Creation Of All Things

Meanwhile…

Kael'Thar wasn't subtle.

He didn't send warnings.

Didn't ask for allegiance.

Didn't even give a name.

He arrived—and things just stopped living.

The first planet was a jungle world under Selene's influence. Soft winds. Eternal moonlight. Gentle beasts that spoke in dreams. A whole civilization of stargazers and singers, cloaked in silver robes, living in harmony.

Then the sky turned red.

It started like a mistake—something wrong with the atmosphere. Clouds thickened, stars vanished, the moon cracked without warning. And then, the trees began to scream.

Yes. Scream.

Roots tore themselves from the ground, leaves shriveled to ash midair, and the air filled with this… buzzing, like every molecule wanted to escape. A song in reverse. The planet's heartbeat skipping.

Then—he stepped through.

Not from a portal. Not from space. He just… walked out from the largest tree. Like the planet grew him.

Kael'Thar.

Half-shadow, half-hunger. Skin like molten obsidian, eyes like frozen lightning. No armor. No clothes. Just a cloak made of screaming faces, writhing and twisting with every step.

The druids saw him.

Tried to summon moonfire. Tried to call on Selene.

Didn't work.

Selene didn't answer. Couldn't.

Kael'Thar raised his hand.

The moon turned black. Not metaphorically. It turned. And then—

Devoured.

The whole moon folded inward, like it got sucked through a hole no one could see. One moment it was up there, full and glowing, the next it was just gone. Like it was never there.

Then he looked down.

The jungle burst into blue fire.

Living fire.

It screamed too.

The druids fell, not burned—drained. Their bodies turned to paper, their magic sucked into Kael'Thar like air into a vacuum. Every soul, every animal, every blade of grass—gone. He didn't even touch them.

Within ten minutes, the planet was dead.

Not in ruins. Not charred.

Dead.

A silent rock floating through space with no atmosphere. Not even gravity. Like the laws of physics were too scared to stay.

**

Next was a forge world.

Under Magnus.

Metal everywhere. Black suns glowing over cities of hammers and steel titans. A thousand war-forges burning nonstop. Whole continents of armor, weapons, machines, marching legions.

Kael'Thar arrived by swallowing their sun.

Literally.

The sun blinked—and vanished.

The sky turned dark.

Cold swept across the planet like a plague.

People screamed.

The metal groaned.

And then—eyes. Thousands of them, opening across the sky. Blinking sideways. Looking down.

"Magnus will stop you!" one of the warpriests shouted from a mountain cannon. "You are not welcome!"

Kael'Thar looked at him.

The mountain folded in half.

No noise. Just collapse. Like the entire structure forgot how to exist.

Then the machines stopped.

Not shut down—just froze. Mid-walk. Mid-punch. Mid-roar. Every single titan, mech, warship—dead. No signal. No power.

The warlords inside choked. Blood out of their noses. Eyes rolled back.

Because their souls were wired into the machines.

Kael'Thar devoured both.

Then he walked forward, dragging a black chain behind him—except there was nothing on the end. Just weight. You could feel it. Like reality hated it. The ground he walked on turned to glass, then to nothing.

In thirty minutes?

Planet gone.

Gone.

No battle. No survivors. Just… dust. Not even enough for ruins.

**

And then the worst one.

Kaelor's own cradle world.

A sacred place. Hidden. Protected. Bathed in ancient life.

They thought it was safe.

It wasn't.

Kael'Thar sank into it. Like a shadow beneath the roots. The planet didn't see him land. He came from below.

And when he rose—he brought hell with him.

The soil boiled.

Animals birthed themselves inside-out.

Every prayer turned to laughter. Mocking. Loud. Echoing inside people's heads until their skulls cracked.

The trees bled.

The sky bled.

Even the stars above started to flicker, like Kael'Thar's presence was leaking into space.

Then came the real horror—

He planted something.

A seed.

Black and pulsing. Made from bone and nightmare. It burrowed deep into the heart of the planet.

And everything just… stopped.

Motion. Sound. Light.

Time.

Frozen.

The entire planet became a black statue in space. Still. Perfectly shaped. No more aging. No more movement. Just frozen death.

Like he wanted to keep it.

Like a trophy.

**

Kael'Thar wasn't spreading a banner.

He was eating the board.

Not conquest.

Consumption.

Where Jordan burned, Kael'Thar emptied.

No warnings.

No speeches.

Just the quiet, cosmic truth that some things weren't meant to negotiate.

Adam has sent him.

And he would do just that.

And now?

Now he was heading toward the heartworlds. Not fringe. Not minor. Core systems.

Magnus knew.

Selene knew.

And deep in a place where no gods whispered anymore—something else knew, too.

The question wasn't who could stop Kael'Thar.

It was…

Would anything even try?

The stories spread like smoke in a burning house.

Whispers first. Quiet. Scared. Impossible.

Then—screams.

"Kaelor's dead."

"Selene fell silent."

"Magnus—he hasn't spoken in weeks. Not even to his champions."

At first, nobody believed it.

The Three Monarchs were more than gods. They were systems. Pantheons. Foundations of empires that had lasted longer than most stars.

But now?

Now their planets were quiet.

No responses. No visions. No blessings.

Just silence.

And in that silence… fear started growing.

Whole galaxies held their breath. Sects started purging heretics, blaming the quiet on internal rot. Armies were deployed to sacred sites. Oracles bled out trying to summon visions from deities that no longer answered.

And through it all—one name started to rise.

The Celestial Monarch Faction.

Where the old monarchs had temples and avatars, the Celestial Monarchs had symbols burned into the stars. Planets where the sky shimmered with their crest—three overlapping orbs: gold, silver, obsidian.

People saw the sign and knelt without asking.

Because they knew what came next if they didn't.

Jordan.

And worse…

Kael'Thar.

Their names traveled faster than ships.

Faster than light.

Carved into the walls of spaceports, screamed in prison pits, painted across shattered moons.

"He burned the sky."

"He silenced a sun."

"He turned a forest into stone."

"He didn't talk. He didn't ask. He just came."

On one planet, children played a game called Run From Jordan. They ran toward the setting sun, trying not to look back.

On another, cults rose—worshipping Kael'Thar as the Endwalker. Some even begged to be devoured first.

Empires once loyal to Magnus folded in days.

Not from war.

From panic.

From the realization that they were living on borrowed time.

Selene's followers tried to summon her by bathing in moonlight for seven nights.

On the eighth, their oceans boiled.

The message was clear.

The old gods were gone.

Dead?

Maybe.

Fled?

Maybe.

But the universe didn't care.

The Celestial Monarchs were all that mattered now.

And behind their rise—Adam.

Never seen. Never named. Not publicly.

But everyone in the know understood.

This wasn't a rebellion.

This wasn't a revolution.

This was a rewriting.

One by one, the stars changed.

One by one, the temples fell.

One by one, the monarchs who ruled for millennia were reduced to stories—warnings whispered at the edge of new borders.

And when someone asked what to do?

When some brave soul stood up and said, "We need to fight!"

The answer came quick.

"Fight who?"

"The one who walks through fire?"

"The one who eats moons?"

"The one who doesn't glow…"

"He burns."

The universe kept spinning.

But now, it spun under a new light.

Not from stars.

Not from gods.

But from a faction rising faster than belief could catch up.

And all across the stars, one phrase echoed.

Not in fear.

Not in praise.

Just understanding.

"The Celestial Monarchs are here."

"This is their era now."

"And nothing will ever be the same."