forever stand as adversaries, Lancelot? We are but fleeting shadows, and thus, I am willing to overlook the chaos and malevolence you have sown, as I have in times past. My deepest yearning is to remain eternally by the Sovereign's side."

  "Forgiveness? Don't make me laugh. I've never subscribed to that false Messiah's creed—turn the other cheek—a doctrine for the weak and powerless. If I'd embraced such softness, I'd never have become the strongest knight. Lying beside Guinevere, it became clear—you were never fit to be king. The other knights saw it too but lacked the strength to act. Pathetic, all of them."?

  Lancelot unsheathed Excalibur Crimson in his right hand, now dual-wielding both Arondight and Excalibur Crimson. Black veins marred his face as he continued, "Chivalry? A pathetic shackle imposed by the weak to suppress the strong. I've transcended such feeble doctrines. Keep your hollow morals; they mean nothing to me." His aura of absolute omnipotence flared, overwhelming and incomprehensible—surpassing even that of Yahweh. It was a power akin to the eldritch might of the Great Old Ones, sending tremors through all the omniverses, shaking them to their very foundations.

  Rain began to fall in the part of the forest where they stood, the droplets creating a soft, rhythmic pattern on the leaves. Nemesis regarded Lancelot with a gaze that was both compassionate and distant, as though separated by an insurmountable chasm.

  "Once, my heart did hold affection for Camelot and for you. Yet, over time, that affection waned, a sentiment I believed confined to mortals. For ages, I have walked amidst creation, observing how Sovereign Vorethas nurtures it. Knights, mortals, even gods are susceptible to error; such fallibility is as intrinsic to existence as the air you breathe. All are transient and complex, striving for meaning within their worlds. Those who dwell beyond these confines—the metadeities—are of a different order. Lancelot du Lac, I never commanded you to seclude yourself or seek atonement. You chose your path, and now your twisted guilt consumes you. Moreover, you have embraced a power you were never meant to wield. The Goddess harbors no desires; mortals are prone to destructive whims and cannot attain immutable tranquility. You must continually strive for your own redemption."?

  "Redemption? I've transcended the shackles of mortality, much like you. No, you were never truly mortal, were you? The Goddess has unveiled the truth to me. Only after embracing this eldritch power and surpassing that sanctimonious wretch of a god I once revered, do I see you for what you are—a void, an abyss masquerading as a man. You're not even here, yet this is the closest I can get to confronting your deceit. Your myriad transgressions absolve me of my own sins. I will only find peace once I'm certain you're not lurking in the shadows, scrutinising me, especially since I am your superior. Serving under a king as pathetic as you—I've endured that humiliation for too long. The mere thought fills me with unrelenting fury. It's not my duty to quell this rage, Arthur Pendragon—that burden falls upon you!"?

  Ouroboros dismissed Akashirae's interjection with a sharp shake of his head. "I have heard enough. I care not for eavesdropping on private conversations unless absolutely necessary—especially not on such melodramatic disputes. Warriors keep both their actions and words simple, focusing on the task at hand. Should that cowardly Lancelot obstruct my path, I shall impale him with my Nexus Piercer, severing whatever divine immortality he has been granted, posthaste."

  "Oi, brother, you imbecile—cease leaping to conclusions. It was not Lancelot who bested Nemesis. I intended to reveal the true culprit. I suspect the man in question can only be Marshal-General Draegor, who intervened during their duel. He bears an uncanny resemblance to Nemesis, but with lavender hair and dark eyes."

  "This is precisely why you must refrain from further disclosures. I do relish a good surprise, and it is a pity I have received an invitation that compels me to bypass the preliminaries—I much prefer to savour the full experience." Ouroboros paused, briefly recalling a wish made in victory aeons past before dismissing it as unworthy of remembrance. 'This moment matters above all else—spending time with my sister...' He regarded her, taking in her mid-length red hair and fiery red eyes. 'There is no one as powerful, determined, and independent as she. I have little inkling of her ambitions, yet I desire nothing more than to help her... as any good, older brother should.'

  "It cannot be helped," remarked Akashirae as her attention lay elsewhere. "The Battlegrounds are convened in an arbitrary manner—sometimes excluding divine and higher entities, at other times barring mortals. This time, however, it appears that none are exempt. One can only hope that the meta-level entities participating will number in the single digits—or, ideally, none at all save Lumi'Nae. We shall triumph if it is a team-based tournament and she joins us. So, shall we, former champion?" She slid her hand beneath Ouroboros' shirt and onto his chest.

  "Oi, oi, sis! Mind where you place your hand—I am rather sensitive and ticklish," he protested.

  Maintaining a serious demeanour, she twisted his nipple. "Not sis, dear brother—consider me your big sister. Now, be silent and allow me to concentrate. I am mapping our destination, which, owing to the tournament, has been deliberately obscured."

  "Your big brother might understand that, but you need not rely on direct contact—especially such an injurious pinch—to teleport us. You're pinching as though you were milking a cow. Must I remind you that I am an alpha male?"

  "Right then, you strong macho male. You do know that with my primordial power, I could quite literally cause milk to flow from your nipples or transform you into a submissive woman? But fear not—your humble and perfectly normal big sister shall spare you that tragic fate."

  "So humble and normal..." he grumbled, scratching his head. "The more I interact with you, the more I lose sight of what normal truly is. Is this what interdimensional travellers yearn for?"

  "Shh. Everything will be all right." With that reassuring remark, she teleported them away.